Martha Remembers
For Dorothy the Christmas holidays passed quietly and most uneventfully.
She and Aunt Barbara saw little of the outside world. It had certainly
cost Dorothy several pangs to hear the girls at the College discussing
the many invitations they had received and the dances they expected to
attend, and to feel that a visit to the vicarage was all the festivity
that would be likely to come her way. There were no parties or
pantomimes included in her holiday programme. Aunt Barbara had had many
expenses lately, and her narrow income was stretched to its fullest
extent to pay school fees and the price of the contract ticket.
"It's hateful to be poor," thought Dorothy. "I want pretty dresses and
parties like other girls;" and she went home with the old wrinkle
between her brows, and a little droop at the corners of her mouth.
If Aunt Barbara noticed these and divined the cause, she made no
comment; she did not remind Dorothy of how much she had given up on her
behalf, or of what real sacrifice it entailed to send her to Avondale.
She took the opportunity, however, one day to urge her to work her
hardest at school.
"You may have to earn your own living some time, child," she said. "If
anything happens to me, my small pension goes back to the owner of the
Sherbourne estate. I shall be able to leave you nothing. A good
education is the only thing I can give you, so you must try to make the
most of it."
"Shall I have to be a teacher?" asked Dorothy blankly.
"I don't know. It will depend on what I can have you trained for,"
replied Miss Sherbourne.
She was hurt sometimes by Dorothy's manner; the girl seemed
dissatisfied, though she was evidently making an effort to hide the
fact.
"It's hard for her to mix at school with girls who have so many more
advantages," thought Aunt Barbara. "Was I wise to send her to Avondale,
I wonder? Is it having the effect of making her discontented? It's only
lately she's grown like this--she was never so before."
Discontented exactly described Dorothy's state of mind. She considered
that Fate had used her unkindly. The prospect of gaining her own living
was extremely distasteful to her. She hated the idea of becoming a
teacher, and no other work seemed any more congenial.
"I'd always looked forward to enjoying myself when I was grown up," she
thought bitterly, "and now it will be nothing but slave."
At present Dorothy was viewing life entirely from her own standpoint,
and was suffering from an attack of that peculiar complaint called
"self-itis". She was aggrieved that the world had not given her more,
and it never struck her to think of what she might give to the world. It
seemed as if she could no longer enjoy all the little simple occupations
in which she had been accustomed to take so much pleasure--she was tired
of her stamps and postcards, bookbinding and clay modelling had lost
their attraction, and she was apathetic on the subject of fancy work.
"I don't know what's come over you," declared Martha. "You just idle
about the house doing nothing at all. Why can't you take your knitting,
or a bit of crochet in your fingers?"
"Simply because I don't want to. I wish you'd leave me alone, Martha!"
replied Dorothy irritably.
She resented the old servant's interference, for Martha was less patient
and forbearing than Aunt Barbara, and hinted pretty plainly sometimes
what she thought of her nursling.
So the holidays passed by--dreary ones for Dorothy, who spent whole
listless evenings staring at the fire; and drearier still for Aunt
Barbara, who made many efforts to interest the girl, and, failing
utterly, went about with a new sadness in her eyes and a fresh grief in
her heart that she would not have confessed to anyone.
Everybody at Holly Cottage was glad when the term began again.
"I don't hold with holidays," grumbled Martha. "Give young folks plenty
of work, say I, and they're much better than mooning about with naught
to do. Dorothy's a different girl when she's got her lessons to keep her
busy."
To do Dorothy justice, she certainly worked her hardest at the College,
though the prospect of becoming a teacher did not strike her as an
inspiring goal for her efforts. She put the idea away from her as much
as possible, but every now and then it returned like a bad nightmare.
"I should hate to be Miss Pitman," she remarked one day at school. "It
must be odious to be a mistress."
"Do you think so?" replied Grace Russell. "Why, I'd love it! I mean to
go in for teaching myself some time."
"But will you have to earn your own living? I thought your father was
well off," objected Dorothy.
"That's no reason why I shouldn't be of some use in the world," returned
Grace. "Teaching is a splendid profession if one does it thoroughly. I
have a cousin who's a class mistress at a big school near London, and
she's so happy--her girls just adore her. It must be an immense
satisfaction to feel one's doing some real work, and not being a mere
drone in the hive."
This was a new notion to Dorothy, and though she could not quite digest
it at first, she turned it over in her mind. She was astonished that
Grace, who had a beautiful home, could wish to take up work.
"She'd make a far better teacher, though, than Miss Pitman," she
thought. "I wonder why? It's something about Grace that makes one
feel--well, that she's always doing things from a motive right above
herself."
Dorothy found this an interesting term at the College. As a recruit of
the Dramatic Union, she attended rehearsals and was given a minor part
in a play that the members were acting, just for practice. It was an
honour to be included in the "Dramatic", for its numbers were limited,
and it was mostly made up of girls from the Upper School. Her bright
rendering of her small part won her notice among the monitresses.
"Dorothy Greenfield is decidedly taking," said Mary Galloway. "She's as
sharp as a needle. I believe I like her."
"Um--yes--a little too cheeky for my taste," replied Alice Edwards.
"What's the matter with her at present is that she thinks the world is
limited to Dorothy Greenfield."
"You've hit the mark exactly," returned Mary.
About the end of January Miss Tempest introduced a new feature at the
College. This was a Guild of First Aid and Field Ambulance, and, though
it was not incorporated with any special organization, it was drawn up
somewhat on the same lines as the Girl Guides. The main object was
character training, as developed through work for others. Every member
of the Guild was pledged to Chivalry, Patriotism, Self-reliance, and
Helpfulness; and her aim was to acquire knowledge to make her of
service, not only to herself, but to the community. Membership was not
obligatory, but the scheme was so well received that more than half the
school joined, Dorothy and Alison being among the number.
"I had to coax Mother tremendously," said Alison. "At first she said no.
You see, she thought it was something like the Boy Scouts, and she said
she couldn't have me careering about the country on Saturday
afternoons--she didn't approve of it for girls."
"But we aren't to go out scouting."
"No; I explained that, and then she gave way. She says she's not sure
whether she'll let me go to the Field Ambulance meetings, though; she's
afraid I'll catch cold. But I didn't argue about that; I was glad enough
to persuade her to say yes on any terms."
"You'll have the ambulance work at school."
"Yes, and perhaps I may go to at least one camp, if the weather's fine."
The Avondale Guild of Help, as it was called, though it began primarily
with ambulance, took a wide scope for its work.
"I don't want you to think it is only practising bandaging and having
picnics in the country," said Miss Tempest, in her first address to the
members. "What is needed is the principle of learning to give willing
aid to others, and wishing to be of service. In Japan, when a child is
born, a paper sign of a doll or a fish is put up outside the house, to
signify whether the baby is a girl or a boy--the boy being destined to
swim against the stream and make his own way in the world, and the girl
being a doll to be played with. This idea does not meet our present-day
standards in England. We do not want our girls to grow up dolls, but
helpful comrades and worthy citizens of the Empire. It is terrible to me
to think of girls, after their schooldays are over, leading aimless,
idle, profitless lives, when there is plenty of good work waiting to be
done in the world. 'To whom much is committed, of the same shall much be
required', and the education you receive here should be a trust to hand
on to others who have not had your advantages. There is nobody who
cannot make some little corner of the world better by her presence, and
be of use to her poorer neighbours, and I hope the Guild may lead to
many other schemes. For the present, I want every member to promise to
make one garment a year as her contribution to our charity basket. The
clothes will be sent to the Ragged School Mission in the town, and
distributed to those who badly need them."
Each member of the Guild signed her name on a scroll, pledged herself to
observe the rules, and received the badge, a little shield bearing the
motto: "As one that serveth".
"I feel almost like a Crusader!" laughed Dorothy, as she pinned on her
badge.
"It's a part of the greatest of all crusades," said Grace Russell
gravely.
Everybody was delighted with the ambulance classes. They were considered
the utmost fun, and the girls looked forward to them from week to week.
They were held in the gymnasium, the members practising upon one
another. Any stranger suddenly entering the room would have been amazed
to see rows of girls lying prostrate on the floor, while amateur nurses
knelt by their sides, placing their legs in splints contrived out of
hockey sticks, binding up their jaws, or lifting them tenderly and
carrying them on improvised stretchers with a swinging "step both
together" motion. It was amusing when at a certain signal the nurses and
patients changed places; by an apparent miracle the latter kicked away
their splints, tore off their bandages, and set to work with enthusiasm
to apply treatment to the imaginary injuries of their quondam
attendants.
Of course, there were many laughable mistakes. Ruth Harmon got mixed one
day in the diagnosis, and insisted upon turning a rebellious patient
upon her face.
"What are you doing? You're rolling me over like a log!" protested
Joyce. "Do stop!"
"No, I shan't. Let me pull out your tongue. It's to get the water from
your mouth," insisted Ruth. "It's no use working your arms when your air
passages are choked."
"But I wasn't drowning! I have a broken leg!"
"Then why couldn't you tell me so at first? I thought you were one of
those who were supposed to be fished out of the river!"
"I've grown quite clever at pretending fits," said Alison. "I only
bargain that they stick my own pocket-handkerchief between my teeth."
"My speciality is a sprained ankle," said Dorothy. "I can hold my foot
quite limp and let it waggle."
"It was you who talked when you had a broken jaw, and that's a sheer
impossibility," said Annie Gray.
"Well! Who sneezed when we were trying treatment for bleeding from the
nose?"
"I couldn't help that; it was a 'physical disability'."
"It's our turn to revive fainting. Who'll do an elegant swoon? Alison,
will you?"
"No, thanks. I don't mind fits, but I hate faints. The burnt feather
makes me cough, and last time you simply soused me with water. I thought
I was being drowned."
As the term went on and the girls became more adept at first aid, Miss
Tempest decided to organize a camp drill, and to take them for an
afternoon's practice in field work. To Dorothy's delight, a meadow at
Hurford was chosen as the scene of action.
"You'll be able to come and watch, Auntie," she said to Aunt Barbara.
"We're going to do all sorts of exciting things. We're to suppose
there's been a battle, and then we'll come on and help the
wounded--carry some of them to transport wagons, and make wind screens
for others, and of course bind them all up first. We're to have a lot of
little boys from the Orphanage for soldiers--that's why Miss Tempest
chose to come to Hurford, because they've a Boy Scout Corps at the
Orphanage, and can lend us some real stretchers and a proper ambulance
wagon. I hope I shall get a nice bright boy as patient."
After considerable coaxing, Alison managed to persuade her mother to
allow her to take part, if the day proved suitable.
"It's so much warmer now, Mother dearest," she pleaded. "I haven't had a
cold for ages; and we shan't be standing still--we shall be busy running
about all the time. It's only from half-past two till four. You might
come and watch."
"It's my afternoon to help at the Sewing Meeting," said Mrs. Clarke. "I
could hardly miss that while the Deaconess is away."
"Then drive over to Hurford and fetch me home. I haven't been out in the
trap for ages--yes, ages! Do, darling Motherkins! I should so enjoy it,
and--oh yes, I'll put a Shetland shawl over my mouth, if you like, and
you could bring my thick coat. Will you promise?"
"It depends on the weather, Birdie," replied her mother discreetly.
The afternoon in question turned out mild enough to allay even Mrs.
Clarke's fears. It was one of those balmy, delicious days in early
spring when the earth seems to throb with renewed life, and there is
real warmth in the sunshine. The Guild members had dinner earlier than
usual, and caught the two o'clock train to Hurford. The field that had
been engaged as their temporary camp was close to the Orphanage, and
they found all ready for them on their arrival, from the stretchers to
the row of nice little boys in uniform upon whom they were to operate.
Everything was strictly business-like. The officers and patrol leaders
at once took command, and began to instruct each group of ambulance
workers in the particular duties they were expected to perform. One
detachment started to build a fire (there is a science in the building
of fires in the open), a second ran up the Red Cross flag and arranged a
temporary hospital with supplies from the transport wagon, while a third
went out to render first aid to the wounded.
The boys entered thoroughly into the spirit of the affair. A blank
charge was fired, at which signal they all dropped down on the grass as
"injured".
Dorothy, who was told off to No. 3 Corps, flew at the sound of the guns,
and pounced upon the first prostrate form she came across.
"Are you killed or wounded?" she enquired breathlessly.
"Wounded, m'm," replied the boy, with a grin. "But you can't have me,
because another lady's got me already. She looks at me and she says:
'Not movable', and she's run to get a spade to dig a 'ole with."
"Oh! To put your hip in, I suppose?"
"Yes, m'm. They don't bury us unless we're killed."
"I should think not!" exclaimed Dorothy, as she hurried away to find a
patient who was still unappropriated.
"Anybody attending to you?" she asked a solemn, curly-headed little
fellow, who lay under the shade of the hedge with arms stretched in a
dramatic attitude on either side of him.
"No, miss--shot through the lungs, and leg shattered," he replied
complacently.
"Then it's a case of stop bleeding, bandage, and lift on stretcher. I'll
bind you up first, and then call for someone to help to carry you. Can
you raise yourself at all on your arm, or are you helpless? Am I hurting
you?"
"No, miss--but you do tickle me awful!"
"Never mind; I've almost finished. Now your leg. Which is it--right or
left?"
"Left. But lor', if it was really shattered, I'd rather you touched
t'other!"
"No, you wouldn't. You'd be grateful to me for saving your life. I'm
going to whistle for help. Here comes a corporal. Where's my stretcher
sling? Now, Marjorie, let us lift him quickly and gently. That was
neatly done! We'll have him in hospital in record time."
Everybody enjoyed the afternoon, the patrols that performed the camp
cookery, the first-aid workers, the nursing sisters at the hospital, and
the elect few who were initiated into the elements of signalling.
Alison, who had helped to put up a tent, and given imaginary chloroform
under the directions of a supposed army surgeon, was immensely proud of
herself, and half-inclined to regard the work of the Red Cross
Sisterhood as her vocation in life.
"It's ripping!" she declared. "I'd six of the jolliest boys for
patients. One of them offered to faint as many times as I liked, and
another (he was a cunning little scamp) assured me his case required
beef tea immediately it was ready in the camp kitchen. He asked if I'd
brought any chocolate. Another was so realistic, he insisted on
shrieking every time I touched him, and he groaned till his throat must
have ached. I think ambulance is the best fun going."
"We must beseech Miss Tempest to let us have another field day," said
Grace Russell, who had been helping with the cookery and carrying round
water. "We each want to practise every part of the work so as to be
ready for emergencies. It isn't a really easy thing to give a prostrate
patient a drink without nearly choking him. One doesn't know all the
difficulties until one tries."
"One doesn't, indeed," said Ruth Harmon. "Field work isn't plain
sailing. I wish we hadn't to catch the 4.15 train; I should have liked
to stay longer. There's the signal to form and march. Aren't you coming,
Alison?"
"No; I'm not going by train. My mother promised to drive over for me. I
wonder she hasn't arrived."
"Will she come by the high road from Latchworth?" asked Dorothy. "Then
walk home with Aunt Barbara and me. We shall very likely meet her on the
way."
"Oh, I'd love to see where you live!" exclaimed Alison. "Is that your
aunt? She's sweet. I imagined somehow she'd be much older than that. I
think she's ever so pretty. I hope Mother'll be late, and that we shall
get as far as your house before we meet the trap."
Alison chattered briskly as they walked along the road; she had a very
friendly disposition, and was much taken with Miss Sherbourne's
appearance. She had not been in Hurford before, so she was interested to
notice the fine old church and the picturesque village street.
"It's ever so much prettier than Latchworth," she declared. "I wish our
house were here instead. Oh, look at that dear little place with the
porch all covered with creepers! Is that yours? How lovely! It looks as
if it had stepped out of a picture."
"Won't you come in, dear, and wait for your mother?" said Miss
Sherbourne. "We can watch for the trap from the window."
"May I? I'd love to. Oh, Dorothy, while I'm here, do show me your
stamps! You always promised to bring them to school, but you never have
done it. And I want to look at your clay models too."
"Come to my den, then," said Dorothy. "Martha will stand at the gate and
stop the trap from passing, won't you, Martha? Now, Alison, we'll go
upstairs."
The two girls had only a very short time in which to examine Dorothy's
various possessions. After a few minutes Martha came running up to say
that the trap was waiting.
"And the lady said you were please to come at once," she added,
addressing Alison.
"Oh, bother," exclaimed the latter; "I haven't seen half yet! I suppose
I shall have to go, though. Where's your aunt? I want to say good-bye to
her. Oh, there she is at the gate, speaking to Mother!"
Mrs. Clarke was not at all pleased to find her daughter awaiting her at
Holly Cottage, though she had the good manners to conceal her feelings
and speak politely to Miss Sherbourne; so she hustled Alison into the
trap as speedily as possible.
"We're late, Birdie. I couldn't help it--I was delayed at the Sewing
Meeting. But we must hurry home now. Here's your shawl, and put this
golf cape on. No, child; you must have it properly round you."
"I'm so hot!" panted poor Alison, dutifully submitting to the extra
wraps.
"You'll be cold enough driving. Have you tucked the rug thoroughly round
your knees? Then say good-bye."
"Good-bye! Good-bye! I hadn't half enough time," cried Alison, trying to
wave a hand, in spite of the encumbrance of the golf cape. "I'd like to
come again and----" But here her mother whipped up the pony so smartly
that the rest of the sentence was lost in the grating of wheels.
"So that is Mrs. Clarke," said Aunt Barbara, as she entered the cottage
again. "She looks nice, though I wish she had allowed Alison to stay for
a few minutes longer. It's a funny thing, but somehow her face seems so
familiar to me. I wonder if I can possibly have met her before?"
"Have you seen her in Coleminster?" suggested Dorothy.
"No; the remembrance seems to be much farther back than that. I should
say it was a long time ago."
"So it was--nearly fourteen years," volunteered Martha, who was laying
the tea table. "I remembered her fast enough. I knew her the moment I
set my eyes on her."
Martha had the privilege of long service, and was accustomed to speak
her mind and offer advice to her mistress on many occasions. If she was
blunt and abrupt in her manners, she was a very faithful soul, and her
north-country brains were shrewd and keen. She was an authority in the
little household on many points, and her remarks were never ignored.
"Why, Martha, I always say you've a better memory than I have," returned
Miss Sherbourne. "Where did we know her, then?"
"We didn't know her," said Martha, pausing and looking at Dorothy. "The
bairn's been told about it now, so I suppose I can speak before her?
Well, that lady in the trap to-day is the same one that came to the inn
at Greenfield Junction, and was so upset at sight of the child."
"Are you sure, Martha?" exclaimed Miss Barbara.
"Certain; I never forget a face. I'd take my oath before a judge and
jury."
"She did not remember us."
"Didn't she? I wouldn't swear to that. You've not changed so much but
that anyone would recognize you. It's my opinion she knew us both, and
that was the reason she was in such a precious hurry to get away."