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diff --git a/old/60580-0.txt b/old/60580-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 1fa79b0..0000000 --- a/old/60580-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,3175 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Big Blue Soldier, by Grace Livingston Hill - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: The Big Blue Soldier - -Author: Grace Livingston Hill - -Release Date: October 27, 2019 [EBook #60580] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BIG BLUE SOLDIER *** - - - - -Produced by Tim Lindell, David E. Brown, and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - - - - - - - - - -THE BIG BLUE SOLDIER - - - - -_GRACE LIVINGSTON HILL’S_ - -_Charming and Wholesome Romances_ - - - The City of Fire - The Tryst - Cloudy Jewel - Exit Betty - The Search - The Red Signal - The Enchanted Barn - The Finding of Jasper Holt - The Obsession of Victoria Gracen - Miranda - The Best Man - Lo, Michael! - Marcia Schuyler - Phoebe Deane - Dawn of the Morning - The Mystery of Mary - The Girl from Montana - - - - - THE - BIG BLUE - SOLDIER - - _BY_ - GRACE LIVINGSTON HILL - - AUTHOR OF “THE CITY OF FIRE,” “MARCIA SCHUYLER,” ETC. - - [Illustration] - - PHILADELPHIA & LONDON - J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY - 1923 - - - - - COPYRIGHT, 1920, 1921, BY THE GOLDEN RULE COMPANY - COPYRIGHT, 1923, BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY - - PRINTED BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY - AT THE WASHINGTON SQUARE PRESS - PHILADELPHIA, U. S. A. - - - - -THE BIG BLUE SOLDIER - - - - -CHAPTER I - - -“And you don’t think maybe I ought to have had lemon custard to go with -the pumpkin instead of the mince?” - -Miss Marilla Chadwick turned from her anxious watching at the kitchen -window to search Mary Amber’s clear young eyes for the truth, the whole -truth, and nothing but the truth. - -“Oh, no, I think mince is much better. All men like mince-pie, it’s -so--sort of comprehensive, you know.” - -Miss Marilla turned back to her window, satisfied. - -“Well, now, if he came on that train, he ought to be in sight around -the bend of the road in about three minutes,” she said tensely. “I’ve -timed it often when folks were coming out from town, and it always -takes just six minutes to get around the bend of the road.” - -All through the months of the Great War Miss Marilla had knit and -bandaged and emergencied and canteened with an eager, wistful look in -her dreamy gray eyes, and many a sweater had gone to some needy lad -with the little thrilling remark as she handed it over to the committee: - -“I keep thinking, what if my nephew Dick should be needing one, and -this just come along in time?” - -But when the war was over, and most people had begun to use pink and -blue wool on their needles, or else cast them aside altogether and -tried to forget there ever had been such a thing as war, and the price -of turkeys had gone up so high that people forgot to be thankful the -war was over, Miss Marilla still held that wistful look in her eyes, -and still spoke of her nephew Dick with bated breath and a sigh. For -was not Dick among those favored few who were to remain and do patrol -work for an indefinite time in the land of the enemy, while others were -gathered to their waiting homes and eager loved ones? Miss Marilla -spoke of Dick as of one who still lingered on the border-land of -terror, and who laid his young life a continuous sacrifice for the good -of the great world. - -A neat paragraph to that effect appeared in _The Springhaven -Chronicle_, a local sheet that offered scant news items and fat -platitudes at an ever-increasing rate to a gullible and conceited -populace, who supported it because it was really the only way to know -what one’s neighbors were doing. The paragraph was the reluctant work -of Mary Amber, the young girl who lived next door to Miss Marilla and -had been her devoted friend since the age of four, when Miss Marilla -used to bake sugar cookies for her in the form of stogy men with -currant eyes and outstretched arms. - -Mary Amber remembered Nephew Dick as a young imp of nine who made a -whole long, beautiful summer ugly with his torments. She also knew that -the neighbors all round about had memories of that summer when Dick’s -parents went on a Western trip and left him with his Aunt Marilla. Mary -Amber shrank from exposing her dear friend to the criticisms of such -of the readers of _The Springhaven Chronicle_ as had memories of their -cats tortured, their chickens chased, their flower-beds trampled, their -children bullied, and their windows broken by the youthful Dick. - -But time had softened the memories of that fateful summer in Miss -Marilla’s mind, and, besides, she was sorely in need of a hero. Mary -Amber had not the heart to refuse to write the paragraph, but she made -it as conservative as the circumstances allowed. - -But now, at last, among the latest to be sent back, Lieutenant Richard -Chadwick’s division was coming home! - -Miss Marilla read in the paper what day they would sail, and that they -were expected to arrive not later than the twenty-ninth; and, as she -read, she conceived a wild and daring plan. Why should not she have a -real, live hero herself? A bit belated, of course, but all the more -distinguished for that. And why should not Mary Amber have a whole -devoted soldier boy of her own for the village to see and admire? -Not that she told Mary Amber that, oh, no! But in her mind’s vision -she saw herself, Mary Amber, and Dick all going together to church -on Sunday morning, the bars on his uniform gleaming like the light -in Mary Amber’s hazel eyes. Miss Marilla had one sudden pang of fear -when she thought that perhaps he would not wear his uniform home, now -that everybody else was in citizen’s clothing; then her sweet faith -in the wholesomeness of all things came to her rescue, and she smiled -in relief. Of course he would wear it to come home; that would be too -outrageous not to, when he had been a hero. Of course he would wear it -the first few days. And that was a good reason why she must invite him -at once to visit her instead of waiting until he had been to his home -and been demobilized. She _must_ have him in his uniform. She wanted -the glory of it for her own brief share in that great time of uplifting -and sacrifice that was so fast going into history. - -So Miss Marilla had hastened into the city to consult a friend who -worked in the Red Cross and went out often to the wharves to meet -the incoming boats. This friend promised to find out just when Dick’s -division was to land, to hunt him up herself, and to see that he had -the invitation at once. “See that he _came_,” she put it, with a wise -reservation in her heart that the dear, loving soul should not be -disappointed. - -And now, the very night before, this friend had called Miss Marilla on -the telephone to say that she had information that Dick’s ship would -dock at eight in the morning. It would probably be afternoon before he -could get out to Springhaven; so she had better arrange to have dinner -about half past five. So Miss Marilla, with shining eyes and heart that -throbbed like a young girl’s, had thrown her cape over her shoulders -and hastened in the twilight through the hedge to tell Mary Amber. - -Mary Amber, trying to conceal her inward doubts, had congratulated -Miss Marilla and promised to come over the first thing in the morning -to help get dinner. Promised also, after much urging, almost with tears -on the part of Miss Marilla, to stay and help eat the dinner afterward -in company with Miss Marilla and the young lieutenant. From this part -of her promise Mary Amber’s soul recoiled, for she had no belief that -the young leopard with whom she had played at the age of ten could have -changed his spots in the course of a few years, or even covered them -with a silver bar. But Mary Amber soon saw that her presence at that -dinner was an intrinsic part of Miss Marilla’s joy in the anticipation -of the dinner; and, much as she disliked the position of being flung at -the young lieutenant in this way, she promised. After all, what did it -matter what he thought of her anyway, since she had no use for him? And -then, she could always quietly freeze him whenever Miss Marilla’s back -was turned. And Mary Amber _could_ freeze with her hazel eyes when she -tried. - -So quite early in the morning Miss Marilla and Mary Amber began a -cheerful stir in Miss Marilla’s big sunny kitchen, and steadily, -appetizingly, there grew an array of salads and pies and cakes and -puddings and cookies and doughnuts and biscuits and pickles and olives -and jellies; while a great bird stuffed to bursting went through the -seven stages of its final career to the oven. - -But now it was five o’clock. The bird with brown and shining breast was -waiting in the oven, “done to a turn;” mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, -squash, succotash, and onions had received the finishing-touches, and -had only to be “taken up.” Cranberries and pickles and celery and jelly -gave the final touches to a perfect table, and the sideboard fairly -groaned under its load of pies and cake. One might have thought a whole -regiment were to dine with Miss Marilla Chadwick that day, from the -sights and smells that filled the house. Up in the spare room the fire -glowed in a Franklin heater, and a geranium glowed in a west window -between spotless curtains to welcome the guest; and now there was -nothing left for the two women to do but the final anxiety. - -Mary Amber had her part in that, perhaps even more than her hostess and -friend; for Mary Amber was jealous for Miss Marilla, and Mary Amber was -youthfully incredulous. She had no trust in Dick Chadwick, even though -he was an officer and had patrolled an enemy country for a few months -after the war was over. - -Mary Amber had slipped over to her own house when she finished mashing -the potatoes, and changed her gown. She was putting little squares of -butter on the bread-and-butter plates now, and the setting sun cast -a halo of burnished light over her gold hair, and brightened up the -silk of her brown gown with its touches of wood-red. Mary Amber was -beautiful to look upon as she stood with her butterknife deftly cutting -the squares and dropping them in just the right spot on the plates. But -there was a troubled look in her eyes as she glanced from time to time -at the older woman over by the window. Miss Marilla had given over all -thought of work, and was intent only on the road toward the station. It -would seem as if not until this moment had her great faith failed her, -and the thought come to her that perhaps he might not come. - -“You know, of course, he might not get that train,” she said -meditatively. “The other leaves only half an hour later. But she said -she’d tell him to take this one.” - -“That’s true, too,” said Mary Amber cheerily. “And nothing will be hurt -by waiting. I’ve fixed those mashed potatoes so they won’t get soggy by -being too hot, and I’m sure they’ll keep hot enough.” - -“You’re a good, dear girl, Mary Amber,” said Miss Marilla, giving her -a sudden impulsive kiss. “I only wish I could do something great and -beautiful for you.” - -Miss Marilla caught up her cape, and hurried toward the door. - -“I’m going out to the gate to meet him,” she said with a smile. “It’s -time he was coming in a minute now, and I want to be out there without -hurrying.” - -She clambered down the steps, her knees trembling with excitement. -She hoped Mary Amber had not looked out of the window. A boy was -coming on a bicycle; and, if he should be a boy with a telegram or a -special-delivery letter, she wanted to read it before Mary Amber saw -her. Oh, how awful if anything had happened that he couldn’t come -to-day! Of course, he might come later to-night, or to-morrow; and a -turkey would keep, though it was never so good as the minute it was -taken out of the oven. - -The boy was almost to the gate now, and--yes, he was going to stop. He -was swinging one leg out with that long movement that meant slowing up. -She panted forward with a furtive glance back at the house. She hoped -Mary Amber was looking at the turkey and not out of the window. - -It seemed that her fingers had suddenly gone tired while she was -writing her name in that boy’s book, and they almost refused to tear -open the envelope as the boy swung on his wheel again and vanished down -the road. She had presence of mind enough to keep her back to the house -and the telegram in front of her as she opened it covertly, trying to -keep the attitude of still looking eagerly down the road, while the -typewritten brief message got itself across to her tumultuous mind. - - “Impossible to accept invitation. Have other engagements. Thanks just - the same. - “(Signed) - “LIEUTENANT RICHARD H. CHADWICK.” - -Miss Marilla tore the yellow paper hastily, and crumpled it into a -ball in her hands as she stared down the road through brimming tears. -She managed an upright position; but her knees were shaking under -her, and a gone feeling came in her stomach. Across the sunset skies -in letters of accusing size there seemed to blaze the paragraphs -from _The Springhaven Chronicle_, copied afterwards in the county -_Gazette_, about Miss Marilla Chadwick’s nephew, Lieutenant Richard H. -Chadwick, who was expected at his aunt’s home as soon as he landed in -this country after a long and glorious career in other lands, and who -would spend the week-end with his aunt, and “doubtless be heard from -at the Springhaven Club House before he left.” Her throat caught with -a queer little sound like a groan. Still, with her hand grasping the -front gate convulsively, Miss Marilla stood and stared down the road, -trying to think what to do, how to word a paragraph explaining why he -did not come, how to explain to Mary Amber so that that look of sweet -incredulousness should not come into her eyes. - -Then suddenly, as she stared through her blur of tears, there appeared -a straggling figure, coming around the bend of the road by the Hazard -house; and Miss Marilla, with nothing at all in her mind but to escape -from the watchful, loving eyes of Mary Amber for a moment longer, till -she could think what to say to her, staggered out the gate and down the -road toward the person, whoever it was, that was coming slowly up the -road. - -On stumbled Miss Marilla, nearer and nearer to the oncoming man, till -suddenly through a blur of tears she noticed that he wore a uniform. -Her heart gave a leap, and for a moment she thought it must be Dick; -that he had been playing her a joke by the telegram, and was coming on -immediately to surprise her before she had a chance to be disappointed. -It was wonderful how the years had done their halo work for Dick with -Miss Marilla. - -She stopped short, trembling, one hand to her throat. Then, as the man -drew nearer and she saw his halting gait, saw, too, his downcast eyes -and whole dejected attitude, she somehow knew it was not Dick. Never -would he have walked to her home in that way. There had been a swagger -about little Dick that could not be forgotten. The older Dick, crowned -now with many honors, would not have forgotten to hold his head high. - -Unconscious of her attitude of intense interest she stood with hand -still fluttering at her throat, and eyes brightly on the man as he -advanced. - -When he was almost opposite to her, he looked up. He had fine eyes and -good features; but his expression was bitter for one so young, and in -the eyes there was a look of pain. - -“Oh! excuse me,” said Miss Marilla, looking around furtively to be sure -Mary Amber could not see them so far away. “Are you in a very great -hurry?” - -The young man looked surprised, amused, and slightly bored, but paused -politely. - -“Not specially,” he said; and there was a tone of dry sarcasm in his -voice. “Is there anything I can do for you?” - -He lifted the limp little trench-cap, and paused to rest his lame knee. - -“Why, I was wondering if you would mind coming in and eating -dinner with me,” spoke Miss Marilla eagerly from a dry throat of -embarrassment. “You see my nephew’s a returned soldier, and I’ve just -got word he can’t come. The dinner’s all ready to be dished up, and it -needn’t take you long.” - -“Dinner sounds good to me,” said the young man with a grim glimmer of a -smile. “I guess I can accommodate you, madam. I haven’t had anything -to eat since I left the camp last night.” - -“Oh! You poor child!” said Miss Marilla, beaming on him with a -welcoming smile. “Now isn’t it fortunate I should have asked _you_?” -as if there had been a throng of passing soldiers from which she might -have chosen. “But are you sure I’m not keeping you from some one else -who is waiting for you?” - -“If there’s any one else waiting anywhere along this road for me, it’s -all news to me, madam; and anyhow you got here first, and I guess you -have first rights.” - -He had swung into the easy, familiar vernacular of the soldier now; and -for the moment his bitterness was held in abeyance, and the really nice -look in his eyes shone forth. - -“Well, then, we’ll just go along in,” said Miss Marilla, casting -another quick glance toward the house. “And I think I’m most fortunate -to have found you. It’s so disappointing to get dinner ready for -company and then not have any.” - -“Must be almost as disappointing as to get all ready for dinner and -then not have any,” said the soldier affably. - -Miss Marilla smiled wistfully. - -“I suppose your name doesn’t happen to be Richard, does it?” she asked -with that childish appeal in her eyes that had always kept her a young -woman and good company for Mary Amber, even though her hair had long -been gray. - -“Might just as well be that as anything else,” he responded, affably, -willing to drop into whatever rôle was set for him in this most -unexpected byplay. - -“And you wouldn’t mind if I should call you Dick?” she asked with a -wistful look in her blue eyes. - -“Like nothing better,” he assented glibly, and found his own heart -warming to this confiding stranger lady. - -“That’s beautiful of you!” She put out a shy hand, and laid it lightly -on the edge of his cuff. “You don’t know how much obliged I am. You -see, Mary Amber hasn’t ever quite believed he was coming--Dick, I -mean--and she’s been so kind, and helped me get the dinner and all. I -just couldn’t bear to tell her he wasn’t coming.” - -The young soldier stopped short in the middle of the road, and whistled. - -“Horrors!” he exclaimed in dismay “Are there other guests? Who is Mary -Amber?” - -“Why, she’s just my neighbor, who played with you--I mean with Dick -when he was here visiting as a child a good many years ago. I’m afraid -he wasn’t always as polite to her then as a boy ought to be to a little -girl; and--well, she’s never liked him very well. I was afraid she -would say, ‘I told you so’ if she thought he didn’t come. It won’t be -necessary for me to tell any lies, you know. I’ll just say, ‘Dick, this -is Mary Amber; I suppose you don’t remember her,’ and that’ll be all. -You don’t mind, do you? It won’t take long to eat dinner.” - -“But I’m a terrible mess to meet a girl!” he exclaimed uneasily, -looking down deprecatingly at himself. “I thought it was just you. This -uniform’s three sizes too large, and needs a drink. Besides,” he passed -a speculative hand over his smoothly shaven chin, “I--don’t _care_ for -girls!” There was a deep frown between his eyes, and the bitter look -had come back on his face. Miss Marilla thought he looked as if he -might be going to run away. - -“Oh, that’s all right!” said Miss Marilla anxiously. “Neither does -Mary Amber like men. She says they’re all a selfish conceited lot. -You needn’t have much to do with her. Just eat your dinner and tell -anything you want to about the war. We won’t bother you to talk much. -Come; this is the house, and the turkey must be on the table getting -cold by now.” - -She swung open the gate, and laid a persuasive hand on the shabby -sleeve; and the young man reluctantly followed her up the path to the -front door. - - - - -CHAPTER II - - -When Lyman Gage set sail for France three years before, he left behind -him a modest interest in a promising business enterprise, a girl who -seemed to love him dearly, and a debt of several thousand dollars to -her father, who had advised him to go into the enterprise and furnished -the funds for his share in the capital. - -When he had returned from France three days before, he had been met -with news that the business enterprise had gone to smash during the -war, the girl had become engaged to a dashing young captain with a -well-feathered nest, and the debt had become a galling yoke. - -“Father says, tell you you need not worry about the money you owe him,” -wrote the girl sweetly, concluding her revelations. “You can pay it at -your leisure when you get started again.” - -Lyman Gage lost no time in gathering together every cent he could -scrape up. This was more than he had at first hoped, because of the -fact that he owned two houses in the big city in which he had landed; -and these houses, though old and small, happened to be located in the -vicinity of a great industrial plant that had sprung up since the end -of the war, and houses were going at soaring prices. They were snapped -up at once at a sum that was fabulous in comparison with their real -value. This, with what he had brought home and the bonus he received on -landing, exactly covered his indebtedness to the man who was to have -been his father-in-law; and, when he turned away from the window where -he had been telegraphing the money to his lawyer in a far State with -instructions to pay the loan at once, he had just forty-six cents left -in his pocket. - -Suddenly, as he reflected that he had done the last thing there was -left that he now cared to do on earth, the noises of the great city got -hold upon his nerve, and tore and racked it. - -He was filled with a great desire to get out and away from it, he cared -not where, only so that the piercing sounds and rumbling grind of the -traffic of the city should not press upon the raw nerves and torture -them. - -With no thought of getting anything to eat or providing for a -shelterless night that was fast coming on, he wandered out into the -train-area of the great station, and idly read the names up over the -train-gates. One caught his fancy, “PURLING BROOK.” It seemed as if -it might be quiet there, and a fellow could think. He followed the -impulse, and strode through the gates just as they were about to be -closed. Dropping into the last seat in the car as the train was about -to start, he flung his head back, and closed his eyes wearily. He did -not care whether he ever got anywhere or not. He was weary in heart -and spirit. He wished that he might just sink away into nothingness. -He was too tired to think, to bemoan his fate, to touch with torturing -finger of memory all the little beautiful hopes that he had woven about -the girl he thought he loved better than any one else on earth. Just -passingly he had a wish that he had a living mother to whom he could -go with his sick heart for healing. But she had been gone long years, -and his father even longer. There was really no one to whom he cared -to show his face, now that all he had counted dear on earth had been -suddenly taken from him. - -The conductor roused him from a profound sleep, demanding a ticket, -and he had the good fortune to remember the name he had seen over the -gate: “Purling Brook. How much?” - -“Fifty-six cents.” - -Gage reached into his pocket, and displayed the coins on his palm with -a wry smile. - -“Guess you better put me off here, and I’ll walk,” he said, stumbling -wearily to his feet. - -“That’s all right, son. Sit down,” said the conductor half roughly. -“You pay me when you come back sometime. I’ll make it good.” And he -glanced at the uniform kindly. - -Gage looked down at his shabby self helplessly. Yes, he was still a -soldier, and people had not got over the habit of being kind to the -uniform. He thanked the conductor, and sank into sleep again, to be -roused by the same kindly hand a few minutes later at Purling Brook. -He stumbled off, and stood looking dazedly about him at the trig little -village. The sleep was not yet gone from his eyes, nor the ache from -his nerves; but the clear quiet of the little town seemed to wrap him -about soothingly like salve, and the crisp air entered into his lungs, -and gave him heart. He realized that he was hungry. - -It seemed to have been a popular afternoon train that he had travelled -upon. He looked beyond the groups of happy home-comers to where it -hurried away gustily down the track, even then preparing to stop at the -next near suburban station to deposit a few more home-comers. There on -that train went the only friend he felt he had in the world at present, -that grizzly conductor with his kindly eyes looking through great -bifocals like a pleasant old grasshopper. - -Well, he could not remain here any longer. The air was biting, and the -sun was going down. Across the road the little drug-store even then was -twinkling out with lights behind its blue and green glass urns. Two -boys and a girl were drinking something at the soda-fountain through -straws, and laughing a great deal. It somehow turned him sick, he could -not tell why. He had done things like that many a time himself. - -There was a little stone church down the street, with a spire and -bells. The sun touched the bells with burnished crimson till they -looked like Christmas cards. A youthful rural football team went -noisily across the road, discoursing about how they would come out -that night if their mothers would let them; and the station cab came -down the street full of passengers, and waited for a lady at the -meat-market. He could see the legs of a chicken sticking out of the -basket as the driver helped her in. - -He began to wonder why he hadn’t stayed in the city and spent his -forty-six cents for something to eat. It would have bought a great -many crackers, say, or even bananas. He passed the bakery, and a whiff -of fresh-baked bread greeted his nostrils. He cast a wistful eye at -the window. Of course he might go in and ask for a job in payment -for his supper. There were his soldier’s clothes. But no. That was -equivalent to begging. He could not quite do that. Here in town they -would have all the help they wanted. Perhaps, farther out in the -country--perhaps--he didn’t know what; only he couldn’t bring himself -to ask for food, even with the offer to work. He didn’t care enough for -that. What was hunger, anyway? A thing to be satisfied and come again. -What would happen if he didn’t satisfy it? Die, of course, but what -did it matter? What was there to live for, anyway? - -He passed a house all windows, where children were gathered about -a piano with one clumsily playing an accompaniment. There was an -open fire, and the long windows came down to the piazza floor. They -were singing at the top of their lungs, the old, time-worn song made -familiar to them by community sing-songs, still good to them because -they all knew it so well, - - “There’s a long, long trail a-winding - Until my dreams all come true;” - -and it gripped his heart like a knife. He had sung that song with _her_ -when it was new and tender, just before he sailed away; and the trail -had seemed so long! And now he had reached the end of it, and she had -not been there to meet him! It was incredible! She so fair! And false! -After all those months of waiting! That was the hardest part of it, -that she could have done it, and then explained so lightly that he had -been away so long she was sure he would understand, and they both must -have got over their childish attachment; and so on, through the long, -nauseating sentences of her repeal. He shuddered as he said them over -to his tired heart, and then shuddered again with the keen air; for his -uniform was thin, and he had no overcoat. - -What was that she had said about the money? He needn’t worry about it. -A sort of bone to toss to the lone dog after he was kicked out. Ah, -well! It was paid. He was glad of that. He was even grimly glad for -his own destitution. It gave a kind of sense of satisfaction to have -gone hungry and homeless to pay it all in one grand lump, and to have -paid it at once, and through his lawyer, without any word to her or -her father either. They should not be even distant witnesses of his -humiliation. He would never cross their path again if he had his way. -They should be as completely wiped out of his existence and he out of -theirs as if the same universe did not hold them. - -He passed down the broad, pleasant street in the crisp air, and every -home on either hand gave him a thrust of memory that stabbed him to -the heart. It was such a home as one of these that he had hoped to -have some day, although it would have been in the city, perhaps, for -she always liked the city. He had hoped in the depths of his heart to -persuade her to the country, though. Now he saw as in a revelation how -futile such hopes had been. She would never have come to love sweet, -quiet ways such as he loved. She couldn’t ever have really loved him, -or she would have waited, would not have changed. - -Over and over again he turned the bitter story, trying to get it -settled in his heart so that the sharp edges would not hurt so, trying -to accustom himself to the thought that she whom he had cherished -through the blackness of the years that were past was not what he -had thought her. He stopped in the road beside a tall hedge that hid -the Hazard house from view, and snatched out her picture that he had -carried in his breast pocket till now; snatched it out, gazed upon -it with a look that was not good to see on a young face, and tore it -across! He took a step forward, and every step he tore a tiny fragment -from the picture and flung it into the road bit by bit till the lovely -face was mutilated in the dust where the feet of passers-by would grind -upon it and where those great blue eyes that had gazed back at him -from the picture so long would be destroyed forever. It was the last -thread that bound him to her, that picture; and, when the last scrap of -picture had fluttered away from him, he put his head down and strode -forward like one who has cast away from him his last hope. - -The voice of Miss Marilla roused him like a homely, pleasant sound -about the house of a morning when one has had an unhappy dream; and -he lifted his head, and, soldier-like, dropped into the old habit of -hiding his emotions. - -Her kindly face somehow comforted him, and the thought of dinner was -a welcome one. The ugly tragedy of his life seemed to melt away for -the moment, as if it could not stand the light of the setting sun and -her wholesome presence. There was an appeal in her eyes that reached -him; and somehow he didn’t feel like turning down her naïve, childlike -proposition. Besides, he was used to being cared for because he was -a soldier, and why not once more now when everything else had gone so -rotten? It was an adventure, anyway, and what was there left for him -but adventure? he asked himself with a little bitter sneer. - -But, when she mentioned a _girl_, that was a different thing! Girls -were all treacherous. It was a new conviction with him; but it had gone -deep, so deep that it had extended not only to a certain girl or class -of girls, but to all girls everywhere. He had become a woman-hater. -He wanted nothing more to do with any of them. And yet at that moment -his tired, disappointed, hurt man’s soul was really crying out for the -woman of the universe to comfort him, to explain to him this awful -circumstance that had come to all his bright dreams. A mother, that -was what he thought he wanted; and Miss Marilla looked as if she might -make a nice mother. So he turned like a tired little hungry boy, and -followed her, at least until she said “girl.” Then he almost turned and -fled. - -Yet, while Miss Marilla coaxed and explained about Mary Amber, he -stood facing again the lovely vision of the girl he had left behind at -the beginning of the long, long trail, and whose picture he had just -trampled underfoot on this end of the trail, which it now seemed to him -would wind on forever alone for him. As he paused on Miss Marilla’s -immaculate front steps, he was preparing himself to face the enemy of -his life in the form of woman. The one thing really that made him go -into that house and meekly submit to be Miss Marilla’s guest was that -his soul had risen to battle. He would fight Girl in the concrete! She -should be his enemy from henceforth. And this strange, unknown girl, -who hated men and thought them conceited and selfish, this cold, -inhuman creature, was likely false-hearted too, like the one he had -loved and who had not loved him. He would show her what he thought -of such girls, of all girls; what all men who knew anything about it -thought of all girls! And, thus reasoning, he followed Miss Marilla -into the pleasant oilcloth-covered hall, and up the front stairs to -the spare room, where she smilingly showed him the towels and brushes -prepared for his comfort, and left him, calling cheerily back that -dinner would be on the table as soon as he was ready to come down. - -All the time he was bathing his tired, dirty face and cold, rough hands -in the warm, sweet-scented soap-suds, and wiping them on the fragrant -towel, even while he stood in front of the mirror all polished to -reflect the visage of Lieutenant Richard H. Chadwick, and brushed his -close-cropped curls till there was not a hint of wave left in them, -he was hardening himself to meet Girl in the concrete and get back a -return for what she had done to his life. - -Then, with a last final polish of the brush and a flick of the -whisk-broom over his discouraged-looking uniform, he set his lips -grimly, and went down-stairs, taking the precaution to fold his cap and -put it into his pocket, for he might want to escape at any minute, and -it was best to be prepared. - - - - -CHAPTER III - - -Mary Amber was bearing in the great platter of golden-brown turkey when -he first saw her, and had not heard him come down. She was entirely -off her guard, with a sweet, serious intentness upon her work and a -stray wisp of gold hair set afloat across the kitchen-flushed cheek. -She looked so sweet and serviceable and true, with her lips parted in -the pleasure of the final completion of her task, that the soldier -was taken by surprise and thrown entirely off his guard. Was this the -false-hearted creature he had come to fight? - -Then Mary Amber felt his eyes upon her as he stood staring from the -open hall door, and, lifting her own clear ones, froze into the -opponent at once. A very polite opponent, it is true, with all the -grace of a young queen, but nevertheless an opponent, cold as a young -icicle. - -Miss Marilla with bright eyes and preternaturally pink cheeks spoke -into the vast pause that suddenly surrounded them all, and her voice -sounded strangely unnatural to herself. - -“Dick, this is Mary Amber; I suppose you don’t remember her.” - -And the young soldier, not yet quite recovered from that first sweet -vision of Mary Amber, went forward with his belligerence to woman -somewhat held in abeyance. - -“You--have changed a good deal since then, haven’t you?” he managed to -ask with his native quickness to say the right thing in an emergency. - -“A good many years have passed,” she said, coolly putting out a -reluctant hand to please Miss Marilla. “You don’t look at all as you -did. I never should have known you.” - -The girl was looking keenly at him, studying his face closely. If a -soldier just home from an ocean trip could get any redder, his face -would have grown so under her scrutiny. Also, now he was face to face -with her, he felt his objection to Girl in general receding before the -fact of his own position. How had that ridiculous old woman expected -him to carry off a situation like this without giving it away? How was -he supposed to converse with a girl he had never seen before, about -things he had never done,--with a girl with whom he was supposed to -have played in his youth? Why had he been such a fool as to get into -this corner just for the sake of one more dinner? Why, to-morrow he -would need another dinner, and all the to-morrows through which he -might have to live. What was one dinner more or less? He felt in his -hip pocket for the comforting assurance of his cap, and gave a furtive -glance toward the hall door. It wouldn’t be far to bolt back to the -road, and what would be the difference? He would never see either of -the two again. - -Then the sweet, anxious eyes of his hostess met his with an appealing -smile and he felt himself powerless to move. - -The girl’s eyes had swept over his ill-fitting uniform and he seemed to -feel every crease and stain. - -“I thought they told us you were an officer, but I don’t see your -bars.” She laughed mockingly, and searched his face again accusingly. - -“This is another fellow’s uniform,” he answered lamely. “Mine got -shrunk so I could hardly get into it, and another fellow who was going -home changed with me.” - -He lifted his eyes frankly, for it was the truth that he told, and he -looked into her eyes, but saw that she did not believe him. Her dislike -and distrust of the little boy Dick had come to the front. He saw that -she believed that Dick had been boasting to his aunt of honors that -were not his. A wave of anger swept over his face; yet somehow he could -not summon his defiance. Somehow he wanted her to believe him. - -They sat down at the beautiful table, and the turkey got in its work -on his poor human sensibilities. The delicate perfume of the hot meat -as it fell in large, flaky slices from Miss Marilla’s sharp knife, the -whiff of the summer savory and sage and sweet marjoram in the stuffing, -the smoothness of the mashed potatoes, the brownness of the candied -sweet potatoes, all cried out to him and held him prisoner. The odor of -the food brought a giddiness to his head, and the faintness of hunger -attacked him. A pallor grew under the tan of his face, and there were -dark shadows under his nice eyes that quite touched Miss Marilla, and -almost softened the hard look of distrust that had been growing around -Mary Amber’s gentle lips. - -“This certainly is great!” he murmured. “I don’t deserve to get in on -anything like this, but I’m no end grateful.” - -Mary Amber’s questioning eyes recalled him in confusion to his rôle of -nephew in the house, and he was glad of the chance to bend his head -while Miss Marilla softly asked a blessing on the meal. He had been -wont to think he could get away with any situation; but he began to -feel now as if his recent troubles had unnerved him, and he might make -a mess of this one. Somehow that girl seemed as if she could see into -a fellow’s heart. Why couldn’t he show her how he despised the whole -race of false-hearted womankind? - -They heaped his plate with good things, poured him amber coffee rich -with cream, gave him cranberry sauce and pickles and olives, and passed -little delicate biscuits, and butter with the fragrance of roses. With -all this before him he suddenly felt as if he could not swallow a -mouthful. He lifted his eyes to the opposite wall, and a neatly framed -sentence in quaint old English lettering met his eye, “Who crowneth -thee with loving-kindness and tender mercies, so that thy youth is -renewed like the eagle’s.” - -An intense desire to put his head down on the table and cry came over -him. The warmth of the room, the fragrance of the food, had made him -conscious of an ache in every part of his body. His head was throbbing -too, and he wondered what was the matter with him. After all the -harshness of the world, and the bitterness, to meet a kindness like -this seemed to unnerve him. But gradually the food got in its work, -and the hot coffee stimulated him. He rose to the occasion greatly. -He described France, spoke of the beautiful cathedrals he had seen, -the works of art, the little children, the work of reconstruction that -was going on, spoke of Germany too, when he saw they expected him to -have been there, although this was a shoal on which he almost wrecked -his rôle before he realized. He told of the voyage over and the people -he had met, and he kept most distinctly away from anything personal, -at least as far away as Mary Amber would let him. She with her keen, -questioning eyes was always bringing up some question that was almost -impossible for him to answer directly without treading on dangerous -ground, and it required skill indeed to turn her from it. Mary listened -and marvelled, trying continually to trace in his face the lines of the -fat-faced, arrogant child who used to torment her. - -Mary rose to take the plates, and the young soldier insisted on -helping. Miss Marilla, pleased to see them getting on so nicely, sat -smiling in her place, reaching out to brush away a stray crumb on the -table-cloth. Mary, lingering in the kitchen for a moment, to be sure -the fire was not being neglected, lifted the stove-lid, and with the -draught a little flame leaped up around a crumpled, smoldering yellow -paper with the familiar “Western Union Telegraph” heading. Three words -stood out distinctly for a second, “Impossible to accept,” and then -were enveloped by the flame. Mary stood and stared with the stove-lid -in her hand, and then, as the flame curled the paper over, she saw -“Lieutenant Richard--” revealed and immediately licked up by the flame. - -It lay, a little crisp, black fabric with its message utterly -illegible, but still Mary stood and stared and wondered. She had seen -the boy on the bicycle ride up and go away. She had also seen the -approaching soldier almost immediately, and the thought of the telegram -had been at once erased. Now it came back forcefully. Dick, then, had -sent a telegram, and it looked as if he had declined the invitation. -Who, then, was this stranger at the table? Some comrade working Miss -Marilla for a dinner, or Dick himself, having changed his mind or -playing a practical joke? In any case Mary felt she ought to disapprove -of him utterly. It was her duty to show him up to Miss Marilla; and yet -how could she do it when she did not know anything herself? - -“Hurry, Mary, and bring the pie,” called Miss Marilla. “We’re waiting.” - -Mary put the stove-lid down, and went slowly, thoughtfully back to the -dining-room bearing a pie. She studied the face of the young soldier -intently as she passed him his pie, but he seemed so young and pleasant -and happy she hadn’t the heart to say anything just yet. She would bide -her time. Perhaps somehow it was all explainable. So she set to asking -him questions. - -“By the way, Dick, what ever became of Barker?” she requested, fixing -her clear eyes on his face. - -“Barker?” said Lyman Gage, puzzled and polite, then, remembering his -rôle, “Oh, yes, _Barker_!” He laughed. “Great old Barker, wasn’t he?” -He turned in troubled appeal to Miss Marilla. - -“Barker certainly was the cutest little guinea-pig I ever saw,” beamed -Miss Marilla, “although at the time I really wasn’t as fond of it as -you were. You would have it around in the kitchen so much.” - -There was covert apology in Miss Marilla’s voice for the youthful -character of the young man he was supposed to be. - -“I should judge I must have been a good deal of a nuisance in those -days,” hazarded the soldier, feeling that he was treading on dangerous -ground. - -“Oh, no!” sighed Miss Marilla, trying to be truthful and at the same -time polite. “Children will be children, you know.” - -“All children are not alike.” It was as near to snapping as sweet Mary -Amber ever came. She had memories which time had not dimmed. - -“Was it as bad as that?” laughed the young man. “I’m sorry!” - -Mary had to laugh. His frankness certainly was disarming. But there was -that telegram! And Mary grew serious again. She did not intend to have -her gentle old friend deceived. - -Mary insisted on clearing off the table and washing the dishes, and -the soldier insisted on helping her; so Miss Marilla, much disturbed -that domestic duties should interfere with the evening, put everything -away, and made the task as brief as possible, looking anxiously at Mary -Amber every trip back from the refrigerator and pantry to see how she -was getting on with the strange soldier, and how the strange soldier -was getting on with her. At first she was a little troubled lest he -shouldn’t be the kind of man she would want to introduce to Mary Amber; -but after she had heard him talk and express such thoroughly wholesome -views on politics and national subjects she almost forgot he was not -the real Dick, and her doting heart could not help wanting Mary Amber -to like him. He was, in fact, the personification of the Dick she had -dreamed out for her own, as different in fact from the real Dick as -could have been imagined, and a great deal better. His frank eyes, his -pleasant manner, his cultured voice, all pleased her; and she couldn’t -help feeling that he was Dick come back as she would have liked him to -be all the time. - -“I’d like to have a little music, just a little before Mary has to go -home,” Miss Marilla said wistfully as Mary Amber hung up the dish-towel -with an air that said plainly without words that she felt her duty -toward the stranger was over and she was going to depart at once. - -“Sure!” said the stranger. “You sing, don’t you, Miss Mary?” - -There was nothing for it, and Mary resigned herself to another half -hour. They went into the parlor; and Mary sat down at the old square -piano, and touched its asthmatic keys that sounded the least bit -tin-panny even under such skilled fingers as hers. - -“What shall I play?” questioned Mary. “‘The long, long trail’?” There -was a bit of sarcasm in her tone. Mary was a real musician, and hated -rag-time. - -“No! _Never!_” said the soldier quickly. “I mean--not that, _please_;” -and a look of such bitter pain swept over his face that Mary glanced up -surprised, and forgot to be disagreeable for several minutes while she -pondered his expression. - -“Excuse me,” he said. “But I loathe it. Give us something else; sing -something _real_. I’m sure you can.” There was a hidden compliment in -his tone, and Mary was surprised. The soldier had almost forgotten that -he did not belong there. He was acting as he might have acted in his -own social sphere. - -Mary struck a few chords tenderly on the piano, and then broke into the -delicious melody of “The Spirit Flower;” and Lyman Gage forgot that he -was playing a part in a strange home with a strange girl, forgot that -he hadn’t a cent in the world, and his girl was gone, and sat watching -her face as she sang. For Mary had a voice like a thrush in the summer -evening, that liquid appeal that always reminds one of a silver spoon -dropped into a glass of water; and Mary had a face like the spirit -flower itself. As she sang she could not help living, breathing, being -the words she spoke. - -There was nothing, absolutely nothing, about Mary to remind him of -the girl he had lost; and there was something in her sweet, serious -demeanor as she sang to call to his better nature; a wholesome, serious -sweetness that was in itself a kind of antiseptic against bitterness -and sweeping denunciation. Lyman Gage as he listened was lifted out -of himself and set in a new world where men and women thought of -something besides money and position and social prestige. He seemed to -be standing off apart from himself and seeing himself from a new angle, -an angle in which he was not the only one that mattered in this world, -and in which he got a hint that his plans might be only hindrances to a -larger life for himself and every one else. Not that he exactly thought -these things in so many words. It was more as if while Mary sang a wind -blew freshly from a place where such thoughts were crowding, and made -him seem smaller in his own conceit than he had thought he was. - -“And now sing ‘Laddie,’” pleaded Miss Marilla. - -A wave of annoyance swept over Mary Amber’s face. It was plain she -did not wish to sing that song. Nevertheless, she sang it, forgetting -herself and throwing all the pathos and tenderness into her voice -that belonged to the beautiful words. Then she turned from the piano -decidedly, and rose. “I must go home at once,” was written in every -line of her attitude. Miss Marilla rose nervously, and looked from one -of her guests to the other. - -“Dick, I wonder if you haven’t learned to sing.” - -Her eyes were so pathetic that they stirred the young man to her -service. Besides, there was something so contemptuous in the attitude -of that human spirit flower standing on the wing as it were in that -done-with-him-forever attitude that spurred him into a faint desire to -show her what he could do. - -“Why, sure!” he answered lazily, and with a stride transferred himself -to the piano-stool and struck a deep, strong chord or two. Suddenly -there poured forth a wondrous barytone such as was seldom heard in -Purling Brook, and indeed is not common anywhere. He had a feeling that -he was paying for his wonderful dinner, and must do his best. The first -song that had come to his mind was a big, blustery French patriotic -song; and the very spirit of the march was in its cadence. Out of the -corner of his eye he could see Mary Amber still poised, but waiting in -her astonishment. He felt that he had already scored a point. When he -came to the grand climax, she cried out with pleasure and clapped her -hands. Miss Marilla had sunk into the mahogany rocker, but was sitting -on the edge, alert to prolong this gala evening; and two bright spots -of colorful delight shone on her faded cheeks. - -He did not wait for them to ask him for another; he dashed into a minor -key, and began to sing a wild, sweet, sobbing song of love and loss -till Mary, entranced, softly slipped into a chair, and sat breathless -with clasped hands and shining eyes. It was such an artistic, perfect -thing, that song, that she forgot everything else while it was going on. - -When the last sob died away, and the little parlor was silent with deep -feeling, he whirled about on the piano-stool, and rose briskly. - -“Now I’ve done my part, am I to be allowed to see the lady home?” - -He looked at Miss Marilla instead of Mary for permission, and she -smiled, half frightened. - -“It isn’t necessary at all,” spoke Mary crisply, rising and going for a -wrap. “It’s only a step.” - -“Oh, I think so, surely!” answered Miss Marilla as if a great point of -etiquette had been decided. She gave him a look of perfect trust. - -“It’s only across the garden and through the hedge, you know,” she said -in a low tone; “but I think she would appreciate it.” - -“Certainly,” he said, and turned with perfect courtesy as Mary looked -in at the door and called, “Good night.” - -He did not make a fuss about attending her. He simply was there close -beside her as she sped through the dark without a word to him. - -“It’s been very pleasant to meet you,” he said as she turned with -a motion of dismissal at her own steps, “again,” he added lamely. -“I--I’ve enjoyed the evening more than you can understand. I enjoyed -your singing.” - -“Oh! _My_ singing!” flung back Mary. “Why, I was like a sparrow beside -a nightingale. It wasn’t quite fair of you to let me sing first without -knowing you had a voice. It’s strange. You know you never used to sing.” - -It seemed to him her glance went deep as she looked at him through the -shadows of the garden. He thought about it as he crept back through -the hedge, shivering now, for the night was keen and his uniform was -thin. Well, what did it matter what she thought? He would soon be far -away from her and never likely to see her again. Yet he was glad he had -scored a point, one point against Girl in the concrete. - -Now he must go in and bid his hostess good-by, and then away to--where? - - - - -CHAPTER IV - - -As Lyman Gage went up the steps to Miss Marilla’s front porch a sick -thrill of cold and weariness passed over his big frame. Every joint and -muscle seemed to cry out in protest, and his very vitals seemed sore -and racked. The bit of bright evening was over, and he was facing his -own gray life again with a future that was void and empty. - -But the door was not shut. Miss Marilla was hovering anxiously inside -with the air of just having retreated from the porch. She gave a little -relieved gasp as he entered. - -“Oh, I was afraid you wouldn’t come back,” she said eagerly. “And I -did so want to thank you and tell you how we--how I--yes, I mean _we_, -for I know she loved that singing--how very much we have enjoyed it. I -shall always thank God that He sent you along just then.” - -“Well, I certainly have cause to thank you for that wonderful dinner,” -he said earnestly, as he might have spoken to a dear relation, “and -for all this”--he waved his big hand toward the bright room--“this -pleasantness. It was like coming home, and I haven’t any home to come -to now.” - -“Oh! Haven’t you?” said Miss Marilla caressingly. “Oh, _haven’t_ you?” -she said again wistfully. “I wonder why I can’t keep you a little -while, then. You seem just like my own nephew--as I had hoped he would -be--I haven’t seen him in a long time. Where were you going when I -stopped you?” - -The young man lifted heavy eyes that were bloodshot and sore to the -turning, and tried to smile. To save his life he couldn’t lie blithely -when it seemed so good to be in that warm room. - -“Why--I was--I don’t know--I guess I just wasn’t going anywhere. To -tell you the truth, I was all in, and down on my luck, and as blue as -indigo when you met me. I was just tramping anywhere to get away from -it.” - -“You poor boy!” said Miss Marilla, putting out her fine little -blue-veined hands and caressing the old khaki sleeve. “Well, then -you’re just going to stay with me and get rested. There’s no reason in -the world why you shouldn’t.” - -“No, indeed!” said Lyman Gage, drawing himself up bravely, “I couldn’t -think of it. It wouldn’t be right. But I certainly thank you with all -my heart for what you have done for me to-night. I really must go at -once.” - -“But where?” she asked pathetically, as if he belonged to her, sliding -her hands detainingly down to his big rough ones. - -“Oh, anywhere, it doesn’t matter!” he said, holding her delicate little -old hand in his with a look of sacred respect as if a nice old angel -had offered to hold hands with him. “I’m a soldier, you know; and a few -storms more or less won’t matter. I’m used to it. Good night.” - -He clasped her hands a moment, and was about to turn away; but she held -his fingers eagerly. - -“You shall not go that way!” she declared. “Out into the cold -without any overcoat, and no home to go to! Your hands are hot, too. -I believe you have a fever. You’re going to stay here to-night and -have a good sleep and a warm breakfast; and then, if you must go, all -right. My spare bed is all made up, and there’s a fire in the Franklin -heater. The room’s as warm as toast, and Mary put a big bouquet of -chrysanthemums up there. If you don’t sleep there, it will all be -wasted. You _must_ stay.” - -“No, it wouldn’t be right.” He shook his head again, and smiled -wistfully. “What would people say?” - -“Say! Why, they’ve got it in the paper that you’re to be here--at -least, that Dick’s to be here. They’ll think you’re my nephew and think -nothing else about it. Besides, I guess I have a right to have company -if I like.” - -“If there was any way I could pay you,” said the young man. “But I -haven’t a cent to my name, and no telling how long before I will have -anything. I really couldn’t accept any such hospitality.” - -“Oh, that’s all right,” said Miss Marilla cheerily. “You can pay me if -you like, sometime when you get plenty; or perhaps you’ll take me in -when I’m having a hard time. Anyhow, you’re going to stay. I won’t take -no for an answer. I’ve been disappointed and disappointed about Dick’s -coming, and me having no one to show for all the years of the war, just -making sweaters for the world, it seemed like, with no one belonging to -me; and now I’ve got a soldier, and I’m going to keep him at least for -one night. Nobody’s to know but you’re my own nephew, and I haven’t got -to go around the town, have I, telling that Dick didn’t care enough for -his old country aunt to come out and take dinner with her? It’s nothing -to them, is it, if they think he came and stayed overnight too? Or -even a few days. Nobody’ll be any the wiser, and I’ll take a lot more -comfort.” - -“I’d like to accommodate you,” faltered the soldier; “but you know -I really ought--” Suddenly the big fellow was seized with a fit of -sneezing, and the sick sore thrills danced all down his back, and -slapped him in the face, and pricked him in the throat, and banged -against his head. He dropped weakly down in a chair, and got out the -discouragedest-looking handkerchief that ever a soldier carried. It -looked as if it might have washed the decks on the way over, or wiped -off shoes, as doubtless it had; and it left a dull streak of olive-drab -dust on his cheek and chin when he had finished polishing off the last -sneeze and lifted his suffering eyes to his hostess. - -“You’re sick!” declared Miss Marilla with a kind of satisfaction, as if -now she had got something she could really take hold of. “I’ve thought -it all the evening. I first laid it to the wind in your face, for I -knew you weren’t the drinking kind; and then I thought maybe you’d had -to be up all night last night or something; lack of sleep makes eyes -look that way; but I believe you’ve got the grippe, and I’m going to -put you to bed and give you some homeopathic medicine. Come, tell me -the truth. Aren’t you chilly?” - -With a half-sheepish smile the soldier admitted that he was, and a big -involuntary shudder ran over his tall frame with the admission. - -“Well, it’s high time we got to work. There’s plenty of hot water; and -you go up to the bathroom, and take a hot bath. I’ll put a hot-water -bag in the bed, and get it good and warm; and I’ve got a long, warm -flannel nightgown I guess you can get on. It was made for grandmother, -and she was a big woman. Come, we’ll go right up-stairs. I can come -down and shut up the house while you’re taking your bath.” - -The soldier protested, but Miss Marilla swept all before her. She -locked the front door resolutely, and put the chain on. She turned out -the parlor light, and shoved the young man before her to the stairs. - -“But I oughtn’t to,” he protested again with one foot on the first -step. “I’m an utter stranger.” - -“Well, what’s that?” said Miss Marilla crisply. “‘I was a stranger, and -ye took me in.’ When it comes to that, we’re all strangers. Come, hurry -up; you ought to be in bed. You’ll feel like a new man when I get you -tucked up.” - -“You’re awfully good,” he murmured, stumbling up the stairs, with a -sick realization that he was giving way to the little imps of chills -and thrills that were dancing over him, that he was all in, and in a -few minutes more he would be a contemptible coward, letting a lone, old -woman fuss over him this way. - -Miss Marilla turned up the light, and threw back the covers of the -spare bed, sending a whiff of lavender through the room. The Franklin -heater glowed cheerfully, and the place was warm as toast. There was -something sweet and homelike in the old-fashioned room with its queer, -ancient framed photographs of people long gone, and its plain but fine -old mahogany. The soldier raised his bloodshot eyes, and looked about -with a thankful wish that he felt well enough to appreciate it all. - -Miss Marilla had pulled open a drawer, and produced a long, fine -flannel garment of nondescript fashion; and from a closet she drew -forth a long pink bathrobe and a pair of felt slippers. - -“There! I guess you can get those on.” - -She bustled into the bathroom, turned on the hot water, and heaped big -white bath-towels and sweet-scented soap upon him. In a kind of daze -of thankfulness he stumbled into the bathroom, and began his bath. He -hadn’t had a bath like that in--was it two years? Somehow the hot water -held down the nasty little sick thrills, and cut out the chills for the -time. It was wonderful to feel clean and warm, and smell the freshness -of the towels and soap. He climbed into the big nightgown which also -smelled of lavender, and came forth presently with the felt slippers -on the front of his feet, and the pink bathrobe trailing around -his shoulders. There was a meek, conquered expression on his face; -and he crept gratefully into the warm bed according to directions, -and snuggled down with that sick, sore thrill of thankfulness that -everybody who has ever had grippe knows. - -Miss Marilla bustled up from down-stairs with a second hot-water bag in -one hand and a thermometer in the other. - -“I’m going to take your temperature,” she said briskly, and stuck the -thermometer into his unresisting mouth. Somehow it was wonderfully -sweet to be fussed over this way, almost like having a mother. He -hadn’t had such care since he was a little fellow in the hospital at -prep school. - -“I thought so!” said Miss Marilla, casting a practised eye at the -thermometer a moment later. “You’ve got quite a fever; and you’ve got -to lie right still, and do as I say, or you’ll have a time of it. I -hate to think what would have happened to you if I’d been weak enough -to let you go off into the cold without any overcoat to-night.” - -“Oh, I’d have walked it off likely,” faintly spoke the old Adam in the -sleepy, sick soldier; but he knew as he spoke that he was lying, and -he knew Miss Marilla knew it also. He would have laughed if it hadn’t -been too much trouble. It was wonderful to be in a bed like this, and -be warm, and that ache in his back against the hot-water bag! It almost -made his head stop aching. - -In almost no time at all he was asleep. He never realized when Miss -Marilla brought a glass, and fed him medicine. He opened his mouth -obediently when she told him, and went right on sleeping. - -“Bless his heart!” she said. “He must have been all worn out;” and she -turned the light low, and gathering up his chairful of clothes, slipped -away to the bathroom, where presently they were all, except the shoes, -soaking in strong, hot soap-suds, and Miss Marilla had gone down-stairs -to stir up the fire and put on irons. But she took the precaution to -close all the blinds on the Amber side of the house, and pull down the -shades. Mary had no need ever to find out what she was doing. - -The night wore on, and Miss Marilla wrought with happy heart and -willing hands. She was doing something for somebody who really needed -it, and who for the time being had no one else to do for him. He was -hers exclusively to be served this night. It was years since she had -had anybody of her own to care for, and she luxuriated in the service. - -Every hour she slipped up to feel his forehead, listen to his -breathing, and give him his medicine, and then slipped down to the -kitchen again to her ironing. Garment by garment the soldier’s meagre -outfit came from the steaming suds, was conveyed to the kitchen, where -it hung on an improvised line over the range, and got itself dry -enough to be ironed and patched. It was a work of love, and therefore -it was done perfectly. When morning dawned the soldier’s outfit, -thoroughly renovated and pressed almost beyond recognition, lay on a -chair by the spare-room window, and Miss Marilla in her dark-blue serge -morning-dress lay tidily down on the outside of her bed to take “forty -winks.” But even then she could hardly get to sleep, she was so excited -thinking about her guest and wondering whether he would feel better -when he awoke or whether she ought to send for a doctor. - -A hoarse cough roused her an hour later, and she went with speed to -her patient, and found him tossing and battling in his sleep with some -imaginary foe. - -“I don’t owe you a cent any longer!” he declared fiercely. “I’ve paid -it all, even to the interest while I was in France; and there’s no -reason why I shouldn’t tell you just what I think of you. You can go to -thunder with your kind offers. I’m off _you_ for life!” And then the -big fellow turned with a groan of anguish, and buried his face in his -pillow. - -Miss Marilla paused in horror, thinking she had intruded upon some -secret meditation; but, as she waited on tiptoe and breathless in the -hall, she heard the steady hoarse breathing keep on, and knew that -he was still asleep. He did not rouse, more than to open bloodshot, -unseeing eyes and close them again when she loudly stirred his medicine -in the glass and held the spoon to his lips. As before, he obediently -opened his mouth and swallowed, and went on sleeping. - -She stood a moment anxiously watching him. She did not know just what -she ought to do. Perhaps he was going to have pneumonia! Perhaps -she ought to send for the doctor, and yet there were complications -about that. She would be obliged to explain a lot--or else lie to -the neighborhood! And he might not like it for her to call a doctor -while he was asleep. If she only had some one with whom to advise! On -ordinary questions she always consulted Mary Amber, but by the very -nature of the case Mary Amber was out of this. Besides, in half an hour -Mary Amber very discreetly put herself beyond a question outside of any -touch with Miss Marilla’s visitor by taking herself off in her little -runabout for a short visit to a college friend over in the next county. -It was plain that Mary Amber did not care to subject herself to further -contact with the young soldier. He might be Dick or he might not be -Dick. It was none of her business while she was visiting Jeannette -Clark; so she went away quite hurriedly. Miss Marilla heard the purr of -the engine as the little brown car started down the hedged driveway, -and watched the flight with a sense of satisfaction. She had an -intuition that Mary Amber was not in favor of her soldier, and she had -a guilty sense of hiding the truth from her dear young friend that made -her breathe more freely as she watched Mary Amber’s flight. Moreover, -it was with a certain self-reproachful relief that she noted the little -brown suitcase that lay at Mary Amber’s feet as she slid past Miss -Marilla’s house without looking up. Mary Amber was going away for the -day at least, probably overnight; and by that time the question of the -soldier would be settled one way or the other without Mary Amber’s -having to worry about it. - -Miss Marilla ordered a piece of beef, and brewed a cup of the most -delicious beef-tea, which she took up-stairs. She managed to get her -soldier awake enough to swallow it; but it was plain that he did not in -the least realize where he was, and seemed well content to close his -eyes and drowse away once more. Miss Marilla was deeply troubled. Some -pricks from the old, time-worn adage beginning, “O what a tangled web -we weave,” began to stab her conscience. If only she had not allowed -those paragraphs to go into the county paper! No, that was not the -real trouble at all. If only she had not dragged in another soldier, -and made Mary Amber believe he was her nephew! Such an old fool! Just -because she couldn’t bear the mortification of having people know her -nephew hadn’t cared enough for her to come and see her when he was -close at hand! But she was well punished. Here she had a strange sick -man on her hands, and no end of responsibility! Oh, if only she hadn’t -asked him in! - -Yet, as she stood watching the quick little throb in his neck above the -old flannel nightgown, and the long, curly sweep of the dark lashes on -his hot cheek as he slept, her heart cried out against that wish. No, -a thousand times no. If she had not asked him in, he might have been -in some hospital by this time, cared for by strangers; and she would -have been alone, with empty hands, getting her own solitary dinner, -or sewing on the aprons for the orphanage, with nothing in the world -to do that really mattered for anybody. Somehow her heart went out to -this stranger boy with a great yearning, and he had come to mean her -own--or what her own ought to have been to her. She wouldn’t have him -otherwhere for anything. She wanted him right where he was for her to -care for, something at last that needed her, something she could love -and tend, even if it were only for a few days. - -And she was sure she could care for him. She knew a lot about sickness. -People sent for her to help them out, and her wonderful nursing had -often saved a life where the doctor’s remedies had failed. She felt -sure this was only a severe case of grippe that had taken fierce hold -on the system. Thorough rest, careful nursing, nourishing broth, and -some of her homeopathic remedies would work the charm. She would try it -a little longer and see. If his temperature wasn’t higher than the last -time, it would be perfectly safe to get along without a doctor. - -She put the thermometer between his relaxed lips, and held them firmly -round it until she was sure it had been there long enough. Then she -carried it softly over to the front window, and studied it. No, it had -not risen; in fact, it might be a fifth of a degree lower. - -Well, she would venture it a little while longer. - -For two days Miss Marilla cared for her strange soldier as only a born -nurse like herself could care, and on the third morning he rewarded her -by opening his eyes and looking about; then, meeting her own anxious -gaze, he gave her a weak smile. - -“I’ve been sick!” he said as if stating an astonishing fact to himself. -“I must have given you a lot of trouble.” - -“Not a bit of it, you dear child,” said Miss Marilla, and then stooped -and brushed his forehead with her lips in a motherly kiss. “I’m so glad -you’re better!” - -She passed her hand like soft old fallen rose-leaves over his forehead, -and it was moist. She felt of his hands, and they were moist too. She -took his temperature, and it had gone down almost to normal. Her eyes -were shining with more than professional joy and relief. He had become -to her in these hours of nursing and anxiety as her own child. - -But at the kiss the boy’s eyelashes had swept down upon his cheek; and, -when she looked up from reading the thermometer, she saw a tear glisten -unwillingly beneath the lashes. - -The next two days were a time of untold joy to Miss Marilla while she -petted and nursed her soldier boy back to some degree of his normal -strength. She treated him just as if he were a little child who had -dropped from the skies to her loving ministrations. She bathed his -face, and puffed up his pillows, and took his temperature, and dosed -him, and fed him, and read him to sleep--and Miss Marilla could read -well, too; she was always asked to read the chapter at the Fortnightly -Club whenever the regular reader whose turn it was failed. And while -he was asleep she cooked dainty, appetizing little dishes for him. They -had a wonderful time together, and he enjoyed it as much as she did. -The fact was he was too weak to object, for the little red devils that -get into the blood and kick up the fight commonly entitled grippe had -done a thorough work with him; and he was, as he put it, “all in and -_then_ some.” - -He seemed to have gone back to the days of his childhood since the -fever began to abate, and he lay in a sweet daze of comfort and rest. -His troubles and perplexities and loneliness had dropped away from him, -and he felt no desire to think of them. He was having the time of his -life. - -Then suddenly, wholly unannounced and not altogether desired at the -present stage of the game, Mary Amber arrived on the scene. - - - - -CHAPTER V - - -Mary was radiant as the sunny morning in a little red tam, and her -cheeks as red as her hat from the drive across country. She appeared at -the kitchen door quite in her accustomed way just as Miss Marilla was -lifting the dainty tray to carry her boy’s breakfast up-stairs, and she -almost dropped it in her dismay. - -“I’ve had the grandest time!” breezed Mary gayly. “You don’t know how -beautiful the country is, all wonderful bronze and brown with a purple -haze, and a frost like silver lace this morning when I started. You’ve -simply got to put on your wraps and come with me for a little while. I -know a place where the shadows melt slowly, and the frost will not be -gone yet. Come quick! I want you to see it before it’s too late. You’re -not just eating your breakfast, Auntie Rill! And on a tray, too! Are -you sick?” - -Miss Marilla glanced guiltily down at the tray, too transparent even to -evade the question. - -“No, why--I--he--my neph----” then she stopped in hopeless confusion, -remembering her resolve not to tell a lie about the matter, whatever -came. - -Mary Amber stood up and looked at her, her keen young eyes searching -and finding the truth. - -“You don’t mean to tell me _that man_ is here yet? And you waiting on -him!” - -There were both sorrow and scorn in the fine young voice. - -In the upper hall the sick soldier in a bathrobe was hanging over the -banisters in a panic, wishing some kind fairy would arrive and waft -him away on a breath. All his perfidy in getting sick on a strange -gentlewoman’s hands and lying lazily in bed, letting her wait on him, -was shown up in Mary Amber’s voice. It found its echo in his own strong -soul. He had known all along that he had no business there, that he -ought to have gone out on the road to die rather than betray the sweet -hospitality of Miss Marilla by allowing himself to be a selfish, lazy -slob--that was what he called himself as he hung over the banisters. - -“Mary! Why, he has been very _sick_!” - -“Sick?” There was a covert sneer in Mary Amber’s incredulous young -voice; and then the conversation was suddenly blanketed by the closing -of the hall door, and the sick soldier padded disconsolately back to -bed, weak and dizzy, but determined. This was as good a time as any. He -ought to have gone before! - -He trailed across the room in the big flannel nightgown that hung out -from him with the outlines of a fat old auntie and dragged down from -one bronzed shoulder rakishly. His hair was sticking up wildly, and he -felt of his chin fiercely, and realized that he was wearing a growth of -several days. - -In a neat pile on a chair he found his few clean garments, and -struggled into them. His carefully ironed uniform hung in the closet; -and he braced himself, and struggled into the trousers. It seemed a -tremendous effort. He longed to drop back on the pillows, but wouldn’t. -He sat with his head in his hands, his elbows on his knees, trying to -get courage to totter to the bathroom and subdue his hair and beard, -when he heard Miss Marilla coming hastily up the stairs, the little -coffee-pot sending on a delicious odor, and the glass of milk tinkling -against the silver spoons as she came. - -He had managed his leggings by this time, and looked up with an attempt -at a smile, trying to pass it off in a jocular way. - -“I thought it was high time I was getting about,” he said, and broke -down coughing. - -Miss Marilla paused in distress, and looked at his hollow eyes. -Everything seemed to be going wrong this morning. Oh, why hadn’t Mary -Amber stayed away just one day longer? But of course he had not heard -her. - -“Oh, you’re not fit to be up yet!” she exclaimed. “Do lie down and rest -till you’ve had your breakfast.” - -“I can’t be a baby having you wait on me any longer,” he said. “I’m -ashamed of myself. I ought not to have stayed here at all!” His tone -was savage, and he reached for his coat, and jammed it on with a -determined air in spite of his weakness and the sore shivers that -crept shakily up his back. “I’m perfectly all right, and you’ve been -wonderful; but it’s time I was moving on.” - -He pushed past her hurriedly to the bathroom, feeling that he must get -out of her sight before his head began to swim. The water on his face -would steady him. He dashed it on, and shivered sickly, longing to -plunge back to bed, yet keeping on with his ablutions. - -Miss Marilla put down her tray, and stood with tears in her eyes, -waiting for him to return, trying to think what she could say to -persuade him back to bed again. - -Her anxious expression softened him when he came back, and he agreed -to eat his breakfast before he went anywhere, and sank gratefully into -the big chair in front of the Franklin heater, where she had laid -out his breakfast on a little table. She had lined the chair with -a big comfortable, which she drew unobtrusively about his shoulders -now, slipping a cushion under his feet, and quietly coddling him into -comfort again. He looked at her gratefully, and, setting down his -coffee-cup, reached out and patted her hair as she rose from tucking up -his feet. - -“You’re just like a mother to me!” he choked, trying to keep back the -emotion from his voice. “It’s been great! I can’t tell you!” - -“You’ve been just like a dear son,” she beamed, touching the dark hair -over his forehead shyly. “It’s like getting my own back again to have -you come for this little while, and to be able to do for you. You see -it wasn’t as if I really had anybody. Dick never cared for me. I used -to hope he would when he grew up. I used to think of him over there in -danger, and pray for him, and love him, and send him sweaters; but now -I know it was really you I thought of and prayed for. Dick never cared.” - -He looked at her tenderly, and pressed her hand gratefully. - -“You’re wonderful!” he said. “I shall never forget it.” - -That little precious time while he was eating his breakfast made it all -the harder for what he meant to do. He saw that he could never hope -to do it openly, either; for she would fling herself in his path to -prevent him from going out until he was well; so he let her tuck him -up carefully on the spread-up bed, and pull down the shades for him to -take a nap after the exertion of getting dressed; and he caught her -hand, and kissed it fervently as she was leaving him; and cherished her -murmured “Dear child!” and the pressure of her old-rose-leaf fingers in -parting. Then he closed his eyes, and let her slip away to the kitchen -where he knew she would be some time preparing something delicious for -his dinner. - -When she was safely out of hearing, rattling away at the kitchen stove, -he threw back the covers vigorously, set his grim determination against -the swimming head, stalked over to the little desk, and wrote a note on -the fine note-paper he found there. - -“Dear, wonderful little mother,” he wrote, “I can’t stay here any -longer. It isn’t right. But I’ll be back some day to thank you if -everything goes all right. Sincerely, YOUR BOY.” - -He tiptoed over, and laid it on the pillow; then he took his old -trench-cap, which had been nicely pressed and was hanging on the corner -of the looking-glass, and stealthily slid out of the pleasant, warm -room, down the carpeted stairs, and out the front door into the crisp, -cold morning. The chill air met him with a challenge as he closed the -front door, and dared him not to cough; but with an effort he held his -breath, and crept down the front walk to the road, holding in control -as well the long, violent shivers that seized him in their grasp. The -sun met him, and blinded his sensitive eyes; and the wind with a tang -of winter jeered at his thin uniform, and trickled up his sleeves and -down his collar, penetrating every seam. But he stuffed his hands into -his pockets, and strode grimly ahead on the way he had been going when -Miss Marilla met him, passing the tall hedge where Mary Amber lived, -and trying to hold his head high. He hoped Mary Amber saw him _going -away_! - -For perhaps half a mile past Mary Amber’s house his courage and his -pride held him, for he was a soldier, who had slept in a muck-pile -under the rain, and held his nerve under fire, and gone on foot ten -miles to the hospital after he was wounded. What was a little grippe -and a walk in the cold to the neighboring village? He wished he knew -how far it was, but he had to go, for it would never do to send the -telegram he must send from the town where Miss Marilla lived. - -The second half-mile he lagged and shivered, with not energy enough to -keep up a circulation; the third half mile and the fourth were painful, -and the fifth was completed in a sick daze of weakness; for the cold, -though stimulating at first, had been getting in its work through his -uniform, and he felt chilled to the very soul of him. His teeth were -chattering, and he was blue around the lips when he staggered into the -telegraph-office of Little Silverton. His fingers were almost too stiff -to write, and his thoughts seemed to have congealed also, though he had -been repeating the message all the way, word for word, with a vague -feeling that he might forget it forever if he did not keep it going. - -“Will you send that collect?” he asked the operator when he had -finished writing. - -The girl took the blank, and read it carefully. - - “Arthur J. Watkins, Esq., - - “LaSalle Street, Chicago, Ill. - - “Please negotiate a loan of five hundred dollars for me, using - old house as collateral. Wire money immediately Little Silverton. - Entirely out of funds. Have been sick. - - “LYMAN GAGE.” - -The girl read it through again, and then eyed him cautiously. - -“What’s your address?” she asked, giving a slow speculative chew to her -gum. - -“I’ll wait here,” said the big blue soldier, sinking into a -rush-bottomed chair by the desk. - -“It might be some wait,” said the girl dryly, giving him another -curious “once-over.” - -“I’ll wait!” he repeated fiercely, and dropped his aching head into his -hands. - -The little instrument clicked away vigorously. In his fevered brain he -fancied it writing on a typewriter at the other end of the line, and -felt a curious impatience for his lawyer to read it and reply. How he -wished it would hurry! - -The morning droned on, the telegraph instrument chattered breezily, -with the monotony of a sunny child that knows no larger world and is -happy. Sometimes it seemed to Gage as if every click pierced his head -and he was going crazy. The shivers were keeping in time running up and -down his back, and chilling his very heart. The room was cold, cold, -_cold_! How did that fool of a girl stand it in a pink transparent -blouse, showing her fat arms huskily? He shivered. Oh, for one of Miss -Marilla’s nice thick blankets, and a hot-water bag! Oh, for the soft, -warm bed, the quiet room, and Miss Marilla keeping guard! But he was a -man--and a soldier! And every now and then would come Mary Amber’s keen -accusing voice: “_Is that man_ here yet? And you _waiting on him_!” -It was that that kept him up when he might have given way. He _must_ -show her he was a man, after all. “_That man!_” What had she meant? -Did she, then, suspect him of being a fraud and not the real nephew? -Well--shiver, shiver--what did he care? Let Mary Amber go to thunder! -Or, if she didn’t want to go, he would go to thunder himself. He felt -himself there already. - -Two hours went by. Now and then some one came in with a message, and -went out again. The girl behind the desk got out a pink sweater she was -knitting, and chewed gum in time to her needles. Sometimes she eyed -her companion curiously, but he did not stir nor look up. If there -hadn’t been prohibition, she might have thought him drunk. She began to -think about his message and weave a crude little romance around him. -She wondered whether he had been wounded. If he had given her half a -chance, she would have asked him questions; but he sat there with his -head in his hands like a stone image, and never seemed to know she was -in the room. After a while it got on her nerves; and she took up her -telephone, and carried on a gallery conversation with a fellow laborer -somewhere up the line, giggling a good deal and telling about a movie -she went to the night before. She used rare slang, with a furtive -glance at the soldier for developments; but he did not stir. Finally -she remarked loudly that it was getting noontime, and “so-longed” her -friend, clicking the receiver into place. - -“I gotta go to lunch now,” she remarked in an impersonal tone. “I have -a hour off. This office is closed all noontime.” - -He did not seem to hear her; so she repeated it, and Gage looked up -with bloodshot, heavy eyes. - -“What becomes of the message if it comes while you’re away?” he asked -feverishly. - -“Oh, it’ll be repeated,” she replied easily. “You c’n cumbback bime-by, -’bout two o’clock er later,’n’ mebbe it’ll be here. I gotta lock up -now.” - -Lyman Gage dragged himself to his feet, and looked dazedly about him; -then he staggered out on the street. - -The sun hit him a clip in the eyes again that made him sick, and -the wind caught at his sleeves, and ran down his collar gleefully. -The girl shut the door with a click, and turned the key, eyeing him -doubtfully. He seemed to her very stupid for a soldier. If he had given -her half a chance, she would have been friendly to him. She watched -him drag down the street with an amused contempt, then turned to her -belated lunch. - -Lyman Gage walked on down the road a little way, and then began to -feel as if he couldn’t stand the cold a second longer, though he knew -he must. His heart was behaving queerly, seeming to be absent from his -body for whole seconds at a time, and then returning with leaps and -bounds that almost suffocated him. He paused and looked around for a -place to sit down, and, finding none, dropped down on the frozen ground -at the roadside. It occurred to him that he ought to go back now while -he was able, for he was fast getting where from sheer weakness he -couldn’t walk. - -He rested a moment, and then stumbled up and back toward Little -Silverton. Automobiles passed him, and he remembered thinking that, -if he weren’t so sick and queer in his head, he would try to stand in -the road and stop one, and get them to carry him somewhere. He had -often done that in France, or even in this country during the war. But -just now it seemed that he couldn’t do that, either. He had set out to -prove to Mary Amber that he was a man and a soldier, and holding up -automobiles wouldn’t be compatible with that idea. Then he realized -that all this was crazy thinking, that Mary Amber had gone to thunder, -and so had he, and it didn’t matter, anyway. All that mattered was for -him to get that money and go back and pay Miss Marilla for taking care -of him; and then for him to take the next train back to the city, and -get to a hospital. If he could only hold out long enough for that. -But things were fast getting away from him. His head was hot and in a -whirl, and his feet were so cold he thought they must be dead. - -Without realizing it he walked by the telegraph-office and on down the -road toward Purling Brook again. - -The telegraph-girl watched him from the window of the tiny bakery where -she ate her lunch. - -“There goes that poor boob _now_!” she said with her mouthful of pie a -la mode. “He gets my goat! I hope he doesn’t come back. He’ll never -get no answer to that telegram he sent. People ain’t goin’ round -pickin’ up five hundred dollarses to send to broke soldiers these days. -They got’um all in Liberty Bonds. Say, Jess, gimme one more o’ them -chocolate éclairs, won’t you? I gotta get back.” - -About that time Lyman Gage had found a log by the wayside, and sunk -down permanently upon it. He had no more breath to carry him on, and no -more ambition. If Mary Amber had gone to thunder, why should he care -whether he got an answer to his telegram or not? She was only another -girl, anyway, GIRL, his enemy! And he sank into a blue stupor, with his -elbows on his cold, cold knees and his face hidden in his hands. He had -forgotten the shivers now. They had taken possession of him, and made -him one with them. It might be, after all, that he was too hot and not -too cold; and there was a strange burning pain in his chest when he -tried to breathe, so he wouldn’t breathe. What was the use? - - - - -CHAPTER VI - - -Miss Marilla tiptoed softly up the hall, and listened at the door of -the spare bedroom. It was time her soldier-boy woke up and had some -dinner. She had a beautiful little treat for him to-day, chicken broth -with rice, and some little bits of tender breast-meat on toast, with a -quivering spoonful of currant jelly. - -It was very still in the spare room, so still that a falling coal from -the grate of the Franklin heater made a hollow sound when it fell into -the pan below. If the boy was asleep, she could usually tell by his -regular breathing; but, though she listened with a keen ear, she could -not hear it to-day. Perhaps he was awake, sitting up. She pushed the -door open, and looked in. Why! The bed was empty! She glanced around -the room, and _it was empty too_! - -She passed her hand across her eyes as if they had deceived her, and -went over to look at the bed. Surely he must be there somewhere! And -then she saw the note. - -“Dear wonderful little mother!” - -Her eyes were too blurred with quick tears and apprehension to read any -further. “Mother!” He had called her that. She could never feel quite -alone in the world again. But where was he? She took the corner of her -white apron, and wiped the tears away vigorously to finish the note. -Then, without pausing to think, and even in the midst of her great gasp -of apprehension, she turned swiftly, and went down-stairs, out the front -door, across the frozen lawn, and through the hedge to Mary Amber’s -house. - -“Mary! Mary Amber!” she called as she panted up the steps, the note -grasped tightly in her trembling hand. She hoped, oh, she hoped Mary -Amber’s mother would not come to the door and ask questions. Mary’s -mother was so sensible, and Miss Marilla always felt as if Mrs. Amber -disapproved of her just a little whenever she was doing anything for -anybody. Not that Mary Ambers’ mother was not kind herself to people, -but she was always so very sensible in her kindness, and did things in -the regular way, and wasn’t impulsive like Miss Marilla. - -But Mary Amber herself came to the door, with pleasant forgetfulness of -her old friend’s recent coolness, and tried to draw her into the hall. -This Miss Marilla firmly declined, however. She threw her apron over -her head and shoulders as a concession to Mary’s fears for her health, -and broke out: - -“Oh, don’t talk about me, Mary. Talk about _him_. He’s gone! I thought -he was asleep; and I went up to see if he was ready for his dinner, and -he’s _gone_! And he’s sick, Mary. He’s not able to stand up. Why, he’s -had a fever. It was a hundred and three for two days, and only got down -to below normal this morning for the first time. He isn’t fit to be -out, either, and that little thin uniform with no overcoat!” - -The tears were streaming down Miss Marilla’s sweet Dresden-china face, -and Mary Amber’s heart was touched in spite of her. - -She came and put her arm around Miss Marilla’s shoulder, and drew her -down the steps and over to her own home, closing the door carefully -first so that her mother need not be troubled about it. Mary Amber -always had tact when she wanted to use it. - -“Where was he going, dear?” she asked sympathetically, with a view to -making out a good case for the soldier without Miss Marilla’s bothering -further about him. - -“I--do-don’t know!” sobbed Miss Manila. “He just thought he ought not -to stay and bother me. Here! See his note.” - -“Well, I’m glad he had some sense,” said Mary Amber with satisfaction. -“He was perfectly right about not staying to bother you.” She took the -little crumpled note and smoothed it out. - -“O my dear, you don’t understand,” sobbed Miss Marilla. “He’s been -such a good, dear boy, and so ashamed he had troubled me! And really, -Mary, he’ll not be able to stand it. Why, you ought to see how little -clothes he had! So thin, and cotton underwear! I washed them and mended -them, but he ought to have had an overcoat.” - -“Oh, well, he’ll go to the city and get something warm, and go to a -hospital if he feels sick,” said Mary Amber comfortably. “I wouldn’t -worry about him. He’s a soldier. He’s stood lots worse things than a -little cold. He’ll look out for himself.” - -“Don’t!” said Miss Marilla fiercely. “Don’t say that, Mary! You don’t -understand. He is _sick_, and he’s all the soldier-boy I’ve got; and -I’ve _got_ to go after him. He can’t be gone very far, and he really -isn’t able to walk. He’s weak. I just can’t stand it to have him go -this way.” - -Mary Amber looked at her with a curious light in her eyes. - -“And yet, Auntie Rill, you know it was fine of him to do it,” she -said with a dancing dimple in the corner of her mouth. “Well, I see -what you want; and, much as I hate to, I’ll take my car and scour the -country for him. What time did you say he left?” - -“O Mary Amber!” smiled Miss Marilla through her tears. “You’re a good -girl. I knew you’d help me. I’m sure you can find him if you try. He -can’t have been gone over an hour, not much; for I’ve only fixed the -chicken and put my bread in the pans since I left him.” - -“I suppose he went back to the village, but there hasn’t been any -train since ten, and you say he was still there at ten. He’s likely -waiting at the station for the twelve o’clock. I’ll speed up and get -there before it comes. I have fifteen minutes. I”--glancing at her -wrist-watch--“I guess I can make it.” - -“I’m not so sure he went that way,” said Miss Marilla, looking up the -road past Mary Amber’s house. “He was on his way up that way when--” -and then Miss Marilla suddenly shut her mouth, and did not finish the -sentence. Mary Amber gave her another curious, discerning look, and -nodded brightly. - -“You go in and get warm, Auntie Rill. Leave that soldier to me; I’ll -bring him home.” Then she sped back through the hedge to the little -garage, and in a few minutes was speeding down the road toward the -station. Miss Marilla watched her in troubled silence, and then, -putting on her cape that always hung handy by the hall-door, walked -a little distance up the road, straining her old eyes, but seeing -nothing. Finally in despair she turned back; and presently, just as she -reached her own steps again, she saw Mary’s car come flying back with -only Mary in it. But Mary did not stop nor even look toward the house. -She sped on up the road this time, and the purring of the engine was -sweet music to Miss Marilla’s ears. Dear Mary Amber, how she loved her! - - * * * * * - -The big blue soldier, cold to the soul of him, and full of pain that -reminded him of the long horror of the war, was still sitting by the -roadside with his head in his hands when Mary Amber’s car came flying -down the road. She stopped before him with a little triumphant purr of -the engine, so close to him that it roused him from his lethargy to -look up. - -“I should think you’d be ashamed of yourself, running away from Miss -Marilla like this, and making her worry herself sick!” Mary Amber’s -voice was keen as icicles, and the words went through him like red-hot -needles. He straightened up, and the light of battle came back to -his eyes. This was GIRL again, his enemy. His firm upper lip moved -sensitively, and came down straight and strong against the lower one, -showing the nice line of character that made his mouth beautiful. - -“Thank you,” he said coldly. “I’m only ashamed that I stayed so long.” -His tone further added that he did not know what business of hers it -was. - -“Well, she sent me for you; and you’ll please to get in quickly, for -she’s very much worked up about you.” - -Mary Amber’s tone stated that she herself was not in the least worked -up about a great, hulking soldier that would let a woman wait on him -for several days hand and foot, and then run away when her back was -turned. - -“Kindly tell her that I am sorry I troubled her, but that it is not -possible for me to return at present,” he answered stiffly. “I came -down to send a business telegram, and I am waiting for an answer.” - -A sudden shiver seized him, and rippled involuntarily over his big -frame. Mary Amber was eying him contemptuously, but a light of pity -stole into her eyes as she saw him shiver. - -“You are cold!” said Mary Amber as if she were charging him with an -offence. - -“Well, that’s not strange--is it--on a day like this? I haven’t made -connections yet with an overcoat and gloves; that’s all.” - -“Look here; if you are cold, you’ve simply got to get into this car and -let me take you back to Miss Marilla. You’ll catch your death of cold -sitting there like that.” - -“Well, I may be cold; but I don’t _have_ to let you take me anywhere. -When I get ready to go, I’ll walk. As for catching my death of cold, -that’s strictly my own affair. There’s nobody in the world would care -if I did.” - -The soldier had blue lights like steel in his eyes, and his mouth -looked very soldier-like indeed. His whole manner showed that there -wasn’t the least use in the world trying to argue with him. - -Mary Amber eyed him with increasing interest and thoughtfulness. - -“You’re mistaken,” she said grudgingly. “There’s one. There’s Miss -Marilla. She’d break her heart. She’s like that; and she hasn’t much to -care for in the world, either. Which makes it all the worse what you’ve -done. Oh, I don’t see how you _could_ deceive her.” - -“Deceive her?” said the astonished soldier. “I never deceived her.” - -“Why, you let her think you were Dick Chadwick, her nephew; and you -_know_ you’re not! _I_ knew you weren’t the minute I saw you, even -before I found Dick’s telegram in the stove saying he couldn’t come. -And then I asked you a lot of questions to find out for sure, and you -couldn’t answer one of them right.” Her eyes were sparkling, and there -was an eager look in her face, like an appeal, almost as if she wanted -him to prove what she was saying was not true. - -“No, I’m not Dick Chadwick,” said the young man with fine dignity. “But -I never deceived Miss Marilla.” - -“Well, who did then?” There were disappointment and unbelief in Mary -Amber’s voice. - -“Nobody. She isn’t deceived. It was she who tried to deceive you.” - -“What do you mean?” - -“I mean she wanted you to think I was her nephew. She was mortified, -I guess, because he didn’t turn up, and she didn’t want you to know. -So she asked me to dinner to fill in. I didn’t know anybody was there -till just as I was going in the door. Then I had to go and get sick in -the night, and dish the whole thing. I was a fool to give in to her, -of course, and stay that night, but it did sound good to have a real -night’s sleep in a bed. I didn’t think I was such a softie as to get -out of my head and be on her hands like that. But you needn’t worry. I -intend to make it up to her fully just as soon as I can lay hands on -some funds--” - -He suddenly broke into a fit of coughing so hoarse and croupy as to -alarm even Mary Amber’s cool contempt. She reached back in the car, -and, grasping a big fur coat, sprang out on the hard ground, and threw -the coat about him, tucking it around his neck and trying to fasten a -button under his chin against his violent protest. - -“You’re very kind,” he gasped loftily, as soon as he could recover -his breath. “But I can’t put that on, and I’m going down to the -telegraph-office now to see if my wire has come yet.” - -“Look here,” said Mary Amber in quite a different tone, “I’m sorry I -was so suspicious. I see I didn’t understand. I ask your pardon, and -won’t you please put on this coat, and get into this car, and let me -take you home quick? I’m really very much troubled about you.” - -The soldier looked up in surprise at the gentleness, and almost his -heart melted. The snarly look around his mouth and eyes disappeared, -and he seemed a bit confounded. - -“Thank you,” he said simply. “I appreciate that. But I can’t let you -help me, you know.” - -“Oh, please!” she said, a kind of little-girl alarm springing into her -eyes. “I sha’n’t know what to say to Miss Marilla. I promised her to -bring you back, you know.” - -His eyes and lips were hardening again. She saw he did not mean to -yield, and Mary Amber was not used to being balked in her purposes. -She glanced down the road; and a sudden light came into her eyes, and -brought a dimple of mischief into her cheek. - -“You’ll have to for my sake,” she said hurriedly in a lower tone. -“There’s a car coming with some people in it I know; and they will -think it awfully queer for me to be standing here on a lonely roadside -talking to a strange soldier sitting on a log on a day like this. -Hurry!” - -Lyman Gage glanced up, saw the car coming swiftly; saw, too, the dimple -of mischief; but with an answering light of gallantly in his own eyes -he sprang up and helped her into the car. The effort brought on another -fit of coughing, but as soon as he could speak he said: - -“You can take me down to that little telegraph-office if you please, -and drop me there. Then nobody will think anything about it.” - -“I’ll take you to the telegraph-office if you’ll be good and put that -coat on right, and button it,” said Mary Amber commandingly. She had -him in the car now, and she knew that she could go so fast he could not -get out. “But I shall not stop there until you promise me on your honor -as a soldier that you will not get out or make any more trouble about -my taking you back to Miss Marilla.” - -The soldier looked very balky indeed, and his firm mouth got itself -into fine shape again, till he looked into Mary Amber’s eyes and saw -the saucy, beautiful lights there; and then he broke down laughing. - -“Well, you’ve caught me by guile,” he said; “and I guess we’re about -even. I’ll go back and make my adieus myself to Miss Marilla.” - -A little curve of satisfaction settled about Mary Amber’s mouth. - -“Put that coat on, please,” she said, and the soldier put it on -gratefully. He was beginning to feel a reaction from his battle with -Mary Amber, and now that he was defeated the coat seemed most desirable. - -“Don’t you think it would be a good idea if you would tell me who you -really are?” asked Mary Amber. “It might save some embarrassment.” - -“Why, certainly!” said the soldier in surprise. “It hadn’t occurred to -me; that’s all. I’m Lyman Gage, of Chicago.” He named also his rank -and regiment in the army. Then, looking at her curiously, he said, -hesitating: - -“I’m--perfectly respectable, you know. I don’t really make a practice -of going around sponging on unprotected ladies.” - -Her cheeks flamed a gorgeous scarlet, and her eyes looked rebuked. - -“I suppose I ought to apologize,” she said. “But really, you know, it -looked rather peculiar to me--” She stopped suddenly, for he was seized -with another fit of coughing, which had so shrill a sound that she -involuntarily turned to look at him with anxious eyes. - -“I s’pose it did look queer,” he managed to say at last; “but you know -that day when I came in I didn’t care a hang.” He dropped his head -wearily against the car, and closed his eyes for just a second, as if -the keeping of them open was a great effort. - -“You’re all in now!” she said sharply. “And you’re shivering! You ought -to be in bed this minute.” Her voice held deep concern. “Where is that -telegraph-office? We’ll just leave word for them to forward the message -if it hasn’t come and then we’ll fly back.” - -“Oh, I must wait for that message,” he said, straightening up with a -hoarse effort and opening his eyes sharply. “It is really imperative.” - -She stopped the car in front of the telegraph-office. The little -operator, scenting a romance, scuttled out of the door with an envelope -in her hand and a different look on her face from the one she had worn -when she went to her lunch. To tell the truth, she had not had much -faith in that soldier nor in the message he had sent “collect.” She -hadn’t believed any answer would come, or at least any favorable one. - -Now she hurried across the pavement to the car, studying Mary Amber’s -red tam as she talked, and wondering whether she couldn’t make one like -it out of the red lining of an old army cape she had. - -“Yer message’s come,” she announced affably. “Come just after I got -back. An’ I got yer check all made out fer yah. You sign here. See? -Got anybody to ’dentify yah? ’Tain’t necessary, see? I c’n waive -identification.” - -“I can identify him,” spoke up Mary Amber with cool dignity; and the -soldier looked at her wonderingly. That was a very different tone from -the one she had used when she came after him. After all, what did Mary -Amber know about him? - -He looked at the check half wonderingly as if it were not real. His -head felt very queer. The words of the message seemed all jumbled. He -crumpled it in his hand. - -“Ain’t yah going to send an answer?” put in the little operator -aggrievedly, hugging the thin muslin sleeves of her little soiled -shirt-waist to keep from shivering. “He says to wire him immediately. -He says it’s important. I guess you didn’t take notice to the message.” - -The soldier tried to smooth out the crumpled paper with his numb -fingers; and Mary Amber, seeing that he was feeling very miserable, -took it from him, and capably put it before him. - - “Am sending you a thousand. Wire me your post-office address - immediately. Good news. Important. - “(Signed) - “ARTHUR J. WATKINS.” - -“I guess I can’t answer that now,” said the soldier, trying his best to -keep his teeth from chattering. “I don’t just know--” - -“Here, I’ll write it for you,” said Mary with sudden understanding. -“You better have it sent in Aunt Rill’s care; and then you can have -it forwarded anywhere, you know. I’ll write it for you;” and she took -a silver pencil from the pocket of her coat, and wrote the telegram -rapidly on a corner she tore from the first message, handing it out -for his inspection and then passing it on to the operator, who gathered -it in capably. - -“Send this c’lect too, I s’pose,” she called after the car as it -departed. - -“Yes, all right, anything,” answered Lyman Gage, wearily sinking back -in the seat. “It doesn’t matter, anyway.” - -“You are sick!” said Mary Amber anxiously; “and we are going to get -right home. Miss Marilla will be wild.” - -The soldier sat up holding his precious check. - -“I’ll have to ask you to let me out,” he said, trying to be dignified -under the heavy stupor of weariness that was creeping over him. “I’ve -got to get to a bank.” - -“Oh, must you, to-day? Couldn’t we wait till to-morrow or till you feel -better?” asked Mary anxiously. - -“No, I must go now,” he insisted doggedly. - -“Well, there’s a bank on the next corner,” she said; “and it must be -about closing-time.” She shoved her sleeve back, and glanced at her -watch. “Just five minutes of three. We’ll stop, but you’ll promise to -hurry, won’t you? I want to get you home. I’m worried about you.” - -Lyman Gage cast her another of those wondering looks like a child -unused to kindness suddenly being petted. It made her feel as if she -wanted to cry. All the mother in her came to her eyes. She drew up in -front of the bank, and got out after him. - -“I’ll go in with you,” she said. “They know me over here, and it may -save you trouble.” - -“You’re very kind,” he said almost curtly. “I dislike to make you so -much trouble----” - -Perhaps it was owing to Mary’s presence that the transaction went -through without question, and in a few minutes more they were back in -the car again, Mary tucking up her big patient fussily. - -“You’re going to put this around your neck,” she said, drawing a bright -woolly scarf from her capacious coat-pocket, “and around your head,” -she added, drawing a fold comfortingly up around his ears and the back -of his head. “And keep it over your nose and mouth. Breathe through -it; don’t let this cold air get into your lungs,” she finished with a -businesslike air as if she were a nurse. - -She drew the ends of the scarf around, completely hiding everything but -his eyes, and tucked the ends into the neck of the fur coat. Then she -produced another lap-robe from some region beneath her feet, and tucked -that carefully around him. It was wonderful being taken care of in this -way; if he only had not been so cold, so tired, and so sore all over -he could have enjoyed it. The scarf had a delicate aroma of spring and -violets, something that reminded him of pleasant things in the past; -but it all seemed like a dream. - -They were skimming along over the road up which he had come at so -laborious a pace, and the icy wind cut his eyeballs. He closed his -eyes, and a hot curtain seemed to shut him out from a weary world. -Almost he seemed to be spinning away into space. He tried to open -his mouth under the woollen fragrance and speak; but his companion -ordered him sharply to be still till he got where it was warm, and a -sharp cough like a knife caught him. So he sank back again into the -perfumed silence of the fierce heat and cold that seemed to be raging -through his body, and continued the struggle to keep from drifting into -space. It did not seem quite gallant or gentlemanly to say nothing, -nor soldierly to drift away like that when she was being so kind. And -then a curious memory of the other girl drifted around in the frost of -his breath mockingly, as if she were laughing at his situation, almost -as if she had put him there and was glad. He tried to shake this off -by opening his eyes and concentrating them on Mary Amber as she sat -sternly at her wheel, driving her little machine for all it was worth, -her eyes anxious, and the flush on her cheek bright and glowing. The -fancy came to him that she was in league with him against the other -girl. He knew it was foolish, and he tried to drive the idea away; but -it stayed till she passed her own hedge and stopped the car at Miss -Marilla’s gate. - -Then it seemed to clear away, and common sense reigned for a few brief -moments while he stumbled out of the car and staggered into Miss -Marilla’s parlor and into the warmth and cheer of that good woman’s -almost tearful, affectionate welcome. - -“I want you to take that,” he said, hoarsely pressing into her hand the -roll of bills he had got at the bank; and then he slid down into a big -chair, and everything whirled away again. - -Miss Marilla stood aghast, looking at the money and then at the sick -soldier, till Mary Amber took command. He never remembered just what -happened, nor knew how he got up-stairs and into the great warm, kind -bed again, with hot-broth being fed him, and hot-water bags in places -needing them. He did not hear them call the doctor on the telephone, -nor know just when Mary Amber slipped away down to her car again and -rode away. - -But Mary Amber knew that this was the afternoon when _The Purling Brook -Chronicle_ went to press, and she had an item that must get in. Quite -demurely she handed the envelope to the woman editor just as she was -preparing to mail the last of her copy to the printer in the city. The -item read: “Miss Marilla Chadwick, of Shirley Road, is entertaining -over the week-end Sergeant Lyman Gage, of Chicago, but just returned -from France. Sergeant Gage is a member of the same division and came -over in the same ship with Miss Chadwick’s nephew, Lieutenant Richard -Chadwick, of whom mention has been made in a former number, and has -seen long and interesting service abroad.” - -Mary Amber was back at the house almost before she had been missed and -just as the doctor arrived, ready to serve in any capacity whatever. - -“Do you think I ought to introduce him to the doctor?” asked Miss -Marilla of Mary in an undertone at the head of the stairs, while the -doctor was divesting himself of his big fur overcoat. She had a drawn -anxious look like one about to be found out in a crime. - -“He doesn’t look to me as if he were able to acknowledge the -introduction,” said Mary with a glance in at the spare bed, where the -young man lay sleeping heavily and breathing noisily. - -“But--ought I to tell him his name?” - -“That’s all right, Auntie Rill,” said Mary easily; “I told him his name -was Gage when I phoned, and said he was in the same division with your -nephew. It isn’t necessary for you to say anything about it.” - -Miss Marilla paused, and eyed Mary strangely with a frightened, -appealing look, and then with growing relief. So Mary knew! She sighed, -and turned back to the sick-room with a comforted expression growing -round her mouth. - -But the comforted expression changed once more to anxiety, and self -was forgotten utterly when Miss Marilla began to watch the doctor’s -face as the examination progressed. - -“What has this young man been doing?” he growled, rising from a -position on his knees where he had been listening to the soldier’s -breathing with an ever-increasing frown. Miss Marilla looked at Mary -quite frightened, and Mary stepped into the breach. - -“He had a heavy cold when he came here, and Miss Chadwick nursed him, -and he was doing nicely; but he ran away this morning. He had some -business to attend to, and slipped away before anybody could stop him. -He got very much chilled, I think.” - -“I should say he did!” ejaculated the doctor. “Young fool! I suppose -he thought he could stand anything because he went through the war. -Well, he’ll get his now. He’s in for pneumonia. I’m sorry, Miss -Chadwick, but I’m afraid you’ve got a bad case on your hands. Would you -like to have me phone for an ambulance and get him to the hospital? I -think it can be done at once with a minimum of risk.” - -“Oh, no, no!” said Miss Marilla, clasping one white hand and then the -other nervously. “I couldn’t think of that--at least, not unless you -think it’s necessary--not unless you think it’s a risk to stay here. -You see he’s my--that is, he’s almost--like--my own nephew.” She lifted -appealing eyes. - -“Oh, I beg your pardon!” he said with a look of relief. “In that case -he’s to be congratulated. But, madam, you’ll have your hands full -before you are through. He’s made a very bad start--a very bad start -indeed. When these big, husky fellows get sick, they do it thoroughly, -you know. Now, if you’ll just step over here, Miss Mary, I’ll explain -to you both about this medicine. Give this every half-hour till I get -back. I’ll run up here again in about two hours. I’ve got to drive over -to the Plush Mills now, to an accident case; but I’ll be back as quick -as I can. I want to watch this fellow pretty closely for the first few -hours.” - -When the doctor was gone, Mary Amber and Miss Marilla stood one on -each side of the bed, and looked at each other, making silent covenant -together over the sick soldier. - -“Now,” said Mary Amber softly, “I’m going down into the kitchen to look -after things. You just sit here and watch him. I’ll run over first to -put the car away and tell mother I’ll stay with you to-night.” - -“O Mary Amber, you mustn’t do that,” said Miss Marilla anxiously. “I -never meant to get you into all this scrape. Your mother won’t like it -at all. I’ll get along all right; and anyway, if I find I can’t, I’ll -get Molly Poke to come and help me.” - -“Mother will be perfectly satisfied to have me help you in any way -I can,” said Mary Amber with a light in her eyes; “and as for Molly -Poke, if I can’t look after you better than she can, I’ll go and hide -my head. You can get Molly Poke when I fail, but not till then. Now, -Auntie Rill, go sit down in the rockingchair and rest. Didn’t I tell -you I’d help get that turkey dinner? Well, the dinner isn’t over yet; -that’s all; and I owe the guest an apology for misjudging him. He’s all -right, and we’ve got to pull him through, Auntie Rill; so here goes.” - -Mary Amber gave Miss Marilla a loving squeeze, and sped down the -stairs. Miss Marilla sat down to listen to the heavy breathing of the -sick soldier, and watch the long, dark lashes on the sunken, tanned -cheeks. - - - - -CHAPTER VII - - -For three weeks the two women nursed Lyman Gage, with now and then the -help of Molly Poke in the kitchen. There were days when they came and -went silently, looking at each other with stricken glances and at the -sick man with pity; and Mary Amber went and looked at the letter lying -on the bureau, and wondered whether she ought to telegraph that man who -had sent the soldier the money that day. Another letter arrived, and -then a telegram, all from Chicago. Then Mary Amber and Miss Marilla -talked it over, and decided to make some reply. - -By that time the doctor had said that Lyman Gage would pull through; -and he had opened his eyes once or twice and smiled weakly upon them. -Mary Amber went to the telegraph-office, and sent a message to the -person in Chicago whose name was written at the left-hand corner of the -envelopes, the same that had been signed to that first telegram. - - “Lyman Gage very ill at my home, pneumonia, not able to read letters - or telegram. Slight improvement to-day. - “(Signed) - “MARILLA CHADWICK.” - -Within three hours an answer arrived. - - “Much distressed at news of Gage’s illness. Cannot come on account of - fractured bone, automobile accident. Please keep me informed, and let - me know if there is anything I can do. - “(Signed) - “ARTHUR J. WATKINS.” - -Mary wrote a neat little note that night before she went on duty in the -sick-room, stating that the invalid had smiled twice that day and asked -what day of the week it was. The doctor felt that he was on the high -road to recovery now, and there was nothing to do but be patient. They -would show him his mail as soon as the doctor was willing, which would -probably be in a few days now. - -The day they gave Lyman Gage his mail to read the sun was shining on a -new fall of snow, and the air was crisp and clear. There were geraniums -blossoming in the spare-room windows between the sheer white curtains, -and the Franklin heater was glowing away and filling the place with the -warmth of summer. - -The patient had been fed what he called “a real breakfast,” milk toast -and a soft-boiled egg, and the sun was streaming over the foot of the -bed gayly as if to welcome him back to life. He seemed so much stronger -that the doctor had given permission for him to be bolstered up with an -extra pillow while he read his mail. - -He had not seemed anxious to read the mail, nor at all curious, even -when they told him it was postmarked Chicago. Miss Marilla carried it -to him gayly as if she were bringing him a bouquet, but Mary eyed him -with a curious misgiving. Perhaps, after all, there would not be good -news. He seemed so very apathetic. She watched him furtively as she -tidied the room, putting away the soap and towels, and pulling a dry -leaf or two from the geraniums. He was so still, and it took him so -long to make up his mind to tear open the envelopes after he had them -in his thin white hand. It almost seemed as if he dreaded them like -a blow, and was trying to summon courage to meet them. Once, as she -looked at him, his eye met hers with a deprecatory smile, and to cover -her confusion she spoke impulsively. - -“You don’t seem deeply concerned about the news,” she said gayly. - -He smiled again almost sadly. - -“Well, no!” he said thoughtfully. “I can’t say I am. There really isn’t -anything much left in which to be interested. You see about the worst -things that could happen have happened, and there’s no chance for -anything else.” - -“You can’t always tell,” said Mary Amber cheerfully, as she finished -dusting the bureau and took herself down-stairs for his morning glass of -milk and egg. - -Slowly Lyman Gage tore the envelope of the topmost letter, and took -out the written sheet. In truth he had little curiosity. It was likely -an account of how his lawyer friend had paid back the money to Mr. -Harrower, or else the details of the loan on the old Chicago house. -Houses and loans and such things seemed far from his world just now. -He was impatient for Mary Amber to come back with that milk and egg. -Not so much for the milk and egg as for the comfort it gave, and the -cheeriness of her presence. Presently Miss Marilla would come up and -tell over some little incident of Mary’s childhood exactly as if he -were Dick, the real nephew; and he liked it. Not that he liked Dick, -the villain! He found himself hopelessly jealous of him sometimes. Yet -he knew in a feeble far-away sense that this was only a foolish foible -of an invalid, and he would get over it and laugh at himself when he -got well. - -He smiled at the pleasantness of it all, this getting-well business, -and then turned his indifferent attention to the letter. - -“Dear Gage,” it read, “what in the world did you hide yourself away in -that remote corner of the world for? I’ve scoured the country to get -trace of you without a single result till your telegram came. There’s -good news to tell you. The unexpected has happened, and you are a rich -man, old fellow. Don’t let it turn your head, for there’s plenty of -business to occupy you as soon as you are able to return. - -“To make a long story short, the old tract of land in which you put all -you had and a good deal more has come to the front in great shape at -last. You will remember that the ore was found to be in such shape when -they came to the mining of it that it would cost fabulous sums for the -initial operations, and it fell through because your company couldn’t -afford to get the proper machinery. Well, the Government has taken -over the whole tract, and is working it. I am enclosing the details on -another paper, and you will perceive, when you have looked it over, how -very much you are needed at home just now to decide numerous questions -which have taxed my ingenuity to the limit to know just what you would -want done. There is a great deal of timber on those lands also, very -valuable timber, it seems; and that is another source of wealth for -you. Oh, this war has been a great thing for you, young man; and you -certainly ought to give extra thanks that you came out alive to enjoy -it all. Properly managed, your property ought to keep you on Easy -Street for the rest of your life, and then some. - -“I took pains to let Mr. Harrower know how the wind blew when I paid -him the money you had borrowed from him. He certainly was one surprised -man; and of course I don’t speak officially, but from what he said I -should judge that this might make a big difference with Miss Elinore. -So you better hurry home, old man, and get busy. The sun is shining, -and the war is over. - - “Yours fraternally as well as officially, - “ARTHUR J. WATKINS.” - -Over the first part of the letter Lyman Gage dallied comfortably as he -might have done with his grapefruit or the chicken on toast that they -had promised him for lunch. He had lost his sense of world values for -the time being, and just now a fortune was no more than a hot-water bag -when one’s feet were cold. It merely gave him a sense that he needn’t -be in a hurry getting well, that he could take things easy because he -could pay for everything and give his friends a good time after he -was on his feet again. In short, he was no longer a beggar on Miss -Marilla’s bounty with only a thousand dollars between him and debt or -even the poorhouse. - -But, when he came to that last paragraph, his face suddenly hardened, -and into his eyes there came a glint of steel as of old, while his jaw -set sternly, and lines came around his mouth, hard, bitter lines. - -So it was that that had been the matter with Elinore, was it? She had -not grown tired of _him_ so much, but had wanted more money than she -thought he would be able to furnish for a long time? He stared off into -the room not seeing its cozy details for the first time since he began -to get well. He was looking at the vision of the past trying to conjure -up a face whose loveliness had held for him no imperfections. He was -looking at it squarely now as it rose dimly in vision against the -gray of Miss Marilla’s spare-room wall; and for the first time he saw -the petted under lip with the selfish droop at its corners, the pout -when she could not have her own way, the frown of the delicate brows, -the petulant tapping of a dainty foot, the proud lifted shoulder, -the haughty stare, the cold tones and crushing contempt that were -hers sometimes. These had seldom been for him; and, when he had seen -them, he had called them beautiful, had gloried in them, fool that -he was! Why had he been so blind, when there were girls in the world -like--well--say like Mary Amber? - -Misjudging Elinore? Well, perhaps, but somehow he did not believe he -was. Something had cleared his vision. He began to remember things in -Elinore Harrower that he had never called by their true names before. -It appeared more than likely that Elinore had deliberately left him -for a richer man, and that it was entirely possible under the changed -circumstances that she might leave the richer man for him if he could -prove that he was the richer of the two. Bah! What a thing to get well -to! Why did there have to be things like that in the world? Well, -it mattered very little to him what Elinore did. It might make a -difference with her, but it would make no difference to him. There were -things in that letter of hers that had cut too deep. He could never -forget them, no, never, not even if she came crawling to his feet and -begging him to come back to her. As for going back to Chicago, business -be hanged! He was going to stay right here and get well. A smile melted -out on his lips, and comfort settled down about him as he heard Mary -Amber’s step on the stairs and the soothing clink of the spoon in the -glass of egg and milk. - -“Good news?” asked Mary Amber as she shoved up the little serving-table -and prepared to administer the egg and milk. - -“Oh, so-so!” he answered with a smile, sweeping the letters away from -him and looking at the foaming glass with eager eyes. - -“Why! You haven’t opened them all!” laughed Mary Amber. - -“Oh! Haven’t I?” he said impatiently, sweeping them up and tearing them -open wholesale with only a glance at each, then throwing them back on -the coverlet again. - -“Nothing but the same old thing. Hounding me back to Chicago,” he -grinned. “I’m having much too good a time to get well too fast, you may -be sure.” - -Somehow the room seemed cozier after that, and his sleep the sweeter -when he took his nap. He ate his chicken on toast slowly to prolong the -happy time; and he listened and smiled with deep relish at the little -stories Miss Marilla told of Mary Amber’s childhood, the gingerbread -men with currant eyes, and the naughty Dick who stole them. This world -he was in now was such a happy, clean little world, so simple and so -good! Oh, if he could have known a world like this earlier in his life! -If only he could have been the hapless Dick in reality! - -Molly Poke was established in the kitchen down-stairs now, and Miss -Marilla hovered over her anxiously, leaving the entertaining of the -invalid much to Mary Amber, who wrote neat business letters for him, -telling his lawyer friend to do just as he pleased with everything till -he got back; and who read stories and bits of poems, and played chess -with him as soon as the doctor allowed. Oh, they were having a happy -time, the three of them! Miss Marilla hovered over the two as if they -had been her very own children. - -And then one lovely winter afternoon, when they were just discussing -how perhaps they might take the invalid out for a ride in the car some -day next week, the fly dropped into the ointment! - -It was as lovely a fly as ever walked on tiny French heels, and came in -a limousine lined with gray duvetyn and electrically heated and graced -with hothouse rosebuds in a slender glass behind the chauffeur’s right -ear. She picked her way daintily up the snowy walk, surveyed the house -and grounds critically as far as the Amber hedge, and rang the bell -peremptorily. - -Miss Marilla herself went to the front door, for Molly Poke was busy -making cream-puffs and couldn’t stop; and, when she saw the little fly -standing haughtily on the porch, swathed in a gorgeous moleskin cloak -with a voluminous collar of tailless ermine, and a little toque made of -coral velvet embroidered in silver, she thought right away of a spider. -A very beautiful spider, it is true, but all the same a spider. - -And, when the beautiful red lips opened and spoke, she thought so all -the more. - -“I have come to see Lyman Gage,” she announced freezingly, looking at -Miss Marilla with the glance one gives to a servant. Miss Marilla cast -a frightened glance of discernment over the beautiful little face. -For it was beautiful, there was no mistaking that, very perfectly -beautiful, though it might have been only superficially so. Miss -Marilla was not used to seeing a skin that looked like soft rose-leaves -in baby perfection on a person of that age. Great baby eyes of blue, -set wide, with curling dark lashes, eyebrows that seemed drawn by a -fairy brush, lips of such ruby-red pout, and nose chiselled in warm -marble. Peaches and cream floated through her startled mind, and it -never occurred to her it was not natural. Oh, the vision was beautiful; -there was no doubt about that. - -Miss Marilla closed the door, and stood with her back to the stairs and -a look of defence upon her face. She had a fleeting thought of Mary and -whether she ought to be protected. She had a spasm of fierce jealousy, -and a frenzy as to what she should do. - -“You can step into the parlor,” she said in a tone that she hoped was -calm, although she knew it was not cordial. “I’ll go up and see if he’s -able to see you. He’s been very sick. The doctor hasn’t let him see -any”--she paused, and eyed the girl defiantly--“any _strangers_.” - -“Oh, that’ll be all right,” laughed the girl with a disagreeable -tinkle. “I’m not a stranger. I’m only his fiancée.” But she pronounced -“fiancée” in a way that Miss Marilla didn’t recognize at all, and she -looked at her hard. It wasn’t “wife,” anyway; and it hadn’t sounded -like “sister” or “cousin.” Miss Marilla looked at the snip--that was -what she began to call her in her mind--and decided that she didn’t -want her to see Lyman Gage at all; but of course Lyman Gage must be the -one to decide that. - -“What did you say your name was?” she asked bluntly. - -For answer the girl brought out a ridiculous little silk bag with a -clattering clasp and chain, and took therefrom a tiny gold card-case, -from which she handed Miss Marilla a card. Miss Marilla adjusted her -spectacles, and studied it a moment with one foot on the lower stairs. - -“Well,” she said reluctantly, “he hasn’t seen any one yet; but I’ll go -and find out if you can see him. You can sit in the parlor.” She waved -her hand again toward the open door, and started up-stairs. - -The blood was beating excitedly through her ears, and her heart pounded -in pitiful thuds. If this “snip” belonged to her soldier boy, she was -sure she could never mother him again. She wouldn’t feel at home. And -her thoughts were so excited that she did not know that the fur-clad -snip was following her close behind until she was actually within the -spare bedroom, and holding out the card to her boy with a trembling -little withered-rose-leaf hand. - -The boy looked up with his wide, pleasant smile like a benediction, -and reached out for the card interestedly. He caught the look of panic -on Miss Marilla’s face and the inscrutable one on Mary Amber’s. Mary -had heard the strange voice below and arisen from her reading aloud to -glance out of the window. She now beat a precipitate retreat into the -little sewing-room just off the spare bedroom. Then Lyman Gage realized -another presence in the room, and looked beyond to the door where stood -Elinore Harrower, her big eyes watching him jealously from her swathing -of gorgeous furs, while he slowly took in the situation. - -It had been a common saying among his friends that no situation however -unexpected ever found Lyman Gage off his guard, or ever saw him give -away his own emotions. Like lightning there flitted over his face now -a sudden cloud like a curtain, shutting out all that he had been the -moment before, putting under lock and seal any like or dislike he -might be feeling, allowing only the most cool courtesy to appear in -his expression. Miss Marilla, watching him like a cat, could not tell -whether he was glad or sorry, surprised or indignant or pleased. He -seemed none of these. He glanced with cool indifference toward the -lovely vision smiling in the doorway now and ready to gush over him, -and a stern dignity grew in the set of his jaws; but otherwise he did -not seem to have changed, and most casually, as if he had seen her but -the week before, he remarked: - -“Oh! Is that you, Elinore? Seems to me you have chosen a cold day to go -out. Won’t you sit down?” He motioned toward a stiff little chair that -stood against the wall, though Mary Amber’s rocker was still waving -back and forth from her hasty retreat. - -Miss Marilla simply faded out of the room, although Gage said politely, -“don’t leave us, please.” But she was gone before the words were out of -his mouth, and with a sudden feeling of weakness he glanced around the -room wildly, and realized that Mary Amber was gone too. - -Mary Amber stood in the sewing-room, and wondered what she ought to do. -For the other door of the sewing-room was closed and barred by a heavy -iron bed that had been put up for convenience during the soldier’s -illness, and the only spot that was long enough to hold it was straight -across the hall door. Obviously Mary Amber could not get out of the -sewing-room without moving that bed, and she knew by experience of -making it every morning that it squeaked most unmercifully when it was -moved. Neither could she go out through the spare bedroom, for she felt -that her appearance would cause no end of explanations; and equally of -course she dared not shut the door because it would make a noise and -call attention to her presence. - -So Mary Amber tiptoed softly to the farthest end of the little room, -and stood rigidly silent, trying not to listen, yet all the more -attuned and sensitive to whatever was going on in the next room. She -fairly held her breath lest they should hear her, and pressed her -fingers upon her hot eyeballs as if that would shut out the sound. - -“That’s scarcely the way I expected you to meet me, Lyme,” in the sweet -lilt of Elinore Harrower’s petted voice. - -“I was scarcely expecting you, you know, after what has happened,” -came chillingly in Lyman Gage’s voice, a bit high and hollow from his -illness, and all the cooler for that. - -“I couldn’t stay away when I knew you were ill, Lyme, dear!” The voice -was honeyed sweet now. - -“What had that to do with it?” The tone was almost vicious. “You wrote -that we had grown apart, and it was true. You are engaged to another -man.” - -“Well, can’t I change my mind?” The tone was playful, kittenish. It -smote Lyman Gage’s memory that he had been wont to call it teasing and -enjoy it in her once upon a time. - -“You’ve changed your mind once too often!” The sick man’s voice was -tense in his weakness, and his brow was dark. - -“Why, Lyme Gage! I think you are _horrid_!” cried the girl with a hint -of indignant tears in her voice. “Here I come a long journey to see you -when you’re sick; and you meet me that way, and _taunt_ me. It’s not -like you. You don’t seem a bit glad to see me! Perhaps there’s some one -else.” The voice had a taunt in it now, and an assurance that expected -to win out in the end, no matter to what she might have to descend to -gain her point. - -But she had reckoned without knowledge, for Lyman Gage remembered -the picture he had torn to bits in the dying light of the sunset and -trampled in the road; those same brilliant eyes, that soft tinted -cheek, those painted lips, had smiled impudently up to him that way as -he had ground them beneath his heel; and this was GIRL, his natural -enemy, who would play with him at her pleasure, and toss him away when -he was no longer profitable to her, expecting to find him ready at a -word again when circumstances changed. He straightened up with sudden -strength, and caught her words with a kind of joyful triumph. - -“Yes, there is _some one else_! Mary! Mary _Amber_!” - -Mary Amber, trying not to hear, had caught her name, heard the sound in -his voice like to the little chick that calls its mother when the hawk -appears; and suddenly her fear vanished. She turned, and walked with -steady step and bright eyes straight into the spare bedroom, a smile -upon her lips and a rose upon her cheek that needed no cosmetics to -enhance its beauty. - -“Did you call me--Lyman?” she said, looking straight at him with rescue -in her eyes. - -He put out his hand to her, and she went and stood by the bed over -across from the visitor, who had turned and was staring amazedly, -insolently at her now. - -Lyman Gage put out his big, wasted hand, and gathered Mary Amber’s hand -in his, and _she let him_! - -“Mary,” said Lyman Gage possessively, and there were both boldness and -appeal in his eyes as he looked at her, “I want Miss Harrower to know -you; Miss Amber, Miss Harrower.” - -Elinore Harrower had risen with one hand on the back of her chair; and -her crimson lips parted, a startled expression in her eyes. Her rich -furs had fallen back, and revealed a rich and vampish little frock -beneath; but she was not thinking of her frock just then. She was -looking from one to the other of the two before her. - -“I don’t understand!” she said haughtily. “Did you know her before?” - -Lyman Gage flashed a look at Mary for indulgence, and answered happily. - -“Our friendship dates back to when we were children and I spent a -summer with my Aunt Marilla teasing Mary, and letting the sawdust out -of her dolls.” He gave a daring glance at Mary, and found the twinkles -in her eyes playing with the dimples at the corner of her mouth; and -his fingers clung more warmly around hers. - -The two were so absorbedly interested in this little comedy they were -enacting that they had quite failed to notice its effect upon the -audience. Elinore Harrower had gathered her fur robes about her, and -was fastening them proudly at her throat. Her dark eyes were two -points of steel, and the little white teeth that bit into the pouting -crimson under lip looked vicious and suggestive. - -“I did not understand,” said Elinore haughtily. “I thought you were -among strangers, and needed some one. I will leave you to your friends. -You always did like simple country ways, I remember;” and she cast a -withering glance around. - -“Why, where is Aunt Rilla, Mary?” asked Lyman, innocently ignoring the -sneer of his guest. “Aunt Marilla!” he raised his voice, looking toward -the door. “Aunt Marilla, won’t you please come here?” - -Miss Marilla, her heart a perfect tumult of joy to hear him call her -that way, straightened up from her ambush outside the door, and entered -precipitately, just as the haughty guest was about to stalk from the -room, if one so small and exquisite as Elinore can be said to stalk. -The result was a collision that quite spoiled the effect of the exit, -and the two ladies looked at each other for a brief instant much as two -cats might have done under similar circumstances. - -Mary Amber’s eyes were dancing, and Lyman Gage wanted to laugh, but he -controlled his voice. - -“Aunt Marilla, this is Miss Harrower, a girl who used to be an old -friend of mine, and she thinks she can’t stay any longer. Would you -mind taking her down to the door? Good-by, Elinore. Congratulations! -And I hope you’ll be very happy!” He held out his free hand--the -other still held Mary Amber’s, and the smile upon his lips was -full of merriment. But Elinore Harrower ignored the hand and the -congratulations; and, drawing her fur mantle once more about her small -haughty shoulders, she sailed from the room, her coral and silver toque -held high, and her little red mouth drooping with scorn and defeat. -Miss Marilla, all hospitality now that she understood, offered tea -and cake, but was vouchsafed no answer whatever; and so in joyous, -wondering silence she attended her soldier’s guest to the door. - -Lyman Gage lay back on his pillows, his face turned away from Mary -Amber, listening; but his hand still held Mary Amber’s. And Mary Amber, -standing quietly by his side, listening too, seemed to understand that -the curtain had not fallen yet, not quite, upon the little play; for -a smile wove in and out among the dimples near her lips, and her eyes -were dancing little happy lights of mirth. It was not until the front -door shut upon the guest and they heard the motor’s soft purr as the -car left the house that they felt the tenseness of the moment relax, -and consciousness of their position stole upon them. - -“Mary, Mary Amber!” whispered Lyman Gage softly, looking up into her -face, “can you ever forgive me for all this?” - -He held her hand, and his eyes pleaded for him. - -“But it is all true. There _is_ another one. _I love you!_ And oh, I’m -so tired. Mary Amber, can you forgive me--and--and love me, just a -little bit?” - -Down upon her knees went Mary Amber beside that bed, and gathered her -soldier boy within her strong young arms, drawing his tired head upon -her firm, sweet shoulder. - -When Miss Marilla trotted back up-stairs on her weary, glad feet, and -put her head in at the door fearfully, to see how her boy had stood -the strain of the visitor--and to berate herself for having allowed a -stranger to come up without warning, she found them so, with Mary Amber -soothing her patient to sleep by kisses on his tired eyelids, and the -soldier’s big white hand enfolding Mary’s little one contentedly, while -the man’s low voice growled tenderly: - -“Mary, you are the only girl I ever really loved. I didn’t know there -was a girl like you when I knew her.” - -So Miss Marilla drew the door to softly lest Molly Poke should come -snooping round that way, and trotted off to the kitchen to see about -some charlotte russe for supper, a great thankful gladness growing in -her heart, for--oh! suppose it had been that other--hussy! - - -THE END - - - - -TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES: - - - Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_. - - Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. - - Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized. - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's The Big Blue Soldier, by Grace Livingston Hill - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BIG BLUE SOLDIER *** - -***** This file should be named 60580-0.txt or 60580-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/0/5/8/60580/ - -Produced by Tim Lindell, David E. 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