Part 19 (1/2)

”Queer thing,” Captain Hewes mused, ”what the war has done to him, set him preaching and all that.”

”Oh, it isn't queer,” Margaret was eager. ”That is one of the things the war is doing, bringing men back to--G.o.d--” A sob caught in her throat.

Drusilla's hands strayed upon the keys, and into the Battle Hymn of the Republic.

”I have seen Him in the watch fires of a hundred circling camps, They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and damps, I can read His righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps, His day is marching on--”

It was an old tune, but the words were new to Captain Hewes--as the girl chanted them, in that repressed voice that yet tore the heart out of him.

”He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat, He is sifting out the hearts of men before His judgment seat, Oh, be swift, my soul, to answer Him, be jubilant my feet, Our G.o.d is marching on--”

The Captain sat on the edge of his chair. His face was illumined.

”By Jove,” he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed, ”that's topping!”

Drusilla stood up with her back to the piano, and sang without music.

”In the beauty of the lilies, Christ was born across the sea-- With the glory in His bosom that transfigures you and me, As He died to make men holy, let us die to make men free, While G.o.d is marching on--”

She wore a gown of sheer dull blue, there was a red rose in her hair--her white arms, her white neck, the blue and red, youth and fire, strength and purity.

When she finished the room was very still. The big Englishman had no words for such a moment. The music had swept him up to unexpected heights of emotion. While Drusilla sang he had glimpsed for the first time the meaning of democracy, he had seen, indeed, in a great and lofty sense, for the first time--America.

Among the shadows a young man shrank in his seat. His vision was not of Democracy, but of a freezing night--of a ragged old voice rising from the blackness of a steep ravine--

”Oh, be swift, my soul--to answer--Him-- Be jubilant my feet--”

Why had Drusilla chosen that of all songs? Oh, why had she sung at all?

A maid came in to say that Mr. Drake was wanted at the telephone. The message was from Dr. McKenzie. The General was much worse. It might be well for Derry to come home.

So Derry, with a great sense of relief, got away from the frigid Captain, and from the flaming Drusilla, and from Peggy with her flushed air of apology, and went out into the stormy night. He had preferred to walk, although his shoes were thin. ”It isn't far,” he had said when Margaret expostulated, ”and I'll send my car for Drusilla and Captain Hewes.”

The sleet drove against his face. His feet were wet before he reached the first corner, the wind buffeted him. But he felt none of it. He was conscious only of his depression and of his great dread of again entering the big house where a sick man lay in a lacquered bed and where a painted lady smiled on the stairs. Where there was nothing alive, nothing young, nothing with lips to welcome him, or with hands to hold out to him.

He found when at last he arrived that the Doctor had sent for Hilda Merritt.

She came presently, in her long blue cloak and small blue bonnet.

Hilda made no mistakes in the matter of clothes. She realized the glamour which her nurse's uniform cast over her. In evening dress she was slightly commonplace. In ordinary street garb not an eye would have been turned upon her, but the nun's blue and white of her uniform added the required spiritual effect to her rather full-blown beauty.

As she pa.s.sed the painted lady at the head of the stairway she gave her a slight glance. Then on and up she went to her appointed task.

”It is pneumonia,” Dr. McKenzie told Derry; ”that's why I wanted Miss Merritt. She is very experienced, and in these days of war it is hard to get good nurses.”

Derry found his voice shaking. ”Is there any danger?”

”Naturally, at his age. But I think we are going to pull him through.”

Derry went into the shadowed room. His father was breathing heavily.