AT THE CHESTERS’
The Chester family were all gathered on the broad piazza when Gretel
and Geraldine came down-stairs dressed for dinner. Jerry had also
reappeared and was deeply absorbed in conversation with Paul and Frank
on the subject of various kinds of fish bait. Molly was the eldest of
the four children, the boys came next, and the youngest, Daisy, was a
pretty golden-haired child of five, who, at the present moment, was
comfortably settled on her father’s knee, listening entranced to a
story about a princess and a dwarf.
“Father always tells her a story before bedtime,” Molly told her
friends. “I’m afraid we all spoil her dreadfully, but she is so much
younger than the rest of us, and it was such a joy to have a baby in
the house again.”
“I am glad her name is Daisy,” said Geraldine. “When I was little my
two great unfulfilled desires were that my name should be Daisy, and
that I should have golden curls. I hope your little sister will make
friends with me; I adore babies.”
“Oh, she will, never fear. You may find her altogether too friendly
before you have been here many days. Her real name is Margaret. She was
named for a sister of Mother’s, who died when she was a young girl, but
she was always called Daisy, so our baby is Daisy, too.”
At that moment the story came to an end, and Miss Daisy was sent off
to bed, much against her will, and then dinner was announced, and they
all rose to go indoors, Mrs. Chester remarking that there was no use in
waiting for Stephen, as just as likely as not he might not be able to
get off at all.
“He did get off, though, for here he comes,” said Molly, as the sound
of an approaching automobile fell upon their ears, and in another
moment a small two-seated car had turned in at the gate.
Molly had talked so much about this cousin of hers that it was not
surprising that Gretel and Geraldine both felt considerable curiosity
about him. Indeed, Geraldine had privately informed Gretel while they
were dressing for dinner that she was quite prepared to be disappointed
in him, because people one heard so much about generally did prove
disappointing. But when the tall young ensign sprang from the car, and
came bounding up the steps, even Geraldine was forced to admit that
Molly had not said too much in his favor. He certainly was one of the
handsomest, most distinguished-looking young men she had ever seen.
Stephen Cranston was the son of a sister of Mrs. Chester’s, and as
they were very devoted, their children had been brought up almost like
brothers and sisters. Consequently, Stephen was very much at home in
his aunt’s house, and not only never hesitated to descend upon the
family at any moment himself, but frequently brought a friend or two
along as well. He had a friend with him this evening, another young
ensign of about his own age, who appeared to be already known to the
Chesters, and was presented as Mr. Jimmy Fairfax of Virginia.
Mr. Jimmy Fairfax was not so good-looking as his friend, but he had a
pleasant, refined face, and spoke with a delightful Southern accent,
which at once captivated Geraldine. Mrs. Chester greeted both guests
cordially, and Molly hastened to present her two friends.
“These are the girls I told you I was expecting,” she said; “Geraldine
Barlow and Gretel Schiller.”
At the name Gretel Schiller, young Fairfax gave a slight start, and
Gretel noticed that he looked at her rather keenly as they shook hands.
“It’s because of my German name,” she told herself uncomfortably, but
the young man’s manner was perfectly calm and polite, and she soon
recovered from her slight embarrassment. In the meantime Stephen was
saying in a teasing undertone to his cousin:
“So you’ve got your little Pumpernickel friend here at last.”
Molly flushed indignantly, but before she could reply, Mrs. Chester
called them all to come in to dinner.
The Chesters were charming hosts, and before dinner was over all their
guests were feeling very much at home. Even Jerry--who was generally
painfully shy with strangers--quite forgot to be embarrassed, and found
himself sending Molly--who sat next to him--off into irrepressible
giggles over the story of a school scrap, in which he had figured as
one of the chief delinquents. They were all so happy and merry; there
was nothing but the uniforms of the two young men to remind them that
things were not all as they used to be. But it was impossible to keep
the conversation altogether away from the war, and before the meal was
half over Mr. Chester and Stephen were discussing submarines and the
possibility of a German blockade.
“Not much danger,” Stephen declared confidently. “When Uncle Sam once
takes a hand things are pretty sure to go right.” At which piece of
“Americanism” everybody laughed except Gretel, who suddenly became
aware of the fact that Mr. Jimmy Fairfax was looking at her again in
that same sharp, almost suspicious manner that she had noticed once
before.
“He doesn’t like me,” she said to herself. “I suppose he’s one of those
people who hate everything German.”
Just then her ear was caught by something Molly was saying to her
cousin.
“Is it true, Steve, that they have passed a law forbidding Germans to
come near the water-fronts?”
“Quite true, and a very good thing, too,” young Cranston answered.
“It’s about time we began to look after things a little better in this
country. We have been altogether too lenient. I don’t suppose people
have any idea of the amount of spy work that has been going on right
under our very noses.”
Gretel remembered what her brother had told her, and, for some
unaccountable reason, her heart began to beat rather uncomfortably
fast. It was foolish, of course, but somehow she couldn’t help being
almost glad she had not been able to keep that appointment with
Fräulein.
After dinner they all went out on the piazza and watched the lights
in the harbor until some one proposed to sail up the river in the
motor-boat. The suggestion was eagerly accepted, and in less than ten
minutes the whole party, with the exception of Mrs. Chester, who was
tired, and Frank, who, being only eleven, was still considered too
young to be up after nine o’clock, were gliding up the river in the
Chesters’ comfortable launch.
“This is the Thames, where they have the big Harvard-Yale boat-race
every June,” Molly told Gretel. “There won’t be any race this year,
though, on account of the war. Steve was on the Harvard crew last year,
and it was tremendously exciting.”
Gretel could not repress a sigh. Those boys seemed so young, so much,
more fitted for college boat-races than for the grim work of war.
“Were you sorry to leave college?” she asked Stephen, impulsively.
“Sorry!” cried the young man; “you bet I wasn’t sorry. I’ve been wild
to get into this war ever since the invasion of Belgium. It’s about
time we Americans did something to lick the Germans.”
“Take care what you say, Steve,” warned his friend from the opposite
seat. “Miss Schiller may not care to hear about licking Germans.”
The words were courteous, but the tone reminded Gretel of Ada
Godfrey’s. She opened her lips to speak, but before she could utter a
word Jerry’s clear treble had broken in on the conversation.
“Gretel isn’t any more German than you are, even if she has got a
German name,” he declared. “She’s just as good an American as any of
us; aren’t you, Gretel?”
“Yes,” said Gretel; “at least I hope I am. My father was a German,
though,” she added truthfully.
“Well, he’s been dead for ever so long,” maintained Jerry, “and,
anyhow, he wasn’t like these Germans nowadays. I’ve seen his picture,
and he looks so kind you wouldn’t believe he could hurt a fly.”
“He was kind,” said Gretel, a little tremulously. “He was one of the
best and kindest men who ever lived.”
Nobody spoke for a moment, and there was a rather uncomfortable pause,
which Mr. Chester broke by asking Jimmy Fairfax a question on some
irrelevant subject. They were soon chatting pleasantly again, but
several members of the party did not forget the little incident.
“Well, how do you like Steve?” demanded Molly, coming into her friend’s
room when their guests had left and they all had gone up-stairs. “Did I
say too much about his good looks?”
“Not one bit too much,” Geraldine assured her. “He’s one of the
handsomest boys I have ever seen. I like him, too; he’s so pleasant
and doesn’t treat me like a kid, just because my hair isn’t up yet.
Didn’t you like him, Gretel?”
“Very much, indeed,” responded Gretel, with a vivid recollection of the
kind, understanding look Stephen Cranston had given her as he helped
her out of the motor-boat.
“And the best of it is,” continued Molly, “Steve is just as nice as he
looks. He takes after his mother. Wait till you see Aunt Dulcie.”
“She’s a widow, isn’t she?” inquired Geraldine, who had heard something
of Molly’s literary aunt.
“Yes; Stephen is her only child. Her husband died when Steve was a
little boy, and he and his mother are everything to each other. Uncle
George didn’t leave much money, and at first Aunt Dulcie had a rather
hard time. She had to keep house for Uncle George’s father, who was a
very cross, disagreeable old gentleman, and things were quite horrid,
but Mother says Aunt Dulcie never once lost her grit. Of course,
Mother and Aunt Maud helped her all they could, but Aunt Dulcie was
very proud, and she hated taking things from people, even her own
sisters. It was a long time before the publishers realized how talented
she was, but now they are all crazy to get her things, and I saw in
a newspaper last spring that she is spoken of as one of the leading
novelists of the day. Steve is tremendously proud of his mother, as,
indeed, we all are.”
“It must be terribly hard for your aunt to let her son go to the war,”
said Gretel.
“Of course it is, frightfully hard, but Aunt Dulcie isn’t the kind
of person to shirk what she considers her duty. I believe she would
rather see Steve dead than have him not want to go. Her eyes look
dreadfully sad sometimes, but she’s always so bright and full of fun
that strangers wouldn’t suppose she had a care in the world. You’ll see
what I mean when she comes.”
“It must be wonderful to be brave,” remarked Gretel, breaking a rather
long silence, when Molly had gone away to her own room and she and
Geraldine were preparing for bed. “I’m afraid I could never be like
that aunt of Molly’s.”
“We never know what we may do till we are tried,” said Geraldine,
practically. “If a time ever comes when you have to be brave I guess
you’ll manage all right. But I don’t see any use of worrying about
things that may never happen.”
Gretel laughed in spite of herself. Geraldine always did her good when
she was disposed to be sentimental or morbid.
“I don’t believe you ever worry about anything,” she said a little
wistfully.
“No, I don’t,” returned Geraldine. “Mother worries enough for the whole
family put together. What are you going to do now? Not write a letter
at this time of night? It’s long after ten.”
“I must write just a few lines to Fräulein,” said Gretel. “I’m afraid
she thinks me very rude. I would like to get my letter off in the
morning mail.”
“Oh, yes; I suppose you will have to explain,” said Geraldine, yawning.
“Don’t make it too long, though, for I’m sleepy, and I never can get to
sleep till the light is out.”
“Shall I say you send your love?” Gretel asked, as she seated herself
at the desk and selected a pen and a sheet of note paper.
Geraldine hesitated.
“You can say I send kindest remembrances,” she compromised. “I hate
sending love to people I really don’t love at all.”
Gretel laughed.
“No one can ever accuse you of being anything but honest, Geraldine,”
she said. “Poor old Fräulein; I really don’t see why you never cared
more about her. It does worry me to think I should have forgotten about
this afternoon.”
Notwithstanding her “worrying,” however, Gretel slept very well, and
awoke next morning quite ready to enjoy life.
“We have to spend the morning working for the Red Cross,” Molly
explained at breakfast, “but this afternoon we can bathe and either
play tennis or go for a motor ride. Kitty wrote she wouldn’t be here
before six, at any rate. It’s a long ride from Stockbridge over here.
Her family are going to spend a couple of weeks at Narragansett and
will drop her here as they go through.”
It was a lovely summer morning, and soon after breakfast Mrs. Chester
and the three girls started for the Red Cross meeting at the Godfreys’.
A five minutes’ walk brought them to the house, which, like the
Chesters’, was close to the water. Ada was watching from the piazza,
and came running across the lawn to greet her friends.
“I am so glad you were able to come,” she said, kissing Geraldine
affectionately. “I am going to have a house party next week, and
there’s lots of fun going on. Did Molly tell you about the dance at The
Griswold on the Fourth? Mother says I can go and take my party, and
Mrs. Chester is going to take all of you. They say a lot of boys from
the naval station will be there, and it will be very gay.”
Ada’s manner was very cordial, but sensitive Gretel could not help
fancying that there was a difference in her manner when she turned
from Geraldine to herself, and particularly when presenting her to her
mother as “my friend, Gretel Schiller.”
Mrs. Godfrey, a stout, energetic woman, with a loud, decided voice,
received the visitors kindly, and the girls were introduced to several
other ladies who had already arrived for the morning’s work. More
people appeared, and they were soon all busy folding bandages and
making surgical dressings.
Gretel was skillful with her fingers and eager to learn, and before
the morning was over she had won golden opinions from many of the
workers. It would all have been very pleasant if Mrs. Godfrey and one
of the other ladies had not begun entertaining the party with stories
of German atrocities, ending in what they both declared to be a true
account of ground glass having been found in some surgical dressings
which had been sent in by a branch of the Red Cross.
“Of course, some German did it,” Ada’s mother stated positively.
“People should be more careful whom they allow to work. I have heard of
one branch who will not accept any work done by a person even having a
German name.”
Gretel felt her cheeks tingle, but kept her eyes steadily bent on her
work, and so quite failed to notice the quick, warning glance that Ada
cast at her mother. But the next words she heard were in Mrs. Chester’s
kind voice.
“That seems to me a little unfair. Many people with German names are
quite as good Americans as we are.”
“I wouldn’t trust one of them,” declared another lady, who, to do
her justice, had no idea there was any one present having a German
name. And she immediately launched forth into another story of German
treachery, if possible, even more shocking than the last.
“Well, it wasn’t so bad, after all, was it?” remarked Molly,
cheerfully, as they were walking home to luncheon.
“I liked it,” said Geraldine. “It’s nice to feel we are doing
something, even if it’s only a little. I’m afraid I was very stupid
and clumsy, though. You did wonderfully, Gretel.”
“She did, indeed,” chimed in Mrs. Chester. “Is this your first
experience, Gretel?”
Gretel admitted modestly that it was.
“Gretel is very clever,” said Molly. “You should have seen the socks
she knit at school. I suppose it’s Ger---- I mean some people are
cleverer with their fingers than others.”
As they approached the house Gretel fell behind with Mrs. Chester,
while Molly and Geraldine hurried on to join the boys, who were just
finishing an exciting game of tennis. There was something she felt she
must say, but it was not easy to begin.
“Do you play tennis?” Mrs. Chester asked, merely for the sake of saying
something, for she noticed that the girl looked troubled.
“Yes, a little, but--but, Mrs. Chester, may I ask you something?”
“Certainly, dear; anything you like,” said Mrs. Chester, kindly. “What
is it?”
“It’s about--about what those ladies were talking of,” faltered
Gretel, with crimson cheeks. “Do you believe any German really did that
dreadful thing--about the ground glass, you know?”
“I try not to believe such stories,” Mrs. Chester answered gravely.
“I know that many of them are entirely untrue and others grossly
exaggerated. Still, dreadful things have undoubtedly happened.”
“I know,” said Gretel, simply. “I have been thinking of what Mrs.
Godfrey said about people with German names. Perhaps they would rather
not have me work with them. I shouldn’t like to do anything that would
make you or Molly uncomfortable.”
“My dear child, you surely don’t attach any importance to such foolish
talk!” said Mrs. Chester, smiling. “We all know that many of our most
loyal citizens have German names.”
Gretel looked very much relieved.
“Thank you,” she said, earnestly. “I was just a little afraid----” she
did not finish her sentence, for at that moment Molly called to them
that it was only half-past twelve, and if they hurried there would be
time for a sea bath before luncheon.
The afternoon that followed was a very pleasant one, and in her healthy
enjoyment of her new surroundings Gretel soon forgot the discomfort of
the morning. They did not see the Godfreys again that day, but Kitty
Sharp arrived in time for dinner, and the four friends spent a very
merry evening together. Mrs. Chester had heard of Gretel’s music, and
after dinner she asked her to play, which the girl was always pleased
to do, and for nearly an hour she sat at the piano, playing the dear
old things she loved, while Mr. and Mrs. Chester listened with real
pleasure and admiration.
“You are a very talented young lady,” Mr. Chester said, smiling kindly,
as Gretel rose from the piano. “Very few girls of your age play as well
as you do. You must have had excellent teachers.”
“I have studied for the past three years at school,” said Gretel, “but
my father gave me my first lessons before I was six. I always feel as
if I owe everything I know to him.”
“Your father was a great musician,” said Mrs. Chester; “you have reason
to be proud of him.”
“I am proud of him,” said Gretel, with shining eyes, and she suddenly
felt happier than she had done all day.
“I like that little girl, Molly,” Mr. Chester said to his wife, when
Gretel had gone to join her friends on the piazza. “There is something
so honest and straightforward about her, and she is remarkably modest
for a girl with so much talent.”
“Poor child,” sighed Mrs. Chester; “I am afraid she is painfully
sensitive. Some of the women at the Red Cross meeting to-day were
telling stories of those horrible atrocities--you know the sort of
thing I mean--and Gretel evidently took them very much to heart. It
really is unfortunate that she should have such an unmistakably German
name.”
“Come and listen to the music,” said Molly, as Gretel stepped out on to
the cool piazza. “The men on the battle-ship are singing war songs,
and we can hear them quite plainly; it’s so still to-night. They’ve
just finished ‘The Long, Long Trail.’”
It was very still, as Molly had said, and in a few moments the singing
began again, the chorus of men’s voices sounding out sweet and clear
over the silent harbor. The four girls sat listening to one well-known
song after another: “Tipperary,” “Bid Me Good-Bye With a Smile,”
and “Keep the Home Fires Burning.” It was too far away for them to
distinguish the words, but they all knew the tunes, and by and by they
began to sing themselves. But though Gretel was fond of singing, and
had a fairly good little voice of her own, she did not join in the
choruses, as usual.
“Why don’t you sing, Gretel?” Geraldine asked at last. “You know ‘Over
There,’ don’t you?”
“Yes, I know it,” Gretel answered, softly; “but I don’t feel just like
singing to-night. I’m thinking about those boys on the ship. They sound
so merry and happy, just as if war were nothing but a big joke. And
yet, in a little while, they may all be fighting, and perhaps----”
Gretel paused, abruptly, with an only half-suppressed sob.
“I don’t believe they think very much about serious things,” said Kitty.
“Some of them do, I am sure,” said Gretel, unsteadily, “but when people
are brave they can pretend not to mind things, and help others by being
cheerful. I think to be brave is one of the grandest things in the
world.”
“Even greater than being a great musician like your father?” Kitty
asked.
“Yes, even greater than that,” said Gretel, gravely.
Just then Jerry and Paul, who had been spending the evening at one of
the neighbors’, returned, and in a few minutes Mrs. Chester called them
all indoors.
When they awoke the next morning the big battle-ship was no longer to
be seen. She had slipped quietly out to sea during the night.