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THE TRUMPETER SWAN
by
TEMPLE BAILEY
Author of
The Tin Soldier, Contrary Mary, Mistress Anne, Etc.
Illustrated by Alice Barber Stephens
[Frontispiece: "When I am married will you sound your trumpet high up
near the moon?"]
"_A sound from the clouds shall call thee from this earth._"
New York
Grosset & Dunlap
Publishers
Copyright 1920 by
The Penn Publishing Company
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. A MAJOR AND TWO MINORS
II. STUFFED BIRDS
III. A WOLF IN THE FOREST
IV. RAIN AND RANDY'S SOUL
V. LITTLE SISTER
VI. GEORGIE-PORGIE
VII. MADEMOISELLE MIDAS
VIII. ANCESTORS
IX. "T. BRANCH"
X. A GENTLEMAN'S LIE
XI. WANTED--A PEDESTAL
XII. INDIAN--INDIAN
XIII. THE WHISTLING SALLY
XIV. THE DANCER ON THE MOOR
XV. THE TRUMPETER SWAN
XVI. THE CONQUEROR
ILLUSTRATIONS
"When I am married will you sound your trumpet high up
near the moon?" . . . . . . _Frontispiece_
"It's so heavenly to have you home."
Becky drew a sharp breath--then faced Dalton squarely--"I am going to
marry Randy."
"Oh, oh,", she whispered, "you don't know how I have wanted you."
THE TRUMPETER SWAN
CHAPTER I
A MAJOR AND TWO MINORS
I
It had rained all night, one of the summer rains that, beginning in a
thunder-storm in Washington, had continued in a steaming drizzle until
morning.
There were only four passengers in the sleeper, men all of them--two in
adjoining sections in the middle of the car, a third in the
drawing-room, a fourth an intermittent occupant of a berth at the end.
They had gone to bed unaware of the estate or circumstance of their
fellow-travellers, and had waked to find the train delayed by washouts,
and side-tracked until more could be learned of the condition of the
road.
The man in the drawing-room shone, in the few glimpses that the others
had of him, with an effulgence which was dazzling. His valet, the
intermittent sleeper in the end berth, was a smug little soul, with a
small nose which pointed to the stars. When the door of the
compartment opened to admit breakfast there was the radiance of a
brocade dressing-gown, the shine of a sleek head, the staccato of an
imperious voice.
Randy Paine, long and lank, in faded khaki, rose, leaned over the seat
of the section in front of him and drawled, "It is not raining rain to
me--it's raining roses--down----?"
A pleasant laugh, and a deep voice, "Come around here and talk to me.
You're a Virginian, aren't you?"
"By the grace of God and the discrimination of my ancestors," young
Randolph, as he dropped into the seat opposite the man with the deep
voice, saluted the dead and gone Paines.
"Then you know this part of it?"
"I was born here. In this county. It is bone of my bone and flesh of
my flesh," there was a break in the boy's voice which robbed the words
of grandiloquence.
"Hum--you love it? Yes? And I am greedy to get away. I want wider
spaces----"
"California?"
"Yes. Haven't seen it for three years. I thought when the war was
over I might. But I've got to be near Washington, it seems. The heat
drove me out, and somebody told me it would be cool in these hills----"
"It is, at night. By day we're not strenuous."
"I like to be strenuous. I hate inaction."
He moved restlessly. There was a crutch by his side. Young Paine
noticed it for the first time. "I hate it."
He had a strong frame, broad shoulders and thin hips. One placed him
immediately as a man of great physical force. Yet there was the
crutch. Randy had seen other men, broad-shouldered, thin-hipped, who
had come to worse than crutches. He did not want to think of them. He
had escaped without a scratch. He did not believe that he had lacked
courage, and there was a decoration to prove that he had not. But when
he thought of those other men, he had no sense of his own valor. He
had given so little and they had given so much.
Yet it was not a thing to speak of. He struck, therefore, a note to
which he knew the other might respond.
"If you haven't been here before, you'll like the old places."
"I am going to one of them."
"Which?"
"King's Crest."
A moment's silence. Then, "That's my home. I have lived there all my
life."
The lame man gave him a sharp glance. "I heard of it in
Washington--delightful atmosphere--and all that----"
"You are going as a--paying guest?"
"Yes."
A deep flush stained the younger man's face. Suddenly he broke out.
"If you knew how rotten it seems to me to have my mother
keeping--boarders----"
"My dear fellow, I hope you don't think it is going to be rotten to
have me?"
"No. But there are other people. And I didn't know until I came back
from France---- She had to tell me when she knew I was coming."
"She had been doing it all the time you were away?"
"Yes. Before I went we had mortgaged things to help me through the
University. I should have finished in a year if I hadn't enlisted.
And Mother insisted there was enough for her. But there wasn't with
the interest and everything--and she wouldn't sell an acre. I shan't
let her keep on----"
"Are you going to turn me out?"
His smile was irresistible. Randy smiled back. "I suppose you think
I'm a fool----?"
"Yes. For being ashamed of it."
Randy's head went up. "I'm not ashamed of the boarding-house. I am
ashamed to have my mother work."
"So," said the lame man, softly, "that's it? And your name is Paine?"
"Randolph Paine of King's Crest. There have been a lot of us--and not
a piker in the lot."
"I am Mark Prime."
"Major Prime of the 135th?"
The other nodded. "The wonderful 135th--God, what men they were----"
his eyes shone.
Randy made his little gesture of salute. "They were that. I don't
wonder you are proud of them."
"It was worth all the rest," the Major said, "to have known my men."
He looked out of the window at the drizzle of rain. "How quiet the
world seems after it all----"
Then like the snap of bullets came the staccato voice through the open
door of the compartment.
"Find out why we are stopping in this beastly hole, Kemp, and get me
something cold to drink."
Kemp, sailing down the aisle, like a Lilliputian drum major, tripped
over Randy's foot.
"Beg pardon, sir," he said, and sailed on.
Randy looked after him. "'His Master's voice----'"
"And to think," Prime remarked, "that the coldest thing he can get on
this train is ginger ale."
Kemp, coming back with a golden bottle, with cracked ice in a tall
glass, with a crisp curl of lemon peel, ready for an innocuous
libation, brought his nose down from the heights to look for the foot,
found that it no longer barred the way, and marched on to hidden music.
"Leave the door open, leave it open," snapped the voice, "isn't there
an electric fan? Well, put it on, put it on----"
"He drinks nectar and complains to the gods," said the Major softly,
"why can't we, too, drink?"
They had theirs on a table which the porter set between them. The
train moved on before they had finished. "We'll be in Charlottesville
in less than an hour," the conductor announced.
"Is that where we get off, Paine?"
"One mile beyond. Are they going to meet you?"
"I'll get a station wagon."
Young Paine grinned. "There aren't any. But if Mother knows you're
coming she'll send down. And anyhow she expects me."
"After a year in France--it will be a warm welcome----"
"A wet one, but I love the rain, and the red mud, every blooming inch
of it."
"Of course you do. Just as I love the dust of the desert."
They spoke, each of them, with a sort of tense calmness. One doesn't
confess to a lump in one's throat.
The little man, Kemp, was brushing things in the aisle. He was hot but
unconquered. Having laid out the belongings of the man he served, he
took a sudden recess, and came back with a fresh collar, a wet but
faultless pompadour, and a suspicion of powder on his small nose.
"All right, sir, we'll be there in fifteen minutes, sir," they heard
him say, as he was swallowed up by the yawning door.
II
Fifteen minutes later when the train slowed up, there emerged from the
drawing-room a man some years older than Randolph Paine, and many years
younger than Major Prime. He was good-looking, well-dressed, but
apparently in a very bad temper. Kemp, in an excited, Skye-terrier
manner, had gotten the bags together, had a raincoat over his arm, had
an umbrella handy, had apparently foreseen every contingency but one.
"Great guns, Kemp, why are we getting off here?"
"The conductor said it was nearer, sir."
Randolph Paine was already hanging on the step, ready to drop the
moment the train stopped. He had given the porter an extra tip to look
after Major Prime. "He isn't used to that crutch, yet. He'd hate it
if I tried to help him."
The rain having drizzled for hours, condensed suddenly in a downpour.
When the train moved on, the men found themselves in a small and stuffy
waiting-room. Around the station platform was a sea of red mud. Misty
hills shot up in a circle to the horizon. There was not a house in
sight. There was not a soul in sight except the agent who knew young
Paine. No one having come to meet them, he suggested the use of the
telephone.
In the meantime Kemp was having a hard time of it. "Why in the name of
Heaven didn't we get off at Charlottesville," his master was demanding.
"The conductor said this was nearer, sir," Kemp repeated. His response
had the bounding quality of a rubber ball. "If you'll sit here and
make yourself comfortable, Mr. Dalton, I'll see what I can do."
"Oh, it's a beastly hole, Kemp. How can I be comfortable?"
Randy, who had come back from the telephone with a look on his face
which clutched at Major Prime's throat, caught Dalton's complaint.
"It isn't a beastly hole," he said in a ringing voice, "it's God's
country---- I got my mother on the 'phone, Major. She has sent for us
and the horses are on the way."
Dalton looked him over. What a lank and shabby youth he was to carry
in his voice that ring of authority. "What's the answer to our getting
off here?" he asked.
"Depends upon where you are going."
"To Oscar Waterman's----"
"Never heard of him."
"Hamilton Hill," said the station agent.
Randy's neck stiffened. "Then the Hamiltons have sold it?"
"Yes. A Mr. Waterman of New York bought it."
Kemp had come back. "Mr. Waterman says he'll send the car at once. He
is delighted to know that you have come, sir."
"How long must I wait?"
"Not more than ten minutes, he said, sir," Kemp's optimism seemed to
ricochet against his master's hardness and come back unhurt. "He will
send a closed car and will have your rooms ready for you."
"Serves me right for not wiring," said Dalton, "but who would believe
there is a place in the world where a man can't get a taxi?"
Young Paine was at the door, listening for the sound of hoofs, watching
with impatience. Suddenly he gave a shout, and the others looked to
see a small object which came whirling like a bomb through the mist.
"Nellie, little old lady, little old lady," the boy was on his knees,
the dog in his arms--an ecstatic, panting creature, the first to
welcome her master home!
Before he let her go, the little dog's coat was wet with more than
rain, but Randy was not ashamed of the tears in his eyes as he faced
the others.
"I've had her from a pup--she's a faithful beast. Hello, there they
come. Gee, Jefferson, but you've grown! You are almost as big as your
name."
Jefferson was the negro boy who drove the horses. There was a great
splashing of red mud as he drew up. The flaps of the surrey closed it
in.
Jefferson's eyes were twinkling beads as he greeted his master. "I
sure is glad to see you, Mr. Randy. Miss Caroline, she say there was
another gemp'mun?"
"He's here--Major Prime. You run in there and look after his bags."
Randy unbuttoned the flaps and gave a gasp of astonishment:
"_Becky_--Becky Bannister!"
In another moment she was out on the platform, and he was holding her
hands, protesting in the meantime, "You'll get wet, my dear----"
"Oh, I want to be rained on, Randy. It's so heavenly to have you home.
I caught Jefferson on the way down. I didn't even wait to get my hat."
[Illustration: "It's so heavenly to have you home."]
She did not need a hat. It would have hidden her hair. George Dalton,
watching her from the door, decided that he had never seen such hair,
bronze, parted on the side, with a thick wave across the forehead, it
shaded eyes which were clear wells of light.
She was a little thing with a quality in her youth which made one think
of the year at the spring, of the day at morn, of Botticelli's
Simonetta, of Shelley's lark, of Wordsworth's daffodils, of Keats' Eve
of St. Agnes--of all the lovely radiant things of which the poets of
the world have sung----
Of course Dalton did not think of her in quite that way. He knew
something of Browning and little of Keats, but he had at least the wit
to discern the rareness of her type.
As for the rest, she wore faded blue, which melted into the blue of the
mists, stubbed and shabby russet shoes and an air of absorption in her
returned soldier. This absorption Dalton found himself subconsciously
resenting. Following an instinctive urge, he emerged, therefore, from
his chrysalis of ill-temper, and smiled upon a transformed universe.
"My raincoat, Kemp," he said, and strode forth across the platform, a
creature as shining and splendid as ever trod its boards.
Becky, beholding him, asked, "Is that Major Prime?"
"No, thank Heaven."
Jefferson, steering the Major expertly, came up at this moment. Then,
splashing down the red road whirled the gorgeous limousine. There were
two men on the box. Kemp, who had been fluttering around Dalton with
an umbrella, darted into the waiting-room for the bags. The door of
the limousine was opened by the footman, who also had an umbrella
ready. Dalton hesitated, his eyes on that shabby group by the
mud-stained surrey. He made up his mind suddenly and approached young
Paine.
"We can take one of you in here. You'll be crowded with all of those
bags."
"Not a bit. We'll manage perfectly, thank you," Randy's voice
dismissed him.
He went, with a lingering glance backward. Becky, catching that
glance, waked suddenly to the fact that he was very good-looking. "It
was kind of him to offer, Randy."
"Was it?"
Nothing more was said, but Becky wondered a bit as they drove on. She
liked Major Prime. He was an old dear. But why had Randy thanked
Heaven that the other man was not the Major?
III
The Waterman motor passed the surrey, and Dalton, straining his eyes
for a glimpse of the pretty girl, was rewarded only by a view of Randy
on the front seat with his back turned on the world, while he talked
with someone hidden by the curtains.
Perhaps the fact that she was hidden by the curtains kept Dalton's
thoughts upon her. He felt that her beauty must shine even among the
shadows--he envied Major Prime, who sat next to her.
The Major was aware that his position was enviable. It was worth much
to watch these two young people, eager in their reunion. "Becky
Bannister, whom I have known all my life," had been Randy's
presentation of the little lady with the shining hair.
"Grandfather doesn't know that I came, or Aunt Claudia. They felt that
your mother ought to see you first and so did I. Until the last
minute. Then I saw Jefferson driving by--I was down at the gate to
wave to you, Randy--and I just came----" her gay laugh was
infectious--the men laughed with her.
"You must let me out when we get to Huntersfield, and you mustn't
tell--either of you. We are all to dine together to-night at your
house, Randy, and when you meet me, you are to say--'_Becky_'--just as
you did to-day, as if I had fallen from the skies."
"Well, you did fall--straight," Randy told her. "Becky, you are too
good to be true; oh, you're too pretty to be true. Isn't she, Major?"
"It is just because I am--American. Are you glad to get back to us,
Randy?"
"Glad," he drew a long breath. Nellie, who had wedged herself in
tightly between her master and Jefferson, wriggled and licked his hand.
He looked down at her, tried to say something, broke a little on it,
and ended abruptly, "It's Heaven."
"And you weren't hurt?"
"Not a scratch, worse luck."
She turned to Major Prime and did the wise thing and the thing he
liked. "You were," she said, simply, "but I am not going to be sorry
for you, shall I?"
"No," he said, "I am not sorry for--myself----"
For a moment there was silence, then Becky carried the conversation
into lighter currents. "Everybody is here for the Horse Show next
week. Your mother's house is full, and those awful Waterman people
have guests."
"One of them came down with us."
"The good-looking man who offered us a ride?"
"Oh, of course if you like that kind of looks, he's the kind of man
you'd like," said Randy, "but coming down he seemed rather out of tune
with the universe."
"How out of tune?"
"Well, it was hot and he was hot----"
"It is hot, Randy, and perhaps he isn't used to it."
"Are you making excuses for him?"
"I don't even know him."
Major Prime interposed. "His man was a corking little chap, never
turned a hair, as cool as a cucumber, with everybody else sizzling."
They were ascending a hill, and the horse went slowly. Ahead of them
was a buggy without a top. In the buggy were a man and a woman. The
woman had an umbrella over her, and a child in her arms.
"It's Mary Flippin and her father. See if you can't overtake them,
Jefferson. I want you to see Fiddle Flippin, Randy."
"Who is Fiddle Flippin?"
"Mary's little girl. Mary is a war bride. She was in Petersburg
teaching school when the war broke out, and she married a man named
Branch. Then she came home--and she called the baby Fidelity."
"I hope he was a good husband."
"Nobody has seen him, he was ordered away at once. But she is very
proud of him. And the baby is a darling. Just beginning to walk and
talk."
"Stop a minute, Jefferson, while I speak to them."
Mr. Flippin pulled up his fat horse. He was black-haired, ruddy, and
wide of girth. "Well, well," he said, with a big laugh, "it is cer'n'y
good to see you."
Mary Flippin was slender and delicate and her eyes were blue. Her hair
was thick and dark. There was Scotch-Irish blood in the Flippins, and
Mary's charm was in that of duskiness of hair and blueness of eye.
"Oh, Randy Paine," she said, with her cheeks flaming, "when did you get
back?"
"Ten minutes ago. Mary, if you'll hand me that corking kid, I'll kiss
her."
Fiddle was handed over. She was rosy and round with her mother's blue
eyes. She wore a little buttoned hat of white piqué, with strings tied
under her chin.
"So," said Randy, after a moist kiss, "you are Fiddle-dee-dee?"
"Ess----"
"Who gave you that name?"
"It is her own way of saying Fidelity," Mary explained.
"Isn't she rather young to say anything?"
"Oh, Randy, she's a year and a half," Becky protested. "Your mother
says that you talked in your cradle."
Randy laughed, "Oh, if you listen to Mother----"
"I'm glad you're in time for the Horse Show," Mr. Flippin interposed,
"I've got a couple of prize hawgs--an' when you see them, you'll say
they ain't anything like them on the other side."
"Oh, Father----"
"Well, they ain't. I reckon Virginia's good enough for you to come
back to, ain't it, Mr. Randy----?"
"It is good enough for me to stay in now that I'm here."
"So you're back for good?"
"Yes."
"Well, we're mighty glad to have you."
Fiddle Flippin, dancing and doubling up on Randy's knee like a very
soft doll, suddenly held out her arms to her mother.
As Mary leaned forward to take her, Randy was aware of the change in
her. In the old days Mary had been a gay little thing, with an
impertinent tongue. She was not gay now. She was a Madonna,
tender-eyed, brooding over her child.
"She has changed a lot," Randy said, as they drove on.
"Why shouldn't she change?" Becky demanded. "Wouldn't any woman change
if she had loved a man and had let him go to France?"
IV
It was still raining hard when the surrey stopped at a high and rusty
iron gate flanked by brick pillars overgrown with Virginia creeper.
"Becky," said young Paine, "you can't walk up to the house. It's
pouring."
"I don't see any house," said Major Prime.
"Well, you never do from the road in this part of the country. We put
our houses on the tops of hills, and have acres to the right of us, and
acres to the left, and acres in front, and acres behind, and you can
never visit your neighbors without going miles, and nobody ever walks
except little Becky Bannister when she runs away."
"And I am going to run now," said Becky. "Randy, there's a raincoat
under that seat. I'll put it on if you will hand it out to me."
"You are going to ride up, my dear child. Drive on, Jefferson."
"Randy, _please_, your mother is waiting. She didn't come down to the
station because she said that if she wept on your shoulder, she would
not do it before the whole world. But she is _waiting_---- And it
isn't fair for me to hold you back a minute."
He yielded at last reluctantly, "Remember, you are to act as if you had
never met me," she said to Major Prime as she gave him her hand at
parting, "when you see me to-night."
"Becky," Randy asked, in a sudden panic, "are the boarders to be drawn
up in ranks to welcome me?"
"No, your mother has given you and Major Prime each two rooms in the
Schoolhouse, and we are to dine out there, in your sitting-room--our
families and the Major. And there won't be a soul to see you until
morning, and then you can show yourself off by inches."
"Until to-night then," said Randy, and opened the gate for her.
"Until to-night," she watched them and waved her hand as they drove off.
"A beautiful child," the Major remarked from the shadow of the back
seat.
"She's more than beautiful," said Randy, glowing, "oh, you wait till
you really know her, Major."
V
The Schoolhouse at King's Crest had been built years before by one of
the Paines for two sons and their tutor. It was separated from the old
brick mansion by a wide expanse of unmowed lawn, thick now in midsummer
with fluttering poppies. There was a flagged stone walk, and an
orchard at the left, beyond the orchard were rolling fields, and in the
distance one caught a glimpse of the shining river.
On the lower floor of the Schoolhouse were two ample sitting-rooms with
bedrooms above, one of which was reached by outside stairs, and the
other by an enclosed stairway. Baths had been added when Mrs. Paine
had come as a widow to King's Crest with her small son, and had chosen
the Schoolhouse as a quiet haven. Later, on the death of his
grandparents, Randy had inherited the estate, and he and his mother had
moved into the mansion. But he had kept his rooms in the Schoolhouse,
and was glad to know that he could go back to them.
Major Prime had the west sitting-room. It was lined with low
bookcases, full of old, old books. There was a fireplace, a winged
chair, a broad couch, a big desk of dark seasoned mahogany, and over
the mantel a steel engraving of Robert E. Lee. The low windows at the
back looked out upon the wooded green of the ascending hill; at the
front was a porch which gave a view of the valley.
Randolph's arrival had had something of the effect of a triumphal
entry. Jefferson had driven him straight to the Schoolhouse, but on
the way they had encountered old Susie, Jefferson's mother, who cooked,
and old Bob, who acted as butler, and the new maid who waited on the
table. These had followed the surrey as a sort of ecstatic convoy.
Not a boarder was in sight but behind the windows of the big house one
was aware of watching eyes.
"They are all crazy to meet you," Randy's mother had told him, as they
came into the Major's sitting-room after those first sacred moments
when the doors had been shut against the world, "they are all crazy to
meet you, but you needn't come over to lunch unless you really care to
do it. Jefferson can serve you here."
"What do you want me to do?"
"My dear, I'm so proud of you, I'd like to show you to the whole world."
"But there are so many of us, Mother."
"There's only one of you----"
"And we haven't come back to be put on pedestals."
"You were put on pedestals before you went away."
"I'll be spoiled if you talk to me like that."
"I shall talk as I please, Randy. Major Prime, isn't he as handsome as
a--rose?"
"_Mother_----"
"Well, you are-----"
"Mother, if you talk like this to the boarders, I'll go back and get
shot up----"
She clung to him. "Randy, don't say such a thing. He mustn't talk
like that, must he, Major?"
"He doesn't mean it. Paine, this looks to me like the Promised
Land----"
"I'm glad you like it," said Mrs. Paine, "and now if you don't mind,
I'll run along and kill the fatted calf----"
She kissed her son, and under a huge umbrella made her way through the
poppies that starred the grass----
"_On Flanders field--where poppies blow_"--the Major drew a sudden
quick breath---- He wished there were no poppies at King's Crest.
"I hate this hero stuff," Randy was saying, "don't you?"
"I am not so sure that I do. Down deep we'd resent it if we were not
applauded, shouldn't we?"
Randy laughed. "I believe we should."
"I fancy that when we've been home for a time, we may feel somewhat
bitter if we find that our pedestals are knocked from under us. Our
people don't worship long. They have too much to think of. They'll
put up some arches, and a few statues and build tribute houses in a lot
of towns, and then they'll go on about their business, and we who have
fought will feel a bit blank."
Randy laughed, "you haven't any illusions about it, have you?"
"No, but you and I know that it's all right however it goes."
Randy, standing very straight, looked out over the valley where the
river showed through the rain like a silver thread. "Well, we didn't
do it for praise, did we?"
"No, thank God."
Their eyes were seeing other things than these quiet hills. Things
they wanted to forget. But they did not want to forget the high
exaltation which had sent them over, or the quiet conviction of right
which had helped them to carry on. What the people at home might do or
think did not matter. What mattered was their own adjustment to the
things which were to follow.
Randy went up-stairs, took off his uniform, bathed and came down in the
garments of peace.
"Glad to get out of your uniform?" the Major asked.
"I believe I am. Perhaps if I'd been an officer, I shouldn't."
"Everybody couldn't be. I've no doubt you deserved it."
"I could have pulled wires, of course, before I went over, but I
wouldn't."
From somewhere within the big house came the reverberation of a
Japanese gong.
Randy rose. "I'm going over to lunch. I'd rather face guns, but
Mother will like it. You can have yours here."
"Not if I know it," the Major rose, "I'm going to share the fatted
calf."
VI
It was late that night when the Major went to bed. The feast in
Randy's honor had lasted until ten. There had been the shine of
candles, and the laughter of the women, the old Judge's genial humor.
Through the windows had come the fragrance of honeysuckle and of late
roses. Becky had sung for them, standing between two straight white
candles.
"In the beauty of the lilies, Christ was born across the sea,
With the glory in his bosom which transfigures you and me.
As he died to make men holy, let us die to make men free
While God is marching on----"
The last time the Major had heard a woman sing that song had been in a
little French town just after the United States had gone into the war.
She was of his own country, red-haired and in uniform. She had stood
on the steps of a stone house and weary men had clustered about
her--French, English, Scotch, a few Americans. Tired and spent, they
had gazed up at her as if they drank her in. To them she was more than
a singing woman. She was the daughter of a nation of dreamers, _the
daughter of a nation which made its dreams come true_! Behind her
stood a steadfast people, and--God was marching on----!
He had had his leg then, and after that there had been dreadful
fighting, and sometimes in the midst of it the voice of the singing
woman had come back to him, stiffening him to his task.
And here, miles away from that war-swept land, another woman sang. And
there was honeysuckle outside, and late roses--and poppies, and there
was Peace. And the world which had not fought would forget. But the
men who had fought would remember.
He heard Randy's voice, sharp with nerves. "Sing something else,
Becky. We've had enough of war----"
The Major leaned across the table. "When did you last hear that song,
Paine?"
"On the other side, a red-haired woman--whose lover had been killed. I
never want to hear it again----"
"Nor I----"
It was as if they were alone at the table, seeing the things which they
had left behind. What did these people know who had stayed at home?
The words were sacred--not to be sung; to be whispered--over the graves
of--France.