“I am glad to answer,” I said. “It seems to me my duty to be with the army; my friends have gone, and now Graydon, the last to leave, has also gone. I fancy people smiling to see me still at home—I who am so positive, so outspoken. But here is my father, with whom if I go I break for life, and here is my Aunt Gainor, who bursts into tears if I do but mention my wish to leave her.”
“I see,” said Darthea, not looking at me; “now I understand fully; I did not before. But—will you think it strange if—if I say—I, a good and loyal woman—that you should go, and soon?” Then there was a long pause, and she added, “When will this cruel war end?”
“God knows,” said I. “Thank thee; thou art right, Darthea.”
Another pause as long came after, when she said abruptly, and in quite another voice, “You do not like Mr. Arthur Wynne; why do you not?”
I was startled. One never knew when she would get under one’s guard and put some prickly question.
“Dost thou think I have reason to like him?” I said. “I did like him once, but now I do not; nor does he love me any better. Why dost thou ask me?”
“Oh, for—no matter! I am not going to say why.”
“I think thou knowest, Darthea, that he is no friend of mine.”
“Let us join your aunt,” she said gravely.
“One word more,” said I, “and I shall trouble thee no further. Best sure that, come what may, there is one man who loves thee with a love no man can better.”