CHAPTER XXXII

Courtland opened Mother Marshall’s letter with a feeling of relief and anticipation.  Here at least would be a fresh, pure breath of sweetness.  His soul was worn and troubled with the experience of the past two days.  A great loneliness possessed him when he thought of Tennelly, or when he looked forward to his future, for he truly was convinced that he never should turn to the love of woman again; and so the dreams of home and love and little children that had had their normal part in his thoughts of the future were cut out, and the days stretched forward in one long round of duty.

     DEAR PAUL [it began, familiarly]: 

     This is Stephen Marshall’s mother and I’m calling you by
     your first name because it seems to bring my boy back again
     to be writing so familiar-like to one of his comrades.

We’ve been wondering, Father and I, since you said you didn’t have any real mother of your own, whether you mightn’t like to come home Christmas to us for a little while and borrow Stephen’s mother.  I’ve got a wonderful hungering in my heart to hear a little more about my boy’s death.  I couldn’t have borne it just at first, because it was all so hard to give him up, and he just beginning to live his earthly life.  But now since I can realize him over by the Father, I would like to know it all.  Bonnie says that you saw Stephen go, and I thought perhaps you could spare a little time to run out West and tell me.

Of course, if you are busy and have other plans you mustn’t let this bother you.  I can wait till some time when you are coming West and can stop over for a day.  But if you care to come home to Mother Marshall and let her play you are her boy for a little while, you will make us all very happy.

When Courtland had finished reading the letter he put his head down on his desk and shed the first tears his eyes had known since he was a little boy.  To have a home and mother-heart open to him like that in the midst of all his sorrow and perplexity fairly unmanned him.  By and by he lifted up his head and wrote a hearty acceptance of the invitation.

That was in November.

In the middle of December Tennelly and Gila were married.

It was not any of Courtland’s choosing that he was best man.  He shrank inexpressibly from even attending that wedding.  He tried to arrange for his Western trip so early as to avoid it.  Not that he had any more personal feeling about Gila, but because he dreaded to see his friend tied up to such a future.  It seemed as if the wedding was Tennelly’s funeral.

But Tennelly had driven up to the seminary on three successive weeks and begged that Courtland would stand by him.

“You’re the only one in the wide world who knows all about it, and understands, Court,” he pleaded, and Courtland, looking at his friend’s wistful face, feeling, as he did, that Tennelly was entering a living purgatory, could not refuse him.