Lieutenant Booker said, "I'm a coward. Just as they say. A brave man would have got it done properly."
"Perhaps it isn't your time to die," I replied. It was an echo of what I had said to Peregrine Graham. "Had you thought about that?"
"No." It was blunt.
"Well, it's something to consider. Hasn't your poor wife suffered enough? Even for Harry's sake? He would be the first to tell you to put the living before the dead. You won't bring him back by sacrificing yourself as well, you know. And he doesn't have a son to carry on his memory. But you do, and it's your duty to see that your own son remembers his uncle with pride and honors him for his courage."
He held up his wrists, bandaged now. "I couldn't do it. Not even for Harry."
"Then I'm proud of you. Something deep inside prevented you, and that means in time you'll heal. The living must go on living, or we fail the dead."
"It wasn't that. I heard my brother crying out to me. As clearly as I hear you now. He stopped me, I didn't stop myself."
I digested that, then said, "Which proves I was right. There was was some reason for you to live." some reason for you to live."
"It shook me to the core."
I could see that it had. "Of course it did." I pulled up the only chair in the small room and sat down by the bed. "I expect he watches over you. And always will."
He stared at me. "I told myself it was proof of my madness."
"I'd say, rather, proof of your sanity. Why did you send for me?"
"Because none of them has been to war. You've come close." He frowned. "I thought I'd seen you in France. When Harry was taken to the dressing station."
"It was dark, you were very upset. We look alike in our uniforms."
"That's true...." He hesitated. "Will you tell the doctor that I won't try again? He won't believe me. My mother-in-law is set on sending me back to the clinic. I want to stay here."
"Dr. Philips has already given you one chance. And Mrs. Denton is sick with worry for her daughter. Wouldn't you be in her shoes?"
"I tried to make her understand about Harry," he said defensively.
"Oh, don't be silly, Lieutenant. If you had a daughter and she'd married a soldier who seems bent on breaking her heart if he doesn't frighten her to death first, what would you do?"
He gave me a twisted smile. "I'd try to knock some sense into the bas-" He broke off. "Beg pardon, Sister."
"That's precisely what Sally's mother feels."
"Tell them I'm sorry. Tell them to give me one more chance. I won't let them down." His eyes pleaded, and I tried to judge whether he meant it at this moment but would succumb to his nightmares again.
There was no way of telling. "I'll speak to Dr. Philips."
"I can't help that the trenches come back-"
"That's not your fault," I agreed. "This" "This"-I gestured to his surroundings, the bandages and the straps holding him down-"this is your doing." your doing."
He shut his eyes, and I could see tears beneath the lids. Men don't like to be seen crying. I turned and quietly left him alone.
I wasn't sure Dr. Philips believed me when I told him that Ted Booker had promised not to do anything rash again. I could read the skepticism in his face. After all, I was a nurse, and he was the medical man.
Walking back to the Graham house, I was overtaken by the rector-he called to me, introducing himself in the same breath.
"Miss Crawford? I say, I'm Christopher Montgomery, the rector."
I turned to meet him as he caught me up.
He was a man of middle height, with light blue eyes and fair skin. I put his age at forty, perhaps forty-five.
"I understand you were with Arthur Graham when he died."
"Yes, I was. I came to Owlhurst with messages for his family. We nearly met before, Rector. I was in the church the other day, when you were repairing something in the organ loft."
He smiled ruefully. "I must have been making a terrible racket. But the bench was wobbly, according to my organist, Mr. Lessing, and I took it upon myself to find a solution. Thankfully, all four legs of the bench were even when I finished."
I laughed. "I'm sure they were."
"I saw you leaving the surgery just now."
"I was looking in on Lieutenant Booker."
"Yes, I sat with him earlier. A sad case. I don't understand what shell shock does to the mind, but I can see very clearly how much he's suffering. I was a chaplain in the first months of 1915. They sent me home because I had a very bad case of trench foot. Embarrassing, to say the least. But I've thought for some time that it might have also been my reluctance to convince men that God intended for them to die for King and Country."
"There are worse cases than Mr. Booker's."
He shook his head. "That's beyond my ability to imagine."
We had turned to walk together toward the church gate, where I would take the shortcut to the Graham house.
The rector said after a moment, "I wanted to ask you about Peregrine Graham."
I was immediately on my guard. It wouldn't do to gossip about the Grahams behind their backs.
"It came to my ears that he'd been brought home and is not expected to live. Is it true?"
"He's much improved, I'm happy to say. Someone came for him only this morning."
"Yes, the neighbors were quick to inform me that the ambulance had returned, but they couldn't tell me whether it took him away alive or dead. I tried to call one morning, but was turned away. They told me Peregrine had no wish to see me."
I hadn't known that he'd called. I said, trying to be judicious, "I don't think he was really well enough for a visitor."
"It was kind of you to help the family in their hour of need."
It hadn't been kindness, it had been necessity. "I was glad I was here to step in," I answered instead.
"Where have you served?"
I told him, trying to keep my voice neutral-an experience, but stiff upper lip and all that.
We were halfway across the churchyard now.
He stopped. "It must have been a very nerve-racking experience. I can't imagine coming so close to drowning. And how is your arm? I see you aren't keeping it in a sling."
"Much improved." I smiled. "Friends at the Front are exhausted from deciphering the letters I wrote with my left hand. It will do much for fighting morale when I am legible again."
The rector chuckled. Then he said, going back again to Peregrine, "I've always been of two minds about Mrs. Graham's son, and what he did."
"I didn't know that you were here, er-at the time."
"I was not. But my predecessor kept journals for his own guidance, and left them to me for mine. I have read the pertinent passages. He writes that Peregrine had been taken away quietly. He seemed to be comfortable with the decision, he felt that the family had suffered enough. I wonder if that was fair to Peregrine."
"Would prison have been better? Surely not, if there were doctors at the asylum who could work with him."
"As to that, I can't say. My predecessor-Craig was his name-spoke of a damaged mind, and the fact that the poor soul had never successfully been educated. That would have been taken into account, certainly."
I knew my surprise showed in my face. "Is that what he wrote?"
"He felt Peregrine Graham had the mind of a child."
Hardly the man I'd just dealt with!
"Was that the generally accepted view? Or just Mr. Craig's?"
"I can only tell you his given opinion. Apparently the boy had been having some difficulties while his father was alive. The tutor complained he was slow to learn, unable to concentrate on his lessons. But when his father died, the boy's mind broke with his grief. And so they kept him close to home after that. At any rate, I thought, while Peregrine was ill, I could offer him Christian solace before he returned to that place. I went to Barton's-the asylum-soon after I took up the living here, but they told me he wasn't allowed visitors. I was astonished. I thought the family would have-but I was told he was allowed to see no one."
"Were these the terms of his confinement?"
"That's possible, of course. Ted Booker told Mr. Craig that one day he was passing the asylum, and there was Peregrine, sitting on a bench under a tree, manacled to it. This was some years ago, well before the war. Booker could see him through the gate, and called to him. Peregrine turned his head away. Booker was shocked by his appearance, and said something to Arthur about it. The rector reported in his journal that Booker was the only person to have seen him since he was taken there."
And I'd just missed my chance to ask Ted Booker about Peregrine Graham.
I next expected the rector to ask me what I thought of my patient, but he didn't. It was the journals that were on his mind. I could see that he was fascinated by his predecessor.
"Well, water under the dam," he went on. "I've never spoken to anyone else about the journals, you know. It seemed best. There are comments in there that are more honest than most people could stomach. Mr. Craig believed in the truth at any price."
"I understand." I wasn't to chatter about them.
"I think you do. Thank you."
We had reached the far gate of the churchyard. He opened it for me, and said rather shyly, "Perhaps you'll call at the rectory, before you leave. I'd be glad to show you the journals."
"I should be leaving shortly. I'm awaiting my orders now. With Britannic Britannic at the bottom of the sea, I'm sure London is at sixes and sevens trying to decide where to put all of us. One of the nurses on the ship with me has just been posted to Poona, in India." at the bottom of the sea, I'm sure London is at sixes and sevens trying to decide where to put all of us. One of the nurses on the ship with me has just been posted to Poona, in India."
"That's a long way from home," he said.
I didn't tell him I'd spent part of my childhood in the East. I simply agreed, and he said good-bye, but then called me back to ask, "Do you think Peregrine Graham lacks spiritual comfort where he is? Is he capable of recognizing his needs in that direction?"
"I think," I responded slowly, "that he despairs of comfort. But it's a matter you must take up with the family. Or the doctors at the asylum."
"Mr. Craig was also chaplain there, but I've not been asked to fill his position. Perhaps I ought to speak to someone in charge and see what the need is."
"Yes, that might be wise," I said. "Good-bye, Rector."
We shook hands, and I turned away to walk the rest of the way alone.
There was much curiosity at the house regarding my summons to speak with Ted Booker. Susan was the first to ask, and then over our meal, Mrs. Graham brought up the subject.
Not wanting to add to any gossip about his attempt to kill himself, I merely said, "He felt that I'd been closer to the war than his family. I think he wanted reassurance that his problems are not his alone."
"I should think a rational man would do his best to heal quickly and return to the fighting. God knows, we need soldiers." Would she have wished her own son back before his time was up?
I could have answered that it wasn't surprising-the casualty lists continued to be unbearably long. But I said instead, "It takes time to heal the mind, just as it does the body."
"Did he ask you about Peregrine?"
"About Peregrine? I don't believe he even knew your son was at home, ill."
"No, I meant Dr. Philips."
I think my guilty conscience for having spoken of Peregrine with the rector must have shone in my face, but I said resolutely, "He complimented me on my skills."
"You needn't avoid the question, you know."
"But I'm not. He did tell me he'd called, to see if I needed his help. I wish I'd known it at the time."
She nodded. "Thank you for your honesty. And I'll be equally honest in return. I didn't wish people in Owlhurst to gossip about my son. I'm well aware that a medical man must keep matters concerning his patients in strictest confidence, but I don't know Dr. Philips that well yet."
Timothy came in just then and said, "Did you hear? Booker tried to slash his wrists. Fool that he is. His wife must be in despair." He sat down to take his tea, and then too restless to be still, stood up and carried his cup to the window.
"She made her choice, Timothy. It's not for you to judge her decision. I've always felt one of the Loftlan girls would be more suitable. We could invite the family to dine with us..."
It must have been an old argument, because I saw Timothy twitch one shoulder, as if trying to shrug off her words.
"I'd just like to think she's happy," he said brusquely. "More to the point, safe."
"How can she be, under the circumstances?" Mrs. Graham turned to me. "Sally was quite popular. Everyone liked her, and she had a sweet nature that I thought spoke well of her upbringing. She and Ted Booker were an excellent match. Everyone was pleased for them."
"She saw him in uniform, and that was that," Timothy added sourly.
Jonathan came in, late as usual, and said, "Sorry," to his mother, before nodding to me.
Taking his cup, he said, "There was a message from the asylum. Brother Peregrine made the journey back safely. I don't know who is more disappointed in that, the asylum or us."
"Jonathan!" his mother said sharply.