THE WHITE-HAIRED NURSE
Life at the two cottages was extremely secluded. All who felt entitled
to do so made calls, partly of condolence and partly from curiosity.
The occupants of the two unpretending dwellings had the respect of the
community; but from their rather unsocial ways could not be popular.
The old major had ever detested society in one of its phases--that is,
the claims of mere vicinage, the duty to call and be called upon by
people who live near, when there is scarcely a thought or taste in
common. With his Southern and army associations he had drifted to a New
England city; but he ignored the city except as it furnished friends
and things that pleased him. His attitude was not contemptuous or
unneighborly, but simply indifferent.
"I don't thrust my life on any one," he once said to Mrs. Mayburn,
"except you and Grace. Why should other people thrust their lives on
me?"
His limited income had required economy, and his infirmities a life
free from annoyance. As has been shown, Grace had practiced the one
with heart as light as her purse; and had interposed her own sweet self
between the irritable veteran and everything that could vex him. The
calling world had had its revenge. The major was profane, they had
said; Grace was proud, or led a slavish life. The most heinous sin of
all was, they were poor. There were several families, however, whom
Grace and the major had found congenial, with various shades of
difference; and the young girl had never lacked all the society she
cared for. Books had been her chief pleasure; the acquaintance of good
whist-players had been cultivated; army and Southern friends had
appeared occasionally; and when Mrs. Mayburn had become a neighbor, she
had been speedily adopted into the closest intimacy. When Hilland had
risen above their horizon he soon glorified the world to Grace. To the
astonishment of society, she had married a millionaire, and they had
all continued to live as quietly and unostentatiously as before. There
had been another slight effort to "know the people at the St. John
cottage," but it had speedily died out. The war had brought chiefly
military associations and absence. Now again there was an influx of
callers largely from the church that Grace had once attended. Mrs.
Mayburn received the majority with a grim politeness, but discriminated
very favorably in case of those who came solely from honest sympathy.
All were made to feel, however, that, like a mourning veil, sorrow
should shield its victims from uninvited observation.
Hilland's mother had long been dead, and his father died at the time
when he was summoned from his studies in Germany. While on good terms
with his surviving relatives, there had been no very close relationship
or intimacy remaining. Grace had declared that she wished no other
funeral service than the one conducted by the good old Confederate
pastor; and the relatives, learning that they had no interest in the
will, speedily discovered that they had no further interest whatever.
Thus the inmates of the two cottages were left to pursue their own
shadowed paths, with little interference from the outside world. The
major treasured a few cordial eulogies of Hilland cut from the journals
at the time; and except in the hearts wherein he was enshrined a living
image, the brave, genial, high-souled man passed from men's thoughts
and memories, like thousands of others in that long harvest of death.
Graham's wound at last was wellnigh healed, and the time was drawing
near for his return to the army. His general had given such a very
favorable account of the circumstances attending his offence, and of
his career as a soldier both before and after the affair, that the
matter was quietly ignored. Moreover, Hilland, as a soldier and by
reason of the loyal use of his wealth, stood very high in the
estimation of the war authorities; and the veteran major was not
without his surviving circle of influential friends. Graham, therefore,
not only retained his rank, but was marked for promotion.
Of all this, however, he thought and cared little. If he had loved
Grace before, he idolized her now. And yet with all her deep affection
for him and her absolute trust, she seemed more remote than ever. In
the new phase of her grief she was ever seeking to do little things
which she thought would please him. But this was also true of her
course toward Mrs. Mayburn, especially so toward her father, and also,
to a certain extent, toward the poor and sick in the vicinity. Her one
effort seemed to be to escape from her thoughts, herself, in a
ceaseless ministry to others. And the effort sometimes degenerated into
restlessness. There was such a lack of repose in her manner that even
those who loved her most were pained and troubled. There was not enough
to keep her busy all the time, and yet she was ever impelled to do
something.
One day she said to Graham, "I wish I could go back with you to the
war; not that I wish to shed another drop of blood, but I would like to
march, march forever."
Shrewd Mrs. Mayburn, who had been watching Grace closely for the last
week or two, said quietly: "Take her back with you, Alford. Let her
become a nurse in some hospital. It will do both her and a lot of poor
fellows a world of good."
"Mrs. Mayburn, you have thought of just the thing," cried Grace. "In a
hospital full of sick and wounded men I could make my life amount to
something; I should never need to be idle then."
"Yes, you would. You would be under orders like Alford, and would have
to rest when off duty. But, as you say, you could be of great service,
instead of wasting your energy in coddling two old people. You might
save many a poor fellow's life."
"Oh," she exclaimed, clasping her hands, "the bare thought of saving
one poor woman from such suffering as mine is almost overwhelming. But
how can I leave papa?"
"I'll take care of the major and insure his consent. If men are so
possessed to make wounds, it's time women did more to cure them. It's
all settled: you are to go. I'll see the major about it now, if he
_has_ just begun his newspaper;" and the old lady took her knitting and
departed with her wonted prompt energy.
At first Graham was almost speechless from surprise, mingled doubt and
pleasure; but the more he thought of it, the more he was convinced that
the plan was an inspiration.
"Alford, you will take me?" she said, appealingly.
"Yes," he replied, smilingly, "if you will promise to obey my orders in
part, as well as those of your superiors."
"I'll promise anything if you will only take me. Am I not under your
care?"
"Oh, Grace, Grace, I can do so little for you!"
"No one living can do more. In providing this chance of relieving a
little pain, of preventing a little suffering, you help me, you serve
me, you comfort me, as no one else could. And, Alford, if you are
wounded, come to the hospital where I am; I will never leave you till
you are well. Take me to some exposed place in the field, where there
is danger, where men are brought in desperately wounded, where you
would be apt to be."
"I don't know where I shall be, but I would covet any wound that would
bring you to my side as nurse."
She thought a few moments, and then said, resolutely: "I will keep as
near to you as I can. I ask no pay for my services. On the contrary, I
will employ my useless wealth in providing for exposed hospitals. When
I attempt to take care of the sick or wounded, I will act scrupulously
under the orders of the surgeon in charge; but I do not see why, if I
pay my own way, I cannot come and go as I think I can be the most
useful."
"Perhaps you could, to a certain extent, if you had a permit," said
Graham, thoughtfully; "but I think you would accomplish more by
remaining in one hospital and acquiring skill by regular work. It would
be a source of indescribable anxiety to me to think of your going about
alone. If I know just where you are, I can find you and write to you."
"I will do just what you wish," she said, gently.
"I wish for only what is best for you."
"I know that. It would be strange if I did not."
Mrs. Mayburn was not long in convincing the major that her plan might
be the means of incalculable benefit to Grace as well as to others. He,
as well as herself and Graham, had seen with deep anxiety that Grace
was giving way to a fever of unrest; and he acquiesced in the view that
it might better run its course in wholesome and useful activity, amid
scenes of suffering that might tend to reconcile her to her own sorrow.
Graham, however, took the precaution of calling on Dr. Markham, who, to
his relief, heartily approved of the measure. On one point Graham was
firm. He would not permit her to go to a hospital in the field, liable
to vicissitudes from sudden movements of the contending armies. He
found one for her, however, in which she would have ample scope for all
her efforts; and before he left he interested those in charge so deeply
in the white-haired nurse that he felt she would always be under
watchful, friendly eyes.
"Grace," he said, as he was taking leave, "I have tried to be a true
friend to you."
"Oh, Alford!" she exclaimed, and she seized his hand and held it in
both of hers.
His face grew stern rather than tender as he added: "You will not be a
true friend to me--you will wrong me deeply--if you are reckless of
your health and strength. Remember that, like myself, you have entered
the service, and that you are pledged to do your duty, and not to work
with feverish zeal until your strength fails. You are just as much
under obligation to take essential rest as to care for the most sorely
wounded in your ward. I shall take the advice I give. Believing that I
am somewhat essential to your welfare and the happiness of those whom
we have left at home, I shall incur no risks beyond those which
properly fall to my lot. I ask you to be equally conscientious and
considerate of those whose lives are bound up in you."
"I'll try," she said, with that same pathetic look and utterance which
had so moved him on the fearful night of his return from the army.
"But, Alford, do not speak to me so gravely, I had almost said sternly,
just as we are saying good-by."
He raised her hand to his lips, and smiled into her pleading face as he
replied, "I only meant to impress you with the truth that you have a
patient who is not in your ward--one who will often be sleeping under
the open sky, I know not where. Care a little for him, as well as for
the unknown men in your charge. This you can do only by taking care of
yourself. You, of all others, should know that there are wounds besides
those which will bring men to this hospital."
Tears rushed into her eyes as she faltered, "You could not have made a
stronger appeal."
"You will write to me often?"
"Yes, and you cannot write too often. Oh, Alford, I cannot wish you had
never seen me; but it would have been far, far better for you if you
had not."
"No, no," he said, in low, strong emphasis. "Grace Hilland, I would
rather be your friend than have the love of any woman that ever lived."
"You do yourself great wrong (pardon me for saying it, but your
happiness is so dear to me), you do yourself great wrong. A girl like
Pearl Anderson could make you truly happy; and you could make her
happy."
"Sweet little Pearl will be happy some day; and I may be one of the
causes, but not in the way you suggest. It is hard to say good-by and
leave you here alone, and every moment I stay only makes it harder."
He raised her hand once more to his lips, then almost rushed away.
Days lapsed into weeks, and weeks into months. The tireless nurse
alleviated suffering of every kind; and her silvery hair was like a
halo around a saintly head to many a poor fellow. She had the deep
solace of knowing that not a few wives and mothers would have mourned
had it not been for her faithfulness.
But her own wound would not heal. She sometimes felt that she was
slowly bleeding to death. The deep, dark tide of suffering, in spite of
all she could do, grew deeper and darker; and she was growing weary and
discouraged.
Graham saw her at rare intervals; and although she brightened greatly
at his presence, and made heroic efforts to satisfy him that she was
doing well, he grew anxious and depressed. But there was nothing
tangible, nothing definite. She was only a little paler, a little
thinner; and when he spoke of it she smilingly told him that he was
growing gaunt himself with his hard campaigning.
"But you, Grace," he complained, "are beginning to look like a wraith
that may vanish some moonlight night."
Her letters were frequent, sometimes even cheerful, but brief. He wrote
at great length, filling his pages with descriptions of nature, with
scenes that were often humorous but not trivial, with genuine life, but
none of its froth. Life for both had become too deep a tragedy for any
nonsense. He passed through many dangers, but these, as far as
possible, he kept in the background; and fate, pitying his one deep
wound, spared him any others.
At last there came the terrible battle of the Wilderness, and the wards
were filled with desperately wounded men. The poor nurse gathered up
her failing powers for one more effort; and Confederate and Union men
looked after her wonderingly and reverently, even in their mortal
weakness. To many she seemed like a ministering spirit rather than a
woman of flesh and blood; and lips of dying men blessed her again and
again. But they brought no blessing. She only shuddered and grew more
faint of heart as the scenes of agony and death increased. Each wound
was a type of Hilland's wound, and in every expiring man she saw her
husband die. Her poor little hands trembled now as she sought to stem
the black, black tide that deepened and broadened and foamed around her.
Late one night, after a new influx of the wounded, she was greatly
startled while passing down her ward by hearing a voice exclaim,
"Grace--Grace Brentford!"
It was her mother's name.
The call was repeated; and she tremblingly approached a cot on which
was lying a gray-haired man.
"Great God!" he exclaimed, "am I dreaming? am I delirious? How is it
that I see before me the woman I loved forty-odd years ago? You cannot
be Grace Brentford, for she died long years since."
"No, but I am her daughter."
"Her daughter!" said the man, struggling to rise upon his elbow--"her
daughter! She should not look older than you."
"Alas, sir, my age is not the work of time, but of grief. I grew old in
a day. But if you knew and loved my mother, you have sacred claims upon
me. I am a nurse in this ward, and will devote myself to you."
The man sank back exhausted. "This is strange, strange indeed," he
said. "It is God's own providence. Yes, my child, I loved your mother,
and I love her still. Harry St. John won her fairly; but he could not
have loved her better than I. I am now a lonely old man, dying, I
believe, in my enemy's hands, but I thank God that I've seen Grace
Brentford's child, and that she can soothe my last hours."
"Do not feel so discouraged about yourself," said Grace, her tears
falling fast. "Think rather that yon have been brought here that I
might nurse you back to life. Believe me, I will do so with tender,
loving care."
"How strange it all is!" the man said again. "You have her very voice,
her manner. But it was by your eyes that I recognized you. Your eyes
are young and beautiful like hers, and full of tears, as hers were when
she sent me away with an ache to my heart that has never ceased. It
will soon be cured now. Your father will remember a wild young planter
down in Georgia by the name of Phil Harkness."
"Indeed, sir, I've heard both of my parents speak of you, and it was
ever with respect and esteem."
"Give my greeting to your father, and say I never bore him any
ill-will. In the saddest life there is always some compensation. I have
had wealth and honors; I am a colonel in our army, and have been able
to serve the cause I loved; but, chief of all, the child of Grace
Brentford is by my side at the end. Is your name Grace also?"
"Yes. Oh, why is the world so full of hopeless trouble?"
"Not hopeless trouble, my child. I am not hopeless. For long years I
have had peace, if not happiness--a deep inward calm which the
confusion and roar of the bloodiest battles could not disturb. I can
close my eyes now in my final sleep as quietly as a child. In a few
hours, my dear, I may see your mother; and I shall tell her that I left
her child assuaging her own sorrow by ministering to others."
"Oh, oh!" sobbed Grace, "pray cease, or I shall not be fit for my
duties; your words pierce my very soul. Let me nurse you back to
health. Let me take you to my home until you are exchanged, for I must
return. I must, must. My strength is going fast; and you bring before
me my dear old father whom I have left too long."
"My poor child! God comfort and sustain you. Do not let me keep you
longer from your duties, and from those who need you more than I. Come
and say a word to me when you can. That's all I ask. My wound was
dressed before your watch began, and I am doing as well as I could
expect. When you feel like it, you can tell me more about yourself."
Their conversation had been in a low tone as she sat beside him, the
patients near either sleeping or too preoccupied by their own
sufferings to give much heed.
Weary and oppressed by bitter despondency, she went from cot to cot,
attending to the wants of those in her charge. To her the old colonel's
sad history seemed a mockery of his faith, and but another proof of a
godless or God-forgotten world. She envied his belief, with its hope
and peace; but he had only increased her unbelief. But all through the
long night she watched over him, coming often to his side with
delicacies and wine, and with gentle words that were far more grateful.
Once, as she was smoothing back his gray locks from his damp forehead,
he smiled, and murmured, "God bless you, my child. This is a foretaste
of heaven."
In the gray dawn she came to him and said, "My watch is over, and I
must leave you for a little while; but as soon as I have rested I will
come again."
"Grace," he faltered, hesitatingly, "would you mind kissing an old, old
man? I never had a child of my own to kiss me."
She stooped down and kissed him again and again, and he felt her hot
tears upon his face.
"You have a tender heart, my dear," he said, gently. "Good-by,
Grace--Grace Brentford's child. Dear Grace, when we meet again perhaps
all tears will be wiped from your eyes forever."
She stole away exhausted and almost despairing. On reaching her little
room she sank on her couch, moaning; "Oh, Warren, Warren, would that I
were sleeping your dreamless sleep beside you!"
Long before it was time for her to go on duty again she returned to the
ward to visit her aged friend. His cot was empty. In reply to her eager
question she was told that he had died suddenly from internal
hemorrhage soon after she had left him.
She looked dazed for a moment, as if she had received a blow, then fell
fainting on the cot from which her mother's friend had been taken. The
limit of her endurance was passed.
Before the day closed, the surgeon in charge of the hospital told her
gently and firmly that she must take an indefinite leave of absence.
She departed at once in the care of an attendant; but stories of the
white-haired nurse lingered so long in the ward and hospital that at
last they began to grow vague and marvellous, like the legends of a
saint.