On Leave
The next great event on the horizon of Marjorie and Dona was that Larry
was transferred from the London Military Hospital to the Whitecliffe Red
Cross Hospital. Mrs. Anderson came to The Tamarisks for a night as soon
as he was installed, and paid a flying visit to Brackenfield to see her
daughters, and beg an exeat, that she might take them to spend a brief
half-hour with their brother. It was neither a Wednesday nor a Saturday,
but in the circumstances Mrs. Morrison granted permission; and the
girls, rejoicing at missing a music lesson and a chemistry lecture, were
borne away by their mother for the afternoon. As they expected, they
found Larry established as prime pet of the hospital. He was an
attractive lad, already a favourite with his cousin Elaine, and his
handsome boyish face and prepossessing manners soon won him the good
graces of the other V.A.D.'s.
"I'm having the time of my life!" he assured his family. "I shan't want
to go away. They certainly know how to take care of a fellow here. After
the trenches it's just heaven!"
"It was hard luck to be wounded when you'd only been at the front three
weeks!" sympathized Dona.
"Never mind! I got on the Roll of Honour before my nineteenth birthday!"
triumphed Larry. "And I'll go back and have another shot before I'm much
older."
"I wish the military age were twenty-one!" sighed Mrs. Anderson.
"And I wished it were fifteen when the war started," laughed Larry.
"Never mind, little Muvviekins! Peter and Cyril are kids enough yet; you
can tie them to your apron-strings for a while."
"I shall go home feeling quite happy at leaving you in such good hands,"
declared his mother. "I know you'll be well nursed here."
Events seemed to crowd upon one another, for hardly was Larry settled in
the Red Cross Hospital than Leonard got leave, and, after first going
home, came for a hurried visit to The Tamarisks in order to see his
brother. Mrs. Anderson wrote to Mrs. Morrison asking special permission
for the girls to be allowed an afternoon with their brother, whom they
had not seen for a year, and again the Principal relaxed her rule in
their favour. Marjorie, nearly wild with excitement, came flying into
the sitting-room at St. Elgiva's to tell the news to her friends.
"Another exeat! You lucky thing!" exclaimed Betty enviously. "Why can't
my brother come to Whitecliffe?"
"Can't you bring him to school and introduce him to us?" suggested
Irene.
"Or take some of us out with you?" amended Sylvia.
"We're simply dying to meet him!" declared Patricia.
"He has only the one afternoon to spare," replied Marjorie, "and has
promised to take just Dona and me out to tea at a cafe, though I don't
mind betting Elaine goes too. I wish I could bring him to school and
introduce him. The Empress is fearfully mean about asking brothers.
Brackenfield might be a convent."
Chrissie also seemed tremendously interested in Leonard's arrival. She
walked round the quad with Marjorie.
"How glorious to have a brother home from the front!" she said
wistfully. "If he were mine, I'd nearly worship him. There'd be such
heaps of things I'd want to ask him, too. I'd like to hear all about a
tank."
"You've seen them on the cinema."
"But only the outside, of course. I want to know exactly how they work.
Don't laugh. Why shouldn't I? Surely every patriotic girl ought to be
keen on everything in connection with the war. I wish you'd ask him."
"Why, I will if you like."
"You won't forget?"
"I'll try not."
"And there's a new shell we've just been making. I wonder how it
answers. I heard we've some new guns too. Would your brother know?"
"Really, I shall never remember all this! Pity you can't come with us
and ask him for yourself."
"I believe I could get an exeat----" began Chrissie eagerly.
"I'm sure you couldn't!" snapped Marjorie. "Dona and I are going just by
ourselves."
The sisters spent a somewhat disturbed morning. It was difficult to
concentrate their minds on lessons when such a delightful outing awaited
them in the afternoon. Immediately after dinner they rushed to their
dormitories to don their best dresses in honour of Leonard. They knew he
would not care to take out two Cinderellas, so they made careful
toilets. Marjorie, in front of her looking-glass, replaited her hair,
and tied it with her broadest ribbon, chattering all the while to
Chrissie, who sat on the bed in her own cubicle.
"Leonard's an old dandy. At least, he was a year ago--the war may have
changed him. He used to be most fearfully particular, and notice what
girls had on. I remember how savage he was with Nora once for going to
church in her old hat, and it was such a wet day, too; she didn't want
to spoil her new one. He always kept his trousers in stretchers, and his
boots had to be polished ever so--Chrissie, you're not listening.
Actually opening letters! You mean to say you've not read them yet, and
you got them this morning!"
"I hadn't time," said Chrissie, rather abstractedly. She was drawing
pound notes out of the envelope.
"Sophonisba! What a lot of money!" exclaimed Marjorie. "It isn't your
birthday?"
"No. This is to take me home, of course."
"It won't cost you all that, surely! Doesn't your mother send your
railway fare to Mrs. Morrison? Mine always does."
"My mother wouldn't like me to be short of money on the journey,"
remarked Chrissie serenely, locking up the notes in her little
jewel-box.
At precisely half-past two the melancholy Hodson arrived at the school,
and escorted Marjorie and Dona to The Tamarisks. Here they found
Leonard, and it was a very happy meeting between the brother and
sisters.
"Leonard shall take you into the town," said Aunt Ellinor. "I know
you'll like to have him to yourselves for an hour. No, Elaine can't go.
She's on extra duty at the Red Cross this afternoon."
"I have to be back in the ward by half-past three," smiled Elaine. "Yes,
I'll give your love to Larry. I'm sorry you can't see him to-day, but
the Commandant's a little strict about visiting."
"We'll concentrate on Leonard," declared the girls.
It was an immense satisfaction to them to trot off one on each side of
their soldier brother. They felt very proud of him as they walked along
the Promenade, and noticed people glance approvingly at the
good-looking young officer. After going on the pier and doing the usual
sights of Whitecliffe, Leonard took them to the Cliff Hotel and ordered
tea on the terrace. Dona and Marjorie were all smiles. This was far
superior to a cafe. The terrace was delightful, with geraniums and
oleanders in large pots, and a beautiful view over the sea. They had a
little table to themselves at the end, underneath a tree. It was
something to have a brother home from the front.
"Tell us everything you do out in France," begged Dona.
"You wouldn't like to hear everything, Baby Bunting," returned Leonard
gravely. "It's not fit for your ears. Be glad that you in England don't
see anything of the war. There's one little incident I can tell you,
though. We'd marched many miles through the night over appalling ground
under scattered shell-fire, and were only in our place of attack half an
hour before the advance started up the ridge. That night march is a
story in itself, but that's not what I'm going to tell you now. We drew
close to one of the blockhouses, and the sound of our cheering must have
been heard by the Germans inside those concrete walls. The barrage had
just passed, and its line of fire, volcanic in its fury, went travelling
ahead. Suddenly out of the blockhouse a dozen men or so came running,
and we shortened our bayonets. From the centre of the group a voice
shouted out in English: 'I'm a Warwickshire man, don't shoot! I'm an
Englishman!' The man who called had his hands up in sign of surrender,
like the German soldiers.
"'It's a spy!' said one of our men. 'Kill the blighter!'
"The voice again rang out: 'I'm English!'
"And he was English, too. It was a man of a Warwickshire regiment, who
had been captured on patrol some days before. The Germans had taken him
into their blockhouse--and because of our gun-fire they could not get
out of it--and kept him there. He was well treated, and his captors
shared their food with him, but the awful moment came for him when the
drum-fire passed, and he knew that unless he held his hands high he
would be killed by our own troops."
"How awful!" shivered Dona.
"Tell us some more tales about the war," begged Marjorie.
"I might have been killed one evening," said Leonard, "if it hadn't been
for a friend. We were carrying dispatches, and fell into an ambush. I
owe it to Winkles that I'm here to-day. He fought like a demon. I never
saw such a fellow!"
"Who's Winkles?"
"Oh, an awfully good chap, and so humorous! I've never once seen him
down. I've got his photo somewhere, I believe. I took a snapshot of him
once."
"Oh, do show it to us!"
Leonard searched through his pockets, and after turning out an
assortment of letters and papers produced a small photograph for
inspection. The girls bumped their heads together in their eagerness to
look at it. It had been taken in camp, and represented the young soldier
in the act of raising a can of coffee to his lips. There was a pleased
smile on the whimsical face, and a twinkle in the dark eyes. Marjorie
caught her breath.
"Why, why!" she gasped. "It's surely Private Preston!"
"That's his name right enough. We call him Winkles, though. He's a
lieutenant now, by the way--got his commission just lately."
"But--I thought he was killed?"
"Not a bit of it! I heard from him yesterday."
"He was in the Roll of Honour," urged Marjorie, still unable to believe.
"No, he wasn't. That was his brother Henry, who was in the same
regiment--a nice chap, though nothing to Winkles."
Marjorie sat in a state of almost dazed incomprehension. A black cloud
seemed suddenly to have rolled away from her, and she had not yet had
time to readjust herself. As in a dream she listened to Dona's
explanation.
"He was in the Red Cross Hospital here, and we saw him when Elaine took
us to the Christmas tree."
"Was it Whitecliffe? I knew he'd been in a Red Cross Hospital, but never
heard which one," commented Leonard.
"He was going on to a convalescent home," continued Dona.
"He came back to the front before he was really fit," said Leonard.
"The poor chap had had influenza, but he was so afraid of being thought
a shirker that he made a push to go. He was laid up with a touch of
pneumonia, I remember, a week after he rejoined."
"Will he get leave again?" faltered Marjorie.
"Yes, next month, he hopes. They don't live such a very long way from
Silverwood, and he said he'd try to go over and see the Mater. She'd
give him a welcome, I know."
"Rather!" agreed the girls.
"We shall be at home in August," added Dona.
Marjorie, however, said nothing. There are some joys that it is quite
impossible to express to outsiders.
"I'm glad they've made him a lieutenant," she said to herself.