XIII.

Two nights after this, as Captain Buxton was sulkily going the rounds of

the sentries he made a discovery which greatly enlivened an otherwise

uneventful tour as officer of the day. It had been his general custom on

such occasions to take the shortest way across the parade to the

guard-house, make brief and perfunctory inspection there, then go on

down the hill to the creek valley and successively visit the sentries

around the stables. If the night were wet or cold, he went back the same

way, ignoring the sentries at the coal-and store-sheds along Prairie

Avenue. This was a sharply cold night, and very dark, but equally still.

It was between twelve and one o'clock--nearer one than twelve--as he

climbed the hill on his homeward way, and, instead of taking the short

cut, turned northward and struck for the gloomy mass of sheds dimly

discernible some forty yards from the crest. He had heard other officers

speak of the fact that Mr. Hayne's lights were burning until long after

midnight, and that, dropping in there, they had found him seated at his

desk with a green shade over his eyes, studying by the aid of two

student-lamps; "boning to be a general, probably," was the comment of

captains of Buxton's calibre, who, having grown old in the service and

in their own ignorance, were fiercely intolerant of lieutenants who

strove to improve in professional reading instead of spending their time

making out the company muster-rolls and clothing-accounts, as they

should do. Buxton wanted to see for himself what the night-lights meant,

and was plunging heavily ahead through the darkness, when suddenly

brought to a stand by the sharp challenge of the sentry at the

coal-shed. He whispered the mystic countersign over the levelled bayonet

of the infantryman, swearing to himself at the regulation which puts an

officer in such a "stand-and-deliver" attitude for the time being, and

then, by way of getting square with the soldier for the sharply military

way in which his duty as sentry had been performed, the captain

proceeded to catechise him as to his orders. The soldier had been well

taught, and knew all his "responses" by rote,--far better than Buxton,

for that matter, as the latter was anything but an exemplar of

perfection in tactics or sentry duty; but this did not prevent Buxton's

snappishly telling him he was wrong in several points and contemptuously

inquiring where he had learned such trash. The soldier promptly but

respectfully responded that those were the exact instructions he had

received at the adjutant's school, and Buxton knew from experience that

he was getting on dangerous ground. He would have stuck to his point,

however, in default of something else to find fault with, but that the

crack of a whip, the crunching of hoofs, and a rattle of wheels out in

the darkness quickly diverted his attention.

"What's that, sentry?" he sharply inquired.

"A carriage, sir. Leastwise, I think it must be."

"Why don't you know, sir? It must have been on your post."

"No, sir; it was 'way off my post. It drove up to Lieutenant Hayne's

about half an hour ago."

"Where'd it come from?" asked the captain, eagerly.

"From town, sir, I suppose." And, leaving the sentry to his own

reflections, which, on the whole, were not complimentary to his superior

officer, Captain Buxton strode rapidly through the darkness to

Lieutenant Hayne's quarters. Bright lights were still burning within,

both on the ground-floor and in a room above. The sentries were just

beginning the call of one o'clock when he reached the gate and halted,

gazing inquisitively at the house front. Then he turned and listened to

the rattle of wheels growing faint in the distance as the team drove

away towards the prairie town. If Hayne had gone to town at that hour of

the night it was a most unusual proceeding, and he had not the

colonel's permission to absent himself from the post: of that the

officer of the day was certain. Then, again, he would not have gone and

left all his lights burning. No: that vehicle, whatever it was, had

brought somebody out to see him,--somebody who proposed to remain

several hours; otherwise the carriage would not have driven away. In

confirmation of this theory, he heard voices, cheery voices, in laughing

talk, and one of them made him prick up his ears. He heard the piano

crisply trilling a response to light, skilful fingers. He longed for a

peep within, and regretted that he had dropped Mr. Hayne from the list

of his acquaintance. He recognized Hayne's shadow, presently, thrown by

the lamp upon the curtained window, and wished that his visitor would

come similarly into view. He heard the clink of glasses, and saw the

shadow raise a wineglass to the lips, and Sam's Mongolian shape flitted

across the screen, bearing a tray with similar suggestive objects. What

meant this unheard-of conviviality on the part of the ascetic, the

hermit, the midnight-oil-burner, the scholarly recluse of the garrison?

Buxton stared with all his eyes and listened with all his ears, starting

guiltily when he heard a martial footstep coming quickly up the path,

and faced the intruder rather unsteadily. It was only the corporal of

the guard, and he glanced at his superior, brought his fur-gauntleted

hand in salute to the rifle on his shoulder, and passed on. The next

moment Buxton fairly gasped with amaze: he stared an instant at the

window as though transfixed, then ran after the corporal, called to him

in low, stealthy tone to come back noiselessly, drew him by the sleeve

to the front of Hayne's quarters, and pointed to the parlor window. Two

shadows were there now,--one easily recognizable as that of the young

officer in his snugly-fitting undress uniform, the other slender,

graceful, feminine.

"What do you make that other shadow to be, corporal?" he whispered,

hoarsely and hurriedly. "_Look!_" And with that exclamation a shadowed

arm seemed to encircle the slender form, the moustached image to bend

low and mingle with the outlined luxuriance of tress that decked the

other's head, and then, together, with clasping arms, the shadows moved

from view.

"What was the other, corporal?" he repeated.

"Well, sir, I should say it was a young woman."

Buxton could hardly wait until morning to see Rayner. When he passed the

latter's quarters half an hour later, all was darkness; though, had he

but known it, Rayner was not asleep. He was at the house before

guard-mounting, and had a confidential and evidently exciting talk with

the captain; and when he went, just as the trumpets were sounding, these

words were heard at the front door:

"She never left until after daylight, when the same rig drove her back

to town. There was a stranger with her then."

That morning both Rayner and Buxton looked hard at Mr. Hayne when he

came in to the _matinée_; but he was just as calm and quiet as ever,

and, having saluted the commanding officer, took a seat by Captain Gregg

and was soon occupied in conversation with him. Not a word was said by

the officer of the day about the mysterious visitor to the garrison the

previous night. With Captain Rayner, however, he was again in

conversation much of the day, and to him, not to his successor as

officer of the day, did he communicate all the details of the previous

night's adventure and his theories thereanent.

Late that night, having occasion to step to his front door, convinced

that he heard stealthy footsteps on his piazza, Mr. Hayne could see

nobody in the darkness, but found his front gate open. He walked around

his little house; but not a man was visible. His heart was full of a new

and strange excitement that night, and, as before, he threw on his

overcoat and furs and took a rapid walk around the garrison, gazing up

into the starry heavens and drinking in great draughts of the pure,

bracing air. Returning, he came down along the front of officers' row,

and as he approached Rayner's quarters his eyes rested longingly upon

the window he knew to be hers now; but all was darkness. As he rapidly

neared the house, however, he became aware of two bulky figures at the

gate, and, as he walked briskly past, recognized the overcoats as those

of officers. One man was doubtless Rayner, the other he could not tell;

for both, the instant they recognized his step, seemed to avert their

heads. Once home again, he soon sought his room and pillow; but, long

before he could sleep, again and again a sweet vision seemed to come to

him: he _could not_ shut out the thought of Nellie Travers,--of how she

looked and what she said that very afternoon.

He had gone to call at Mrs. Waldron's soon after dark. He was at the

piano, playing for her, when he became conscious that another lady had

entered the room, and, turning, saw Nellie Travers. He rose and bowed to

her, extending his hand as he did so, and knowing that his heart was

thumping and his color rising as he felt the soft, warm touch of her

slender fingers in his grasp. She, too, had flushed,--any one could see

it, though the lamps were not turned high, nor was the firelight strong.

"Miss Travers has come to take tea very quietly with me, Mr.

Hayne,--she is so soon to return to the East,--and now I want you to

stay and join us. No one will be here but the major; and we will have a

lovely time with our music. You will, won't you?"

"So soon to return to the East!" How harsh, how strange and unwelcome,

the words sounded! How they seemed to oppress him and prevent his reply!

He stood a moment dazed and vaguely worried: he could not explain it. He

looked from Mrs. Waldron's kind face to the sweet, flushed, lovely

features there so near him, and something told him that he could never

let them go and find even hope or content in life again. How, why had

she so strangely come into his lonely life, radiant, beautiful,

bewildering as some suddenly blazing star in the darkest corner of the

heavens? Whence had come this strange power that enthralled him? He

gazed into her sweet face, with its downcast, troubled eyes, and then,

in bewilderment, turned to Mrs. Waldron:

"I--I had no idea Miss Travers was going East again just now. It seems

only a few days since she came."

"It is over a month; but all the same this is a sudden decision. I knew

nothing of it until yesterday.--You said Mrs. Rayner was better to-day,

Nellie?"

"Yes, a little; but she is far from well. I think the captain will go,

too, just as soon as he can arrange for leave of absence," was the

low-toned answer. He had released, or rather she had withdrawn, her

hand, and he still stood there, fascinated. His eyes could not quit

their gaze. She going away?--She? Oh, it _could_ not be! What--what

would life become without the sight of that radiant face, that slender,

graceful, girlish form?

"Is not this very unexpected?" he struggled to say. "I thought--I heard

you were to spend several months here."

"It _was_ so intended, Mr. Hayne; but my sister's health requires speedy

change. She has been growing worse ever since we came, and she will not

get well here."

"And when do you go?" he asked, blankly.

"Just as soon as we can pack; though we may wait two or three days for

a--for a telegram."

There was a complete break in the conversation for a full quarter of a

minute,--not such a long time in itself, but unconventionally long under

such circumstances. Then Mrs. Waldron suddenly and remarkably arose:

"I'll leave you to entertain Mr. Hayne a few moments, Nellie. I am the

slave of my cook, and she knows nothing of Mr. Hayne's being here to tea

with us: so I must tell her and avert disaster."

And with this barefaced--statement on her lips and conscience, where it

rested with equal lightness, that exemplary lady quitted the room. In

the sanctity of the connubial chamber that evening, some hours later,

she thus explained her action to her silent spouse:

"Right or wrong, I meant that those two young people should have a

chance to know each other. I have been convinced for three weeks that

she is being forced into this New York match, and for the last week that

she is wretchedly unhappy. You say you believe him a wronged and injured

man, only you can't prove it, and you have said that nothing could be

too good for him in this life as a reward for all his bravery and

fortitude under fearful trials. Then Nellie Travers isn't too good for

him, sweet as she is, and I don't care who calls me a matchmaker."

But with Mrs. Waldron away the two appeared to have made but halting

progress towards friendship. With all her outspoken pluck at school and

at home, Miss Travers was strangely ill at ease and embarrassed now. Mr.

Hayne was the first to gain self-control and to endeavor to bring the

conversation back to a natural channel. It was a struggle; but he had

grown accustomed to struggles. He could not imagine that a girl whom he

had met only once or twice should have for him anything more than the

vaguest and most casual interest. He well knew by this time how deep and

vehement was the interest she had aroused in his heart; but it would

never do to betray himself so soon. He strove to interest her in

reference to the music she would hear, and to learn from her where they

were going. This she answered. They would go no farther East than St.

Louis or Chicago. They might go South as far as Nashville until mid-May.

As for the summer, it would depend on the captain and his leave of

absence. It was all vague and unsettled. Mrs. Rayner was so wretched

that her husband was convinced that she ought to leave for the States as

soon as possible, and of course "she" must go with her. All the

gladness, brightness, vivacity he had seen and heard of as her marked

characteristics seemed gone; and, yet, she wanted to speak with

him,--wanted to be with him. What could be wrong? he asked himself. It

was not until Mrs. Waldron's step was heard returning that she nerved

herself to sudden, almost desperate, effort. She startled him with her

vehemence:

"Mr. Hayne, there is something I must tell you before I go. If no

opportunity occur, I'll write it."

And those were the words that had been haunting him all the evening, for

they were not again alone, and he had no chance to ask a question. What

_could_ she mean? For years he had been living a life of stern

self-denial; but long before his promotion the last penny of the

obligation that, justly or otherwise, had been laid upon his shoulders

was paid with interest. He was a man free and self-respecting, strong,

resolute, and possessed of an independence that never would have been

his had his life run on in the same easy, trusting, happy-go-lucky style

in which he had spent the first two years of his army career. But in his

isolation he had allowed himself no thought of anything that could for a

moment distract him from the stern purpose to which he had devoted every

energy. He would win back, command, _compel_, the respect of his

comrades,--would bring to confusion those who had sought to pull him

down; and until that stood accomplished he would know no other claim. In

the exile of the mountain-station he saw no women but the wives of his

senior officers; and they merely bowed when they happened to meet him:

some did not even do that. Now at last he had met and yielded to the

first of two conquerors before whom even the bravest and the strongest

go down infallibly,--Love and Death. Suddenly, but irresistibly, the

sweet face and thrilling tones of that young girl had seized and filled

his heart, to the utter exclusion of every other passion; and just in

proportion to the emptiness and yearning of his life before their

meeting was the intensity of the love and longing that possessed him

now. It was useless to try and analyze the suddenness and subtilty of

its approach: the power of love had overmastered him. He could only

realize that it was here and he must obey. Late into the morning hours

he lay there, his brain whirling with its varied and bewildering

emotions. Win her he must, or the blackness and desolation of the past

five years would be as nothing compared with the misery of the years to

come. Woo her he would, and not without hope, if ever woman's eyes gave

proof of sympathy and trust. But now at last he realized that the time

had come when for her sake--not for his--he must adopt a new course.

Hitherto he had scorned and repelled all overtures that were not

prefaced by an expression of belief in his utter innocence in the past.

Hitherto he had chosen to live the life of an anchorite, and had abjured

the society of women. Hitherto he had refused the half-extended proffers

of comrades who had sought to continue the investigation of a chain of

circumstances that, complete, might have proved him a wronged and

defrauded man. The missing links were not beyond recovery in skilful

hands; but in the shock and horror which he felt on realizing that it

was not only possible but certain that a jury of his comrade officers

could deem him guilty of a low crime, he hid his face and turned from

all. _Now_ the time had come to reopen the case. He well knew that a

revulsion of feeling had set in which nothing but his own stubbornness

held in check. He knew that he had friends and sympathizers among

officers high in rank. He had only a few days before heard from Major

Waldron's lips a strong intimation that it was his duty to "come out of

his shell" and reassert himself. "You must remember this, Hayne," said

he: "you had been only two years in service when tried by court-martial.

You were an utter stranger to every member of that court. There was

nothing but the evidence to go upon, and that was all against you. The

court was made up of officers from other regiments, and was at least

impartial. The evidence was almost all from your own, and was presumably

well founded. You would call no witnesses for defence. You made your

almost defiant statement; refused counsel; refused advice; and what

could the court do but convict and sentence? Had I been a member of the

court I would have voted just as was done by the court; and yet I

believe you now an utterly innocent man."

So, apparently, did the colonel regard him. So, too, did several of the

officers of the cavalry. So, too, would most of the youngsters of his

own regiment if he would only give them half a chance. In any event, the

score was wiped out now; he could afford to take a wife if a woman

learned to love him, and what wealth of tenderness and devotion was he

not ready to lavish on one who would! But he would offer no one a

tarnished name. First and foremost he must now stand up and fight that

calumny,--"come out of his shell," as Waldron had said, and give people

a chance to see what manner of man he was. God helping him, he would,

and that without delay.