CHAPTER XV
Captain Trevanion did not go to the front as soon as he had expected. That was why, although few people in St. Ia knew anything about it, he again found himself at Penwennack. As chance would have it, he found Nancy at home. The Admiral had been called to London on Admiralty business, and so the girl, who had not yet undertaken the duties for which she had offered herself, was alone when the Captain arrived.
"Nancy," said Trevanion, who had been a friend of the family for years, "forgive me, but I could not help coming. The date of our starting has been put off for a day or two, so I found myself with a few hours to spare. You do not seem pleased to see me. Why?"
"I am sorry you should think so," was Nancy's reply. "But, you see, I did not expect you. Wouldn't it be—that is—isn't it a sort of anti-climax to come down here like this, after the great send-off St. Ia gave you?"
She laughed nervously as she spoke, and, although a faint flush tinged her cheeks, it was easy to see that she was far from well.
"What do I care about climaxes or anti-climaxes?" cried Trevanion. "I came because I couldn't help it. I knew you hadn't gone abroad, and I came just on the chance of seeing you. I caught the early train at Plymouth, and here I am. I must get back to-night."
"I'm afraid I'm no good at tennis or golf just now," said Nancy, "still
I'll——"
"Hang tennis and golf!" interrupted Trevanion. "I didn't come all the way from Plymouth for that. I came because—because—but you know why? I say," he went on hurriedly, "you know Gossett of the Engineers, don't you? He goes to-morrow, and—and he was married yesterday. Both he and—and his wife felt they couldn't wait any longer. I suppose her people tried to dissuade her from getting married at such a time as this; but she wouldn't listen to them. 'I'm going to get married because Jack is going to the front,' was her reply to the croakers. 'I want him to feel that he has a wife waiting at home for him.' 'But suppose he should be killed?' said an old dame. 'Then I'd rather be his widow than his fiancée,' was her reply. Plucky, wasn't it?"
Nancy did not reply.
"Hosts of chaps have done the same thing," went on Trevanion hurriedly. "They had meant to have waited for months, but when the war came on they determined to marry right away."
"Are you thinking of getting married?" Nancy was angry with herself the moment she had spoken, but she was excited beyond measure, and the words escaped her almost unconsciously.
"Would to God I could!" cried Trevanion excitedly. "I'd give—heavens, what wouldn't I give for the chance! I say, Nancy, you know why I've come down, don't you? You—you didn't give me a chance to speak the other day, but now I feel as though I can't be silent any longer. You know how I love you, Nancy—you must know, you must have seen it for months—and—and—perhaps in a way it's cowardly of me to come to you like this, when I'm possibly going to my death. But I couldn't help myself, Nancy. If—if—you could only give me a little hope!"
Nancy did not reply—indeed, for the moment she was unable to speak. The last three weeks had tried her sorely. She had as she had thought decided to link her fate with that of Bob Nancarrow. She had, in spite of herself, confessed her love for him, and had promised to be his wife. Then suddenly the heavens had become black. The great war had broken out, and then when almost every young man she knew had offered himself for his country, the man she loved had proved a coward, and had sought to hide his cowardice behind pious platitudes. She blushed with shame as she thought of it. She hated herself for having loved a man who was unworthy to call himself an Englishman. And yet she had told him that she loved him. She had allowed him to hold her in his arms, while he had rained kisses on her lips. She, the daughter of Admiral Tresize, she, who bore a name which had ever been honoured among people who had fought for their country's safety and honour, had promised herself to a poltroon, a coward! The thought was maddening, and yet she had not been able to drive her love from her heart. In spite of his cowardice she still loved him. Even when she sought to insult him at the recruiting meeting she loved him. She constantly found herself trying to make excuses for him. But the fact remained. He had held back in the time of his country's peril, he had refused to listen when the King had sent out his call! Even when she had given him the white feather, his manhood had not been aroused. He had stood like a sulky school-boy, ashamed of his cowardice, but still a coward.
Yes, all was over between herself and Bob Nancarrow. How could it be otherwise? She had given him every chance to explain himself, and she had listened to his reasons for holding back. And such reasons! How could she, Nancy Tresize, who came from a race of fighters, accept such paltry excuses? Christianity to her meant the highest code of honour: it meant faithfulness to promise, it meant honour, it meant truth, it meant defending the weak—and in all this Bob had failed.
And yet she loved him. In her heart of hearts she did not believe he was a coward; as for meanness and dishonour, they were alien to his nature.
Of course she knew why Captain Trevanion had come, even before he had spoken. She had not been blind during the past year, and therefore, could not mistake the meaning of his attentions. She admired him too. He was just the kind of man she had always admired. He was the son of one of the oldest and most honoured families in the land; he was generous, chivalrous, brave, handsome. What more could she want? How the people cheered at the recruiting meeting! And what wonder? He had touched their hearts by his burning words, and he was just off to fight for his country.
Every selfish interest, every tradition of her family pleaded for him. She was fond of him too. She had always liked him as a friend; she had always admired him as a loyal gentleman and a soldier. Of course, he was not clever. He was no lover of books, and, compared with Bob, he was an ignoramus; but what did that matter? He was a brave man—a gentleman.
As for Bob, all their former relations were ended. He himself had closed and bolted the door between them. The choice had been between her and honour on the one hand, and selfish ease and cowardice on the other. And Bob had chosen to be a coward. What could she do, therefore, but drive him from her mind, and crush all affection for him? Was it not her duty to her father, her family, and to herself to accept Trevanion?
"You are not vexed with me, are you?" went on Trevanion, after he had waited a few seconds.
"No, not vexed."
"Then—then, can't you give me a word of hope? I—I don't even ask you to make a definite promise, although I'd give my eyes if you could; but if you could tell me that you liked no one better, and that I—I may speak again—if—if I come back, I could go away with a braver heart. I should feel all the time as if I were fighting for you. Just say something to cheer me, won't you, Nancy?"
"I'm afraid I can't," the girl's voice was hoarse as she spoke.
Evidently his words had moved her greatly.
"Why? There is no one else, is there?"
"No, yes, that is——"
"Some one else! But, Nancy——"
"No, there is no one else."
"Then, Nancy, promise me something. Give me an inkling of hope."
She shook her head.
"But why?"
"Because—because it would not be fair to you."
"Anything would be fair to me if you'd give me some hope."
"Even if I could only offer you half my heart?"
"Give me half, and I'd quickly gain the rest," laughed Trevanion.
"Why, why, I should be in heaven if you could say even so much."
"Do you care so much?" and there was a touch of wistfulness in her voice.
"So much! Why, you know. You have been the only thing I've cared for—for months. Why, you—-you are everything to me. I'm not a clever fellow, I know that—but—but—I can fight, Nancy. And it's all for you."
Nancy stood still a few seconds, evidently fighting with herself. She knew she could not in honour promise even what Trevanion had asked for without telling him the truth. And this was terribly difficult. She felt that he had a right to know, and yet it was like sacrilege to tell him.
"You see," went on the Captain, "your father——!"
"Stop!" cried the girl; "before you say any more, I must tell you something. It's very hard, but I must. I said there was no one else, but that's not—true."
"Not true! Then, then——"
"There was some one else, although it's—all over."
"But, but who? No, forgive me for asking. I've no right to ask.
Besides, you say—that—that it's a thing of the past."
"You have a right to ask if—if——"
"If what? Tell me who—if you think it fair of me to ask."
"Can't you guess?"
"There can be no one, except—I say, Nancy, you can't mean Nancarrow?"
She nodded her head.
"But, Nancy—that—that——"
"Don't, please. I loved him—at least I thought I did, and—and we were engaged. If—if—that is, but for the war, he would have spoken to father by this time, and—and everything would have been made known. When—he played the coward, I found out my mistake, and I told him so."
"Great heavens, yes! It was, of course, only a foolish fancy. A girl like you could never seriously care for that class of man."
"I am ashamed of myself when I think of him," and Nancy's voice was hoarse as she spoke. "In a way I feel contaminated. If there is anything under heaven that I despise, it's a coward. I want to forget that I—I ever thought of him. I want to drive him from my mind."
"And that is what keeps you from promising me anything. But surely you do not care for him now. Why—why, you couldn't! The fellow who could show the white feather at such a time as this, and then try and cover up his cowardice by all that religious humbug, is not of your class, Nancy. He's a rank outsider. I'm sorry I was ever friends with him. Your father told me he was mad with himself for ever allowing him inside the house."
"That's why I'm so ashamed of——"
"We'll drive him from our minds, Nancy. There, he's done with. He's not worthy of a thought. You owe it to yourself, to your name, your country, to banish it from your mind."
For the moment Nancy was angry with Trevanion. She wanted to defend Bob. She wanted to tell him that Bob was braver than he. But she could not. She had spoken truly when she said that she was ashamed of herself for having allowed herself to think of him.
"Give me even the shadow of a promise," went on Trevanion, "and all thought of him will be for ever gone."
"No," said Nancy, "I can promise nothing—now."
"But will you try—to—to care for me?"
"Yes," said the girl, "I'll promise that, if—if it will be of any comfort to you."
"I don't fear now," cried Trevanion. "Everything will be right. What you have been telling me is nothing—just a passing fancy which will be—nothing. Give me a kiss, Nancy, and——"
"No," said the girl, and she shrank back almost instinctively, "not that; but the other—yes, I'll promise to try."
"I'm the happiest man in England with only that," laughed Trevanion; "what shall I be when—when the war is over, and I come back to claim my own. I shall find you waiting for me, shan't I?"
"I—I don't know. I may not come back. It what the papers say is true, even the nurses are not safe."
"But have you really settled to go abroad as a nurse?"
"I thought you understood that when you were here last. I go to London the day after to-morrow, and in a week from now I expect to be in one of the French hospitals."
"I had hoped you'd given up that," said the Captain moodily.
"Why should you hope that? If it's your duty to go, it is mine. There are plenty of nurses for the English hospitals, but there are fewer volunteers for Belgium and France. I suppose the most hopeful cases are sent home to England. Those who are dangerously wounded remain in France or Belgium. That's where I want to be."
Trevanion looked at her with admiring eyes. Even while he hoped she would remain in England, he admired her determination to go and nurse the worst cases.
"What a wife she'll be!" he reflected. "Proud as Lucifer and honourable to the finger tips. Yes, I've got her. She'll regard even this shadow of a promise as binding on her. As for Nancarrow, he's done with for ever. Thank heaven for that! By Jove, I'm a lucky beggar!"
"Perhaps we may meet in France, Nancy," he said aloud; "I may be wounded, and——"
"Don't!" she said, with a shudder.
"Heavens, she loves me!" thought the Captain. "She can't bear the idea of my being wounded."
"Anyhow, the man who has you as a nurse may thank his lucky stars," he said aloud, "and of this you may be sure, if there's any chance of our meeting, I shall make the most of it. Trust me for that."
That same day Trevanion made his way back to Plymouth with a glad heart. He regarded his engagement with Nancy as good as settled, for he knew that she regarded even the suggestion of a promise as sacred. Besides, he had everything in his favour. He knew that the old Admiral favoured his suit, and would do his best to remove any doubts which might exist in Nancy's mind. As for Bob Nancarrow, he was a negligible quantity. Nancy had driven him out of the house with scorn and anger in her heart. How could it be otherwise? The fellow was an outsider, a poltroon, a coward. He knew how Nancy despised such; knew that even if she loved him, she would regard it as a sacred duty to crush a love which to her would be a disgrace to the name she bore.
Thus it came about that all three found themselves on French soil. The Captain went at the head of a Cornish regiment, brave and fearless, determined to do his duty as a soldier should. The ethics of the war had never cost him a moment's thought. England was at war, and that was enough for him. He was needed in the firing-line, and he, without a question or a reason, save that he was a soldier, must be there.
Nancy, on the other hand, went because she wanted to nurse—to save. It was a woman's work—the noblest any woman could do. She was not allowed to fight herself, although she would gladly have done so; but even although she could not fight, she would be near the line of battle. She would do all in her power for the brave fellows who had fallen in fighting their country's battles.
As for Bob, he was there because he had listened to what he was sure was the Call of God. He hated war, he hated the soldiers' calling, and, because he hated it, he was there. Not one in the whole of His Majesty's Army was more eager to be in the thick of the fight than he, because he wanted to take his part in killing the war devil which had turned a great part of Europe into a hell.