There lie the flower of youth, the men who scorn’d
To live (so died) when languished Liberty:
Across their graves flowerless and unadorned
Still scream the shells of each artillery.
When war shall cease this lonely unknown spot
Of many a pilgrimage will be the end,
And flowers will shine in this now barren plot
And fame upon it through the years descend:
But many a heart upon each simple cross
Will hang the grief, the memory of its loss.
by John William Streets (killed and missing in action on 1st July 1916 aged 31)
The War was decided in the first twenty days of fighting, and all that happened afterwards consisted in battles which, however formidable and devastating, were but desperate and vain appeals against the decision of Fate.
Winston Churchill (1874–1965), British statesman, writer. Liaison 1914, preface, E.L. Spears (1930).
A Patriotic Schoolgirl
CHAPTER I.
Off to Boarding-school
“Dona, are you awake? Donakins! I say, old sport, do stir yourself and blink an eye! What a dormouse you are! D’you want shaking? Rouse up, you old bluebottle, can’t you?”
“I’ve been awake since five o’clock, and it’s no use thumping me in the back,” grunted an injured voice from the next bed. “It’s too early yet to get up, and I wish you’d leave me alone.”
The huskiness and general chokiness of the tone were unmistakable. Marjorie leaned over and took a keen survey of that portion of her sister’s face which was not buried in the pillow.
“Oh! the atmosphere’s damp, is it?” she remarked. “Dona, you’re ostriching! For goodness’ sake brace up, child, and turn off the water-works! I thought you’d more pluck. If you’re going to arrive at Brackenfield with a red nose and your eyes all bunged up, I’ll disown you, or lose you on the way. Crystal clear, I will! I’ll not let you start in a new school nicknamed ‘Niobe’, so there! Have a caramel?”
Dona sat up in bed, and arrested her tears sufficiently to accept the creature comfort offered her. As its consistency was decidedly of a stick-jaw nature, the mingled sucking and sobbing which followed produced a queer combination.
“You sound like a seal at the Zoo,” Marjorie assured her airily. “Cheer oh! I call it a stunt to be going to Brackenfield. I mean to have a top-hole time there, and no mistake!”
“It’s all very well for you!” sighed Dona dolefully. “You’ve been at a boarding-school before, and I haven’t; and you are not shy, and you always get on with people. You know I’m a mum mouse, and I hate strangers. I shall just endure till the holidays come. It’s no use telling me to brace up, for there’s nothing to brace about.”
In the bedroom where the two girls lay talking every preparation had been made for a journey. Two new trunks, painted respectively with the initials “M. D. A.” and “D. E. A.”, stood side by side with the lids open, filled to the brim, except for sponge-bags and a few other items, which must be put in at the last. Weeks of concentrated thought and practical work on the part of Mother, two aunts, and a dressmaker had preceded the packing of those boxes, for the requirements of Brackenfield seemed numerous, and the list of essential garments resembled a trousseau. There were school skirts and blouses, gymnasium costumes, Sunday dresses, evening wear and party frocks, to say nothing of underclothes, and such details as gloves, shoes, ties, ribbons, and handkerchiefs, writing-cases, work-baskets, books, photos, and knick-knacks. Two hand-bags, each containing necessaries for the first night, stood by the trunks, and two umbrellas, with two hockey-sticks, were already strapped up with mackintoshes and winter coats.
For both the girls this morning would make a new and very important chapter in the story of their lives. Marjorie had, indeed, already been at boarding-school, but it was a comparatively small establishment, not to be named in the same breath with a place so important as Brackenfield, and giving only a foretaste of those experiences which she expected to encounter in a wider circle. She had been tolerably popular at Hilton House, but she had made several mistakes which she was determined not to repeat, and meant to be careful as to the first impressions which she produced upon her new schoolfellows. Marjorie, at fifteen and a half, was a somewhat problematical character. In her childhood she had been aptly described as “a little madam”, and it was owing to the very turbulent effect of her presence in the family that she had been packed off early to school, “to find her level among other girls, and leave a little peace at home”, as Aunt Vera expressed it. “Finding one’s level” is generally rather a stormy process; so, after four years of give-and-take at Hilton House, Marjorie was, on the whole, not at all sorry to leave, and transfer her energies to another sphere. She meant well, but she was always cock-sure that she was right, and though this line of action may serve with weaker characters, it is liable to cause friction when practised upon equals or elders whose views are also self-opinionated. As regards looks, Marjorie could score. Her clear-cut features, fresh complexion, and frank, grey eyes were decidedly prepossessing, and her pigtail had been the longest and thickest and glossiest in the whole crocodile of Hilton House. She was clever, if she chose to work, though apt to argue with her teachers; and keen at games, if she could win, but showed an unsporting tendency to lose her temper if the odds were against her. Such was Marjorie—crude, impetuous, and full of overflowing spirits, with many good qualities and certain disagreeable traits, eager to loose anchor and sail away from the harbour of home and the narrow waters of Hilton House into the big, untried sea of Brackenfield College.
Two sisters surely never presented a greater contrast than the Anderson girls. Dona, at thirteen, was a shy, retiring, amiable little person, with an unashamed weakness for golliwogs and Teddy bears, specimens of which, in various sizes, decorated the mantelpiece of her bedroom. She was accustomed to give way, under plaintive protest, to Marjorie’s masterful disposition, and, as a rule, played second fiddle with a good grace. She was not at all clever or imaginative, but very affectionate, and had been the pet of the family at home. She was a neat, pretty little thing, with big blue eyes and arched eyebrows and silky curls, exactly like a Sir Joshua Reynolds portrait, and she had a pathetic way of saying, “Oh, Marjorie!” when snubbed by her elder sister. According to Aunt Vera, if Marjorie needed to “find her level”, Dona required to be “well shaken up”. She was dreamy and unobservant, slow in her ways, and not much interested in any special subject. Marjorie’s cherished ambitions were unknown to Dona, who liked to plod along in an easy fashion, without taking very much trouble. Her daily governess had found it difficult to rouse any enthusiasm in her for her work. She frankly hated lessons.
It was a subject of congratulation to Mrs. Anderson that the two girls would not be in the same house at Brackenfield. She considered that Dona’s character had no chance for development under the shadow of Marjorie’s overbearing ways, and that among companions of her own age she might perhaps find a few congenial friends who would help her to realize that she had entered her teens, and would interest her in girlish matters. Poor Dona by no means shared her mother’s satisfaction at the arrangements for her future. She would have preferred to be with Marjorie, and was appalled at the idea of being obliged to face a houseful of strangers. She met with little sympathy from her own family in this respect.
“Do you all the good in the world, old sport!” preached Peter, an authority of eleven, with three years of preparatory-school experience behind him. “I felt a bit queer myself, you know, when I first went to The Grange, but one soon gets over that. You’ll shake down.”
“I don’t want to shake down,” bleated Dona. “It’s a shame I should have to go at all! You can’t any of you understand how I feel. You’re all beasts!”
“They’ll