GOOD-BYE
"Go and get shot!"
The old man's words rang in Dick's ears as he rode away.
Well, perhaps he would be. His eyes traveled over the undulating glens of
Asherton Park, where beeches and chestnuts in picturesque clumps
intersected the rolling grass land, and wondered if this were the last
time he would look upon the place. He wondered what Dora would be doing
this time next year--if he were shot.
Well, it would be easier to face a rain of bullets than to step into the
train that was to carry him away from Dora. To-day, they were to meet and
part. To-morrow, he started.
At once, on returning to town, Dick hastened to the Mall in Central Park,
where he was to meet Dora again, by appointment. There, the elms in the
avenue were still a blaze of gold, that shimmered in the afternoon
sunlight.
Dora set out from home equipped for walking in a white Empire coat with a
deep ermine collar, a granny muff to match, and a little white hat with a
tall aigrette. Her skirt was short, and her neat little feet were
encased in high-heeled boots, that clicked on the gravel path as she
hurried toward the Mall. She looked her best, and she knew it. She wanted
Dick to take away an impression vivid and favorable, something to look
back upon and remember with pleasure. She was no puling, sentimental girl
to hang about his neck, and crush roses into his hand. The tears were in
her heart; the roses in her cheeks. Warm kisses from her ruddy lips would
linger longer than the perfume of the sweetest flowers. She had wept a
great deal--but in secret--and careful bathing and a dusting of powder
had removed all traces. As she proceeded down the avenue, her faultless,
white teeth many times bit upon the under lip, which trembled
provokingly; and the shiver of the golden elms in the Park beside her
certainly was not responsible for the extreme haziness of her vision. It
was her firm intention not to think of Dick going into the death zone.
This might be their last interview; but she would not allow such an idea
to intrude. It was a parting for a few months at most.
She turned into the Park and, after walking for a minute, caught sight of
Dick, moodily awaiting her. She gave a great gulp, and pressed her muff
to her mouth to avoid crying out. Oh, the horrid, shooting pain in her
breast, and the stinging in her eyes! The tree trunks began to waver, and
the ground was as cotton-wool beneath her feet. Tears?--absurd! A
soldier's daughter send her lover to the front with hysterical sobs?
Never!
She controlled herself, and approached him quite close before he saw her,
so absorbed was he in meditation.
"Dora!" he cried.
He opened his arms, and she dropped into them, sobbing shockingly (like
any civilian's daughter), and shedding floods of tears. He held her to
his heart without a word, till the wild throbbing of her bosom died down
into a little flutter. Then, she smiled up at him, like the sun shining
through the rain.
"I didn't mean to cry, Dick."
"Nor I," he replied huskily, looking down upon her with tears almost
falling from his long-lashed, tender eyes. "I knew it would be hard to
go. Love is like a fever, and makes one faint and weak. Oh! why did I let
a little silly pride stand in the way of my happiness? Why did I promise
to fight in a cause I disapprove? War always was, and always will be with
me, an abomination. I don't know why I ever joined the wretched militia.
Yes, I do--I joined for fun--without thinking--because others did. They
had a good time, and wanted me to share it."
"Dick, that is not the mind of a soldier."
"Well, it's my mind, anyway. You see, you've been born and bred in the
atmosphere of this sort of thing. I was reared in a rectory, where we
were taught to love our enemies, and turn to the smiter the other cheek.
I used to regard that as awful rot, too. But I see now that training
tells, in spite of yourself."
"But you'll go now, and fight for your country and--for me. You'll come
back covered with glory, I know you will."
"Perhaps--and maybe I sha'n't come back at all."
"Then, I shall mourn my hero as a noble patriot, who never showed the
white feather."
"Oh, it isn't courage that I lack. Give me a good fight, and I'm in it
like anybody else. It's the idea of carnage, and gaping wounds, and men
shrieking in agony, gouging one another's eyes out, and biting like
wild-cats, with cold steel in their vitals--all over a quarrel in which
they have no part."
"Every man is a part of his nation, and the nation's quarrel is his
own."
"We won't argue it, darling. It's settled now, and I'm going through with
it. I start to-morrow. You'll write to me often?"
"Every day."
"If you don't often get replies you'll know it's the fault of the army
postal service--and perhaps my hatred of writing letters as well."
"You certainly are a very bad letter-writer, Dick," she protested, with
a laugh. "I've only had two notes from you, but those are very
precious--precious as though written on leaves of gold."
"You are sure, Dora, that you're not sorry you engaged yourself to a
useless person like me?"
"You shall not abuse yourself in that way!"
"You are quite sure?" he repeated.
"Quite sure, my hero."
"And you never cared for that cad, Ormsby? not one little bit?"
"No. Not one little bit."
"It's a confounded nuisance, his being laid up in your house. But he
won't go to the front. That's one comfort. He was so stuck-up about it!
To hear him talk, you would have thought he was going to run the whole
war. Why don't they send him home, instead of letting you have all the
bother of an invalid in your house?"
"Oh, it's no bother. We have two trained nurses there, who take night and
day duty. I only relieve them occasionally."
Dick grunted contemptuously.
"You'll send him away as soon as he gets well, won't you?"
"As soon as he is able to move, of course; but that rests with father.
You know how he loves to have someone to talk with about the war."
"I've got a bone to pick with Ormsby when I come back. Do you know what
the cad said about me at the dinner?"
"No."
"It was after I struck him in the face and went away--after the gathering
broke up. He was naturally very sore and sick about the way he'd behaved,
and the others told him it was caddish; but he said he knew a thing or
two about the money affairs of my family, and mine in particular, and he
wouldn't be surprised to see me in jail one of these fine days."
"How infamous!"
"The scoundrel went so far as to hint darkly that I almost owed my
liberty to him--as much as to say that, if he chose to speak, I'd have to
do a term in the penitentiary."
"Oh, nonsense! It was just an angry man's idle threat. He is the very
essence of conceit and stubborn pride, and was probably smarting under
the indignity of the blow you gave him."
"I wish I'd made it half-a-dozen instead of one." Then, with sudden
tenderness: "Promise me, darling, that you'll never listen to tales and
abuse about me, no matter how plausible they may seem. I know I've been
going the pace; but I'm going to pull up, for I've come into a fortune
now more precious than my grandfather's money-bags. I've won the dearest,
sweetest, truest, bravest little girl, and I mean to be worthy of her."
"I'll listen to no one and believe nothing, unless it comes from your
dear lips." The girl's voice was very earnest as she made the promise.
Brave words! How easy to have faith, and swear before high heaven when
strong arms are clasped about a yielding form, and eyes look into eyes
seeking depths deeper than wells fashioned by the hands of men.
They strolled side by side, and exchanged vows, till twilight fell and
the cold shadows darkened all the earth about them, and struck a chill to
the girl's heart. She clung to her lover, broken-hearted. Gone was the
Spartan self-possession, the patriotic self-denial that was ready to
offer up the love of a lifetime on the red altar of Mars. As he pressed
his lips to her cheek and his hard breathing sounded in her ears, she
seemed to hear the roaring of cannon, the clatter of hoofs, the rumble of
artillery over bloodstained turf, the cries of men calling to one another
in blind anger, shouting, cursing, moaning, and Dick wailing aloud in
agony. She recovered herself with a start as a clock in the distance
struck the hour, and reminded both of the flight of time.
At last, it was good-bye. The very end, the dreadful wrench--the absolute
adieu!