The Red Cross Girl

R >> Richard Harding Davis >> The Red Cross Girl

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Collins, strong through many years of faithful service,
backed by the traditions of the profession, snorted
scornfully.

"But it's not news!"

"It's not news," said Elliott doubtfully; "but it's the kind
of story that made Frank O'Malley famous. It's the kind of
story that drives men out of this business into the arms of
what Kipling calls 'the illegitimate sister.'"

It seldom is granted to a man on the same day to give his
whole heart to a girl and to be patted on the back by his
managing editor; and it was this combination, and not the
drinks he dispensed to the staff in return for its
congratulations, that sent Sam home walking on air. He loved
his business, he was proud of his business; but never before
had it served him so well. It had enabled him to tell the
woman he loved, and incidentally a million other people, how
deeply he honored her; how clearly he appreciated her power
for good. No one would know he meant Sister Anne, save two
people--Sister Anne and himself; but for her and for him that
was as many as should know. In his story he had used real
incidents of the day; he had described her as she passed
through the wards of the hospital, cheering and sympathetic;
he had told of the little acts of consideration that endeared
her to the sick people.

The next morning she would know that it was she of whom he
had written; and between the lines she would read that the
man who wrote them loved her. So he fell asleep, impatient
for the morning. In the hotel at which he lived the REPUBLIC
was always placed promptly outside his door; and, after many
excursions into the hall, he at last found it. On the front
page was his story, "The Red Cross Girl." It had the place of
honor--right-hand column; but more conspicuous than the
headlines of his own story was one of Redding's, photographs.
It was the one he had taken of Sister Anne when first she had
approached them, in her uniform of mercy, advancing across
the lawn, walking straight into the focus of the, camera.
There was no mistaking her for any other living woman; but
beneath the picture, in bold, staring, uncompromising type,
was a strange and grotesque legend.

"Daughter of Millionaire Flagg," it read, "in a New Role,
Miss Anita Flagg as The Red Cross Girl."

For a long time Sam looked at the picture, and then, folding
the paper so that the picture was hidden, he walked to the
open window. From below, Broadway sent up a tumultuous
greeting--cable cars jangled, taxis hooted; and, on the
sidewalks, on their way to work, processions of shop-girls
stepped out briskly. It was the street and the city and the
life he had found fascinating, but now it jarred and
affronted him. A girl he knew had died, had passed out of his
life forever--worse than that had never existed; and yet the
city went or just as though that made no difference, or just
as little difference as it would have made had Sister Anne
really lived and really died.

At the same early hour, an hour far too early for the rest of
the house party, Anita Flagg and Helen Page, booted and
riding-habited, sat alone at the breakfast table, their tea
before them; and in the hands of Anita Flagg was the DAILY
REPUBLIC. Miss Page had brought the paper to the table and,
with affected indignation at the impertinence of the press,
had pointed at the front-page photograph; but Miss Flagg was
not looking at the photograph, or drinking her tea, or
showing in her immediate surroundings any interest
whatsoever. Instead, her lovely eyes were fastened with
fascination upon the column under the heading "The Red Cross
Girl"; and, as she read, the lovely eyes lost all trace of
recent slumber, her lovely lips parted breathlessly, and on
her lovely cheeks the color flowed and faded and glowed and
bloomed. When she had read as far as a paragraph beginning,
"When Sister Anne walked between them those who suffered
raised their eyes to hers as flowers lift their faces to the
rain," she dropped the paper and started for telephone.

"Any man," cried she, to the mutual discomfort of Helen Page
and the servants, "who thinks I'm like that mustn't get away!
I'm not like that and I know it; but if he thinks so that's
all I want. And maybe I might be like that--if any man would
help."

She gave her attention to the telephone and "Information."
She demanded to be instantly put into communication with the
DAILY REPUBLIC and Mr. Sam Ward. She turned again upon Helen
Page.

"I'm tired of being called a good sport," she protested, "by
men who aren't half so good sports as I am. I'm tired of
being talked to about money--as though I were a stock-broker.
This man's got a head on his shoulders, and he's got the
shoulders too; and he's got a darned good-looking head; and
he thinks I'm a ministering angel and a saint; and he put me
up on a pedestal and made me dizzy--and I like being made
dizzy; and I'm for him! And I'm going after him!"

"Be still!" implored Helen Page. "Any one might think you
meant it!" She nodded violently at the discreet backs of the
men-servants.

"Ye gods, Parker!" cried Anita Flagg. "Does it take three of
you to pour a cup of tea? Get out of here, and tell everybody
that you all three caught me in the act of proposing to an
American gentleman over the telephone and that the betting is
even that I'll make him marry me!"

The faithful and sorely tried domestics fled toward the door.
"And what's more," Anita hurled after them, "get your bets
down quick, for after I meet him the odds will be a hundred
to one!"

Had the REPUBLIC been an afternoon paper, Sam might have been
at the office and might have gone to the telephone, and
things might have happened differently; but, as the REPUBLIC
was a morning paper, the only person in the office was the
lady who scrubbed the floors and she refused to go near the
telephone. So Anita Flagg said, "I'll call him up later," and
went happily on her ride, with her heart warm with love for
all the beautiful world; but later it was too late.

To keep himself fit, Sam Ward always walked to the office. On
this particular morning Hollis Holworthy was walking uptown
and they met opposite the cathedral.

"You're the very man I want," said Hollworthy joyously--
"you've got to decide a bet."

He turned and fell into step with Sam.

"It's one I made last night with Anita Flagg. She thinks you
didn't know who she was yesterday, and I said that was
ridiculous. Of course you knew. I bet her a theatre party."

To Sam it seemed hardly fair that so soon, before his fresh
wound had even been dressed, it should be torn open by
impertinent fingers; but he had no right to take offense. How
could the man, or any one else, know what Sister Anne had
meant to him?

"I'm afraid you lose," he said. He halted to give Holworthy
the hint to leave him, but Holworthy had no such intention.

"You don't say so!" exclaimed that young man. "Fancy one of
you chaps being taken in like that. "I thought you were
taking her in--getting up a story for the Sunday supplement."

Sam shook his head, nodded, and again moved on; but he was
not yet to escape. "And, instead of your fooling her,"
exclaimed Holworthy incredulously, "she was having fun, with
you!"

With difficulty Sam smiled.

"So it would seem," he said.

"She certainly made an awfully funny story of it!" exclaimed
Holworthy admiringly. "I thought she was making it up--she
must have made some of it up. She said you asked her to take
a day off in New York. That isn't so is it?"

"Yes, that's so."

"By Jove!" cried Holworthy--and that you invited her to see
the moving-picture shows?"

Sam, conscious of the dearly bought front row seats in his
pocket, smiled pleasantly.

"Did she say I said that--or you?" he asked

"She did."

"Well, then, I must have said it."

Holworthy roared with amusement.

"And that you invited her to feed peanuts to the monkeys at
the Zoo?"

Sam avoided the little man's prying eyes.

"Yes; I said that too."

"And I thought she was making it up!" exclaimed Holworthy.
"We did laugh. You must see the fun of it yourself."

Lest Sam should fail to do so he proceeded to elaborate.

"You must see the fun in a man trying to make a date with
Anita Flagg--just as if she were nobody!"

"I don't think," said Sam, "that was my idea." He waved his
stick at a passing taxi. "I'm late," he said. He abandoned
Hollis on the sidewalk, chuckling and grinning with delight,
and unconscious of the mischief he had made.

An hour later at the office, when Sam was waiting for an
assignment, the telephone boy hurried to him, his eyes lit
with excitement.

"You're wanted on the 'phone," he commanded. His voice
dropped to an awed whisper. "Miss Anita Flagg wants to speak
to you!"

The blood ran leaping to Sam's heart and face. Then he
remembered that this was not Sister Anne who wanted to speak
to him, but a woman he had never met.

"Say you can't find me," he directed. The boy gasped, fled,
and returned precipitately.

"The lady says she wants your telephone number--says she must
have it."

"Tell her you don't know it; tell her it's against the
rules--and hang up."

Ten minutes later the telephone boy, in the strictest
confidence, had informed every member of the local staff that
Anita Flagg--the rich, the beautiful, the daring, the
original of the Red Cross story of that morning--had twice
called up Sam Ward and by that young man had been thrown
down--and thrown hard!

That night Elliott, the managing editor, sent for Sam; and
when Sam entered his office he found also there Walsh, the
foreign editor, with whom he was acquainted only by sight.

Elliott introduced them and told Sam to be seated.

"Ward," he began abruptly, "I'm sorry to lose you, but you've
got to go. It's on account of that story of this morning."

Sam made no sign, but he was deeply hurt. From a paper he had
served so loyally this seemed scurvy treatment. It struck him
also that, considering the spirit in which the story had been
written, it was causing him more kinds of trouble than was
quite fair. The loss of position did not disturb him. In the
last month too many managing editors had tried to steal him
from the REPUBLIC for him to feel anxious as to the future.
So he accepted his dismissal calmly, and could say without
resentment:

"Last night I thought you liked the story, sir?

"I did," returned Elliott; "I liked it so much that I'm
sending you to a bigger place, where you can get bigger
stories. We want you to act as our special correspondent in
London. Mr. Walsh will explain the work; and if you'll go
you'll sail next Wednesday."

After his talk with the foreign editor Sam again walked home
on air. He could not believe it was real--that it was
actually to him it had happened; for hereafter he was to
witness the march of great events, to come in contact with
men of international interests. Instead of reporting what was
of concern only from the Battery to Forty-seventh Street, he
would now tell New York what was of interest in Europe and
the British Empire, and so to the whole world. There was one
drawback only to his happiness--there was no one with whom he
might divide it. He wanted to celebrate his good fortune; he
wanted to share it with some one who would understand how
much it meant to him, who would really care. Had Sister Anne
lived, she would have understood; and he would have laid
himself and his new position at her feet and begged her to
accept them--begged her to run away with him to this
tremendous and terrifying capital of the world, and start the
new life together.

Among all the women he knew, there was none to take her
place. Certainly Anita Flagg could not take her place. Not
because she was rich, not because she had jeered at him and
made him a laughing-stock, not because his admiration--and he
blushed when he remembered how openly, how ingenuously he had
shown it to her--meant nothing; but because the girl he
thought she was, the girl he had made dreams about and wanted
to marry without a moment's notice, would have seen that what
he offered, ridiculous as it was when offered to Anita Flagg,
was not ridiculous when offered sincerely to a tired, nerve-
worn, overworked nurse in a hospital. It was because Anita
Flagg had not seen that that she could not now make up to him
for the girl he had lost, even though she herself had
inspired that girl and for a day given her existence.

Had he known it, the Anita Flagg of his imagining was just as
unlike and as unfair to the real girl as it was possible for
two people to be. His Anita Flagg he had created out of the
things he had read of her in impertinent Sunday supplements
and from the impression he had been given of her by the
little ass, Holworthy. She was not at all like that. Ever
since she had come of age she had been beset by sycophants
and flatterers, both old and young, both men and girls, and
by men who wanted her money and by men who wanted her. And it
was because she got the motives of the latter two confused
that she was so often hurt and said sharp, bitter things that
made her appear hard and heartless.

As a matter of fact, in approaching her in the belief that he
was addressing an entirely different person, Sam had got
nearer to the real Anita Flagg than had any other man. And
so--when on arriving at the office the next morning, which
was a Friday, he received a telegram reading, "Arriving to-
morrow nine-thirty from Greenwich; the day cannot begin too
soon; don't forget you promised to meet me. Anita Flagg "--he
was able to reply: " Extremely sorry; but promise made to a
different person, who unfortunately has since died!"'

When Anita Flagg read this telegram there leaped to her
lovely eyes tears that sprang from self-pity and wounded
feelings. She turned miserably, appealingly to Helen Page.

"But why does he do it to me?" Her tone was that of the
bewildered child who has struck her head against the table,
and from the naughty table, without cause or provocation, has
received the devil of a bump.

Before Miss Page could venture upon an explanation, Anita
Flagg had changed into a very angry young woman.

"And what's more," she announced, "he can't do it to me!"

She sent her telegram back again as it was, word for word,
but this time it was signed, Sister Anne."

In an hour the answer came: "Sister Anne is the person to
whom I refer. She is dead."

Sam was not altogether at ease at the outcome of his
adventure. It was not in his nature to be rude--certainly not
to a woman, especially not to the most beautiful woman he had
ever seen. For, whether her name was Anita or Anne, about her
beauty there could be no argument; but he assured himself
that he had acted within his rights. A girl who could see in
a well-meant offer to be kind only a subject for ridicule was
of no interest to him. Nor did her telegrams insisting upon
continuing their acquaintance flatter him. As he read them,
they showed only that she looked upon him as one entirely out
of her world--as one with whom she could do an unconventional
thing and make a good story about it later, knowing that it
would be accepted as one of her amusing caprices.

He was determined he would not lend himself to any such
performance. And, besides, he no longer was a foot-loose,
happy-go-lucky reporter. He no longer need seek for
experiences and material to turn into copy. He was now a man
with a responsible position--one who soon would be conferring
with cabinet ministers and putting ambassadors At their ease.
He wondered if a beautiful heiress, whose hand was sought in
marriage by the nobility of England, would understand the
importance of a London correspondent. He hoped someone would
tell her. He liked to think of her as being considerably
impressed and a little unhappy.

Saturday night he went to the theatre for which he had
purchased tickets. And he went alone, for the place that
Sister Anne was to have occupied could not be filled by any
other person. It would have been sacrilege. At least, so it
pleased him to pretend. And all through dinner, which he ate
alone at the same restaurant to which he had intended taking
her, he continued, to pretend she was with him. And at the
theatre, where there was going forward the most popular of
all musical comedies, the seat next to him, which to the
audience, appeared wastefully empty, was to him filled with
her gracious presence. That Sister Anne was not there--that
the pretty romance he had woven about her had ended in
disaster--filled, him with real regret. He was glad he was,,
leaving New York. He was glad he was going, where nothing
would remind him of her. And then he glanced up--and looked
straight into her eyes!

He was seated in the front row, directly on the aisle. The
seat Sister Anne was supposed to be occupying was on his
right, and a few seats farther to his right rose the stage
box and in the stage box, and in the stage box, almost upon
the stage, and with the glow of the foot-lights full in her
face, was Anita Flagg, smiling delightedly down on him. There
were others with her. He had a confused impression of bulging
shirt-fronts, and shining silks, and diamonds, and drooping
plumes upon enormous hats. He thought he recognized Lord
Deptford and Holworthy; but the only person he distinguished
clearly was Anita Flagg. The girl was all in black velvet,
which was drawn to her figure like a wet bathing suit; round
her throat was a single string of pearls, and on her hair of
golden-rod was a great hat of black velvet, shaped like a
bell, with the curving lips of a lily. And from beneath its
brim Anita Flagg, sitting rigidly erect with her white-gloved
hands resting lightly on her knee, was gazing down at him,
smiling with pleasure, with surprise, with excitement.

When she saw that, in spite of her altered appearance, he
recognized her, she bowed so violently and bent her head so
eagerly that above her the ostrich plumes dipped and
courtesied like wheat in a storm. But Sam neither bowed nor
courtesied. Instead, he turned his head slowly over his left
shoulder, as though he thought she was speaking not to him
but some one beyond him, across the aisle. And then his eyes
returned to the stage and did not again look toward her. It
was not the cut direct, but it was a cut that hurt; and in
their turn the eyes of Miss Flagg quickly sought the stage.
At the moment, the people in the audience happened to be
laughing; and she forced a smile and then laughed with them.

Out of the corner of his eye Sam could not help seeing her
profile exposed pitilessly in the glow of the foot-lights;
saw her lips tremble like those of a child about to cry; and
then saw the forced, hard smile--and heard her laugh lightly
and mechanically.

"That's all she cares." he told himself.

It seemed to him that in all he heard of her, in everything
she did, she kept robbing him still further of all that was
dear to him in Sister Anne.

For five minutes, conscious of the foot-lights, Miss Flagg
maintained upon her lovely face a fixed and intent
expression, and then slowly and unobtrusively drew back to a
seat in the rear of the box. In the' darkest recesses she
found Holworthy, shut off from a view of the stage by a
barrier of women's hats.

"Your friend Mr. Ward," she began abruptly, in a whisper, "is
the rudest, most ill-bred person I ever met. When I talked to
him the" other day I thought he was nice. He was nice, But he
has behaved abominably--like a boor--like a sulky child. Has
he no sense of humor? Because I played a joke on him, is
that any reason why he should hurt me?"

"Hurt you?" exclaimed little Holworthy in amazement. "Don't
be ridiculous! How could he hurt you? Why should you care how
rude he is? Ward's a clever fellow, but he fancies himself.
He's conceited. He's too good-looking; and a lot of silly
women have made such a fuss over him. So when one of them
laughs at him he can't understand it. That's the trouble. I
could see that when I was telling him."

"Telling him!" repeated Miss Flagg--"Telling him what?"

"About what a funny story you made of it," explained
Holworthy. "About his having the nerve to ask you to feed the
monkeys and to lunch with him."

Miss Flagg interrupted with a gasping intake of her breath.

"Oh!" she said softly. "So-so you told him that, did you?
And--what else did you tell him?" ,

"Only what you told us--that he said 'the day could not begin
too soon'; that he said he wouldn't let you be a manicure and
wash the hands of men who weren't fit to wash the streets you
walked on."

There was a pause.

"Did I tell you he said that?" breathed Anita Flagg.

"You know you did," said Holworthy.

There was another pause.

"I must have been mad!" said the girl.

There was a longer pause and Holworthy shifted uneasily.

"I'm afraid you are angry," he ventured.

"Angry!" exclaimed Miss Flagg. "I should say I was
angry, but not with you. I'm very much pleased with you. At
the end of the act I'm going to let you take me out into the
lobby."

With his arms tightly folded, Sam sat staring unhappily at
the stage and seeing nothing. He was sorry for himself
because Anita Flagg had destroyed his ideal of a sweet and
noble woman--and he was sorry for Miss Flagg because a man
had been rude to her. That he happened to be that man did not
make his sorrow and indignation the less intense; and,
indeed, so miserable was he and so miserable were his looks,
that his friends on the stage considered sending him a note,
offering, if he would take himself out of the front row, to
give him back his money at the box office. Sam certainly
wished to take himself away; but he did not want to admit
that he was miserable, that he had behaved ill, that the
presence of Anita Flagg could spoil his evening--could, in
the slightest degree affect him. So he sat, completely
wretched, feeling that he was in a false position; that if he
were it was his own fault; that he had acted like an ass and
a brute. It was not a cheerful feeling.

When the curtain fell he still remained seated. He knew
before the second act there was an interminable wait; but he
did not want to chance running into Holworthy in the lobby
and he told himself it would be rude to abandon Sister Anne.
But he now was not so conscious of the imaginary Sister Anne
as of the actual box party on his near right, who were
laughing and chattering volubly. He wondered whether they
laughed at him--whether Miss Flagg were again entertaining
them at his expense; again making his advances appear
ridiculous. He was so sure of it that he flushed
indignantly. He was glad he had been rude.

And then, at his elbow, there was the rustle of silk; and a
beautiful figure, all in black velvet, towered above him,
then crowded past him, and sank into the empty seat at his
side. He was too startled to speak--and Miss Anita Flagg
seemed to understand that and to wish to give him time; for,
without regarding him in the least, and as though to
establish the fact that she had come to stay, she began
calmly and deliberately to remove the bell-like hat. This
accomplished, she bent toward him, her eyes looking straight
into his, her smile reproaching him. In the familiar tone of
an old and dear friend she said to him gently:

"This is the day you planned for me. Don't you think you've
wasted quite enough of it?"

Sam looked back into the eyes, and saw in them no trace of
laughter or of mockery, but, instead, gentle reproof and
appeal--and something else that, in turn, begged of him to be
gentle.

For a moment, too disturbed to speak, he looked at her,
miserably, remorsefully.

"It's not Anita Flagg at all," he said. "It's Sister Anne
come back to life again!" The girl shook her head.

"No; it's Anita Flagg. I'm not a bit like the girl you
thought you met and I did say all the, things Holworthy told
you I said; but that was before I understood--before I read
what you wrote about Sister Anne--about the kind of me you
thought you'd met. When I read that I knew what sort of a man
you were. I knew you had been really kind and gentle, and I
knew you had dug out something that I did not know was
there--that no one else had found. And I remembered how you
called me Sister. I mean the way you said it. And I wanted to
hear it again. I wanted you to say it."

She lifted her face to his. She was very near him--so near
that her shoulder brushed against his arm. In the box above
them her friends, scandalized and amused, were watching her
with the greatest interest. Half of the people in the now
half-empty house were watching them with the greatest
interest. To them, between reading advertisements on the
programme and watching Anita Flagg making desperate love to a
lucky youth in the front row, there was no question of which
to choose.

The young people in the front row did not know they were
observed. They were alone--as much alone as though they were
seated in a biplane, sweeping above the clouds.

"Say it again," prompted Anita Flagg "Sister."

"I will not!" returned the young man firmly. "But I'll say
this," he whispered: "I'll say you're the most wonderful, the
most beautiful, and the finest woman who has ever lived!"

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