america still remained distant and longed for, yet, to lucy, england held a little of the spell of peace and homeland when janet and alan leslie welcomed her back to highland house.
she had not felt it so at dover, nor in london’s crowded streets, where uniforms were common as before the armistice and a sort of uneasy restlessness persisted, as though these months before the opening of the conference did not yet inspire full confidence that peace had come. but once in surrey, among the glories of an english country springtime, lucy felt her heart almost overflow with grateful happiness, and she could hardly talk to janet at all to tell her how glad she was to be back with her at last.
half of lucy’s happiness was to watch michelle, who seemed to change hourly with europe left behind. the girl lucy presented to janet was hardly the same michelle who through four long years had defied the germans to wear out her heroic hope and courage. she was almost a child again—a child laughing with delight at the beauties of green leaves and apple orchards, and at seeing the young, happy faces of lucy’s cousins according her such generous, friendly welcome.
alan tried to put all his enthusiasm into words, and only managed to make everyone laugh at his bursts of inquiry, exclamation and light-hearted cordiality.
“spoof me all you like,” he offered, in too high spirits to be easily dashed. “here i’ve been waiting ages, wondering if you were really coming to tell me all the news of dear old badheim——”
“alan!” janet protested.
“well, i had rather larks there, you know. can’t help liking the place. i want to hear it all from beginning to end—all about franz and herr johann——i’m most awfully glad you came, miss michelle,” he broke off to say. “i was jolly afraid you’d go back on us.”
“will you let me speak, alan?” janet demanded. “lucy, when are your father and mother coming?”
“next week. father thinks he can manage to get a few days’ leave.”
“arthur’s here, lucy,” put in alan.
“and archibald beattie,” janet added.
“captain beattie? oh, i will be glad to see him!” cried lucy.
“and wait till you——”
“sh-h! alan. i want to surprise her,” said janet quickly. “there’s someone at the house to see you, lucy—three people, in fact——”
“who’s telling now?” cried alan.
“cousin henry?” asked lucy eagerly.
“yes,” said janet, “but not alone. just wait. oh, we’re going to have fun, lucy, when we’re all together! what we haven’t planned! no more hoeing corn at daybreak. do you remember?”
“don’t i!” said lucy with a faint, happy sigh. “how long ago was it, anyway?”
this conversation took place on the way from the station to highland house. alan drove his fast greys along the country lanes at their best pace, and, sniffing the fresh sunny air, they devoured the five miles before them and in half an hour trotted up the long avenue of beeches to the great old country-house which lucy had left in such miserable uncertainty a year before.
the doors at the head of the wide, shallow stone steps were open, and, as alan drew rein and a stable boy ran to the horses’ bridles, mrs. leslie and her husband came out to meet their guests.
colonel leslie’s left sleeve hung empty, but he was erect as ever, his face as full of vigor and kindliness. behind him came mr. henry leslie, a hand on the shoulder of each of his two companions, at sight of whom lucy’s greetings to the others were struck dumb on her lips.
“marian! and william!” she cried, and, unable to speak another syllable, she sprang down to the steps and in an instant had her little brother in her arms.
marian leslie flung her arms about her neck as lucy hugged william close to her, lucy stopping only to hold william off from her far enough to see the changes that two years had brought the chubby five-year-old she had left behind her in america.
“bigger, aren’t i, lucy?” he asked, delighted. “but, gee, you’re bigger, too.”
lucy wanted to cry, and to keep from doing it she caught tight hold of marian’s hand and turned to present her to michelle. “and cousin janet! cousin arthur! oh, i haven’t spoken to you even!” she cried, the joyful surprise almost too much for her. “marian, how glad i am to see you! you’ve grown up, you know.”
“so have you,” said marian, smiling her frank, gay smile, as she shook michelle’s hand. “lucy, i almost wouldn’t have known you.”
“well, i’d have known you in china,” declared lucy, looking at marian’s golden hair, now pinned up on her head, and at the unchanged delicate loveliness of rose-leaf skin and soft blue eyes. “oh, cousin henry, how often bob and i have talked of her! are you truly well now?” she asked marian, though the question was hardly needed.
“she is,” mr. leslie answered, his voice filled with deep satisfaction. “she’s as strong and well as anybody, and i’ll never forget who made her so.”
lucy flushed at this reminder of the kind experiment she had undertaken so long ago, and, glad of a diversion, she glanced quickly up as mrs. leslie said:
“here’s arthur, lucy, and captain eaton will be here soon.”
“i can’t believe it’s all true,” said lucy, shaking arthur leslie’s hand. “arthur, i’ve never seen you out of uniform before.”
“got out just last week,” said major leslie, smiling at her. “how did you like the surprise, lucy? now we’ve only to assemble beattie, eaton, and your father and mother to have nothing more to wish for.”
“meanwhile let us go indoors and make our guests comfortable,” proposed mrs. leslie. “tea will be ready presently.”
“you don’t look much like an invalid, bob,” said arthur, one hand on his cousin’s shoulder. “we’ll see how your appetite is.”
“we still have to be sparing with the butter,” laughed janet. “but you can have all the muffins you want, lucy. and i think michelle ought to have the lion’s share.”
shyness had fallen on michelle as these greetings took place, but the warm friendliness shown her, and alan’s never-failing light-hearted companionship soon made her forget her strangeness.
tea-time was a lovely hour at highland house, lucy had always thought, and this afternoon more so than ever. the table was spread on the tree-dotted lawn below the long windows of the dining-room. basket chairs with chintz cushions invited everyone to comfort and peaceful enjoyment, and through the young leaves of the oaks the late sunbeams filtered, bright without warmth, as the breeze of early evening stirred.
lucy said to janet, “how often i’ve thought of you all sitting here! but it wasn’t all of you then! how long have you been home together?”
“arthur got home after alan, only two weeks ago. i’m not used to it yet.”
“then sit down and make the most of it,” suggested captain beattie, who had walked over from his home ten miles away, arriving with a tremendous appetite, and a warm welcome for the travellers.
by way of reply janet began pouring the tea. lucy smiled at him but forgot to answer. she had not yet got used to captain beattie in civilian’s clothes. for the moment he was almost another person. this jolly, care-free, leisurely young englishman in his country tweeds was not the prisoner of chateau-plessis, weary, starving and defiant, nor the devoted soldier of the war’s last glorious effort. he was the peace-time englishman, taking things coolly, with easy calm. his clear eyes guessed lucy’s thoughts, for he said, smiling at her:
“i’m out of my war stride, lucy. quite a tame dog now. i spend my days roaming the woods and finding out what’s become of our place while i was boche-hunting and dad was in the war office. i think we’ve collected enough pheasant for a million bags.”
“that’s what i’ve heard the britishers looking forward to ever since the armistice,” said bob. “going home to shoot. it’s a national mania.”
“you have some of your own,” declared captain beattie. “hello, here’s eaton.”
larry came around the house with alan and michelle, and swung his cap around his head at sight of bob and lucy.
“you’re here at last! how are you? good-afternoon, mrs. leslie. thank you for asking me. hello, beattie—everyone.” he bowed to arthur and marian, and caught william gordon’s hands to pull him from the arm of lucy’s chair. “the last member of the gordon family,” he exclaimed, looking down at the little boy, who returned his gaze with bright fearless eyes. “another credit and i shouldn’t wonder.”
bob was sitting beside marian. these two, always unaccountably friends, even in marian’s invalid days, had renewed their comradeship with great ease after two years’ separation. something in marian’s untroubled happy-hearted nature appealed to bob’s restless soul. even when she was a little girl he had liked to talk with her, secretly amused to watch her twist the curls of her golden hair about delicate lazy fingers, her fresh, pretty frocks never mussed or soiled at an age when lucy was torn and dishevelled too often for belief.
for marian had always had something honest and generous about her, behind her spoiled self-indulgence, something that had made her and lucy friends from the beginning, in spite of the difference between them. marian had never been vain of her beauty, and now, with her golden hair tucked up, almost a young lady, with the childish roundness gone from her pretty face, she was unaffected and good-tempered as ever.
“when are you coming home, bob?” was her first question. “for months i’ve been planning what we’ll do when you and lucy come to long island. father will let me do anything in the world to welcome you home. do make it soon!”
“ask president wilson,” said bob, smiling. “when will peace be signed?”
“i wish lucy’s friend michelle could come, too,” marian added softly. “i like her, bob! and really i don’t know why i do, for she makes me feel a silly, worthless good-for-nothing.”
“better get over that, marian,” said bob laughing. “never knew you to be so humble before.”
“i mean it,” said marian, still serious. “the war’s done one good thing for me, anyway. i don’t think i could ever be conceited now.”
marian had looked at michelle as she spoke, and, meeting her eyes, smiled at her. michelle had lost her shyness almost at once, for it could not linger in such a friendly company. those who were strangers to her, at first welcoming the little foreigner for kindness’ sake and because she was lucy’s friend, within an hour had begun to like michelle for herself. her lovely face, lighted by the deep blue eyes which still held something in their depths of suffering bravely borne, won instant sympathy. and there was a kind of joyous abandon in her gayety, of simple sweetness in her words. she thought nothing of herself, lost in delight at watching and listening to everything around her.
“isn’t she top-hole?” alan whispered to lucy. unbounded in his likes as in his dislikes, he was overflowing with pleasure at lucy’s and michelle’s arrival. “she’s such a pal, you know, your little frenchie. there’s something no end nice and natural about her.”
“you don’t half know her—she’s nicer all the time,” declared lucy, proud that her friend was so warmly welcomed in the leslie family—as a rule not too easy to please. “she’s seen nothing but awful things since the war began. she needs to have a good time.”
“let’s see what we can do,” said alan.
larry sat on lucy’s other side. munching a muffin he looked up into the sunset clouds with peaceful content. a grasshopper lighted on his khaki sleeve. he flicked it off gently.
“this is some day, lucy, some day,” he murmured. “have a muffin?” he suggested, about to help himself to another. “i seem to have got awfully hungry since you all arrived.”
“put it on us, if you like, larry,” said bob. “seeing you has certainly made me ravenous.”
“go right ahead,” urged hospitable janet. “they’re bringing out more toast now.”
“marian made quite a hole in that last plateful,” said bob. “would you believe it, lucy?”
“oh, it’s wonderful here,” said lucy suddenly. but with lingering uncertainty she added, almost afraid to be too happy, “i wish peace were here, though, larry. i don’t feel sure of things.”
captain beattie overheard her and stopped describing a cricket field to william to exclaim, “don’t say that, lucy! why, it’s a perfect time! plenty of troubles will come with peace—i see them looming now. this is a sort of blessed intermission. we’ve finished the first act and needn’t yet begin the second.”
“more tea, archie?” asked alan. “you, bob?” to bob he added, “i haven’t half heard yet about franz and herr johann. got to hear it all, you know. i wish i’d been in at the killing. to think you were right about the bolshies all the time, bob, and i wouldn’t listen. i’m nothing but a silly ass.”
there was no end to the talk that went on around the tea-table. twilight began to fall softly, and still everyone lingered in the warm summer air, while bees and beetles flitted by on their way home and one star twinkled from among the last sunset gleams.
arthur leslie asked bob about his future in the flying corps. “shall you stick to it, bob, now you’ve gone so far? or do you think there’s little place for flying in time of peace?”
bob in his earnestness leaned forward to answer, “how could i think that, arthur? you don’t think it either, nor your war office, which is planning the greatest air force in the world. if our government would do as much! why, flying has hardly started! it’s an art of peace as much as of war. i could talk hours about it. larry, you won’t give it up?”
“no, i don’t think i shall,” larry said thoughtfully. “not for a while, at least. putting national defense out of the question, leslie,”—he spoke as eagerly as bob—“think of the commerce of the future—think of forest fires discovered and fought from the air; you don’t know what that means in america! and explorations made without tracking through the wilderness. it’s a new world open. we’ll explore it together, bob.”
“poor jourdin,” bob said, half under his breath. “how he could fly! i wish he might have lived to see the victory.”
in another week general and mrs. gordon arrived from coblenz, and the leslie and gordon families indulged in unrestrained rejoicing. the entertainments planned by janet and alan began to unfold, welcome enough, though lucy thought nothing could much improve on the lovely rides and country saunterings of every day. larry took all the time he could spare—and more than he could—from his studies. again and again he and lucy, bob, michelle, alan, janet and marian walked miles along the country roads and through the summer woodland to lunch at some wayside inn, on eggs and buttered scones, strawberry jam and clotted cream that tasted better than anything in the world with the scent of flowering clover and ripening fruit around them.
at last came the night of the dance postponed until general and mrs. gordon’s arrival. bob practiced dancing a little with lucy and marian beforehand, to make sure his stiff leg would still do its duty, and alan taught michelle the one-step with triumphant success.
the night of the dance was so warm that the whole house was thrown open and from inside one looked out on gardens and lawns stretching to woodland, bright as day beneath the moonlight-flooded heavens.
lucy, michelle, janet and marian began dressing each in her own room, but at the end of half an hour they had gathered in lucy’s room and, under pretense of helping one another, were doing more talking than anything else. janet, naturally prompt and ready long before the rest, sat on lucy’s bed and surveyed the three before her—lucy first, the favorite in her loyal heart.
lucy had not the beauty of either michelle or marian. she had not marian’s golden curls and porcelain skin, nor michelle’s deep blue eyes and fine features. but there was something about her face that held janet’s thoughtful gaze. “i love to look at lucy’s face,” the english girl told herself.
lucy had grown up in two years. her childhood had vanished, though the frank unconsciousness of look and manner lingered. her corn-colored hair—always so hard to keep in order—was brushed back and pinned above her neck, her hazel eyes shone with the clear brightness of the merry, generous soul within. her cheeks were fuller now, after two weeks of english country life, and a warm color glowed beneath their tan. her slight figure was filled with life and quickness, the awkwardness of her little girlhood past. the hard lessons learned overseas had done her no harm: she looked the world full in the face, hopefully, confidently, expecting the kindness and affection she gave so prodigally.
janet, still watching her, thought to herself, “i know what larry eaton meant when he said lucy was such good company. she’s good company for bad days or for good to laugh with you or to help you along. you could count on her every time.”
“what’s the matter with me, janet?” asked lucy anxiously, catching her cousin’s eyes fixed upon her. “is my dress wrong?”
“not a bit—it’s lovely,” said janet, rising with a jump as the musicians began tuning up below. “i must go down to mother. it’s half-past eight. people will begin to come.”
the others followed and, down-stairs in the wide hall, beside one of the windows opening on the park, michelle and lucy paused by common consent and looked silently out on the moonlit loveliness. in the drawing-room the violins began to play, but softly, as though to lead on the gayety scarcely yet begun. guests were filling the big house, and behind lucy and michelle bob and alan came quickly up.
“here you are,” said alan. “come out and show yourselves. lucy, eaton and archie are asking for you.”
but bob had already caught lucy’s arm, saying, “let’s have the first dance together.”
the violins burst into life, and brother and sister swung out on to the floor, then through the long open windows, and danced on the stone terrace in the moonlight, their silence more understanding, just then, than any words.
at last bob said, “aren’t you glad we’re here, captain? i think i’m almost happy.”
lucy knew what he meant without a moment’s hesitation. even in the gordon family’s safe reunion there was something that bob and lucy could not forget. they were on friendly soil, and their hearts were warm to the friends around them, but they longed for america. their thoughts were so much the same that lucy’s words seemed an answer to bob’s as she said:
“when we’re all back home, bob! can you help thinking of it? i go to sleep at night pretending we’re on a ship that’s just slipping in past sandy hook, and i feel like saying over and over to myself, 'this is my own, my native land!’”
“oh, lucy!” called larry’s voice.
here she is, bob answered
“here she is,” bob answered
“here she is,” bob answered. “and about to make me homesick.”
“funny thing,” said larry, coming up. “i feel the same way to-night, though it’s so lovely here.”
“we’re a nice lot of people to entertain,” said bob laughing. as he let lucy go he gave her a gentle hug which said, “never mind. we’ve plenty to rejoice in.”
lucy knew that, too, and smiled at him. the music stopped and bob went in search of marian. lucy and larry wandered down the terrace steps and into the park, led on by the beautiful outdoors. and once away from the lighted house, larry walking beside her in pleasant, friendly silence, lucy’s heart suddenly overflowed with the knowledge of peace and freedom and all the beauty glowing around her.
“oh, larry,” she cried, looking down from the glorious sky to her friend’s face, “how could i complain to bob of anything? could anyone want more than this to-night?”
“hardly,” said larry, not asking her to speak more clearly, and he, too, seemed full of many thoughts that made speech difficult. he raised one hand with his old gesture to ruffle his hair, which showed ruddy in the moonlight, but, remembering not to do it, he smiled and his blue eyes turned from lucy’s to wander over the soft green of the woodland in front of them.
they reached the first scattered oaks. an owl flitted through the boughs and about their feet crickets chirped endlessly. the moonbeams sifted in checkered light through the young leaves upon the mossy ground which deadened their footsteps. lucy was caught in the spell of beauty that never failed to hold her enchanted.
“it’s not a bit like germany, is it?” said larry.
lucy said softly, “it’s like a midsummer night’s dream.”
“only we needn’t wake up. come back and dance, lucy. we mustn’t be serious to-night.”
they came out on the lawns again and met the dancers coming from the house in groups that broke the silence with talk and laughter. captain beattie joined them, then bob, marian, michelle, alan, janet, and arthur leslie walking with general gordon. lucy caught her father’s arm in hers as he laid a hand on her shoulder.
there was no more time for reverie that night, nor did lucy any longer wish for it. her vague regrets and longings were forgotten. there was nothing left in her heart but hope, courage and happiness. the great war was over, and life had but just begun.
the stories in this series are:
captain lucy and lieutenant bob
captain lucy in france
captain lucy’s flying ace
captain lucy in the home sector
