THE RED CROSS GIRLS WITH
THE STARS AND STRIPES
BOOKS BY MARGARET VANDERCOOK
THE RANCH GIRLS SERIES
THE RANCH GIRLS AT RAINBOW LODGE
THE RANCH GIRLS’ POT OF GOLD
THE RANCH GIRLS AT BOARDING SCHOOL
THE RANCH GIRLS IN EUROPE
THE RANCH GIRLS AT HOME AGAIN
THE RANCH GIRLS AND THEIR GREAT ADVENTURE
THE RED CROSS GIRLS SERIES
THE RED CROSS GIRLS IN THE BRITISH TRENCHES
THE RED CROSS GIRLS ON THE FRENCH FIRING LINE
THE RED CROSS GIRLS IN BELGIUM
THE RED CROSS GIRLS WITH THE RUSSIAN ARMY
THE RED CROSS GIRLS WITH THE ITALIAN ARMY
THE RED CROSS GIRLS UNDER THE STARS AND STRIPES
STORIES ABOUT CAMP FIRE GIRLS
THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS AT SUNRISE HILL
THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS AMID THE SNOWS
THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS IN THE OUTSIDE WORLD
THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS ACROSS THE SEA
THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS’ CAREERS
THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS IN AFTER YEARS
THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS IN THE DESERT
THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS AT THE END OF THE TRAIL
The Red Cross Girls
With the
Stars and Stripes
By
MARGARET VANDERCOOK
Author of “The Ranch Girls Series,” “Stories
about Camp Fire Girls Series,” etc.
Illustrated
The John C. Winston Company
Philadelphia
Copyright, 1917, by
THE JOHN C. WINSTON CO.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE CALL 7
II. ANOTHER VOLUNTEER 23
III. SOMEWHERE IN FRANCE 37
IV. WITH THE AMERICAN ARMY IN FRANCE 54
V. INTRODUCTIONS 68
VI. CARRIER PIGEONS 80
VII. THE DAYS BEFORE THE GREAT DAY 91
VIII. LONELINESS 104
IX. A DISPUTE 118
X. THE TWO SIDES OF A SHIELD 130
XI. THE UNDERTOW 141
XII. THE CASINO 155
XIII. A CLOSER BOND 174
XIV. GREATER LOVE 187
XV. AN AMAZING SUGGESTION 199
XVI. MEET FOR REPENTANCE 216
XVII. AN EXPLANATION WHICH DID NOT EXPLAIN 228
XVIII. THE COMMAND 242
XIX. A PARTING OF THE WAYS 248
THE RED CROSS GIRLS WITH THE STARS AND STRIPES
CHAPTER I
_The Call_
Barbara Thornton stood at the window of her little drawing-room in New
York City looking over toward Central Park.
It was a charming room and this afternoon was filled with flowers sent
from her mother-in-law’s country place on Long Island. Perhaps as an
expression of his patriotism, the gardener had cut only red, white and
blue flowers, for among the white and red of the fragrant roses were
tall stalks of deep, blue-starred delphiniums.
A table was arranged for tea, but because it was summer time, there
were tall frosted glasses instead of cups and a big cut-glass bowl to
be used later for ice.
Barbara herself was dressed in a thin, white china silk, as if she were
expecting guests. She had now been married to Richard Thornton a good
many months, and yet looked very little older than the Barbara who
had appeared so unexpectedly at the Thornton home, nearly three years
before, on her way to do Red Cross nursing in France.
Of course Barbara felt a good deal older. No girl can pass through
the experience of war nursing and come out of it unchanged. Moreover,
Barbara within three eventful years had also married and had a baby.
Yet this afternoon, amid her lovely surroundings, Bab, who was
ordinarily the most cheerful of persons, did not appear to be happy.
Her cheeks were more deeply flushed than usual, and every once in
a while, in spite of the fact that she was alone, she would wipe
the tears furtively away from her fine eyes with a tiny, white lace
handkerchief.
For Barbara did not desire the visitors, whom she was expecting at any
moment, to discover that she was troubled.
When the ring came at her front door bell, giving herself a hurried
glance in the mirror and forcing a smile, Barbara reached the door just
after her little Irish maid had opened it.
Standing outside were three persons, one of them an older woman in an
exquisite costume of blue and silver, the colors of her eyes and hair,
another a young girl of about sixteen and the third a young man.
“Oh, Sonya, I am so glad to see you. It has seemed such ages and so
strange to think of you and Nona in Italy without the old group of Red
Cross girls! But where is Nona? I thought she was to be with you.”
In the beginning of her speech, Barbara Thornton had taken her guest’s
hand and kissed it with characteristic swiftness and sweetness. Now,
before Sonya Valesky could reply to her, she had turned to her other
visitors.
“Forgive me if I was rude. I am so glad to see you, although we have
never met one another before, I am sure I know who you are. This is
Bianca and this is Mr. Navara. You see, I have had letters about both
of you from Italy.”
And then Barbara led the way into her drawing-room, while Sonya
explained.
“Nona will be here presently. She had to attend to some important
business. I believe she wishes to stay after we have gone and talk the
matter over with you, Barbara. I don’t like to tell you what it is, but
I hope you will try to dissuade her.”
“Something about which you have tried and failed?” Barbara inquired.
“Then I am sure I shall not be successful. You see, Eugenia always said
that Nona was the most difficult of us all to influence because she
seemed to be the gentlest.”
Barbara had seated herself at her tea table and was now trying to serve
her guests; the maid had immediately brought in the ice, and cold and
hot tea as well. Barbara wished that she had not so much to occupy
her as she would like to have been able to devote more attention to
studying her guests.
Bianca, the little Italian girl whom Sonya had brought home with her
to the United States as a protégée, Barbara found less interesting
than Nona’s description of her had led one to expect. Bianca was very
pretty, of a delicate, shell-like type that one would not expect in an
Italian. At present she seemed either very shy and frightened, or else
she was merely demure. Then Barbara remembered that this was exactly
what Nona had written was especially characteristic of her. Bianca was
not all Italian, her father having been an American, and one must not
judge her wholly by appearances.
Moreover, if, as Nona had also said, Sonya had returned to the United
States partly because she wished to see less of the young Italian
singer whom she had cared for during his convalescence in Italy,
apparently she had not been successful thus far.
Even as she looked after her tea party Barbara could see that Carlo
Navara, if it were possible, never looked in any other direction than
toward Sonya. He was, of course, a great deal younger than Sonya and it
was immensely tragic that in fighting for Italy a wound had destroyed
the beauty of his voice; nevertheless, Barbara could not but feel that
his attitude was delightfully romantic.
Sonya treated him almost as she did Bianca, in a half maternal, half
friendly fashion, and yet Barbara wondered if she felt in the same way
toward them both. As Barbara had not seen the young Italian-American
during the crossing to Italy, when he had seemed to be merely a crude,
vain boy, she could not appreciate what Sonya’s influence had done for
him. Barbara now saw a remarkably good looking young fellow of perhaps
something over twenty, with dark eyes and hair, charming manners and
an expression of quiet melancholy which his tragic loss rendered
appealing. At present there was little in Carlo’s artistic face and
manner to suggest his origin, or the little Italian fruit shop in the
east end of New York City, where his parents worked and lived and where
Carlo was also living at this time.
“I suppose Nona intends returning to France to nurse once again and you
do not wish her to make the trip so soon?” Barbara Thornton remarked,
as if she had been following but one train of thought, rather than
making a careful and critical study of her guests at the same time.
Sonya Valesky was sitting in a tall carved chair drinking her tea from
a clear glass in Russian fashion. She was always perfectly dressed, for
she had the art of making whatever costume she wore appear the ideal
one. But today she seemed even more so than usual. With her partly gray
hair, her deep blue eyes with their dark brows and lashes, and the
foreign look she never lost, she was an oddly arresting figure.
She smiled now at her hostess and then shook her head.
“Of course that is true, Barbara, and I am not much surprised at your
guessing. But since this is what Nona herself wishes to talk to you
about, we had best not discuss it, or she may feel I have tried to
influence you. Of course I understand her great desire to help nurse
her own countrymen, for Nona has so long hoped the United States would
join the Allies. But I don’t think Nona has rested sufficiently long
since our return from Italy. You may see a change in her, Barbara, and
I can’t be cross with her just now. I have not yet found a school for
Bianca and I cannot leave her alone in a strange county. When fall
comes it will be different, as her mother especially wished her to
enter an American school.”
This speech was made in a perfectly simple and matter-of-fact fashion
with no suggestion of mystery or misfortune. Nevertheless, Barbara
Thornton observed a slight change in the expression of the youngest of
her three guests. One could scarcely assert that the young Italian girl
flushed, or that she made any very perceptible movement. It was merely
that her delicate eyelids drooped over her wide blue eyes and that her
lips parted with the quick in-taking of her breath. She seemed not so
much to mind what had been said as to fear a further discussion of the
subject. This is ordinarily true of most of us when there is in our
lives any fact which we hope to keep secret.
Barbara Thornton was aware that Bianca’s mother was an Italian peasant
who was now a fugitive, having sold Italian secrets to a German agent
in Florence. Since her disappearance no one knew whether Nannina was
alive or dead, so it was small wonder that Bianca should appear unhappy
at the mention of her mother’s name. However, she answered gently and
submissively:
“I am sorry to have the Signora Valesky allow me to interfere with her
plans. Beyond anything I too would like to be allowed to do something
for the wounded solders. I cannot nurse, but I am stronger than I look
and there are so many things to be done,----”
But no one answered or paid any attention to Bianca, for at this
instant Nona Davis came into the room. Forgetting all her other
visitors Barbara at once jumped up and ran forward to greet her.
This summer afternoon Nona had on a dark-blue silk dress which
accentuated her slenderness and fairness. In truth, she did look too
worn out to be planning to start off, almost immediately, to continue
her Red Cross nursing. With only one real holiday, Nona Davis had been
nursing almost continuously since the outbreak of the war. As a matter
of fact she had the strength which so often seems a characteristic of
delicate, ethereal persons.
After embracing Barbara and nodding to her other friends she dropped
into a big leather chair, in which she appeared lost, except that
it accentuated the shining quality of her pale, yellow hair and the
blueness of her eyes, which looked darker, because of the rather
strained, whiteness of her face.
“Please give me tea, and tea, and tea, Barbara, more than Eugenia ever
allowed us to drink even in our most enthusiastic tea drinking days at
the old château in southern France. I think I have been all over New
York City this afternoon and seen a dozen people on business.”
At this Nona turned with an apologetic glance toward Sonya.
“Don’t be vexed, Sonya, please, but I’m sailing for France in a week
or ten days. Of course we can’t tell just when, or any other details
of our departure. But I find I am very much needed, in spite of all
the other Red Cross nurses who have already gone. Why, every few days
another Red Cross unit sails! Still, with more and more American
soldiers going over every week, until we cannot guess what the number
may come to be some day, it may yet be difficult to find enough nurses
with experience to care for them.”
From its original pallor, Nona’s face had changed and was flushed
deeply with excitement as she talked.
Both to Barbara and Sonya it occurred as they now watched her, however,
that she was trying to show more self-control than she actually felt.
Always, Nona had been intensely interested in her Red Cross work and
had thrown herself into it with all the ardor and devotion of her
southern temperament. But since the entry of the United States into
the great European conflict she had undoubtedly developed an added
enthusiasm and sense of responsibility.
Just how much she was doing this to aid her in forgetting Eugino Zoli’s
death and her experience with him in Italy, Sonya Valesky, who had been
her companion in Florence, could not guess. Of her friend’s interest in
the young Italian aviator, Barbara Thornton understood nothing beyond
Nona’s occasional casual mention of his name in her Italian letters.
“But must you go so soon, Nona? Really I don’t think it wise,” Sonya
remonstrated in response. However, she scarcely spoke as if she
expected her advice to be heeded. For in regard to her nursing, Nona
was strangely obstinate and unmindful of herself and of other people.
Nona nodded. “Yes.” Then she added immediately, “Please do not let us
continue to talk of my plans. I am to have old friends, or almost old
friends go with me. Molly Drew and Agatha Burton are home from Italy
and are crossing with me to France.”
Nona turned toward her hostess.
“I think I wrote you, Barbara, about the three new Red Cross girls
who made the voyage to Italy with us and later were at the American
Hospital in Florence. I learned to like them very much, although we
were never so intimate as our first group of Red Cross girls. The third
girl was Dolores King from New Orleans. I don’t know where she is at
present; perhaps she has remained in Italy.”
“I don’t like Miss Burton. I should prefer not to nurse with her,” an
unexpected voice exclaimed at this instant.
But, as the voice was only Bianca’s and as Sonya had almost at the same
instant risen to say farewell, no one paid any notice to her speech.
Indeed, no one except Barbara Thornton really heard or remembered it.
Moreover, Bianca had seen the girl she now mentioned, scarcely more
than three or four times.
Sonya was anxious to leave the two old friends alone and therefore
hurried Bianca and Carlo away with her, now that tea was over.
As soon as Barbara had said farewell to them and returned to her
drawing-room, Nona went straight up to her and placed her hands on the
smaller girl’s shoulder.
“What is the trouble, Barbara dear? You do not seem so radiant as when
I went away. Don’t tell me unless you like, but haven’t you everything
in the world to make you happy? Better be happy when you can, _Barbara
mia_. You know Eugenia and Mildred and I used always to count on you as
the gayest of the four of us and I want to give only a good report to
them, when I see them in France.”
Barbara drew away slightly.
“So you have started in ahead of me, Nona, in asking questions! I do
not see how I could have permitted it when I had such dozens to ask of
you. But how can you expect me to be selfish enough to be happy when
Poor Mildred and Eugenia are having such tragic times. You know, of
course, that Eugenia’s husband, Captain Castaigne, has been reported
missing. She does not know whether he is a prisoner or dead. Then, too,
General Alexis has been arrested by the new Russian Government. He was
a friend, you remember, of the Czar and is suspected of favoring the
old régime. Sometimes I wonder if he and Mildred will ever marry. He is
so much older and they are so many miles apart. Mr. and Mrs. Thornton,
and even Dick, have written to urge Mildred to come home, but she will
not leave Eugenia. I suppose they are a comfort to each other in their
sorrow.”
Barbara walked a little apart from her friend.
Nona was now looking quietly about the charming room filled with books
and flowers and soft, rose-colored hangings.
“I did not mean to be inquisitive, Bab, forgive me,” she said softly.
“I think I must have been thinking of the old days in Europe when we
used to share one another’s confidences. We were more intimate even
than sisters when we were together out there.”
Then Nona laughed as if she were making the most inconceivable
suggestion in the world:
“Anyhow I don’t suppose anything serious has happened. You are not
leaving Dick and you would have told me if the baby was not well.”
At this speech Barbara Thornton’s entire expression and manner changed.
Nona saw that her eyes were wide open and that there was a deeper look
of pain in them than she had so far realized.
“No,” Barbara answered her quietly; “but then Dick is leaving me, so
perhaps it amounts to the same thing. And I did not believe we could
ever disagree on any subject after we were married.”