"I trusted you."

Crittenden had stopped to pull the self-opening gate, and he drove almost at a slow walk through the pasture toward Judith's home. The sun was reddening through the trees now. The whole earth was moist and fragrant, and the larks were singing their last songs for that happy day. Judith was quite serious now.

"Do you know, I was glad to hear you say that you had got over your old feeling for me. I feel so relieved. I have always felt so responsible for your happiness, but I don't now, and it is _such_ a relief. Now you will go ahead and marry some lovely girl and you will be happy and I shall be happier--seeing it and knowing it."

Crittenden shook his head.

"No," he said, "something seems to have gone out of me, never to come back."

There was n.o.body in sight to open the yard gate, and Crittenden drove to the stiles, where he helped Judith out and climbed back into his buggy.

Judith turned in surprise. "Aren't you coming in?"

"I'm afraid I haven't time."

"Oh, yes, you have."

A negro boy was running from the kitchen.

"Hitch Mr. Crittenden's horse," she said, and Crittenden climbed out obediently and followed her to the porch, but she did not sit down outside. She went on into the parlour and threw open the window to let the last sunlight in, and sat by it looking at the west.

For a moment Crittenden watched her. He never realized before how much simple physical beauty she had, nor did he realize the significance of the fact that never until now had he observed it. She had been a spirit before; now she was a woman as well. But he did note that if he could have learned only from Judith, he would never have known that he even had wrists or eyes until that day; and yet he was curiously unstirred by the subtle change in her. He was busied with his own memories.

"And I know it can never come back," he said, and he went on thinking as he looked at her. "I wonder if you can know what it is to have somebody such a part of your life that you never hear a n.o.ble strain of music, never read a n.o.ble line of poetry, never catch a high mood from nature, nor from your own best thoughts--that you do not imagine her by your side to share your pleasure in it all; that you make no effort to better yourself or help others; that you do nothing of which she could approve, that you are not thinking of her--that really she is not the inspiration of it all. That doesn't come but once. Think of having somebody so linked with your life, with what is highest and best in you, that, when the hour of temptation comes and overcomes, you are not able to think of her through very shame. I wonder if _he_ loved you that way. I wonder if you know what such love is."

"It never comes but once," he said, in a low tone, that made Judith turn suddenly. Her eyes looked as if they were not far from tears.

A tiny star showed in the pink glow over the west--

"Starlight, star bright!"

"Think of it. For ten years I never saw the first star without making the same wish for you and me. Why," he went on, and stopped suddenly with a little shame at making the confession even to himself, and at the same time with an impersonal wonder that such a thing could be, "I used to pray for you always--when I said my prayers--actually. And sometimes even now, when I'm pretty hopeless and helpless and moved by some memory, the old prayer comes back unconsciously and I find myself repeating your name."

For the moment he spoke as though not only that old love, but she who had caused it, were dead, and the tone of his voice made her shiver.

And the suffering he used to get--the suffering from trifles--the foolish suffering from silly trifles!

He turned now, for he heard Judith walking toward him. She was looking him straight in the eyes and was smiling strangely.

"I'm going to make you love me as you used to love me."

Her lips were left half parted from the whisper, and he could have stooped and kissed her--something that never in his life had he done--he knew that--but the old reverence came back from the past to forbid him, and he merely looked down into her eyes, flushing a little.

"Yes," she said, gently. "And I think you are just tall enough."

In a flash her mood changed, and she drew his head down until she could just touch his forehead with her lips. It was a sweet bit of motherliness--no more--and Crittenden understood and was grateful.

"Go home now," she said.

VII

At Tampa--the pomp and circ.u.mstance of war.

A gigantic hotel, brilliant with lights, music, flowers, women; halls and corridors filled with bustling officers, uniformed from empty straps to stars; volunteer and regular--easily distinguished by the ease of one and the new and conscious erectness of the other; adjutants, millionaire aids, civilian inspectors; gorgeous attaches--English, German, Swedish, Russian, Prussian, j.a.panese--each wondrous to the dazzled republican eye; Cubans with cigarettes, Cubans--little and big, war-like, with the tail of the dark eye ever womanward, brave with machetes; on the divans Cuban senoritas--refugees at Tampa--dark-eyed, of course, languid of manner, to be sure, and with the eloquent fan, ever present, omnipotent--shutting and closing, shutting and closing, like the wings of a gigantic b.u.t.terfly; adventurers, adventuresses; artists, photographers; correspondents by the score--female correspondents; story writers, novelists, real war correspondents, and real draughtsmen--artists, indeed; and a host of lesser men with spurs yet to win--all crowding the hotel day and night, night and day.

And outside, to the sea--camped in fine white sand dust, under thick stars and a hot sun--soldiers, soldiers everywhere, lounging through the streets and the railway stations, overrunning the suburbs; drilling--horseback and on foot--through clouds of sand; drilling at skirmish over burnt sedge-gra.s.s and stunted and charred pine woods; riding horses into the sea, and plunging in themselves like truant schoolboys. In the bay a fleet of waiting transports, and all over dock, camp, town, and hotel an atmosphere of fierce unrest and of eager longing to fill those wooden hulks, rising and falling with such maddening patience on the tide, and to be away. All the time, meanwhile, soldiers coming in--more and more soldiers--in freight-box, day-coach, and palace-car.

That night, in the hotel, Grafton and Crittenden watched the crowd from a divan of red plush, Grafton chatting incessantly. Around them moved and sat the women of the "House of the Hundred Thousand"--officers'

wives and daughters and sisters and sweethearts and army widows--claiming rank and giving it more or less consciously, according to the rank of the man whom they represented. The big man with the monocle and the suit of towering white from foot to crown was the English naval attache. He stalked through the hotel as though he had the British Empire at his back.

"And he has, too," said Grafton. "You ought to see him go down the steps to the cafe. The door is too low for him. Other tall people bend forward--he always rears back."

And the picturesque little fellow with the helmet was the English military attache. Crittenden had seen him at Chickamauga, and Grafton said they would hear of him in Cuba. The Prussian was handsome, and a Count. The big, boyish blond was a Russian, and a Prince, as was the quiet, modest, little j.a.panese--a mighty warrior in his own country. And the Swede, the polite, the exquisite!

"He wears a mustache guard. I offered him a cigar. He saluted: 'Thank you,' he said. 'Nevare I schmoke.'"

"They are the pets of the expedition," Grafton went on, "they and that war-like group of correspondents over there. They'll go down on the flag-ship, while we n.o.bodies will herd together on one boat. But we'll all be on the same footing when we get there."

Just then a big man, who was sitting on the next divan twisting his mustache and talking chiefly with his hands, rolled up and called Grafton.

"Huh!" he said.

"Huh!" mimicked Grafton.

"You don't know much about the army."

"Six weeks ago I couldn't tell a doughboy officer from a cavalryman by the stripe down his legs."

The big man smiled with infinite pity and tolerance.

"Therefore," said Grafton, "I shall not pa.s.s judgment, deliver expert military opinions, and decide how the campaign ought to be conducted--well, maybe for some days yet."

"You've got to. You must have a policy--a Policy. I'll give you one."

And he began--favoring monosyllables, dashes, exclamation points, pauses for pantomime, Indian sign language, and heys, huhs, and humphs that were intended to fill out sentences and round up elaborate argument.

"There is a lot any d.a.m.n fool can say, of course, hey? But you mustn't say it, huh? Give 'em h.e.l.l afterward." (Pantomime.) "That's right, ain't it? Understand? Regular army all right." (Sign language.) "These d.a.m.n fools outside--volunteers, politicians, hey? Had best army in the world at the close of the old war, see? Best equipped, you understand, huh?

Congress" (violent Indian sign language) "wanted to squash it--to squash it--that's right, you understand, huh? Cut it down--cut it down, see? Ill.u.s.trate: Wanted 18,000 mules for this push, got 2,000, see? Same principle all through; see? That's right! No good to say anything now--people think you complain of the regular army, huh? Mustn't say anything now--give 'em h.e.l.l afterward--understand?" (More sign language.) "h.e.l.l afterward. All right now, got your policy, go ahead."

Grafton nodded basely, and without a smile:

"Thanks, old man--thanks. It's very lucid."

A little later Crittenden saw the stout civilian, Major Billings, fairly puffing with pride, excitement, and a fine uniform of khaki, whom he had met at Chickamauga; and Willings, the surgeon; and Chaffee, now a brigadier; and Lawton, soon to command a division; and, finally, little Jerry Carter, quiet, una.s.suming, dreamy, slight, old, but active, and tough as hickory. The little general greeted Crittenden like a son.