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Page 62
Betty mimicked his accent so well that Mary laughed for the first time
since her return. "Well, he's got a 'eart in _'im_!" she answered,
"though I never would have imagined it the day I made my entrance here.
He was like a grand, graven image. Oh, Betty, it _is_ nice to know that
people like you and are sorry that you are going. Even if it does make
you feel sort of weepy it takes a big part of the sting out of leaving."
Betty went with her in to Washington, and stayed with her until the
train left. Hawkins was the only one they encountered on their way out,
and Mary took the proffered lunch-box with a smile that was very close
to tears. Her voice faltered over her words of thanks, and when she had
been handed into the 'bus she dared not trust herself to look back at
the faithful old servitor in the doorway. Once, just as they swung
around the curve that hid the beautiful grounds from sight, she leaned
out for one more look, then hastily pulled down her veil.
At the station, as they sat waiting for her train, Betty said, "I'll
write every week and tell you all the news, but don't feel that you must
answer regularly. I know how your time will be occupied. But I should
like a postal now and then, telling me how Jack is. You know," she went
on, stooping to retie her shoe, "he and I have been corresponding for
some time, and I think of him as one of my oldest and best friends. I
shall always be anxious for news of him."
Betty could fairly feel the surprise in Mary's face, even though she was
stooping forward too far to see it, and she heard with inward amusement
her astonished exclamations. "Well, of all things! I didn't know you
were writing to each other! Jack never said a word about it, and yet he
sent you a message nearly every time he wrote to me!"
She was still puzzling about it when her train was called, and she had
to take leave of Betty. All too soon the last familiar face was out of
sight, and the long, lonely journey home was begun.
It was near the close of the third day's journey when she remembered
Phil's book and took it out of its wrappings. She was not in a reading
humour, but time hung heavy, and he had said to open it when she reached
the desert. Besides, she was a trifle curious to see what kind of a book
he had chosen for her. It was a very small one. She could soon skim
through it.
"_The Jester's Sword_" was the title. Not a very attractive subject for
any one in her mood, she thought. It would be a sorry smile at best that
the gayest of jesters could bring to her. She turned the leaves
listlessly, then sat up with an air of attention. There on the
title-page was a line from Stevenson, the very thing Madam Chartley had
said to her the day she left Warwick Hall. "_To renounce when that shall
be necessary, and not be embittered._"
Phil had chosen wisely after all if his little tale were to tell her how
to do it. Then a paragraph on the first page claimed her attention.
"_Because he was born in Mars' month, the bloodstone became his signet,
sure token that undaunted courage would be the jewel of his soul._"
Why, she and Jack were both born in Mars' month, and each had a
bloodstone, and each had to answer to an awful call for courage. It was
dear of Phil to choose such an appropriate story. Settling herself
comfortably back in the seat, she began to read, never dreaming what a
difference in all her after life the little tale was to make.
CHAPTER XIII
THE JESTER'S SWORD
Because he was born in Mars' month, which is ruled by that red war-god,
they gave him the name of a red star--Aldebaran; the red star that is
the eye of Taurus. And because he was born in Mars' month, the
bloodstone became his signet, sure token that undaunted courage would be
the jewel of his soul.
Now all his brothers were as stalwart and as straight of limb as he, and
each one's horoscope held signs foretelling valorous deeds. But
Aldebaran's so far out-blazed them all, with comet's trail and planets
in most favourable conjunction, that from his first year it was known
the Sword of Conquest should be his. This sword had passed from sire to
son all down a line of kings. Not to the oldest one always, as did the
throne, though now and then the lot fell so, but to the one to whom the
signs all pointed as being worthiest to wield it.
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