Americans -- Cuba -- Fiction; Spanish-American War, 1898 -- Fiction
Ruth Wakefield was no flirt and never had been one; she was quickwitted
and she had a wide command of language, and she smiled as she went on
upon her rounds among the little cots when she remembered that neither
of them really knew the other's name; she liked the name he'd given to
her ... she liked the way he said it ... she liked the fine expression
of his speaking countenance ... she liked his eyes ... she liked his
manly way of meeting whatever came to him with courage and with cheerful
readiness to serve the country they both loved ... her heart went out to
him in very many ways, and, then, she looked again at those soft fingers
that his hand had held ... she seemed to feel again the subtle,
unexplainable, electric thrill that crept through all her being at his
touch ... that seemed to answer to the look within his eyes ... the
accent on his tongue, and, then, she blushed again and went about her
work within that shadowy hospital where many strong men lay in bitter
pain with renewed courage and with a new and hither-to unknown
tenderness.
She stood, at length, beside a cot whereon lay one whose face was hidden
while surgeons dressed a gaping wound he had received upon his head;
Ruth stopped and gave her scissors that she always carried in the pocket
of her apron to the one who needed them for use in cutting away the dark
hair that grew along the edges of the wound; it clung in tiny ringlets
and was black as night and very soft and thick.... Ruth could not help
remembering, that her hands had often strayed among such soft and dark
and clinging ringlets, but she shuddered as she thought of them and of
Estrella who had deemed herself to be the only woman Victorio Colenzo
had ever loved, and, then, she wondered if all men were like to that one
she had married thinking him to be as he professed to be ... judging him
to be as truthful as she was ... she wondered if the man she had just
left would be like that under similar circumstances ... he was ready in
his hints at tenderness ... was he, too, perhaps, a gay deceiver?
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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