“Three years.”
“Did you—hate it very much?”
The laugh this time was more strangled than before.
“Twice over I came within an inch of shooting myself! We were twenty miles from the nearest neighbour. My friend went his way; I went mine. For days together we hardly exchanged a word. There was nothing but the great stretch of land, and the Rockies in the distance. In time one gets to think them beautiful, but at first... I used to sit and think of home, and the regiment. It was always with me. I used to say to myself: ‘Now they are at mess—Now the horses are coming out of the stables—Now they are turning out for polo!’ I could hear the drum, and the reveille, and the last post. ... As clearly as in the barracks at home, I heard them!...”
He stopped short, turning his eyes from the window to look at Cornelia’s face. It was distorted, quivering, with emotion; her hands were clasped together, and down her cheek rolled two tear-drops, unashamed. He turned sharply aside, and for some moments neither spoke. Cornelia was seeing, as in a picture, the lonely ranch, with the solitary figure, sitting with his face towards the East, thinking, thinking. ... Guest was reflecting with amaze on the strange antic of fate, which ordained that it should be in the eyes of this Yankee stranger that he should see the first woman’s tears shed on his behalf! She cried like a child; simply, involuntarily, without thought of appearance; the tears rising from a pure well of sympathy. To the end of his life he would bless her for those tears!
The train slackened and drew up at a country station. A stout, elderly lady approached the carriage, glanced from one to the other of the two occupants, and hastily moved on. Cornelia smiled, with the tears wet on her lashes. Again the wheels began to move, and Guest said shortly—
“Thank you for your sympathy! I had a feeling that you would understand—that’s why I told you. It’s not a story that I often tell to strangers, as you may guess.”
“My, yes, I sympathise; I should just think I do. I know what even our own people suffer sometimes away out West; but I don’t understand,” said Cornelia, firmly. “I don’t understand—one—little—bit! There’s more to soldiering than riding through the streets, looking fine and large, and gotten up like a show. I love to see it. We profess to laugh at forms and ceremonies, but we love them just the same as anybody else, but it was your country you’d promise to serve! For better or worse you allowed you were sworn to serve her. You had risked your life for her; I reckon you had shed your blood. There was just one thing you wouldn’t sacrifice—your own pride! You were thinking of yourself when you sent in that resignation, Captain Guest! You saw yourself sitting looking out of the window, and seeing the boys riding off to their sports, and leaving you behind. You cared more for that, than the thought that England might need you!”
“You hit hard, Miss Briskett.”
“I hit straight. I know just how you’ve suffered. Seems to me I’m going to remember all my life how you sat in that ranch and heard the last post; but if I’d been in your place, if America had wanted me”—her small, white face lit up with a very ecstasy of emotion—“I’d have stayed at my post, if I’d had to sweep the floors to do it!”