War; or, What happens when one loves one's enemy/Chapter 22
XXII
THE WEDDING MARCH—TO THE PUMP TROUGH
"DAVE," says I, afterward, "you certainly fixed that up grand—after unfixing it grand. You deserve a horse-trainer's prize at the next county fair—and a spanking."
Dave laughs like he'd burst open.
"Wasn't I red war and rumors of war—that day? I wonder what was the matter with me? I was fighting on both sides, wasn't I?"
"You was, Davy," says I, "and in the middle. And you done it fine. But what did she say afterward?"
"Well, let me see," says Dave, laughing. "She said she was ruined and we were all ruined, but that, maybe, if her strength and courage held out, she'd be able to rescue us all, yet—by sacrificing herself—"
"What was the ruin?"
"Lord, I don't know."
"Didn't she tell you?"
"N-no," says Dave, "I don't think she could. No one can. Something's got to happen to let us know. Maybe it's because she's a rebel. She thinks that she's the whole thing, and soon she'll have us licked and begging for our lives. She's going to try to save ours for us, so's we can beg."
"You think that's it?" asks I. Dave nods.
"Well, what's the harm in letting her think so hereafter, if she's happy with it? It's better than a fight with her. As soon as it wears off and she finds herself the only one still fighting, she'll get lonely and stop. I don't care whether she's a rebel or not, if she just stays Evelyn. I guess we all feel mighty mean about the other night. Why are you recalling it?"
"What else did she say, Davy?" asks I.
"What else? Um—she said she loved me, daddy."
"Uhu! And what did you say, Davy?"
"I said that I loved her."
"I expect that was the end of the conversation. There was nothing more to be said, was there?"
"Oh, yes. That was only the beginning. She said that she loved me the most."
"And you said—"
"That I loved her the most."
"Well, that must have been the end, not?"
"Not at all, daddy. We talked two hours longer. She said I didn't."
"Ah, and you had no answer to that, so?"
"Certainly. I said I did."
"Well—was that all?"
"No. She said she'd prove it."
"Then she had all your checkers, hadn't she?"
"No. I said she couldn't."
"Goshens! Then you had 'em!"
"Not yet. She said I should remember that—only a little while!"
"And you says you will?"
"Yes, daddy."
"And what then?"
"She cries like a baby."
"Anything more?"
"I kisses her."
"And—?"
"Intermission—arms all around."
"Well?"
"Well, then I says that I'm sorry about the other night, and that you were a brute."
"Proceed."
"She said she was sorry. That she thought she was killed. But not just yet."
"And, so—"
"I says I'm more sorry."
"And yet—"
"She says that she's more sorry and she can prove it."
"So?"
"I says she can't."
"Then she had you."
"She says, again, she can, and to remember it. Think of her when it happens."
"And you will, not?"
"No. I said I was going to forget it and she should. That I'd never make her sorry again. I really don't know what came over me that night—unless I was, at last, fighting mad at that skunk, Mallory, and taking it out on her."
"And she says so, too?"
"She says if she only could forget it! But that she had to remember it. Our salvation was in it."
"And, of course—"
"She cries, again, like a baby."
"So? And what?"
He hooks his arm in mine and drags me to the horse trough, whistling the wedding march!
"If we can just jolly her a little longer the war will be over and she'll be licked and have to stop fighting. Of course, she'll never give up tillafter—and then—"
He whistles some more of the wedding march and leads me back.
"You know the law is that a husband may castigate his wife with a stick—provided it is no thicker than his thumb. See! My thumb's about an inch thick. Thanks to you, daddy. Understand?"
"You'd never do it, David," says I. "You'll never be like that day again. You'd better enlist in the Union army, too—for protection. You were too young when you came home. But you could get in now. You re much older-looking since you fell in love."
"Not on your wafer," says Dave. "They don't take any one in love. It's a fundamental disability. You and Jon can have all the war you want. They'll take you. You're not in love. I've got something better on hand. And there it is!" he says, as Evelyn comes up the yard. "She is the captain, the general, the commander-in-chief! 'N a rum tum tummy! 'N a rum tum tum!"
He runs off to meet her, singing:
"Wie komme' die Soldat' in den Himmel?
Wie komme' die Soldat' in den Himmel?
Auf a grosse' weisse' Shimmel
Komme' die Soldat' in den Himmel!"
He dragged her clean up to where I was, and, bowing, with their hands together, they sung at me:
"Ja, in mei' Vater's Garten
Da wachst 'n schönes Blümelein—"
"And, here's the flower, daddy," says Dave.
Then he drags her away again, and in a minute I saw them on the horses riding and yelling after each other up the Red Rock Road.
Such foolishness!
Yet—do you blame me for not thinking of any trouble when Dave and Evelyn was like that? What did all that of the other day mean after this? Nothing!