Westways: A Village Chronicle Part 88

The two having come of late into a great inheritance in fairyland demanding close personal attention were at one as regarded absence.

After dinner Leila said, "My order to report to headquarters from heart-quarters was in the second post-script. I have saved the rest of the letter for you."

"Read it, please."

"MY DEAR CHILDREN: You are a pair of young ostriches-you know what they do. Did you suppose a middle-aged ostrich could not use her eyes? I did think it took a quite needless length of time."

"Isn't that absurd, John, as if-"

"Well, what more?"

She read on-"I dislike long engagements-"

"Now, that is better, Leila."

"Your uncle says you must live at Grey Pine. I said, no-young married people had better be alone. He must build you a house on the river nearer the mills. I am making a list of what furniture you will require-"

"There is more of that-much more, John, and a list of things to be done before her return. Isn't that like what aunt was before the war?"

John laughed. "Well, she will have her way."

"More or less," said Leila. "Oh, there's another postscript!"

"Well?"

"I think you should be married about Christmas week. Of course, Mark Rivers will marry you, and I shall ask the Bishop to a.s.sist, when I see him on our way home. Don't fail to write to both your uncles."

"It is certainly complete," said John. He left for Pittsburgh that night.

I have little to add to this long story. The days went by swiftly, and after a week all of the family, except John, were once more together at Grey Pine. Mark Rivers had also returned. He was too evidently in one of his moods of sombre silentness, but his congratulations were warm and as he sat at dinner he made unusual efforts to be at his agreeable best.

When they left the table, he said, "No, Colonel, I shall not smoke to-night. May I have a few minutes of your time, Mrs. Penhallow?"

"Certainly, Mark-I want to talk to you about the Bible Cla.s.s-I mean to take it up again." She led the way into her own little library. "Sit down-there is so much to talk over. Of course, you will marry these dear children somewhere about Christmas time."

"No," he said, "I shall be far away."

"Away! Oh, Mark! surely you do not mean to leave us."

"Yes, I am going to live as a missionary among the Indians."

"You cannot-you really cannot-where could you be more useful than here?"

"No, I must go. My life on the whole has been most happy here-and how to thank you I fail to be able to say."

"But why," she urged, "why do you go?"

"Oh-I want-I must have an active life, open air, even risks. The war gave me what I need for entire competence of body and mind to use in my Master's service. But now, the war is at an end-"

"Thank G.o.d! But all you ask-and more-Mark, except danger, are here-and oh, but we shall miss you, and more than ever when we miss too these children. Think of it-don't make up your mind until James talks to you-"

"No, I go to-morrow."

"But it does seem to me, Mark, that you are making a serious change without sufficient consideration of what you lose and we lose."

"Yes, yes," he returned, "I know-but to remain is for me impossible."

"But why?"

He was silent a moment, looking at this dear friend with the over-filled eyes of a troubled and yet resolute manhood. Then he said, "I did not mean to tell you why in my weakness flight alone will save me from what has been to me unbearable here and ever will be."

"Can I in any way help you?"

"No."

"But what is it-trust me a little-what is it?"

He hesitated, and then said, "It is Leila Grey! G.o.d pity my weakness, and you will say good-bye and give the Squire this note and them my love." He was gone.

The woman sat still for an hour, pitiful, and understanding the flight of a too sensitive man. Then she gave her husband the note, with her good-night, and no other word. Of why her friend had gone she said later nothing, except to defend him for his obedience to the call of duty. Late that evening John returned.

When after breakfast next day he and Leila were riding through the wood-roads of the forest, John said, "I cannot or I could not see why Mr. Rivers went away so abruptly."

"Nor I," said Leila. Then there was one of those long silences dear to lovers.

"What are you thinking of, Jack?"

"Uncle Jim told me last night the story of the early life of Mark Rivers."

"Tell it to me."

He told it-"But," he continued, "that was not all of him. I have heard Mr. Rivers hold at the closest attention a great crowd of soldiers with that far-carrying voice; and then to hear as he led them singing the old familiar hymns-perhaps a thousand men-oh, it was a thing to remember! And they loved him, Leila, because behind the battle line he was coolly, serviceably brave; and in the hospital wards-well, as tender as-well, as you would have been. I wondered, Leila, why he did not marry again. The first was a mistake, but I suppose he knew that for him to marry would have been wrong, with that sad family history. Probably life never offered him the temptation."

"Perhaps not," said Leila, and they rode out of the woods and over the meadows. "Let us talk of something less sad."

"Well, Leila, a pleasant thing to discuss is Tom McGregor. I suspect him of a fortunate love affair with the daughter of the General at Fortress Monroe."

"Indeed-but what else? Oh, our own great debt to him!"

"Uncle Jim is considering that. We may trust him to be more than generous. Yes, surely. Now for a run over this gra.s.s. Can you take that fence?"

"Can I, indeed! Follow me, Jack."

"Anywhere. Everywhere, Leila!"

THE END