Chapter 10 No.10

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."

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