Tomasos Fortune and Other Stories | Page 5

quietly hidden beneath
the simple nurse's cap.

"That is better," he said--"that is better." And he let all the hairpins fall
on the coverlet. "Now you are my own Marny," he murmured. "Are
you not?"
She hesitated one moment. "Yes, dear," she said softly. "I am your own
Marny."
With her disengaged hand she stroked his blanching cheek. There was a
certain science about her touch, as if she had once known something of
these matters.
Lovingly and slowly the smoke-grimed fingers passed over the
wonderful hair, smoothing it.
Then he grew more daring. He touched her eyes, her gentle cheeks, the
quiet, strong lips. He slipped to her shoulder, and over the soft folds of
her black dress.
"Been gardening?" he asked, coming to the bib of her nursing apron.
It was marvellous how the brain, which was laid open to the day,
retained the consciousness of one subject so long.
"Yes--dear," she whispered.
"Your old apron is all wet!" he said reproachfully, touching her breast
where the blood--his own blood--was slowly drying.
His hand passed on, and as it touched her, I saw her eyes soften into
such a wonderful tenderness that I felt as if I were looking on a part of
Sister's life which was sacred.
I saw a little movement as if to draw back, then she resolutely held her
position. But her eyes were dull with a new pain. I wonder--I have
wondered ever since--what memories that poor senseless wreck of a
man was arousing in the woman's heart by his wandering touch.
"Marny," he said, "Marny. It was not TOO hard waiting for me?"
"No, dear."
"It will be all right now, Marny. The bad part is all past."
"Yes."
"Marny, you remember--the night--I left--Marny--I want--no--no, your
LIPS."
I knelt suddenly, and slipped my hand within his shirt, for I saw
something in his face.
As Sister's lips touched his I felt his heart give a great bound within his
breast, and then it was still. When she lifted her face it was as pale as
his.

I must say that I felt like crying--a feeling which had not come to me
for twenty years. I busied myself purposely with the dead man, and
when I had finished my task I turned, and found Sister filling in the
papers--her cap neatly tied, her golden hair hidden.
I signed the certificate, placing my name beneath hers.
For a moment we stood. Our eyes met, and--we said nothing. She
moved towards the door, and I held it open while she passed out.
Two hours later I received orders from the officer in command to send
the nurses back to headquarters. Our men were falling back before the
enemy.

A SMALL WORLD

"Thine were the calming eyes That round my pinnace could have stilled
the sea, And drawn thy voyager home, and bid him be Pure with their
pureness, with their wisdom wise, Merged in their light, and greatly
lost in thee."
It was midday at the monastery of Montserrat, and a monk, walking in
the garden, turned and paused in his meditative promenade to listen to
an unwonted noise. The silence of this sacred height is so intense that
many cannot sleep at night for the hunger of a sound. There is no
running water except the fountain in the patio. There are no birds to tell
of spring and morning. There are no trees for the cool night winds to
stir, nothing but eternal rock and the ancient building so closely
associated with the life of Ignatius de Loyola. The valley, a sheer three
thousand feet below, is thinly enough populated, though a great river
and the line of railway from Manresa to Barcelona run through it. So
clear is the atmosphere that at the great distance the contemplative
denizens of the monastery may count the number of the railway
carriages, while no sound of the train, or indeed of any life in the valley,
reaches their ears.
What the monk heard was disturbing, and he hurried to the corner of
the garden, from whence a view of the winding road may be obtained.
Floating on the wind came the sound, as from another world, of
shouting, and the hollow rumble of wheels. The holy man peered down
into the valley, and soon verified his fears. It was the diligencia, which
had quitted the monastery a short hour ago, that flew down the hill to

inevitable destruction. Once before in the recollection of the watcher
the mules had run away, rushing down to their death, and carrying with
them across that frontier the lives of seven passengers, devout persons,
who, having performed the pilgrimage to the shrine of our Lady of
Montserrat, had doubtless received their reward. The monk crossed
himself, but, being human, forgot