"Where—where is Randolph to-night?" I clutched at her presence for another instant.
"I don't know," and with a sudden swift movement she glided out of the room. If only she knew how bewitching she is! But perhaps she is better ignorant.
One thing is certain. She has answered my question. She is not in love with Randolph.
Dimly I perceive a faint cohesiveness to the swimming lines of the picture. For some reason that she knows best, that seemed good to her, she yielded to the boy's importunities. In some way the mother in her is involved. How little, after all, I know of my eldest nephew! Alicia doubtless knows more—much more.
But this is the query that rises before me like a black pillar in the roadway:
Can that splendid girl be deliberately planning to sacrifice herself for some real or fancied good to the boy—hoping the while that by the time his dangers are past, he might tire of her, and release her plighted word? But suppose he shouldn't tire—as indeed how could he? Can I risk her happiness in that manner—her happiness which means to me a thousand times more than my own?
My own happiness—useless to think of that new! Whatever Alicia did or didn't betray, it was patently obvious that I am simply Uncle Ranny—as ever was. For one instant of excitement I was Randolph Byrd—but only for that. Ah, well, no use to dwell upon that bitterness now.
But about that young pair—what would I better do, my aged counselor? Doubtless at seventy you will be able to give me the sagest of advice. But that will be too late, friend, par trop, too late. I must watch more closely from this moment on. I have much to learn, Randolph Byrd. Of this, however, I am certain: One individual may with nobility sacrifice his life for another. That, according to my lights, is inherent in the very order of the universe. But every one is entitled to his or her own happiness. Woe and shame to the crippled soul that allows another to maim him in his happiness. Every human being has the unequivocal right to his share!
I am rambling, I see. My brain doubtless is still awhirl with the emotions and overtones of the interview with Alicia.
The headlines of the evening paper over which my tired eyes stray are vocal with the war spirit, with news of bridges guarded, of preparations, of munitions, of espionage, of ships, troops, volunteering! But the import of these makes hardly an impression upon my mind. So impersonal a thing is patriotism juxtaposed to the intimate business of living!