CONVALESCENTS
From this time events moved forward with greater swiftness. Bertie and
Harry came down for a few days before they joined their regiment to
start for the front, and though Lillian held her head high and sent
off her lover with brave words of cheer she looked spent and broken
for days afterward. Even poor fat Eleanor Teaness had a look in her
eyes which made them all believe that she felt Harry's departure all
too keenly. From time to time the invalids at The Beeches recovered
and went off to make room for others. Mr. Kirkby, busy in a thousand
ways, had bought a motor car and came over daily to hearten up the men
waiting for time to set them on their feet again.
He picked up Lillian and Anita one day when they were starting out to
visit The Beeches.
"Where are you off to?" he inquired in his hearty voice.
"We are going over to see what we can do to help them at The Beeches,"
Lillian told him. "One must keep busy these days if one would keep a
steady mind."
"Quite right, quite right," responded Mr. Kirkby. "Jump in here and
I'll take you over. I hear there is quite an influx there. Mrs. Teaness
telephoned me this morning to know if I could get hold of another
nurse. Your mother has too much on her hands, Anita, so I have been
able to send a couple of good women I know of who have had some
training, and are eager to help on the good cause."
"Who are the new men, Mr. Kirkby?" asked Anita.
"I didn't ask their names and had time only for a word with them.
There is one poor fellow whose head was all bandaged up. They fear he
will lose his sight. I want to get Meredith down to look at him. There
is a chance for you girls to do some good work. You can read to him,
and your music should be a solace, Anita. It must be hard for a great
strong man like that to sit for hours with nothing to do and nothing to
entertain him."
"I certainly will play for him and the others as well," said Anita,
eagerly.
"And I should love to read to him," Lillian was quite as eager. "We can
go over early every day, Anita. We will give him some of our flowers,
for he can smell those. Granny strips the greenhouse every day, and is
more zealous than ever about getting her plants to blossom."
"Good thing, good thing," responded the rector. "It is those little
things which help almost more than the big ones."
While Mr. Kirkby consulted with Mrs. Teaness and Mrs. Beltrán, Eleanor
and Alicia led the two other girls into the big sunny room which was
now turned over to those of the convalescents who could sit there.
Even in winter it was by no means an unattractive outlook from the
broad windows; wide stretches of lawn still green, hillsides of gorse,
rolling slopes of the Downs against the horizon, clumps of evergreen
in the foreground behind which one could see whitewashed cottages, a
half-hidden church, a line of shining water. The big room had been made
as comfortable as possible with reclining chairs, couches, a piano, an
open fire, a table of magazines, newspapers and books, while soft rugs
upon the floor hushed the tread of feet which might set some fretted
nerves to tingling.
The little bunches of flowers, so carefully tied up by Aunt Manning
and showing a rosebud, a geranium leaf, a sprig of begonia, a touch
of mignonette, were divided between the two who had brought them over
from Primrose Cottage. Lillian began her rounds at one side of the
room; Anita took the other. She selected the sweetest of her bouquets
and carried it to a man with bandaged head who sat in the sunshine by
a window. The bandages covered his eyes and chin so only his mouth
and the tip of his nose were visible. A lump arose in Anita's throat
as she looked at the quiet figure, so helpless, so uncomplaining. She
stood for a moment before she said, "I have brought you a tiny bunch of
flowers. Would you like to have me pin it on, or shall I lay it down
here on the window-sill?"
The man started at the sound of her voice and held out his hand with
the groping gesture of the blind. "I'd like to take it in my hand,
please," he said.
[Illustration: HE HELD OUT HIS HAND WITH GROPING GESTURE]
His fingers closed around it and he carried the fragrant little nosegay
to his nostrils. "It is very sweet," he said. "How good you are to
bring it. Flowers are so precious in winter. They always remind one of
gardens one has known. I will keep it for a little while and after the
nurse comes in I can get her to put it in water for me."
"Are you fond of music? Would you like me to play for you, or would you
rather I should read?"
"I'd like the music immensely, and the rest of the boys can hear it,
too."
"What do you like best, ragtime, classical music, or what?"
"Some times one, some times the other. Do you play Chopin?"
"Some things of his?"
"Any of his études? Number nineteen, for instance?"
"I used to play that, but I haven't done so for a long time. I will try
it if you like, and if you will excuse any mistakes."
"I will excuse anything since you were so kind as to bring me this
comforting little bouquet."
Anita went over to the piano, and sat for a moment half unwilling to
attempt a work which had been a favorite of hers in those long ago,
happy days of her life when she was Nancy Loomis. But she thrust the
memory aside and thought only of the man whose pleasure it would be to
listen. She commenced hesitatingly, but gained confidence as she went
on. Her effort brought applause from her little audience and one of
them hobbled over to ask for more.
"That was a rattling good piece," he said, "but maybe you wouldn't mind
giving us something a little more lively."
Anita smiled and nodded, then dashed off a gay Spanish dance which
appeared to give great satisfaction, the man with crutches declaring
that he could scarcely keep from dancing, a joke at which his comrades
roared. For an hour the girl sat there, then Mr. Kirkby came to the
door and called out, "All aboard for Primrose Cottage."
"Come on, Anita," Lillian cried.
Anita tarried long enough to go back to the man with the bandaged eyes.
"I am coming again to-morrow," she said, "and I will try to get here
earlier so I can read as well as play for you."
The man held out his hand, "I can't thank you enough," he said. "The
music was wonderful. It made me both glad and sorry. I am so grateful
to you."
They shook hands, bade one another a cheerful good-bye and Anita
hurried out to where the motor car was waiting.
"I have been talking to your poor blind man," said Anita as Mr. Kirkby
tucked the rugs around her. "He seems very weak yet, at least his voice
sounded so."
"He was pretty well battered up, poor chap, but I am hoping we shall
not be calling him blind for long. You'll go over again, I trust. The
lads seemed to enjoy the music. It is a great thing to be able to
contribute toward their pleasure as well as their comfort. I hope to
bring your mother home to-morrow for a little rest; she is working too
hard and needs it. She is too valuable to drop out. We'll get Miss
Egbert and Miss Woodside to-morrow morning and they can manage without
your mother for a day or two."
"I shall go over every day whether mother is there or not," Anita
announced. "I am so glad to be of some use, and I promised the man with
the bandaged eyes that I would read to him the next time I came. Do you
know his name, Lillian?"
"No, I didn't ask. The one with crutches is named Haynes and that nice
chap with the wounded arm, the one I was talking to, is named Roberts.
You seemed to find your blind man the most appealing."
"Oh, I did. There was something about him that seemed to wring my
heart."
"Probably your mother or Mrs. Teaness can tell you his story," Lillian
replied.
The next afternoon when the girls went again on their errand of mercy
they found the patients looking for their coming. Eleanor and Alicia,
already busied in fifty ways, were pleased to be relieved of this
task of lightening the long hours for their convalescent guests, and
turned their attention to other matters, while Anita gave herself up
to furnishing music, and Lillian played games with one or two who were
able to be occupied in some such way. At the end of an hour the music
came to a conclusion and Anita went over to sit down by the man who had
so interested her the day before. A small vase by the patient's side
held the little bouquet she had previously brought him. He touched it
gently as she sat down by him.
"You see I have them still," he said. "They are a great comfort."
"You shall have more when they are gone," Anita assured him. "What
would you like to have me read? The daily paper, a short story, a
magazine article?"
"One of the boys was good enough to read the paper to me this morning.
I think I should like you to choose something like a good stirring
story. I can hear quite well now, though for a time I did not."
"Are you suffering much?" Anita asked, compassionately.
"Very little now. It is only the eyes which bother and the dread that
there will never be any light again for me."
"You are so patient. I couldn't be," cried Anita, impetuously. "I do so
hope and pray that you will be cured. There is hope, isn't there?"
"Oh, yes, there is hope, and I am not worse off than hundreds of
others. I shall get used to it, no doubt."
Anita could not trust herself to say anything more, but turned the
pages of the magazine she had brought and settled herself to read.
Presently young Haynes swung himself over to where the two were. "You
don't mind my listening, too, do you, old chappie?"
"Glad to have you," was the reply, and the young man deftly drew up his
chair and settled himself to listen. He was a boyish, happy-looking
lad, who did not seem in the least to mind the loss of his leg, and who
laughed and joked all day. The sprightly tale which Anita had selected
found an appreciative critic in Bobbie Haynes, who chuckled over the
witty parts, laughed outright at the amusing situations and finally
pronounced it rattling good stuff.
"I'd like to have all the boys hear that," he said, so Anita offered
him the magazine to pass around and went on her way with a promise to
return another day with more reading matter.
As she passed out of the room one of the nurses entered. "Miss
Collins," called Bobbie Haynes, "Dix wants to speak to you."
The nurse came up. "Did you want to speak to me?" she asked.
"Dix does," Bobbie told her.
"I wanted to ask," said the other, "the name of the young lady who has
been so kind as to give us some music yesterday and to-day."
"Why, that is Mrs. Beltrán's daughter, Miss Anita Beltrán," he was told.
"Will you describe her to me?"
"She has dark eyes and hair, curly hair, and quite a fair complexion
considering that she is half Spanish."
"Her mother is English, not American?"
"No, she is English. She was born here in Sussex and lives with her
aunt, Mrs. Manning."
"Miss Beltrán has a haunting voice," remarked the young man, putting
his head back wearily. "It hasn't quite the sound of an English girl's."
"I have noticed that," replied Miss Collins. "Probably it is the
Spanish influence. Are you tired? Would you like to lie down?"
"No, thank you, I will sit here. Is it dark outside?"
"Not quite yet, but it soon will be. The days are very short now." She
left him and passed on to her duties upstairs where there were others
more helpless still.
Meantime Anita was borne swiftly home with her mother and Lillian in
Mr. Kirkby's car, and arrived to find Mrs. Manning quite in a flutter
at having her niece back again. She had ordered hot crumpets for tea
and fussed because Tibbie had them ready a little too soon. The dogs
gave Mrs. Beltrán a wildly joyous greeting, and Hotspur, roused from
his napping, opened a sleepy eye, and yawned, then sat up blinking but
looking rather disgusted at being disturbed by all this to-do.
Mr. Kirkby would stop no longer than was necessary to gulp down a cup
of tea, and then was off again saying he must get to a meeting he had
promised to attend. "Not even for crumpets, dear woman," he said,
lifting a protesting hand, "I must get on."
"Very well; go then," returned Aunt Manning. "We can get along
perfectly well without you." So he went off laughing and charging them
not to allow Mrs. Beltrán to lift a finger.
"Old Betty," said Mrs. Manning as the door closed after him. "As if I
don't know how to look after my own niece. A hot crumpet, Katharine,
and then another cup of tea. After that you must go up and lie down
till dinner time."
There was no use in defying Aunt Manning's orders and Mrs. Beltrán
meekly obeyed, but Anita went up with her and sat down in the twilight
by her mother's side, after being assured that it was rest and not
sleep which was needed.
"It's been so long since we had a real good talk," said the girl,
softly stroking her mother's hand. "We have all been so busy, and
there has been so much to think about. Tell me about that young man
whose eyes are injured. Do you think he will regain his sight?"
"The doctor hopes so," Mrs. Beltrán replied, "though it is a very
precarious case. I think they fear the sight of one eye is entirely
gone."
"But with one eye it will not be so bad. He will be able to see. There
are ever and ever so many persons who do as well as their neighbors,
and who have but one eye. I am so interested in him. I don't exactly
know why. I suppose because he is more helpless. What is his name?
Somehow I haven't liked to ask him, for he evidently thinks I know it,
and I've not had a chance to find out."
Mrs. Beltrán was silent a moment before she said: "He has a name which
you have often heard. It is not a very common one, yet one hears it in
America, too."
"But what is his name? Is there any mystery about it?"
Mrs. Beltrán took Anita's hand in both of hers. "They tell me, dearest,
that he is an American," she said after a pause.
"An American? Then how did he come to be in the English army? I thought
he didn't speak quite like an Englishman, but then, poor fellow, he is
so bandaged up and has been so battered and bruised that no wonder his
voice sounds unnatural."
"Truth is stranger than fiction, dear child. That is a trite saying,
but there is none truer. You did not recognize this young man, Nita,
darling?"
"Why, no. How could I when I could see only the tip of his nose and his
mouth and part of his chin? Why, mother, mother," a wild hope rushed to
her brain. "No, it isn't, it could be----" she gasped.
"Couldn't be what, dear?"
Anita was trembling and her hands were icy cold. "Mother, mother," she
whispered, "don't keep me in suspense. Tell me."
"Darling, I will tell you. I did not know till to-day that Terrence
Wirt had joined the British forces, was wounded and is now at The
Beeches."
Anita dropped her head upon her mother's hands and began to sob
convulsively. "Oh, mother, oh, mother," was all she could say.
Her mother stroked her curly head but said nothing till she grew calmer.
"How long has he been here?" Anita asked after a while.
"Only a couple of days. I did not learn till to-day that he was other
than an Englishman nor did I know his name. I was busy with more
serious cases upstairs, and left him to the others."
"To think I have seen him, spoken to him, touched his hand, and that
neither of us knew. Oh, but I did feel instinctively drawn to him that
first moment. Oh, I did. I could not get him off my mind. I have been
thinking about him ever since. He must not know. Oh, no, he must not
yet."
"I agree with you that it is best he should not, for if he were to lose
his sight----"
"Oh, it isn't that. It would make no difference about that. I love him
more than ever. He is a hero. Think of what he has done. He has been
willing to give himself for the cause of your country and mine. It is
because I do not know how he may feel about me. He may care for some
one else, and then I should never want him to know that I am the Nancy
Loomis he once knew."
"How will you find out?"
"I don't know just yet, but I shall do it in some way."
"Does Lillian know about him?"
"She knows there was some one, but I never told her his name. We have
never talked about it very much. Oh, mother! oh, mother! it is all so
strange. I shall not sleep to-night for thinking of it, and how can I
wait till to-morrow to see him again?"
"But, as you said, if he does not care."
"I know. I know. I am torn a thousand ways. I am distracted. I thought
perhaps I might meet him some day and find that I was the one who had
outgrown my feeling for him, but now, now when I have seen him so
helpless, so patient----" She fell to weeping again.
"My darling child," her mother tried to calm her, "you must not give
way in such an uncontrolled way. You will make yourself ill. I think
you would better sleep in here with me and not with Lillian to-night."
"And keep you awake," sobbed Anita.
"No, I will soothe you to sleep, and then I shall sleep. Come, precious
girl, dry your eyes and let us strive to be quiet for awhile before
dinner so no one will suspect. You don't want Aunt Manning's sharp
eyes to be looking at you with speculation. She will think we have
quarreled."
"She mustn't think that. I will buck up, mother, as Bertie says, and be
good."
"And leave everything to the future. To-night and always you will have
your mother to love you."
"And to love," returned Anita, kissing her mother's cheek.
They sat together in the dusk till it neared the dinner hour and then
they went down, outwardly calm but troubled in their hearts.