"No."
"But what is it—trust me a little—what is it?"
He hesitated, and then said, "It is Leila Grey! God pity my weakness, and you will say good-bye and give the Squire this note and them my love." He was gone.
The woman sat still for an hour, pitiful, and understanding the flight of a too sensitive man. Then she gave her husband the note, with her good-night, and no other word. Of why her friend had gone she said later nothing, except to defend him for his obedience to the call of duty. Late that evening John returned.
When after breakfast next day he and Leila were riding through the wood-roads of the forest, John said, "I cannot or I could not see why Mr. Rivers went away so abruptly."
"Nor I," said Leila. Then there was one of those long silences dear to lovers.
"What are you thinking of, Jack?"
"Uncle Jim told me last night the story of the early life of Mark
Rivers."
"Tell it to me."
He told it—"But," he continued, "that was not all of him. I have heard Mr. Rivers hold at the closest attention a great crowd of soldiers with that far-carrying voice; and then to hear as he led them singing the old familiar hymns—perhaps a thousand men—oh, it was a thing to remember! And they loved him, Leila, because behind the battle line he was coolly, serviceably brave; and in the hospital wards—well, as tender as—well, as you would have been. I wondered, Leila, why he did not marry again. The first was a mistake, but I suppose he knew that for him to marry would have been wrong, with that sad family history. Probably life never offered him the temptation."