But there was little merriment when, five minutes later, the household
had taken account of stock and realized the extent of their losses.
Maidie's had evidently been the last room visited. The dressing-table
and wardrobe of the opposite chamber--that occupied by Colonel and Mrs.
Brent--had been ransacked. The colonel's watch and chain,--too bulky, he
said, to be worn at dinner in white uniform,--his Loyal Legion and Army
of the Potomac insignia, and some prized though not expensive trinkets
of his good wife were gone. Miss Porter's little purse with her modest
savings and a brooch that had been her mother's were missing. And with
these items the skilled practitioner had made good his escape.
On the floor, just under the window in Maidie's room, lay a keen,
double-edged knife. The stumps of two or three matches found in the
colonel's apartment and others in Miss Porter's showed that the thief
had not feared to make sufficient light for his purpose, and from the
floor of Marion's room, close to the bureau, just where it had been
dropped when the prowler was alarmed, Miss Porter picked up one of the
old-fashioned "phosphors" that ignite noiselessly and burn with but a
tiny flame.
Marion's porte-monnaie was in the upper drawer, untouched, and such
jewelry as she owned, save two precious rings she always wore, was
stored in her father's safe deposit box in the bank at home. The colonel
was really the greatest loser and declared it served him right, both
provost-marshal and chief of police having warned him to leave nothing
"lying around loose."
At sound of the shots on the Calle Nueva, Brent had sallied forth, and,
rushing impetuously into the dimly lighted thoroughfare, had narrowly
missed losing the top of his head as well as his watch, an excited
sentry sending a bullet whizzing into space by way of the colonel's pith
helmet, which prompted the doctor to say in his placid and most
effective way that more heads had been lost that night than valuables,
and one bad shot begat another.
Sentries down towards the barracks, hearing the three or four quick
reports, bethought them of the time-honored instructions prescribing
that in case of a blaze, which he could not personally extinguish, the
sentry should "shout 'Fire!' discharge his piece, and add the number of
his post." Sagely reasoning that nothing but a fire could start such a
row, or at least that there was sufficient excuse to warrant their
having some fun of their own to enliven the dull hours of the night,
Numbers 7 and 8 touched off their triggers and yelled "Fire;" 5 and 6,
nearer home, followed suit, and in two minutes the bugles were blowing
the alarm all over Ermita and Malate, and rollicking young regulars and
volunteers by the hundred were tumbling out into the street, all
eagerness and rejoicing at the prospect of having a lark with the
_Bomberos_, the funny little Manila firemen with their funnier little
squirts on wheels.
It was fully half an hour before the officers could "locate" the origin
of the alarm and order their companies back to bed, an order most
reluctantly obeyed, for by that time the nearest native fire-company was
aroused and on the way to the scene. Others could be expected in the
course of the night, and the Manila fire department was something that
afforded the Yankee soldier unspeakable joy. He hated to lose such an
opportunity.
But for all his professional calm, Dr. Frank was by no means pleased
with the excitement attending this episode. For an hour or more officers
from all over the neighborhood gathered in front of Brent's and had to
be told the particulars, "Billy Ray's daughter" being pronounced the
heroine everybody expected her to be, while that young lady herself, now
that the affair could be called closed, was in a condition bordering on
the electric. "Overwrought and nervous," said Miss Porter, "but laughing
at the whole business."
What Frank thought he didn't say, but he cut short Sandy's visit to his
sister, and suggested that he go down and tell the assemblage under the
front gallery that they would better return to whist--or whatever game
was in progress when the alarm was given. The colonel could not invite
them in as matters stood, and they slowly dispersed, leaving only a
senior or two and Lieutenant Stuyvesant to question further, for
Stuyvesant, coming from afar and arriving late, was full of anxiety and
concern.
Despite his temporary escape, circumstances and the civil authorities
(now become decidedly military) had thrown him into still further
association with the woman whom he would so gladly have shunned--the
importunate Miss Perkins. He had taken a turn round the block--and
refuge in the English Club--until he thought her disposed of at home and
his carriage returned. He had come across the little equipage, trundling
slowly up and down the street in search of him, had dined without
appetite and smoked without relish, striving to forget that odious
woman's hints and aspersions, aimed evidently at the Rays, and had gone
to his own room to write when a corporal appeared with the request from
the captain in charge of the police guard of Ermita to step down to the
office.
It was much after nine then and the excitement caused by the alarm was
about over, the troops going back to barracks and presumably to bed. The
captain apologized for calling on him that late in the evening, but told
him a man recognized as Murray, deserter from the cavalry, was secreted
somewhere in the neighborhood, and it was reported that he, Stuyvesant,
could give valuable information concerning him. Stuyvesant could and
did, and in the midst of it in came Miss Perkins, flushed, eager, and
demanding to know if that villain was yet caught--"and if not, why not?"
Then she caught sight of Stuyvesant and precipitated herself upon him.
That man Murray had hatefully deceived her and imposed upon her
goodness, she declared. She had done _everything_ to help him at the
Presidio, and he had promised her a paper signed by all the boys asking
that the P. D. A.'s be recognized as the organization the soldiers
favored, and showed her a petition he had drawn up and was getting
signatures to by the hundreds. That paper would have insured their being
recognized by the government instead of those purse-proud Red Cross
people, and then he had wickedly deserted, after--after--and Stuyvesant
could scarcely keep a straight face--getting fifty dollars from her and
a ring that he was going to wear always until he came back from
Manila--an officer. Oh, he was a smart one, a smooth one! All that
inside of three days after he got to the Presidio, and then was
arrested, and then, next thing she knew, he had fled,--petition, money,
ring, and all.
Another soldier told her the signatures were bogus. And that very night
she recognized him, spite of his beard, and at sight of her he had cut
and run. ("Well he might!" thought Stuyvesant.) And then Miss Perkins
yielded to the strain of overtaxed nerves and had to be conducted home.
She lived but a block or two away, and it was Stuyvesant who had to play
escort. The air, unluckily, revived her, and at the gateway she turned
and had this to add to her previous statements.
"You think the Ray people your friends, lieutenant, and I'm not the kind
of a woman to see a worthy young man trifled with. You've been going
there every day and everybody knows it, and knows that you were sent
away to Iloilo in hopes of breaking you of it. That girl's promised in
marriage to that young man who's got himself into such a scrape all on
her account. He's here--followed her here to marry her, and if he's
found he's liable to be shot. Oh, you can believe or not just as you
please, but never say I didn't try to give you fair warning. Know? Why,
I know much more about what's going on here than your generals do. _I_
have friends everywhere among the boys; _they_ haven't. Oh, very well,
if you won't listen!" (For Stuyvesant had turned away in wrath and
exasperation.) "But you'd be wiser if you heard me out. I've _seen_ Mr.
Foster and had the whole story from his lips. He's been there every day,
too, till he was taken sick----"
But Stuyvesant was out of the gate and at last out of hearing, and with
a vicious bang to the door, the lady of the P. D. A.'s, so recently
victimized by the astute Sackett, retired to the sanctity of her own
apartment, marvelling at the infatuation of men.
And yet, though Stuyvesant had angrily striven to silence the woman and
had left her in disgust, her words had not failed of certain weight.
Again he recalled with jealous pain the obvious indifference with which
his approaches had been received. True, no well-bred girl would be more
than conventionally civil to a stranger even under the exceptional
circumstances of their meeting on the train. True, she was cordial,
bright, winsome, and all that when at last he was formally presented;
but so she was to everybody. True, they had had many--at least _he_
had had many--delightful long interviews on the shaded deck of the
Sacramento; but though he would have eagerly welcomed a chance to
indulge in sentiment, never once did Marion encourage such a move. On
the contrary, he recalled with something akin to bitterness that when
his voice or words betrayed a tendency towards such a lapse, she became
instantly and palpably most conventional.
Now, in the light of all he had heard from various sources, what could
he believe but that she was interested, to say the least, in that other
man? Well and miserably he recalled the words of Farquhar, who had
served some years at the same station with the Rays: "She's the bonniest
little army girl I know, and her head's as level as it is pretty--except
on one point. She's her father's daughter and wrapped up in the army.
She's always said she'd marry only a soldier. But Maidie's getting
wisdom with years, I fancy. Young Foster will be a rich man in spite of
himself, for he'll have his mother's fortune, and he's heels over head
in love with her."
"But I understood," interposed the general, with a quick glance at
Stuyvesant, who had risen as though to get another cigar, "that Ray
didn't exactly approve of him."
"Oh, Ray didn't seem to have any special objection to Foster unless it
was that he neglected his business to lay siege to her. Foster's a
gentleman, has no bad habits, and is the very man nine women out of ten
would rejoice in for a husband, and ninety-nine out of ten, if that were
a mathematical possibility, would delight in as a son-in-law. He isn't
brilliant--buttons would have supplied the lack had he been in the
cavalry. I dare say he'll be ass enough to go in for a commission now
and sell out his ranch for a song. Then, she'd probably take him."
And then, too, as he strolled thoughtfully up the street, still dimly
lighted by the waning moon and dotted at long intervals by tiny electric
fires, Stuyvesant went over in mind other little things that had come to
his ears, for many men were of a mind with regard to Billy Ray's
daughter, and the young officer found himself vaguely weighing the
reasons why he should now cease to play the moth,--why he should be
winging his flight away from the flame and utterly ignoring the fact
that his feet, as though from force of habit, were bearing him steadily
towards it. The snap and ring of a bayoneted rifle coming to the charge,
the stern voice of a sentry at the crossing of the Calle Faura, brought
him to his senses.
"Halt! Who is there?"
"Staff officer, First Division," was the prompt reply, as Stuyvesant
looked up in surprise.
"Advance, staff officer, and be recognized," came the response from a
tall form in blue, and the even taller white figure stepped forward and
stood face to face with the guardian of the night.
"I am Lieutenant Stuyvesant, aide-de-camp to General Vinton," explained
the challenged officer, noticing for the first time a little column of
dusky men in heavy leathern helmets and belts shuffling away towards the
Jesuit College with an old-fashioned diminutive "goose-neck" village
engine trailing at their heels.
"Been a fire, sentry?" he asked. "Where was it?"
"Up at Colonel Brent's, sir, I believe. His house fronts the
parade-ground. One moment, please! Lieutenant _Who_, sir? The officer
of the guard orders us to account for every officer by name." And
Stuyvesant, who, in instant alarm, had impulsively started, was again
recalled to himself, and, hastily turning back, spoke aloud:
"Stuyvesant my name is. I'll give it at the guard-house as I pass."
Once more he whirled about, his heart throbbing with anxiety. Once
more he would have hurried on his way to the Calle San Luis. A fire
there! and she, Marion, still so weak!--exhausted, possibly, by the
excitement--or distress--or whatever it was that resulted from Brent's
sudden presentation of that _carte-de-visite_. He would fly to her at
once!
For a third time the sentry spoke, and spoke in no faltering tone. He
was an American. He was wearing the rough garb of the private soldier in
the ranks of the regulars, but, like scores of other eager young
patriots that year, he held the diploma of a great, albeit a foreign,
university. He had education, intelligence, and assured social position
to back the training and discipline of the soldier. He knew his rights
as well as his duties, and that every officer in the service, no matter
how high, from commanding general down, was by regulation enjoined to
show respect to sentries, and this tall, handsome young swell, with a
name that sounded utterly unfamiliar to California ears, was in most
unaccountable hurry, and spoke as though he, the sentry, were exceeding
his powers in demanding his name. It put Private Thinking Bayonets on
his mettle.
"Halt, sir," said he. "My orders are imperative. You'll have to spell
that name."
In the nervous anxiety to which Stuyvesant was a prey, the sentry's
manner irritated him. It smacked at first of undue, unnecessary
authority, yet the soldier in him put the unworthy thought to shame,
and, struggling against his impatience, yet most unwillingly, Stuyvesant
obediently turned. He had shouldered a musket in a splendid regiment of
citizen soldiery whose pride it was that no regular army inspector could
pick flaws in their performance of guard and sentry duty. He had brought
to the point of his bayonet, time and again, officers far higher in rank
than that which he now held. He knew that, whether necessary or not, the
sentry's demand was within his rights, and there was no course for him
but compliance. He hastened back, and, controlling his voice as much as
possible, began:
"You're right, sentry! S-t-u-y"--when through a gate-way across the
street north of the Faura came swinging into sight a little squad of
armed men.
Again the sentry's challenge, sharp, clear, resonant, rang on the still
night air. Three soldiers halted in their tracks, the fourth, with the
white chevrons of a corporal on his sleeves, came bounding across the
street without waiting for a demand to advance for recognition.
"Same old patrol, Billy," he called, as he neared them. "On the way back
to the guard-house." Then, seeing the straps on the officer's shoulders,
respectfully saluted. "Couldn't find a trace outside. Keep sharp
lookout, Number 6," he added, and turning hurriedly back to his patrol,
started with them up the street in the direction Stuyvesant was longing
to go.
"Sorry to detain you, sir, and beg pardon for letting him run up on us
in that way. We've got extra orders to-night. There's a queer set,
mostly natives, in that second house yonder" (and he pointed to a
substantial two-story building about thirty paces from the corner).
"They got in there while the fire excitement was on. Twice I've seen
them peeking out from that door. That's why I dare not leave here and
chase after you--after the lieutenant. Now, may I have the name again,
sir."
And at last, without interruption, Stuyvesant spelled and pronounced the
revered old Dutch patronymic. At last he was able to go unhindered, and
now, overcome by anxiety, eagerness, and dread, he hardly knew what, he
broke into fleet-footed, rapid run, much to the surprise of the staid
patrol which he overtook trudging along on the opposite side of the
street, two blocks away, and never halted until again brought up
standing by a sentry at the San Luis.
Ten minutes later, while still listening to Brent's oft-repeated tale of
the theft, and still quivering a little from excitement, Stuyvesant
heard another sound, the rapid, rhythmic beat of dancing footsteps.
"Hullo!" interrupted one of the lingering officers. "Another fire
company coming? It's about time more began to arrive, isn't it?"
"It's a patrol--and on the jump, too! What's up, I wonder?" answered
Brent, spinning about to face towards the Calle Real. There was an
officer with this patrol,--an officer who in his eagerness could barely
abide the sentry's challenge.
"Officer of the guard--with patrol," he cried, adding instantly, as he
darted into view. "Sentry, which--which way did that officer go? Tall
young officer--in white uniform!"
In surprise, the sentry nodded towards the speechless group standing in
front of Brent's, and to them came the boy lieutenant, panting and in
manifest excitement. "I beg pardon, colonel," he began, "our sentry,
Number 6, was found a minute ago--shot dead--down on the Padre Faura. My
men said they saw an officer running from the spot, running this way,
and this gentleman--Mr. Stuyvesant, isn't it?"
There was an awed silence, an awkward pause. "I certainly was there not
long ago," spoke Stuyvesant, presently. "And Number 6, your sentry, was
then all right. I certainly came running----"
"That's all I can hear," was the sharp interruption. "My orders are to
arrest you. You're my prisoner, Mr. Stuyvesant," gasped the lad.
"Preposterous!" said Dr. Frank a few minutes later when told by an
awe-stricken group what had occurred.
"Preposterous say I!" echoed Brent. "And yet, see here----Oh, of course,
you know Major MacNeil, field officer of the day," he added, indicating
a tall, thin-faced, gray-mustached officer of regulars who had but just
arrived, and who now held forth a gleaming revolver with the words, "I
picked this up myself--not ten yards from where he lay."
It was Marion's.