“You have been generous, monsieur. I wish to thank you.”
Peter held out his hand. “Oh, that’s all right. American men aren’t given to being jealous, as a rule. Besides, Miss O’Leary is the sort one has no right to be selfish with. I guess you understand?”
“Oui, monsieur. She belongs a little to every one, man or child, who needs the sympathy, the kind word, the loving heart. Moi, I comprehend. Some time, perhaps, I render back the service. Then you can trust me; the honor of Bertrand Fauchet can be trusted with women. Adieu, monsieur.”
By dawn the next day the passengers of the liner were scattering to the far corners of the fighting-front. Jacques Marchand had gone, via the office of the Figaro, to Flanders. Monsieur Satan had been despatched to relieve another captain of the Chasseurs Alpins with French outposts along the Oise. Peter had received his war permits to join the A. E. F. in action and Sheila had received her appointment to an evacuation hospital near the front. Her parting with Peter was over before either of them had time to realize it. Her train left the Gare du Nord before his. They had very little to say, these two who had claimed each other out of all the world and now were putting aside their personal happiness that they might give their service where it was so really needed. There were no whimperings of heart, no conscious self-righteousness; only a great gladness that hard work lay before them and that they understood each other.
“Good-by, man o’ mine. Whatever happens, remember I am yours for always, and death doesn’t count,” and Sheila laid her lips to Peter’s in final pledge.
“I know,” said Peter. “That’s what makes all this so absurdly easy. And, sweetheart, you are to remember this, never put any thought of me before what you feel you have got to do. Don’t bungle your instincts. I’d swear by them next to God’s own.”
And so they went their separate ways.
There was no apprenticeship for Sheila in the hospital whither she was sent. The chief of the surgical staff gave a cursory glance over the letter she had brought from the San, signed by the three leading surgeons in that state; then he looked hard at her.
“Hm ... m! And strong into the bargain. You’re a godsend, Miss O’Leary.”
Before the day had gone she was in charge of one of the operating-rooms; by midnight they had fifty-three major operations. And the days that followed were much the same; they passed more like dreams than realities. There were a few sane, clear moments when Sheila realized that the sky was very blue or leaden gray; that the sun shone or did not shine, that the wards were cheery places and that all about her were faces consecrated to unselfish work or to patient suffering. These were the times when she could stop for a chat with the boys or write letters home for them. But for the most part she was being hurled through a maelstrom of operations and dressings with just enough time between to snatch her share of food and sleep. Her enthusiasm was unbounded for the marvelous efficiency of it all. She could never have believed that so many delicate operations could have been done in so few hours, that wounds could heal with such rapidity, that nerves could rebound and hearts come sturdily through to go about their business of keeping their owners alive. And every boy brought to her room was a fighting chance; but the fight was up to her and the surgeons, and they fought as archangels might to restore a new heaven on a befouled earth. Life had always seemed full and worth while to her. Now it seemed a super-life, shorn of everything petty and futile.