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The Blue and the Gray
by
He spoke rapidly, with clenched hand and fiery eyes, and the two listeners watched him with a sort of fascination as he hissed out the last words, glancing at the occupant of the next bed. Murry evidently did not understand French; he lay with averted face, closed eyes, and a hopeful smile still on his lips, quite unconscious of the meaning of the fierce words uttered close beside him. Dr. Fitz Hugh had laid down his instruments, and knit his black brows irefully while he listened. But as the man paused, the doctor looked at Miss Mercy, who was quietly going on with her work, though there was an expression about her handsome mouth that made her womanly face look almost grim. Taking up his tools, the doctor followed her example, saying slowly, “If I didn’t believe Murry was mending, I’d turn you over to Roberts, whom the patients dread as they do the devil. I must do my duty, and you may thank Murry for it.”
“Does he know you are the man who shot him?” asked Mercy, still in French.
“No; I shouldn’t stay here long if he did,” answered Clay, with a short laugh.
“Don’t tell him, then at least, till after you are moved,” she said, in a tone of command.
“Where am I going?” demanded the man.
“Anywhere out of my ward,” was the brief answer, with a look that made the black eyes waver and fall.
In silence nurse and doctor did their work, and passed on. In silence Murry lay hour after hour, and silently did Clay watch and wait, till, utterly exhausted by the suffering he was too proud to confess, he sank into a stupor, oblivious alike of hatred, defeat, and pain. Finding him in this pitiable condition, Mercy relented, and, womanlike, forgot her contempt in pity. He was not moved, but tended carefully all that day and night; and when he woke from a heavy sleep, the morning sun shone again on two pale faces in the beds, and flashed on the buttons of two army-coats hanging side by side on the recess wall, on loyalist and rebel, on the blue and the gray.
Dr. Fitz Hugh stood beside Murry’s cot, saying cheerily, “You are doing well, my lad–better than I hoped. Keep calm and cool, and, if all goes right, we’ll have little Mary here to pet you in a week.”
“Who’s Mary?” whispered the rebel to the attendant who was washing his face.
“His sweetheart; he left her for the war, and she’s waitin’ for him back; poor soul!” answered the man, with a somewhat vicious scrub across the sallow cheek he was wiping.
“So he’ll get well, and go home and marry the girl he left behind him, will he?” sneered Clay, fingering a little case that hung about his neck, and was now visible as his rough valet unbuttoned his collar.
“What’s that, your sweetheart’s picter?” asked Jim, the attendant, eying the gold chain anxiously.
“I’ve got none,” was the gruff answer.
“So much the wus for you, then. Small chance of gettin’ one here; our girls won’t look at you, and you ain’t likely to see any of your own sort for a long spell, I reckon,” added Jim, working away at the rebel’s long-neglected hair.
Clay lay looking at Mercy Carrol as she went to and fro among the men, leaving a smile behind her, and carrying comfort wherever she turned, a right womanly woman, lovely and lovable, strong yet tender, patient yet decided, skilful, kind, and tireless in the discharge of duties that would have daunted most women. It was in vain she wore the plain gray gown and long apron, for neither could hide the grace of her figure. It was in vain she brushed her luxuriant hair back into a net, for the wavy locks would fall on her forehead, and stray curls would creep out or glisten like gold under the meshes meant to conceal them. Busy days and watchful nights had not faded the beautiful bloom on her cheeks, or dimmed the brightness of her hazel eyes. Always ready, fresh, and fair, Mercy Carrol was regarded as the good angel of the hospital, and not a man in it, sick or well, but was a loyal friend to her. None dared to be a lover, for her little romance was known; and, though still a maid, she was a widow in their eyes, for she had sent her lover to his death, and over the brave man’s grave had said, “Well done.”