Part 16 (2/2)

”Well--have you got them all tucked up?” asked Mr. Linton, when Norah joined him in the morning-room an hour later.

”Oh, yes; they were so tired, poor mites. Bride helped me to bathe them, and we fed them all on bread and milk--with lots of cream.

Michael demanded ”Mummy,” but he was too sleepy to worry much. But; Dad--Geoff wants you badly to say 'good-night.' He says his own Daddy always says it to him when he's in bed. Would you mind?”

”Right,” said her father. He went upstairs, with Norah at his heels, and tiptoed into the big room where two of his three small guests were already sleeping soundly. He looked very tall as he stood beside the little bed in the corner. Geoff's bright eyes peeped up at him.

”It was awful good of you to come,” he said sleepily. ”Daddy does.

He says, 'Good night, old chap, and G.o.d bless you.'”

”Good night, old chap, and G.o.d bless you,” said David Linton gravely.

He held the small hand a moment in his own, and then, stooping, brushed his forehead with his lips.

”G.o.d bless you,” said Geoff's drowsy voice. ”I'm going--going to ride the pony . . . to-morrow.” His words trailed off in sleep.

CHAPTER VII

THE THATCHED COTTAGE

But for the narrow white beds, you would hardly have thought that the big room was a hospital ward. In days before all the world was caught into a whirlpool of war it had been a ballroom. A famous painter had made the vaulted ceiling an exquisite thing of palest blush-roses and laughing Cupids, tumbling among vine-leaves and tendrils. The white walls bore long panels of the same design. There were no fittings for light visible: when darkness fell, the touch of a b.u.t.ton flooded the room with a soft glow, coming from some unseen source in the carved cornice. The s.h.i.+ning floor bore heavy Persian rugs, and there were tables heaped with books and magazines; and the nurses who flitted in and out were all dainty and good to look at. All about the room were splendid palms in pots; from giants twenty feet high, to lesser ones the graceful leaves of which could just catch the eye of a tired man in bed--fresh from the grim ugliness of the trenches. It was the palms you saw as you came in--not the beds here and there among them.

A good many of the patients were up this afternoon, for this was a ward for semi-convalescents. Not all were fully dressed: they moved about in dressing-gowns, or lay on the sofas, or played games at the little tables. One man was in uniform: Major Hunt, who sat in a big chair near his bed, and from time to time cast impatient glances at the door.

”Wish we weren't going to lose you, Major,” said a tall man in a purple dressing-gown, who came up the ward with wonderful swiftness, considering that he was on crutches. ”But I expect you're keen to go.”

”Oh, yes; though I'll miss this place.” Major Hunt cast an appreciative glance down the beautiful room. ”It has been great luck to be here; there are not many hospitals like this in England.

But--well, even if home is only a beastly little flat in Bloomsbury it _is_ home, and I shall be glad to get back to my wife and the youngsters. I miss the kids horribly.”

”Yes, one does,” said the other.

”I daresay I'll find them something of a crowd on wet days, when they can't get out,” said Major Hunt, laughing. ”The flat is small, and my wretched nerves are all on edge. But I want them badly, for all that.

And it's rough on my wife to be so much alone. She has led a kind of wandering life since war broke out--sometimes we've been able to have the kids with us, but not always.” He stretched himself wearily.

”Gad! how glad I'll be when the Boche is hammered and we're able to have a decent home again!”

”We're all like that,” said the other man. ”I've seen my youngsters twice in the last year.”

”Yes, you're worse off than I am,” said Major Hunt. He looked impatiently towards the door, fidgeting. ”I wish Stella would come.”

But when a nurse brought him a summons presently, and he said good-bye to the ward and went eagerly down to the ground-floor (in an electric lift worked by an earl's daughter in a very neat uniform), it was not his wife who awaited him in a little white-and-gold sitting-room, but a very tall man, looking slightly apologetic.

”Your wife is perfectly well,” said David Linton, checking the quick inquiry that rose to the soldier's lips. ”But I persuaded her to give me the job of calling for you to-day: our car is rather more comfortable than a taxi, and the doctor thought it would be a good thing for you to have a little run first.”

Major Hunt tried not to look disappointed, and failed signally.

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