But whatever Philip May, or any other, was battling with in silence of heart, was presently lost, swallowed up, in the shock which shook the whole nation to its foundations, when, on a night of February, two hundred and fifty American seamen were hurled, without herald, out of a friendly port into the port of the silent Unknown.134
The calamity brought the nation as one man to its feet. A great shout for revenge reverberated from ocean to ocean; and while the conservatives frantically begged the yelling mob to keep still—for God’s sake—others as frantically shrieked to them to keep on—for man’s—for humanity’s sake, in the shape of Spanish-starved Cubans. A strong people felt its great, untried sinews swelling, the young giant felt its unmatched muscles straining and pulling, and spoiling for a fight. “Manifest destiny” was at work with its hideous means—life went between a hurrah and a sob—there was no longer any individual life—it was all national.
And amid the passing of ultimatums and resolutions of Congress demanding the immediate evacuation of Cuba by the inimical Spanish, and the haughty responses of the proud Dons to the “Yankee pigs,”135 the latter, with characteristic directness, sent their troops marching to the front. On a gray afternoon in April the gallant First Regiment, to the patter of roses, and clanging of bells, and booming and whistling, and cheering and bugling, and waving of banners, marched out and away from the soldiers’ paradise, the Presidio of San Francisco.136 But the ranks were soon filled in to overflowing by the call for volunteers, California answering mightily with ten times her quota—men, incapacitated by years, or physical inadequacies, or family obligations, weeping with disappointment because their country refused to accept their mortgaged lives. During those days women’s lips took on that close-pressed look which comes to them in time of war, despite the brave cheer of their words.
Suddenly the tension broke. On the 1st of May occurred—Dewey! And any little shaver, from ocean to ocean, could tell you, with the pride of a veteran, the story of that famous little ante-breakfast sail of the Asiatic squadron into the beautiful bay of Manila where Commodore George Dewey so gallantly and gracefully led the gallant Dons their piteous dance to death, wiping, within seven hours, the entire Spanish fleet off the face of the Pacific Ocean.137
All hearts turned breathlessly westward toward the island spoil of war.138 The rendezvousing at San Francisco of the troops destined for the Manila expedition went picturesquely on, the great military camps at the Presidio and Bay District track grew into white-tented cities, the streets were alive with blue-coats and fluttering flags. Down at the ferries the women were receiving the incoming soldiers with luncheons and roses. Everywhere, singly and in bands, women were cutting and sewing abdominal bandages and comfort-bags—and love knows what!—for some—any—dear life. Out at the camps they fluttered to and fro bearing hampers of eatables—and uneatables—and shoes and underclothing, for the boys of varied and, ofttimes, piteous fortunes. There was not a moment left in Jean Willard’s life in those memorable days to justify any regret or self-despair—she had found, for the time being, an absorbing interest beyond self, and she gave herself to it with fanatic zeal.
And her face began to wear the white, spiritual light of a devotee. And Daniel Willard, looking at her, felt his heart contract with anxiety.
“You will wear yourself out with those boys,” he ventured to expostulate.
“It’s all in a good cause,” she laughed, gathering up a heap of magazines, and dropping them into a box ready for delivery at camp.
“Yes—but you are robbing—”
“Daniel to pay Paul? I know, dear, but it is only for a little while, you know. And, speaking of Paul—our tin-soldier, Sergeant Stein, I mean—I promised to bring him something good to eat this evening. Will you go with me to the Presidio after dinner?”
“Certainly—since you have promised. But it seems to me a little rest—”
“Rest!” echoed the girl blithely, stretching her arms high in air. “Why, I’ve been resting all my life. Besides, I’m perfectly happy doing these things. No rest—to be happy, uncle mine.”
The fleeting, haunted look in the eyes above the laughing mouth robbed his own of light.
They left the car at Lombard Street, walking westward out the broad boulevard, under the sweet, still peace of the early evening sky. A bugle floated out from the distant trees of the Reservation, rousing the sleeping echoes. A cavalryman, trotting by on his black charger, turned to look again at the fleetly moving, pale-faced girl with the wondrous uplifted eyes. For to Jean the beauty of the evening, the environment, the call of the bugle, were full of an unspeakable, exquisite harmony.
They entered the Reservation gates, moving with the crowd of visiting sightseers through the white-tented, sentry-guarded camp streets, till they found their guardsman, Sergeant Stein, standing in his blue army-coat outside his tent-door. He took, with exaggerated thanks, the box of dainties he had jestingly demanded, and strolled about with them searching out their young Jewish and other acquaintances among the volunteers. Lights began to gleam opalescently through tentings, the sentries continued their monotonous pacing in the sands among the curious throng.
A superior officer accosted Paul Stein and, with a military salute, he bade his friends good night, while they continued on to the car terminus at the foot of the grounds. They stood still on the elevation among a group of soldiers, and faced the strangely impressive scene before them—the ghostly illuminated tents stretching north, east, and west to the firs and pines shadowing the long foot-bridge leading barrackward—thousands of strong, soldierly men looming up darkly, big with destiny, against the serene sky flushed now with the last rose-streaks of a lingering sunset; beyond the waters rose the eternal, watching hills. Two tall, bearded civilians sprang from an approaching car, stood a moment in consultation, and passed perforce before them. The nearer one bent a quick, recognizing regard upon them, and hats were raised in salutation.
“Ah, Philip,” murmured Daniel, noting the glance pausing for a second time over his niece’s face as they passed hurriedly on.
“That was the Governor with him,” he remarked. “I hear they are on very friendly terms.”
He received no answer.
He turned to look at her. “My dear,” he said, with startled tenderness, “let us go home at once.”
“We were going to wait for ‘taps,’” she reminded him in surprise.
“Yes. But I think I have changed my mind. Let us take this car.”
The next day he presented himself at Dr. May’s office.
“You are surprised to see me,” he suggested, when he was admitted, and the doctor motioned him to be seated.
“Yes—but very glad,” returned Philip, seating himself opposite his visitor.
“Of course you cannot know. Yet last night—at the Presidio—I believe I was not mistaken—it occurred to me afterward that you had regarded strangely, had noticed—”
“Your niece?”
“Yes.”
“She is not well—is that what you have come to say?” He spoke hurriedly, peremptorily.
“But you are mistaken,” faltered Daniel, putting up a trembling hand. “That is the strangeness of it—she is very well. But you noticed how she looks? She is fading.”
“She looked paler—and thinner, I thought,” he acquiesced, roughly. “Does she complain?”
“No, she laughs. All day she is occupied from morning till night with Red Cross work and looking after those friendless soldiers at the hospital. She gives herself no rest.”
“Her music?”
“She plays patriotic airs. She does not sing.”
Philip smiled with bitter intuition. “There is—some one in the army, perhaps,” he began.
“Oh, no, no,” interrupted Daniel, positively. “There is no one, but—” He stopped, struck abruptly with a possible idea.
Philip laughed shortly, as though he had been answered. “Take her away,” he said, coldly. “She is too intense. That sort of strain would break down the calmest.”
“Where shall I take her?”
“Oh, ‘any old place,’ as the soldiers in camp say, only don’t keep her here.” The even edge of his handsome teeth gleamed in a smile.
“You advise it—seriously?”
“Yes.”
“But she will not go. She will laugh at me and say she is quite well.”
“Use a subterfuge. Say your physician has ordered—the mountains—for your health.”
Daniel flushed. After a pause, “You seem to understand her,” he murmured.
“Yes,” Philip smiled.