Chapter 22

"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.