A MOTHER'S DREAD
Little Jim came over somewhat earlier than usual in the morning. He had
returned to his own room adjoining his father's as soon as the
physicians deemed it wise to permit, and the permission was given
earlier than others might have deemed wise because the doctors, both
senior and junior, agreed that Dwight's recovery would be retarded if
the boy were not close at hand, with his fond smile and caressing touch,
eager to answer the faintest call. There was something more than
pathetic in the way the somber deep-set eyes of the weak and broken man,
so infinitely humbled in his own sight, now followed Jimmy's every
movement about the room, and as soon as Dwight was strong enough to
leave his bed for a moment at a time he would be up again and again
during the night hours to gaze into Jimmy's sleeping face, to softly
touch his hand or forehead. Stratton, of the hospital force, detailed
for duty with the major, told later how the big tears would gather in
the major's eyes as he bent over the unconscious sleeper; how, many a
time he would find the major kneeling by the bedside, his lips moving in
prayer. Marion's eyes welled over when this was told her, though it
could hardly have been news. She and all who knew him in the old days
must have known how, with clearing faculties, the strong and resolute
man would suffer in the consciousness of the cruel wrong he had done his
boy, must have realized the depth of his contrition, and probably
guessed with fair accuracy the intensity of his grieving and of his
thoughts of her--the wife he had so utterly loved, so sadly
lost--Margaret, the devoted mother of his only son.
And realizing this, there had come a vital question to the mind of
Marion Ray. What was to be now the father's attitude toward this
girl-wife--she who had been set in Margaret's place, never for a moment
to fill it? All Minneconjou was asking itself what would be her status,
this beautiful young creature, when reason fully resumed its sway and
Dwight was once more able to assume the reins of domestic authority?
Thus far all that was known was that estrangement existed. She, herself,
had sobbingly told her story to eager if not always sympathetic souls.
"He turns from me almost in loathing--he for whom I would gladly die!"
was her melodramatic utterance to one of her hearers, and it was quite
enough to start the story that there would certainly be a separation
just so soon as Dwight could effect it. Meantime, Inez had ever her
faithful Felicie, her phaeton, her flowers from town, her lovely gowns
and fluffy wraps, her long hours abed after sun-up, her late hours and
suppers, concerning which kitchen cabinets of officers' row had
superabundant information, and a certain firm in Silver Hill a
swift-growing account, on the face of which the item, "Case Pommery Sec,
Pints," appeared with a frequency suggestive of supper parties of
several people instead of only one or two. The domestics at the Dwights'
were a disloyal lot, if Felicie's views were accepted, but as members of
the establishment they resented it that the "frog-eating Feelissy"
should dare to give them orders. "Madame much objected to their late
hours." "It was Madame's wish they should be in their rooms by eleven
o'clock, and that even when there was a dance they should be home by
twelve." Their rooms were under the low mansard, on what might be called
the third floor, and a back staircase led from the kitchen to the upper
regions; therefore, there was no need of their entering the dining-room
late at night. Still, they saw no reason why a bolt should have been
placed on the door. They said improper things at the advent of that
obstruction during Foster's brief visit, and, after his unlamented
departure, the spare bedroom on the lower floor, assigned to that
distinguished officer, had been most ostentatiously aired. Foster's
consumption of cigarettes was something abnormal, two receivers being
sometimes left in the dining-room over night, both well burdened with
ashes and discolored ends--the only tips, by the way, the parting guest,
apparently, had time to leave.
No, those servitors had rebelled at heart against both mistress and
maid, but the master's dictum had for a time enforced obedience. Now,
however, they were in almost open revolt. "It was her that drove him
crazy or he'd never have beaten Master Jimmy!" was the comprehensive
verdict. Yet housewives who heard their tales and reported them to their
lords met sometimes with rebuff. "Growl because they're sent to bed at
eleven o'clock, do they? They'd growl the harder if ordered to sit up
till then," was one way the unresponsive husband had of settling the
story. But wives, who are wiser in the ways of the domestic world, felt
sure there was something coming to explain it all, and something
came--though, so far from explaining, it seemed to make matters all the
more thrillingly inexplicable.
Jimmy, as has been said, came earlier. Daddy had been up quite a while
during the night and the doctor had come over before sick call. Mamma
wasn't quite well, and Doctor Wallen had directed that daddy be
undisturbed and left to sleep, if possible, during the morning. Mamma,
of course, never came to breakfast at all now. She had her chocolate in
her room, prepared by Felicie, and seldom appeared until long after
Jimmy was out of the house. Indeed, he seldom now met mamma at all, this
in spite of the fact that, since the major's seizure, mamma had declined
all invitations to dine or sup elsewhere, and such invitations had
ceased coming, when now with entire propriety she might accept, if with
entire propriety invitations could be extended. Minneconjou society was
nearly unanimous in the view that, so long as her husband saw no
impropriety in the lady's conduct, she must be bidden. Now that he only
saw her in the presence of the doctor or the nurse, and she had for two
weeks declined to attend, there was warrant for the omission of her name
from social functions. Jimmy lunched either at Aunt Marion's, with some
of his friends, or had a chosen chum to lunch with him at home. Anything
Master Jim desired the kitchen cabinet accorded without demur. He dined
for the present with Aunt Marion, or "had his rations," as he said, when
daddy was served at seven.
Mamma, attended by Felicie, dined later, in her accustomed state.
Mamma's appetite was very delicate and had to be stimulated, he said
with unconscious truth, and this morning, this particular morning, he
had had to wait for his breakfast. There was some kind of a squabble
between Felicie and the folks in the kitchen. He couldn't understand it.
They didn't like her having beaux around late at night--swore they'd
seen a fellow prowling about there two or three times, and only just
missed nabbing him at the foot of the back stairs last night, and
Felicie was white with rage. She said Butts, the groom, was a _cocaine_
(though _he_ never kept any, and Felicie did) and she called the cook
_coshon_, and scolded both for having disturbed daddy. Daddy got as far
as the back stairs with his revolver, they said, before the nurse could
get him back, and they swore it wasn't their doing, but hers--her scream
that woke him, and even the sentry heard it out on No. 4 and yelled for
the corporal, and they nearly caught somebody that hid in the woodshed,
and "wasn't it funny, I never heard a thing!" and then Jimmy stopped
short, for Priscilla had stepped to Aunt Marion's side at the little
desk, and Aunt Marion was very pale. Priscilla had thrown him one
warning glance, as though to say "Hush." But Aunt Marion asked a
question.
"What time did this happen, Jimmy?"
"Why, after twelve, the nurse told the doctor. But, _wasn't_ it funny
that I didn't hear a thing of it?"
"Hear what, Jimmy?" said a voice, and Sandy, an hour late for breakfast,
stood at the open door.
"Go fetch some water, quick!" said Priscilla, and Jim went like a shot,
for Sandy Ray stood just one moment, pallid and uncomprehending, then,
with a cry, sprang to his mother's side, for her eyes had closed, her
head was drooping on Priscilla's arm. "Don't touch her, Sandy! Let
me----It's--it'll be over in a minute! She has had one or two little
turns like this!" And then Jim came running with a brimming glass. Mrs.
Ray sipped slowly, lifted her head, put forth a feeble, wavering hand
toward Sandy and faintly smiled. "How--foolish!" she muttered. "You
shall have your coffee in a moment, Sandy," but Priscilla, with
determined face, stood her ground and retained her hold. "Don't let her
rise yet," said she warningly, her eyes on his face, "and--don't ask
questions of anybody. Wait!"
For reasons of his own, Dr. Wallen, after hearing from the attendant of
the stifled scream downstairs at 12:25, gave instructions to speak of it
to nobody but the post surgeon when he came. He did not see, he did not
ask to see, Madame. He did not wish to see Felicie, but that ubiquitous
young person was on the landing and the verge of tears. Madame's rest
also had been cruelly disturbed by this disturbance the most
disreputable made by these _miserables_, the _domestiques_ of _Monsieur
le Commandant_. Madame not until after dawn had been able to repose
herself, and as for Felicie, "me who you speak," nothing but the
pathetic condition of Madame could persuade her to remain another day in
a such establishment, wherein she, the experienced, the
most-recommended, the companion of high nobility, the all-devoted, had
been subject to insolence the most frightful----at which point the rear
door to the landing opened, and in came cook, all bristling for combat,
and the wordy battle would have reopened then and there but for Wallen's
stern, "Silence, both of you! Pull each other's hair to your heart's
content in the cellar, but not one word here." Then hied him homeward.
When the senior surgeon came over later, the patient was sleeping, and,
after hearing that Wallen had been there, he left without interrogating
the nurse. All seemed going well, so Waring had nothing of especial
consequence to tell the colonel when dropping in at the office later.
Even the officer of the day, in response to the question, "Anything
special to report, sir?" failed to make the faintest mention of the
excitement reported by No. 4 as occurring soon after twelve. But it was
no fault of the officer of the day. He had other and, presumably, far
more important matters to mention first, and by the time he had told
that two sergeants, three corporals and a dozen men had been run in by
the patrols, many of them battered, most of them drunk, and all of them
out of quarters, out of the post and in the thick of a row over at
Skid's; that one of the guard had been slashed with a knife in the hands
of a half-breed; that the patrol had been pelted with bottles, glasses
and bar-room bric-a-brac; that Lieutenant Stowe had been felled by a
missile that flattened the bridge of his nose, and that the prison room
was filled to the limit, the colonel would hear no more. He ordered his
horse and a mounted orderly, strode to the guard-house to personally
look over the prisoners, then set forth to town in search of the
sheriff.
So the old officer of the day and the old guard were relieved and went
about their business, and while the colonel was closeted with civilian
officials in town a new story started the rounds at Minneconjou--a story
that only slowly found its way to the officers' club or quarters, for,
if the commanding officer didn't care to hear it, Captain Rollis, the
old officer of the day, cared not to refer to it, but there was one set
of quarters besides that of Major Dwight's in which some portion of the
story, at least, had been anticipated.
Unable to sleep, filled with anxiety about her firstborn, Marion Ray
after midnight had left her room and stolen over to his, hoping vainly
that he might have made his way thither. But the bed was undisturbed,
the room was empty. Then she thought perhaps he might have fallen asleep
in an easy-chair in the parlor; but the parlor, too, was empty, the
lights turned low. The front door was closed for the night and bolted,
so she went to the kitchen and found the back door ajar. Somewhere out
on sentry post there was for a moment a murmur of voices, then silence
fell again, except for distant sounds at the ford--sounds to which they
were becoming accustomed, though still unreconciled.
For a while she waited irresolute, vaguely distressed, then, finally,
returned to the upper floor and once again entered Sandy's room and
gazed wistfully about her. All was darkness, but the faint flutter at
the west window told her the light curtain was blowing outward, so she
went thither, drew it in and fastened it, then stepped to the other
opening to the south and looked out over the dark valley of the
Minneconjou, the sharp ridge that spanned the far horizon, and the
brilliant, spangled sky above. And while she gazed, she listened, hoping
every minute to hear the sound of his coming, even though it was no
longer the light, quick, springy step that before his wound was so like
the step she so well remembered--his father's, in the old days of the
--th. She was just turning away disappointed when far up at the west she
heard the shrill cry, "Corporal of the guard, No. 4!" heard the prompt
echo of No. 3, the more distant calls of 2 and 1, and, even before these
last, had heard the swift footfalls of the summoned guardian taking the
short cut across the parade. Two--three minutes she waited, listening
for the explanation. Vaguely, dimly, she could make out the form of No.
3 standing at the edge of the sloping bluff, listening, apparently, like
herself, for explanation of the call. None came. Then the sentry stepped
swiftly along his post in the direction of the sound, as though
something further had caught his eye or ear. Then he was lost to view,
and still she waited. Then she heard a voice that was probably the
sentry's, low and indistinct, yet like the challenge and the "Advance
for recognition". Then, a moment later, a hurried footfall, almost at a
run--a halting, uneven footfall, as though one leg was not doing its
share, and that then surely meant Sandy, and Sandy would know all that
had passed and would tell her. Yes, there he came, so vague, so shadowy,
now that, had she not heard the sound, she would not have looked for the
shadow. She saw the dark form dive quickly through the gate, then pause.
Instead of coming further, Sandy had stopped and, leaning at the
gate-post, was peering up along the fence line outside. How unlike Sandy
that seemed! Why should her son seek shelter and then turn and look back
from a safe covert along the path he came? Something urged her to softly
call his name, but, with a moment's thought, she decided against that.
She would go down, meet him, welcome him, see if there were not
something he needed, see him to his room, kiss him again good-night; and
so she took her candle to the lower floor, left it on the dining-room
table, and finally reached the rear door, even as her son came slowly up
the steps. At that instant began at the guard-house the call of
half-past twelve.