“That is another instance of their nobility. It makes their duty all the
harder. They have to leave their wives, and worship them only in the
ideal sense. They see them, perhaps, only once in ten years, unless they
have risen to responsible posts. It is a great devotion.”
“But, Rol,” said Carrie timidly, “lots of women are glad to go abroad
with their husbands, and--and nurse, and that kind of thing.”
“Then,” I replied, “they but unnerve the warrior in the hour of his
trial. He does not fight for his country, but for his wife. No. It is
the bachelor soldier who has my veneration.”
“That’s all very well, you know, Butterfield,” protested the bachelor
soldier uneasily, “but, confound it, it’s hard enough without that. Hang
it all,” he broke out, “if you’ve got that fancy sort of thing in your
head, why didn’t you join the army yourself? You’re a bachelor, you
know, and it would be a jolly lot easier for you to be a hero than--the
other poor beggars.”
I smiled. “It is just as necessary that the soldier should have worthy
people to defend,” I replied. “No, Bassishaw, the soldier’s watchword is
singleness. He is as great a solitary as that other one, who devotes his
life to writing. The soldier knows he is doing some good--the writer
takes the risk.”
“But writers often----” began Bassishaw.
“And soldiers----” said Carrie at the same time.
“Both cut themselves off in a voluntary abnegation,” I replied. “They
scorn the smaller comforts; the one worships his art, the other his
duty. Look at Loring and his wife, there. They look happy, and
comfortable, and pretty; they have gentle, domestic pleasures. But they
have no conception of the grandeur of duty. They do not know the stern
joys of the warrior, they----”
I had been so rapt in my idea that for the moment my guard was down. The
watchful foe took instant advantage of it. Unseen by me, he had quietly
beckoned to Loring, who crossed over to us.
“Rollo,” he said, “my wife wants to speak to you a moment most
particularly. She is waiting there.”
I was out-manœuvred--the ally had taken me in the flank. I couldn’t
resist. I looked at them, and then at Mrs. Loring, who was waiting,
tapping her toe with her parasol. There was no way out. I turned away,
and, looking over my shoulder, saw the triumphant foe turn the corner of
the greenhouse into the shrubbery, a road of the third class, impassable
for artillery.
“Now, Mrs. Loring,” I said, smarting under my defeat; “I am glad to see
you. What do you want?”
“Oh, Mr. Butterfield,” she returned effusively, “I’ve been wanting to
speak to you all the afternoon. Isn’t it a lovely day?”
“It is a lovely day; a lovely day,” I replied. “I have been greatly
struck by the beauty of the day.”
“It is perfect,” she said, endeavouring to gain time. “Oh, how nice it
is to be young, Mr. Butterfield!”
“Mrs. Loring,” I answered severely, “did you send for me to tell me it
was a lovely day, and that it was nice to be young?”
“Of course not,” she replied, much embarrassed. “I wanted--I wanted to
talk to you. I wanted--oh, do help me, Loring.”
“Molly wanted to tell you, Rollo----” began Chatterton.