IMPENDING SHADOWS.
When Captain Truscott drove up from the ferry and sprang from the
carriage at his gate, a cheerful light beamed from the open door and
windows of his home, and Grace, all loving greeting, met him on the
piazza. He could not but note the warmth of her embrace and welcome; but
Jack had been in town since early morning and never before since their
marriage had they been separated a single day. In the dim twilight on
the piazza he could not see what was apparent as soon as they entered
the parlor,--that his young wife's face was unusually pale and her
lovely eyes showed suspicious trace of tears; but he could only glance
an anxious inquiry, there was then no time for more, as Miss Sanford
stood smilingly at the centre-table.
Truscott stepped forward with his old-fashioned courtesy and bowed over
her extended hand. A few words of pleasant welcome and greeting were
exchanged, a few inquiries as to whom he had seen in New York and what
had been the result of his various commissions. Then as the dining-room
door was opened and the maid announced that tea was served, Truscott
looked inquiringly at the table.
"Any mail, Gracie?"
"Oh, yes, Jack. I put them under Carlyle; two letters."
The captain merely glanced at the superscription of the first letter,
but when the second caught his eye, he shot one quick look at his wife,
their eyes met, and leaving the first letter upon the table, he stowed
the heavier missive in the breast-pocket of the civilian suit he was
wearing, led the way to the dining-room door, and there smilingly bowed
the ladies to the brightly-lighted table, and demanded of Miss Sanford
an immediate and detailed account of the day's conquests.
Not until near midnight could Grace see her husband alone.
It was "band night," and long before they had finished tea rich strains
of music came floating in from the parade, and, as is always the case,
visitors began to arrive. Several ladies and officers dropped in during
the evening; they sat on the piazza enjoying the serenade until the
shrill piping of the fifes and rattle of the drums sounding tattoo sent
the musicians off to bed and numerous pairs of white trousers scurrying
towards the cadet barracks. They watched the simultaneous "dousing of
the glim" in the long façade as the clock struck ten and the three taps
of the drum ordered "lights out." Then they entered the parlor and Grace
had to sing. For the last year she had gloried in singing, her voice
seemed so rich with melody, her heart so rich with joy. To-night all the
strange old feeling came back. It made her think of those wretched days
at Sandy, when with Jack thousands of miles away, perhaps never to see
or speak to her again, she _had_ to sing because her father loved it so.
She was a soldier's daughter, a soldier's wife, and she rallied all her
strength and pride and strove to be blithe and animated and
entertaining. From her first appearance Mrs. Truscott had been a
favorite in that somewhat exacting garrison, perhaps the hardest one in
the army in which to achieve popularity, because of the various cliques
and interests; and now that that very interesting Miss Sanford was with
her, their pretty home on the plain was always a rendezvous for the
socially disposed. And so it happened that all the long evening neither
she nor Jack could obtain release from their duties as entertainers.
Eleven o'clock came before the last of the ladies departed, and then Mr.
Ferris lingered for a _tête-à-tête_ with Miss Sanford, and poor Grace
found herself compelled to sit and talk with Mr. Barnard, who was a
musical devotee and afflicted with a conviction that they ought to sing
duets, and Mrs. Truscott could not be induced to sing duets with any
man, unless Jack would try.
She knew that he had gone to the little library where he kept his
favorite books and did his writing. She heard the door close after him,
and, with unutterable longing, she desired to go and throw herself upon
her favorite perch, his knee, and twine her arms around his neck and
bury her head upon his broad shoulder. She could think of nothing but
that fateful letter from Hays. She wished that it might be Mr. Waring
who had come in, for he was in the cavalry and would know something of
what really was going on out on the frontier. She was feverishly anxious
to learn the truth, and twice directed the talk that way, but Mr.
Barnard was obtuse. He only vaguely knew from remarks he had heard at
mess that General Crook had called for reinforcements, and that Sheridan
was ordering up cavalry and infantry to his support. He did not know
what cavalry,--in fact, he did not care,--he was in the artillery, and,
forgetful of Modoc experiences, believed that Indian fighting was an
abnormal species of warfare of which men of his advanced education were
not expected to take cognizance. That it ever could call for more
science, skill, and pluck than the so-called civilized wars of which Mr.
Barnard was a conscientious student he would probably never have
admitted, and his comment at mess on the frequently-recurring tales of
unsuccessful attack upon savage foes was the comprehensive remark that
the affair must have been badly handled; "those fellows of the cavalry
didn't seem to understand the nature of the work they had to tackle." As
those were the days before a cavalry superintendent went to the Academy
and showed an astonished academic board what a cavalryman's idea of
scholarship and discipline really was, it followed that the corps of
instructors was made up almost entirely from the more scientific arms;
only two or three cavalrymen were on the detail of forty officers, and
they were mainly for duty as instructors in tactics and horsemanship. So
when Mr. Barnard dreamily blew the smoke of his cigarette through his
elevated nostrils and gave it as his opinion that those cavalry fellows
didn't seem to understand their work, his audience, consisting mainly of
staff and artillery officers, gave the acquiescence of silence or the
nod of wisdom; and the casual visitor would have left with the
impression that the whole mistake of this Indian business lay in failure
to consult the brilliantly-trained intellects of the higher corps. Odd
as it may seem, it is the men who have had the least to do with Indians
and Indian fighting who have apparently the most ideas on the subject.
This is not a paradox. Those who have spent several years at it probably
started in with just as many, and exploded them one after another.
Mr. Barnard, therefore, was more intent on humming the tenor part of
"See the Pale Moon" than of affording Mrs. Truscott any information as
to rumors of the orders sending additional troops to the field, but her
anxiety was only slightly appeased by his airy dismissal of the subject.
"Indeed, Mrs. Truscott, I would not feel any concern in the matter; with
the forces now concentrated up there in the Yellowstone country, the
result is a foregone conclusion. The Indians will simply be surrounded
and starved into surrender."
At last they went. Mr. Ferris with evident reluctance and not until he
had plainly received intimation from Miss Sanford that it was more than
time. Knowing Mrs. Truscott well, she could see what was imperceptible
to their visitors, that the strain was becoming almost unbearable. The
moment they were gone she turned to her friend.
"I must write a short letter before going to bed, Grace dear. Now go to
him at once;" then impulsively she threw her arms around her. "I shall
pray it is not true," she murmured, then turned and ran quickly to her
room.
Mrs. Truscott closed and bolted the front door, turned out the parlor
lights, and stepped quickly to the library; then she paused a moment
before turning the knob: her heart was beating heavily, her hands
trembling. She strove hard to control the weakness which had seized
her, and, for support, rested her head upon the casement and took two or
three long breaths; then with a murmured prayer for strength she gently
opened the door, and the soft swish of her trailing skirts announced her
presence.
His back was towards her as she entered; he was seated in a low-backed
library-chair, with both elbows upon the writing-table before him, and
resting his head upon the left hand in an attitude that was habitual
with him when seated there thinking. Before him, opened, lay a long
letter,--the adjutant's letter from Hays. A pen was in his hand, but not
a scratch had he made on the virgin surface of the paper. Truscott never
so much as wrote the date until he had fully made up his mind what the
entire letter should be, and he had far from made up his mind what to
say in this.
Without a word Mrs. Truscott stole quietly up behind him. He had been
expecting her any moment; he knew well she would come the instant her
visitors left her free; he was listening, waiting for her step, and had
heard Miss Sanford trip lightly up-stairs. Then came the soft, quick
pitapat of her tiny feet along the hall and the _frou-frou_ of the
skirts,--never yet could he hear it without a little thrill of
passionate delight. He half turned in readiness to welcome her, his
love, his wife; then came her pause at the door,--a new, an unknown
hesitancy, for from the first he had taught her that she alone could
never be unwelcome, undesired, no matter what his occupation in the
sanctum, and Jack's heart stood still while hers was throbbing heavily.
Could she have heard? Could she have suspected? _Must_ he tell her
to-night? He turned again to the desk as she entered, and waited
for--something he loved more than he could ever tell,--her own greeting.
Often when he was reading or writing during the day, and she, on
household cares intent, was tripping lightly about the house, singing
sweetly, softly as she passed the library, and bursting into carolling
melody when at undisturbing distance away, it was odd to note the many
little items that required her frequent incursions on the sanctum
itself,--books to be straightened and dusted, scraps of writing-paper to
be tidied up, maps to be rolled and tied. Mollie, the housemaid, could
sweep or tend the fires in that domestic centre, the captain's den, but
none but the young housewife herself presumed to touch a pen or dust a
tome. Jack's mornings were mainly taken up at the barracks, riding-hall,
or in mounted drill far out on the cavalry plain, whence his ringing
baritone voice could reach her admiring ears and--for it was only
honeymoon with her still--set her to wondering if it really were
possible that that splendid fellow were her own, her very own; and time
and again Mrs. Grace would find herself stopping short in her avocation
and going to the front windows and gazing with all her lovely brown eyes
over to the whirling dust-cloud on the eastern plain and revelling in
the power and ring of Jack's commanding voice, and going off into
day-dreams. _Was_ it possible that there had been a great, a fearful
war, in which the whole country was threatened with ruin, and hundreds
of men had made wonderful names for themselves, and Jack not one of
them,--Jack, her hero, her soldier beyond compare? _Could_ it be that
the war was fought and won without him? But then, who could be braver
in action, wiser in council, than he? Did not the --th worship him to a
man? Was not Indian fighting the most trying, hazardous, terrible of all
warfares, and was not Jack pre-eminent as an Indian-fighter? Was there
not a deep scar on his breast that would have been deeper and redder but
for her little filmy handkerchief that stopped the cruel arrow just in
time? Was any one so gallant, so noble, so gentle, so tender, true,
faithful,--um-m-m,--sweet? was the way Mrs. Grace's intensified thoughts
would have found expression, had she dared, even to herself, to give
them utterance? And he loved her! he loved her! and--heavens and earth!
but _this_ isn't practising, or housework either; and pretty, happy,
blushing Mrs. Truscott would shake herself together, so to speak, and
try to get back to the programme of daily duty she had so
conscientiously mapped out for herself. Perhaps it was because she
accomplished so little in the mornings that, when Jack betook himself to
his study for his two hours of reading or writing in the afternoon, his
witching wife would find such frequent need of entering. At first she
had been accustomed to trip in on tiptoe after a timid little knock and
the query, "Do I disturb you, Jack dear?"--a query which he answered
with quite superfluous assurance to the contrary. Later, even after
their wise conclusion that they must be rational, she had been
accustomed to put the question, not at all as a purely perfunctory
marital civility, but, as she shyly admitted to herself, because it was
so sweet to hear Jack's negation and see the love-light in the eyes that
soon brought her, fascinated and fluttering, to be folded in his arms a
moment. Later still, so confident had she become in her dominion, both
knock and query were abandoned, and, unless only five minutes or so had
elapsed since the previous visit, she had a pretty little way of
greeting him that, though very gradually acquired despite surging
impulse, was at last quite a settled fact, and he loved it,--well, he
would have been an unappreciative, undeserving brute had he not. She
would steal behind him, lean over the back of the chair (Jack refused to
exchange it for the high-backed one suggested by Mrs. Pelham on the
occasion of a brief visit paid them in March), and, twining her arms
around his neck, would draw back his head till it rested on her bosom,
then sink her soft, sweet lips upon his forehead. It was this he waited
for to-night, and not in vain.
Another minute and he had drawn her around and seated her on his knee,
folding her closely in his arms. But soon she gently released herself,
slipped to the little ottoman that stood always ready by his chair, and,
clasping her hands upon his knee, looked bravely up in his face. No need
to speak one word,--no need to break it to her; he saw she well divined
that news, and hard news, had come from the frontier,--news which meant
more to her than to any woman at West Point.
"Shall I read it, Gracie?" he presently asked, gently stroking the
shining, shimmering wealth of her hair,--her glory and his. She bowed
lower her head and clasped tightly her hands.
"One word first, Jack. Does the --th go?"
"Yes, darling."
She shivered as though a sudden chill had seized her, but spoke no word.
Truscott bent and strove to draw her again to his breast, but she
roused herself with gallant effort,--threw back her head and again
looked bravely up in his eyes.
"No; I'll bear it best here, Jack. I won't----Read it, dear."
"My brave girlie!" was all he said, as his eyes moistened suspiciously
and his hand lingered in its caress upon her soft cheek.
"It's from Billings, you know."
"Yes, Jack; go on."
And then he read to her:
"FORT HAYS, KANSAS, June 6, '76.
"DEAR TRUSCOTT,--Stannard showed me your letter and bade me
answer it. There was no time for him to do it, and I myself am
writing 'on the jump.' You sized up the situation about as
comprehensively as Crook himself could have done it, and your
predictions have come true. Eight troops of the regiment left
night before last by rail for Cheyenne _via_ Denver, and by
this time headquarters and most of the --th are tenting
somewhere near Fort Russell, where we are all to take station
and wait further developments. The band follows as fast as we
can pack up plunder and be off. It means, of course, a
permanent transfer of the regiment to the Department of the
Platte, and from the mere fact that the colonel and eight
companies were hurried ahead, there can be no question but that
we are destined to take part in the campaign against Sitting
Bull, Crazy Horse, etc., and for myself, I'm glad of it.
"But I'm glad you weren't here, Jack. There was weeping and
wailing and gnashing of teeth among the women-folks, and some
two or three Benedicts looked bluer than brimstone. You know
they had counted on a peaceful summer and a good time, and it's
particularly rough on those who had fitted up their quarters so
handsomely and had young ladies to visit them, like the
Raymonds and others. Most of them have to break up and go East,
but as six troops are to take permanent station at Russell,
yours among them, those who are ordered there will simply move
from Hays to Russell with us, as the officers can choose
quarters on the way up; for up we are going, and I'll bet a
farm we water our horses in the Yellowstone before we see
Russell a second time. As soon as packed I shall move all
baggage to Russell, public and personal, escort the ladies
thither and see them comfortably settled in their new quarters.
Mrs. Stannard, Mrs. Turner, and Mrs. Wilkins (of course) go to
Russell with us. Old Whaling of the Infantry is to remain in
command there until the campaign is over, as it will be the
main supply depot. His wife is an enlivening Christian, a sort
of Mrs. Gummidge and Mrs. Malaprop rolled into one, but,
barring a sensational tendency and a love for theatricals in
every-day life, there is nothing dangerous about her. I'm glad
my own wife will be able to remain with the home people, for
Mrs. Whaling would scare the life out of her with her tales of
fearful adventure in the Indian country, and I don't quite like
the idea of our ladies being subjected to her ministrations
during the separation. However, Mrs. Stannard will be there,
and she's a balance-wheel. Bless that woman! What would we do
without her?
"Now, Jack, a word from Stannard himself. He said to write you
fully, that nothing might be concealed. Stryker's letter is
straight to the point. It is going to be the biggest Indian war
the country has ever seen, and one in which there must be hard
fighting. Armed, equipped, and supplied and mounted as those
Sioux and Cheyennes are, it will take our best to thrash them.
Stannard says that you must be influenced in your action by no
misrepresentation one way or other. No man in the regiment can
say in his presence or mine that you have not done your full
share of Indian work, and no gentleman in the regiment will
blame you should you see fit to stick to the Point and let the
rest of us tackle Mr. Lo. You are the only newly-married man in
the crowd. On the other hand, your troop is commanded in your
absence by Gleason, whom--well, you know him better than I; and
in his absence by young Wells, who is to take his first lesson
in campaigning this summer. Just as luck would have it, Gleason
and Ray were ordered to Leavenworth on a horse board, and were
not here to go with the command. Ray heard of the move and
telegraphed, begging Stannard to get him relieved and sent at
once to the regiment, but the board was ordered at division
headquarters and 'twas no use. Ray will have to stay until the
horses are all bought; and I'm bound to say he did his best to
get back. For some reason, which I could better explain if I
didn't have to write, Ray and I don't seem to 'gee.' He has
been offish to me ever since our first meeting here, and was
one of the men whose failure to congratulate me on the
adjutancy I felt. Then I heard of some unjustifiable though,
perhaps, natural things he said. However, let that slide. I
wish you were adjutant again, that's all. Very probably the
others do too. The colonel telegraphed to all officers on
leave, and every blessed one responded inside of twenty-four
hours, 'Coming first train, you bet,' or words to that effect.
It makes one proud of the old --th. Gleason hasn't chirped, but
then he is somewhere in central Iowa buying. They say Ray's
brother-in-law is one of the largest horse-dealers, and
Stannard clamps his mug and looks ugly when it is spoken of. He
knows something about him, and was a good deal stampeded when
he heard Ray was being wined and dined by him at Kansas City.
But, be it understood, I don't think Ray has any suspicion of
Stannard's objection to the man. And now, Jack, I'll wind up
this rigmarole. It is long after taps, and the men are still at
work packing. I've been interrupted time and again, and this is
all incoherency. If you decide to join, let it not be said for
an instant that the faintest urging came from us. Address your
next to Russell. The colonel forbade my telegraphing you lest
it might sound like a hint. My compliments to Mrs. Truscott,
and tell her I saw her old friend Ranger off for the wars two
nights ago; likewise that young imp of the devil,--the Kid.
Tanner's old troop isn't what it was in his day.
"Yours always faithfully,
"BILLINGS."
Long before he had finished reading she had bowed her head upon her
hands, but there came no sound. At last he laid the letter down, and
then bent over her.
"Grace,--darling!"
Slowly she lifted her eyes and looked up in his face. All the light, all
the joy and gladness had fled. Her lips moved as though to question, but
a hard, dry lump seemed to have formed in her throat; she could not
speak. His strong hands trembled as they gently raised her from the
lowly attitude in which she had been crouching at his knee. He would
have drawn her to his breast again, but she put her little hands upon
his shoulder and held herself back. Twice she essayed to speak before
the words came,--
"Jack, God knows I have tried to be ready for this. But is there _no_
way? I never thought to stand between you and your duty--your honor. I
would not--I would not now if I were--all. Oh, Jack,--my husband,
there--there is another reason."