Dick Thornton for a short time was desperately ill.
He had, of course, been removed to the Sacred Heart Hospital as soon as
possible in order that his sister Mildred might be near him. But both
Mildred and Barbara helped with the nursing.
It was considered wiser by the hospital authorities that Barbara should
not return immediately to her work with the Red Cross ambulance at the
front. She was more shaken by her experience than she herself realized,
or at least so her appearance suggested. No one, not even Mildred
Thornton, dreamed that a part of her pallor might be due to anxiety
for Dick. Nevertheless, Barbara went about her work at the hospital
looking spent and exhausted, yet she no longer flinched at anything she
was called upon to do. The greater tragedies she had lately seen had
taught her more self-control.
Just at first Barbara was not aware of the change in the attitude of
the hospital staff toward her after her rescue of Dick Thornton. It had
seemed such a natural action to her she had not given it any thought.
But Nona Davis had not seen it in the same light, nor had Dr. Milton
nor the other nurses and physicians near the battlefield.
Everywhere there was talk of the valor and common sense of the young
American girl. Whether or not it was true, she was given the credit for
having saved Dick’s life. Had he remained unprotected a stray shot must
have done for him.
Mildred made no effort to conceal her gratitude and affection for
Barbara, and even Lady Dorothy Mathers and Daisy Redmond, the two
English girls who at first had small faith in Barbara’s ability, were
now generously kind to her. Actually Lady Dorothy apologized for having
previously slighted her, while Alexina McIntyre gathered Barbara into
her capable arms.
“You’re a wee thing, there is no denying it, but I’ve always believed
you had grit and now you have proved it.”
So in course of time Barbara grew happier and stronger, though not,
as it turned out, until Dick was out of danger. The wound on his face
healed rapidly enough, but the trouble had been with his splintered
shoulder. He would hardly be useful at the front for some time to come.
Nevertheless, though Barbara remained behind for the regular staff
nursing, Nona Davis continued in the ambulance service. The suggestion
was made that she be relieved by one of the other nurses, but Nona
preferred to make no change. For some reason she seemed peculiarly
fitted for the work at the front. It required a coolness and obedience
to orders that she was able to give. Her lack of long training did not
count so seriously against her, since she was always under a surgeon’s
orders. Moreover, her courage and devotion never appeared to falter.
Often when she returned to the hospital at night Eugenia Peabody would
look at her in amazement. Could Nona be made of flesh and blood? She
seemed so slender and fragile and yet was like fine steel. The truth
was that all her life Nona had been accustomed to taking care of some
one, so that she thought far less of herself and her own sensations
than other girls of her age. Moreover, back of her stretched a long
line of cavalier ancestors, who have a peculiar quality of endurance
under conditions of war, whatever their weakness in times of peace.
But really Nona was animated by none of these toploftical ideas; she
was merely doing the best she could in the place where she seemed most
needed.
However, other persons besides Eugenia marveled at her. Now and then
when they were both free, Lady Dorian and Nona spent an hour or so
together. The older woman was assisting with the business affairs of
the hospital. An outsider can scarcely realize how much business there
is that must be wisely administered. So Lady Dorian spent her time
ordering supplies and watching over their disposal, but she made no
friends except with Nona. An air of mystery still clung like a tangible
atmosphere about her, and though the rest of the hospital staff were
aware of it and did not understand her presence among them, they were
too busy to give her much attention or thought.
Yet Nona Davis frequently thought of her in her long journeys back and
forth. In spite of their increasing intimacy Lady Dorian had told her
nothing more of herself. She mentioned no details of her arrest in
London nor of the reasons the authorities had for finally releasing
her. So Nona could not help feeling a slight curiosity, although she
tried to smother it by scolding herself for her lack of good taste.
Certainly one should never wish to know anything of a friend’s life
except what the friend wishes to tell, and yet at times it is hard not
to desire the knowledge.
However, Nona’s own affairs at this period should have been
sufficiently absorbing to have made her forget other people’s. The
soldiers she had helped to care for, the surgeons she was in the habit
of assisting, showed a peculiar affection and kindness for the young
southern girl. And Dr. Milton made no effort to disguise his devotion.
At first when he discovered his own emotion the young English physician
had no intention of betraying himself. He had come to the war to do
his duty and not to give way to the ridiculous weakness of falling
in love. But Nona had proved too much for him. So far, however, he
had sufficient self-control not to have spoken of it to her. And
if he showed his feeling in other ways Nona gave no sign of having
understood, so the young surgeon had not been able to decide whether
she felt more than a passing friendliness for him.
Nevertheless, he was glad one morning to be entrusted with a special
message which was to be given in person to Miss Nona Davis.
An orderly had called at the temporary hospital near the British line
of trenches to say that Colonel Dalton would like to speak to Miss
Davis at his headquarters.
Naturally Nona was surprised by the message. She knew, of course, that
after his recovery Colonel Dalton had returned to his command. There
was almost daily talk of him, as he was regarded as one of the most
capable officers at the front. But she had not seen him since the hour
of their conversation by his bedside. What could he possibly wish of
her? However, the interview was to take place a little before noon on
the same day and an officer would call to escort her into the presence
of his superior.
Frankly other persons beside the girl were mystified by Colonel
Dalton’s command. He was not in the habit of paying any attention to
the Red Cross work or its workers. His reputation was that of a stern
disciplinarian, whom his men respected but did not always like. So when
Dr. Milton suggested that his intention might be to bestow some mark of
favor upon Miss Davis for her devotion to the soldiers, no one took the
idea seriously. Fortunately Nona did not even hear of it.
Before noon, however, she was ready to do as she had been bidden. She
was waiting in the rear of the relief hospital when a young officer
in the uniform of a lieutenant of the South Lancastershire regiment,
riding one horse and leading another, drew up before her and dismounted.
Almost without regarding him Nona allowed him to help her into the
saddle. Then they set off across country together, the young lieutenant
a little in the lead. The secret of an officer’s headquarters is
sometimes so carefully guarded that not even his own soldiers know its
exact location.
Nona was not even particularly interested. She realized that she rode
about three-quarters of a mile and then stopped in front of what
appeared like an immense pile of brushwood. Behind it was a small
wooden building, evidently a temporary structure, and inside the
building, seated before a small pine table with a telephone receiver in
his hand, was Colonel Dalton.
Here at last Nona became vitally interested. She had been told that
innumerable telephone wires, most of them underground, connected the
British officer’s quarters with the trenches at the front as well
as with the headquarters of other officers and with the different
positions of the field artillery. Here was certain proof of it. The
officers with the men in the trenches must take their commands from
their superiors who were in truth the “gods behind the machines.”
The lieutenant saluted. Colonel Dalton returned the salute curtly. Nona
simply waited and watched.
By and by Colonel Dalton put down the telephone receiver.
“Be seated,” he said briefly, and Nona sat down on a wooden stool the
younger officer thrust toward her. She had no special sensation of awe;
she was seldom afraid of people except in social life. This was simply
a part of her day’s work. Nevertheless she wondered why Colonel Dalton
was frowning at her so severely.
The same instant he took a bundle of papers from inside his pocket.
“Sorry to trouble you with this, Miss Davis, but for the present you
seem the best person to get hold of. I remember our talk at the
hospital, and moreover, I’ve the impression you can answer questions
and keep your own counsel when it’s necessary. There is some ugly work
going on at the Sacred Heart Hospital. I’ve reason to believe that
there is a spy among the workers over there. Is there any one you can
think of who might be willing to give news of the British positions,
the amount of our ammunition and other facts to the enemy? Think
this over quietly and coolly. I promise you that no one will be held
responsible whose guilt is not plainly proved and also that whatever
you are willing to tell me will be kept in strictest confidence.”
“But why do you think such a thing? How can you possibly imagine?” Nona
faltered, and then appreciated that this was not the manner in which to
address an officer. Colonel Dalton would not make such an accusation
without due proof of his suspicion.
Nona had a dreadful sensation of horror and confusion. Surely Colonel
Dalton must be mistaken. Never were there a more devoted, more sincere
group of workers than the Red Cross nurses and physicians at the Sacred
Heart Hospital. That treason could dwell among them was out of the
question. Yet all the while the American girl was voicing this silent
protest in her own heart, automatically she was reviewing the name and
character of every member of their staff. There was no one, no one, who
could not be wholly trusted, whose family and whose history were not
open books.
Then a face and figure passed before the girl’s vision and in a flash
she controlled the leaping of the hot blood to her cheeks.
Nona looked directly at Colonel Dalton.
“You have asked me a question I will not answer,” she returned quietly.
“I do not, of course, know whether you have the right to force me, but
I feel that I have no right to say a single word that would reflect on
any man or woman at our hospital. What I could tell you would amount to
nothing; it would only be guessing at best. For I have no actual reason
for being suspicious of any one.”
“No _actual_ reason?” Colonel Dalton repeated. “Have you any reason at
all?”
“No,” Nona returned.
The Colonel glanced again at the papers in his hands. “Because you
were so kind as to nurse me at the Sacred Heart Hospital and because
I am aware of the noble work their nurses and doctors have been doing
for the wounded, I want no evil gossip to surround you. Do not mention
my errand, but say to your superintendent that I will call in person
to see her tomorrow evening. Perhaps you are right in not betraying
whomever it is you seem to suspect. Good-by.”
Colonel Dalton again bowed his head, and as another officer had entered
the room to speak to him, Nona hurried out.
The same lieutenant escorted her back to her starting point, but once
again Nona paid no attention to him. She was in a tumult of surprise,
apprehension and sorrow. A spy at the Sacred Heart Hospital, what
knowledge had Colonel Dalton to go upon? Yet he appeared convinced and
was too wise a man to accept a suspicion without proof.
No intimate personal sorrow had ever disturbed Nona Davis more
seriously. Yet these were days when one could not give way. She must
continue with her work as if nothing had happened and Colonel Dalton
had commanded that she confide in no one. Yet if she could only speak
of his suspicion to one single person, perhaps her own fears might be
dissipated, or else, or else--here Nona scarcely faced her own thought.
Perhaps the telling might enable the offender to escape while there was
still opportunity.
She was dazed and sick when her escort assisted her to alight for the
second time. Yet she had a vague sensation that his eyes were gazing at
her with a strange combination of amusement and sympathy. But of course
she must have been dreaming, because after she had walked several yards
away she thought she overheard him say, “Are you the gardener’s son?”
And really she had no right to believe the young officer had suddenly
lost his mind.