Produced by Tim Lindell, David E. Brown, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) THE BIG BLUE SOLDIER _GRACE LIVINGSTON HILLâS_ _Charming and Wholesome Romances_ The City of Fire The Tryst Cloudy Jewel Exit Betty The Search The Red Signal The Enchanted Barn The Finding of Jasper Holt The Obsession of Victoria Gracen Miranda The Best Man Lo, Michael! Marcia Schuyler Phoebe Deane Dawn of the Morning The Mystery of Mary The Girl from Montana THE BIG BLUE SOLDIER _BY_ GRACE LIVINGSTON HILL AUTHOR OF âTHE CITY OF FIRE,â âMARCIA SCHUYLER,â ETC. [Illustration] PHILADELPHIA & LONDON J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY 1923 COPYRIGHT, 1920, 1921, BY THE GOLDEN RULE COMPANY COPYRIGHT, 1923, BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY PRINTED BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY AT THE WASHINGTON SQUARE PRESS PHILADELPHIA, U. S. A. THE BIG BLUE SOLDIER CHAPTER I âAnd you donât think maybe I ought to have had lemon custard to go with the pumpkin instead of the mince?â Miss Marilla Chadwick turned from her anxious watching at the kitchen window to search Mary Amberâs clear young eyes for the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. âOh, no, I think mince is much better. All men like mince-pie, itâs so--sort of comprehensive, you know.â Miss Marilla turned back to her window, satisfied. âWell, now, if he came on that train, he ought to be in sight around the bend of the road in about three minutes,â she said tensely. âIâve timed it often when folks were coming out from town, and it always takes just six minutes to get around the bend of the road.â All through the months of the Great War Miss Marilla had knit and bandaged and emergencied and canteened with an eager, wistful look in her dreamy gray eyes, and many a sweater had gone to some needy lad with the little thrilling remark as she handed it over to the committee: âI keep thinking, what if my nephew Dick should be needing one, and this just come along in time?â But when the war was over, and most people had begun to use pink and blue wool on their needles, or else cast them aside altogether and tried to forget there ever had been such a thing as war, and the price of turkeys had gone up so high that people forgot to be thankful the war was over, Miss Marilla still held that wistful look in her eyes, and still spoke of her nephew Dick with bated breath and a sigh. For was not Dick among those favored few who were to remain and do patrol work for an indefinite time in the land of the enemy, while others were gathered to their waiting homes and eager loved ones? Miss Marilla spoke of Dick as of one who still lingered on the border-land of terror, and who laid his young life a continuous sacrifice for the good of the great world. A neat paragraph to that effect appeared in _The Springhaven Chronicle_, a local sheet that offered scant news items and fat platitudes at an ever-increasing rate to a gullible and conceited populace, who supported it because it was really the only way to know what oneâs neighbors were doing. The paragraph was the reluctant work of Mary Amber, the young girl who lived next door to Miss Marilla and had been her devoted friend since the age of four, when Miss Marilla used to bake sugar cookies for her in the form of stogy men with currant eyes and outstretched arms. Mary Amber remembered Nephew Dick as a young imp of nine who made a whole long, beautiful summer ugly with his torments. She also knew that the neighbors all round about had memories of that summer when Dickâs parents went on a Western trip and left him with his Aunt Marilla. Mary Amber shrank from exposing her dear friend to the criticisms of such of the readers of _The Springhaven Chronicle_ as had memories of their cats tortured, their chickens chased, their flower-beds trampled, their children bullied, and their windows broken by the youthful Dick. But time had softened the memories of that fateful summer in Miss Marillaâs mind, and, besides, she was sorely in need of a hero. Mary Amber had not the heart to refuse to write the paragraph, but she made it as conservative as the circumstances allowed. But now, at last, among the latest to be sent back, Lieutenant Richard Chadwickâs division was coming home! Miss Marilla read in the paper what day they would sail, and that they were expected to arrive not later than the twenty-ninth; and, as she read, she conceived a wild and daring plan. Why should not she have a real, live hero herself? A bit belated, of course, but all the more distinguished for that. And why should not Mary Amber have a whole devoted soldier boy of her own for the village to see and admire? Not that she told Mary Amber that, oh, no! But in her mindâs vision she saw herself, Mary Amber, and Dick all going together to church on Sunday morning, the bars on his uniform gleaming like the light in Mary Amberâs hazel eyes. Miss Marilla had one sudden pang of fear when she thought that perhaps he would not wear his uniform home, now that everybody else was in citizenâs clothing; then her sweet faith in the wholesomeness of all things came to her rescue, and she smiled in relief. Of course he would wear it to come home; that would be too outrageous not to, when he had been a hero. Of course he would wear it the first few days. And that was a good reason why she must invite him at once to visit her instead of waiting until he had been to his home and been demobilized. She _must_ have him in his uniform. She wanted the glory of it for her own brief share in that great time of uplifting and sacrifice that was so fast going into history. So Miss Marilla had hastened into the city to consult a friend who worked in the Red Cross and went out often to the wharves to meet the incoming boats. This friend promised to find out just when Dickâs division was to land, to hunt him up herself, and to see that he had the invitation at once. âSee that he _came_,â she put it, with a wise reservation in her heart that the dear, loving soul should not be disappointed. And now, the very night before, this friend had called Miss Marilla on the telephone to say that she had information that Dickâs ship would dock at eight in the morning. It would probably be afternoon before he could get out to Springhaven; so she had better arrange to have dinner about half past five. So Miss Marilla, with shining eyes and heart that throbbed like a young girlâs, had thrown her cape over her shoulders and hastened in the twilight through the hedge to tell Mary Amber. Mary Amber, trying to conceal her inward doubts, had congratulated Miss Marilla and promised to come over the first thing in the morning to help get dinner. Promised also, after much urging, almost with tears on the part of Miss Marilla, to stay and help eat the dinner afterward in company with Miss Marilla and the young lieutenant. From this part of her promise Mary Amberâs soul recoiled, for she had no belief that the young leopard with whom she had played at the age of ten could have changed his spots in the course of a few years, or even covered them with a silver bar. But Mary Amber soon saw that her presence at that dinner was an intrinsic part of Miss Marillaâs joy in the anticipation of the dinner; and, much as she disliked the position of being flung at the young lieutenant in this way, she promised. After all, what did it matter what he thought of her anyway, since she had no use for him? And then, she could always quietly freeze him whenever Miss Marillaâs back was turned. And Mary Amber _could_ freeze with her hazel eyes when she tried. So quite early in the morning Miss Marilla and Mary Amber began a cheerful stir in Miss Marillaâs big sunny kitchen, and steadily, appetizingly, there grew an array of salads and pies and cakes and puddings and cookies and doughnuts and biscuits and pickles and olives and jellies; while a great bird stuffed to bursting went through the seven stages of its final career to the oven. But now it was five oâclock. The bird with brown and shining breast was waiting in the oven, âdone to a turn;â mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, squash, succotash, and onions had received the finishing-touches, and had only to be âtaken up.â Cranberries and pickles and celery and jelly gave the final touches to a perfect table, and the sideboard fairly groaned under its load of pies and cake. One might have thought a whole regiment were to dine with Miss Marilla Chadwick that day, from the sights and smells that filled the house. Up in the spare room the fire glowed in a Franklin heater, and a geranium glowed in a west window between spotless curtains to welcome the guest; and now there was nothing left for the two women to do but the final anxiety. Mary Amber had her part in that, perhaps even more than her hostess and friend; for Mary Amber was jealous for Miss Marilla, and Mary Amber was youthfully incredulous. She had no trust in Dick Chadwick, even though he was an officer and had patrolled an enemy country for a few months after the war was over. Mary Amber had slipped over to her own house when she finished mashing the potatoes, and changed her gown. She was putting little squares of butter on the bread-and-butter plates now, and the setting sun cast a halo of burnished light over her gold hair, and brightened up the silk of her brown gown with its touches of wood-red. Mary Amber was beautiful to look upon as she stood with her butterknife deftly cutting the squares and dropping them in just the right spot on the plates. But there was a troubled look in her eyes as she glanced from time to time at the older woman over by the window. Miss Marilla had given over all thought of work, and was intent only on the road toward the station. It would seem as if not until this moment had her great faith failed her, and the thought come to her that perhaps he might not come. âYou know, of course, he might not get that train,â she said meditatively. âThe other leaves only half an hour later. But she said sheâd tell him to take this one.â âThatâs true, too,â said Mary Amber cheerily. âAnd nothing will be hurt by waiting. Iâve fixed those mashed potatoes so they wonât get soggy by being too hot, and Iâm sure theyâll keep hot enough.â âYouâre a good, dear girl, Mary Amber,â said Miss Marilla, giving her a sudden impulsive kiss. âI only wish I could do something great and beautiful for you.â Miss Marilla caught up her cape, and hurried toward the door. âIâm going out to the gate to meet him,â she said with a smile. âItâs time he was coming in a minute now, and I want to be out there without hurrying.â She clambered down the steps, her knees trembling with excitement. She hoped Mary Amber had not looked out of the window. A boy was coming on a bicycle; and, if he should be a boy with a telegram or a special-delivery letter, she wanted to read it before Mary Amber saw her. Oh, how awful if anything had happened that he couldnât come to-day! Of course, he might come later to-night, or to-morrow; and a turkey would keep, though it was never so good as the minute it was taken out of the oven. The boy was almost to the gate now, and--yes, he was going to stop. He was swinging one leg out with that long movement that meant slowing up. She panted forward with a furtive glance back at the house. She hoped Mary Amber was looking at the turkey and not out of the window. It seemed that her fingers had suddenly gone tired while she was writing her name in that boyâs book, and they almost refused to tear open the envelope as the boy swung on his wheel again and vanished down the road. She had presence of mind enough to keep her back to the house and the telegram in front of her as she opened it covertly, trying to keep the attitude of still looking eagerly down the road, while the typewritten brief message got itself across to her tumultuous mind. âImpossible to accept invitation. Have other engagements. Thanks just the same. â(Signed) âLIEUTENANT RICHARD H. CHADWICK.â Miss Marilla tore the yellow paper hastily, and crumpled it into a ball in her hands as she stared down the road through brimming tears. She managed an upright position; but her knees were shaking under her, and a gone feeling came in her stomach. Across the sunset skies in letters of accusing size there seemed to blaze the paragraphs from _The Springhaven Chronicle_, copied afterwards in the county _Gazette_, about Miss Marilla Chadwickâs nephew, Lieutenant Richard H. Chadwick, who was expected at his auntâs home as soon as he landed in this country after a long and glorious career in other lands, and who would spend the week-end with his aunt, and âdoubtless be heard from at the Springhaven Club House before he left.â Her throat caught with a queer little sound like a groan. Still, with her hand grasping the front gate convulsively, Miss Marilla stood and stared down the road, trying to think what to do, how to word a paragraph explaining why he did not come, how to explain to Mary Amber so that that look of sweet incredulousness should not come into her eyes. Then suddenly, as she stared through her blur of tears, there appeared a straggling figure, coming around the bend of the road by the Hazard house; and Miss Marilla, with nothing at all in her mind but to escape from the watchful, loving eyes of Mary Amber for a moment longer, till she could think what to say to her, staggered out the gate and down the road toward the person, whoever it was, that was coming slowly up the road. On stumbled Miss Marilla, nearer and nearer to the oncoming man, till suddenly through a blur of tears she noticed that he wore a uniform. Her heart gave a leap, and for a moment she thought it must be Dick; that he had been playing her a joke by the telegram, and was coming on immediately to surprise her before she had a chance to be disappointed. It was wonderful how the years had done their halo work for Dick with Miss Marilla. She stopped short, trembling, one hand to her throat. Then, as the man drew nearer and she saw his halting gait, saw, too, his downcast eyes and whole dejected attitude, she somehow knew it was not Dick. Never would he have walked to her home in that way. There had been a swagger about little Dick that could not be forgotten. The older Dick, crowned now with many honors, would not have forgotten to hold his head high. Unconscious of her attitude of intense interest she stood with hand still fluttering at her throat, and eyes brightly on the man as he advanced. When he was almost opposite to her, he looked up. He had fine eyes and good features; but his expression was bitter for one so young, and in the eyes there was a look of pain. âOh! excuse me,â said Miss Marilla, looking around furtively to be sure Mary Amber could not see them so far away. âAre you in a very great hurry?â The young man looked surprised, amused, and slightly bored, but paused politely. âNot specially,â he said; and there was a tone of dry sarcasm in his voice. âIs there anything I can do for you?â He lifted the limp little trench-cap, and paused to rest his lame knee. âWhy, I was wondering if you would mind coming in and eating dinner with me,â spoke Miss Marilla eagerly from a dry throat of embarrassment. âYou see my nephewâs a returned soldier, and Iâve just got word he canât come. The dinnerâs all ready to be dished up, and it neednât take you long.â âDinner sounds good to me,â said the young man with a grim glimmer of a smile. âI guess I can accommodate you, madam. I havenât had anything to eat since I left the camp last night.â âOh! You poor child!â said Miss Marilla, beaming on him with a welcoming smile. âNow isnât it fortunate I should have asked _you_?â as if there had been a throng of passing soldiers from which she might have chosen. âBut are you sure Iâm not keeping you from some one else who is waiting for you?â âIf thereâs any one else waiting anywhere along this road for me, itâs all news to me, madam; and anyhow you got here first, and I guess you have first rights.â He had swung into the easy, familiar vernacular of the soldier now; and for the moment his bitterness was held in abeyance, and the really nice look in his eyes shone forth. âWell, then, weâll just go along in,â said Miss Marilla, casting another quick glance toward the house. âAnd I think Iâm most fortunate to have found you. Itâs so disappointing to get dinner ready for company and then not have any.â âMust be almost as disappointing as to get all ready for dinner and then not have any,â said the soldier affably. Miss Marilla smiled wistfully. âI suppose your name doesnât happen to be Richard, does it?â she asked with that childish appeal in her eyes that had always kept her a young woman and good company for Mary Amber, even though her hair had long been gray. âMight just as well be that as anything else,â he responded, affably, willing to drop into whatever rÃ´le was set for him in this most unexpected byplay. âAnd you wouldnât mind if I should call you Dick?â she asked with a wistful look in her blue eyes. âLike nothing better,â he assented glibly, and found his own heart warming to this confiding stranger lady. âThatâs beautiful of you!â She put out a shy hand, and laid it lightly on the edge of his cuff. âYou donât know how much obliged I am. You see, Mary Amber hasnât ever quite believed he was coming--Dick, I mean--and sheâs been so kind, and helped me get the dinner and all. I just couldnât bear to tell her he wasnât coming.â The young soldier stopped short in the middle of the road, and whistled. âHorrors!â he exclaimed in dismay âAre there other guests? Who is Mary Amber?â âWhy, sheâs just my neighbor, who played with you--I mean with Dick when he was here visiting as a child a good many years ago. Iâm afraid he wasnât always as polite to her then as a boy ought to be to a little girl; and--well, sheâs never liked him very well. I was afraid she would say, âI told you soâ if she thought he didnât come. It wonât be necessary for me to tell any lies, you know. Iâll just say, âDick, this is Mary Amber; I suppose you donât remember her,â and thatâll be all. You donât mind, do you? It wonât take long to eat dinner.â âBut Iâm a terrible mess to meet a girl!â he exclaimed uneasily, looking down deprecatingly at himself. âI thought it was just you. This uniformâs three sizes too large, and needs a drink. Besides,â he passed a speculative hand over his smoothly shaven chin, âI--donât _care_ for girls!â There was a deep frown between his eyes, and the bitter look had come back on his face. Miss Marilla thought he looked as if he might be going to run away. âOh, thatâs all right!â said Miss Marilla anxiously. âNeither does Mary Amber like men. She says theyâre all a selfish conceited lot. You neednât have much to do with her. Just eat your dinner and tell anything you want to about the war. We wonât bother you to talk much. Come; this is the house, and the turkey must be on the table getting cold by now.â She swung open the gate, and laid a persuasive hand on the shabby sleeve; and the young man reluctantly followed her up the path to the front door. CHAPTER II When Lyman Gage set sail for France three years before, he left behind him a modest interest in a promising business enterprise, a girl who seemed to love him dearly, and a debt of several thousand dollars to her father, who had advised him to go into the enterprise and furnished the funds for his share in the capital. When he had returned from France three days before, he had been met with news that the business enterprise had gone to smash during the war, the girl had become engaged to a dashing young captain with a well-feathered nest, and the debt had become a galling yoke. âFather says, tell you you need not worry about the money you owe him,â wrote the girl sweetly, concluding her revelations. âYou can pay it at your leisure when you get started again.â Lyman Gage lost no time in gathering together every cent he could scrape up. This was more than he had at first hoped, because of the fact that he owned two houses in the big city in which he had landed; and these houses, though old and small, happened to be located in the vicinity of a great industrial plant that had sprung up since the end of the war, and houses were going at soaring prices. They were snapped up at once at a sum that was fabulous in comparison with their real value. This, with what he had brought home and the bonus he received on landing, exactly covered his indebtedness to the man who was to have been his father-in-law; and, when he turned away from the window where he had been telegraphing the money to his lawyer in a far State with instructions to pay the loan at once, he had just forty-six cents left in his pocket. Suddenly, as he reflected that he had done the last thing there was left that he now cared to do on earth, the noises of the great city got hold upon his nerve, and tore and racked it. He was filled with a great desire to get out and away from it, he cared not where, only so that the piercing sounds and rumbling grind of the traffic of the city should not press upon the raw nerves and torture them. With no thought of getting anything to eat or providing for a shelterless night that was fast coming on, he wandered out into the train-area of the great station, and idly read the names up over the train-gates. One caught his fancy, âPURLING BROOK.â It seemed as if it might be quiet there, and a fellow could think. He followed the impulse, and strode through the gates just as they were about to be closed. Dropping into the last seat in the car as the train was about to start, he flung his head back, and closed his eyes wearily. He did not care whether he ever got anywhere or not. He was weary in heart and spirit. He wished that he might just sink away into nothingness. He was too tired to think, to bemoan his fate, to touch with torturing finger of memory all the little beautiful hopes that he had woven about the girl he thought he loved better than any one else on earth. Just passingly he had a wish that he had a living mother to whom he could go with his sick heart for healing. But she had been gone long years, and his father even longer. There was really no one to whom he cared to show his face, now that all he had counted dear on earth had been suddenly taken from him. The conductor roused him from a profound sleep, demanding a ticket, and he had the good fortune to remember the name he had seen over the gate: âPurling Brook. How much?â âFifty-six cents.â Gage reached into his pocket, and displayed the coins on his palm with a wry smile. âGuess you better put me off here, and Iâll walk,â he said, stumbling wearily to his feet. âThatâs all right, son. Sit down,â said the conductor half roughly. âYou pay me when you come back sometime. Iâll make it good.â And he glanced at the uniform kindly. Gage looked down at his shabby self helplessly. Yes, he was still a soldier, and people had not got over the habit of being kind to the uniform. He thanked the conductor, and sank into sleep again, to be roused by the same kindly hand a few minutes later at Purling Brook. He stumbled off, and stood looking dazedly about him at the trig little village. The sleep was not yet gone from his eyes, nor the ache from his nerves; but the clear quiet of the little town seemed to wrap him about soothingly like salve, and the crisp air entered into his lungs, and gave him heart. He realized that he was hungry. It seemed to have been a popular afternoon train that he had travelled upon. He looked beyond the groups of happy home-comers to where it hurried away gustily down the track, even then preparing to stop at the next near suburban station to deposit a few more home-comers. There on that train went the only friend he felt he had in the world at present, that grizzly conductor with his kindly eyes looking through great bifocals like a pleasant old grasshopper. Well, he could not remain here any longer. The air was biting, and the sun was going down. Across the road the little drug-store even then was twinkling out with lights behind its blue and green glass urns. Two boys and a girl were drinking something at the soda-fountain through straws, and laughing a great deal. It somehow turned him sick, he could not tell why. He had done things like that many a time himself. There was a little stone church down the street, with a spire and bells. The sun touched the bells with burnished crimson till they looked like Christmas cards. A youthful rural football team went noisily across the road, discoursing about how they would come out that night if their mothers would let them; and the station cab came down the street full of passengers, and waited for a lady at the meat-market. He could see the legs of a chicken sticking out of the basket as the driver helped her in. He began to wonder why he hadnât stayed in the city and spent his forty-six cents for something to eat. It would have bought a great many crackers, say, or even bananas. He passed the bakery, and a whiff of fresh-baked bread greeted his nostrils. He cast a wistful eye at the window. Of course he might go in and ask for a job in payment for his supper. There were his soldierâs clothes. But no. That was equivalent to begging. He could not quite do that. Here in town they would have all the help they wanted. Perhaps, farther out in the country--perhaps--he didnât know what; only he couldnât bring himself to ask for food, even with the offer to work. He didnât care enough for that. What was hunger, anyway? A thing to be satisfied and come again. What would happen if he didnât satisfy it? Die, of course, but what did it matter? What was there to live for, anyway? He passed a house all windows, where children were gathered about a piano with one clumsily playing an accompaniment. There was an open fire, and the long windows came down to the piazza floor. They were singing at the top of their lungs, the old, time-worn song made familiar to them by community sing-songs, still good to them because they all knew it so well, âThereâs a long, long trail a-winding Until my dreams all come true;â and it gripped his heart like a knife. He had sung that song with _her_ when it was new and tender, just before he sailed away; and the trail had seemed so long! And now he had reached the end of it, and she had not been there to meet him! It was incredible! She so fair! And false! After all those months of waiting! That was the hardest part of it, that she could have done it, and then explained so lightly that he had been away so long she was sure he would understand, and they both must have got over their childish attachment; and so on, through the long, nauseating sentences of her repeal. He shuddered as he said them over to his tired heart, and then shuddered again with the keen air; for his uniform was thin, and he had no overcoat. What was that she had said about the money? He neednât worry about it. A sort of bone to toss to the lone dog after he was kicked out. Ah, well! It was paid. He was glad of that. He was even grimly glad for his own destitution. It gave a kind of sense of satisfaction to have gone hungry and homeless to pay it all in one grand lump, and to have paid it at once, and through his lawyer, without any word to her or her father either. They should not be even distant witnesses of his humiliation. He would never cross their path again if he had his way. They should be as completely wiped out of his existence and he out of theirs as if the same universe did not hold them. He passed down the broad, pleasant street in the crisp air, and every home on either hand gave him a thrust of memory that stabbed him to the heart. It was such a home as one of these that he had hoped to have some day, although it would have been in the city, perhaps, for she always liked the city. He had hoped in the depths of his heart to persuade her to the country, though. Now he saw as in a revelation how futile such hopes had been. She would never have come to love sweet, quiet ways such as he loved. She couldnât ever have really loved him, or she would have waited, would not have changed. Over and over again he turned the bitter story, trying to get it settled in his heart so that the sharp edges would not hurt so, trying to accustom himself to the thought that she whom he had cherished through the blackness of the years that were past was not what he had thought her. He stopped in the road beside a tall hedge that hid the Hazard house from view, and snatched out her picture that he had carried in his breast pocket till now; snatched it out, gazed upon it with a look that was not good to see on a young face, and tore it across! He took a step forward, and every step he tore a tiny fragment from the picture and flung it into the road bit by bit till the lovely face was mutilated in the dust where the feet of passers-by would grind upon it and where those great blue eyes that had gazed back at him from the picture so long would be destroyed forever. It was the last thread that bound him to her, that picture; and, when the last scrap of picture had fluttered away from him, he put his head down and strode forward like one who has cast away from him his last hope. The voice of Miss Marilla roused him like a homely, pleasant sound about the house of a morning when one has had an unhappy dream; and he lifted his head, and, soldier-like, dropped into the old habit of hiding his emotions. Her kindly face somehow comforted him, and the thought of dinner was a welcome one. The ugly tragedy of his life seemed to melt away for the moment, as if it could not stand the light of the setting sun and her wholesome presence. There was an appeal in her eyes that reached him; and somehow he didnât feel like turning down her naÃ¯ve, childlike proposition. Besides, he was used to being cared for because he was a soldier, and why not once more now when everything else had gone so rotten? It was an adventure, anyway, and what was there left for him but adventure? he asked himself with a little bitter sneer. But, when she mentioned a _girl_, that was a different thing! Girls were all treacherous. It was a new conviction with him; but it had gone deep, so deep that it had extended not only to a certain girl or class of girls, but to all girls everywhere. He had become a woman-hater. He wanted nothing more to do with any of them. And yet at that moment his tired, disappointed, hurt manâs soul was really crying out for the woman of the universe to comfort him, to explain to him this awful circumstance that had come to all his bright dreams. A mother, that was what he thought he wanted; and Miss Marilla looked as if she might make a nice mother. So he turned like a tired little hungry boy, and followed her, at least until she said âgirl.â Then he almost turned and fled. Yet, while Miss Marilla coaxed and explained about Mary Amber, he stood facing again the lovely vision of the girl he had left behind at the beginning of the long, long trail, and whose picture he had just trampled underfoot on this end of the trail, which it now seemed to him would wind on forever alone for him. As he paused on Miss Marillaâs immaculate front steps, he was preparing himself to face the enemy of his life in the form of woman. The one thing really that made him go into that house and meekly submit to be Miss Marillaâs guest was that his soul had risen to battle. He would fight Girl in the concrete! She should be his enemy from henceforth. And this strange, unknown girl, who hated men and thought them conceited and selfish, this cold, inhuman creature, was likely false-hearted too, like the one he had loved and who had not loved him. He would show her what he thought of such girls, of all girls; what all men who knew anything about it thought of all girls! And, thus reasoning, he followed Miss Marilla into the pleasant oilcloth-covered hall, and up the front stairs to the spare room, where she smilingly showed him the towels and brushes prepared for his comfort, and left him, calling cheerily back that dinner would be on the table as soon as he was ready to come down. All the time he was bathing his tired, dirty face and cold, rough hands in the warm, sweet-scented soap-suds, and wiping them on the fragrant towel, even while he stood in front of the mirror all polished to reflect the visage of Lieutenant Richard H. Chadwick, and brushed his close-cropped curls till there was not a hint of wave left in them, he was hardening himself to meet Girl in the concrete and get back a return for what she had done to his life. Then, with a last final polish of the brush and a flick of the whisk-broom over his discouraged-looking uniform, he set his lips grimly, and went down-stairs, taking the precaution to fold his cap and put it into his pocket, for he might want to escape at any minute, and it was best to be prepared. CHAPTER III Mary Amber was bearing in the great platter of golden-brown turkey when he first saw her, and had not heard him come down. She was entirely off her guard, with a sweet, serious intentness upon her work and a stray wisp of gold hair set afloat across the kitchen-flushed cheek. She looked so sweet and serviceable and true, with her lips parted in the pleasure of the final completion of her task, that the soldier was taken by surprise and thrown entirely off his guard. Was this the false-hearted creature he had come to fight? Then Mary Amber felt his eyes upon her as he stood staring from the open hall door, and, lifting her own clear ones, froze into the opponent at once. A very polite opponent, it is true, with all the grace of a young queen, but nevertheless an opponent, cold as a young icicle. Miss Marilla with bright eyes and preternaturally pink cheeks spoke into the vast pause that suddenly surrounded them all, and her voice sounded strangely unnatural to herself. âDick, this is Mary Amber; I suppose you donât remember her.â And the young soldier, not yet quite recovered from that first sweet vision of Mary Amber, went forward with his belligerence to woman somewhat held in abeyance. âYou--have changed a good deal since then, havenât you?â he managed to ask with his native quickness to say the right thing in an emergency. âA good many years have passed,â she said, coolly putting out a reluctant hand to please Miss Marilla. âYou donât look at all as you did. I never should have known you.â The girl was looking keenly at him, studying his face closely. If a soldier just home from an ocean trip could get any redder, his face would have grown so under her scrutiny. Also, now he was face to face with her, he felt his objection to Girl in general receding before the fact of his own position. How had that ridiculous old woman expected him to carry off a situation like this without giving it away? How was he supposed to converse with a girl he had never seen before, about things he had never done,--with a girl with whom he was supposed to have played in his youth? Why had he been such a fool as to get into this corner just for the sake of one more dinner? Why, to-morrow he would need another dinner, and all the to-morrows through which he might have to live. What was one dinner more or less? He felt in his hip pocket for the comforting assurance of his cap, and gave a furtive glance toward the hall door. It wouldnât be far to bolt back to the road, and what would be the difference? He would never see either of the two again. Then the sweet, anxious eyes of his hostess met his with an appealing smile and he felt himself powerless to move. The girlâs eyes had swept over his ill-fitting uniform and he seemed to feel every crease and stain. âI thought they told us you were an officer, but I donât see your bars.â She laughed mockingly, and searched his face again accusingly. âThis is another fellowâs uniform,â he answered lamely. âMine got shrunk so I could hardly get into it, and another fellow who was going home changed with me.â He lifted his eyes frankly, for it was the truth that he told, and he looked into her eyes, but saw that she did not believe him. Her dislike and distrust of the little boy Dick had come to the front. He saw that she believed that Dick had been boasting to his aunt of honors that were not his. A wave of anger swept over his face; yet somehow he could not summon his defiance. Somehow he wanted her to believe him. They sat down at the beautiful table, and the turkey got in its work on his poor human sensibilities. The delicate perfume of the hot meat as it fell in large, flaky slices from Miss Marillaâs sharp knife, the whiff of the summer savory and sage and sweet marjoram in the stuffing, the smoothness of the mashed potatoes, the brownness of the candied sweet potatoes, all cried out to him and held him prisoner. The odor of the food brought a giddiness to his head, and the faintness of hunger attacked him. A pallor grew under the tan of his face, and there were dark shadows under his nice eyes that quite touched Miss Marilla, and almost softened the hard look of distrust that had been growing around Mary Amberâs gentle lips. âThis certainly is great!â he murmured. âI donât deserve to get in on anything like this, but Iâm no end grateful.â Mary Amberâs questioning eyes recalled him in confusion to his rÃ´le of nephew in the house, and he was glad of the chance to bend his head while Miss Marilla softly asked a blessing on the meal. He had been wont to think he could get away with any situation; but he began to feel now as if his recent troubles had unnerved him, and he might make a mess of this one. Somehow that girl seemed as if she could see into a fellowâs heart. Why couldnât he show her how he despised the whole race of false-hearted womankind? They heaped his plate with good things, poured him amber coffee rich with cream, gave him cranberry sauce and pickles and olives, and passed little delicate biscuits, and butter with the fragrance of roses. With all this before him he suddenly felt as if he could not swallow a mouthful. He lifted his eyes to the opposite wall, and a neatly framed sentence in quaint old English lettering met his eye, âWho crowneth thee with loving-kindness and tender mercies, so that thy youth is renewed like the eagleâs.â An intense desire to put his head down on the table and cry came over him. The warmth of the room, the fragrance of the food, had made him conscious of an ache in every part of his body. His head was throbbing too, and he wondered what was the matter with him. After all the harshness of the world, and the bitterness, to meet a kindness like this seemed to unnerve him. But gradually the food got in its work, and the hot coffee stimulated him. He rose to the occasion greatly. He described France, spoke of the beautiful cathedrals he had seen, the works of art, the little children, the work of reconstruction that was going on, spoke of Germany too, when he saw they expected him to have been there, although this was a shoal on which he almost wrecked his rÃ´le before he realized. He told of the voyage over and the people he had met, and he kept most distinctly away from anything personal, at least as far away as Mary Amber would let him. She with her keen, questioning eyes was always bringing up some question that was almost impossible for him to answer directly without treading on dangerous ground, and it required skill indeed to turn her from it. Mary listened and marvelled, trying continually to trace in his face the lines of the fat-faced, arrogant child who used to torment her. Mary rose to take the plates, and the young soldier insisted on helping. Miss Marilla, pleased to see them getting on so nicely, sat smiling in her place, reaching out to brush away a stray crumb on the table-cloth. Mary, lingering in the kitchen for a moment, to be sure the fire was not being neglected, lifted the stove-lid, and with the draught a little flame leaped up around a crumpled, smoldering yellow paper with the familiar âWestern Union Telegraphâ heading. Three words stood out distinctly for a second, âImpossible to accept,â and then were enveloped by the flame. Mary stood and stared with the stove-lid in her hand, and then, as the flame curled the paper over, she saw âLieutenant Richard--â revealed and immediately licked up by the flame. It lay, a little crisp, black fabric with its message utterly illegible, but still Mary stood and stared and wondered. She had seen the boy on the bicycle ride up and go away. She had also seen the approaching soldier almost immediately, and the thought of the telegram had been at once erased. Now it came back forcefully. Dick, then, had sent a telegram, and it looked as if he had declined the invitation. Who, then, was this stranger at the table? Some comrade working Miss Marilla for a dinner, or Dick himself, having changed his mind or playing a practical joke? In any case Mary felt she ought to disapprove of him utterly. It was her duty to show him up to Miss Marilla; and yet how could she do it when she did not know anything herself? âHurry, Mary, and bring the pie,â called Miss Marilla. âWeâre waiting.â Mary put the stove-lid down, and went slowly, thoughtfully back to the dining-room bearing a pie. She studied the face of the young soldier intently as she passed him his pie, but he seemed so young and pleasant and happy she hadnât the heart to say anything just yet. She would bide her time. Perhaps somehow it was all explainable. So she set to asking him questions. âBy the way, Dick, what ever became of Barker?â she requested, fixing her clear eyes on his face. âBarker?â said Lyman Gage, puzzled and polite, then, remembering his rÃ´le, âOh, yes, _Barker_!â He laughed. âGreat old Barker, wasnât he?â He turned in troubled appeal to Miss Marilla. âBarker certainly was the cutest little guinea-pig I ever saw,â beamed Miss Marilla, âalthough at the time I really wasnât as fond of it as you were. You would have it around in the kitchen so much.â There was covert apology in Miss Marillaâs voice for the youthful character of the young man he was supposed to be. âI should judge I must have been a good deal of a nuisance in those days,â hazarded the soldier, feeling that he was treading on dangerous ground. âOh, no!â sighed Miss Marilla, trying to be truthful and at the same time polite. âChildren will be children, you know.â âAll children are not alike.â It was as near to snapping as sweet Mary Amber ever came. She had memories which time had not dimmed. âWas it as bad as that?â laughed the young man. âIâm sorry!â Mary had to laugh. His frankness certainly was disarming. But there was that telegram! And Mary grew serious again. She did not intend to have her gentle old friend deceived. Mary insisted on clearing off the table and washing the dishes, and the soldier insisted on helping her; so Miss Marilla, much disturbed that domestic duties should interfere with the evening, put everything away, and made the task as brief as possible, looking anxiously at Mary Amber every trip back from the refrigerator and pantry to see how she was getting on with the strange soldier, and how the strange soldier was getting on with her. At first she was a little troubled lest he shouldnât be the kind of man she would want to introduce to Mary Amber; but after she had heard him talk and express such thoroughly wholesome views on politics and national subjects she almost forgot he was not the real Dick, and her doting heart could not help wanting Mary Amber to like him. He was, in fact, the personification of the Dick she had dreamed out for her own, as different in fact from the real Dick as could have been imagined, and a great deal better. His frank eyes, his pleasant manner, his cultured voice, all pleased her; and she couldnât help feeling that he was Dick come back as she would have liked him to be all the time. âIâd like to have a little music, just a little before Mary has to go home,â Miss Marilla said wistfully as Mary Amber hung up the dish-towel with an air that said plainly without words that she felt her duty toward the stranger was over and she was going to depart
{'title': 'The Big Blue Soldier by Grace Livingston Hill', 'source': 'Project Gutenberg', 'lang': 'en'}