THE BEAUTIFUL NURSE
When the beautiful and mysterious nurse whose fame had gone up with
the soldiers into Tilad Pass, arrived with others to take charge
of the Red Cross hospital, on the day following the battle, she
found the man she had been longing to see for many weary, heartsick
months. She found him dying.
To the surprise of the enthralled command, she fell in a dead swoon
when she looked upon the pallid face of Graydon Bansemer. She had
gone eagerly from one pallet to another, coming upon his near the
last. One glance was enough. His face had been in her mind for
months--just as she was seeing it now; she had lived in the horror
of finding him cold in death.
It was Teresa Velasquez who first understood. She knew that
Bansemer's one woman had found him at last. Her heart leaped with
hatred for one brief instant, then turned soft and contrite. If she
had learned to care for the big American herself during the hard
days when he had been so tender, she also had learned that her
worship was hopeless. She had felt his yearning love for another;
now she was looking upon that other. While the attendants were
bending over their unconscious companion, the Spanish girl stood
guard over the man who had been her guardian, the man whose life
was going out before her miserable, exhausted eyes.
Jane Cable stirred with returning life; Teresa was quick to see that
words not medicine would act as the restorative. She went swiftly
to the American girl's side and, clasping her hands, cried sharply
into her half conscious ears:
"He is not dead! He is alive! He needs you!"
The effect was magical. Life leaped into Jane's eyes, vigour into
her body. She recovered from the swoon as mysteriously as she had
succumbed to it. Her sudden breakdown had puzzled her companions.
It is true that she was new in the service; she had seen but little
of death and suffering; but, with all that, she was known to possess
remarkable strength of purpose and fortitude. That she should
collapse almost at the outset of her opportunities was the source
of wonder and no little contempt among her fellow workers. The
words of the strange girl in men's clothing opened the way to smart
surmises. It was not long before everyone in the command knew
that the "beautiful Red Cross nurse" was not wearing the garb of
the vocation for the sake of humanity alone--in fact, it was soon
understood that she did not care a straw for the rest of mankind
so long as Graydon Bansemer needed her ministrations.
Ignoring the principles of the cause she served, she implored the
doctors to confine their efforts to one man among all of them who
suffered; she pleaded and stormed in turn, finally offering fabulous
bribes in support of her demands. For the time being, she was
half crazed with fear and dread, woefully unworthy of her station,
partially divorced from reason.
The more desperately wounded were left in the village with an
adequate guard, the rest of the command departing with Major March.
A temporary hospital was established in the convent. There were
two doctors and four or five nurses, with a dozen soldiers under
command of Lieutenant Bray. It was while the apparently dead Bansemer
was being moved to the improvised hospital that Jane presented
herself, distraught with fear, to the young Southerner who had
so plainly shown his love for her. She pleaded with him to start
at once for Manila with the wounded, supporting her extraordinary
request with the opinion that they could not receive proper care
from the two young surgeons. Bray was surprised and distressed; he
could not misunderstand her motive.
He had gone on caring for her without suspecting that there was
or had been another man; she had not confided in him during those
weary, pleasant months since they left San Francisco behind them.
To learn the true situation so suddenly and unexpectedly stunned
his sensibilities; he found difficulty in grasping the importance
of the change an hour or two had made. He had fought valiantly,
even exultantly, in the Pass that morning, her face ever before
him, her words of praise the best spoils of the victory, should
they win. He had come down to the village with joy and confidence
in his heart, only to find that he was not, and could never be,
anything to her, while the life or memory of this fallen comrade
stood as a barrier.
Bray's hour following the discovery that she had deliberately sought
out and found this stricken private was the most bitter in his
life. His pride suffered a shock that appalled him; his unconscious
egotism, born of hereditary conquests, revolted against the thought
that his progress toward her heart was to be turned aside by the
intervention of a common soldier in the ranks. Gentleman though he
was, he could not subdue the feeling of exultation that came over
him when she approached with her plea. He knew that it was a base
sense of power that made him feel that he could punish his pride's
offender by either denying or granting her appeal. The attitude of
self-sacrifice appealed to his wounded vanity; he was tempted to
profit by an exhibition of his own pain and generosity.
He went with her into the convent and to the pallet on which was
stretched the long, still figure of Graydon Bansemer. A surgeon
was standing near by, studying the grey face with thoughtful
eyes. Bray's first glance at the suffering face sent a thrill of
encouragement through his veins. The man was beyond all human help;
the grip of death was already upon his heart.
Then, the true manhood that had been his, through all generations,
revolted against the thought that was in his mind. The man should
not die if it was in his power to prevent; no matter what the cost
to him, he would give his aid to her and hers. He tried to put
aside the feeling that death was certain--and very soon, at that;
he sought honestly to justify himself in the hope that Bansemer's
life could be saved, after all.
"Leave me alone with the doctor, Miss Cable," he said. She was
kneeling beside the man on the cot. Without a word, but with a
dark appealing look into the Virginian's eyes, she arose and went
swiftly away. "What chance has this poor fellow, doctor?"
"None whatever, sir. He'll be dead in an hour. I'm sorry, on her
account. Strange case. I've heard she belongs to a fine family in
the East. Poor devil, he's got an awful hole in his side."
"Have you made a careful examination? Is it possible that no vital
spot has been touched?"
"We haven't had time for a thorough examination; it was better
not to waste the time on him when there were others whom we have
a chance to save."
"You will oblige me, doctor, by giving him the quickest and most
careful attention. There may be a chance. He is one of the bravest
men in the army. Don't let him die if there is a chance for him.
Miss--er--the nurse--has asked if he can be moved to-day."
"No. But wait; I don't see why, if it will satisfy her. He will
die anyhow, so why not tell her that we will start south with him
to-morrow?"
"It isn't fair. She should be told the truth."
"He'd die, that's all--any way you put it."
"You will make the examination?"
"Yes, in--at once."
"But you--you feel that it is hopeless?"
"Certainly, sir."
"I'm-I'm sorry," said Bray, walking away. The doctor looked after
him with a queer expression in his eyes and then called his confrere
to the pallet.
Bray found Jane waiting for him outside the door; Teresa Velasquez
was standing beside her, holding her hand.
"What does he say?" cried Jane, grey with anguish.
"He cannot be moved. There is no--but little hope, Miss Cable. They
are to make another examination."
"He must be saved! He must! Let me go to him now. I will help. I
will give my life to save his," she cried. Bray stood between her
and the door, his arms extended.
"Don't go in now, I implore. Wait! There may be good news."
"He is everything in the world to me!" she moaned.
"Come with me," whispered Teresa. Bray looked at the Spanish girl,
and a new light broke in upon his understanding. What was this
refugee to Bansemer? The answer shot into his brain like a flash
and he turned cold.
"Miss Cable, I think I understand your anxiety," he said, his voice
trembling. "Won't you let this young lady take you away for half
an hour or---"
"But I am a nurse! Why should I be kept from him? I am here to care
for all of them," she protested.
"You are not fit to do duty just now," he said. "Miss Cable, I
understand why you are here. It is noble of you. I am truly sorry
that there is so little hope." He was leading her away from the
building, leaving Teresa standing there with her eyes fastened
upon the door with a look that could not be mistaken. "I would give
my own life to have his spared for your sake, Jane. Forgive me. I
would willingly give all I have in life for you. But I am afraid
it is impossible to save him."
"Don't say that," she whispered.
"You--you would be his wife?" he asked.
"No, that cannot be. I COULD not be his wife."
"You mean--he is married?"
"No, no! not that. You can't understand. I can never marry him--never!"
Bray struggled for a moment with the puzzle; his eyes went slowly
to Teresa. Then he suddenly understood why Jane Cable would not
marry the man she had come to find. He asked no questions of himself,
but Teresa would have been the result of every conjecture had he
done so.
"He might better be dead," he thought, his eyes hardening. "She's
found him out. Gad, I hope---" but he put it from him.
Graydon Bansemer did not die within the hour, nor that day. The
careful examination of the surgeons gave little additional hope;
it did, however, reveal the fact that no vital organ had been
destroyed or injured. The ball had torn a great hole in his left
side and had gone through the body. Probing was not necessary.
The flow of blood was frightful. There was a spark of life left on
which to build a frail hope, and they worked with new interest.
The attention of everyone was directed to this tragic struggle; the
efforts of all were lent to the successful end. Jane Cable, dogged
and tireless, came to be his nurse, now that the life thread still
held together. It is not the purpose of this narrative to dwell
upon the wretched, harrowing scenes and incidents of the wilderness
hospital. The misery of those who watched and waited for death;
the dread and suffering of those who gave this anxiety; the glow
of spiritual light which hovered above the forms of men who had
forgotten their God until now.
The first night passed. There were sleepless eyes to keep company
with the faint moans and the scent of chloroform. Over the figure
of Graydon Bansemer hung the eager, tense face of Jane Cable. Her
will and mind were raised against the hand of death; down in her
soul she was crying! "You shall not die!" and he was living, living
on in spite of death. The still, white face gave back no sign of
life; a faint pulse and an almost imperceptible respiration told
of the unbroken thread. Hoping against hope!
Dawn came, and night again, and still the almost breathless girl
urged her will against the inevitable. She had not slept, nor had
she eaten of the food they brought to her. Two persons, a soldier
and a girl, stood back and marvelled at her endurance and devotion;
the harassed surgeons, new in experience themselves, found time to
minister to the seeming dead man, their interest not only attracted
by his remarkable vitality but by the romance attached to his hope
of living.
That night he moved, and a low moan came from his lips. The Goddess
of Good Luck had turned her face from the rest of the world for a
brief instant to smile upon this isolated supplicant for favour.
Jane's eyes and ears had served her well at last; she caught the
change in him and her will grasped the hope with more dogged tenacity
than before. The word went out that there was a chance for him.
Her vigil ended when Bray came to lead her away--ended because she
dropped from exhaustion.
The next morning, after a dead sleep of hours, she returned to
his side. The surgeon smiled and the nurse clasped her hands with
tears in her eyes. Bansemer was breathing thickly and tossing in
delirium. It was as if he had been lifted from the grave.
Lieutenant Bray was seated in front of the convent late that
evening, moodily studying his own emotions. Teresa, still attired
as she had been for weeks, hung about the chapel with the persistance
of a friendless dog. He watched her and pitied her, even as he
pitied himself for the wound he was nursing. What was to become of
her? He called her to him.
"Senorita, they say he is better. Tell me, does it mean much to
you?"
"Oh, senor, he has been noble and good and honourable. If he lives
I shall always hold these weeks with him in absolute reverence."
"Then she does not understand?"
"She? What is there for her to understand? She loves him and he
loves her. That is enough."
"She says she will not marry him. There must be a reason."
The girl's face darkened instantly and her breath came quickly.
"You--you think that I am the reason? Is it so? Because I am here
in these hateful clothes? You would say that to me? How dare you!"
She burst out with tears of rage and shame and fled from his sight.
Jane came rapidly through the church door, out of the gloom and
odour into the warm sunshine and the green glow of the world, her
face bright, her eyes gleaming.
"He is conscious!" she cried. "He knows me!"