"No, not vexed."

"Then--then, can't you give me a word of hope? I--I don't even ask you to make a definite promise, although I'd give my eyes if you could; but if you could tell me that you liked no one better, and that I--I may speak again--if--if I come back, I could go away with a braver heart.

I should feel all the time as if I were fighting for you. Just say something to cheer me, won't you, Nancy?"

"I'm afraid I can't," the girl's voice was hoa.r.s.e as she spoke.

Evidently his words had moved her greatly.

"Why? There is no one else, is there?"

"No, yes, that is----"

"Some one else! But, Nancy----"

"No, there is no one else."

"Then, Nancy, promise me something. Give me an inkling of hope."

She shook her head.

"But why?"

"Because--because it would not be fair to you."

"Anything would be fair to me if you'd give me some hope."

"Even if I could only offer you half my heart?"

"Give me half, and I'd quickly gain the rest," laughed Trevanion.

"Why, why, I should be in heaven if you could say even so much."

"Do you care so much?" and there was a touch of wistfulness in her voice.

"So much! Why, you know. You have been the only thing I've cared for--for months. Why, you---you are everything to me. I'm not a clever fellow, I know that--but--but--I can fight, Nancy. And it's all for you."

Nancy stood still a few seconds, evidently fighting with herself. She knew she could not in honour promise even what Trevanion had asked for without telling him the truth. And this was terribly difficult. She felt that he had a right to know, and yet it was like sacrilege to tell him.

"You see," went on the Captain, "your father----!"

"Stop!" cried the girl; "before you say any more, I must tell you something. It's very hard, but I must. I said there was no one else, but that's not--true."

"Not true! Then, then----"

"There was some one else, although it's--all over."

"But, but who? No, forgive me for asking. I've no right to ask.

Besides, you say--that--that it's a thing of the past."

"You have a right to ask if--if----"

"If what? Tell me who--if you think it fair of me to ask."

"Can't you guess?"

"There can be no one, except--I say, Nancy, you can't mean Nancarrow?"

She nodded her head.

"But, Nancy--that--that----"

"Don't, please. I loved him--at least I thought I did, and--and we were engaged. If--if--that is, but for the war, he would have spoken to father by this time, and--and everything would have been made known.

When--he played the coward, I found out my mistake, and I told him so."

"Great heavens, yes! It was, of course, only a foolish fancy. A girl like you could never seriously care for that cla.s.s of man."

"I am ashamed of myself when I think of him," and Nancy's voice was hoa.r.s.e as she spoke. "In a way I feel contaminated. If there is anything under heaven that I despise, it's a coward. I want to forget that I--I ever thought of him. I want to drive him from my mind."

"And that is what keeps you from promising me anything. But surely you do not care for him now. Why--why, you couldn't! The fellow who could show the white feather at such a time as this, and then try and cover up his cowardice by all that religious humbug, is not of your cla.s.s, Nancy. He's a rank outsider. I'm sorry I was ever friends with him.

Your father told me he was mad with himself for ever allowing him inside the house."

"That's why I'm so ashamed of----"

"We'll drive him from our minds, Nancy. There, he's done with. He's not worthy of a thought. You owe it to yourself, to your name, your country, to banish it from your mind."

For the moment Nancy was angry with Trevanion. She wanted to defend Bob. She wanted to tell him that Bob was braver than he. But she could not. She had spoken truly when she said that she was ashamed of herself for having allowed herself to think of him.

"Give me even the shadow of a promise," went on Trevanion, "and all thought of him will be for ever gone."

"No," said Nancy, "I can promise nothing--now."

"But will you try--to--to care for me?"

"Yes," said the girl, "I'll promise that, if--if it will be of any comfort to you."

"I don't fear now," cried Trevanion. "Everything will be right. What you have been telling me is nothing--just a pa.s.sing fancy which will be--nothing. Give me a kiss, Nancy, and----"

"No," said the girl, and she shrank back almost instinctively, "not that; but the other--yes, I'll promise to try."

"I'm the happiest man in England with only that," laughed Trevanion; "what shall I be when--when the war is over, and I come back to claim my own. I shall find you waiting for me, shan't I?"

"I--I don't know. I may not come back. It what the papers say is true, even the nurses are not safe."

"But have you really settled to go abroad as a nurse?"

"I thought you understood that when you were here last. I go to London the day after to-morrow, and in a week from now I expect to be in one of the French hospitals."

"I had hoped you'd given up that," said the Captain moodily.

"Why should you hope that? If it's your duty to go, it is mine. There are plenty of nurses for the English hospitals, but there are fewer volunteers for Belgium and France. I suppose the most hopeful cases are sent home to England. Those who are dangerously wounded remain in France or Belgium. That's where I want to be."