Anger, tenderness, love, pity—all dictated answers. "Aunt Ann, I have bad news."
"Of course, dear. It was to be expected. You won't believe me, but I am sorry for you and for James."
The face of the tall young woman flushed hot. She had meant to spare her—to be tender. She said, "General Lee is retreating after losing a great battle at Gettysburg."
Her aunt said quickly, "But James Penhallow—he is in Washington?"
"No, he was in the army—he is wounded—not seriously—and he is coming home."
"I might have known it." A great illumination came over her face not understood by Leila. She was strangely glad for him that he had been in the field and not in peaceful safety at Washington. With abrupt change of expression, she added, "Wounded? Not seriously. That isn't like him to come home for a slight wound. You or Mark Rivers are hiding something."
"Not I, aunt; but any wound that kept him off duty would be better cared for here. Lee's defeat leaves him free for a time—I mean at ease—"
"Don't talk nonsense!" she cried. "What do I care for Lee—or Meade—or battles! James Penhallow is all the world to me. Victory!"—she flamed with mounting colour—"it is I am the victor! He comes back with honour—I have no duties—no country—I have only my love. Oh, my God! if he had died—if—if—I should have hated!—" She spoke with harsh vehemence, and of a sudden stopped, and breathing fast gasped in low-voiced broken tones, "Don't stare at me—I am not a fool—I am—I am—only the fool of a great love. You don't know what it means. My God! I have no child—James Penhallow is to me children, husband—all—everything." She stood still, wide-eyed, staring down the garden paths, a wonder of yearning tenderness in her face, with Rivers's letter in her hand.
"Read your letter, Aunt."
"Yes—yes—I forgot it." She read it, and said, "It only confirms the telegram."