"DEAR MRS. OTWAY,
"I am so very glad to be able to send you the enclosed. Of
course I have not read it. In fact I do not know German. But I
gather that it contains news of Major Guthrie, and that it is
written with a kindly intention. It was probably intended to
arrive for Christmas.
"Yours very truly,
"ANNABEL GAUNT.
"P.S.--Any letters you write in answer must be left open."
The envelope enclosed by Mrs. Gaunt, which bore the Censor's stamp, had
come from Switzerland, and had been forwarded by favour of the Geneva
Red Cross.
With an indescribable feeling of suspense, of longing, and of relief,
Mrs. Otway drew out the sheet of paper. It was closely covered with the
cramped German characters with which she was, of course, familiar.
"MINDEN,
"_15 December, 1914._
"DEAR MADAM,
"As Medical Superintendent of the Field Lazarette at Minden, I
write on behalf of a British prisoner of war, Major Guthrie,
who has now been under my care for fourteen weeks.
"I wish to assure you that he has had the very highest medical
skill bestowed on him since he came here. Owing to the
exceptional exigencies and strain put on our Medical Service
at the Front, he did not perhaps obtain the care to which he
was entitled by our merciful and humane usages of war, as soon
as would have been well. He received a most serious wound in
the shoulder. That wound, I am pleased to tell you, is in as
good a state as possible, and will leave no ill-effects.
"But I regret to tell you, Madam, that Major Guthrie has lost
his eyesight. He bears this misfortune with remarkable
fortitude. As a young man I myself spent a happy year in
Edinburgh, and so we have agreeable subjects of conversation.
He tells me you are quite familiar with my language, or I
should of course have written to you in English.
"Believe me, Madam,
"To remain with the utmost respect,
"Yours faithfully,
"KARL BRECHT."
Underneath the signature of the doctor was written in hesitating,
strange characters the words in English, "God bless you.--ALEXANDER
GUTHRIE."
And then, under these five words, came another sentence in German:
"I may tell you for your consolation that it is extremely probable that
Major Guthrie will be exchanged in the course of the next few weeks. But
I have said nothing of that to him, for it will depend on the good-will
of the British Government, and it is a good-will which we Germans have
now learnt to distrust."
She read the letter through again. There came over her a feeling of
agony such as she never imagined any human being could suffer.
During the past weeks of suspense, she had faced in her own mind many
awful possibilities, but of this possibility she had not thought.
Now she remembered, with piteous vividness, the straight, kindly gaze in
his bright blue eyes--eyes which had had a pleasant play of humour in
them. Sight does not mean the same to all men, but she knew that it
meant a very great deal to the man she loved. He had always been an
out-door man, a man who cared for everything that concerned open-air
life--for birds, for trees, for flowers, for shooting, fishing, and
gardening.
Ever since she had known that Major Guthrie was alive and wounded, a
prisoner in Germany, she had allowed her thoughts to dwell on the
letters she would write to him when she received his address. She had
composed so many letters in her mind--alternative letters--letters which
should somehow make clear to him all that was in her heart, while yet
concealing it first from the British Censors and then from his German
jailers.
But now she did not give these Censors and jailers a thought. She sat
down and wrote quite simply and easily the words which welled up out of
her heart:
"MY DEAREST,
"To-day is New Year's Day, and I have had the great joy of
receiving news of you. Also your blessing, which has already
done me good. I wish you to get this letter quickly, so I will
not make it long.
"I am forbidden to give you any news, so I will only say that
Rose and I are well. That I love you and think of you all the
time, and look forward to being always with you in God's good
time."
She hesitated a moment as to how she would sign herself, and then she
wrote:
"Your own
"MARY."
She looked over the letter, wondering if she could say any more, and
then a sudden inspiration came to her. She added a postscript:
"I am spending the money you left with me. It is a great comfort."
This was not strictly true, but she made up her mind that it should
become true before the day was out.
Far longer did she take over her letter to the German doctor--indeed,
she made three drafts of it, being so pitifully anxious to say just the
right thing, neither too much nor too little, which might favourably
incline him to his prisoner patient.
All the time she was writing this second letter she felt as if the
Censors were standing by her, frowning, picking out a sentence here, a
sentence there. She would have liked to say something of the time she
had spent at Weimar, but she dared not do so; perhaps if she said
anything of the kind her letter might not get through.
There was nothing Mrs. Otway desired to say which the sternest Censor
could have found fault with in either country, but the poor soul did not
know that. Still, even so, she wrote a very charming letter of
gratitude--so charming, indeed, and so admirably expressed, that when
the Medical Superintendent at last received it, he said to himself, "The
gracious lady writer of this letter must be partly German. No
Englishwoman could have written like this!"
There was one more letter to write, but Mrs. Otway found no difficulty
in expressing in few sentences her warm gratitude to her new friend at
Arlington Street.
She put the three letters in a large envelope--the one for the German
hospital carefully addressed according to the direction at the top of
the Medical Superintendent's letter, but open as she had been told to
leave it. On chance, for she was quite ignorant whether the postage
should be prepaid, she put a twopenny-halfpenny stamp on the letter, and
then, having done that, fastened down the big envelope and addressed it
to Mrs. Gaunt, at 20, Arlington Street.
Then she took another envelope out of her drawer--that containing Major
Guthrie's bank-notes. There, in with them, was still the postcard he had
written to her from France, immediately after the landing of the
Expeditionary Force. She looked at the clearly-written French
sentence--the sentence in which the writer maybe had tried to convey
something of his yearning for her. Taking the india-rubber band off the
notes, she put one into her purse. She was very sorry now that she
hadn't done as he had asked her--spent this money when, as had happened
more than once during the last few weeks, she had been disagreeably
short.
And then she went out, walking very quietly through the hall. She did
not feel as if she wanted old Anna to know that she had heard from
Germany. It would be hard enough to have to tell Rose the dreadful thing
which, bringing such anguish to herself, could only give the girl,
absorbed in her own painful ordeal, a passing pang of sympathy and
regret.
* * * * *
Poor old Anna! Mrs. Otway was well aware that as the days went on Anna
became less and less pleasant to live with.
Not for the first time of late, she wondered uneasily if Miss Forsyth
had been right, on that August day which now seemed so very long ago.
Would it not have been better, even from Anna's point of view, to have
sent her back to her own country, to Berlin, to that young couple who
seemed to have so high an opinion of her, and with whom she had spent so
successful a holiday three years ago? At the time it had seemed
unthinkable, a preposterous notion, but now--Mrs. Otway sighed--now it
was only too clear that old Anna was not happy, and that she bitterly
resented the very slight changes the War had made in her own position.
Anna was even more discontented and unhappy than her mistress knew.
True, both Mrs. Otway and Rose had given her their usual Christmas
gifts, and one of these gifts had been far more costly than ever before.
But there had been no heart for the pretty Tree which, as long as Rose
could remember anything, had been the outstanding feature of each
twenty-fifth of December in her young life.
Yes, it had indeed been a dull and dreary Christmas for Anna! Last year
she had received a number of delightful presents from Berlin. These had
included a marzipan sausage, a marzipan turnip, and a wonderful toy
Zeppelin made of sausage--a real sausage fitted with a real screw, a
rudder, and at each end a flag.
But this autumn, as the weeks had gone by without bringing any answer to
her affectionate letters, she had told herself that Minna, or if not
Minna then Willi, would surely write for Christmas. And most bitterly
disappointed had Anna felt when the Christmas week went by bringing no
letter.
In vain Mrs. Otway told her that perhaps Willi and Minna felt, as so
many Germans were said to do, such hatred of England that they did not
care even to send a letter to someone living there. To Anna this seemed
quite impossible. It was far more likely that the cruel English Post
Office had kept back the letter because it came from Germany.
Now it was New Year's Day, and after having heard her mistress go out,
Anna, sore at heart, reminded herself that were she now in service in
Germany she would have already received this morning a really handsome
money gift, more a right than a perquisite, from her mistress. She did
not remind herself that this yearly benefaction is always demanded back
by a German employer of his servant, if that servant is discharged,
owing to her own fault, within a year.
Yes, England was indeed an ill-organized country! How often had she
longed in the last eighteen years to possess the privilege of a
wish-ticket--that delightful _Wunschzettel_ which enables so many happy
people in the Fatherland to make it quite plain what it is they really
want to have given them for a birthday or a Christmas present. Strange
to say--but Anna did not stop to think of that now--this wonderful bit
of organisation does not always work out quite well. Evil has been known
to come from a wish-ticket, for a modest person is apt to ask too
little, and then is bitterly disappointed at not getting more than he
asks for, while the grasping ask too much, and are angered at getting
less!
It would be doing Anna a great injustice to suppose that her sad
thoughts were all of herself on this mournful New Year's Day of 1915.
Her sentimental heart was pierced with pain every time she looked into
the face of her beloved nursling. Not that she often had an opportunity
of looking into Rose's face, for Mrs. Jervis Blake (never would Anna get
used to that name!) only came home to sleep. She almost always stayed
and had supper with the Robeys, then she would rush home for the night,
and after an early breakfast--during which, to Anna's thinking, she did
not eat nearly enough--be off again to spend with her bridegroom
whatever time she was not devoting to war work under Miss Forsyth.
Anna had been curious to know how soon Mr. Blake would be able to walk,
but in answer to a very simple, affectionate question, the bride, who
had just then been looking so happy--as radiant, indeed, as a German
bride looks within a month of her marriage day--had burst into tears,
and said hurriedly, "Oh, it won't be very long now, dear Anna, but I'd
rather not talk about it, if you don't mind."
Yet another thing added to Anna's deep depression. It seemed to her that
Alfred Head no longer enjoyed her company as he used to do. He had
ordained that they must always speak English, even when alone; and to
her mingled anger and surprise he had told her plainly that, in spite of
his solemn assurance, he neither could nor would pay her the fifty
shillings which was now owing to her in connection with that little
secret matter arranged between herself and Willi three years ago.
About this question of the fifty shillings Mr. Head had behaved very
strangely and rudely indeed. He had actually tried to persuade her _that
he knew nothing of it_--that it was not he but someone else who had
given her the five half-sovereigns on that evening of the 4th of August!
Then when she, righteously indignant, had forced the reluctant memory
upon him, he had explained that everything was now different, and that
the passing of this money from him to her might involve them both in
serious trouble.
Anna had never heard so flimsy an excuse. She felt sure that he was
keeping her out of the money due to her because business was not quite
so flourishing now as it had been.