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_ When he returned to Winchester it was to find Virginia already there as
Jack Morson's wife. Since her marriage in late summer she had followed her
husband's regiment from place to place, drifting at last to a big yellow
house on the edge of the fiery little town. Dan, passing along the street
one day, heard his name called in a familiar voice, and turned to find her
looking at him through the network of a tall, wrought-iron gate.
"Virginia! Bless my soul! Where's Betty?" he exclaimed amazed.
Virginia left the gate and gave him her hand over the dried creepers on the
wall.
"Why, you look ten years older," was her response.
"Indeed! Well, two years of beggary, to say nothing of eight months of war,
isn't just the thing to insure immortal youth, is it? You see, I'm turning
gray."
The pallor of the long march was in his face, giving him a striking though
unnatural beauty. His eyes were heavy and his hair hung dishevelled about
his brow, but the change went deeper still, and the girl saw it. "You're
bigger--that's it," she said, and added impulsively, "Oh, how I wish Betty
could see you now."
Her hand was upon the wall and he gave it a quick, pleased pressure.
"I wish to heaven she could," he echoed heartily.
"But I shall tell her everything when I write--everything. I shall tell her
that you are taller and stronger and that you have been in all the fights
and haven't a scar to show. Betty loves scars, you see, and she doesn't
mind even wounds--real wounds. She wanted to go into the hospitals, but I
came away and mamma wouldn't let her."
"For God's sake, don't let her," said Dan, with a shudder, his Southern
instincts recoiling from the thought of service for the woman he loved.
"There are a plenty of them in the hospitals and it's no place for Betty,
anyway."
"I'll tell her you think so," returned Virginia, gayly. "I'll tell her
that--and what else?"
He met her eyes smiling.
"Tell her I wait my time," he answered, and began to talk lightly of other
things. Virginia followed his lead with her old shy merriment. Her marriage
had changed her but little, though she had grown a trifle stately, he
thought, and her coquetry had dropped from her like a veil. As she stood
there in her delicate lace cap and soft gray silk, the likeness to her
mother was very marked, and looking into the future, Dan seemed to see her
beauty ripen and expand with her growing womanhood. How many of her race
had there been, he wondered, shaped after the same pure and formal plan.
"And it is all just the same," he said, his eyes delighting in her beauty.
"There is no change--don't tell me there is any change, for I'll not
believe it. You bring it all back to me,--the lawn and the lilacs and the
white pillars, and Miss Lydia's garden, with the rose leaves in the paths.
Why are there always rose leaves in Miss Lydia's paths, Virginia?"
Virginia shook her head, puzzled by his whimsical tone.
"Because there are so many roses," she answered seriously.
"No, you're wrong, there's another reason, but I shan't tell you."
"My boxes are filled with rose leaves now," said Virginia. "Betty gathered
them for me."
The smile leaped to his eyes. "Oh, but it makes me homesick," he returned
lightly. "If I tell you a secret, don't betray me, Virginia--I am downright
homesick for Betty."
Virginia patted his hand.
"So am I," she confessed, "and so is Mammy Riah--she's with me now, you
know--and she says that I might have been married without Jack, but never
without Betty. Betty made my dress and iced my cake and pinned on my veil."
"Ah, is that so?" exclaimed Dan, absent-mindedly. He was thinking of Betty,
and he could almost see her hands as she pinned on the wedding veil--those
small white hands with the strong fingers that had closed about his own.
"When you get your furlough you must go home, Dan," Virginia was saying;
"the Major is very feeble and--and he quarrels with almost everyone."
"My furlough," repeated Dan, with a laugh. "Why, the war may end to-morrow
and then we'll all go home together and kill the fatted calf among us. Yes,
I'd like to see the old man again before I die."
"I pray every night that the war may end tomorrow," said Virginia, "but it
never does." Then she turned eagerly to the Governor, who was coming toward
them under the leafless trees along the street.
"Here's Dan, papa, do make him come in and be good."
The Governor, holding himself erect in his trim gray uniform, insisted,
with his hand upon Dan's shoulder, that Virginia should be obeyed; and the
younger man, yielding easily, followed him through the iron gate and into
the yellow house.
"I don't see you every day, my boy, sit down, sit down," began the
Governor, as he took his stand upon the hearth-rug. "Daughter, haven't you
learned the way to the pantry yet? Dan looks as if he'd been on starvation
rations since he joined the army. They aren't living high at Romney, eh?"
and then, as Virginia went out, he fell to discussing the questions on all
men's lips--the prospect of peace in the near future; hopes of intervention
from England; the attitude of other foreign powers; and the reasons for the
latest appointments by the President. When the girl came in again they let
such topics go, and talked of home while she poured the coffee and helped
Dan to fried chicken. She belonged to the order of women who delight in
feeding a hungry man, and her eyes did not leave his face as she sat behind
the tray and pressed the food upon him.
"Dan thinks the war will be over before he gets his furlough," she said a
little wistfully.
A shadow crossed the Governor's face.
"Then I may hope to get back in time to watch the cradles in the wheat
field," he remarked. "There's little doing on the farm I'm afraid while I'm
away."
"If they hold out six months longer--well, I'll be surprised," exclaimed
Dan, slapping the arm of his chair with a gesture like the Major's.
"They've found out we won't give in so long as there's a musket left; and
that's enough for them."
"Maybe so, maybe so," returned the Governor, for it was a part of his
philosophy to cast his conversational lines in the pleasant places. "Please
God, we'll drink our next Christmas glass at Chericoke."
"In the panelled parlour," added Dan, his eyes lighting.
"With Aunt Emmeline's portrait," finished Virginia, smiling.
For a time they were all silent, each looking happily into the far-off
room, and each seeing a distinct and different vision. To the Governor the
peaceful hearth grew warm again--he saw his wife and children gathered
there, and a few friendly neighbours with their long-lived, genial jokes
upon their lips. To Virginia it was her own bridal over again with the fear
of war gone from her, and the quiet happiness she wanted stretching out
into the future. To Dan there was first his own honour to be won, and then
only Betty and himself--Betty and himself under next year's mistletoe
together.
"Well, well," sighed the Governor, and came back regretfully to the
present. "It's a good place we're thinking of, and I reckon you're sorry
enough you left it before you were obliged to. We all make mistakes, my
boy, and the fortunate ones are those who live long enough to unmake them."
His warm smile shone out suddenly, and without waiting for a reply, he
began to ask for news of Jack Powell and his comrades, all of whom he knew
by name. "I was talking to Colonel Burwell about you the other day," he
added presently, "and he gave you a fighting record that would do honour to
the Major."
"He's a nice old chap," responded Dan, easily, for in the first years of
the Army of Northern Virginia the question of rank presented itself only
upon the parade ground, and beyond the borders of the camp a private had
been known to condescend to his own Colonel. "A gentleman fights for his
country as he pleases, a plebeian as he must," the Governor would have
explained with a touch of his old oratory. "He's a nice old chap himself,
but, by George, the discipline fits like a straight-jacket," pursued Dan,
as he finished his coffee. "Why, here we are three miles below Winchester
in a few threadbare tents, and they make as much fuss about our coming into
town as if we were the Yankees themselves. Talk about Romney! Why, it's no
colder at Romney than it was here last week, and yet Loring's men are
living in huts like princes."
"Show me a volunteer and I'll show you a grumbler," put in the Governor,
laughing.
"Oh, I'm not grumbling, I'm merely pointing out the facts," protested Dan;
then he rose and stood holding Virginia's hand as he met her upward glance
with his unflinching admiration. "Come again! Why, I should say so," he
declared. "I'll come as long as I have a collar left, and then--well, then
I'll pass the time of day with you over the hedge. Good-by, Colonel,
remember I'm not a grumbler, I'm merely a man of facts."
The door closed after him and a moment later they heard his clear whistle
in the street.
"The boy is like his father," said the Governor, thoughtfully, "like his
father with the devil broken to harness. The Montjoy blood may be bad
blood, but it makes big men, daughter." He sighed and drew his small figure
to its full height.
Virginia was looking into the fire. "I hope he will come again," she
returned softly, thinking of Betty.
But when he called again a week later Virginia did not see him. It was a
cold starlit night, and the big yellow house, as he drew near it, glowed
like a lamp amid the leafless trees. Beside the porch a number of cavalry
horses were fastened to the pillars, and through the long windows there
came the sound of laughter and of gay "good-bys."
The "fringe of the army," as Dan had once jeeringly called it, was merrily
making ready for a raid.
As he listened he leaned nearer the window and watched, half enviously, the
men he had once known. His old life had been a part of theirs and now,
looking in from the outside, it seemed very far away--the poetry of war
beside which the other was mere dull history in which no names were
written. He thought of Prince Rupert, and of his own joy in the saddle, and
the longing for the raid seized him like a heartache. Oh, to feel again the
edge of the keen wind in his teeth and to hear the silver ring of the hoofs
on the frozen road.
"Jine the cavalry,
Jine the cavalry,
If you want to have a good time jine the cavalry."
The words floated out to him, and he laughed aloud as if he had awakened
from a comic dream.
That was the romance of war, but, after all, he was only the man who bore
the musket. _
Read next: BOOK THIRD - THE SCHOOL OF WAR: Chapter VIII - The Altar of the War God
Read previous: BOOK THIRD - THE SCHOOL OF WAR: Chapter VI - On the Road to Romney
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