Spring Magic

by D. E. Stevenson

  “They’re not from abroad,” replied Annie promptly. “They’re just ordinary stamps on them.”

  This was one way of judging the importance of a letter, but it was by no means infallible, for Elise noticed that one of the letters was from Tommy and another from Guy . . . no letter from “abroad” could be more important than these.

  Guy’s letter was much the longer. It covered five closely written sheets in a somewhat crabbed hand, so she put it aside for a moment and read Tommy’s letter first.

  Ivy Lodge,

  Winklesham, Surrey.

  DARLING ELISE,

  I meant to write to you before but I knew it wouldn’t be easy, so I kept on putting it off. I expect you’re pretty fed up with me for not going to Aberdeen, but I never said I would, did I? I just felt I couldn’t face mother—I came here instead to Midge’s mother. It was dreadful of me, but I told you I hadn’t any pride, besides, I knew she would understand and she did. She loves Midge too, you see. I expect you know that Colonel Thynne came to London and took Angela away, and you probably knew that Midge had got a new appointment. I can’t say much about that because it’s supposed to be hush hush. The only thing you don’t know is the most difficult to tell you, but I expect you can guess. You’re rather good at guessing things. Midge loves me, you know. He does really. It isn’t any use saying that things will be different in future, because, of course, they won’t. I mean, Midge wouldn’t be Midge if he were different. Well, that’s all except that I’m very happy, so don’t worry about me, Elise—but don’t forget me, will you? I should hate you to forget me. I miss you all very much—even poor old Tillie—it’s rather grim leaving the regiment and starting afresh in a strange place. I feel as if I had too few clothes on or something. It’s a draughty sort of feeling. I haven’t written to Frances because I don’t know whether she knows anything, poor babe, so please give her my love—my dear love—and my very dear love to your beautiful self.

  Yours ever,

  TOMMY

  Elise read the letter twice and then she put it down and thought about it. The letter brought Tommy so clearly before her eyes that she might almost be sitting opposite in that empty chair. If only she were sitting there, thought Elise. If only I could get hold of Tommy and talk to her . . . but what would be the use. Tommy had made up her mind and nothing that any one could say or do would persuade her to change it. . . . I shall miss Tommy horribly, thought Elise.

  She sighed and picked up Guy’s letter, hoping that it contained more welcome news.

  Bardonald House,

  Manburgh.

  MY DEAR ELISE,

  I’ve found her and everything is all right. I proposed to her in the middle of a perfectly hellish blitz with pieces of masonry falling all round us. After that we were both very nearly killed but not quite. As a matter of fact, I got off with a few bruises and Frances got off with a broken arm and slight concussion. It was a marvellous escape. I’ll tell you all about it when I see you. The doctor says Frances must take it easy for a bit, so we think the best thing is for her to come to Cairn with me. You’ll look after her, won’t you? We shall travel north next Friday—yes, I know I’m supposed to be back on Monday, but Ned will have to get my leave extended because Frances won’t be fit to travel till Friday and I can’t leave her behind. She might disappear again or there might be another blitz, and I shouldn’t be here to look after her, so you must just tell Ned that if I am to be court-martialled I must just be court-martialled, that’s all. As a matter of fact, the doctor says he will give me a certificate if necessary, so perhaps I shan’t be court-martialled after all. Now, don’t worry about me, Elise, because there is absolutely no need to worry. I got my hands burnt in the fire, and at the moment they are swathed in bandages, which accounts for this peculiar scrawl. They are a bit painful but will be all right in a day or two. I can hear you saying “What fire?” and “Why Manburgh?” and cursing me for telling you everything back to front, but you must make allowances for me because I’m nearly off my head. (I daresay you can remember what you were like when you and Ned were first engaged. If you can’t, I can. You were both quite potty.) The whole story of how I managed to find Frances is far too long to write, so you will have to wait for details until we come north. I ran her to earth at Manburgh, where she was working in a canteen in Lord Belton’s old house. Then the blitz came—see beginning of this letter—and then the fire started and raged like an inferno. I never saw anything the least like that fire, it was a terrific blaze, and the house was burnt to a cinder in spite of all our efforts. It was such a beautiful old house too. However, we managed to prevent the fire spreading to the works. They are very important works, and it would’ve been pretty serious if they had been damaged. I am staying with Mr. Fleming at the moment—see above address—and shall remain here until Friday, so you can ring me up if you want to speak to me. Mr. Fleming is the manager of the aforesaid works; they are the apple of his eye, and if anything had happened to them I don’t know what he would have done. He has got a bee in his bonnet about my fire-fighting activities and wants to put in my name for the George Medal—perfect rot, of course. The old boy deserves one himself if any one does. Now for the really important part of my letter. There are one or two little things you might do for me—for Frances and me. We want to be married soon. Life is short and there is no just cause or impediment! I suppose the conventional thing would be to go to Devonshire, where her uncle and aunt are living, and be married there, but neither of us sees much object in trailing from one end of Britain to the other when we could get married just as easily at Cairn. Besides, I have had all the leave I am likely to get for some time, and the long, double journey would be the worst thing for Frances. If the uncle and aunt want to see Frances married they can come to Cairn; but Frances does not think they will. Old Dr. Digby might come—but you don’t know anything about him, of course, and I can’t start explaining about him now. I thought, perhaps, you might make inquiries and see whether we could be married in the little church at Cairn . . . thank you very much. Then there is another thing—what about Sea View? Did I hear you say “What about it?” or have you caught on? Honestly, I think it would suit us, for, with all its disadvantages, it is a dear little house and conveniently near the camp. It was Frances’s idea and I think it is a good one. You might get hold of Alec and ask him about it. Frances says he is Ellen MacNair’s brother-in-law. I don’t suppose Tommy will be coming back (have you heard from her?), so unless the furniture has already been removed we could just take the house over as it stands. The only thing I refuse to have in the house is that blue-pencil footstool. I shall have great pleasure in taking it out on to the rocks and chucking it into the sea—Frances says I may if I like! Frances understands everything now. She says—like you—that I might have succeeded in my efforts if I had had a little luck. I go and sit with her in the hospital whenever they will let me in and we discuss all sorts of things. Frances thinks it is “awful” of me to ask you to do all these little jobs, but I have explained that sisters are created on purpose to be useful. She has not got one of her own yet, of course. There are so many things that I want to say to you, Elise—serious things, I mean—that it would take me all night to do the job properly. Fortunately, you will understand most of them without being told. You will realise from this crazy letter that I am as mad as a hatter with happiness. Frances is the most marvellous person in the world, the sweetest, bravest—but if I once begin to write about Frances I shall never stop. I really must try to be sensible. One of the most pleasing features of the affair is that you and Frances are so fond of each other—the two dearest people in the world—it makes everything quite perfect. You and I have always been pals, haven’t we, Elise? Ned made no difference; he just came inside the fence and there were three of us—and now there will be four. That’s all, really. Here’s the doctor arriving to take off my bandages—I know it’s going to hurt like hell.

  Yours ever,

  GUY

  Part
IV

  FRANCES AND GUY

  CHAPTER XXXVII

  The Bordale Arms Hotel woke to activity at an unusually early hour. Annie was the first person in the house to get out of bed. She rose and opened her window (she always slept with it hermetically sealed) and gazed out at the most beautiful June morning she had ever seen. It was just the right sort of day for a wedding—so Annie decided—and especially suitable for the marriage of two people like Captain Tarlatan and Miss Field. He was so tall and strong and tanned—a fine figure of a man if ever there was one—and she was so sweet and pretty with her fair hair and her blue eyes. Annie sighed and her thoughts strayed to Corporal Brown. He was a fine figure of a man too . . . last night they had walked up to St. Kiaran’s Spring and had partaken together of the magic water . . . but dreaming here wouldn’t get the work done, and there was more to do than usual with the wedding luncheon and all, so Annie turned from the window and leapt into her clothes and clattered downstairs to get about her business.

  Elise opened her eyes and saw the sun shining. Her heart rose with happiness and satisfaction at the sight. Guy and Frances deserved a lovely day for their wedding . . . besides, it was much more pleasant for every one when the sun shone; every one would feel more cheerful. Elise had made all the arrangements, so she was particularly anxious that things should go with a swing. She lay and thought and wondered whether she had remembered all the small details which were so important. The wedding was to take place at twelve o’clock in the village church, and after that they would all return to the Bordale Arms for the reception . . . then the luncheon, of course. Elise frowned, for the luncheon had been the most difficult part of the affair. Guy and Frances had insisted that all the officers of the Green Buzzards should be bidden to the feast, and, although some of them had been obliged to refuse (the camp could not be denuded of officers even for a wedding luncheon), a great many of them had obtained special leave. Some of the wives were coming too. They had found accommodation at Rithie, and a bus had been chartered to bring them over for the day. In addition to the regimental guests, there was old Dr. Digby, who had arrived the night before, coming all the way from London on purpose to be present at the ceremony. Elise was glad he had come; he seemed a dear and he was the only representative of the bride’s relations. Mr. MacDonald and his cousin were coming . . . and the minister, of course . . . it was a big party to feed in war-time. However, Elise and Mrs. MacNair had put their heads together and had solved the food problem as best they could with the means at their disposal. The drink problem was easier; it had been left to Mr. MacNair, who had spent a good many hours in the dim recesses of his cellar . . .

  After the luncheon there would be speeches, of course, and then Guy and Frances would walk across the bay to the little house which was ready and waiting for them. Elise had conquered her aversion to pedestrian exercise and had made several visits to Sea View—they were much more pleasant and fruitful visits than her first—she had interviewed Ellen and had seen that everything was in apple-pie order; she had filled every vase she could find with, roses and sweet peas to welcome the couple to their new home.

  Elise thought of her own wedding. She had been married in Calcutta and, as her father was the C.O. of the battalion at the time, the wedding had been celebrated with pomp and circumstance. She thought of the presents, the bridesmaids, the pretty frocks, the huge wedding cake which she had cut with Ned’s sword. She remembered the fuss and excitement, the band playing, the showers of confetti and rice. Thinking it over, Elise decided that there had been too much fuss and excitement—too much noise—one had lost sight of the real meaning of the ceremony, it had been covered up with confetti and coloured paper streamers. This way was natural and simple. It was a good way; two people who loved each other making their promises in a little village church and walking home together—starting life as they meant to go on.

  Frances opened her eyes and the first thing she saw was the chestnut tree outside her window. The white candles were faded now, but the sun was shining on the bright green leaves so that they glowed with emerald light. She lay for a little between sleeping and waking, wrapped in rosy dreams . . . how happy she was—far happier than she deserved—happier than any one had a right to be in a world so full of misery. She had been happy ever since her return to Cairn, for everything was perfect. Guy was perfect, of course, and Cairn in June was paradise. Who could want more than “the time and the place and the loved one all together”?

  Cairn in June . . . bright sunshine, cool breezes, blue sea; long days fading softly into the half dark which is Scotland’s summer night: trees bright in their summer green, rising tall and stately above a brilliant blue carpet of wild hyacinths; gorse blazing, golden, on the hillside: pale-green bracken; waist-high, and full of yellow pollen: hawthorn, sweet as honey: rhododendrons at their gorgeous best, shining like white and red and purple lamps amongst their dark-green foliage: bell-heather in sheltered nooks: cow-parsley in the meadows: spagnum moss, pale pink and green, in the moist places near the burn. Spring had been lovely, thought Frances; there had been magic in the sweet spring air, but summer was breath-taking in its beauty, in its colour and fragrance.

  Frances did not get up to breakfast, for Elise had insisted that she should remain in bed until it was time to dress. She had no idea of the reason for this decree (perhaps the reason was that Elise had breakfasted in bed on her wedding morning), but Frances was so fond of her sister-in-law-to-be and, to tell the truth, so completely under her beneficent thumb, that, although it seemed a waste of time to stay in bed when she was perfectly well and the sun was shining and the birds were singing like mad and all Cairn was inviting her to come out, she stayed there obediently and demolished a boiled egg with enjoyment. By half-past ten, however, it had become impossible to remain dormant another moment, so Frances rose and began to dress. Her arm was so much better that she was able to use it, so she was not dependent upon outside help. She was brushing her hair when Elise opened the door very cautiously and peeped in.

  “Oh, you’re up!” exclaimed Elise in surprise.

  “I couldn’t stay in bed any longer.”

  “Guy rang up,” said Elise. “He has just heard that he is being awarded the George Medal for his gallantry at Belton Park—”

  “Elise! How marvellous!”

  “Yes, it’s splendid,” said Elise, smiling happily. “I’m so glad about it.”

  “Oh, so am I,” declared Frances. “And Mr. Fleming will be delighted. He kept on saying that Guy ought to get the George Medal—but Guy just laughed. Is Guy pleased about it?”

  “Of course he’s pleased. It’s a splendid distinction. He pretends that he did nothing to deserve it, but that’s just Guy’s way.”

  Frances nodded. She knew Guy’s way by this time.

  “Nobody knows about it,” continued Elise. “Guy doesn’t want any one to know until the award is made public.”

  Frances was silent. Her feelings were somewhat mixed. She was proud and glad, of course, but at the back of her mind there was the uncomfortable knowledge that Guy must have been in terrible danger. Frances had suspected this at the time, but Guy had comforted and reassured her by making light of the whole affair . . . he had been in no danger worth speaking of: he had taken jolly good care of himself: he had just given them a hand with the pumps . . . but Frances was aware that the George Medal is not awarded to people who take good care of themselves. It is certainly not won by yeoman-service at the pumps.

  “Elise,” began Frances, searching for words to explain her feelings on the subject. “Elise, I’m very proud of Guy, of course, but—”

  “I know,” said Elise, nodding. “I know exactly how you feel, but it’s over now and he’s perfectly safe, so the best thing is not to think about it any more. I’ll do your hair for you, shall I?”

  Frances surrendered the comb at once, for there was nobody to beat Elise in the ticklish business of coaxing hair into deep, smooth waves and entrancing curls. “What el
se did Guy say?” asked Frances.

  “He said a good deal,” replied Elise, smiling reminiscently. “I couldn’t get away from the phone and I knew Mrs. MacNair was champing about the hall waiting to get on to the butcher. First of all Guy wanted to know if you were still here and—”

  “Still here!” echoed Frances in amazement.

  Elise laughed—that light, soft laugh that Frances had grown to love. “Guy’s quite mad,” she declared. “I’ve never known Guy so absolutely crazy before. He says he is going to make a speech at the luncheon, and heaven knows what he will say. He’s in the mood to say anything mad—anything that comes into his head.”

  Frances looked up a trifle anxiously.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Elise assured her. “Every one knows Guy—they won’t mind what he says.”

  “Did he send me any messages?” Frances inquired.

  “Hundreds,” replied Elise. “I told him I couldn’t possibly remember them all, so then he said I must remember to tell you that immediately after his speech you and he are to make a bolt for it and disappear—you are both to fly for your lives.”

  “Why?” asked Frances in bewilderment.

  “Oh, because he doesn’t want to waste the whole afternoon sitting in a stuffy room listening to fatuous asses making speeches. He wants to go home with you. I don’t blame him, really.”

  “We could bathe,” said Frances, looking at the sea with yearning eyes.

  Elise shivered. “So you could,” she agreed.

  “What else did he say?” asked Frances.

  “He said it was a lovely day; the sun was almost as bright as your hair, but the sea wasn’t nearly as blue as your eyes,” replied Elise gravely. “Then he asked if I were quite sure you were still here and if you were still willing to marry him.”