Nellie L. McClung - The Next of Kin

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"I would like to know what they have to do with it?" he said hotly;
"you are my wife and I am the person concerned."

Without noticing what he said, she continued: "Once I wanted to adopt
a baby, you remember, when one of your patients died, and I would have
loved to do it; but you said you must not be disturbed at night and I
submitted. Still, if it had been our own, you would have had to be
disturbed and put up with it like other people, and so I let you rule
me. I have never had any opinion of my own."

"Nettie, you are excited," he said gently; "you are upset, poor girl,
about my going away--I don't wonder. Come out with me; I am going to
speak at a recruiting meeting."

Her first impulse was to refuse, for there were many things she wanted
to think out, but the habit of years was on her and she went.

The meeting was a great success. It was the first days of the war,
when enthusiasm seethed and the little town throbbed with excitement.
The news was coming through of the destruction and violation of
Belgium; the women wept and men's faces grew white with rage.

Dr. Winters's fine face was alight with enthusiasm as he spoke of the
debt that every man now owes to his country. Every man who is able to
hold a gun, he said, must come to the help of civilization against
barbarism. These dreadful outrages are happening thousands of miles
away, but that makes them none the less real. Humanity is being
attacked by a bully, a ruffian,--how can any man stay at home? Let no
consideration of family life keep you from doing your duty. Every
human being must give an account of himself to God. What did you do in
the great day of testing? will be the question asked you in that great
day of reckoning to which we are all coming.

When he was through speaking, amid the thunderous applause, five young
men walked down to the front and signified their intention of going.

"Why, that's Willie Shepherd, and he is his mother's only support,"
whispered one of the women; "I don't think he should go."

When they went home that night Mrs. Winters told the Doctor what she
had heard the women say, and even added her remonstrance too.

"This is no time for remonstrance," he had cried; "his mother will get
along; the Patriotic Fund will look after her. I tell you human
relationships are forgotten in this struggle! We must save our
country. One broken heart more or less cannot be taken into
consideration. Personal comfort must not be thought of. There is only
one limit to service and sacrifice, and that is capacity."

Every night after that he addressed meetings, and every night recruits
came to the colors. His speeches vibrated with the spirit of sacrifice
and the glory of service, and thrilled every heart that listened, and
no heart was more touched than that of his wife, who felt that no
future in the world would be so happy as to go and care for the
wounded men.

She made the suggestion one night, and was quite surprised to find
that the Doctor regarded it favorably. All that night she lay awake
from sheer joy: at last she was going to be of service--she was going
to do something. She tried to tell herself of the hardships of the
life, but nothing could dim her enthusiasm. "I hope it will be hard,"
she cried happily. "I want it hard to make up for the easy, idle years
I have spent. I hate the ease and comfort and selfishness in which I
have lived."

The next day her application went in and she began to attend the
ambulance classes which were given in the little city by the doctors
and nurses.

The Doctor was away so much that she was practically free to go and
come as she liked, and the breath of liberty was sweet to her. She
also saw, with further pangs of conscience, the sacrifices which other
women were making. The Red Cross women seemed to work unceasingly.

The President of the Red Cross came to her office every morning at
nine, and stayed till five.

"What about lunch?" Mrs. Winters asked her, one day. "Do you go home?"

"Oh, no," said the other woman; "I go out and get a sandwich."

"But I mean--what about your husband's lunch?"

"He goes home," the president said, "and sees after the children when
they come in from school--of course I have a maid, you know."

"But doesn't he miss you dreadfully?" asked Mrs. Winters.

"Yes, I think he does, but not any more than the poor fellows in the
trenches miss their wives. He is not able to go to the front himself
and he is only too glad to leave me free to do all I can."

"But surely some other woman could be found," said Mrs. Winters, "who
hasn't got as many family cares as you have."

"They could," said the president, "but they would probably tell you
that their husbands like to have them at home--or some day would be
stormy and they would 'phone down that 'Teddy' positively refused to
let them come out. We have been busy people all our lives and have
been accustomed to sacrifice and never feel a bit sorry for it--we've
raised our six children and done without many things. It doesn't hurt
us as it does the people who have always sat on cushioned seats. The
Red Cross Society knows that it is a busy woman who can always find
time to do a little more, and I am just as happy as can be doing
this."

Mrs. Winters felt the unintentional rebuke in these words, and turned
them over in her mind.

One day, three months after this, the Doctor told her that it was
quite probable he would not be going overseas at all, for he was
having such success recruiting that the major-general thought it
advisable to have him go right on with it. "And so, Nettie," he said,
"you had better cancel your application to go overseas, for of course,
if I do not go, you will not."

For a moment she did not grasp what he meant. He spoke of it so
casually. Not go! The thought of her present life of inactivity was
never so repulsive. But silence fell upon her and she made no reply.

"We will not know definitely about it for a few weeks," he said, and
went on reading.

After that, Mrs. Winters attended every recruiting meeting at which
her husband spoke, eagerly memorizing his words, hardly knowing why,
but she felt that she might need them. She had never been able to
argue with any one--one adverse criticism of her position always
caused her defense to collapse. So she collected all the material she
could get on the subject of personal responsibility and sacrifice. Her
husband's brilliant way of phrasing became a delight to her. But
always, as she listened, vague doubts arose in her mind.

One day when she was sewing at the Red Cross rooms, the women were
talking of a sad case that had occurred at the hospital. A soldier's
wife had died, leaving a baby two weeks old and another little girl of
four, who had been taken to the Children's Shelter, and who had cried
so hard to be left with her mother. One of the women had been to see
the sick woman the day before she died, and was telling the others
about her.

"A dear little saint on earth she was--well bred, well educated, but
without friends. Her only anxiety was for her children and sympathy
for her husband. 'This will be sad news for poor Bob,' she said, 'but
he'll know I did my best to live--I cannot get my breath--that's the
worst--if I could only get my breath--I would abide the pain _some
way_.' The baby is lovely, too,--a fine healthy boy. Now I wonder if
there is any woman patriotic enough to adopt those two little ones
whose mother is dead and whose father is in the trenches. The baby
went to the Shelter yesterday."

"Of course they are well treated there," said Mrs. Winters.

"Well treated!" cried the president--"they are fed and kept warm and
given all the care the matron and attendants can give them; but how
can two or three women attend to twenty-five children? They do all
they can, but it's a sad place just the same. I always cry when I see
the mother-hungry look on their faces. They want to be owned and
loved--they need some one belonging to them. Don't you know that
settled look of loneliness? I call it the 'institutional face,' and I
know it the minute I see it. Poor Bob Wilson--it will be sad news for
him--he was our plumber and gave up a good job to go. At the station
he kept saying to his wife to comfort her, for she was crying her
heart out, poor girl, 'Don't cry, Minnie dear, I'm leaving you in
good hands; they are not like strangers anymore, all these kind
ladies; they'll see you through. Don't you remember what the Doctor
said,'--that was your husband, Mrs. Winters,--'the women are the best
soldiers of all--so you'll bear up, Minnie.'

"Minnie was a good soldier right enough," said the president, "but I
wonder what Bob will think of the rest of us when he comes home--or
doesn't come home. We let his Minnie die, and sent his two babies to
the Children's Shelter. In this manner have we discharged our
duty--we've taken it easy so far."

Mrs. Winters sat open-eyed, and as soon as she could, left the room.
She went at once to the Shelter and asked to see the children.

Up the bare stairs, freshly scrubbed, she was taken, and into the
day-nursery where many children sat on the floor, some idly playing
with half-broken toys, one or two wailing softly, not as if they were
looking for immediate returns, but just as a small protest against
things in general. The little four-year-old girl, neatly dressed and
smiling, came at once when the matron called her, and quickly said,
"Will you take me to my mother? Am I going home now?"

"She asks every one that," the matron said aside.

"I have a little brother now," said the child proudly; "just down from
heaven--we knew he was coming."

In one of the white cribs the little brother lay, in an embroidered
quilt. The matron uncovered his face, and, opening one navy-blue eye,
he smiled.

"He's a bonnie boy," the matron said; "he has slept ever since he
came. But I cannot tell--somebody--I simply can't."

Mrs. Winters went home thinking so hard that she was afraid her
husband would see the thoughts shining out, tell-tale, in her face.

She told him where she had been and was just leading up to the appeal
which she had prepared, for the children, when a young man called to
see the Doctor.

The young fellow had called for advice: his wife would not give her
consent to his enlisting, and his heart was wrung with anxiety over
what he should do.

The Doctor did not hesitate a minute. "Go right on," he said; "this is
no time to let any one, however near and dear, turn us from our duty.
We have ceased to exist as individuals--now we are a Nation and we
must sacrifice the individual for the State. Your wife will come
around to it and be glad that you were strong enough to do your duty.
No person has any right to turn another from his duty, for we must all
answer to Almighty God in this crisis, not to each other."

The next day, while the Doctor was away making a recruiting speech in
another town, the delivery van of the leading furniture store stood at
his back door and one high chair stood in it, one white crib was being
put up-stairs in his wife's bedroom, and many foreign articles were in
evidence in the room. The Swedish maid was all excitement and moved
around on tip-toe, talking in a whisper.

"There ban coming a baby hare, and a li'l' girl. Gee! what will the
Doctor man say! He ban quick enough to bring them other houses, no
want none for self--oh, gee!"

Then she made sure that the key was not in the study door, for Olga
was a student of human nature and wanted to get her information
first-hand.

* * * * *

When the Doctor came in late that night, Mrs. Winters met him at the
door as usual. So absorbed was he in telling her of the success of his
meetings that he did not notice the excitement in her face.

"They came to-night in droves, Nettie," he said, as he drank the cocoa
she had made for him.

"They can't help it, Fred," she declared enthusiastically, "when you
put it to them the way you do. You are right, dear; it is not a time
for any person to hold others back from doing what they see they
should. It's a personal matter between us and God--we are not
individuals any more--we are a state, and each man and woman must get
under the burden. I hate this talk of 'business as usual'--I tell you
it is nothing as usual."

He regarded her with surprise! Nettie had never made so long a speech
before.

"It's your speeches, Fred; they are wonderful. Why, man alive, you
have put backbone even into me--I who have been a jelly-fish all my
life--and last night, when I heard you explain to that young fellow
that he must not let his wife be his conscience, I got a sudden
glimpse of things. You've been my conscience all my life, but, thank
God, you've led me out into a clear place. I'm part of the State, and
I am no slacker--I am going to do my bit. Come, Fred, I want to show
you something."

He followed her without a word as she led the way to the room upstairs
where two children slept sweetly.

"They are mine, Fred,--mine until the war is over, at least, and
Private Wilson comes back; and if he does not come back, or if he will
let me have them, they are mine forever."

He stared at this new woman, who looked like his wife.

"It was your last speech, Fred,--what you said to that young man. You
told him to go ahead--his wife would come around, you said--she would
see her selfishness. Then I saw a light shine on my pathway. Every
speech has stiffened my backbone a little. I was like the mouse who
timidly tiptoed out to the saucer of brandy, and, taking a sip, went
more boldly back, then came again with considerable swagger; and at
last took a good drink and then strutted up and down saying, 'Bring on
your old black cat!' That's how I feel, Fred,--I'm going to be a
mother to these two little children whose own mother has passed on and
whose father is holding up the pillars of the Empire. It would hardly
be fair to leave them to public charity, now, would it?"

"Well, Nettie," the Doctor said slowly, "I'll see that you do not
attend any more recruiting meetings--you are too literal. But all the
same," he said, "I am proud of my convert."

Olga Jasonjusen tiptoed gently away from the door, and going down the
back stairs hugged herself gayly, saying, "All over--but the kissing.
Oh, gee! He ain't too bad! He's just needed some one to cheek up to
him. Bet she's sorry now she didn't sass him long ago."

CHAPTER XII

THE WAR-MOTHER

I saw my old train friend again. It was the day that one of our
regiments went away, and we were all at the station to bid the boys
good-bye.

The empty coaches stood on a siding, and the stream of khaki-clad men
wound across the common from the Fair buildings, which were then used
as a military camp. The men were heavily loaded with all their
equipment, but cheerful as ever. The long-looked-for order to go
forward had come at last!

Men in uniform look much the same, but the women who came with them
and stood by them were from every station in life. There were two
Ukrainian women, with colored shawls on their heads, who said good-bye
to two of the best-looking boys in the regiment, their sons. It is no
new thing for the Ukrainian people to fight for liberty! There were
heavily veiled women, who alighted from their motors and silently
watched the coaches filling with soldiers. Every word had been said,
every farewell spoken; they were not the sort who say tempestuous
good-byes, but their silence was like the silence of the open grave.
There were many sad-faced women, wheeling go-carts, with children
holding to their skirts crying loudly for "Daddy." There were tired,
untidy women, overrun by circumstances, with that look about them
which the Scotch call "through-other." There were many brave little
boys and girls standing by their mothers, trying hard not to cry;
there were many babies held up to the car-window to kiss a big brother
or a father; there were the groups of chattering young people, with
their boxes of candy and incessant fun; there were brides of a day,
with their white-fox furs and new suits, and the great new sorrow in
their eyes.

One fine-looking young giant made his way toward the train without
speaking to any one, passing where a woman held her husband's hands,
crying hysterically--we were trying to persuade her to let him go,
for the conductor had given the first warning.

"I have no one to cry over me, thank God!" he said, "and I think I am
the best off." But the bitterness in his tone belied his words.

"Then maybe I could pretend that you are my boy," said a woman's voice
behind me, which sounded familiar; "you see I have no boy--now, and
nobody to write to--and I just came down to-night to see if I could
find one. I want to have some one belonging to me--even if they are
going away!"

The young man laid down his bag and took her hand awkwardly. "I sure
would be glad to oblige you," he said, "only I guess you could get one
that was lots nicer. I am just a sort of a bo-hunk from the North
Country."

"You'll do me," said the old lady, whom I recognized at once as my
former train companion,--"you'll do me fine. Tell me your name and
number, and I'll be your war-mother,--here's my card, I have it all
ready,--I knew I'd get some one. Now, remember, I am your Next of Kin.
Give in my name and I'll get the cable when you get the D.S.O., and
I'll write to you every week and send you things. I just can't keep
from sending parcels."

"Gee! This is sudden!" said the boy, laughing; "but it's nice!"

"I lost my boys just as suddenly as this," she said. "Billy and Tom
went out together--they were killed at Saint-Eloi, but Frank came
through it all to Vimy Ridge. Then the message came ... sudden too.
One day I had him--then I lost him! Why shouldn't nice things come
suddenly too--just like this!"

"You sure can have me--mother," the big fellow said.

The conductor was giving the last call. Then the boy took her in his
arms and kissed her withered cheek, which took on a happy glow that
made us all look the other way.

She and I stood together and watched the grinding wheels as they began
to move. The spirit of youth, the indomitable, imperishable spirit of
youth was in her eyes, and glowed in her withered face as she murmured
happily,--

"I am one of the Next of Kin ... again, and my new boy is on that
train."

We stood together until the train had gone from our sight.

"Let me see," I said, "how many chickens did you tell me that Biddy
hen of yours had when the winter came?"

"Twenty-two," she laughed.

"Well," I said, "it's early yet."

"I just can't help it," she said seriously; "I have to be in it! After
I got the word about my last boy, it seemed for a few days that I had
come to the end of everything. I slept and slept and slept, just like
you do when you've had company at your house,--the very nicest
company, and they go away!--and you're so lonely and idle, and tired,
too, for you've been having such a good time you did not notice that
you were getting near the edge. That's how I felt; but after a week I
wanted to be working at something. I thought maybe the Lord had left
my hands quite free so I could help some one else.... You have played
croquet, haven't you? You know how the first person who gets out has
the privilege of coming back a 'rover,' and giving a hand to any one.
That's what I felt; I was a 'rover,' and you'd be surprised at all I
have found to do. There are so many soldiers' wives with children who
never get downtown to shop or see a play, without their children. I
have lots to do in that line, and it keeps me from thinking.

"I want you to come with me now," she went on, "to see a woman who has
something wrong with her that I can't find out. She has a sore
thought. Her man has been missing since September, and is now
officially reported killed. But there's something else bothering her."

"How do you know?" I asked.

She turned quickly toward me and said, "Have you any children?"

"Five," I said.

"Oh, well, then, you'll understand. Can't you tell by a child's cry
whether it is hungry, or hurt, or just mad?"

"I can, I think," I said.

"Well, that's how I know. She's in deep grief over her husband, but
there's more than that. Her eyes have a hurt look that I wish I could
get out of them. You'll see it for yourself, and maybe we can get her
to tell us. I just found her by accident last week--or at least, I
found her; nothing happens by accident!"

We found her in a little faded green house, whose veranda was broken
through in many places. Scared-looking, dark-eyed children darted
shyly through the open door as we approached. In the darkened front
room she received us, and, without any surprise, pleasure, or
resentment in her voice, asked us to sit down. As our eyes became
accustomed to the gloom, we wondered more and more why the sunshine
was excluded, for there was no carpet to fade, nor any furniture which
would have been injured. The most conspicuous object in the room was
the framed family group taken just before "her man" went away. He was
a handsome young fellow in his tidy uniform, and the woman beside him
had such a merry face that I should never have known her for the sad
and faded person who had met us at the door. In the picture she was
smiling, happy, resolute; now her face was limp and frazzled, and had
an indefinable challenge in it which baffled me. My old friend was
right--there was a sore thought there!

The bright black eyes of the handsome soldier fascinated me; he was so
much alive; so fearless; so confident, so brave,--so much needed by
these little ones who clustered around his knee. Again, as I looked
upon this picture, the horrors of war rolled over my helpless heart.

My old friend was trying hard to engage the woman in conversation, but
her manner was abstracted and strange. I noticed her clothes were all
black, even the flannel bandage around her throat--she was recovering
from an attack of quinsy--was black too; and as if in answer to my
thoughts, she said:--

"It was red--but I dyed it--I couldn't bear to have it red--it
bothered me. That's why I keep the blinds down too--the sun hurts
me--it has no right to shine--just the same as if nothing had
happened." Her voice quivered with passion.

"Have you any neighbors, Mrs. C----?" I asked; for her manner made me
uneasy--she had been too much alone.

"Neighbors!" she stormed,--"neighbors! I haven't any, and I do not
want them: they would only lie about me--the way they lied about
Fred!"

"Surely nobody ever lied about Fred," I said,--"this fine, brave
fellow."

"He does look brave, doesn't he?" she cried. "You are a stranger, but
you can see it, can't you? You wouldn't think he was a coward, would
you?"

"I would stake everything on his bravery!" I said honestly, looking at
the picture.

She came over and squeezed my hand.

"It was a wicked lie--all a lie!" she said bitterly.

"Tell us all about it," I said; "I am sure there has been a mistake."

She went quickly out of the room, and my old friend and I stared at
each other without speaking. In a few minutes she came back with a
"paper" in her hand, and, handing it to me, she said, "Read that and
you'll see what they say!"

I read the announcement which stated that her husband had been missing
since September 29, and was now believed to have been killed. "This is
just what is sent to every one--" I began, but she interrupted me.

"Look here!" she cried, leaning over my shoulder and pointing to the
two words "marginally noted"--"What does that mean?"

I read it over again:--

"We regret to inform you that the soldier marginally noted, who has
been declared missing since September 29, is now believed to have been
killed!"

"There!" she cried, "can't you see?" pointing again to the two words.
"Don't you see what that means?--margin means the edge--and that means
that Fred was noted for being always on the edge of the army, trying
to escape, I suppose. But that's a lie, for Fred was not that kind, I
tell you--he was no coward!"

I saw where the trouble lay, and tried to explain. She would not
listen.

"Oh, but I looked in the dictionary and I know: 'margin' means 'the
edge,' and they are trying to say that Fred was always edging
off--you see--noted for being on the edge, that's what they say."

We reasoned, we argued, we explained, but the poor little lonely soul
was obsessed with the idea that a deep insult had been put upon her
man's memory.

Then my old friend had an idea. She opened her purse and brought out
the notice which she had received of the death of her last boy.

We put the two notices side by side, and told her that these were
printed by the thousands, and every one got the same. Just the name
had to be filled in.

Then she saw it!

"Oh!" she cried, "I am so glad you showed me this, for I have been so
bitter. I hated every one; it sounded so hard and cold and
horrible--as if nobody cared. It was harder than losing Fred to have
him so insulted. But now I see it all!"

"Isn't it too bad," said the old lady, as we walked home together,
"that they do not have these things managed by women? Women would
have sense enough to remember that these notices go to many classes of
people--and would go a bit slow on the high-sounding phrases: they
would say, 'The soldier whose name appears on the margin of this
letter,' instead of 'The soldier who is marginally noted'; it might
not be so concise, but it is a heap plainer. A few sentences of
sympathy, too, and appreciation, written in by hand, would be a
comfort. I tell you at a time like this we want something human, like
the little girl who was put to bed in the dark and told that the
angels would keep her company. She said she didn't want angels--she
wanted something with a skin face!--So do we all! We are panicky and
touchy, like a child that has been up too late the night before, and
we have to be carefully handled. All the pores of our hearts are open
and it is easy to get a chill!"

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