For two fleeting days Lenore Anderson was happy when she forgot,
miserable when she remembered. Then the third morning dawned.
At the breakfast-table her father had said, cheerily, to Dorn: "Better
take off your coat an' come out to the fields. We've got some job to
harvest that wheat with only half-force.... But, by George! my trouble's
over."
Dorn looked suddenly blank, as if Anderson's cheery words had recalled
him to the realities of life. He made an incoherent excuse and left the
table.
"Ah-huh!" Anderson's characteristic exclamation might have meant little
or much. "Lenore, what ails the boy?"
"Nothing that I know of. He has been as--as happy as I am," she replied.
"Then it's all settled?"
"Father, I--I--"
Kathleen's high, shrill, gleeful voice cut in: "Sure it's settled! Look
at Lenorry blush!"
Lenore indeed felt the blood stinging face and neck. Nevertheless, she
laughed.
"Come into my room," said Anderson.
She followed him there, and as he closed the door she answered his
questioning look by running into his arms and hiding her face.
"Wal, I'll be dog-goned!" the rancher ejaculated, with emotion. He held
her and patted her shoulder with his big hand. "Tell me, Lenore."
"There's little to tell," she replied, softly. "I love him--and he loves
me so--so well that I've been madly happy--in spite of--of--"
"Is that all?" asked Anderson, dubiously.
"Is not that enough?"
"But Dorn's lovin' you so well doesn't say he'll not go to war."
And it was then that forgotten bitterness returned to poison Lenore's
cup of joy.
"Ah!"... she whispered.
"Good Lord! Lenore, you don't mean you an' Dorn have been alone all the
time these few days--an' you haven't settled that war question?" queried
Anderson, in amaze.
"Yes.... How strange!... But since--well, since something
happened--we--we forgot," she replied, dreamily.
"Wal, go back to it," said Anderson, forcibly. "I want Dorn to help
me.... Why, he's a wonder!... He's saved the situation for us here in
the valley. Every rancher I know is praisin' him high. An' he sure
treated Neuman square. An' here I am with three big wheat-ranches on my
hands!... Lenore, you've got to keep him home."
"Dad!... I--I could not!" replied Lenore. She was strangely realizing an
indefinable change in herself. "I can't try to keep him from going to
war. I never thought of that since--since we confessed our love.... But
it's made some difference.... It'll kill me, I think, to let him go--but
I'd die before I'd ask him to stay home."
"Ah-huh!" sighed Anderson, and, releasing her, he began to pace the
room. "I don't begin to understand you, girl. But I respect your
feelin's. It's a hell of a muddle!... I'd forgotten the war myself while
chasin' off them I.W.W.'s.... But this war has _got_ to be reckoned
with!... Send Dorn to me!"
Lenore found Dorn playing with Kathleen. These two had become as brother
and sister.
"Kurt, dad wants to see you," said Lenore seriously.
Dorn looked startled, and the light of fun on his face changed to a
sober concern.
"You told him?"
"Yes, Kurt, I told him what little I had to tell."
He gave her a strange glance and then slowly went toward her father's
study. Lenore made a futile attempt to be patient. She heard her
father's deep voice, full and earnest, and she heard Dorn's quick,
passionate response. She wondered what this interview meant. Anderson
was not one to give up easily. He had set his heart upon holding this
capable young man in the great interests of the wheat business. Lenore
could not understand why she was not praying that he be successful. But
she was not. It was inexplicable and puzzling--this change in her--this
end of her selfishness. Yet she shrank in terror from an impinging
sacrifice. She thrust the thought from her with passionate physical
gesture and with stern effort of will.
Dorn was closeted with her father for over an hour. When he came out he
was white, but apparently composed. Lenore had never seen his eyes so
piercing as when they rested upon her.
"Whew!" he exclaimed, and wiped his face. "Your father has my poor old
dad--what does Kathleen say?--skinned to a frazzle!"
"What did he say?" asked Lenore, anxiously.
"A lot--and just as if I didn't know it all better than he knows,"
replied Dorn, sadly. "The importance of wheat; his three ranches and
nobody to run them; his growing years; my future and a great opportunity
as one of the big wheat men of the Northwest; the present need of the
government; his only son gone to war, which was enough for his
family.... And then he spoke of you--heiress to 'Many Waters'--what a
splendid, noble girl you were--like your mother! What a shame to ruin
your happiness--your future!... He said you'd make the sweetest of
wives--the truest of mothers!... Oh, my God!"
Lenore turned away her face, shocked to her heart by his tragic passion.
Dorn was silent for what seemed a long time.
"And--then he cussed me--hard--as no doubt I deserved," added Dorn.
"But--what did you say?" she whispered.
"I said a lot, too," replied Dorn, remorsefully.
"Did--did you--?" began Lenore, and broke off, unable to finish.
"I arrived--to where I am now--pretty dizzy," he responded, with a smile
that was both radiant and sorrowful. He took her hands and held them
close. "Lenore!... if I come home from the war--still with my arms and
legs--whole--will you marry me?"
"Only come home _alive_, and no matter what you lose, yes!--yes!" she
whispered, brokenly.
"But it's a conditional proposal, Lenore," he insisted. "You must never
marry half a man."
"I will marry _you_!" she cried, passionately.
It seemed to her that she loved him all the more, every moment, even
though he made it so hard for her. Then through blurred, dim eyes she
saw him take something from his pocket and felt him put a ring on her
finger.
"It fits! Isn't that lucky," he said, softly. "My mother's ring,
Lenore...."
He kissed her hand.
Kathleen was standing near them, open-eyed and open-mouthed, in an
ecstasy of realization.
"Kathleen, your sister has promised to marry me--when I come from the
war," said Dorn to the child.
She squealed with delight, and, manifestly surrendering to a
long-considered temptation, she threw her arms around his neck and
hugged him close.
"It's perfectly grand!" she cried. "But what a chump you are for going
at all--when you could marry Lenorry!"
That was Kathleen's point of view, and it must have coincided somewhat
with Mr. Anderson's.
"Kathleen, you wouldn't have me be a slacker?" asked Dorn, gently.
"No. But we let Jim go," was her argument.
Dorn kissed her, then turned to Lenore. "Let's go out to the fields."
* * * * *
It was not a long walk to the alfalfa, but by the time she got there
Lenore's impending woe was as if it had never been. Dorn seemed
strangely gay and unusually demonstrative; apparently he forgot the
war-cloud in the joy of the hour. That they were walking in the open
seemed not to matter to him.
"Kurt, some one will see you," Lenore remonstrated.
"You're more beautiful than ever to-day," he said, by way of answer, and
tried to block her way.
Lenore dodged and ran. She was fleet, and eluded him down the lane,
across the cut field, to a huge square stack of baled alfalfa. But he
caught her just as she got behind its welcome covert. Lenore was far
less afraid of him than of laughing eyes. Breathless, she backed up
against the stack.
"You're--a--cannibal!" she panted. But she did not make much resistance.
"You're--a goddess!" he replied.
"Me!... Of what?"
"Why, of 'Many Waters'!... Goddess of wheat!... The sweet, waving wheat,
rich and golden--the very spirit of life!"
"If anybody sees you--mauling me--this way--I'll not seem a goddess to
him.... My hair is down--my waist--Oh, Kurt!"
Yet it did not very much matter how she looked or what happened. Beyond
all was the assurance of her dearness to him. Suddenly she darted away
from him again. Her heart swelled, her spirit soared, her feet were
buoyant and swift. She ran into the uncut alfalfa. It was thick and
high, tangling round her feet. Here her progress was retarded. Dorn
caught up with her. His strong hands on her shoulders felt masterful,
and the sweet terror they inspired made her struggle to get away.
"You shall--not--hold me!" she cried.
"But I will. You must be taught--not to run," he said, and wrapped her
tightly in his arms.
"Now surrender your kisses meekly!"
"I--surrender!... But, Kurt, someone will see... Dear, we'll go
back--or--somewhere--"
"Who can see us here but the birds?" he said, and the strong hands held
her fast. "You will kiss me--enough--right now--even if the whole
world--looked on!" he said, ringingly. "Lenore, my soul!... Lenore, I
love you!"
He would not be denied. And if she had any desire to deny him it was
lost in the moment. She clasped his neck and gave him kiss for kiss.
But her surrender made him think of her. She felt his effort to let her
go.
Lenore's heart felt too big for her breast. It hurt. She clung to his
hand and they walked on across the field and across a brook, up the
slope to one of Lenore's favorite seats. And there she wanted to rest.
She smoothed her hair and brushed her dress, aware of how he watched
her, with his heart in his eyes.
Had there ever in all the years of the life of the earth been so perfect
a day? How dazzling the sun! What heavenly blue the sky! And all beneath
so gold, so green! A lark caroled over Lenore's head and a quail
whistled in the brush below. The brook babbled and gurgled and murmured
along, happy under the open sky. And a soft breeze brought the low roar
of the harvest fields and the scent of wheat and dust and straw.
Life seemed so stingingly full, so poignant, so immeasurably worth
living, so blessed with beauty and richness and fruitfulness.
"Lenore, your eyes are windows--and I can see into your soul. I can
read--and first I'm uplifted and then I'm sad."
It was he who talked and she who listened. This glorious day would be
her strength when the--Ah! but she would not complete a single bitter
thought.
She led him away, up the slope, across the barley-field, now cut and
harvested, to the great, swelling golden spaces of wheat. Far below, the
engines and harvesters were humming. Here the wheat waved and rustled in
the wind. It was as high as Lenore's head.
"It's fine wheat," observed Dorn. "But the wheat of my desert hills was
richer, more golden, and higher than this."
"No regrets to-day!" murmured Lenore, leaning to him.
There was magic in those words--the same enchantment that made the hours
fly. She led him, at will, here and there along the rustling-bordered
lanes. From afar they watched the busy harvest scene, with eyes that
lingered long on a great, glittering combine with its thirty-two horses
plodding along.
"I can drive them. Thirty-two horses!" she asserted, proudly.
"No!"
"Yes. Will you come? I will show you."
"It is a temptation," he said, with a sigh. "But there are eyes there.
They would break the spell."
"Who's talking about eyes now?" she cried.
They spent the remainder of that day on the windy wheat-slope, high up,
alone, with the beauty and richness of "Many Waters" beneath them. And
when the sun sent its last ruddy and gold rays over the western hills,
and the weary harvesters plodded homeward, Lenore still lingered, loath
to break the spell. For on the way home, she divined, he would tell her
he was soon to leave.
Sunset and evening star! Their beauty and serenity pervaded Lenore's
soul. Surely there was a life somewhere else, beyond in that infinite
space. And the defeat of earthly dreams was endurable.
They walked back down the wheat lanes hand in hand, as dusk shadowed the
valley; and when they reached the house he told her gently that he must
go.
"But--you will stay to-night?" she whispered.
"No. It's all arranged," he replied, thickly. "They're to drive me
over--my train's due at eight.... I've kept it--till the last few
minutes."
They went in together.
"We're too late for dinner," said Lenore, but she was not thinking of
that, and she paused with head bent. "I--I want to say good-by to
you--here." She pointed to the dim, curtained entrance of the
living-room.
"I'd like that, too," he replied. "I'll go up and get my bag. Wait."
Lenore slowly stepped to that shadowed spot beyond the curtains where
she had told her love to Dorn; and there she stood, praying and fighting
for strength to let him go, for power to conceal her pain. The one great
thing she could do was to show him that she would not stand in the way
of his duty to himself. She realized then that if he had told her
sooner, if he were going to remain one more hour at "Many Waters," she
would break down and beseech him not to leave her.
She saw him come down-stairs with his small hand-bag, which he set down.
His face was white. His eyes burned. But her woman's love made her
divine that this was not a shock to his soul, as it was to hers, but
stimulation--a man's strange spiritual accounting to his fellow-men.
He went first into the dining-room, and Lenore heard her mother's and
sisters' voices in reply to his. Presently he came out to enter her
father's study. Lenore listened, but heard no sound there. Outside, a
motor-car creaked and hummed by the window, to stop by the side porch.
Then the door of her father's study opened and closed, and Dorn came to
where she was standing.
Lenore did precisely as she had done a few nights before, when she had
changed the world for him. But, following her kiss, there was a terrible
instant when, with her arms around his neck, she went blind at the
realization of loss. She held to him with a savage intensity of
possession. It was like giving up life. She knew then, as never before,
that she had the power to keep him at her side. But a thought saved her
from exerting it--the thought that she could not make him less than
other men--and so she conquered.
"Lenore, I want you to think always--how you loved me," he said.
"Loved you? Oh, my boy! It seems your lot has been hard. You've
toiled--you've lost all--and now..."
"Listen," he interrupted, and she had never heard his voice like that.
"The thousands of boys who go to fight regard it a duty. For our
country!... I had that, but more.... My father was German... and he was
a traitor. The horror for me is that I hate what is German in _me_.... I
will have to kill that. But you've helped me.... I know I'm American.
I'll do my duty, whatever it is. I would have gone to war only a beast
with my soul killed before I ever got there.... With no hope--no
possibility of return!... But you love me!... Can't you see--how great
the difference?"
Lenore understood and felt it in his happiness. "Yes, Kurt, I know....
Thank God, I've helped you.... I want you to go. I'll pray always. I
believe you will come back to me.... Life could not be so utterly
cruel..." She broke off.
"Life can't rob me now--nor death," he cried, in exaltation. "I have
your love. Your face will always be with me--as now--lovely and
brave!... Not a tear!... And only that sweet smile like an angel's!...
Oh, Lenore, what a girl you are!"
"Say good-by--and go," she faltered. Another moment would see her
weaken.
"Yes, I must hurry." His voice was a whisper--almost gone. He drew a
deep breath. "Lenore--my promised wife--my star for all the black
nights--God bless you--keep you!... Good-by!"
She spent all her strength in her embrace, all her soul in the passion
of her farewell kiss. Then she stood alone, tottering, sinking. The
swift steps, now heavy and uneven, passed out of the hall--the door
closed--the motor-car creaked and rolled away--the droning hum ceased.
For a moment of despairing shock, before the storm broke, Lenore blindly
wavered there, unable to move from the spot that had seen the beginning
and the end of her brief hour of love. Then she summoned strength to
drag herself to her room, to lock her door.
Alone! In the merciful darkness and silence and loneliness!... She need
not lie nor play false nor fool herself here. She had let him go!
Inconceivable and monstrous truth! For what?... It was not now with her,
that deceiving spirit which had made her brave. But she was a woman. She
fell upon her knees beside her bed, shuddering.
That moment was the beginning of her sacrifice, the sacrifice she shared
in common now with thousands of other women. Before she had pitied; now
she suffered. And all that was sweet, loving, noble, and motherly--all
that was womanly--rose to meet the stretch of gray future, with its
endless suspense and torturing fear, its face of courage for the light
of day, its despair for the lonely night, and its vague faith in the
lessons of life, its possible and sustaining and eternal hope of God.