"d.i.c.k! d.i.c.k! I'm an old man. I never mean what I say. I'll pay--"

The last words were choked with a sigh, and he lay back, breathing heavily.

CHAPTER VII

GOOD-BYE

"Go and get shot!"

The old man's words rang in d.i.c.k's ears as he rode away.

Well, perhaps he would be. His eyes traveled over the undulating glens of Asherton Park, where beeches and chestnuts in picturesque clumps intersected the rolling gra.s.s land, and wondered if this were the last time he would look upon the place. He wondered what Dora would be doing this time next year--if he were shot.

Well, it would be easier to face a rain of bullets than to step into the train that was to carry him away from Dora. To-day, they were to meet and part. To-morrow, he started.

At once, on returning to town, d.i.c.k hastened to the Mall in Central Park, where he was to meet Dora again, by appointment. There, the elms in the avenue were still a blaze of gold, that shimmered in the afternoon sunlight.

Dora set out from home equipped for walking in a white Empire coat with a deep ermine collar, a granny m.u.f.f to match, and a little white hat with a tall aigrette. Her skirt was short, and her neat little feet were encased in high-heeled boots, that clicked on the gravel path as she hurried toward the Mall. She looked her best, and she knew it. She wanted d.i.c.k to take away an impression vivid and favorable, something to look back upon and remember with pleasure. She was no puling, sentimental girl to hang about his neck, and crush roses into his hand. The tears were in her heart; the roses in her cheeks. Warm kisses from her ruddy lips would linger longer than the perfume of the sweetest flowers. She had wept a great deal--but in secret--and careful bathing and a dusting of powder had removed all traces. As she proceeded down the avenue, her faultless, white teeth many times bit upon the under lip, which trembled provokingly; and the shiver of the golden elms in the Park beside her certainly was not responsible for the extreme haziness of her vision. It was her firm intention not to think of d.i.c.k going into the death zone.

This might be their last interview; but she would not allow such an idea to intrude. It was a parting for a few months at most.

She turned into the Park and, after walking for a minute, caught sight of d.i.c.k, moodily awaiting her. She gave a great gulp, and pressed her m.u.f.f to her mouth to avoid crying out. Oh, the horrid, shooting pain in her breast, and the stinging in her eyes! The tree trunks began to waver, and the ground was as cotton-wool beneath her feet. Tears?--absurd! A soldier's daughter send her lover to the front with hysterical sobs?

Never!

She controlled herself, and approached him quite close before he saw her, so absorbed was he in meditation.

"Dora!" he cried.

He opened his arms, and she dropped into them, sobbing shockingly (like any civilian's daughter), and shedding floods of tears. He held her to his heart without a word, till the wild throbbing of her bosom died down into a little flutter. Then, she smiled up at him, like the sun shining through the rain.

"I didn't mean to cry, d.i.c.k."

"Nor I," he replied huskily, looking down upon her with tears almost falling from his long-lashed, tender eyes. "I knew it would be hard to go. Love is like a fever, and makes one faint and weak. Oh! why did I let a little silly pride stand in the way of my happiness? Why did I promise to fight in a cause I disapprove? War always was, and always will be with me, an abomination. I don't know why I ever joined the wretched militia.

Yes, I do--I joined for fun--without thinking--because others did. They had a good time, and wanted me to share it."

"d.i.c.k, that is not the mind of a soldier."

"Well, it's my mind, anyway. You see, you've been born and bred in the atmosphere of this sort of thing. I was reared in a rectory, where we were taught to love our enemies, and turn to the smiter the other cheek.

I used to regard that as awful rot, too. But I see now that training tells, in spite of yourself."

"But you'll go now, and fight for your country and--for me. You'll come back covered with glory, I know you will."

"Perhaps--and maybe I sha'n't come back at all."

"Then, I shall mourn my hero as a n.o.ble patriot, who never showed the white feather."

"Oh, it isn't courage that I lack. Give me a good fight, and I'm in it like anybody else. It's the idea of carnage, and gaping wounds, and men shrieking in agony, gouging one another's eyes out, and biting like wild-cats, with cold steel in their vitals--all over a quarrel in which they have no part."

"Every man is a part of his nation, and the nation's quarrel is his own."

"We won't argue it, darling. It's settled now, and I'm going through with it. I start to-morrow. You'll write to me often?"

"Every day."

"If you don't often get replies you'll know it's the fault of the army postal service--and perhaps my hatred of writing letters as well."

"You certainly are a very bad letter-writer, d.i.c.k," she protested, with a laugh. "I've only had two notes from you, but those are very precious--precious as though written on leaves of gold."

"You are sure, Dora, that you're not sorry you engaged yourself to a useless person like me?"

"You shall not abuse yourself in that way!"

"You are quite sure?" he repeated.

"Quite sure, my hero."

"And you never cared for that cad, Ormsby? not one little bit?"

"No. Not one little bit."

"It's a confounded nuisance, his being laid up in your house. But he won't go to the front. That's one comfort. He was so stuck-up about it!

To hear him talk, you would have thought he was going to run the whole war. Why don't they send him home, instead of letting you have all the bother of an invalid in your house?"

"Oh, it's no bother. We have two trained nurses there, who take night and day duty. I only relieve them occasionally."

d.i.c.k grunted contemptuously.

"You'll send him away as soon as he gets well, won't you?"

"As soon as he is able to move, of course; but that rests with father.

You know how he loves to have someone to talk with about the war."

"I've got a bone to pick with Ormsby when I come back. Do you know what the cad said about me at the dinner?"

"No."

"It was after I struck him in the face and went away--after the gathering broke up. He was naturally very sore and sick about the way he'd behaved, and the others told him it was caddish; but he said he knew a thing or two about the money affairs of my family, and mine in particular, and he wouldn't be surprised to see me in jail one of these fine days."

"How infamous!"

"The scoundrel went so far as to hint darkly that I almost owed my liberty to him--as much as to say that, if he chose to speak, I'd have to do a term in the penitentiary."

"Oh, nonsense! It was just an angry man's idle threat. He is the very essence of conceit and stubborn pride, and was probably smarting under the indignity of the blow you gave him."

"I wish I'd made it half-a-dozen instead of one." Then, with sudden tenderness: "Promise me, darling, that you'll never listen to tales and abuse about me, no matter how plausible they may seem. I know I've been going the pace; but I'm going to pull up, for I've come into a fortune now more precious than my grandfather's money-bags. I've won the dearest, sweetest, truest, bravest little girl, and I mean to be worthy of her."