THE youngest of the three strangers--judging by features, complexion,
and manner--was apparently an Englishman. He wore a military cap and
military boots, but was otherwise dressed as a civilian. Next to him
stood an officer in Prussian uniform, and next to the officer was the
third and the oldest of the party. He also was dressed in uniform, but
his appearance was far from being suggestive of the appearance of a
military man. He halted on one foot, he stooped at the shoulders, and
instead of a sword at his side he carried a stick in his hand. After
looking sharply through a large pair of tortoise-shell spectacles, first
at Mercy, then at the bed, then all round the room, he turned with
a cynical composure of manner to the Prussian officer, and broke the
silence in these words:
“A woman ill on the bed; another woman in attendance on her, and no one
else in the room. Any necessity, major, for setting a guard here?”
“No necessity,” answered the major. He wheeled round on his heel and
returned to the kitchen. The German surgeon advanced a little, led by
his professional instinct, in the direction of the bedside. The young
Englishman, whose eyes had remained riveted in admiration on Mercy, drew
the canvas screen over the doorway and respectfully addressed her in the
French language.
“May I ask if I am speaking to a French lady?” he said.
“I am an Englishwoman,” Mercy replied.
The surgeon heard the answer. Stopping short on his way to the bed,
he pointed to the recumbent figure on it, and said to Mercy, in good
English, spoken with a strong German accent.
“Can I be of any use there?”
His manner was ironically courteous, his harsh voice was pitched in one
sardonic monotony of tone. Mercy took an instantaneous dislike to
this hobbling, ugly old man, staring at her rudely through his great
tortoiseshell spectacles.
“You can be of no use, sir,” she said, shortly. “The lady was killed
when your troops shelled this cottage.”
The Englishman started, and looked compassionately toward the bed.
The German refreshed himself with a pinch of snuff, and put another
question.
“Has the body been examined by a medical man?” he asked.
Mercy ungraciously limited her reply to the one necessary word “Yes.”
The present surgeon was not a man to be daunted by a lady’s disapproval
of him. He went on with his questions.
“Who has examined the body?” he inquired next.
Mercy answered, “The doctor attached to the French ambulance.”
The German grunted in contemptuous disapproval of all Frenchmen, and
all French institutions. The Englishman seized his first opportunity of
addressing himself to Mercy once more.
“Is the lady a countrywoman of ours?” he asked, gently.
Mercy considered before she answered him. With the object she had in
view, there might be serious reasons for speaking with extreme caution
when she spoke of Grace.
“I believe so,” she said. “We met here by accident. I know nothing of
her.”
“Not even her name?” inquired the German surgeon.
Mercy’s resolution was hardly equal yet to giving her own name openly as
the name of Grace. She took refuge in flat denial.
“Not even her name,” she repeated obstinately.
The old man stared at her more rudely than ever, considered with
himself, and took the candle from the table. He hobbled back to the bed
and examined the figure laid on it in silence. The Englishman continued
the conversation, no longer concealing the interest that he felt in the
beautiful woman who stood before him.
“Pardon me,” he said, “you are very young to be alone in war-time in
such a place as this.”
The sudden outbreak of a disturbance in the kitchen relieved Mercy from
any immediate necessity for answering him. She heard the voices of the
wounded men raised in feeble remonstrance, and the harsh command of the
foreign officers bidding them be silent. The generous instincts of the
woman instantly prevailed over every personal consideration imposed on
her by the position which she had assumed. Reckless whether she betrayed
herself or not as nurse in the French ambulance, she instantly drew
aside the canvas to enter the kitchen. A German sentinel barred the
way to her, and announced, in his own language, that no strangers were
admitted. The Englishman politely interposing, asked if she had any
special object in wishing to enter the room.
“The poor Frenchmen!” she said, earnestly, her heart upbraiding her for
having forgotten them. “The poor wounded Frenchmen!”
The German surgeon advanced from the bedside, and took the matter up
before the Englishman could say a word more.
“You have nothing to do with the wounded Frenchmen,” he croaked, in the
harshest notes of his voice. “The wounded Frenchmen are my business, and
not yours. They are _our_ prisoners, and they are being moved to _our_
ambulance. I am Ingatius Wetzel, chief of the medical staff--and I tell
you this. Hold your tongue.” He turned to the sentinel and added in
German, “Draw the curtain again; and if the woman persists, put her back
into this room with your own hand.”
Mercy attempted to remonstrate. The Englishman respectfully took her
arm, and drew her out of the sentinel’s reach.
“It is useless to resist,” he said. “The German discipline never gives
way. There is not the least need to be uneasy about the Frenchmen. The
ambulance under Surgeon Wetzel is admirably administered. I answer for
it, the men will be well treated.” He saw the tears in her eyes as he
spoke; his admiration for her rose higher and higher. “Kind as well as
beautiful,” he thought. “What a charming creature!”
“Well!” said Ignatius Wetzel, eying Mercy sternly through his
spectacles. “Are you satisfied? And will you hold your tongue?”
She yielded: it was plainly useless to resist. But for the surgeon’s
resistance, her devotion to the wounded men might have stopped her
on the downward way that she was going. If she could only have been
absorbed again, mind and body, in her good work as a nurse, the
temptation might even yet have found her strong enough to resist it. The
fatal severity of the German discipline had snapped asunder the last tie
that bound her to her better self. Her face hardened as she walked away
proudly from Surgeon Wetzel, and took a chair.
The Englishman followed her, and reverted to the question of her present
situation in the cottage.
“Don’t suppose that I want to alarm you,” he said. “There is, I repeat,
no need to be anxious about the Frenchmen, but there is serious reason
for anxiety on your own account. The action will be renewed round this
village by daylight; you ought really to be in a place of safety. I am
an officer in the English army--my name is Horace Holmcroft. I shall be
delighted to be of use to you, and I _can_ be of use, if you will let
me. May I ask if you are traveling?”
Mercy gathered the cloak which concealed her nurse’s dress more closely
round her, and committed herself silently to her first overt act of
deception. She bowed her head in the affirmative.
“Are you on your way to England?”
“Yes.”
“In that case I can pass you through the German lines, and forward you
at once on your journey.”
Mercy looked at him in unconcealed surprise. His strongly-felt interest
in her was restrained within the strictest limits of good-breeding: he
was unmistakably a gentleman. Did he really mean what he had just said?
“You can pass me through the German lines?” she repeated. “You must
possess extraordinary influence, sir, to be able to do that.”
Mr. Horace Holmcroft smiled.
“I possess the influence that no one can resist,” he answered--“the
influence of the Press. I am serving here as war correspondent of one of
our great English newspapers. If I ask him, the commanding officer will
grant you a pass. He is close to this cottage. What do you say?”
She summoned her resolution--not without difficulty, even now--and took
him at his word.
“I gratefully accept your offer, sir.”
He advanced a step toward the kitchen, and stopped.
“It may be well to make the application as privately as possible,” he
said. “I shall be questioned if I pass through that room. Is there no
other way out of the cottage?”
Mercy showed him the door leading into the yard. He bowed--and left her.
She looked furtively toward the German surgeon. Ignatius Wetzel was
still at the bed, bending over the body, and apparently absorbed in
examining the wound which had been inflicted by the shell. Mercy’s
instinctive aversion to the old man increased tenfold, now that she was
left alone with him. She withdrew uneasily to the window, and looked out
at the moonlight.
Had she committed herself to the fraud? Hardly, yet. She had committed
herself to returning to England--nothing more. There was no necessity,
thus far, which forced her to present herself at Mablethorpe House, in
Grace’s place. There was still time to reconsider her resolution--still
time to write the account of the accident, as she had proposed, and
to send it with the letter-case to Lady Janet Roy. Suppose she finally
decided on taking this course, what was to become of her when she found
herself in England again? There was no alternative open but to apply
once more to her friend the matron. There was nothing for her to do but
to return to the Refuge!
The Refuge! The matron! What past association with these two was now
presenting itself uninvited, and taking the foremost place in her mind?
Of whom was she now thinking, in that strange place, and at that crisis
in her life? Of the man whose words had found their way to her heart,
whose influence had strengthened and comforted her, in the chapel of
the Refuge. One of the finest passages in his sermon had been especially
devoted by Julian Gray to warning the congregation whom he addressed
against the degrading influences of falsehood and deceit. The terms
in which he had appealed to the miserable women round him--terms of
sympathy and encouragement never addressed to them before--came back to
Mercy Merrick as if she had heard them an hour since. She turned deadly
pale as they now pleaded with her once more. “Oh!” she whispered to
herself, as she thought of what she had proposed and planned, “what have
I done? what have I done?”
She turned from the window with some vague idea in her mind of following
Mr. Holmcroft and calling him back. As she faced the bed again she also
confronted Ignatius Wetzel. He was just stepping forward to speak to
her, with a white handkerchief--the handkerchief which she had lent to
Grace--held up in his hand.
“I have found this in her pocket,” he said. “Here is her name written on
it. She must be a countrywoman of yours.” He read the letters marked on
the handkerchief with some difficulty. “Her name is--Mercy Merrick.”
_His_ lips had said it--not hers! _He_ had given her the name.
“‘Mercy Merrick’ is an English name?” pursued Ignatius Wetzel, with his
eyes steadily fixed on her. “Is it not so?”
The hold on her mind of the past association with Julian Gray began to
relax. One present and pressing question now possessed itself of the
foremost place in her thoughts. Should she correct the error into which
the German had fallen? The time had come--to speak, and assert her own
identity; or to be silent, and commit herself to the fraud.
Horace Holmcroft entered the room again at the moment when Surgeon
Wetzel’s staring eyes were still fastened on her, waiting for her reply.
“I have not overrated my interest,” he said, pointing to a little slip
of paper in his hand. “Here is the pass. Have you got pen and ink? I
must fill up the form.”
Mercy pointed to the writing materials on the table. Horace seated
himself, and dipped the pen in the ink.
“Pray don’t think that I wish to intrude myself into your affairs,” he
said. “I am obliged to ask you one or two plain questions. What is your
name?”
A sudden trembling seized her. She supported herself against the foot
of the bed. Her whole future existence depended on her answer. She was
incapable of uttering a word.
Ignatius Wetzel stood her friend for once. His croaking voice filled
the empty gap of silence exactly at the right time. He doggedly held the
handkerchief under her eyes. He obstinately repeated: “Mercy Merrick is
an English name. Is it not so?”
Horace Holmcroft looked up from the table. “Mercy Merrick?” he said.
“Who is Mercy Merrick?”
Surgeon Wetzel pointed to the corpse on the bed.
“I have found the name on the handkerchief,” he said. “This lady,
it seems, had not curiosity enough to look for the name of her own
countrywoman.” He made that mocking allusion to Mercy with a tone which
was almost a tone of suspicion, and a look which was almost a look of
contempt. Her quick temper instantly resented the discourtesy of which
she had been made the object. The irritation of the moment--so often
do the most trifling motives determine the most serious human
actions--decided her on the course that she should pursue. She turned
her back scornfully on the rude old man, and left him in the delusion
that he had discovered the dead woman’s name.
Horace returned to the business of filling up the form. “Pardon me for
pressing the question,” he said. “You know what German discipline is by
this time. What is your name?”
She answered him recklessly, defiantly, without fairly realizing what
she was doing until it was done.
“Grace Roseberry,” she said.
The words were hardly out of her mouth before she would have given
everything she possessed in the world to recall them.
“Miss?” asked Horace, smiling.
She could only answer him by bowing her head.
He wrote: “Miss Grace Roseberry”--reflected for a moment--and then
added, interrogatively, “Returning to her friends in England?” Her
friends in England? Mercy’s heart swelled: she silently replied by
another sign. He wrote the words after the name, and shook the sandbox
over the wet ink. “That will be enough,” he said, rising and presenting
the pass to Mercy; “I will see you through the lines myself, and arrange
for your being sent on by the railway. Where is your luggage?”
Mercy pointed toward the front door of the building. “In a shed outside
the cottage,” she answered. “It is not much; I can do everything for
myself if the sentinel will let me pass through the kitchen.”
Horace pointed to the paper in her hand. “You can go where you like
now,” he said. “Shall I wait for you here or outside?”
Mercy glanced distrustfully at Ignatius Wetzel. He was again absorbed
in his endless examination of the body on the bed. If she left him alone
with Mr. Holmcroft, there was no knowing what the hateful old man might
not say of her. She answered:
“Wait for me outside, if you please.”
The sentinel drew back with a military salute at the sight of the pass.
All the French prisoners had been removed; there were not more than
half-a-dozen Germans in the kitchen, and the greater part of them were
asleep. Mercy took Grace Roseberry’s clothes from the corner in which
they had been left to dry, and made for the shed--a rough structure of
wood, built out from the cottage wall. At the front door she encountered
a second sentinel, and showed her pass for the second time. She spoke
to this man, asking him if he understood French. He answered that he
understood a little. Mercy gave him a piece of money, and said: “I am
going to pack up my luggage in the shed. Be kind enough to see that
nobody disturbs me.” The sentinel saluted, in token that he understood.
Mercy disappeared in the dark interior of the shed.
Left alone with Surgeon Wetzel, Horace noticed the strange old man still
bending intently over the English lady who had been killed by the shell.
“Anything remarkable,” he asked, “in the manner of that poor creature’s
death?”
“Nothing to put in a newspaper,” retorted the cynic, pursuing his
investigations as attentively as ever.
“Interesting to a doctor--eh?” said Horace.
“Yes. Interesting to a doctor,” was the gruff reply.
Horace good-humoredly accepted the hint implied in those words. He
quitted the room by the door leading into the yard, and waited for the
charming Englishwoman, as he had been instructed, outside the cottage.
Left by himself, Ignatius Wetzel, after a first cautious look all round
him, opened the upper part of Grace’s dress, and laid his left hand on
her heart. Taking a little steel instrument from his waistcoat pocket
with the other hand, he applied it carefully to the wound, raised a
morsel of the broken and depressed bone of the skull, and waited for the
result. “Aha!” he cried, addressing with a terrible gayety the
senseless creature under his hands. “The Frenchman says you are dead,
my dear--does he? The Frenchman is a Quack! The Frenchman is an Ass!”
He lifted his head, and called into the kitchen. “Max!” A sleepy young
German, covered with a dresser’s apron from his chin to his feet, drew
the curtain, and waited for his instructions. “Bring me my black bag,”
said Ignatius Wetzel. Having given that order, he rubbed his hands
cheerfully, and shook himself like a dog. “Now I am quite happy,”
croaked the terrible old man, with his fierce eyes leering sidelong
at the bed. “My dear, dead Englishwoman, I would not have missed this
meeting with you for all the money I have in the world. Ha! you infernal
French Quack, you call it death, do you? I call it suspended animation
from pressure on the brain!”
Max appeared with the black bag.
Ignatius Wetzel selected two fearful instruments, bright and new, and
hugged them to his bosom. “My little boys,” he said, tenderly, as if
they were his children; “my blessed little boys, come to work!” He
turned to the assistant. “Do you remember the battle of Solferino,
Max--and the Austrian soldier I operated on for a wound on the head?”
The assistant’s sleepy eyes opened wide; he was evidently interested. “I
remember,” he said. “I held the candle.”
The master led the way to the bed.
“I am not satisfied with the result of that operation at Solferino,” he
said; “I have wanted to try again ever since. It’s true that I saved the
man’s life, but I failed to give him back his reason along with it. It
might have been something wrong in the operation, or it might have been
something wrong in the man. Whichever it was, he will live and die mad.
Now look here, my little Max, at this dear young lady on the bed. She
gives me just what I wanted; here is the case at Solferino once more.
You shall hold the candle again, my good boy; stand there, and look with
all your eyes. I am going to try if I can save the life and the reason
too this time.”
He tucked up the cuffs of his coat and began the operation. As his
fearful instruments touched Grace’s head, the voice of the sentinel at
the nearest outpost was heard, giving the word in German which permitted
Mercy to take the first step on her journey to England:
“Pass the English lady!”
The operation proceeded. The voice of the sentinel at the next post was
heard more faintly, in its turn: “Pass the English lady!”
The operation ended. Ignatius Wetzel held up his hand for silence and
put his ear close to the patient’s mouth.
The first trembling breath of returning life fluttered over Grace
Roseberry’s lips and touched the old man’s wrinkled cheek. “Aha!” he
cried. “Good girl! you breathe--you live!” As he spoke, the voice of the
sentinel at the final limit of the German lines (barely audible in the
distance) gave the word for the last time:
“Pass the English lady!”
SECOND SCENE.--Mablethorpe House.
PREAMBLE.
THE place is England.
The time is winter, in the year eighteen hundred and seventy.
The persons are, Julian Gray, Horace Holmcroft, Lady Janet Roy, Grace
Roseberry, and Mercy Merrick.