“I do,” said Eugene; “and I thank you.”
While he was talking to the curé, the sergeant sighed heavily, and went sauntering down the walk to the gate, and out through it to the park. He was not as sanguine as his wife about Eugene’s reluctance to leave them, and he could not bear to remain at home on this the last day of his stay with them.
When he returned for dinner in the middle of the day he exerted himself to be cheerful; but he disappeared immediately afterward, and did not come back until late in the afternoon, in time to take Eugene and the priest to the train.
All day long Eugene had followed Mrs. Hardy about the house, waiting on her in a quiet and unobtrusive way, but saying very little. He did not understand her; but she understood him perfectly, and she saw that as yet there was no flagging in his resolve to go to France.
He wondered that this woman, who professed to love him so much and who cried so easily, had not yet, as far as he had known, shed a tear over his departure. She did not even break down when they reached the station, and saw before them the long line of cars on which he was to be whirled away from her.
Eugene shuddered at the sight, and clung convulsively to her hand. “Do you feel that you ought not to go?” she asked quietly.
“No, no,” said the boy in a tortured voice. “I only feel it horrible to go; yet it is for the best, and it is duty. I shall come back some day.”
“Wife,” said the sergeant inexorably, “it is time for them to get on board the train. Good-by, son.”