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Page 51
"Mavonrneen is Irish," young Hugh said. "She has the second sight," and
the big old dog laid her nose on the woman's knee and lifted topaz eyes,
asking questions, and whimpered broken-heartedly.
"Dear dog," murmured the woman and drew the lovely head to her. "You saw
him." And then; "Hughie--he came to tell us. He is--dead."
"I think so," whispered young Hugh with bent head.
Then, fighting for breath, she told what had happened--the dream, the
intense happiness of it, how Brock had come smiling. "And Hugh, the only
thing he said, two or three times over, was, 'I'm coming to take
Hughie's hand.'"
The lad turned upon her a shining look. "I know, mother. I didn't hear,
of course, but I knew, when I saw him, it was for me, too. And I'm
ready. I see my way now. Mother, get Dad."
Hugh, the elder, still sleeping in his room at the far side of the
house, opened heavy eyes. Then he sprang up. "Evelyn! What is it?"
"Oh, Hugh--come! Oh, Hugh! Brock--Brock--" She could not say the words;
there was no need. Brock's father caught her hands. In bare words then
she told him.
"My dear," urged the man, "you've had a vivid dream. That's all. You
were thinking about the boys; you were only half awake; Mavourneen began
to cry--the dog means Brock. It was easy--" his voice faltered--"to--to
believe the rest."
"Hugh, I _know_, dear. Brock came to tell me. He said he would." Later,
that day, when a telegram arrived from the War Office there was no new
shock, no added certainty to her assurance. She went on: "Hughie saw
him. And Mavourneen. But I can't argue. We still have a boy, Hugh, and
he needs us--he's waiting. Oh, my dear, Hughie is going to France!"
"Thank God!" spoke Hugh's father.
Hand tight in hand like young lovers the two came across to the room
where their boy waited, tense. "Father--Dad--you'll give me back your
respect, won't you?" The strong young hand held out was shaking.
"Because I'm going, Dad. But you have to know that I was--a coward."
"_No_, Hugh."
"Yes. And Dad, I'm afraid--now. But I've got the hang of things, and
nothing could keep me. Will you, do you despise me--now--that I still
hate it--if--if I go just the same?"
The big young chap shook so that his mother, his tall mother, put her
arms about him to steady him. He clutched her hand hard and repeated,
through quivering lips, "Would you despise me still, Dad?"
For a moment the father could not answer. Then difficult tears of
manhood and maturity forced their way from his eyes and unheeded rolled
down his cheeks. With a step he put his arms about the boy as if the boy
were a child, and the boy threw his about his father's shoulders.
For a long second the two tall men stood so. The woman, standing apart,
through the shipwreck of her earthly life was aware only of happiness
safe where sorrow and loss could not touch it. What was separation,
death itself, when love stronger than death held people together as it
held Hugh and her boys and herself? Then the older Hugh stood away,
still clutching the lad's hand, smiling through unashamed tears.
"Hugh," he said, "in all America there's not a man prouder of his son
than I am of you. There's not a braver soldier in our armies than the
soldier who's to take my name into France." He stopped and steadied
himself; he went on: "It would have broken my heart, boy, if you had
failed--failed America. And your mother--and Brock and me. Failed your
own honor. It would have meant for us shame and would have bowed our
heads; it would have meant for you disaster. Don't fear for your
courage, Hugh; the Lord won't forsake the man who carries the Lord's
colors."
Young Hugh turned suddenly to his mother. "I'm at peace now. You and
Dad--honor me. I'll deserve respect from--my country. It will be a wall
around me--And--" he caught her to him and crushed his mouth to
hers--"dearest--Brock will hold my hand."
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