CHAPTER IV
There was a florist's box in Belinda's little sleeping room on the last day of her occupancy of it. She was almost afraid to open it at first, for she feared the card within might bear Doctor Herschall's name.
However, when she had opened it, the roses it contained, which had cost a dollar a stem, she distributed with lavish hand among the graduating class. That popular piece of fiction, just then being discussed by the book reviews, "The Flying Faun," with Frank Sanderson's autograph on the flyleaf, she hid away, showing it to nobody.
She was unable to put an accusing finger upon a single thing he had done or said that was discourteous. He was by no means one of those hybrid creatures—neither flesh, fowl, nor good red herring—known as "a lady's man." He owned to merely a natural gentleness in his conduct toward women; and by nature he possessed much of the cheerful awkwardness of a Newfoundland pup.
Belinda's instincts of motherliness—largely developed in all girls of her placid and sweet temperament—had really drawn her toward her patient at first because of these boyish traits. He seemed to her quite unspoiled; there was nothing artificial about him. If his glances boldly betrayed his admiration for his nurse, his lips uttered only the most considerate expressions of approval. He had never taken advantage of his situation as so many of her patients did. Miss Trivett was right. Beauty in a nurse is not always an asset.
Yet Belinda felt in her heart that Frank Sanderson had not been honest with her. Had she not overheard his brother's remark she would never have suspected the aviator of being a married man.
The "Stella" mentioned by the brothers, though the aviator's wife and evidently the mother of the "kiddies," was plainly not beloved. Either the couple were legally separated, or their married life was a farce. Only on that single occasion had Sanderson mentioned the woman—and never to his nurse.
The discovery had halted instantly any advance Belinda might have contemplated toward a closer friendship with the aviator. There had already been intimate moments between them when youth had called strongly to romance—when each had lifted for a little the veil which hid those secret lives we all live.
Belinda had thought she saw what lay behind Frank Sanderson's reckless bearing and volatile spirits—and approved. There were deeper currents in the aviator's soul than the shallows he showed to the world in general. She felt that he had a far more serious reason for taking up the perilous work of aviation than he was willing ordinarily to admit.
On the other hand, she had hinted at some portion of her doubts and uncertainties for the future in her disclosures to Sanderson. He did not understand entirely what she meant; had he done so he would never have hastened away from the hospital, accepting the night nurse's observations for facts, and leaving only the flowers and the book as a reminder of his friendly intercourse with Belinda.
When the girl bade the matron and her particular friends among the nursing staff good-by that last evening and left the hospital by the side exit with her bag, it was her fate to meet Doctor Herschall likewise going out. Or had he waited for her?
"We lose you, do we, Miss Belinda?" he said, taking her bag with his usual assurance. "We shall miss you—none more than I, Fräulein, I do assure you."
"You are very kind, Doctor," murmured the girl, wishing that she might rid herself of him.
But she had no inspiration for his dismissal. His way could not possibly lie in the direction of her home, yet he took that turning as a matter of course.
She could not afterwards have repeated their desultory conversation, even in part. She was confused and nervous—as she always was in the surgeon's company.
"I shall do myself the honor of calling upon you and your good aunt, Fräulein," declared he, "and at an early date."
"I—I think I may go away for a change and rest," she stammered.
"All the more reason for my making my call soon, then," said Doctor Herschall coolly. "I have something of importance to say to you."
"Oh, I feel you would better not come, Doctor Herschall!" she cried desperately. "Really, I do not feel fit for—for company. I am quite done up."
"I hope I shall not miss you when I call, Miss Belinda," he repeated, his keen eyes searching her averted face. She was looking at his empty right hand, its long, pliant fingers working spasmodically, as they did when he was in earnest. She realized that they were wonderfully able, dexterous fingers; yet when she saw them work in that nervous manner she always thought of them as clutching in a horrid way for an enemy's throat.
"If I should miss you," purred the Herr Doktor, "I shall come again and yet again. My time is not altogether my own, as you know; but no sacrifice would I count too great, Miss Belinda, for the pleasure of your society."
He left her at the door and strode away. Belinda's cheeks burned furiously and she bit her lip to keep back the sobs. She was both enraged and afraid.
He took so much for granted! There was no use in trying to show the Herr Doktor his place.
"I hate him!" she gasped.
His assurance and masterfulness almost cowed the girl's spirit. Belinda Melnotte was not one who ordinarily shrank before any human being; the influence of the black-browed surgeon upon her mind was almost uncanny.
"I hate him!" she repeated. "I wish I might never see him again!"
However, she felt it would be impossible to refuse Doctor Herschall admittance when he called. She could easily imagine what the visit would be like. Aunt Roberta would refuse to sit in the room with him. To the little Frenchwoman the big Prussian doctor was pariah. Nor could Belinda play neutral between them.
Therefore she gladly seized the opportunity offered the next evening to escape from the house. Somebody called her up and asked her to attend a neighborhood Red Cross chapter meeting.
"Just to countenance the affair, you know, my dear. We are endeavoring to get dollar members and interest people in our work in France."
Tante was willing to attend, albeit in a critical spirit. She did not believe that anything of real worth was being done by Americans for "the dearpoilusofla belleFrance."
Belinda went, however, with an open mind. Already she had contemplated Red Cross work, although she really knew very little about it. To-night an earnest man, just from the battlefields of war-wrecked Northern France, addressed the rather apathetic audience. In the summer of 1916 it was difficult to find an audience in America that was otherwise regarding any phase of the great war. The speaker was a grim-looking little man, ugly and in earnest; yet there was a saving twinkle in his eye.
"I am here for the specific purpose of getting as many dollar bills out of your purses as I can to-night," he said in the course of his remarks. "A dollar bill is a little thing after all. You pay it over and it does its work. But the thrill of giving it does not last long.
"Do you want—" he cried, rising on his toes and suddenly smiting the table before him with a clenched fist—"do you want to get a lasting thrill—one that may last a year—two years—perhaps to the very hour of your death? Then, enlist with us. We need men and women alike—men and women of pluck and who possess sanctified common sense.
"Youare needed—needed right in the battlefield hospitals I have tried to tell you about to-night. We want men and women of some experience and proven ability—not failures; for those who are failures in one walk in life are almost always failures in any other position. Our recruits must be modest, even-tempered, inventive and enterprising, ready to go anywhere and do anything upon the shortest possible notice.
"We need the best of you, and the best there is in you. Nor can we pay you, or offer you anything but a modicum of fame. You will hear of the Red Cross doing much; but the names of the actual doers of these things are seldom exploited.
"It is, indeed, an enlistment in an army of peace, working to alleviate the horrors of armies at war. There are no medals, no honorable mention, no promotions on the field of valor by brevet or otherwise. And we demand perfect obedience to stern rules, and that each enlisted man and woman shall give every ounce of strength of mind and body he or she possesses.
"Now, this is the opportunity I offer you, besides the chance to give dollars to the Red Cross. We want men and women who will work without salary and without hope of seeing their names or pictures in the papers. Come on and sign up for the work. But don't crowd."
He sat down suddenly amid the half nervous titter of a part of his audience. They did not crowd. The workers circulating through the hall gathered some harvest of money and several promises of future contributions. When the meeting was adjourned Belinda left Aunt Roberta to have a word with the lean little hospital-worn man.
"I wish to serve," she said.
"Yes—Miss——?" He scrutinized her with growing approval.
"Melnotte. I am my own mistress. I hold a nurse's diploma." She told him the name of the hospital. "I can afford to pay my own expenses."
"And you wish to serve—where?"
"In France. I speak the language."
"When can you be ready, Mademoiselle?"
"To-morrow."
"Good! TheBelle o' Perthsails the day after. There are others of our forces going by her. It can be arranged. You know that the crossing will be dangerous?"
"More dangerous than the work on the battlefields?" she asked him quietly.
"Gad! No, Mademoiselle."
"Tell me what to do—how to go about it," she said simply.
Afterwards, when the girl had gone back to Aunt Roberta, the man most heartily congratulated himself.
"If I haven't done anything else on this trip, I've netted a good one there!" he thought.
But how much he influenced Belinda's decision, how much her dislike and fear of Doctor Herschall urged her into the work, or how much her disappointment in Frank Sanderson had to do with it, it would be difficult to say. Most important decisions arise from mixed motives. She did not discuss this phase of it at all. She merely said to Aunt Roberta:
"We are going."
"Ma foi!Where?"
"To France—to Paris first."
"Oui! Oui!My child, those are the sweetest words you have ever said to me!"
Aunt Roberta asked no further questions.