More Than Conqueror (Musaicum Romance Classics). Grace Livingston Hill

      CHAPTER I

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      A tall young soldier swung off the bus at its terminal and walked briskly up Wolverton Drive.

      He was a handsome soldier, though he did not seem at all conscious of it. He had strong, well-chiseled features, heavy dark hair, and fine eyes. He walked with a kind of grave assurance, as if this was something he had fully made up his mind to do, though not as if this broad avenue were an old haunt of his; more as if he were driving himself to a sacred duty.

      Oh, it wasn't the first time he had walked that way, of course. In his school days he had passed up that road, had carefully studied its substantial houses, admired them each, and later come to search out and be interested in one particular house. He had never stepped within one of them, for his life had not been blessed with wealth and luxury, but he had admired a girl in school who lived here, and he had taken pains to find out where she lived. Not that he had a personal acquaintance with that little girl in the grade school. Oh no! They had been only children then, with but the passing acquaintance of classmates as the years progressed. But he had been interested enough to find out where she lived, and when he had found her house he had been glad, as his eyes took in the lines of the fine old stone mansion. There had been no envy in his glance. He was glad she had a background like that. It was satisfying to know it. It seemed to finish out the picture for him. But he had known then, and equally he knew now, that he did not belong in this setting. He even knew that the circumstance that had brought him here now might not be recognized by anyone belonging to her as justifying his coming. Nevertheless, he had come, and having started he was not to be turned back now at the last minute by any qualms of reason or conscience that might have made him hesitate in the past.

      At the third corner the soldier turned sharply into a broad driveway sweeping up in a pleasant curve to the old gray stone house that gave evidence of having been built a goodly number of years before.

      As if he were accustomed to treading this way, he walked quickly without hesitation, mounted the stone steps, and passed within a stone arch.

      As he stood awaiting an answer to his ring, he cast a quick comprehensive glance up and down the broad veranda, with a look in his eyes as if the quiet elegance of the place was pleasant to him. There was satisfaction in his expression.

      As he stood there he looked as if he might fit into that setting very easily. There was courtesy, strength, grace in his whole bearing, and the elderly servant who opened the door did not seem to see anything incongruous in his being there. These were days when men of the army and navy were honored guests everywhere. Moreover, his attitude and manner showed the culture of one to the manner born.

      "I would like to see Miss Blythe Bonniwell," he said, stepping into the hall as the servant swung the door wide and indicated a small reception room where he might sit down.

      "She's still in," said the woman. "She's gone up to get ready to go to her Red Cross meeting."

      "I'll not keep her long," promised the soldier understandingly.

      "Who shall I say is here?" asked the woman.

      The young man turned on her a winning grin.

      "Why, you can tell her it is Charlie Montgomery. I'm not sure she'll remember the name. It's been some time. Just tell her I'm an old schoolmate and I'd like to see her about something rather important. That is, if she can spare just a minute or two."

      "Mr. Montgomery, did you say?" asked the woman with dignity.

      "Yes, I suppose you might call it Mr. But I doubt if she would identify me that way," said the soldier with a grin. "It wasn't the way I was known, but it's all right with me if she remembers."

      "Just sit down," said the woman, with a disapproving air. "I'll call her. She'll likely be down in a short time."

      The young man entered the room indicated and sat down in the first chair that presented itself, dropping his face in his hands for an instant and drawing a quick breath almost like a petition. Then he straightened up, but he did not look about him. This was her home, her natural environment, that for long years he had often wished he might see, but he did not wish his mind to be distracted now. He must be alert and at attention when she came. This was probably a crazy thing he was doing, and yet he felt somehow he