“Some one who is not girlish now”
It was only yesterday that I saw her. It happened that the string of
carriages was stopped at that moment, and I went to the door of her
comfortable-looking barouche.
“Do you ever feel that shoulder,” I asked, raising my hat, “at the
changes of the weather, or when it is damp?”
She turned and looked at me in surprise. Her face had altered little. It
was the face of a happy woman, despite a few lines, which were not the
marks left by a life of gaiety and dissipation. They were not quite the
lines that Time had drawn on the faces of the women in the carriages
around her. In some ways she looked younger than most of them, and her
eyes had an expression which was lacking in the gas-wearied orbs of her
fashionable sisters. It was the shadowy reflection of things seen.
She looked into my face--noting the wear and tear that life had left
there. Then suddenly she smiled and held out her hand.
“You!” she said. “You--how strange!”
She blushed suddenly and laughed with a pretty air of embarrassment
which was startlingly youthful.
“No,” she went on, in answer to my question; “I never feel that shoulder
now--thanks to you.”
There were a number of questions I wanted to ask her. But I had fallen
into a habit, years ago, of restraining that inexpedient desire; and she
did not seem to expect interrogation. Besides, I could see many answers
in her face.
“You limped just now,” she said, leaning towards me with a little grave
air of sympathy which was quite familiar to me--like an old friend
forgotten until seen again. “You limped as you crossed the road.”
“I shall limp until the end of the chapter.”
“And you have been at that work ever since?”
“Yes.”
She looked past me over the trees of the Park--as if looking back into a
bygone period of her life.
“Will you come and dine to-morrow night?” she said suddenly. “Fred will
be... very pleased to see you. And--I want to show you the children.”
The line of carriages moved on slowly towards the Park gate, and left me
baring a grizzled old bullet-head in answer to her smile and nod.
As I limped along it all came back to me. A good many years before--in
the days when hard work was the salt of life--I was entrusted with
my first field hospital. I was sent up to the front by the cleverest
surgeon and the poorest organizer that ever served the Queen.
Ah, that WAS a field hospital! My first! We were within earshot of the
front--that is to say, we could hear the platoon firing. And when the
wounded came in we thought only of patching them up temporarily--sewing,
bandaging, and plastering them into travelling order, and sending them
down to the headquarters at the coast. It was a weary journey across the
desert, and I am afraid a few were buried on the way.
Early one morning, I remember, they brought in Boulson, and I saw at
once that he had come to stay. We could not patch him up and send him
off. The jolting of the ambulance waggon had done its work, and Boulson
was insensible when they laid him on one of the field-cots. He remained
insensible while I got his things off. The wound told its own story.
He had been at the hand-to-hand work again, and a bayonet never meets
a broad-headed spear without trouble coming of it. Boulson meant to
get on--consequently I had had him before. I had cut his shirt off him
before this, and knew that it was marked “F.L.G.M.,” which does not
stand for Boulson.
Boulson's name was not Boulson; but that was not our business at the
time. We who patch up Thomas Atkins when he gets hurt in the interests
of his Queen and country are never surprised to find that the initials
on his underlinen do not tally with those in the regimental books. When
the military millennium arrives, and ambulance services are perfect,
we shall report things more fully. Something after this style--“Killed:
William Jones. Coronet on his razor-case. Linen marked A. de M.F.G.”
While I was busy with a sponge, Boulson opened his eyes and recognized
me.
“Soon got YOU back again,” I remarked, with ghastly professional
cheeriness.
He smiled feebly. “Must get into the despatches somehow,” he answered,
and promptly fainted again.
I took especial care of Boulson, being mindful of a letter I had
received while he was recovering from his last wound. It was a long and
rambling letter, dated from a place on the west coast of Ireland. It was
signed with a name which surprised me, and the writer, who addressed me
as “Sir,” and mentioned that he was my humble servant, stated that
he was Boulson's father. At least he said he thought he was
Boulson's father--if Boulson was tall and fair, with blue eyes, and a
pepper-castor mark on his right arm, where a charge of dust-shot had
lodged from a horse-pistol. There had, he informed me, been family
misunderstandings about a foolish fancy formed by Boulson for a military
career. And Boulson had gone off--God bless him--like the high-spirited
Irishman that he was--to enlist as a private soldier. And then came the
news of the serious wound, and if there was a God in heaven (which I
never doubted), any kindness and care that I could bestow upon Boulson
would not be forgotten at the last reckoning. And more to a like effect.
Moreover, Boulson pulled through and was duly sent down to the fine,
roomy convalescent hospital on the coast, where they have ice, and
newspapers, and female nurses fresh from Netley.
This second wound was, however, a more serious affair. While others came
and went, Boulson seemed inclined to stay for ever. At all events he
stayed for ten days, and made no progress worth mentioning.
At the end of that time I was sitting at my table writing perversions
of God's truth to the old gentleman on the west coast of Ireland when
I heard the rumble of ambulance waggons. I thought that it was only a
returned empty--there having been an informal funeral that evening--so
hardly disturbed myself.
Presently, however, some one came and stood in front of my table outside
the tent. I looked up, and looked into the face of one of the few women
I have met who make me believe in love stories.
“Halloa!” I said, somewhat rudely.
“I beg to report myself,” she answered quietly. There was a peculiar
unsteadiness in her eyes. It seemed to me that this woman was labouring
under great excitement.
“Did the Surgeon-Major send you?” I asked.
“I volunteered.”
“Hum! I think I ought to have been asked first. This is no place for
women.”
“Wherever there is nursing to be done, we can hardly be out of place,”
she answered, with a determination which puzzled me.
“Theoretically,” I answered; and, seeing that she had arrived, I made a
shift to find her suitable quarters and get her to work.
“Have you any serious cases?” she asked, while unpacking and setting out
for my inspection sundry stores she had brought.
“I have Boulson again,” I answered. “The man you had in the spring.”
She buried her head in the case, and did not answer for some seconds.
When at length she did speak, her voice was indifferent and careless.
“Badly hurt?” she asked.
“Yes.”
She finished unpacking her stores rather hurriedly, and expressed her
readiness to go round the cots with me.
“Are you not too tired after your journey?”
“No, I--I should like to begin at once. Please let me.”