"He was considered a fine soldier," she returned, rather primly. "His men worshipped him."
"You live in the past, dear," he persisted.
Something had risen between them, a pulsing, quick-breathing irritation. She pressed his arm.
"You don't understand," she said forgivingly.
"No, perhaps not." They had reached the gates of the compound, and, arrested by sounds whose thrill for ever outlives familiarity, they stood still, their faces turned to the open high-road. Amidst the rattle of drums, and the shrill call of the fifes, the regiment slogged its way sullenly back to the barracks. The dust rose in silver columns under the tramping feet. The red sun, lying already westwards, fell aslant the dark, brooding faces and made a quivering stream of fire of the fixed bayonets. The new Colonel rode at the head of the column, chatting with his Adjutant. He had a resolute serenity about him, an unimaginative contentment. Tristram, saluting, knew that for him there was no significance in that fiery line winding its way up the hill in black silence—no hint of the future. Only the common, daily routine.
He heard Anne's voice at his side, broken and piteous.
"Oh, if only father were there—at the head of his men—if we could only bring him back——"
"I can't do that," he answered gently. "If I could, I would. I never realized how much you cared. It's taught me a lot about life—your caring. But if you think he wishes it—he must come to us, whatever it may cost."
She smiled at him through her tears.
"I know he would wish it. Mother is cruel to him—I know she feels cruelly. He will be happy with us. He will get to understand that we both care—oh, Tristram, I can't thank you enough. I promise you it shan't trouble you."