When Graydon Bansemer opened his eyes upon the world for the secondtime--it was as if he had been born again--he looked up into theeager, wistful face of Jane Cable. It was too much for her to expectthat he could see and understand at once; he would not know whathad gone before, nor why she was there. His feeble glance took inher face with lifeless interest. Perhaps it was because he had seenher in that death-like dream; perhaps his weakness kept him fromtrue realisation. In any event, he did no more than to allow theflicker of a smile to come into his eyes before he closed themagain. Breathlessly, she waited for the lids to lift once more.She uttered his name softly, tenderly, time and again. As if hearingsomeone calling from a great distance, he moved and again lookedupward, the consciousness of pain in his grey eyes. This time hestared hard at her; his eyes grew brighter and then darkened withwonder. At last she saw the look of surprise and joy and reliefthat she had been hungering for; he knew her and he was beginningto understand.
If he heard her while she knelt and thanked Ged for this firstgreat ray of hope, he gave forth no sign. When she turned her eyesto his face again he was asleep. But she went forth into the daywith a song in her heart.
She looked about for Teresa. The girl was gone, no one knew whither.Bray alone could say that she had started toward the thicket.He pointed out the direction, but did not offer to accompany Janewhen she hurried away to carry the good news to the Spanish girlwho had been her staunch helper during the long vigil. Bray shookhis puzzled head as he followed her with his gaze. It had cometo him suddenly that the Spanish girl was not the solution to thepuzzle, after all.
Jane found the slim boyish figure lying on the ground, deep in thewood. She had been crying and made no attempt to subdue her emotionswhen the American girl came up to her; instead, she bitterly pouredout her woe into the ears of the other. She told her of Bray'sinsult--as she termed his unfortunate speculation--and she toldhow it came about.
"I am a good girl, Miss Cable," she cried. "I am of a noble family-notof the canaille. You do not believe it of me? No! He had no rightto accuse me. I was a prisoner; Senor Bansemer was my rescuer. Iloved him for it. See, I cannot help it, I cannot hide it from you.But he is yours. I have no claim. I do not ask it. Oh!" and hereher voice rose to a wail of anguish, "can you not procure somethingelse for me to wear? These rags are intolerable. I hate them! Icannot go back there unless I have---"
"We can give you a few garments, dear," said Jane. "Come! You shallwear the nurse's uniform. We are to start on the long march to thecoast to-morrow. They say that ALL of the wounded can be moved bythat time."
It was three days, however, before the little company left thevillage and began its slow, irksome march across the country towardthe coast where the ship was to pick up the wounded men and conveythem to Manila, Native carriers, cheerful amigos since the disasterto Pilar, went forward with the stretchers, the hospital wagonsand guard following. Travelling was necessarily slow and the haltswere frequent. There were occasional shots from hidden riflemen,but there were no casualties. Food had been scarce; the commissarywas thinly supplied for the hard trip. Lieutenant Bray grew strangelymorose and indifferent. He was taciturn, almost unfriendly in hisattitude toward everyone.
The little company stopped to rest in a beautiful; valley, besidethe banks of a swift stream. He watched Jane as she moved awayfrom the stretcher which held Bansemer, following her to the edgeof the stream where she had come to gaze pensively into the future.
"How is he?" he asked. She started and a warm glow came into hercheek.
"He is doing nicely. If he can bear up until we reach Manila, hewill surely live. Are we going as rapidly as we should, LieutenantBray?"
"Quite, Miss Cable. It isn't an easy march, you must: remember."After a long silence, he suddenly remarked: "Miss Cable, I'vegot a rather shameful confession to make. I've had some very basethoughts to contend with. You may have guessed it or not, but I carea great deal for you--more than for anyone else I've ever known.You say he is to get well. For days I wished that he might die.Don't look like that, please. I couldn't help it. I went so far,at one stage, as to contemplate a delay in marching that might haveproved fatal to him. I thought of that way and others of which Ican't tell you. Thank God, I was man enough to put them away fromme! Wait, please! Let me finish. You have said you will not marryhim. I don't ask why you will not. I love you. Will you be my wife?"
She stared at him with consternation in her eyes. He had gone onso rapidly that she could not check his rapid speech. Her hand wentto her brow and a piteous smile tried to force itself to her lips.
"I am sorry," she said at last. "I am sorry you have spoken to meof it. I have felt for some time that you--you cared for me. No,Lieutenant Bray, I cannot be your wife."
"I know you love him," he said.
"Yes, it is plain. I have not tried to hide it."
"You must understand why I asked you to be my wife, knowing thatyou love him. It was to hear it from your own lips, so that I wouldnot go through life with the feeling, after all, that it mighthave been. Will you tell me the reason why you cannot marry him?He must love you."
"Lieutenant Bray, he would marry me to-morrow, I think, if I wereto consent. It isn't that. It would not be right for me to consent.You profess to love me. I have seen it in your eyes--oh, I havelearned much of men in the past few months--and I determined, ifyou ever asked me to marry you, to ask a question in return. Doyou really know who I am?"
He looked his surprise. "Why, the daughter of David Cable, ofcourse."
"No, I am not his daughter."
"His stepdaughter?"
"Not even that. You come from a proud Southern family. I do notknow who my parents were."
"Good Heaven, you-you don't mean you were waif?"
"A waif without a name, Lieutenant Bray. This is not self-abasement;it is not the parading of misfortune. It is because you have madethe mistake of loving me. If you care less for me now than you didbefore, you will spread this information throughout the army."
"Believe me, I am not that sort."
"Thank you. Knowing what you now do, could you ask me to be yourwife?"
"Don't put it just that way," he stammered.
"Ah, I see. It was a cruel question. And yet it proves that you donot love as Graydon Bansemer loves."
"Some day you may find out all about your parents and be happy.You may have been abducted and---" he was saying, his face whiteand wet. Somehow he felt that he was chastening himself.
"Perhaps," she said quietly. "I might not have told you this hadnot the story been printed in every newspaper in the States justbefore I left. You see, I did not know it until just a few monthsago. I thought you might have read of me. I--I am so notorious."
"Jane, dear Jane, you must not feel that way!" he cried, as shestarted quickly away. "It's---" But she turned and motioned forhim to cease. There were tears in her eyes. He stood stock still."She's wonderful!" he said to himself, as she walked away. "Evennow, I believe I could--Pshaw! It ought not to make any difference!If it wasn't for my family--What's in a name, anyway? A name---"He started to answer his own question, but halted abruptly, squaredhis shoulders and then with true Southern, military bearing strodeaway, murmuring:
"A name is something; yes, family is everything."
Jane went at once to Graydon. His great grey eyes smiled a gladwelcome. She took his hand in hers and sat upon the ground besidehim, watching his face until they were ready to resume the journey.
"Would it not be better if he were to die?" she found herselfwondering, with strange inconstancy to her purpose. "Why could itnot have been I instead of he? How hard it will be for us to liveafter this. Dear, dear Graydon, if--if I only were different fromwhat I am."
Not a word of his father's conduct toward her, not a word of blamefor the blow his father had struck. She held him to no account forthe baseness of that father; only did she hold herself unfit to behis wife. All of the ignominy and shame fell to her lot, none tothe well-born son of the tradu
cer.
Fortune and strength went hand in hand for the next two days andthe famished, worn-out company came to the coast. The wounded menwere half-delirious once more for lack of proper attention, and thehardships of travel. But the ill-wind had spent its force. Bray'sinstructions were to place his charges on board ship at San Fernandode Union, and then await further orders in the little coast town.It meant good-bye to Jane, and that meant more to him than, he waswilling to admit, despite all that she had said to him. He went toher when the ship was ready to leave port.
"Good-bye!" he said. "I'm more grieved than I can tell you, becauseI believe you think I am a cad."
"Lieutenant Bray, a cad never would have helped me as you havehelped me, in spite of yourself. Good-bye!"
He went out of her life in that moment.
There were vexatious delays, however, before sailings Almost at thelast moment Jane was approached by Teresa Velasquez, now partlydressed as a Red Cross nurse. The Spanish girl was nervous anduneasy. Her dark eyes held two ever changing lights--one sombre,the other bright and piercing.
"I have decided to wait for the next ship," she announced briefly.
"You are not going with us?" cried Jane in surprise and distress."What has happened?"
"It is impossible; I cannot go with you. Pray do not ask for myreason. Good-bye. Will you say good-bye to--to him for me?"
Jane was silent for a long time, studying the eyes of the Spanishgirl.
"I think I understand," she said at last, taking Teresa's hands inhers.
"It is better that it be ended here," said Teresa, "I have enduredit as long as I can. You have been good to me, and I want to saygood-bye while there is love for you in my heart. I am afraid tostay near you--and him. Don't you see? I cannot go on in this way."
"Oh, Teresa!"
"Yes, yes, I know it is wrong, but how can I help it? I've lovedhim ever since I first saw him--saved his life." Jane was astounded.The thrust pierced her to the quick.
"Saved his life?"
"Yes, though he does not know it. It was when we were prisoners ofthe Filipinos. My poor brother was dying. From the convent Aguinaldoand his men were watching and directing the fight on the plaza.They paid no attention to me--a girl. The noise of the fightingmen was terrible, and I climbed up to a window where I could see.Suddenly, below me, I saw two men fighting apart from the strugglingmass. In an instant it flashed through my mind that the Filipinowas overpowering the other--was going to kill him. Although I hatedthem equally, there was something in the young soldier's face--Icould not see him murdered. I seized a pistol that was lying nearme and fired; the Filipino fell. In terror of the deed and fearof discovery, I ran to my brother. In a moment the Americans brokeinto the convent. You know the rest."
Jane was suffering the keenest pangs of jealousy, and asked,excitedly:
"You--you did that?"
"And finally, when I had learned to care for him and he was wounded,to have been denied the right of nursing him back to life--my placeusurped by you. Surely, I have as much to be proud of as you andI love him a great deal more!"
"As much to be proud of---" Jane was saying, for the moment allthe warmth gone from her voice, the flame from her cheeks; but hermeaning could not have been understood by the other who proudly,defiantly tossed back her head. Beautiful indeed was thisbrown-skinned, black-eyed girl, as she stood there pleading herrights to an unrequited love--a heart already tenanted by another,and that other, the woman before her.
"Now, can you imagine," the girl went on, "how it has hurt me tosee you caring for him, to see his eyes forever searching for you?No?" They were silent a moment. A wistful look was in her eyes now,and her voice unmistakably reconcilable when she resumed: "Ah, hewas so good and true when I was alone with them--before you came! Ipray God, now, that he may be well and that you may make him happy."
"Alas, I am afraid that can never be! You cannot understand, andI cannot explain."
"Your family objects because he is poor and a common soldier? Yes?"She laughed bitterly, a green light in her eyes. "If it were I, noone could keep me from belonging to him--I would---"
"Don't! Don't say it! You don't understand!" Jane reiterated.
"Dios, how I loved him! I would have gone through my whole lifewith him! He must have known it, too."
"He was true to me," said Jane, her figure straightening involuntarily,a new gleam in her eyes.
"Ah, you are lucky, senorita! I love you, and I could hate you soeasily! Go! Go! Take him with you and give him life! Forget me asI shall forget you both!" And impulsively taking from round herneck an Agnus Dei which she was wearing, she placed it in Jane'shands, and added: "Give this to him, please, and do not forget totell him that I sent good-bye and good luck."
Jane would have kissed her had not the blazing eyes of the otherforbade. They merely clasped hands, and Teresa turned away.
"My uncle lives in Manila. He will take me to Madrid. We cannotlive here with these pigs of Americans about us," she said shortly.A moment later she was lost in the crowd.
Jane's heart was heavy when the ship moved away. Her eyes searchedthrough the throng for the slight figure of the girl who hadabandoned a lost cause.
CHAPTER XXVII
"IF THEY DON'T KILL YOU"