West Wind Drift Part 10

"Of no doubt," said Madame Obosky readily. "Do they not pain because of me? Should I not kiss the hand who s.n.a.t.c.h me from the horrible death?

From the Kingdom Come, as the doctor he say to me such a little time ago. And you, Mademoiselle, who have not been save by him from the Kingdom Come, you attend his hands and make him to be greatly comfortable."

"I am merely dressing the burns, Madame Obosky," said the other, coldly.

"I have done as much for the other poor fellows who--"

"I know, I know," broke in the Russian, smiling. "You must not be offend with me if I speak your language so badly."

"It strikes me you speak it most acceptably," interposed Percival.

"What is your name?" she asked abruptly. "I have heard you called the stowaway. No one has speak your name to me."

"My name is Percival," said he.

"It is a pretty name," said she, dubiously. "But surely you do not approve of me to call you Percival so quick. What is the other name, the name I am to--"

"That's the trouble with a name like mine. It sounds so beastly informal when you leave off the Mister, and it sounds as if you'd been a servant in the family for at least one generation if you stick it on. If you could only call me Monsieur Percival, or Senor Percival, or even Herr Percival, it wouldn't seem so bad, but Mister Percival,--well, it's pretty soft, isn't it, Miss Clinton?"

"Please hold your hand still, Mr. Percival," ordered the girl. She smiled up at the puzzled dancer. "His name is Mr. Percival, Madame Obosky. That's the poor creature's last name."

"Oh, I see. Then even you, Mademoiselle, may not call him Percival?"

"No, I do not call him Percival."

"You see, she's known me such a very short time," explained the subject of these remarks.

For a few moments Madame Obosky watched the bandaging process in silence. When she spoke again it was to say:

"You are so skilful, so gentle, Mademoiselle. I am taking a lesson in gentleness from you."

"It is quite simple, Madame. I am very awkward. I have had no experience. But if we ever live to see home again, I shall prepare myself at once for work in France. We are needed over there. We will be needed more than ever, now that America has gone in. Our own soldiers are over there, G.o.d bless them."

Madame Obosky gave her a pitying look.

"You may thank your G.o.d that you do not live in a land of soldiers, Mademoiselle. If you did, you would not be so eager to nurse them back to life. Do I shock you? Voila! When you train a boy to be a soldier, as the boys are trained in my country and in Germany, you make an animal of him,--and not a very nice animal at that. You nurse him back to life and strength and in return for your kindness he outrages you, and goes his way rejoicing. No, I do not like the soldiers."

Miss Clinton did not look up. Percival stared at the Russian for a moment and then observed:

"I don't think you can say that of the French or the English, Madame."

She shrugged her shoulders. "Quite true. But the French and the English, Mr. Percival, are decadent races," she said coolly, as if there were nothing more to be said on the subject. "Please, Mademoiselle," she went on, briskly, "will you not let me see how you have prepared his hands? I mean, how have you,--is it right to say fixed them?"

"Dressed them, you mean, Madame Obosky."

"I see. First you undress them, then you dress them, is it not so?"

Ruth Clinton laughed. The woman was quaint.

"I am about to begin on the left hand. You may watch me, if you care to do so."

"Will it not make you embarra.s.s?"

"Why should I be embarra.s.sed?" inquired Ruth, flus.h.i.+ng.

"I have said the wrong word," lamented the other. "Nervous,--zat,--that is the word."

"They're not very lovely things to look at," said Percival. "All red and blistery and greasy. Miss Clinton is a regular heroine to tackle 'em."

"I have witnessed some very terrible sights, Mr. Percival," said the Russian, her eyes narrowing. "Have you ever seen a little Jewish girl,--but no, Mademoiselle, no! I have catch the look in your eyes. I shall not tell you what I have seen. Go on! I shall be silent and take my first lesson."

Closely, intently she watched the process. When it was all over and the bottle containing ointment had been restored to the patient's pocket, she spread out her hands and exclaimed:

"It is not difficult. May I inquire where the gauze bandages are to be obtained, Miss Clinton? And do you always use the same safety pins?"

She arose early the next morning. Rousing her maid, she ordered her to apply to the s.h.i.+p's surgeon for bandages and to fetch them to her at once.

"I know,--yes, I know. You are dying, but do as I tell you. This instant! Why should you, a great hulking beast of a woman, be dying every minute of the day while I, not half your size, am tingling all over with life? Go!"

"But, Madame," groaned the wretched woman, rolling her eyes, "I shall be dashed to pieces against the walls. I cannot stand. My legs will not hold me up. They--"

"Enough! That is no excuse. My legs manage to hold me up."

"But, Madame, it is my legs I am speaking of. My legs are not like yours."

"Any fool can see that," retorted her mistress, and the ungainly maid staggered out on her mission.

Later on, supplied with a roll of gauze, Madame Obosky set out in quest of her preserver. Even the veterans among the seamen gazed upon her in wondering admiration as she made her way about the s.h.i.+p. She was a revelation to them. The increasing fury of the storm had driven all save the hardiest sailors and a few of the non-praying male pa.s.sengers to their rooms. Now and then one or two of the courageous, devoted nurses appeared in the corridors, reeling from patient to patient, but except for them the s.h.i.+p seemed entirely bereft of women. Small wonder then that the lithe, undaunted Russian created a sensation among the sailors who themselves were cold with dread.

She discovered him at last, coming up the steps from the devastated engine room. He was with Mr. Mott and several other half-dressed men.

Their faces were grave,--more serious than ever. They had been down to investigate the leak. Percival was stripped to the waist. The glare of the lanterns fell upon his broad shoulders and powerful arms, bronzed and burnished by the sun of the high hills.

"Come," she said, laying her hand on one of his brawny arms, "I have with me the bandages." She sent a swift glance over him, and smiled.

"But I see you have not the bottle. Is it in your cabin, Mr. Percivail?"

He flushed darkly under his coat of tan. His companions stared for a moment, and then went on.

"I am busy," he said. "I haven't the time now, Madame Obosky. Thank you, just the same." Then a sense of loyalty to the girl who had been kind to him impelled him to add: "Besides, Miss Clinton has been taking care of my hands. She has got used to dressing them, so I--"

"But it is my duty now," she protested. "She owes so little to you and I so much. Come, let us procure the lotion. Where is your cabin?"

He held back. "You can't go to my cabin."

"And why not?" she exclaimed, in surprise. "Does not Miss Clinton go to your cabin?"

"No, she does not!"

"But she goes to the cabins of other men who are wounded. I have see her with my own eyes."

"That's different. They can't come to her."