“But Rufus––would that be the truth?”
Hardy laughed. “Well, pretty near it––but I’m trying to please my best friend now.”
“Oh,” said Lucy, blushing. “Will––will that make much difference?” she asked.
“All the difference in the world,” declared Hardy warmly. “You want me to become a poet––he wants me to become a fighter. Well now, since I haven’t been able to please him, I’m going to try to please you for a while.”
“Oh, Rufus,” cried Lucy, “am I really––your best friend?”
“Why sure! Didn’t you know that?” He spoke the words with a bluff good-fellowship which pleased her, in a way, but at the same time left her silent. And he, too, realized that there was a false note, a rift such as often creeps in between friends and if not perceived and checked widens into a breach.
“You know,” he said, quietly making his amends, “when I was a boy my father always told me I talked too much; and after mother died I––well, I didn’t talk so much. I was intended for a soldier, you know, and good officers have to keep their own counsel. But––well, I guess the habit struck in––so if I don’t always thank you, or tell you things, you will understand, won’t you? I wasn’t raised to please folks, you know, but just to fight Indians, and all that. How would you like to be a soldier’s wife?”
“Not very well, I am afraid,” she said. “All the fear and anxiety, and––well, I’m afraid I couldn’t love my husband if he killed anybody.” She paused and glanced up at him, but he was deep in thought.
“My mother was a soldier’s wife,” he said, at last; and Lucy, seeing where his thoughts had strayed, respected his silence. It was something she had learned long before, for while Rufus would sometimes mention his mother he would never talk about her, even to Lucy Ware. So they finished their housework, deep in their own thoughts. But when at last they 229 stepped out into the sunshine Lucy touched him on the arm.