III.

It was the most dismal Christmas that any one in England could remember. Here and there a success had been snatched from the enemy; but the list of casualties published every day made the morning papers a terror to read. The British losses had passed the tenth thousand, and still Buller could not reach Ladysmith and Methuen could not cross the Modder. It seemed as if the last of the Egyptian plagues had fallen on England, and there was not a household in which there was not one dead!

It was a dreary Christmas at Harland Hall. News had arrived a few days previously of Julian’s safe arrival at the Cape and of his having taken part in a skirmish on his way to the front. Every morning his mother and Madge—who had come to stay at the Hall for another month—picked up the newspaper and glanced with fearing eyes down the usual casualty list. When they failed to find his name there they breathed again. There was no thought of festivity in the Hall this Christmas Day, and it was a relief to Madge as well as to Mrs Harland when bedtime came. Before going to bed the girl sat for some time before the fire in her room, with Julian’s portrait in her hand, and on her lap some of the things which his hands had touched—a shrivelled November rose which he had discovered on the last stroll they had together through the garden—a swan’s feather which he had picked up and thrust with a laugh and a mock taunt into her hair—the lace handkerchief which had been given to her on the day of the outbreak of the war. She sat there lost in her own thoughts—praying her own prayers.

Suddenly she became aware of an unusual sound—a sort of tap at rare intervals upon her window-pane. At first she fancied that it was a twig of ivy which was being blown by the breeze against the window, but the next time the sound came she felt sure that it could only be produced by a tiny pebble flung up from the carriage drive.

For a few moments she was slightly alarmed. She quickly extinguished her candle, however, and then went to the window, drawing the blind a little way to one side and peering out. There was no moon, but the sky was full of stars, and she knew that if any one was on the drive there was light enough to make her aware of the fact. For some time, however, her eyes, accustomed to the light of her room, were unable to make out any figure below; but after waiting at the window for a few minutes, it seemed to her that she could detect the figure of a man in the middle of the drive.

She shut out all the light of the fire behind her and continued peering. Beyond a doubt there was a man outside. He was waving something white up to her. In another instant she knew him. A terrible fear took hold upon her, for she knew that she was looking out at a man in khaki uniform, and she knew that that man was Julian Harland. And now she saw him distinctly in the starlight: he was making signs to her, pointing to the porch and walking in that direction.

She dropped the blind. There was no doubt whatever in her mind now: Julian had returned suddenly, and for some reason he wished to be admitted into the house secretly.

She stole down the broad shallow staircase into the hall, and by the light of the glowing logs which smouldered in the big grate she found her way to the oaken door that shut off the porch from the hall. She loosened its chains as silently as possible, and opened it. Then she went through to the porch and found herself standing opposite the studded hall door. There she paused for an instant, asking herself if she should open it.

A low tap sounded on it from the outside.

“I am here,” she said in a low voice; “am I to open the door for you, Julian?”

“Open, Madge, quick—quick, I am wounded,” he said.

With trembling fingers she unfastened the bolt, opened the door, and allowed him to pass into the porch.

“O, my darling, have you been wounded?” she cried. She had not put herself into his arms: she had a sense of his being wounded, and she was afraid of hurting him by coming in contact with the wound. She felt his hand on hers.

“It is really only a trifle, Madge,” said he; “you will be able to bind it up for me, and you must not awaken poor mother. The shock of seeing me might kill her.”

They went side by side into the hall, and he sank down with a sigh of relief on the big settee before the fire. She broke up one of the smouldering logs, and it glowed into a great flame which showed her that his face was very pale and that he had grown a beard.

She was on her knees at his knees in a moment.

“Dearest Julian!” she cried, with her arms about him, “how did you come without sending me word? Oh, where are you wounded?”

“The arm—the right,” he said rather feebly. “It is only a flesh wound, I know, but it was enough to knock me over, and it has been bleeding badly. If you wash it and bind it up a bit, however, it will be all right until the morning, when I can have it looked to.”

Slowly and painfully he raised his right arm. He had apparently slit up the sleeve of his tunic, and the pieces fell away to the right and left of his arm, showing her a wound black with coagulated blood.

“My poor boy—my poor boy!” she said. “I shall do my best with it; but it is an ugly wound. Why should I not send a man to the surgery? Dr Gwynne will come at once.”

“No, no,” he said; “I don’t want to make a fuss at this hour. You can manage without outside help. Hadn’t you better light the candles?”

She sprang to her feet, and picking up one of the long chips from the log basket, lighted it in the fire and then transferred the flame to two of the old sconces at the side of the fireplace. As the light flickered on him she saw that his tunic was torn and splashed, and that his putties were caked with mire. No wayside tramp could be in a more dilapidated condition than Julian was in. He had clearly been walking some distance; and yet she could not recollect seeing any clay for miles around of the same tint as that which was caked upon his garments.

She was about to ask him why he should not go upstairs to his own room where she could attend to him properly, but she restrained her nurse’s instinct to ask an irritated patient questions. She examined the wound and said—

“I will wash it for you and bind it up till the morning. I shall get a basin in my own room.”

“‘A ministering angel thou!’” he said, with a very wan smile. “By the way, Madge, do you remember the lace handkerchief—the Medici handkerchief?”

“I was looking at it only an hour ago,” she said.

“‘There’s magic in the web of it,” he said. “Fetch it and bind up my wound with that cobweb drawn over rosebuds and I shall be all right.”

She hastened to her room, and in a few moments had picked out from a drawer some soft linen, a bottle of arnica, and a pair of scissors. She had attended ambulance classes, and had confidence in her own capacity to deal with any ordinary “case.” Then she put the lace Medici handkerchief with the other appliances, and, carrying a large china bowl with her water jug, came quietly down the stairs once more.

He had fallen asleep on the settee, but in an instant he was awake. He was plainly vigilant at once.

“It is beginning to feel a bit stiff, but that is on account of the bleeding,” he said. “I knew I was doing wisely in awaking you only. I couldn’t stand a fuss.”

“I will make no fuss,” she said, “and I shall hurt you as little as possible. I will even refrain from asking you any questions.”

“That’s right; I feel so sleepy,” said he.

In a deft and businesslike way she washed the clotted blood from the wound, and she quickly perceived that it was only a deep flesh wound, but it had bled a great deal and that had weakened him. She bandaged the arm with layers of linen, and when the bandage was secure he cried—

“Now for the handkerchief—that will make me all right in a moment. The earlier Medici were, I told you, wonderful folk, though the later——Ah, you are a good girl.”

She knew that he must be humoured. She made no protest against using her handkerchief in such a way.

“You have no idea how relieved I feel,” said he. “My dearest girl, I knew that I would be safe in your hands. Now get me a big drink of water and I shall be all right.”

She hastened to where a great cut-glass carafe and its goblet stood on the oak sideboard. He gave an exclamation that suggested more than satisfaction while the water was sobbing in the throat of the bottle, and when he had drunk a clear pint he gave a sigh.

“I haven’t had such a drink for weeks,” he said. “Now, dear girl, I’m dying with sleep, and so, I fancy, are you.”

“You do not mean to sleep here?” she cried. “You will go to your own room, Julian, dear; a fire has been lighted in it every day to keep out any possible damp.”

“I couldn’t think of such luxury when so many of my poor comrades are lying under the cold stars,” said he. “Don’t urge me, Madge; but go to your own bed and sleep well.”

Even while she was still looking at him, he laid his head back among the pillows of the settee and fell asleep. She waited by his side only for a few moments, and then went quietly up to her room. She threw herself on her knees by her bedside and wept tears of joy at the thought that he had come safe home again, with only a wound that a few weeks would heal.

But when she had undressed and got into bed she could not help feeling that his homecoming was strange beyond imagination. He had sent no telegram, he had arrived with the stains of battle still on his uniform, and, strangest of all, his wound was not an old one. Not many hours had passed since he had sustained it.

What on earth was the explanation of all this?

She felt unequal to the task of working out the question. She felt that all other thoughts should give place to the glorious thought that he was safe at home. He would explain everything in the morning.