It was the most dismal Christmas that any one in England could
remember. Here and there a success had been snatched from the enemy;
but the list of casualties published every day made the morning papers
a terror to read. The British losses had passed the tenth thousand, and
still Buller could not reach Ladysmith and Methuen could not cross the
Modder. It seemed as if the last of the Egyptian plagues had fallen on
England, and there was not a household in which there was not one dead!
It was a dreary Christmas at Harland Hall. News had arrived a few days
previously of Julian’s safe arrival at the Cape and of his having taken
part in a skirmish on his way to the front. Every morning his mother and
Madge--who had come to stay at the Hall for another month--picked up the
newspaper and glanced with fearing eyes down the usual casualty list.
When they failed to find his name there they breathed again. There was
no thought of festivity in the Hall this Christmas Day, and it was a
relief to Madge as well as to Mrs Harland when bedtime came. Before
going to bed the girl sat for some time before the fire in her room,
with Julian’s portrait in her hand, and on her lap some of the things
which his hands had touched--a shrivelled November rose which he had
discovered on the last stroll they had together through the garden--a
swan’s feather which he had picked up and thrust with a laugh and a mock
taunt into her hair--the lace handkerchief which had been given to her
on the day of the outbreak of the war. She sat there lost in her own
thoughts--praying her own prayers.
Suddenly she became aware of an unusual sound--a sort of tap at rare
intervals upon her window-pane. At first she fancied that it was a twig
of ivy which was being blown by the breeze against the window, but the
next time the sound came she felt sure that it could only be produced by
a tiny pebble flung up from the carriage drive.
For a few moments she was slightly alarmed. She quickly extinguished her
candle, however, and then went to the window, drawing the blind a little
way to one side and peering out. There was no moon, but the sky was full
of stars, and she knew that if any one was on the drive there was light
enough to make her aware of the fact. For some time, however, her eyes,
accustomed to the light of her room, were unable to make out any figure
below; but after waiting at the window for a few minutes, it seemed
to her that she could detect the figure of a man in the middle of the
drive.
She shut out all the light of the fire behind her and continued peering.
Beyond a doubt there was a man outside. He was waving something white up
to her. In another instant she knew him. A terrible fear took hold upon
her, for she knew that she was looking out at a man in khaki uniform,
and she knew that that man was Julian Harland. And now she saw him
distinctly in the starlight: he was making signs to her, pointing to the
porch and walking in that direction.
She dropped the blind. There was no doubt whatever in her mind now:
Julian had returned suddenly, and for some reason he wished to be
admitted into the house secretly.
She stole down the broad shallow staircase into the hall, and by the
light of the glowing logs which smouldered in the big grate she found
her way to the oaken door that shut off the porch from the hall. She
loosened its chains as silently as possible, and opened it. Then she
went through to the porch and found herself standing opposite the
studded hall door. There she paused for an instant, asking herself if
she should open it.
A low tap sounded on it from the outside.
“I am here,” she said in a low voice; “am I to open the door for you,
Julian?”
“Open, Madge, quick--quick, I am wounded,” he said.
With trembling fingers she unfastened the bolt, opened the door, and
allowed him to pass into the porch.
“O, my darling, have you been wounded?” she cried. She had not put
herself into his arms: she had a sense of his being wounded, and she was
afraid of hurting him by coming in contact with the wound. She felt his
hand on hers.
“It is really only a trifle, Madge,” said he; “you will be able to bind
it up for me, and you must not awaken poor mother. The shock of seeing
me might kill her.”
They went side by side into the hall, and he sank down with a sigh
of relief on the big settee before the fire. She broke up one of the
smouldering logs, and it glowed into a great flame which showed her that
his face was very pale and that he had grown a beard.
She was on her knees at his knees in a moment.
“Dearest Julian!” she cried, with her arms about him, “how did you come
without sending me word? Oh, where are you wounded?”
“The arm--the right,” he said rather feebly. “It is only a flesh wound,
I know, but it was enough to knock me over, and it has been bleeding
badly. If you wash it and bind it up a bit, however, it will be all
right until the morning, when I can have it looked to.”
Slowly and painfully he raised his right arm. He had apparently slit up
the sleeve of his tunic, and the pieces fell away to the right and left
of his arm, showing her a wound black with coagulated blood.
“My poor boy--my poor boy!” she said. “I shall do my best with it; but
it is an ugly wound. Why should I not send a man to the surgery? Dr
Gwynne will come at once.”
“No, no,” he said; “I don’t want to make a fuss at this hour. You can
manage without outside help. Hadn’t you better light the candles?”
She sprang to her feet, and picking up one of the long chips from the
log basket, lighted it in the fire and then transferred the flame to two
of the old sconces at the side of the fireplace. As the light flickered
on him she saw that his tunic was torn and splashed, and that his
putties were caked with mire. No wayside tramp could be in a more
dilapidated condition than Julian was in. He had clearly been walking
some distance; and yet she could not recollect seeing any clay for miles
around of the same tint as that which was caked upon his garments.
She was about to ask him why he should not go upstairs to his own room
where she could attend to him properly, but she restrained her nurse’s
instinct to ask an irritated patient questions. She examined the wound
and said--
“I will wash it for you and bind it up till the morning. I shall get a
basin in my own room.”
“‘A ministering angel thou!’” he said, with a very wan smile. “By
the way, Madge, do you remember the lace handkerchief--the Medici
handkerchief?”
“I was looking at it only an hour ago,” she said.
“‘There’s magic in the web of it,” he said. “Fetch it and bind up my
wound with that cobweb drawn over rosebuds and I shall be all right.”
She hastened to her room, and in a few moments had picked out from a
drawer some soft linen, a bottle of arnica, and a pair of scissors. She
had attended ambulance classes, and had confidence in her own capacity
to deal with any ordinary “case.” Then she put the lace Medici
handkerchief with the other appliances, and, carrying a large china bowl
with her water jug, came quietly down the stairs once more.
He had fallen asleep on the settee, but in an instant he was awake. He
was plainly vigilant at once.
“It is beginning to feel a bit stiff, but that is on account of the
bleeding,” he said. “I knew I was doing wisely in awaking you only. I
couldn’t stand a fuss.”
“I will make no fuss,” she said, “and I shall hurt you as little as
possible. I will even refrain from asking you any questions.”
“That’s right; I feel so sleepy,” said he.
In a deft and businesslike way she washed the clotted blood from the
wound, and she quickly perceived that it was only a deep flesh wound,
but it had bled a great deal and that had weakened him. She bandaged the
arm with layers of linen, and when the bandage was secure he cried--
“Now for the handkerchief--that will make me all right in a moment. The
earlier Medici were, I told you, wonderful folk, though the later----Ah,
you are a good girl.”
She knew that he must be humoured. She made no protest against using her
handkerchief in such a way.
“You have no idea how relieved I feel,” said he. “My dearest girl, I
knew that I would be safe in your hands. Now get me a big drink of water
and I shall be all right.”
She hastened to where a great cut-glass carafe and its goblet stood
on the oak sideboard. He gave an exclamation that suggested more than
satisfaction while the water was sobbing in the throat of the bottle,
and when he had drunk a clear pint he gave a sigh.
“I haven’t had such a drink for weeks,” he said. “Now, dear girl, I’m
dying with sleep, and so, I fancy, are you.”
“You do not mean to sleep here?” she cried. “You will go to your own
room, Julian, dear; a fire has been lighted in it every day to keep out
any possible damp.”
“I couldn’t think of such luxury when so many of my poor comrades are
lying under the cold stars,” said he. “Don’t urge me, Madge; but go to
your own bed and sleep well.”
Even while she was still looking at him, he laid his head back among the
pillows of the settee and fell asleep. She waited by his side only for a
few moments, and then went quietly up to her room. She threw herself on
her knees by her bedside and wept tears of joy at the thought that he
had come safe home again, with only a wound that a few weeks would heal.
But when she had undressed and got into bed she could not help feeling
that his homecoming was strange beyond imagination. He had sent no
telegram, he had arrived with the stains of battle still on his uniform,
and, strangest of all, his wound was not an old one. Not many hours had
passed since he had sustained it.
What on earth was the explanation of all this?
She felt unequal to the task of working out the question. She felt that
all other thoughts should give place to the glorious thought that he was
safe at home. He would explain everything in the morning.