“Don’t say you won’t marry anybody,” said Jack, “because, please heaven, you’ll marry me! Won’t you? But there!—I won’t bind you!”
She said nothing; only her blue eyes had wells of sweetness in them in which a poet might ask love to drown. He held her hand a little closer—and drew himself up straightly with a resolute air.
“I must go now,” he said. “Good-bye, dear! I won’t bother you to think of me or write to me—or any trouble of that sort—”
“Oh, Jack! It won’t be a trouble!”
“It might be!” and he set his lips hard. “The only thing I do ask is that you go and see my old Dad sometimes and let him come to see you. He’ll have all my news—field service post cards and everything—”
He paused. The winsome face of the Sentimentalist was uplifted—her lips were parted and tremulous—there were tears on her golden-brown lashes. In a reckless moment, not thinking of anything but carried away by the emotion of his soul, he caught her to his heart and kissed her once, twice, thrice, passionately.
“Forgive me!” he whispered. “I can’t help it! God bless you, dear! Good-bye!”
He turned with almost lightning suddenness, plunged through the brushwood by the river and disappeared.
“Jack!” she called, plaintively.
There was no answer. He had gone. She stood for a moment,—pained, bewildered, and yet thrilled by the fervour of that lover’s kiss,—the first she had ever known. How abruptly he had left her!—it was perhaps the best way—and yet,—would she ever see him again. The tears welled up suddenly and fell down her cheeks.