A Girl of the Commune Part 24

"Good gracious!" Mary exclaimed. "And I was due at the ambulance at eight. I must have been asleep hours and hours, madame. I lay awake for a time--two hours, perhaps, and the last thing I thought was that I should never get to sleep, and then I have slept all this dreadful time."

"Not a dreadful time at all," Madame Michaud said with a smile. "You have not slept a minute too long. I feared for you when you came in yesterday. I said to my husband in the evening, 'That angel is killing herself. She could scarce speak when she came in, and I cry when I think of her face.' You may thank the good G.o.d that you have slept so long and so soundly. I can tell you that you look a different being this morning."

"I feel different," Mary said, as she sprang up, "will you ask Margot to bring me my can of water at once."

"Yes, but drink your coffee and eat your bread first. Margot said you only took a few spoonsful of broth last night."

"I must have my bath first and then I will promise you I will drink the coffee and eat the last crumb of bread. You will see I shall be quite blooming by the time I come down."

Madame Michaud was obliged to admit that Mary looked more herself than she had done for days past when, half an hour later, she came downstairs ready to start.

"I shall be scolded dreadfully, madame, when I get to the ambulance four hours after my time."

"You look so much fitter for work, my dear, that if the doctor has eyes in his head, he will be well content that you have taken it out in sleep."

Mary walked with a brisk step down to the hospital.

"I will think no more of it," she said resolutely to herself. "I have chosen to be a nurse and I will go through with it. I think when I get home after this is over I will become a nursing sister--at any rate I may do some good at that; there is plenty of work in the world, even if it is not in the way I thought of doing it."

But she hesitated when she reached the tents, afraid to go in. One of the 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 am dreadfully late this morning and I should like to see him before I go in."

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. They thought I looked tired, when I came in, and were silly enough not to wake me this morning."

"Not silly at all, my dear. They did the very best thing for you, for you had gone through a terrible strain here. I am glad, indeed, it was sleep and not illness that kept you away. You are looking quite a different woman this morning."

"I am so glad that you are not angry. Please tell me how the wounded are getting on?"

"There were ten deaths in the night," he said, "but as a whole they are going on well. You will be glad to hear that the young Englishman who was shot through the body has pa.s.sed a quiet night, and I have now an almost a.s.sured hope that he will recover. Had there been any vital injury its effects would be visible by now. Now run in and take up your work."

With a grateful look Mary entered the tent and was soon engaged at her work. She was some little time before she made her way to the farther end 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 the strongest hopes now of your recovery."

"Yes, he has been telling me that I am doing well," he said. "Have you only just come? I have been wondering what had had become of you. You looked 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 to say how many hours. Of course I ought to have been here at eight, but they did not wake me, and I feel all the better for it."

"I remember not so long ago," he said, "that a certain young lady declared that it was ridiculous for persons to interfere in business which did not concern them. Now here you are knocking yourself up and going through horrible work for people who are nothing to you. That is a little 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 nothing inconsistent whatever in it. Well, thank G.o.d that you are better, Cuthbert. I should not have gone away yesterday afternoon if Dr.

Swinburne had not a.s.sured me that there was nothing that I could do for you, and that he really thought you might recover. You believe me, don't you?"

He nodded.

"I do believe you, Mary. I did not think myself that I had a shadow of a chance, but this morning I began to fancy that the doctor may be right, and that I may possibly live to be a s.h.i.+ning light among artists."

"Did you sleep at all?" she asked.

"Yes, I have been dozing on and off ever since you went away. I have drunk a good deal of brandy and water and I really think I could take some broth. I told the doctor so this morning, but he said I had better wait another twelve hours, and then I might have two or three spoonsful of arrowroot, but the less the better. I suppose there is no list of killed 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 Madame Michaud would have told me had there been a list published this morning."

Mary now turned to the next bed, but the patient was lying with his eyes closed.

"I expect he has gone off to sleep," Cuthbert said, "he has been in a lot of pain all night and half an hour ago they took off his bandages and put on fresh ones, and I fancy they must have hurt him amazingly. I could tell that by his quick breathing, for he did not utter a moan. I am glad that he has gone off to sleep. I heard the doctor tell him that he thought he might get the use of his arm again, though it would probably 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 you are quiet and good, I will come to you very often, but if not I shall hand you over to the charge of another nurse. I blame myself for asking you any questions. Indeed I am quite in earnest; you are not fit to talk; the slightest movement might possibly set your wound off bleeding; besides you are not strong enough; it is an effort to you, and the great thing is for you to be perfectly quiet and tranquil. Now shut your eyes and try to doze off again."

She spoke in a tone of nursely authority, and with a faint smile he obeyed her orders. She stood for a minute looking at him, and as she did so 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 before long. As yet weakness and fever, and pain, had scarcely begun their work of hollowing the cheeks and reducing him to a shadow of himself. There was already scarcely a tinge of color in his face, while there was a drawn look round the mouth and a bluish tinge on the lips. The eyes seemed deeper in the head and the expression of the face greatly changed--indeed, it was rather the lack of any expression that characterized it. It might have been a waxen mask.

From time to time she went back to him, and although the soft clinging material of her dress and her list slippers rendered her movements noiseless, he always seemed conscious of her presence, and opened his eyes with a little welcoming smile, as she stood beside him, sipped a few drops from the gla.s.s she held to his lips, and then closed his eyes again without a word. After a few hours the period of pain and fever set in, but the doctor found no reason for anxiety.

"You must expect it, my dear," he said to Mary one day when the fever was at its height. "A man cannot get through such a wound as his without a sharp struggle. Nature cannot be outraged with impunity. It is certain now that there was no vital injury, but pain and fever almost necessarily accompany the efforts of nature to repair damages. I see no reason for uneasiness at present. I should say that he has an excellent const.i.tution, and has never played the fool with it. In a few days in all probability the fever will abate, and as soon as it does so, he will be on the highway to convalescence."

During that ten days Mary seldom left the hospital, only s.n.a.t.c.hing a few hours sleep occasionally in a tent which had now been erected for the use of the nurses on duty. At the end of that time the struggle was over and the victory won, and Cuthbert lay terribly weak and a mere shadow of himself, 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," she answered, quietly. "Thank G.o.d you are quite out of danger now, and the doctor 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 nothing else, 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 use arguing. What has been happening outside?"

"Nothing. The troops were withdrawn the day after the fight when you were 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 and so restless, and talked so loud that the doctor had him carried into another ward so that you should not be disturbed by it. I have not seen him since, but I hear he is going on very well. Your friend Rene has been here twice--indeed he has been every day to inquire--but he was only let in twice. He seems a very kind-hearted fellow and was very cut up about you. I am sure he is very fond of you. He says that Monsieur Goude and the other students have all been most anxious about you, and that he comes as a sort of deputation from them all."

Rene had, indeed, quite won Mary's heat by the enthusiastic way in which he had spoken of Cuthbert, and had quite looked forward to the little chat she had with him every morning when he came to the ambulance for news.

"He is a grand fellow, mademoiselle," he would say, with tears in his eyes, "we all love him. He has such talents and such a great heart. It is not till now that we quite know him. When a man is dying men speak of things they would not tell otherwise. There are four or five that he has helped, and who but for him must have given up their studies. The rest of us had no idea of it. But when they knew how bad he was, first one broke down and then another, and each told how generously he had come to their aid and how delicately he had insisted upon helping them, making them promise to say no word of it to others. Ma foi, we all cried together. We have lost six of our number besides the five here. The rest, except Dampierre, are our countrymen, and yet it is of your Englishman that we think and talk most."