The Trumpeter Swan | Page 7

"No, thank God."
Their eyes were seeing other things than these quiet hills. Things they

wanted to forget. But they did not want to forget the high exaltation
which had sent them over, or the quiet conviction of right which had
helped them to carry on. What the people at home might do or think did
not matter. What mattered was their own adjustment to the things
which were to follow.
Randy went up-stairs, took off his uniform, bathed and came down in
the garments of peace.
"Glad to get out of your uniform?" the Major asked.
"I believe I am. Perhaps if I'd been an officer, I shouldn't."
"Everybody couldn't be. I've no doubt you deserved it."
"I could have pulled wires, of course, before I went over, but I
wouldn't."
From somewhere within the big house came the reverberation of a
Japanese gong.
Randy rose. "I'm going over to lunch. I'd rather face guns, but Mother
will like it. You can have yours here."
"Not if I know it," the Major rose, "I'm going to share the fatted calf."
VI
It was late that night when the Major went to bed. The feast in Randy's
honor had lasted until ten. There had been the shine of candles, and the
laughter of the women, the old Judge's genial humor. Through the
windows had come the fragrance of honeysuckle and of late roses.
Becky had sung for them, standing between two straight white candles.
"In the beauty of the lilies, Christ was born across the sea, With the
glory in his bosom which transfigures you and me. As he died to make
men holy, let us die to make men free While God is marching on----"
The last time the Major had heard a woman sing that song had been in

a little French town just after the United States had gone into the war.
She was of his own country, red-haired and in uniform. She had stood
on the steps of a stone house and weary men had clustered about
her--French, English, Scotch, a few Americans. Tired and spent, they
had gazed up at her as if they drank her in. To them she was more than
a singing woman. She was the daughter of a nation of dreamers, the
daughter of a nation which made its dreams come true! Behind her
stood a steadfast people, and--God was marching on----!
He had had his leg then, and after that there had been dreadful fighting,
and sometimes in the midst of it the voice of the singing woman had
come back to him, stiffening him to his task.
And here, miles away from that war-swept land, another woman sang.
And there was honeysuckle outside, and late roses--and poppies, and
there was Peace. And the world which had not fought would forget. But
the men who had fought would remember.
He heard Randy's voice, sharp with nerves. "Sing something else,
Becky. We've had enough of war----"
The Major leaned across the table. "When did you last hear that song,
Paine?"
"On the other side, a red-haired woman--whose lover had been killed. I
never want to hear it again----"
"Nor I----"
It was as if they were alone at the table, seeing the things which they
had left behind. What did these people know who had stayed at home?
The words were sacred--not to be sung; to be whispered--over the
graves of--France.
CHAPTER II
STUFFED BIRDS

I
The Country Club was, as Judge Bannister had been the first to declare,
"an excrescence."
Under the old régime, there had been no need for country clubs. The
houses on the great estates had been thrown open for the county
families and their friends. There had been meat and drink for man and
beast.
The servant problem had, however, in these latter days, put a curb on
generous impulse. There were no more niggers underfoot, and
hospitality was necessarily curtailed. The people who at the time of the
August Horse Show had once packed great hampers with delicious
foods, and who had feasted under the trees amid all the loveliness of
mellow-tinted hills, now ordered by telephone a luncheon of
cut-and-dried courses, and motored down to eat it. After that, they
looked at the horses, and with the feeling upon them of the futility of
such shows yawned a bit. In due season, they held, the horse would be
as extinct as the Dodo, and as mythical as the Centaur.
The Judge argued hotly for the things which had been. Love of the
horse was bred in the bone of Old Dominion men. He swore by all the
gods that when he had to part with his bays and ride behind gasoline,
he would be ready to die.
Becky agreed with her grandfather. She adored the old traditions,