CHAPTER XIV

  “The golden hours, on angel wings,
  Flew o’er me and my dearie.”

  BURNS

The evening that followed was of the brightest and happiest; even the adieus spoken to the soldier who was just leaving his home did not sadden it.  They were in such a state of exaltation as to see everything with courageous and hopeful eyes, and sent Robert off with the feeling that all these horrible realities they had known so long were but bogies to frighten foolish children, and that he would come back to them wearing, at the very least, the stars of a major-general.  Whatever sombre and painful thoughts filled Ercildoune’s heart he held there, that no gloom might fall from him upon these fresh young lives, nor sadden the cheery expectancy of his son.

Surrey, having carried the first line of defence, prepared for a vigorous assault upon the second.  Like all eager lovers, his primary anxiety was to hear “Yes”; afterwards, the day.  To that end he was pleading with every resource that love and impatience could lend; but Francesca shook her head, and smiled, and said that was a long way off,—­that was not to be thought of, at least till the war was over, and her soldier safe at home; but he insisted that this was the flimsiest, and poorest of excuses; nay, that it was the very reverse of the true and sensible idea, which was of course wholly on his side.  He had these few weeks at home, and then must away once more to chances of battle and death.  He did not say this till he had exhausted every other entreaty; but at last, gathering her close to him with his one loving arm,—­“how fortunate,” he had before said, “that it is the left arm, because if it were the other I could not hold you so near my heart!”—­so holding her, he glanced down at the empty sleeve, and whispered, “My darling! who knows?  I have been wounded so often, and am now only a piece of a fellow to come to you.  It may be something more next time, and then I shall never call you wife.  It would make no difference hereafter, I know:  we belong to each other for time and eternity.  But then I should like to feel that we were something more to one another than even betrothed lovers, before the end comes, if come it does, untimely.  Be generous, dearie, and say yes.”

He did not give utterance to another fear, which was that by some device she might again be taken away from him; that some cruel plan might be put in execution to separate them once more.  He would not take the risk; he would bind her to him so securely that no device, however cunning,—­no plan, however hard and shrewd,—­could again divide them.

She hesitated long; was long entreated; but the result was sure, since her own heart seconded every prayer he uttered.  At last she consented; but insisted that he should go home at once, see the mother and father who were waiting for him with such anxious hearts, give to them—­as was their due—­at least a part of the time, and then, when her hasty bride-preparations were made, come back and take her wholly to himself.  Thus it was arranged, and he left her.