CHAPTER XV.
Mary Brander made her way wearily home.
"You have had another terrible time, I can see it in your face," MadameMichaud said, as she entered. "They say there have been four thousandwounded and fifteen hundred killed. I cannot understand how you supportsuch scenes."
"It has been a hard time," Mary said; "I will go up to my room at once,madame. I am worn out."
"Do so, my dear. I will send you in a basin of broth."
Without even taking her bonnet off Mary dropped into a chair when sheentered her room and sat there till Margot brought in the broth.
"I don't think I can take it, thank you, Margot."
"But you must take it, mademoiselle," the servant said, sturdily; "butwait a moment, let me take off your bonnet and brush your hair. There isnothing like having your hair brushed when you are tired."
Passively Mary submitted to the woman's ministrations, and presentlyfelt soothed, as Margot with, by no means ungentle hands, brushedsteadily the long hair she had let down.
"You feel better, mademoiselle?" the woman asked, presently. "That isright, now take a little of this broth. Please try, and then I will takeoff your cloak and frock and you shall lie down, and I will cover youup."
Mary made an effort to drink the broth, then the servant partlyundressed her and covered her up warmly with blankets, drew the curtainsacross the window and left her with the words. "Sleep well,mademoiselle."
But for a time Mary felt utterly unable to sleep. She was too worn outfor that relief. It had been a terrible time for her. For twenty-fourhours she had been engaged unceasingly in work of the most tryingdescription. The scent of blood still seemed to hang about her, and shevaguely wondered whether she should ever get rid of it. Then there hadbeen her own special anxiety and suspense, and the agony of seeingCuthbert brought in apparently wounded to death. The last blow had beendealt by this woman. She said she was his fiancee, but although she hadit from her lips, Mary could not believe it. She might be his mistressbut surely not the other. Surely he could never make that wildpassionate woman his wife. Then she felt she was unjust. This poorcreature would naturally be in a passion of grief and agony, at findingthat she could not go to the bedside of the man she loved. She shouldnot judge her from that. She remembered how different was her expressionin some of the sketches she had seen in Cuthbert's book.
"At any rate," she said to herself with a hard sob, "I have no right tocomplain. He told me he loved me and I was almost indignant at the idea,and told him he was not worthy of my love. There was an end of it. Hewas free to do as he liked, and of course put it out of his mindaltogether as I did out of mine. How could I tell that the time wouldcome when I should find out what a terrible mistake I had made, howcould I dream of such a thing! How could I guess that he would come intomy life again and that he would have the power to spoil it! What a fool,I have been. What a conceited, silly fool," and so Mary Brander'sthoughts ran on till they become more and more vague, and sleep at lastarrested them altogether. She was awakened by Madame Michaud coming intothe room with a cup of coffee.
"Well, my child, have you slept well?"
"Have I slept, madame? It cannot have been for more than a minute ortwo." She looked round in surprise. "Why, it is broad daylight, whattime is it?"
"It is eleven o'clock, my dear. I thought it was time to arouse you, andin truth I was getting anxious that you had not made your appearance. Itis seventeen hours since you lay down."
"Good gracious!" Mary exclaimed. "And I was due at the ambulance ateight. I must have been asleep hours and hours, madame. I lay awake fora time--two hours, perhaps, and the last thing I thought was that Ishould never get to sleep, and then I have slept all this dreadfultime."
"Not a dreadful time at all," Madame Michaud said with a smile. "Youhave not slept a minute too long. I feared for you when you came inyesterday. I said to my husband in the evening, 'That angel is killingherself. She could scarce speak when she came in, and I cry when I thinkof her face.' You may thank the good God that you have slept so long andso soundly. I can tell you that you look a different being thismorning."
"I feel different," Mary said, as she sprang up, "will you ask Margot tobring me my can of water at once."
"Yes, but drink your coffee and eat your bread first. Margot said youonly took a few spoonsful of broth last night."
"I must have my bath first and then I will promise you I will drink thecoffee and eat the last crumb of bread. You will see I shall be quiteblooming by the time I come down."
Madame Michaud was obliged to admit that Mary looked more herself thanshe had done for days past when, half an hour later, she came downstairsready to start.
"I shall be scolded dreadfully, madame, when I get to the ambulance fourhours after my time."
"You look so much fitter for work, my dear, that if the doctor has eyesin his head, he will be well content that you have taken it out insleep."
Mary walked with a brisk step down to the hospital.
"I will think no more of it," she said resolutely to herself. "I havechosen to be a nurse and I will go through with it. I think when I gethome after this is over I will become a nursing sister--at any rate Imay do some good at that; there is plenty of work in the world, even ifit is not in the way I thought of doing it."
But she hesitated when she reached the tents, afraid to go in. One ofthe other nurses came out presently.
"Which tent is Dr. Swinburne in?" she asked.
"In this," she said, "I was just speaking to him."
"Would you mind going in again and asking him to come out. I amdreadfully late this morning and I should like to see him before I goin."
A minute later the surgeon came out.
"What is it, Miss Brander?" he said, kindly. "I missed you this morning,and hoped you were taking a good sleep."
"That was just it, Doctor, and I do feel so ashamed of myself. Theythought I looked tired, when I came in, and were silly enough not towake me this morning."
"Not silly at all, my dear. They did the very best thing for you, foryou had gone through a terrible strain here. I am glad, indeed, it wassleep and not illness that kept you away. You are looking quite adifferent woman this morning."
"I am so glad that you are not angry. Please tell me how the wounded aregetting on?"
"There were ten deaths in the night," he said, "but as a whole they aregoing on well. You will be glad to hear that the young Englishman whowas shot through the body has passed a quiet night, and I have now analmost assured hope that he will recover. Had there been any vitalinjury its effects would be visible by now. Now run in and take up yourwork."
With a grateful look Mary entered the tent and was soon engaged at herwork. She was some little time before she made her way to the fartherend of the tent. Then she went quietly up to Cuthbert's bedside.
"I have just had good news of you, Cuthbert. The doctor says he has thestrongest hopes now of your recovery."
"Yes, he has been telling me that I am doing well," he said. "Have youonly just come? I have been wondering what had had become of you. Youlooked so pale, yesterday, that I was afraid you might be ill."
"I have been sleeping like a top," she said, "for I should be ashamed tosay how many hours. Of course I ought to have been here at eight, butthey did not wake me, and I feel all the better for it."
"I remember not so long ago," he said, "that a certain young ladydeclared that it was ridiculous for persons to interfere in businesswhich did not concern them. Now here you are knocking yourself up andgoing through horrible work for people who are nothing to you. That is alittle inconsistent."
"I do not argue with people who cannot speak above a whisper," she said."Another time I shall be able to prove to you that there is nothinginconsistent whatever in it. Well, thank God that you are better,Cuthbert. I should not have gone away yesterday afternoon if Dr.Swinburne had not assured me that there was nothing that I could do foryou, and that he really thought you might recover. You believe
me, don'tyou?"
He nodded.
"I do believe you, Mary. I did not think myself that I had a shadow of achance, but this morning I began to fancy that the doctor may be right,and that I may possibly live to be a shining light among artists."
"Did you sleep at all?" she asked.
"Yes, I have been dozing on and off ever since you went away. I havedrunk a good deal of brandy and water and I really think I could takesome broth. I told the doctor so this morning, but he said I had betterwait another twelve hours, and then I might have two or three spoonsfulof arrowroot, but the less the better. I suppose there is no list ofkilled and wounded published yet. I should like to know who had gone.They were good fellows, every one of them."
"I don't know, Cuthbert, but I should hardly think so. I think MadameMichaud would have told me had there been a list published thismorning."
Mary now turned to the next bed, but the patient was lying with his eyesclosed.
"I expect he has gone off to sleep," Cuthbert said, "he has been in alot of pain all night and half an hour ago they took off his bandagesand put on fresh ones, and I fancy they must have hurt him amazingly. Icould tell that by his quick breathing, for he did not utter a moan. Iam glad that he has gone off to sleep. I heard the doctor tell him thathe thought he might get the use of his arm again, though it wouldprobably be stiff for some time."
"You must not talk, indeed you mustn't," she said, facing round again."I am sure the doctor must have told you to keep perfectly quiet. If youare quiet and good, I will come to you very often, but if not I shallhand you over to the charge of another nurse. I blame myself for askingyou any questions. Indeed I am quite in earnest; you are not fit totalk; the slightest movement might possibly set your wound off bleeding;besides you are not strong enough; it is an effort to you, and the greatthing is for you to be perfectly quiet and tranquil. Now shut your eyesand try to doze off again."
She spoke in a tone of nursely authority, and with a faint smile heobeyed her orders. She stood for a minute looking at him, and as she didso her eyes filled with tears at the change that a few days had made,and yet her experience taught her that it would be far greater beforelong. As yet weakness and fever, and pain, had scarcely begun their workof hollowing the cheeks and reducing him to a shadow of himself. Therewas already scarcely a tinge of color in his face, while there was adrawn look round the mouth and a bluish tinge on the lips. The eyesseemed deeper in the head and the expression of the face greatlychanged--indeed, it was rather the lack of any expression thatcharacterized it. It might have been a waxen mask.
From time to time she went back to him, and although the soft clingingmaterial of her dress and her list slippers rendered her movementsnoiseless, he always seemed conscious of her presence, and opened hiseyes with a little welcoming smile, as she stood beside him, sipped afew drops from the glass she held to his lips, and then closed his eyesagain without a word. After a few hours the period of pain and fever setin, but the doctor found no reason for anxiety.
"You must expect it, my dear," he said to Mary one day when the feverwas at its height. "A man cannot get through such a wound as his withouta sharp struggle. Nature cannot be outraged with impunity. It iscertain now that there was no vital injury, but pain and fever almostnecessarily accompany the efforts of nature to repair damages. I see noreason for uneasiness at present. I should say that he has an excellentconstitution, and has never played the fool with it. In a few days inall probability the fever will abate, and as soon as it does so, he willbe on the highway to convalescence."
During that ten days Mary seldom left the hospital, only snatching a fewhours sleep occasionally in a tent which had now been erected for theuse of the nurses on duty. At the end of that time the struggle was overand the victory won, and Cuthbert lay terribly weak and a mere shadow ofhimself, but free from fever and with perfect consciousness in his eyes.
"How long have I been here?" he asked Mary.
"I think it is a fortnight to-day since you came in, Cuthbert," sheanswered, quietly. "Thank God you are quite out of danger now, and thedoctor says all we have got to do is to build you up."
"You have had a hard time of it, child," he said, "though I knew nothingelse, I seemed to be conscious that you were always near me."
"I have had plenty of sleep, Cuthbert, and am perfectly well," she said,cheerfully.
"Then your look belies you," he said, "but I know that it is no usearguing. What has been happening outside?"
"Nothing. The troops were withdrawn the day after the fight when youwere wounded, and nothing has been done since."
"How is Dampierre getting on?" he asked.
"He is getting on well, I believe," she replied. "He was delirious andso restless, and talked so loud that the doctor had him carried intoanother ward so that you should not be disturbed by it. I have not seenhim since, but I hear he is going on very well. Your friend Rene hasbeen here twice--indeed he has been every day to inquire--but he wasonly let in twice. He seems a very kind-hearted fellow and was very cutup about you. I am sure he is very fond of you. He says that MonsieurGoude and the other students have all been most anxious about you, andthat he comes as a sort of deputation from them all."
Rene had, indeed, quite won Mary's heat by the enthusiastic way in whichhe had spoken of Cuthbert, and had quite looked forward to the littlechat she had with him every morning when he came to the ambulance fornews.
"He is a grand fellow, mademoiselle," he would say, with tears in hiseyes, "we all love him. He has such talents and such a great heart. Itis not till now that we quite know him. When a man is dying men speak ofthings they would not tell otherwise. There are four or five that he hashelped, and who but for him must have given up their studies. The restof us had no idea of it. But when they knew how bad he was, first onebroke down and then another, and each told how generously he had come totheir aid and how delicately he had insisted upon helping them, makingthem promise to say no word of it to others. Ma foi, we all criedtogether. We have lost six of our number besides the five here. Therest, except Dampierre, are our countrymen, and yet it is of yourEnglishman that we think and talk most."
All this was very pleasant to Mary. Cuthbert was now of course nothingto her, but it soothed her to hear his praises. He had been wicked inone respect, but in all others he seemed to have been what she hadthought of him when he was a child, save that he developed a talent andthe power of steady work, for which she had never given him credit, foron this head Rene was as emphatic as on other points.
"He will be a great artist, mademoiselle, if he lives. You do notknow how much the master thought of him and so did we all. He workedharder than any of us, much harder; but it was not that only. He hastalent, great talent, while the rest of us are but daubers. You willsee his pictures hung on the line and that before long. We are allburning to see those he was painting for the Salon this year. Thereare only three of us painting for that, the master would not let anyothers think of it. Pierre Leroux is the third and he would have hadlittle chance of being hung had not the Englishman gone into his roomone day, and taking his brush from his hand transformed his picturealtogether--transformed it, mademoiselle--and even Goude says now thatit is good and will win a place. But Pierre declares that he has notthe heart to finish it. If Cuthbert dies he will put it by for anotheryear."
Rene was admitted to see Cuthbert the day after the fever had left himand sat for an hour by his bedside telling, after his first burst ofemotion on seeing the change that had taken place in him, about the fateof his comrades in the studio. Mary did not go near them. There werequestions Cuthbert would want to ask. Messages that he would want tosend that she ought not to hear. She had wondered that this woman, whohad for a time come every day and had as regularly made a scene at theentrance to the ambulance, had, since Cuthbert was at his worst, ceasedcoming.
She had never asked about her, and was ignorant that for the last fourdays she had been allowed to sit for a time by the side of a patient inanother ward. She t
hought most likely that she was ill and had brokendown under the stress of her grief and anxiety. She had even in thoughtpitied her. It was she and not herself that ought to be watchingCuthbert's bedside. She might not be good, but she was a woman and sheloved, and it must be terrible for her to know how ill he was and neverto be allowed even to see him for a moment. It was evident that she hadbeen taken ill, and when on Rene's leaving she went to her patient sheexpected to find him downcast and anxious. Sad he certainly was, but hedid not seem to her restless or excited as she had expected.
"I have been hearing of the others," he said. "Six of them are gone, allmerry lads, taking life easily, as students do, but with plenty of goodin them, that would have come to the surface later on. It will make asad gap in our ranks when the rest of us come together again. Thewounded are all going on well, I hear, that of course is a greatcomfort. I hear the other two companies suffered much more than we did.The walls we fought behind saved us a good deal you see. Rene says thetroops all went out again three days ago, and that there was a talk ofa great fight, but there has only been some skirmishing and they havebegun to come back into the town again. Our corps did not go out. Theythink they have done a fair share of the work, and I think so too. Renesays the old major, who is now in command, is so furious at thecowardice shown last time by the National Guards and some of the troopsthat he declares he will not take out his brave lads to throw away theirlives when the Parisians will not venture within musket-shot of theenemy.
"I think he is quite right. I hope there will be no more sorties, for Iam sure it would be useless. If you had seen, as I did, seven or eightthousand men running like a flock of frightened sheep, you would agreewith me that it would be hopeless to think of breaking through theGermans with such troops as this. One victory would make all thedifference in the world to their morale, but they will never win thatone victory, and it will take years before the French soldier regainshis old confidence in himself. Have you taken to rats yet, Mary?" heasked, with a flash of his old manner.
"No, sir, and do not mean to. We are still going on very fairly. Themeat rations are very small, but we boil them down into broth, and as wehave plenty of bread to sop into it we do very well; our store of eggshave held on until now. We have been having them beaten up in ourmorning coffee instead of milk, but they are just gone, and MadameMichaud says that we must now begin upon the preserved meat. We are along way from rats yet, though I believe they are really hunted andeaten in great numbers in the poorer quarters."
"And there is no talk of surrender?"
"No talk at all; they say we can hold on for another month yet."
"What is the news from the provinces?"
"Everywhere bad. Bourbaki has been obliged to take refuge in Switzerlandand his force has been disarmed there. Chanzy has been beaten badly nearNew Orleans, and the Prussians have probably by this time entered Tours.Faidherbe has gained some successes in the north, but as the Germansare pushing forward there, as well as everywhere else, that does notmake very much difference to us."
"Then what on earth's the use of holding out any longer," he said. "Itis sheer stupidity. I suppose the Parisians think that, as they can'tfight, they will at least show that they can starve. What is the weatherlike? I felt very cold last night though I had plenty of blankets on."
"It is terribly cold," she said. "The snow is deep on the ground--it isone of the coldest winters that has been for years."
"What is the day of the month?"
"The 26th."
"Then yesterday was Christmas Day."
"Yes," she said, "not a merry Christmas this year to any of us--no roastbeef, no plum-pudding, no mince-pies--and yet, Cuthbert, I had everyreason to be thankful, for what a much more unhappy Christmas it mighthave been to me."
He nodded.
"I know what you mean. Yes, you would have missed me, child, cut off aswe are from the world here. I am, as it were, the sole representative ofyour family. Of course, you have not heard from them."
She shook her head.
"I don't suppose they trouble much about me," she said, a littlebitterly, "I am a sort of disappointment, you know. Of course I havebeen away now for nearly two years, except for the fortnight I was overthere, and even before that I scarcely seemed to belong to them. I didnot care for the things that they thought a great deal of, and they hadno interest in the things I cared for. Somehow I don't think I have goton well with them ever since I went up to Girton. I see now it wasentirely my own fault. It does not do for a girl to have tastesdiffering from those of her family."
"I felt that, Mary. I felt it very much. I have told myself ever sincethe day of dear old father's death that I have been a brute, and I wishwith all my heart I had put aside my own whims and gone in for a countrylife. It is all very well to say I did not like it, but I ought to havemade myself like it; or if I could not do that, I ought to have made apretence of liking it, and to have stuck to him as long as I lived. Ihadn't even the excuse of having any high purpose before me."
"We all make mistakes in our lives, Cuthbert," the girl said, quietly,"and it is of no use bemoaning them--at any rate you have done your bestto retrieve yours, and I mean to do my best to retrieve mine. I havequite made up my mind that when this is over I shall go to London and beregularly trained as a hospital nurse, and then join a nursingsisterhood."
"What! and give up woman in general?" Cuthbert said, with a faint laugh."Will you abandon your down-trodden sisters? Impossible, Mary."
"It is quite possible," she said, in a business-like manner.
"Become a back-slider! Mary, you absolutely shock me. At present youhave got nursing on the brain. I should have thought that this ambulancework would have been enough for a life-time. At any rate I should adviseyou to think it over very seriously before you commit yourself toodeeply to this new fad. Nursing is one of the greatest gifts of women,but after all woman wasn't made only to nurse, any more than she was todevote her life to championing her sex."
Mary did not reply but silently moved off with an air of deeply-offendeddignity.
"What an enthusiastic little woman she is," Cuthbert laughed quietly tohimself; "anyhow she is a splendid nurse, and I would infinitely rathersee her so, than as a female spouter on platforms. I fancied the siegemight have had some effect on her. She has seen something of therealities of life and was likely to give up theorizing. She looks olderand more womanly, softer a good deal than she was. I think I can improvethat picture now. I had never seen her look soft before, and had totrust to my imagination. I am sure I can improve it now."
Another fortnight and Cuthbert was out of bed and able to walk about inthe ward and to render little services to other patients.
"Do you know, Mary," he said, one day, when she happened to be idle andwas standing talking to him as he sat on the edge of his bed, "a curiousthing happened to me the very day before we went out on that sortie. Isaw that fellow, Cumming, the rascal that ruined the bank, and thenbolted, you know. For a moment I did not recall his face, but it struckme directly afterwards. I saw him go into a house. He has grown a beard,and he is evidently living as a quiet and respected British resident. Itwas a capital idea of his, for he is as safe here as he would be if hewere up in a balloon. I intended to look him up when I got back againinto Paris, but you see circumstances prevented my doing so."
"Of course you will get him arrested as soon as the siege is over,Cuthbert. I am very glad that he is found."
"Well, I don't know that I had quite made up my mind about that. I don'tsuppose that he made off with any great sum. You see the companies hebolstered up with the bank's money, all smashed at the same time. Idon't suppose that he intended to rob the bank at the time he helpedthem. Probably he had sunk all his savings in them, and thought theywould pull round with the aid of additional capital. As far as I couldmake out, from the report of the men who went into the matter, he didnot seem to have drawn any money at all on his own account, until thevery day he bolted, when he took the eight or ten thou
sand pounds therewas in the safe. No. I don't think I meant to hand him over or indeed tosay anything about it. I thought I would give him a good fright, whichhe richly deserves, and then ask him a few questions. I have never quiteunderstood how it was that dear old dad came to buy those shares. I didinquire so far as to find out it was Cumming himself who transferredthem to him, and I should really like to hear what was said at the time.If the man can prove to me that when he sold them he did not know thatthe bank was going to break, I should have no ill-will against him, butif I were sure he persuaded him to buy, knowing that ruin would follow,I would hunt him down and spare no pains to get him punished."
"Why should he have persuaded your father to buy those shares?"
"That's just what I cannot make out. He could have had no interest ininvolving him in the smash. Besides they were not on intimate terms inany way. I cannot imagine that my father would have gone to him foradvice in reference to business investments. It was, of course, to yourfather he would have turned in such matters."
"How long had he been a shareholder?"
"He bought the shares only two months before his death, which makes thematter all the more singular."
"What did father say, Cuthbert?" the girl said, after a short pause. "Isuppose you spoke to him about it."
"He said that my father had heard some rumors to the effect that thebank was not in a good state, and having no belief whatever in them, hebought the shares, thinking that his doing so would have a good effectupon its credit, in which as a sort of county institution, he felt aninterest."
"But did not father, who was solicitor to the bank, and must have knownsomething of its affairs, warn him of the danger that he was running?"
"That is what I asked him myself, but he said that he only attended toits legal business, and outside that knew nothing of its affairs."
"It seems a curious affair altogether," Mary said, gravely, "But it istime for me to be at work again."