This year the preparations for the festive gathering had exceeded those of previous years, and Mrs. Rushbrooke's expectations of a brilliantly successful function were proportionately high. But she had not counted upon War. And so it came that ever as the applause following song or story died down, the Spectre drew near, and upon even the most light-hearted of the company a strange quiet would fall, and they would find themselves staring into the fire forgetful of all about them, thinking of what might be. They would have broken up early but Mrs. Rushbrooke strenuously resisted any such attempt. But the sense of the impending horror chilled the gaiety of the evening and halted the rush of the fun till the hostess gave up in despair and no longer opposed the departure of her guests.
"Mr. McPherson," she said, as that gentleman came to bid her good-night, "I am quite cross with you. You made us all feel so blue and serious that you quite spoiled our bonfire.""I wish it were only I that had spoiled it, Mrs. Rushbrooke," said Mr. McPherson gravely. "But even your graceful hospitality to-night, which has never been excelled even by yourself at the Lake of the Woods, could not make us forget, and God forgive us if we do forget.""Oh, Mr. McPherson," persisted Mrs. Rushbrooke, in a voice that strove to be gaily reproachful, "we must not become pessimistic.
We must be cheerful even if we are at war."
"Thank you for that word," said the minister solemnly. "It is a true word and a right word, and it is a word we shall need to remember more and more.""The man would drive me mad," said Mrs. Rushbrooke to Mr. Murray as they watched the boats away. "I am more than thankful that he is not my clergyman.""Yes, indeed," said her husband, who stood near her and shared her feelings of disappointment. "It seems to me he takes things far too seriously.""I wonder," said Dr. Brown, who stood with Mr. Murray preparatory to taking his departure. "I wonder if we know just how serious this thing is. I frankly confess, Mr. Rushbrooke, that my mind has been in an appalling condition of chaos this afternoon; and every hour the thing grows more terrible as I think of it. But as you say, we must cheer up.""Surely we must," replied Rushbrooke impatiently. "I am convinced this war will soon be over. In three months the British navy together with the armies of their allies will wind this thing up."Through a wonder world of moonlit waterways and dark, mysterious channels, around peninsulas and between islands, across an open traverse and down a little bay, they took their course until Jim had them safely landed at their own dock again. The magic beauty of the white light upon wooded island and gleaming lake held them in its spell for some minutes after they had landed till Mrs.
Murray came down from the bungalow to meet them.
"Safe back again," she cried with an all too evident effort to be cheery. "How lovely the night is, and how peaceful! James," she said in a low voice, turning to her husband, "I wish you would go to Isabel. I cannot get her to sleep. She says she must see you.""Why, what's up?"
"I think she has got a little fright," said his wife. "She has been sobbing pitifully."Mr. Murray found the little thing wide awake, her breath coming in the deep sobs of exhaustion that follows tempestuous tears.
"What's the trouble, Sweetheart?"
"Oh, Daddy," cried the child, flinging herself upon him and bursting anew into an ecstasy of weeping, "she--said--you would--have--to--go. But--you won't--will you--Daddy?""Why, Isabel, what do you mean, dear? Go where?""To the--war--Daddy--they said--you would--have--to go--to the war.""Who said?"
"Mabel. But--you--won't, will you, Daddy?"
"Mabel is a silly little goose," said Mr. Murray angrily. "No, never fear, my Sweetheart, they won't expect me to go. I am far too old, you know. Now, then, off you go to sleep. Do you know, the moon is shining so bright outside that the little birds can't sleep. I just heard a little bird as we were coming home cheeping away just like, you. I believe she could not go to sleep."But the child could not forget that terrible word which had rooted itself in her heart. "But you will not go; promise me, Daddy, you will not go.""Why, Sweetheart, listen to me."
"But promise me, Daddy, promise me." The little thing clung to him in a paroxy** of grief and terror.
"Listen, Isabel dear," said her father quietly. "You know I always tell you the truth. Now listen to me. I promise you I won't go until you send me yourself. Will that do?""Yes, Daddy," she said, and drew a long breath. "Now I am so tired, Daddy." Even as she spoke the little form relaxed in his arms and in a moment she was fast asleep.
As her father held her there the Spectre drew near again, but for the moment his courage failed him and he dared not look.
