His jealousy, as a child, had been a source of trouble.
Any gift, any little treat, for his younger brothers,
in which he had not fully shared, had been the occasion
for a violent outburst of temper, never exhibited
by him at any other time, and this feeling had again
shown itself as soon as he had singled out Martha as
the object of his attentions.
They had remarked a strangeness in his manner when
he had returned home that night, and, remembering
the past, each entertained a secret dread that there
had been some more violent quarrel than usual between
him and Martha, and that in his mad passion he had
killed her.
It was, then, with a feeling almost of relief that
a month after her disappearance he briefly announced
his intention of leaving the farm and enlisting in
the army. His mother looked in dumb misery at
her husband, who only said gravely:
“Well, lad, you are old enough to make your
own choice. Things have changed for you of late,
and maybe it is as well that you should make a change,
too. You have been a good son, and I shall miss
you sorely; but John is taking after you, and presently
he will make up for your loss.”
“I am sorry to go, father, but I feel that I
cannot stay here.”
“If you feel that it is best that you should
go, George, I shall say no word to hinder you,”
and then his wife was sure that the fear she felt
was shared by her husband.
The next morning George came down in his Sunday clothes,
carrying a bundle. Few words were spoken at breakfast;
when it was over he got up and said:
“Well, goodbye, father and mother, and you boys.
I never thought to leave you like this, but things
have gone against me, and I feel I shall be best away.
“John, I look to you to fill my place.
“Good-bye all,” and with a silent shake
of the hand he took up his bundle and stick and went
out, leaving his brothers, who had not been told of
his intentions, speechless with astonishment.
Frank Mallet, after he had visited all his tenants,
drove to Sir John Greendale’s.
“We have got the route,” he said, as he
entered; “and I leave this evening. I had
a note from the Adjutant this morning saying that
will be soon enough, so you see I have time to come
over and say goodbye comfortably.”
“I do not think goodbyes are ever comfortable,”
Lady Greendale said. “One may get through
some more comfortably than others, but that is all
that can be said for the best of them.”
“I call them hateful,” Bertha put in.
“Downright hateful, Captain Mallett—especially
when anyone is going away to fight.”
“They are not pleasant, I admit,” Frank
Mallett agreed; “and I ought to have said as
comfortably as may be. I think perhaps those
who go feel it less than those who stay. They
are excited about their going; they have lots to think
about and to do; and the idea that they may not come
back again scarcely occurs to them at the time, although
they would admit its possibility or even its probability
if questioned.
