“You’re a good little nurse, Lucy Gordon! That’s the way to talk to a sick man,” said a strong, eager voice beside her, as Lucy left her father’s room at last, a long hour later. A tall young army surgeon, with bright blue eyes and ruddy, freckled face, had crossed the ward at sight of her. Lucy looked quickly up and for very astonishment her heart skipped a beat, while a slow smile lighted up her tired face. For an instant she was at home again on Governor’s Island, in that happy time when her family had all been together. Was it only two years since Captain Greyson had brought her through the measles—or was it a hundred years? Anyway he was a major now, from the leaves upon his shoulders.
“Was it you in there all the time?” she asked dazedly. “I never noticed.”
“That’s not surprising,” said the officer smiling. He took Lucy’s arm and led her through a doorway into a little ruined garden, lit by the afternoon sunlight. “Here’s a bench; sit down until Miss Pearse brings you out something to eat.”
Thankful beyond words for the presence of this old friend to care for her in her utter weariness, Lucy dropped down upon the stone seat and looked again into Major Greyson’s face. “I’m glad to see you,” she said simply. “Do you think—is there a chance——?” She could get no further, her shaky voice half lost in the cannons’ roar, but Major Greyson bent down to catch her words.
“Yes, there is, and don’t stop for one moment thinking it,” was his swift answer, as he looked at Lucy with keen, honest eyes. “There’s more of a chance since you talked with him than since he was wounded. There’s a tide in the succession of weary pain-racked days when nature needs hope and nothing else to keep up the battle, and, by Jove, you plucky little girl, you brought it!”
“I won’t cry again,” thought Lucy, fighting for self-control. She clenched her hands together with all her strength, while a solitary tear dropped down upon them. Major Greyson saw her struggle and, prompted by a heavy burst of firing from the French and American batteries in front of Château-Plessis, began to speak of the town’s capture.
“Things are still in poor shape here—hospitals and everything. You see, we’ve been in possession only since Tuesday,” he said, glancing about the little garden, cluttered with fallen stones and rubbish, to where, through a gap in the battered wall, the half-ruined street showed beyond. “We had a hard fight to get it but, strangely enough, in spite of the heavy bombardment, the place wasn’t deserted. Some of the inhabitants have simply stuck it out, German occupation and all. It takes a lot to drive these poor French people from their homes.”
“But weren’t lots of them killed?” asked Lucy, amazed.
“Not those who hid in their houses at the further end of the town. It was the poor refugees trying to get out of the place between bombardments who suffered most. We are doing all we can for them. Mr. Leslie has worked night and day, I’m certain, since the opening of this last offensive.”
“But aren’t the German lines still very near? The guns sound almost on top of us,” said Lucy, her voice grown scared and trembling again as a thunderous explosion hurt her ears.