IN THE CLASH OF HOSTILE ARMS.
How gaily life went on at the Springs, despite the war!
Dancing and flirting and jollity ruled the hour with most, and
Josephine felt herself in her native element.
She had come with her mother on the same day as Barrington, and by many
of the Springs’ visitors she was supposed to be his betrothed, although
many said she certainly neglected him in the enforced quiet of his
convalescence, and flirted shamefully with other men.
It was not Josephine’s fault, but, of course, the gossips could not
know it. She was eager enough to devote her time to Barrington if she
could have made herself welcome, but she did not forget the scolding
she had got, although Barrington lightly apologized for it next day,
saying that Josephine must not take his badinage seriously. She must
remember the proverbial crustiness of convalescents and old bachelors.
This concession was even more than Josephine had dared to hope for, and
she accepted the olive-branch eagerly and gushingly, saying she was
willing to take all the scoldings she deserved and more, so that he
would remain her friend.
The breach thus healed, she and her mother went with Barrington and his
aunt to the Springs, and Josephine not only did not try to correct the
impression that had got about of her engagement to him, but brought all
her arts to bear to make it true.
True, she hated him in her heart, but she was none the less dazzled by
his millions and eager to win his hand.
And, piqued by Delmar’s silence, for he had never yet replied to her
last letter, she tried to thrust him from her heart.
Barrington, not strong enough yet to take part in the social life of
the place, eschewed dancing and late hours, and surrounded himself with
a coterie of cultivated, intellectual men, within whose charmed circle
Josephine did not care to enter. She contented herself with showing him
all the attention she judged would be welcome, and gave the rest of
her time to gaiety, eager that the invulnerable bachelor might see how
other men hung upon her words and glances, only too glad to win a smile
from the brown-eyed belle.
The weeks slipped into the memorable July of 1898, and even amid the
gaieties of the pleasure resort little else was talked of but the
glorious victories of the American arms over the Spanish--victories
following so fast on each other that the end of the short, decisive
conflict was already in sight.
Still Delmar Barrington, in the thick of the war at Santiago, never
sent home a line to the hearts that eagerly though silently longed for
news of him. He might be dead already, lamented Mrs. French, to whose
entreating letters he deigned no reply.
Could she have read his tortured heart, she might not have blamed him
so much.
He shrank from home news, lest it should bring tidings of Byrd’s
marriage to Josephine.
He could never forget his brother’s half-threat to do so in retaliation.
And, fancying his false love to be as charming to others as to himself,
he did not doubt but that he had kept his word.
Poor little Maisie, whom he had so rashly wedded and believed now to be
resting in her untimely grave, was recalled but seldom, and then with a
pitying tolerance mixed with relief at his freedom.
For with freedom, Josephine again became possible to him--Josephine
with a long if.
For he comprehended that the fickle beauty was trying to ensnare Byrd’s
heart, and, if she succeeded, Delmar would be remorselessly thrown over.
In spite of her unworthiness, he loved her still--he could not tear her
image from his heart.
Was it any wonder that his passionate, undisciplined nature writhed
under the shocks of untoward fate? That he threw himself with ardor
into the war, and gained a reputation for reckless bravery? In the
clash of hostile arms was the only relief for the warring passions of
his own heart.
“Send me on the most dangerous missions you choose; I do not value my
life a straw,” he said recklessly to his commander, with a moody flash
of his great dark eyes.
So it came about that in every engagement he was noted for conspicuous
bravery, and soon promoted from the ranks to a lieutenancy.
No one saw the least signs of pride in his elevation. It was not glory
Delmar Barrington was seeking, but death.
She was not worth such love and such despair, false Josephine, but he
had given his love, and he could not take it back. Lacking her, the
whole world seemed empty as a tomb. He would welcome a hostile bullet
in his heart.
So, while she danced and flirted at White Sulphur Springs, her jilted
lover courted death in the front of battle.
How suddenly it all came to an end--the mirth, the gaiety. For,
although Delmar had so rigidly held his peace, the newspapers were not
so reticent.
With the news of the splendid victories of El Caney and San Juan came
the lists of the dead and wounded.
Ah, the hearts that ached with the terrible tidings! None more bitterly
than a few at White Sulphur Springs when they read:
“Mortally wounded--Delmar Barrington, Young Guards, Virginia--died
later in hospital.”
Dead! And the woman he worshiped dancing while he died! Grim mockery of
fate!