"Nancarrow, it's a nice day; it might be summer. I want you to get
out." It was the doctor who spoke. "Yes, I know you feel weak, but
one hour in the sunshine will do you more good than all the medicine
ever invented."
"I can hardly bear to move my arm yet," said Bob; "and I am as weak as
a kitten."
"Yes, I know; but, come, you must get out."
Five minutes later Bob had been taken to a sheltered spot, where he sat
rejoicing in the warm rays of the sun. Close by was the great
barn-like building, in which many hundreds of wounded men lay, and
where scores of brave women were giving their lives to nurse the men
who had been fighting for their country.
In the near distance, too, he saw several like himself who were
convalescent, and who were drinking in the pure country air and
rejoicing in the warm sunlight.
During the last three days he had been able to read, and found that
people in the home country had been thinking of those away at the war.
Literally tons of periodicals, novels, and other light literature had
been forwarded to them; while on every hand were evidences of the fact
that millions at home, although they were unable to fight, were anxious
to help those who could.
Although it was a scene of suffering, and although many of the sights
in the hospital were terrible beyond words, all was cheerfulness and
hope. Laughter was heard on every hand; jests were bandied in every
direction; all thoughts of differences in nationality were sunk in the
common cause of humanity.
"A week or two more," thought Bob, "and I shall be at it again."
A copy of an English newspaper, several days old, lay by his side. He
took it up and began to read listlessly. The paper had been sent from
Lancashire and contained letters from soldiers who had gone from that
county. One letter struck him forcibly: it was headed "Back to Hell."
"Dear mother," the soldier wrote, "I am alive and well, but I have had
a terrible time. Four days and nights I have been fighting without
ever having time to change my clothes. Never once during that time did
I take off my shoes. It was simply fight, fight, all the time. Our
chaps were just worn out, and so were ordered away to rest for a day or
two. That is why I am here and have time to write to you. To-morrow I
am going back to Hell; but I am going willingly, because I know I am
wanted there."
The tears started to Bob's eyes as he read. There was a touch of
heroism, and more than heroism, in the simple lad's letter: "I am going
back to Hell, and I am going willingly, because I know I am wanted
there."
"Yes," thought Bob; "that just hits off the situation."
At that moment a laugh rang out which caused him to start violently and
his pulses to quicken; there was not another voice in the world like
that; it was a laugh he had heard a hundred times. He remembered it as
it sounded above the singing of the waves down by the Cornish sea; he
remembered it on the tennis courts at Penwennack, and on the golf links
at Leiant. In another second the laugh was lost in a hoarse, excited
cry. The eyes of the two met, but neither spoke a word.
"I--I--this is a surprise," stammered Bob presently.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
It was not a bit what either of them wanted to say, but it didn't
matter; words at that moment meant very little.
"I never heard you were here," he went on, after a few seconds. "I've
been in the hospital such a long time, too, but no one ever told me."
He tried to speak naturally, but the girl heard the tremor in his
voice. "It is because he is so weak," she thought. "How pale he
looks!"
"Were you wounded badly?" she asked.
"I got out of it jolly easily, I suppose," he replied; "and I was lucky
too--all the bones were set before I recovered consciousness."
"He doesn't tell me he is glad to see me," she reflected. "Of course,
he hates me now. How can it be otherwise? When we last met, I was
just cruel to him, and I hurt him all I was able."
"I am so glad you are better," she said aloud.
"It's awfully good of you. Won't you sit down?"
They might have been mere acquaintances from the way they spoke, but
each felt that the moment was tragic.
"The doctor tells me that in a week, or a fortnight at the outside, I
shall be ready to go back," Bob continued. "There's nothing the matter
with me now, except weakness."
He knew that all this was not what he wanted to say, or what he ought
to say, but somehow the right words would not come. He felt awkward
and constrained in her presence. "If she's engaged to Trevanion," he
reflected, "it must be painful for her to see me. I wonder if she
knows nothing about Trevanion. I wonder if--if she knows what I did."
Nancy did not sit down as he had asked her, but stood awkwardly; she
was picking a scrap of lint to pieces, nervously, and with twitching
fingers.
"Bob," she said presently, "I want you to forgive me. I insulted you
down in Cornwall--you remember that night at the Public Hall. You see,
I didn't know that you intended to enlist."
"I didn't," replied Bob; "nothing was further from my mind than
enlisting at that moment."
Everything seemed unreal between them. Neither of them was saying what
was in their hearts; they seemed to be speaking only for the purpose of
making conversation.
"Have you seen Captain Trevanion?" he asked, after an awkward silence.
"I heard--that is, I was given to understand, he was wounded; not
dangerously, you know, but still, wounded. The doctor assured me he
would get better."
He saw a quick flush rise to the girl's pale face, as he spoke; he saw
her lips tremble too, but she did not answer him. His heart became as
heavy as lead: "Then it is true," he reflected. "Mother was right;
they are engaged. Still, I must bear up as best I can. I will not
give her pain by telling her what it means to me."
"Oh, Bob, will you forgive me?" she burst out suddenly.
"I--of course, there's nothing to forgive," he answered. "What have I
to forgive?"
"I called you a coward," she cried; "I insulted you, and all the time
you were braver than I dreamed of. Why, you actually saved him, and in
doing so you risked your life in the most horrible way. It was
wonderful of you--just wonderful; and I--I---- Oh, I'm so ashamed,
Bob!"
"I see what she means," thought Bob; "she's trying to tell me how
thankful she is to me for having saved her lover for her."
"I hope you are not worrying about that," he said, and by this time he
was able to speak calmly. "I was awfully lucky, and, after all, it was
not so difficult; I came back quite safe--not a shot touched me."
"He simply won't see what I mean," was the thought that burned its way
into her brain, "or else he hates me. Yes, that is it; he must hate
me. How could it be otherwise, when I insulted him in the Public Hall,
when I made him the laughing-stock of the whole town?"
"It's awfully fine of you," went on Bob, "to come out here like this.
I sometimes think that nurses need more courage than the soldiers. I
cannot understand how refined, sensitive women like you can bear to see
the horrible sights which are so common in places like this; it is just
splendid of you--just splendid. You say you have not seen Trevanion?"
Again her cheeks, which had become pale again, crimsoned.
"Oh, yes," she replied, "he has been in this hospital; I--I have helped
to nurse him."
"It seems strange that I never heard of it," said Bob; "but there,
after all, it's not so strange--there are thousands of men and scores
of nurses here; so it is no wonder that I never heard of either of you
being here."
"He went back to the front yesterday," said Nancy. "He's quite well
and strong again now. He told me that it was you who rescued him from
death. Oh, Bob, it was splendid of you! It's all so strange too.
Would you mind telling me why you altered your mind and came to the
war?"
"I learned that it was my duty," said Bob simply. "No, I haven't
altered my mind about war, or about soldiering at all; but I had to
come. You see, after I left you, I learned things to which I had been
blind before; it is difficult to explain, but I saw that war could only
be killed by war. I saw that the Gospel of Peace meant nothing to
Germany, and that if she were allowed to go on unmolested, the ghastly
creed of war, and the glory of war, would be established for ever; that
was why I became a soldier. I wanted to help to cut it out; destroy
it, root and branch--and we must never stop until that has been done.
But, I'm so glad Captain Trevanion is better, and has been able to go
back; he's a brave man; he's a great soldier. You're engaged to him,
aren't you?"
The question came out suddenly, and for a moment it staggered her. She
was not engaged to him, and yet, in a way, she was bound to him; she
had said that which made Trevanion hope. Her promise was as thin as a
gossamer thread, yet it seemed to bind, her like a steel chain.
"Forgive my impertinence in asking," said Bob quickly, noting the look
on her face. "Of course, I'd no right to ask."
Still she could not speak; she felt as though she would have given
worlds to deny all thought of an engagement to Trevanion, but she
couldn't--neither could she bring herself to tell him the story; the
words she wanted to speak seemed to seal her lips. A long and awkward
silence fell between them--a silence that was painful; both had so much
to say, and yet neither could say anything.
"Has any one told you I'm engaged to Captain Trevanion?" and her voice
was indistinct and hoarse.
"Yes," he replied, "Proctor told me. He was at Clifton with me, you
know, and Trevanion told him."
"Did Mr. Proctor say that?"
"I think so--yes; and then, as soon as mother heard I was here, she
wrote to me and told me about it. I suppose your father is very
pleased?"
"How he must hate me!" she thought. "It is only a few weeks ago since
I promised to be his wife, and then only a week or two later I insulted
him, and now he thinks I am engaged to Captain Trevanion. How mean,
how contemptible he must think me! He must look upon me as a common
flirt; he must believe that my promises to him were just a mockery; it
is no wonder he speaks to me like that, and I--oh, I wish I could tell
him!"
A French soldier hobbled across the open space. "If you please,
mademoiselle, you're wanted," he said; "another train load of wounded
men has just arrived, and all the nurses are needed." He saluted Bob,
who wore his lieutenant's uniform, and then he hobbled away again.
"This war is a terrible business, isn't it?" he queried, and there was
a plaintive smile on his lips.
"It has upset everything, just everything; I hate it!" she cried--"I
hate it! Oh, Bob, don't you feel how I hate it?"
She wanted him to understand more than her words conveyed; wanted him
to feel that it was not the horrors of the war that moved her so
greatly, but the fact that it had separated them.
"Yes, I know what you feel," said Bob; "but you must go through with
it, Nancy. I'm sure you will be brave. When it is over, your reward
will come. There--go back, and don't mind me."
"I won't go back!" she cried. "Bob, you can't forgive me, because I
was so mean, so contemptible; I called you a coward; I insulted you;
I--I . . . and now you can't forgive me--and I don't wonder."
"That was nothing," said Bob. "Of course, I did seem like a coward, I
suppose, and I don't wonder at your doing what you did; but that's
nothing. You'll be happy when it's all over; and really, he's a fine
soldier, Nancy; and a fine fellow too; all his men just worship him."
"Oh, Bob, can't you understand?" her voice was almost inaudible.
"Yes, yes, I understand, but don't trouble about me one little bit; I
shall be all right. There--go now, they want you."
"Do you really wish me to go, Bob?"
"Of course I do; it's your duty, and duty is everything in these days;
it's hard and stern now, but by and by it'll become joyful."
"And when the war is over?" she stammered--"I--I . . ."
"It won't be over yet for a long time; still, we must keep a brave
heart. You remember those lines of William Blake, Nancy? I used to
laugh at them because he mixed his metaphors, but I see their meaning
now:
"I will not cease from mental strife,
Nor shall the sword sleep in my hand,
Till I have built Jerusalem,
In England's good and pleasant land."
There, get back Nancy; perhaps we shall see each other again, before I
go?"
Without another word she went back to her grim and horrible work; her
feet seemed like lead as she dragged them across the open space which
lay between her and the great, gaunt building.
"He will not see," she said to herself; "he doesn't want to see, and he
hates me."
As for Bob, he sat a long while alone, in silence. "It's jolly hard on
her," he said presently, "and I can't understand it; but she didn't
deny that she was engaged to him, and, after all, he's a better man
than I."
Day followed day, and he didn't see Nancy again; he was far removed
from her in another part of the great hospital. Train load after train
load of wounded men were brought there, and she had to be at her post
almost night and day. He longed to seek her out and to speak to her
amidst the loathsome work she had to do, but the discipline which
obtained forbade him to do so; besides, as he reflected, he could do no
good; it would only make the wound in his heart bleed more than ever.
Presently he was pronounced fit for duty again, and orders came that he
must make his way to the front. Fifty men besides himself who were
also recovered from their wounds were to accompany him.
The train was waiting at the little station close by, and at noon that
day he was to leave the hospital. By this time he had become
accustomed to the place, and knew several of the nurses whose duty lay
at his end of the hospital; he also had become on good terms with many
of the men.
An hour before the time had come for him to go he had gone out in the
open space where he had seen Nancy, in the hopes of finding her, but
she was nowhere to be seen.
All his arrangements were made, and nothing was left for him to do
until the time came for his departure.
He wandered aimlessly and heedlessly around; his heart ached for just
another sight of the woman he loved, and whom he believed he had lost
for ever.
He looked at the watch on his wrist: "A quarter of an hour more," he
reflected. He had longed to ask boldly to be allowed to see her, but
he was afraid to do so; if she wanted to see him, she would have given
him a hint, surely.
Then, when all hope had gone from his heart, she came from that part of
the hospital where a number of the most dangerously wounded men lay,
and ran towards him:
"I heard you were going this morning, Bob," she said, "and I have just
crept away like a deserter; I felt I must; I didn't make things plain
to you the other day. Bob, you have forgiven me, haven't you?"
"There was nothing to forgive," said Bob, and his heart beat madly.
"You aren't a coward," she said; "you're just--just the bravest man I
ever knew. You believe I think that of you, don't you?"
He laughed nervously; he wanted to say a great deal, but the words
wouldn't come.
"And--and, Bob, you know what you said to me, what that man Proctor and
your mother told you?"
He looked at her in a puzzled way; even yet, he did not dare to hope.
"And--and, Bob"--with the words came a sob--"there's no one in the
world but you."
"Nancy," he cried, "You don't mean . . . ?"
At that moment he was summoned to his duty. Still she stood before
him--half sobbing, the same light in her eyes which he remembered
seeing down by the Cornish sea.
A command from his superior officer was given; he must go. Close by,
the soldiers stood in marching order. They had been wounded, but now
they were ready for duty again; they were in great good humour, and
discipline even yet was somewhat relaxed. They were laughing and
talking gaily; they were going back to fight, but they were going with
a laugh upon their lips.
A minute later some one had started a song--the song which he had heard
often in the trenches, when shot and shell were falling thickly:
"It's a long way to Tipperary,
It's a long, long way to go;
It's a long way to Tipperary,
To the sweetest girl I know."
"Nancy," he cried eagerly, "do you mean that . . . ?"
Before her reply had come, even before he had finished his sentence, he
had to leave her, and in a minute more he was on his way to the front.
Hours later he heard the booming of the great guns again, and was met
with sight and sound which told him of his duty, but through it all and
beyond it all he saw Nancy's face; he heard the music of her voice; he
remembered the look in her eyes--eyes that were filled with tears, yet
shining like stars, and he thought again and again of her words:
"There's no one in the world but you."
NOTE
I had just finished reading the proofs of the aforegoing, when I
received a letter from my friend, a part of which I have decided to
insert here.
"It is now some time since you heard from me, and I am scribbling this
hurried note to tell you that I am still alive and well. That I am
able to say this seems to me nothing less than miraculous, for I have
been in the thick of the fighting ever since I left the hospital. When
I have time to write fully, I shall have some wonderful things to tell
you concerning the heroism of our Army, and of the marvellous way in
which we have not only held our own, but advanced. As you will see, I
am now in Belgium, and we are in the midst of one of the most deadly
struggles ever known in history. Nothing but the almost superhuman
courage of our men could have saved us. It has been simply miraculous.
Again and again have the Germans hurled themselves upon us, only to
fail. There are signs now that their attacks are weakening, and their
defence more feeble. If we only had more men, we could put them to
rout and that right quickly. That is our great need. More men like
the London Scottish, who have simply covered themselves with glory.
"It is said here that recruiting in England is slackening somewhat.
Such news is simply appalling. You should hear what the men at the
front are saying about the shirkers who are hanging back. They are a
disgrace to the country, and deserve to be flogged. Let the nation be
true to itself now, and we shall for ever cut out this cancer of German
militarism, and bring in the time of universal peace.
"Have the shirkers at home ever thought, I wonder, of what would happen
if Germany should conquer! The very suggestion of it drives me almost
mad. Everything depends on the loyalty and enthusiasm of to-day. For,
God's sake do something to stir the people up, to make them feel how
pressing is the need.
"If ever God called volunteers to fight in a Holy War, it is now. You
know what a 'peace man' I have always been, and it is because I am a
'peace man' still, that I say this. On every hand the Almighty is
calling us to fight for peace. It is not against the Germans that we
are fighting, but against the mad, devilish spirit which they have
deified. Let us be true now, and we shall surely strangle that spirit.
"You have heard of the story of Thoreau and Emerson. Thoreau went to
suffering and prison for the sake of truth and conscience.
"'Why are you here?' asked Emerson.
"'Why are you _not_ here?' retorted Thoreau.
"That is what I want to say to the young men of England. 'Why are you
not here, or why are you not training to come here?'
"Shall I live through it all I wonder, and shall I ever see my native
land again? I hope so, I pray so, for I have so much to live for, more
even than I dare to tell you. But even if I do not, even if I die, as
thousands of the brave men here are dying, I shall be glad to lay down
my life for the cause of honour, and liberty, and peace.
"I wonder if it is possible for you to get across to France or Belgium
and get near the fighting-line? I wish you could. There are stories I
could tell you that would set your heart on fire. Come, if you can!"
The remainder of Bob's letter is not for publication, interesting
though it is. But this I will say: if I can get near the fighting-line
I shall, and then, perhaps I shall be able to complete the story, which
is only just begun.