"Go on!" said Judith."Go on!" said Judith.
Crittenden laughed, and took off his hat very politely when they met the buggy, but Wharton looked surly. The girl with the black hair looked sharply at Judith, and then again at Crittenden, and smiled. She must have caredlittle for her companion, Judith thought, or something for Crittenden, and yet she knew that most women smiled at Crittenden, even when they did not know him very well. Still she asked: "And the other things—you meant other women?"
"Yes, and no."
"Why no?"
"Because I have deceived nobody—not even myself—and Heaven knows I tried that hard enough."
"That was one?" she added, smiling.
"I thought you knew me better than to ask such a question."
Again Judith smiled—scanning him closely.
"No, you aren't so very old—nor world-weary, after all."
"No?"
"No. And you have strong hands—and wrists. And your eyes are—" she seemed almost embarrassed—"are the eyes of a good man, in spite of what you say about yourself; and I would trust them. And it was very fine in you to talk as you did when we were tearing up that hill a moment ago."
Crittenden turned with a start of surprise.
"Oh," he said, with unaffected carelessness. "You didn't seem to be very nervous."
"I trusted you."
Crittenden had stopped to pull the self-opening gate, and he drove almost at a slow walk through the pasture toward Judith's home. The sun was reddening through the trees now. The whole earth was moist and fragrant, and the larks were singing their last songs for that happy day. Judith was quite serious now.
"Do you know, I was glad to hear you say that you had got over your old feeling for me. I feel so relieved. I have always felt so responsible for your happiness, but I don't now, and it issucha relief. Now you will go ahead and marry some lovely girl and you will be happy and I shall be happier—seeing it and knowing it."
Crittenden shook his head.
"No," he said, "something seems to have gone out of me, never to come back."
There was nobody in sight to open the yard gate, and Crittenden drove to the stiles, where he helped Judith out and climbed back into his buggy.
Judith turned in surprise. "Aren't you coming in?"
"I'm afraid I haven't time."
"Oh, yes, you have."
A negro boy was running from the kitchen.
"Hitch Mr. Crittenden's horse," she said, and Crittenden climbed out obediently and followedher to the porch, but she did not sit down outside. She went on into the parlour and threw open the window to let the last sunlight in, and sat by it looking at the west.
For a moment Crittenden watched her. He never realized before how much simple physical beauty she had, nor did he realize the significance of the fact that never until now had he observed it. She had been a spirit before; now she was a woman as well. But he did note that if he could have learned only from Judith, he would never have known that he even had wrists or eyes until that day; and yet he was curiously unstirred by the subtle change in her. He was busied with his own memories.
"And I know it can never come back," he said, and he went on thinking as he looked at her. "I wonder if you can know what it is to have somebody such a part of your life that you never hear a noble strain of music, never read a noble line of poetry, never catch a high mood from nature, nor from your own best thoughts—that you do not imagine her by your side to share your pleasure in it all; that you make no effort to better yourself or help others; that you do nothing of which she could approve, that you are not thinking of her—that really she is not the inspiration of it all. That doesn't come but once. Think of having somebody so linkedwith your life, with what is highest and best in you, that, when the hour of temptation comes and overcomes, you are not able to think of her through very shame. I wonder ifheloved you that way. I wonder if you know what such love is."
"It never comes but once," he said, in a low tone, that made Judith turn suddenly. Her eyes looked as if they were not far from tears.
A tiny star showed in the pink glow over the west—
"Starlight, star bright!"
"Think of it. For ten years I never saw the first star without making the same wish for you and me. Why," he went on, and stopped suddenly with a little shame at making the confession even to himself, and at the same time with an impersonal wonder that such a thing could be, "I used to pray for you always—when I said my prayers—actually. And sometimes even now, when I'm pretty hopeless and helpless and moved by some memory, the old prayer comes back unconsciously and I find myself repeating your name."
For the moment he spoke as though not only that old love, but she who had caused it, were dead, and the tone of his voice made her shiver.
And the suffering he used to get—the suffering from trifles—the foolish suffering from silly trifles!
He turned now, for he heard Judith walking toward him. She was looking him straight in the eyes and was smiling strangely.
"I'm going to make you love me as you used to love me."
Her lips were left half parted from the whisper, and he could have stooped and kissed her—something that never in his life had he done—he knew that—but the old reverence came back from the past to forbid him, and he merely looked down into her eyes, flushing a little.
"Yes," she said, gently. "And I think you are just tall enough."
In a flash her mood changed, and she drew his head down until she could just touch his forehead with her lips. It was a sweet bit of motherliness—no more—and Crittenden understood and was grateful.
"Go home now," she said.
VII
At Tampa—the pomp and circumstance of war.
A gigantic hotel, brilliant with lights, music, flowers, women; halls and corridors filled with bustling officers, uniformed from empty straps to stars; volunteer and regular—easily distinguished by the ease of one and the new and conscious erectness of the other; adjutants, millionaire aids, civilian inspectors; gorgeous attachés—English, German, Swedish, Russian, Prussian, Japanese—each wondrous to the dazzled republican eye; Cubans with cigarettes, Cubans—little and big, war-like, with the tail of the dark eye ever womanward, brave with machétes; on the divans Cuban senoritas—refugees at Tampa—dark-eyed, of course, languid of manner, to be sure, and with the eloquent fan, ever present, omnipotent—shutting and closing, shutting and closing, like the wings of a gigantic butterfly; adventurers, adventuresses; artists, photographers; correspondents by the score—female correspondents; story writers, novelists, real war correspondents, and real draughtsmen—artists,indeed; and a host of lesser men with spurs yet to win—all crowding the hotel day and night, night and day.
And outside, to the sea—camped in fine white sand dust, under thick stars and a hot sun—soldiers, soldiers everywhere, lounging through the streets and the railway stations, overrunning the suburbs; drilling—horseback and on foot—through clouds of sand; drilling at skirmish over burnt sedge-grass and stunted and charred pine woods; riding horses into the sea, and plunging in themselves like truant schoolboys. In the bay a fleet of waiting transports, and all over dock, camp, town, and hotel an atmosphere of fierce unrest and of eager longing to fill those wooden hulks, rising and falling with such maddening patience on the tide, and to be away. All the time, meanwhile, soldiers coming in—more and more soldiers—in freight-box, day-coach, and palace-car.
That night, in the hotel, Grafton and Crittenden watched the crowd from a divan of red plush, Grafton chatting incessantly. Around them moved and sat the women of the "House of the Hundred Thousand"—officers' wives and daughters and sisters and sweethearts and army widows—claiming rank and giving it more or less consciously, according to the rank of the man whom they represented. The big manwith the monocle and the suit of towering white from foot to crown was the English naval attaché. He stalked through the hotel as though he had the British Empire at his back.
"And he has, too," said Grafton. "You ought to see him go down the steps to the café. The door is too low for him. Other tall people bend forward—he always rears back."
And the picturesque little fellow with the helmet was the English military attaché. Crittenden had seen him at Chickamauga, and Grafton said they would hear of him in Cuba. The Prussian was handsome, and a Count. The big, boyish blond was a Russian, and a Prince, as was the quiet, modest, little Japanese—a mighty warrior in his own country. And the Swede, the polite, the exquisite!
"He wears a mustache guard. I offered him a cigar. He saluted: 'Thank you,' he said. 'Nevare I schmoke.'"
"They are the pets of the expedition," Grafton went on, "they and that war-like group of correspondents over there. They'll go down on the flag-ship, while we nobodies will herd together on one boat. But we'll all be on the same footing when we get there."
Just then a big man, who was sitting on the next divan twisting his mustache and talkingchiefly with his hands, rolled up and called Grafton.
"Huh!" he said.
"Huh!" mimicked Grafton.
"You don't know much about the army."
"Six weeks ago I couldn't tell a doughboy officer from a cavalryman by the stripe down his legs."
The big man smiled with infinite pity and tolerance.
"Therefore," said Grafton, "I shall not pass judgment, deliver expert military opinions, and decide how the campaign ought to be conducted—well, maybe for some days yet."
"You've got to. You must have a policy—a Policy. I'll give you one."
And he began—favoring monosyllables, dashes, exclamation points, pauses for pantomime, Indian sign language, and heys, huhs, and humphs that were intended to fill out sentences and round up elaborate argument.
"There is a lot any damn fool can say, of course, hey? But you mustn't say it, huh? Give 'em hell afterward." (Pantomime.) "That's right, ain't it? Understand? Regular army all right." (Sign language.) "These damn fools outside—volunteers, politicians, hey? Had best army in the world at the close of the old war, see? Best equipped, you understand, huh? Congress"(violent Indian sign language) "wanted to squash it—to squash it—that's right, you understand, huh? Cut it down—cut it down, see? Illustrate: Wanted 18,000 mules for this push, got 2,000, see? Same principle all through; see? That's right! No good to say anything now—people think you complain of the regular army, huh? Mustn't say anything now—give 'em hell afterward—understand?" (More sign language.) "Hell afterward. All right now, got your policy, go ahead."
Grafton nodded basely, and without a smile:
"Thanks, old man—thanks. It's very lucid."
A little later Crittenden saw the stout civilian, Major Billings, fairly puffing with pride, excitement, and a fine uniform of khaki, whom he had met at Chickamauga; and Willings, the surgeon; and Chaffee, now a brigadier; and Lawton, soon to command a division; and, finally, little Jerry Carter, quiet, unassuming, dreamy, slight, old, but active, and tough as hickory. The little general greeted Crittenden like a son.
"I was sorry not to see you again at Chickamauga, but I started here next day. I have just written you that there was a place on my staff for you or your brother—or for any son of your father and my friend. I'll write to Washington for you to-night, and you can report for duty whenever you please."
The little man made the astounding proposition as calmly as though he were asking the Kentuckian to a lunch of bacon and hardtack, and Crittenden flushed with gratitude and his heart leaped—his going was sure now. Before he could stammer out his thanks, the general was gone. Just then Rivers, who, to his great joy, had got at least that far, sat down by him. He was much depressed. His regiment was going, but two companies would be left behind. His colonel talked about sending him back to Kentucky to bring down some horses, and he was afraid to go.
"To think of being in the army as long as I have been, just for this fight. And to think of being left here in this hell-hole all summer, and missing all the fun in Cuba, not to speak of the glory and the game. We haven't had a war for so long that glory will come easy now, and anybody who does anything will be promoted. But it's missing the fight—the fight—that worries me," and Rivers shook his head from side to side dejectedly. "If my company goes, I'm all right; but if it doesn't, there is no chance for me if I go away. I shall lose my last chance of slipping in somewhere. I swear I'd rather go as a private than not at all."
This idea gave Crittenden a start, and made him on the sudden very thoughtful.
"Can you get me in as a private at the last minute?" he asked presently.
"Yes," said Rivers, quickly, "and I'll telegraph you in plenty of time, so that you can get back."
Crittenden smiled, for Rivers's plan was plain, but he was thinking of a plan of his own.
Meanwhile, he drilled as a private each day. He was ignorant of the Krag-Jorgensen, and at Chickamauga he had made such a laughable exhibition of himself that the old Sergeant took him off alone one day, and when they came back the Sergeant was observed to be smiling broadly. At the first target practice thereafter, Crittenden stood among the first men of the company, and the captain took mental note of him as a sharpshooter to be remembered when they got to Cuba. With the drill he had little trouble—being a natural-born horseman—so one day, when a trooper was ill, he was allowed to take the sick soldier's place and drill with the regiment. That day his trouble with Reynolds came. All the soldiers were free and easy of speech and rather reckless with epithets, and, knowing how little was meant, Crittenden merely remonstrated with the bully and smilingly asked him to desist.
"Suppose I don't?"
Crittenden smiled again and answered nothing,and Reynolds mistook his silence for timidity. At right wheel, a little later, Crittenden squeezed the bully's leg, and Reynolds cursed him. He might have passed that with a last warning, but, as they wheeled again, he saw Reynolds kick Sanders so violently that the boy's eyes filled with tears. He went straight for the soldier as soon as the drill was over.
"Put up your guard."
"Aw, go to——"
The word was checked at his lips by Crittenden's fist. In a rage, Reynolds threw his hand behind him, as though he would pull his revolver, but his wrist was caught by sinewy fingers from behind. It was Blackford, smiling into his purple face.
"Hold on!" he said, "save that for a Spaniard."
At once, as a matter of course, the men led the way behind the tents, and made a ring—Blackford, without a word, acting as Crittenden's second. Reynolds was the champion bruiser of the regiment and a boxer of no mean skill, and Blackford looked anxious.
"Worry him, and he'll lose his head. Don't try to do him up too quickly."
Reynolds was coarse, disdainful, and triumphant, but he did not look quite so confident when Crittenden stripped and showed a white body, closely jointed at shoulder and elbow and atknee and thigh, and closely knit with steel-like tendons. The long muscles of his back slipped like eels under his white skin. Blackford looked relieved.
"Do you know the game?"
"A little."
"Worry him and wait till he loses his head—remember, now."
"All right," said Crittenden, cheerfully, and turned and faced Reynolds, smiling.
"Gawd," said Abe Long. "He's one o' the fellows that laugh when they're fightin'. They're worse than the cryin' sort—a sight worse."
The prophecy in the soldier's tone soon came true. The smile never left Crittenden's face, even when it was so bruised up that smiling was difficult; but the onlookers knew that the spirit of the smile was still there. Blackford himself was smiling now. Crittenden struck but for one place at first—Reynolds's nose, which was naturally large and red, because he could reach it every time he led out. The nose swelled and still reddened, and Reynolds's small black eyes narrowed and flamed with a wicked light. He fought with his skill at first, but those maddening taps on his nose made him lose his head altogether in the sixth round, and he senselessly rushed at Crittenden with lowered head, like a sheep. Crittenden took him sidewise on hisjaw as he came, and stepped aside. Reynolds pitched to the ground heavily, and Crittenden bent over him.
"You let that boy alone," he said, in a low voice, and then aloud and calmly:
"I don't like this, but it's in deference to your customs. I don't call names, and I allow nobody to call me names; and if I have another fight," Reynolds was listening now, "it won't be with my fists."
"Well, Mister Man from Kentucky," said Abe, "I'd a damn sight ruther you'd use a club on me than them fists; but there's others of us who don't call names, and ain't called names; and some of us ain't easy skeered, neither."
"I wasn't threatening," said Crittenden, quickly, "but I have heard a good deal of that sort of thing flying around, and I don't want to get into this sort of a thing again." He looked steadily at the soldier, but the eye of Abraham Long quailed not at all. Instead, a smile broke over his face.
"I got a drink waitin' fer you," he said; and Crittenden laughed.
"Git up an' shake hands, Jim," said Abe, sternly, to Crittenden's opponent, "an' let's have a drink." Reynolds got up slowly.
"You gimme a damn good lickin,'" he said to Crittenden. "Shake!"
Crittenden shook, and seconds and principals started for Long's tent.
"Boys," he said to the others, "I'm sorry fer ye. I ain't got but four drinks—and—" the old Sergeant was approaching; "and one more fer the Governor."
Rivers smiled broadly when he saw Crittenden at noon.
"The 'Governor' told me," he said, "you couldn't do anything in this regiment that would do you more good with officers and men. That fellow has caused us more trouble than any other ten men in the regiment, and you are the first man yet to get the best of him. If the men could elect you, you'd be a lieutenant before to-morrow night."
Crittenden laughed.
"It was disgusting, but I didn't see any other way out of it."
Tattoo was sounded.
"Are you sure you can get me into the army at any time?"
"Easy—as a private."
"What regiment?"
"Rough Riders or Regulars."
"All right, then, I'll go to Kentucky for you."
"No, old man. I was selfish enough to think it, but I'm not selfish enough to do it. I won't have it."
"But I want to go back. If I can get in at the last moment I should go back anyhow to-night."
"Really?"
"Really. Just see that you let me know in time."
Rivers grasped his hand.
"I'll do that."
Next morning rumours were flying. In a week, at least, they would sail. And still regiments rolled in, and that afternoon Crittenden saw the regiment come in for which Grafton had been waiting—a picturesque body of fighting men and, perhaps, the most typical American regiment formed since Jackson fought at New Orleans. At the head of it rode two men—one with a quiet mesmeric power that bred perfect trust at sight, the other with a kindling power of enthusiasm, and a passionate energy, mental, physical, emotional, that was tireless; each a man among men, and both together an ideal leader for the thousand Americans at their heels. Behind them rode the Rough Riders—dusty, travel-stained troopers, gathered from every State, every walk of labour and leisure, every social grade in the Union—day labourer and millionaire, clerk and clubman, college boys and athletes, Southern revenue officers and Northern policemen; but most of them Westerners—Texanrangers, sheriffs, and desperadoes—the men-hunters and the men-hunted; Indians; followers of all political faiths, all creeds—Catholics, Protestants, Jews; but cowboys for the most part; dare-devils, to be sure, but good-natured, good-hearted, picturesque, fearless. And Americans—all!
As the last troopers filed past, Crittenden followed them with his eyes, and he saw a little way off Blackford standing with folded arms on the edge of a cloud of dust and looking after them too, with his face set as though he were buried deep in a thousand memories. He started when Crittenden spoke to him, and the dark fire of his eyes flashed.
"That's where I belong," he said, with a wave of his hand after the retreating column. "I don't know one of them, and I know them all. I've gone to college with some; I've hunted, fished, camped, drank, and gambled with the others. I belong with them; and I'm going with them if I can; I'm trying to get an exchange now."
"Well, luck to you, and good-by," said Crittenden, holding out his hand. "I'm going home to-night."
"But you're coming back?"
"Yes."
Blackford hesitated.
"Are you going to join this outfit?"—meaning his own regiment.
"I don't know; this or the Rough Riders."
"Well," Blackford seemed embarrassed, and his manner was almost respectful, "if we go together, what do you say to our going as 'bunkies'?"
"Sure!"
"Thank you."
The two men grasped hands.
"I hope you will come back."
"I'm sure to come back. Good-by."
"Good-by, sir."
The unconscious "sir" startled Crittenden. It was merely habit, of course, and the fact that Crittenden was not yet enlisted, but there was an unintended significance in the soldier's tone that made him wince. Blackford turned sharply away, flushing.
VIII
Back in the Bluegrass, the earth was flashing with dew, and the air was brilliant with a steady light that on its way from the sun was broken by hardly a cloud. The woodland was alive with bird-wing and bird-song and, under them, with the flash of metal and the joy of breaking camp. The town was a mighty pedestal for flag-staffs. Everywhere flags were shaken out. Main Street, at a distance, looked like a long lane of flowers in a great garden—all blowing in a wind. Under them, crowds were gathered—country people, negroes, and townfolk—while the town band stood waiting at the gate of the park. The Legion was making ready to leave for Chickamauga, and the town had made ready to speed its going.
Out of the shady woodland, and into the bright sunlight, the young soldiers came—to the music of stirring horn and drum—legs swinging rhythmically, chins well set in, eyes to the front—wheeling into the main street in perfect form—their guns a moving forest of glinting steel—colonel and staff superbly mounted—every heart beating proudly against every blue blouse, andsworn to give up its blood for the flag waving over them—the flag the fathers of many had so bitterly fought five and thirty years before. Down the street went the flash and glitter and steady tramp of the solid columns, through waving flags and handkerchiefs and mad cheers—cheers that arose before them, swelled away on either side and sank out of hearing behind them as they marched—through faces bravely smiling, when the eyes were full of tears; faces tense with love, anxiety, fear; faces sad with bitter memories of the old war. On the end of the first rank was the boy Basil, file-leader of his squad, swinging proudly, his handsome face serious and fixed, his eyes turning to right nor left—seeing not his mother, proud, white, tearless; nor Crittenden, with a lump of love in his throat; nor even little Phyllis—her pride in her boy-soldier swept suddenly out of her aching heart, her eyes brimming, and her handkerchief at her mouth to keep bravely back the sob that surged at her lips. The station at last, and then cheers and kisses and sobs, and tears and cheers again, and a waving of hands and flags and handkerchiefs—a column of smoke puffing on and on toward the horizon—the vanishing perspective of a rear platform filled with jolly, reckless, waving, yelling soldiers, and the tragedy of the parting was over.
How every detail of earth and sky was seared deep into the memory of the women left behind that afternoon—as each drove slowly homeward: for God help the women in days of war! The very peace of heaven lay upon the earth. It sank from the low, moveless clouds in the windless sky to the sunlit trees in the windless woods, as still as the long shadows under them. It lay over the still seas of bluegrass—dappled in woodland, sunlit in open pasture—resting on low hills like a soft cloud of bluish-gray, clinging closely to every line of every peaceful slope. Stillness everywhere. Still cattle browsing in the distance; sheep asleep in the far shade of a cliff, shadowing the still stream; even the song of birds distant, faint, restful. Peace everywhere, but little peace in the heart of the mother to whose lips was raised once more the self-same cup that she had drained so long ago. Peace everywhere but for Phyllis climbing the stairs to her own room and flinging herself upon her bed in a racking passion of tears. God help the women in the days of war! Peace from the dome of heaven to the heart of the earth, but a gnawing unrest for Judith, who walked very slowly down the gravelled walk and to the stiles, and sat looking over the quiet fields. Only in her eyes was the light not wholly of sadness, but a proud light of sacrifice andhigh resolve. Crittenden was coming that night. He was going for good now; he was coming to tell her good-by; and he must not go—to his death, maybe—without knowing what she had to tell him. It was not much—it was very little, in return for his life-long devotion—that she should at least tell him how she had wholly outgrown her girlish infatuation—she knew now that it was nothing else—for the one man who had stood in her life before him, and that now there was no other—lover or friend—for whom she had the genuine affection that she would always have for him. She would tell him frankly—she was a grown woman now—because she thought she owed that much to him—because, under the circumstances, she thought it was her duty; and he would not misunderstand her, even if he really did not have quite the old feeling for her. Then, recalling what he had said on the drive, she laughed softly. It was preposterous. She understood all that. He had acted that little part so many times in by-gone years! And she had always pretended to take him seriously, for she would have given him mortal offence had she not; and she was pretending to take him seriously now. And, anyhow, what could he misunderstand? There was nothing to misunderstand.
And so, during her drive home, she hadthought all the way of him and of herself since both were children—of his love and his long faithfulness, and of her—her—what? Yes—she had been something of a coquette—she had—shehad; but men had bothered and worried her, and, usually, she couldn't help acting as she had. She was so sorry for them all that she had really tried to like them all. She had succeeded but once—and even that was a mistake. But she remembered one thing: through it all—far back as it all was—she had never trifled with Crittenden. Before him she had dropped foil and mask and stood frankly face to face always. There was something in him that had always forced that. And he had loved her through it all, and he had suffered—how much, it had really never occurred to her until she thought of a sudden that he must have been hurt as had she—hurt more; for what had been only infatuation with her had been genuine passion in him; and the months of her unhappiness scarcely matched the years of his. There was none other in her life now but him, and, somehow, she was beginning to feel there never would be. If there were only any way that she could make amends.
Never had she thought with such tenderness of him. How strong and brave he was; how high-minded and faithful. And he was good, in spite of all that foolish talk about himself.And all her life he had loved her, and he had suffered. She could see that he was still unhappy. If, then, there was no other, and was to be no other, and if, when he came back from the war—why not?
Why not?
She felt a sudden warmth in her cheeks, her lips parted, and as she turned from the sunset her eyes had all its deep tender light.
Dusk was falling, and already Raincrow and Crittenden were jogging along toward her at that hour—the last trip for either for many a day—the last for either in life, maybe—for Raincrow, too, like his master, was going to war—while Bob, at home, forbidden by his young captain to follow him to Chickamauga, trailed after Crittenden about the place with the appealing look of a dog—enraged now and then by the taunts of the sharp-tongued Molly, who had the little confidence in the courage of her fellows that marks her race.
Judith was waiting for him on the porch, and Crittenden saw her from afar.
She was dressed for the evening in pure white—delicate, filmy—showing her round white throat and round white wrists. Her eyes were soft and welcoming and full of light; her manner was playful to the point of coquetry; and in sharp contrast, now and then, her face was intensewith thought. A faint, pink light was still diffused from the afterglow, and she took him down into her mother's garden, which was old-fashioned and had grass-walks running down through it—bordered with pink beds and hedges of rose-bushes. And they passed under a shadowed grape-arbour and past a dead locust-tree, which a vine had made into a green tower of waving tendrils, and from which came the fragrant breath of wild grape, and back again to the gate, where Judith reached down for an old-fashioned pink and pinned it in his button-hole, talking with low, friendly affection meanwhile, and turning backward the leaves of the past rapidly.
Did he remember this—and that—and that? Memories—memories—memories. Was there anything she had let go unforgotten? And then, as they approached the porch in answer to a summons to supper, brought out by a little negro girl, she said:
"You haven't told me what regiment you are going with."
"I don't know."
Judith's eyes brightened. "I'm so glad you have a commission."
"I have no commission."
Judith looked puzzled. "Why, your mother——"
"Yes, but I gave it to Basil." And he explainedin detail. He had asked General Carter to give the commission to Basil, and the General had said he would gladly. And that morning the Colonel of the Legion had promised to recommend Basil for the exchange. This was one reason why he had come back to the Bluegrass. Judith's face was growing more thoughtful while he spoke, and a proud light was rising in her eyes.
"And you are going as——"
"As a private."
"With the Rough Riders?"
"As a regular—a plain, common soldier, with plain, common soldiers. I am trying to be an American now—not a Southerner. I've been drilling at Tampa and Chickamauga with the regulars."
"You are much interested?"
"More than in anything for years."
She had seen this, and she resented it, foolishly, she knew, and without reason—but, still, she resented it.
"Think of it," Crittenden went on. "It is the first time in my life, almost, I have known what it was to wish to do something—to have a purpose—that was not inspired by you." It was an unconscious and rather ungracious declaration of independence—it was unnecessary—and Judith was surprised, chilled—hurt.
"When do you go?"
Crittenden pulled a telegram from his pocket.
"To-morrow morning. I got this just as I was leaving town."
"To-morrow!"
"It means life or death to me—this telegram. And if it doesn't mean life, I don't care for the other. I shall come out with a commission or—not at all. If dead, I shall be a hero—if alive," he smiled, "I don't know what I'll be, but think of me as a hero, dead or alive, with my past and my present. I can feel a change already, a sort of growing pain, at the very thought."
"When do you go to Cuba?"
"Within four days."
"Four days! And you can talk as you do, when you are going to war to live the life of a common soldier—to die of fever, to be killed, maybe," her lip shook and she stopped, but she went on thickly, "and be thrown into an unknown grave or lie unburied in a jungle." She spoke with such sudden passion that Crittenden was startled.
"Listen!"
Judge Page appeared in the doorway, welcoming Crittenden with old-time grace and courtesy. Through supper, Judith was silent and thoughtful and, when she did talk, it was with a perceptible effort. There was a light inher eyes that he would have understood once—that would have put his heart on fire. And once he met a look that he was wholly at loss to understand. After supper, she disappeared while the two men smoked on the porch. The moon was rising when she came out again. The breath of honeysuckles was heavy on the air, and from garden and fields floated innumerable odours of flower and clover blossom and moist grasses. Crittenden lived often through that scene afterward—Judith on the highest step of the porch, the light from the hallway on her dress and her tightly folded hands; her face back in shadow, from which her eyes glowed with a fire in them that he had never seen before.
Judge Page rose soon to go indoors. He did not believe there was going to be much of a war, and his manner was almost cheery when he bade the young man good-by.
"Good luck to you," he said. "If the chance comes, you will give a good account of yourself. I never knew a man of your name who didn't."
"Thank you, sir."
There was a long silence.
"Basil will hardly have time to get his commission, and get to Tampa."
"No. But he can come after us."
She turned suddenly upon him.
"Yes—something has happened to you. Ididn't know what you meant that day we drove home, but I do now. I feel it, but I don't understand."
Crittenden flushed, but made no answer.
"You could not have spoken to me in the old days as you do now. Your instinct would have held you back. And something has happened to me." Then she began talking to him as frankly and simply as a child to a child. It was foolish and selfish, but it had hurt her when he told her that he no longer had his old feeling for her. It was selfish and cruel, but it was true, however selfish and cruel it seemed, and was—but she had felt hurt. Perhaps that was vanity, which was not to her credit—but that, too, she could not help. It had hurt her every time he had said anything from which she could infer that her influence over him was less than it once was—although, as a rule, she did not like to have influence over people. Maybe he wounded her as his friend in this way, and perhaps there was a little vanity in this, too—but a curious change was taking place in their relations. Once he was always trying to please her, and in those days she would have made him suffer if he had spoken to her then as he had lately—but he would not have spoken that way then. And now she wondered why she was not angry instead of being hurt. And she wondered why she did notlike him less. Somehow, it seemed quite fair that she should be the one to suffer now, and she was glad to take her share—she had caused him and others so much pain.
"He"—not even now did she mention his name—"wrote to me again, not long ago, asking to see me again. It was impossible. And it was the thought of you that made me know how impossible it was—you." The girl laughed, almost hardly, but she was thinking of herself when she did—not of him.
The time and circumstance that make woman the thing apart in a man's life must come sooner or later to all women, and women must yield; she knew that, but she had never thought they could come to her—but they had come, and she, too, must give way.
"It is all very strange," she said, as though she were talking to herself, and she rose and walked into the warm, fragrant night, and down the path to the stiles, Crittenden silently following. The night was breathless and the moonlit woods had the still beauty of a dream; and Judith went on speaking of herself as she had never done—of the man whose name she had never mentioned, and whose name Crittenden had never asked. Until that night, he had not known even whether the man were still alive or dead. She had thought that waslove—until lately she had never questioned but that when that was gone from her heart, all was gone that would ever be possible for her to know. That was why she had told Crittenden to conquer his love for her. And now she was beginning to doubt and to wonder—ever since she came back and heard him at the old auditorium—and why and whence the change now? That puzzled her. One thing was curious—through it all, as far back as she could remember, her feeling for him had never changed, except lately. Perhaps it was an unconscious response in her to the nobler change that in spite of his new hardness her instinct told her was at work in him.
She was leaning on the fence now, her elbow on the top plank, her hand under her chin, and her face uplifted—the moon lighting her hair, her face, and eyes, and her voice the voice of one slowly threading the mazes of a half-forgotten dream. Crittenden's own face grew tense as he watched her. There was a tone in her voice that he had hungered for all his life; that he had never heard but in his imaginings and in his dreams; that he had heard sounding in the ears of another and sounding at the same time the death-knell of the one hope that until now had made effort worth while. All evening she had played about his spirit as a wistful,changeful light will play over the fields when the moon is bright and clouds run swiftly. She turned on him like a flame now.
"Until lately," she was saying, and she was not saying at all what she meant to say; but here lately a change was taking place; something had come into her feeling for him that was new and strange—she could not understand—perhaps it had always been there; perhaps she was merely becoming conscious of it. And when she thought, as she had been thinking all day, of his long years of devotion—how badly she had requited them—it seemed that the least she could do was to tell him that he was now first in her life of all men—that much she could say; and perhaps he had always been, she did not know; perhaps, now that the half-gods were gone, it was at last the coming of the—the—She was deeply agitated now; her voice was trembling; she faltered, and she turned suddenly, sharply, and with a little catch in her breath, her lips and eyes opening slowly—her first consciousness, perhaps, a wonder at his strange silence—and dazed by her own feeling and flushing painfully, she looked at him for the first time since she began to talk, and she saw him staring fixedly at her with a half-agonized look, as though he were speechlessly trying to stop her, his face white, bitter, shamed, helpless,Not a word more dropped from her lips—not a sound. She moved; it seemed that she was about to fall, and Crittenden started toward her, but she drew herself erect, and, as she turned—lifting her head proudly—the moonlight showed that her throat was drawn—nothing more. Motionless and speechless, Crittenden watched her white shape move slowly and quietly up the walk and grow dim; heard her light, even step on the gravel, up the steps, across the porch, and through the doorway. Not once did she look around.
He was in his room now and at his window, his face hard as stone when his heart was parching for tears. It was true, then. He was the brute he feared he was. He had killed his life, and he had killed his love—beyond even her power to recall. His soul, too, must be dead, and it were just as well that his body die. And, still bitter, still shamed and hopeless, he stretched out his arms to the South with a fierce longing for the quick fate—no matter what—that was waiting for him there.