Jane had to tell of her father's new Unit, now almost complete, of Mr. Murray's new battalion, now in barracks, of the Patriotic Fund and how splendidly it was mounting up into the hundreds of thousands, and of the Women's War Association, of which she was Secretary, and of the Young Women's War Organisation, of which she was President; and all with such animation, with such radiant smiles, with such flashing eyes, such keen swift play of thought and wit that Larry could hardly believe his eyes and ears, so immense was the change that had taken place in Jane during these ten months. He could hardly believe, as he glanced across the table at her vivid face, that this brilliant, quick-witted, radiant girl was the quiet, demure Jane of his college days, his good comrade, his chum, whom he had been inclined to patronise. What was this that had come to her? What had released those powers of mind and soul which he could now recognise as being her own, but which he had never seen in action. As in a flash it came to him that this mighty change was due to the terribly energising touch of War. The development which in normal times would have required years to accomplish, under the quickening impulse of this mighty force which in a day was brought to bear upon the life of Canada, this development became a thing of weeks and months only. War had poured its potent energies through her soul and her soul had responded in a new and marvellous efflorescence. Almost over night as it were the flower of an exquisite womanhood, strong, tender, sweet, beautiful, had burst into bloom. Her very face was changed.
The activities with which her days and nights were filled had quickened all her vital forces so that the very texture and colour of her skin radiated the bloom of vigorous mental and physical health. Yet withal there remained the same quick, wise sympathy, quicker, wiser than before war's poignant sorrows had disciplined her heart; the same far-seeing vision that anticipated problems and planned for their solution; the same proud sense of honour that scorned things mean and gave quick approval to things high. As he listened Larry felt himself small and poor in comparison with her.
More than that he had the sense of being excluded from her life.
The war and its activities, its stern claims, its catastrophic events had taken possession of the girl's whole soul. Was there a place for him in this new, grand scheme of life? A new and terrible master had come into the lordship of her heart. Had love yielded its high place? To that question Larry was determined to have an answer to-night. To-morrow he was off to the Front. The growing fury of the war, its appalling losses, made it increasingly doubtful that he should ever see her face again. What her answer would be he could not surely say. But to-night he would have it from her. If "yes" there was time to-morrow to be married; if "no"then the more gladly he would go to the war.
After dinner the Doctor and the Colonel took their way to the study to smoke and talk over matters connected with military organisation, in regard to which the Doctor confessed himself to be woefully ignorant. Jane led Larry into the library, where a bright fire was burning.
"Awfully jolly, this fire. We'll do without the lights," said Larry, touching the switch and drawing their chairs forward to the fire, wondering the while how he should get himself to the point of courage necessary to his purpose. Had it been a few months ago how easy it would have been. He could see himself with easy camaraderie put his arm about Jane with never a quiver of voice or shiver of soul, and say to her, "Jane, you dear, dear thing, won't you marry me?" But at that time he had neither desire nor purpose.
Now by some damnable perversity of things, when heart and soul were sick with the longing for her, and his purpose set to have her, he found himself nerveless and shaking like a silly girl. He pushed his chair back so that, unaware to her, his eyes could rest upon her face, and planned his approach. He would begin by speaking of Helen, of her courage, of her great loss, then of her supreme regret, at which point he would make his plea. But Jane would give him no help at all. Silent she sat looking into the fire, all the vivacity and brilliance of the past hour gone, and in its place a gentle, pensive sadness. The firelight fell on her face, so changed from what it had been in those pre-war days, now so long ago, yet so familiar and so dear. To-morrow at this hour he would be far down the line with his battalion, off for the war. What lay beyond that who could say? If she should refuse--"God help me then," he groaned aloud, unthinking.
"What is it, Larry?" she said, turning her face quickly toward him.
"I was just thinking, Jane, that to-morrow I--that is--" He paused abruptly.
"Oh, Larry, I know, I know." Her hands went quickly to her breast.
In her eyes he saw a look of pain so acute, so pitiful, that he forgot all his plan of approach.
"Jane," he cried in a voice sharp with the intensity of his feeling.
In an instant they were both on their feet and facing each other.
"Jane, dear, dear Jane, I love you so, and I want you so." He stretched out his arms to take her.
Startled, her face gone deadly pale, she put out her hands against his breast, pushing him away from her.
