Elizabeth's Campaign Part 45

Aubrey Mannering sat by his brother all night. With the first dawn Desmond awoke, and there was an awful interval of pain. But a fresh morphia injection eased it, and Aubrey presently saw a smile--a look of the old Desmond. The nurse washed the boy's hands and face, brought him a cup of tea, took pulse and temperature.

'He's no worse,' she said in a whisper to Aubrey, as she pa.s.sed him.

Aubrey went up to the bed.

'Aubrey, old chap!' said the boy, and smiled at him. Then--'It's daylight. Can't I look out?'

The nurse and Mannering wheeled his bed to the window, which opened to the ground. A white frost was on the gra.s.s, and there was a clear sky through which the sunrise was fast mounting. Along an eastern wood ran a fiery rose of dawn, the fine leaf-work of the beeches showing sharply upon it. There was a thrush singing, and a robin came close to the window, hopped on the ledge, and looked in.

'Ripping!' said Desmond softly. 'There were jolly mornings in France too.' Then his clear brow contracted. Aubrey stooped to him.

'Any news?' said the blanched lips.

'None yet, old man. We shan't get the papers till eight.'

'What's the date?'

'March 18th.'

Desmond gave a long sigh.

'I would have liked to be in it!'

'In the big battle?' Aubrey's lip trembled. 'You have done your bit, old man.'

'But how is it going to _end_?' said the boy, moving his head restlessly. 'Shall we win?--or they? I shall live as long as ever I can--just to know. I feel quite jolly now--isn't it strange?--and yet I made the doctors tell me--'

He turned a bright look on his brother, and his voice grew stronger. 'I had such a queer dream last night, Aubrey,--about you--and that friend of yours--do you remember?--you used to bring him down--to stay here--when Pam and I were little--Freddy Vivian--'

The boy looking out into the woods and the morning did not see the change--the spasm--in his brother's face. He continued--'We kids liked him awfully. Well, I saw him! I actually did. He stood there--by you. He was talking a lot--I didn't understand--but--'

A sudden movement. Aubrey fell on his knees beside the bed. His deep haggard eyes stared at his brother. There was in them an anguish, an eagerness, scarcely human.

'Desmond!--can't you remember?'

The words were just breathed--panted.

Desmond, whose eyes had closed again, smiled faintly.

'Why, of course I can't remember. He had his hand on your shoulder.

I just thought he was cheering you up--about something.'

'Desmond!--it was I that killed him--I could have saved him!'

The boy opened his eyes. His startled look expressed the question he had not strength to put.

Aubrey bent over the bed, speaking hurriedly--under possession. 'It was at Neuve Chapelle. I had gone back for help--he and ten or twelve others who had moved on too fast were waiting in a bit of shelter till I could get some more men from the Colonel. The Germans were coming on thick. And I went back. There was a barrage on--and on the way--I shirked--my nerve went. I sat down for twenty minutes by my watch--I hid--in a sh.e.l.l-hole. Then I went to the Colonel, and he gave me the men. And when we got up to the post, I was just a quarter of an hour too late. Vivian was lying there dead--and the others had been mopped up--prisoners--by a German bombing party. It was I who killed Vivian. No one knows.'

Aubrey's eyes searched those of the boy.

The next moment Mannering was torn with poignant remorse that, under the sudden shock of that name, he should have spoken at last--after three years--to this dying lad. Crime added to crime!

'Don't think of it any more, Desmond,' he said hurriedly, raising himself and laying his hand on his brother's. 'I oughtn't to have told you.'

But Desmond showed no answering agitation.

'I did see him!' he whispered. 'He stood there--' His eyes turned towards the window. He seemed to be trying to remember--but soon gave up the effort. 'Poor old Aubrey!' His feeble hand gave a faint pressure to his brother's. 'Why, it wasn't you, old fellow!--it was your body.'

Aubrey could not reply. He hid his face in his hands. The effort of his own words had shaken him from top to toe. To no human being had he ever breathed what he had just told his young brother. Life seemed broken--disorganized.

Desmond was apparently watching the pa.s.sage of a flock of white south-westerly clouds across the morning sky. But his brain was working, and he said presently--

'After I was struck, I hated my body. I'd--I'd like to commit my spirit to G.o.d--but not my body!'

Then again--very faintly--

'It was only your body, Aubrey--not your soul. Poor old Aubrey!'

Then he dozed off again, with intervals of pain.

At eight o'clock Pamela came in--a vision of girlish beauty in spite of watching and tears, in her white dressing-gown, the ma.s.ses of her hair loosely tied.

She sat down by him, and the nurse allowed her to give him milk and brandy. Paralysis in the lower limbs was increasing, but the brain was clear, and the suffering less.

He smiled at her, after the painful swallowing was over.

'Why!--you're so like mother, Pamela!'

He was thinking of the picture in the 'den.' She raised his hand, and kissed it--determined to be brave, not to break down.

'Where's Broomie?' he whispered.

'She'd like to come and see you, Dezzy. Dezzy, darling!--I was all wrong. She's been so good--good to father--good to all of us.'

The boy's eyes shone.

'I thought so!' he said triumphantly. 'Is she up?'

'Long ago. Shall I tell her? I'll ask Nurse.'

And in a few more minutes Elizabeth was there.

Desmond had been raised a little on his pillows, and flushed at sight of her. Timidly, he moved his hand, and she laid hers on it.

Then, stirred by an impulse that seemed outside her will, she stooped over him, and kissed his forehead.

'That was nice!' he murmured, smiling, and lay for a little with his eyes shut. When he opened them again, he said--

'May I call you Elizabeth?'