Most of the next day the American Red Cross girls devoted to seeing
London. They had visited The Tower and Westminster Abbey and the Houses
of Parliament soon after their arrival. So, as the sun was shining with
unusual vigor for London, they concluded to spend the greater part of
their final time out of doors.
London in late May or early June is a city transformed. During the
winter she is gray and cold and formidable, so that the ordinary
American traveler often finds himself antagonistic and depressed. Then
the Englishman appears as cold and unfriendly as his skies. But let the
sun shine and the flowers bloom in the parks and the spirit of the city
and its people changes.
Naturally, on account of the shadow of the war, the Red Cross girls
had anticipated an atmosphere of sorrow and gloom over London. But
to their utter amazement on the surface of things there was no such
effect. There were, of course, many families in grief over the passing
of one of their dearest, or in even more tragic anxiety over the fate
of others either at the front or prisoners of war. But whatever the
private suffering, there was slight sign of it. No one was wearing
mourning, the theaters and restaurants seemed to be doing a good
business and the streets and parks were everywhere crowded.
Except that the flags of the Allied Nations waved from nearly every
public building and large shop, and that the taxicabs carried placards
urging men to enlist, there was little to suggest a nation at war.
Yes, there was one other curious sight which Barbara from the top of
an omnibus discovered. Over the roofs of the important government
buildings and above many of the great private houses hung a kind of
flat screen of heavy wire netting, closely woven. From a distance it
formed a cobweb effect, as though gigantic spiders had been spreading
their great webs over London.
“I wonder what that means?” asked Barbara, pointing upward, and then
knew the answer, although she listened politely while Mildred explained.
“Oh, the wire is to prevent bombs from dropping down on the house tops
when London has her great Zeppelin raid. Father began telling me that
London must expect them to occur as soon as the war broke out.”
Nona, who had been looking pensive, now leaned over from the back seat
where she was sitting with Eugenia.
“I am not wishing any harm to London; I adore it. But if the Germans
are going to send their marvelous army of the air to bombard the city,
don’t you wish it would happen while we are here?”
Barbara laughed, Mildred shook her head and Eugenia said seriously:
“Nona, you don’t look in the least like a bloodthirsty person. I can’t
understand you, child. You talk as if you had no sense of fear and I
have not been able to make up my mind whether it is because you know
nothing of danger or whether you are different from most women. But
remember that we are going to our work tomorrow, and I don’t think
there will be many of the horrors of this war that we shall miss
seeing. I am afraid I am a coward, for I dread a great part of them.
But isn’t that the hospital we are looking for? At least, it will be a
tremendous inspiration to meet the woman who has done more for nursing
among the British soldiers than any other woman in this war. Dr.
Garrett Anderson established the first woman’s hospital at Claridge’s
Hotel in Paris a month after the war broke out, together with Dr. Flora
Murray. And the women have done such wonderful surgical work that all
the country is talking about them.”
Barbara whistled softly. “So they brought this Dr. Anderson back to
London and made her a major, the first woman ever given military rank
in the British Army!” she exclaimed. “When one considers the Englishman
believes ‘a woman’s place is the home,’ it is hard to tell how he is
going to reconcile what women are doing to help in this war, men’s work
as well as their own. But I’ll bet you the English won’t give the women
the vote when the war is over, just the same. They can go back home
then, although a good many of the poor things won’t have any homes to
go to.”
Eugenia revealed an annoyed frown. She was doing her best to find good
in Barbara Meade, her New England conscience assured her there must be
good in everybody. But so far Barbara’s trying qualities were much more
conspicuous.
“I do wish that you would not use slang, Barbara,” she urged almost
plaintively. “It may be all right in the west, but really it will give
English people such an unfortunate impression of us.”
Barbara flushed. Of course she must break herself of this habit;
nevertheless, she would like to have mentioned that she had heard
a good deal of slang since arriving in England and although unlike
the American kind, equally amusing. However, as it was now time to
dismount from the top of their bus, this required all her energy and
intelligence.
The meeting with Dr. Louise Garrett Anderson was necessarily brief, the
distinguished woman happening to have a single free hour had consented
to meet the new nurses and wish them God-speed. But the visit to the
hospital was also important, because the American Red Cross girls were
to have tea with the other nurses who were to accompany them across the
Channel the next morning.
The new hospital just back of the British trenches at Neuve Chapelle
had sent a hurried call to London for more assistance and the four
American girls and four British girls were to make the journey
immediately.
Crossing the hall to the dining room, Barbara just had time to whisper
to Mildred:
“I have a dreadful premonition that I am not going to be popular with
English nurses. When you consider how ‘New England’ feels toward me,
what can you expect of England?” and Barbara made a wry face behind
Eugenia’s back, wishing for the nine hundred and ninety-ninth time in
her life that she only looked larger and older and more important.
The meeting of the girls was not very successful. It may be that they
were all shy and that they really wished to be friendly without knowing
how to approach each other. But this certainly did not appear to be
true. For after they were properly introduced by the superintendent
of the hospital, the English girls nodded, said “how do you do?” and
then sat down again and continued talking to one another, as if the
Americans had vanished as soon as their names were spoken.
It was embarrassing. Barbara was angry; nevertheless, her sense of
humor made her feel an inclination to giggle. Mildred Thornton seemed
distressed and awkward; one could tell from her expression that she
was once more feeling her old lack of social graces. She was under the
impression that it must be her duty to make things more comfortable
without in the least knowing how. Eugenia was simply returning a New
England manner to the land whence it came, while Nona Davis was frankly
puzzled by the situation.
All her life she had been taught that one’s first duty was to make a
stranger feel welcome in one’s own land. The well-bred southern man
or woman will straightway cease to talk of his own affairs to become
interested in a newcomer’s. They wish to make the stranger happy and at
home and in the center of things. But this did not seem to be true of
this particular party of English girls. Nona wondered why they should
be so unlike the other English people they had been meeting. Perhaps
they were rude because they belonged to a class of society that knew
no better. You see, Nona’s feeling for “family” was very strong. She
was to learn better in the days to follow, learn that it is the man or
woman who counts, and not who his grandmother or grandfather chanced to
be; but the lesson was still before her.
She was now studying the four other girls, too interested to be annoyed
by their manners, and yet conscious of the antagonism that they seemed
to feel.
However, the four English girls were not in the least alike, which
was one reason for their attitude. Two of them appeared in awe of the
third, while the fourth girl silently watched the others. The most
important girl was extremely tall, had fair hair, a large nose and a
lovely English complexion. She was the Honorable Dorothy Mathers. The
second was the daughter of a farmer, healthy and in a way handsome.
If strength alone counted she would be the best of the nurses. Her
name was Mary Brinton and she spoke with a broad Yorkshire dialect,
but hardly said anything except “My Lady this, and my Lady that” and
was evidently not accustomed to titled society. The third girl was
from London, a doctor’s daughter and a friend of Lady Dorothy’s, Daisy
Redmond, while the fourth, whose name was Alexina McIntyre, had given
no clue to her history.
However, she it was who finally forced the group of eight girls to
betray a mild human interest in one another.
She had reddish hair, freckles on her nose, wore glasses, had a
delightful mouth, large, with fine white teeth.
She happened to be gazing directly at Barbara when she first spoke, but
her voice was uncommonly loud, so that it forced everybody’s attention.
“Please, you little wee thing,” she said, “tell us whatever made you
come over the ocean to help with our war nursing? Did you think we
hadn’t enough nurses of our own, that we needed babies like you?”
Barbara stiffened. She had half an idea of declaring that she for one
intended going back home at once. Then to her relief she discovered
that her questioner had not intended being unkind. There was a sudden
twinkle in her light-blue eyes, as if she had become aware of the
discomfort in the atmosphere and wished to relieve it by a frivolous
speech.
“I’m Scotch,” she added with a charming burr in her accent. “I said
that to wake you up.”
Then Barbara smiled back again and afterwards sighed, “Oh, I am used to
having that remark made to me.” She looked steadfastly across the space
of carpet dividing the eight girls. “The sheep from the goats,” she
thought to herself. Aloud she merely said:
“I hope with all my heart that in spite of my being so small you are
going to find me, and indeed all of us, useful. If you don’t, you know,
we can go back. But we used to have a saying in our hospital, out in
Nebraska, that sometimes brains succeed best in nursing as in other
things, rather than brawn.”
Only the Scotch woman understood her meaning. However, the ice being
broken, afterwards there was an attempt at conversation, until finally
in desperation Eugenia gave the signal for farewells.
“We shall meet again in the morning,” she said at parting, but showing
no enthusiasm at the prospect.
“I am sorry,” Mildred Thornton remarked, once the four girls were back
again in their lodgings, “but I am afraid for some reason the girls we
have just met feel a prejudice against our nursing in the same hospital
with them. I wonder what they could have heard against us? Everyone
else has been so grateful and kind. I hope they won’t make the work
harder for us. All of us except Eugenia are inexperienced.”
Eugenia nodded her head in agreement. “I am afraid the girl they called
Lady Dorothy did not seem to favor us. It is a pity, because she is
related to a great many important people, I’m told. But never mind,
even if she does dislike us, she can’t interfere with our doing good
work.”
Curled up on the bed, Barbara yawned. “Oh, don’t let us look for
trouble. One of the things we have got to expect is that some of the
English nurses won’t like our American ways or our methods of nursing.
We have just to remember that we came over here to preach the gospel
of peace, not war, and not dislike anyone. Well, our real life work
begins tomorrow. Then we will see what stuff we are made of. I am glad
our hospital is partly supported by American money and that Mrs. Payne
of New York is sometimes in charge of things. I haven’t yet become an
Anglomaniac; so far I only love the soldiers.”
The next morning the trip to the coast followed, and thence across the
Channel the way was strangely uneventful. Except that the four American
girls now wore their Red Cross costumes, they might have been taken for
four girls on a spring shopping journey to Paris. The Channel boats
were crossing and recrossing from England to France and back again just
as if they had no enemies in the world.
However, the men guiding the destinies of the little steamers were
under no such impression. Every foot of the way was traveled with
infinite caution. For at any moment disaster might overtake them from
the sea or air. But there was no German bomb to destroy the shimmering
gold of the atmosphere this May morning, nor dangers in the pathway
through the sea. Moreover, from tall towers along both coasts farseeing
eyes were watching and protecting the passage of the Channel boats.
This morning some of them were carrying passengers across, others
khaki-clad soldiers to relieve their wounded comrades.
One surprise, however, awaited the American girls. Quite unexpectedly
they discovered that Mrs. Curtis and her son were also crossing the
Channel to France on their boat. And Mrs. Curtis reported that Lady
Dorian had been taken to The Tower in London where she was being held
as a political spy.