Short Story

Lake County Press, Issue 2635, 8 June 1916, Page 7

Short Story

FablUhed by Special Arrangement

Peace on fartb.

By L. G. MOBERLY

Author of “In the Balance,” “Christina,” “Hope, my Wife,” “Violet Dunstan,” etc., etc.

Tontinued from last week. Almost mechanically Dorothy read the words, saying th'ein softly under her breath as she did so, and in saying them some of the bitterness died'out of her heart. "Peace on earth." Christmas time was no time for regrets, for repinings, for bitterness. The Child who was born on Christmas morning had brought healing in His wings, and there should be no place for bitterness in the hearts of those who believed in Christmas. The very effort to subdue her own regrets gave her strength to make fresh tniorts, and some of their usual serenity came back to her eyes, when, a- few minutes later, a dresser hurriedly entered the ward. "Case coming in, nurse,"' he said: "man knocked down by a motor. Unconscious. Pretty bad." In an instant Dorothy was the alert and capable nurse, her own feeilngs and troubles thrust aside, her mind only set on doing what was best for the coming patient; and before the ward doors re-opened to admit the stretcher and its bearers, she had prepared the bed which was to receive the new arrival. The probationer, who had been busy in the ward kitchen, was by her side when the unconscious man Aras laid quietly down upon the bed, and it was the probationer who began the operation of undressing him whilst Nurse Dorothy took instructions from the house surgeon. "Can't make out anything much about the poor chap," said the young doctor; "he couldn t even toll us his name when they brought him in. Ho seemed to have been knocked silly by the motor, and only kept on saying " " 'Torture me, not her. It isn't fair to torture a woman.' "He looked at me so piteously; it made mo feel quite queer, and as if I had been doing something beastly myself. His clothes were in rags, but he speaks like a gentleman. It's a curious case altogether, and he's jolly bad, too. Miserable sort of Christmas for the poor chap," he added, turning back towards the bed. And at the same instant the still unconscious man began to speak. "For God's sake don't let them hurt her," he said, his low and singularly musical voice penetrating to cver'v corner of the ward: "it doesn't matter about me, I've borne so much. I can bear a little more. But I can't see a woman tortured, even though, she is nothing to me—nothing." The voice died away in incoherent muttermgs, but Dorothy stood as though transfixed, staring at the face on the pillow with wide, startled eyes, her own face white to the very lips "Why—does he—say that? What does he mean " she said. "It is Miles' voice, but it can't be Miles." She turned and looked at the house surgeon, and the anguished appeal in her eves brought a lump into the young map's throat. "Is it someone you recognise?" he asked gently. "I wish you could tell us his name, or anything about him." "It is Miles' voice," she repeated mechanically, "but it can't be Miles. How can it be Miles?" And she moved closer to the bed. and bent over the sick man, earnestly scrutinising his face. Its pallor was deathly, and it was thin to the point of emanciation; the mouth and chin were covered by a thick growth of beard, and the eyes were closed. "I don't believe his own mother would recognise him," the house surgeon murmured. But Dorothy did not even hear his voice; her whole mind was intent on the man in the bed; she had no thoughts for anything else; and one of her hands went out and rested upon his thin claw-like hands, which were aimlessly plucking at the sheet. "The years—the weary years." His voice was speaking again. '"I could not i count them—so many Christmases without any peace on earth—and always the forest—no, not again—I tell you I have been tortured enough—and yet—it is better I should bear it than a woman—you can't torture a woman, I tell you—you can't—torture—a— woman." His voice died down into exhausted silence, and Dorothy, oblivious of the man and woman who watched her, dropped on her knees beside the bed. "Miles," she said, and the wonderful tenderness in her voice made the young house surgeon gulp, and brought a mist before his eyes. "Miles, is it you? Have you come back? It is your voice, but is it you? Oh, Miles, is it you?"

Screens drawn about the bed prevented the other patients in the ward from seeing what was happening, and the house surgeon, signing to the probationer, silently withdrew with her, leaving Dorothy and the injured man alone. "It doesn't seem fair to be looking on at a thing like that," the young doctor said simply; "she has forgotten our very existence, and to watch her isn't playing the game." The probationer nodded approvingly, and the two stood by the fire talking "in subdued tones, whilst Dorothy knelt on by the bed, her hand resting on , those thin wasted hands. %■ "Peace on earth," the tired voice be;rm again. "They sav that in Eng- ' i:;nd— at Christmas. There is holly in England—red berries and dark leaves—

the ivy smells clean and strong—the i'orest smells kill you body and soul—a cross of holly—from "the Chancel arch—and we sang together, 'Hark the Herald Angels Sing—Peace on Earth ' why can't I remember?" Very quaveringly the weak voice tried to sing the hymn, breaking off with a little sob of disappointment. ' 'I can't remember no—not a woman—you mustn't torture a woman. Peace on earth—there is no peace—here—in the forest." "Miles!" Dorothy's voice interrupted the agonised pleadings. "Listen to me —speak to me. Can you hear me, dear?" She subdued her own emotion, and spoke quietly and clearly, her free hand touching the matted growth of his hair, and smoothing it from his forehead. "Was it that her voice penetrated to his dulled senses, or that hei touch awoke some chord of memorv wifchin him? _ Who can tell. But all ;it once he stirred uneasily and opened his eyes, eves blue as a summer sea. blue as forget-me-nots in English meadows. His glance fell full upon her, and a sudden smile flashed out over his face. "Dorothy." be whispered, "is—itChristmas Day? A happy Christmas, sweetheart." ' Then, before she could

answer or put any question to him his eyes had closed again, and ho had sunk back into unconsciousness. Like a person in a dream Dorothy moved ; about her duties for the rest of that night, spending all the time she could spare from the other patients by Miles’ bedside. For that the newcomer was indeed Miles there was no longer any manner of doubt, arid although his strange coming and his yet stranger words were inexplicable, she feit she could wait for an explanation, if only she might help to bring the man she loved back to life and health again. Why had ho come home in this terrible condition? And where was the woman with whom ho had disappeared in that far-off Eastern land? Throughout the hours of Christmas Day, when she should have slept, those questions revolved ceaselessly in her brain, and with them came the blessed thought that in his delirium Miles had spoken of the Christmas when they wore together, the Christmas of their engagement. He had remembered the holly cross above the chancel arch, the hymn they had sung; and in his one moment of consciousness he had looked deep into her eyes and spoken her name. On Christmas Day the night nurses were allowed to be up earlier than on other days, and that afternoon Dorothy went early into her ward. The screens were still round the bed at the far end, but as she made her way round them she found herself confronted by a perfectly sane and conscious look from the patient’s eyes. “Dorothy,” ho said - weakly, “I dreamt I saw you, and I thought it was only another of the dreams that have tortured me over and over again; but this is really you?” “This is really Dorothy,” she answered, kneeling once more beside the bed and folding his hands in both hers, “and—it is Christmas Day.” She hardly knew why she said the last words, but the memory of their long past Christmas was strong upon her, and the smile that lighted his face told her that ho, too, remembered. “I am glad I have come back to you on Christmas Day,” ho said. “There have been such seas of horror between the past and now, but now I have come back to peace on earth and to you.” It was a long time before Miles could give a coherent account of all that had happened to him, and not until he was a convalescent in Dorothy’s care in an old friend’s house did ho unfold his strange story. Ho and Mrs. Madden- had left the train exactly as Dorothy had been told, but he had left it much against his better judgment, and to please the lady, who had been desirous of obtaining some particular curios from this special village. She had been sure she could do all she wished during the half-hour the train stopped at the station, and Miles yielded to her wishes. Of all that had followed his account was bewildered and confused, told shudderingly, as though he could not bear to recall those particulars. The villagers had proved unfriendly. The Englishman and woman had been detained as prisoners, and then hustled away into a remote and unexplored region, where both were tortured with unspeakable tortures. “I don’t know why they didn’t kill ns,’’’ Miles said with a shiver. “1 suppose they found it more amusing to —do the other thing, but death would have been better than what we endured.” Mrs. Madden’s strength had given way at last, and she had died; but Miles finally escaped and made his way to the coast after a series of hairbreadth perils and adventures, working his way back to “England as a sailor before the mast. “I was too dazed, too stupefied by all I had undergone to think of applying for help in the proper quarter,’ he said. “I felt as if I had left the best part of my manhood, of myself, - in that hideous forest, and all my senses were stunned. When I got to London I did not know what to do, or whore to go. I felt like someone who has come back from the dead. The motor that knocked me down was a blessing in disguise—it brought me to you. “And if I had gone away for Christmas as I wanted to do, we might not ever have met again,” _ Dorothy answered, nestling closer into the shelter of his arms that encircled her “I should have gone right away and married Hubert Rigby, and you— —- “We won’t think of the might-have-beens,” he answered gently, “or of the terrible past. We have come at last into our kingdom, and it must be a kingdom of sunshine.” . People sometimes wonder why, in the hall of the house where Miles and Dorothy live, the words “Peace on Earth” are illuminated upon the wall; but to the husband and wife the words mean that the peace of Christmas lias come into their lives for ever and a day, that they who sowed in tears have reaped in joy. (The End.)