DESERTION.
In that species of mental athletics known as jumping at conclusions Mrs.
Turner was an expert. That she always hit the mark is something a regard
for veracity will not permit us to assert. Indeed, it was not often that
her intellectual subtlety enabled her to extract from outward
appearances the true inwardness of the various matters that entered the
orbit of her observations. All the same she was a born jumper, and,
like the Allen revolver immortalized by Mark Twain, if she didn't always
get what she went for she fetched something. Mrs. Turner could fetch a
conclusion from everything she saw, and was happy in her facility. Time
and again her patient lord had ventured to point a moral from her
repeated mistakes of judgment, and to suggest less precipitancy in the
future; but to no good purpose. Mrs. Turner's faith in the justice of
her prognostications was sublime, though not unusual. It has been within
the compass of our experience to meet and know undaunted women who, day
after day, could, with equal positiveness, announce their theories as
incontrovertible facts, or flatly contradict the assertions of those
whose very position enabled them to be well informed. When Mrs. Turner
was confronted with the proof of her error, and gently upbraided by the
placid captain for being so positive in her affirmation or denial, that
pretty matron was wont to shrug her lovely shoulders, and petulantly set
aside the subject with the comprehensive excuse, "Oh, well! I didn't
know."
In vain had Turner pointed out to her that the fact was self-evident,
that in view of that very fact she should have been less confident in
the discussion and should be more guarded in the future: his efforts
were crowned with small success. Mrs. Turner's beliefs were only too apt
on all occasions to be heralded by her as undeniable facts.
She saw Miss Sanford and Captain Webb enter the Truscotts' soon after
Ray. She saw Captain Webb come out almost immediately and go thence to
the Stannards', next door, while Ray soon appeared and walked off
homeward. She saw Mrs. Stannard come out with Webb, and while the
latter turned to come and say good-by to her, Mrs. Stannard had gone at
once into the Truscotts'.
"Is Mrs. Truscott ill?" she immediately asked.
"Well--a--she seemed to be. She was evidently a good deal cut up about
something," said Webb, who was slow of speech and not quick of
intellect.
"Well, what do you think it was? What was she doing? Tell me, captain.
I'm so worried about her, she has been so unlike herself since Mr.
Truscott went away."
"Oh,--ah!--she was very pale and very--a--well, tearful, you know. Been
crying, I suppose," and Webb shifted uncomfortably. He couldn't get over
that picture exactly,--Mrs. Truscott springing up from the sofa all
tears; Ray standing there burning a letter, all confusion. Still, he
believed it something susceptible of explanation, and did not care to
talk about it. But that Laramie stage would soon be along, and Mrs.
Turner determined to make the best of her opportunities. Ray had never
been one of her satellites, and she never forgave too little admiration,
though it would be manifestly unfair to assert that she would have
forgiven too much. She knew that he had been quite devoted to Mrs.
Truscott in the days that succeeded the troublous times at Sandy, though
the days were very brief, and now it was her impulsive theory that Mrs.
Truscott's odd behavior and Ray's presence at the house were symptoms of
a revival of that suspected flame. She was trying to draw Webb out when
Gleason, looking black as a thunder-cloud and immensely melodramatic,
came in to say good-by to her as she stood on the piazza. The stage
came cracking in at the front gate at the moment and stopped below at
Gleason's quarters, where the orderly began stowing in their light
luggage.
"Have you said good-by to Miss Sanford and Mrs. Truscott?" she asked,
with mischievous interest.
"Er--no. I understand Mrs. Truscott is not well. I saw her this morning
a moment, and promised to come round later, but I think it best not to
disturb them."
The stage lumbered up to the front, and as it came Mrs. Stannard
reappeared and hurried up the walk. Her usually placid face showed
evidence of deep emotion and barely repressed excitement.
"Captain Webb, will you say to the major that I will have a long letter
to go to him by the very next mail, and that I hope it will reach him
without delay." She looked squarely at Gleason with her kind blue eyes
blazing, and never so much as recognized him by a nod. "I must return to
Mrs. Truscott, who is far from well, but tell Captain Truscott not to be
alarmed about her. Good-by, Captain Webb. Come back to us safe and
sound."
Another moment and the two officers were borne away, and Mrs. Turner
went down to the Truscotts' determined to find out what was the trouble,
but came away dissatisfied. There was some mystery, and she could not
solve it. What did it portend that Mrs. Stannard should have cut Mr.
Gleason dead?
Later that afternoon, just before sunset, there was a pretty picture in
front of Truscott's quarters. It had been a lovely day, at the very end
of July, but the air was cool and bracing, and many of the ladies,
seated on the long row of piazzas, or strolling up and down the
gravelled walk, had found it necessary to wear their shawls or wraps.
The band was playing sweetly in the circular stand on the parade, and a
dozen little children were romping about the few patches of green turf
or splashing the water in the narrow _acequias_. The newly-planted
sprigs of trees looked like so many tent-poles stuck up on the edge of
the diamond so far as verdure was concerned, and the dingy brown of the
barracks on the southern side had little that could attract the eye. But
far beyond, across the creek valley, lay the rolling expanse of open
prairie; far beyond that, those glistening, gleaming battlements of
eternal snow standing against the Colorado skies. Only three or four
officers could be seen along the row--only half a dozen soldiers in all
the great garrison. The recruits were all in at supper. The officers and
trained men were all far away to the north. To the delight of the
children Mr. Ray's orderly came up the road leading Dandy, and after
they had crowded around and petted and lauded him while a new halter was
being put on, and his glistening coat touched up for the third time
since his supper of oats, Dandy was slowly led on up the row, stopping
every few rods to be patted and admired by the ladies, and at last
reached Truscott's house, where Ray went and knocked softly, and Miss
Sanford appeared. Together they walked to the gate, and there they
stood. Ray expatiating on the many good points of his pet and comrade,
Miss Sanford stroking the sorrel's arching neck and velvet nozzle, and
looking volumes of adulation into his intelligent eyes. Dandy pawed and
pricked up his ears, and seemed proud and conscious as any human, and
would have purred like a kitten had he only known how, so soft was the
touch of her caressing hand, so sweet was the praise of her gentle
voice. Ray stood and watched her with delight in his eyes.
"Oh, you beauty! Oh, you dear, dear fellow! how I would prize you if you
were mine! Do you dream what a hero you are, I wonder?"
Both her white hands were holding his glossy head now, and Dandy stood
there looking into her animated face as though he loved every feature in
it,--or was it Ray? Both of them could hardly keep their eyes off her an
instant. She was a puzzle to Dandy. She was an angel to his master.
"He was hit twice, was he not?" she asked; and when he showed her the
scars, she mourned over them like a mother over a baby's bumped
forehead.
"I declare, Mr. Ray is growing positively handsome!" said Mrs. Stannard,
looking out of the window at the pretty group. "How delighted he is that
Miss Sanford should make so much of Dandy!" she added, turning to Mrs.
Truscott, who lay there very white and weary looking.
Grace smiled. "I must creep up to the window and see," she said; and for
a moment they gazed in silence. He was bending down over her, so bright
and brave and gallant, that the next thing the two ladies looked
suddenly into each other's face, smiling suggestively.
"Just what I was thinking!" said Mrs. Stannard, laughing; and there
seemed no need to ask what the simultaneous thought could be. Then they
looked out again. "Oh!" said Mrs. Truscott, impatiently, "I wish she
would keep away!" for down came Mrs. Turner, all smiles and white
muslin, to join them. That woman could never understand that she could
be _de trop_, was Mrs. Stannard's reflection, but it was characteristic
of her that she gave the (possibly) disproportioned thought no
utterance. Ray lifted his cap with his customary grace and courtesy, but
looked only moderately rejoiced at the coming of even so bewitching an
addition to Dandy's circle of admirers. Possibly some years of
experience at poker had given him such admirable control of all facial
expression as to enable him to disguise the annoyance he really felt.
Ray couldn't bear "humbug" in any form, and when horses were the
subjects of discussion he was fiercely intolerant of the wise looks and
book-inspired remarks of the would-be authorities in the regiment. To
his cavalry nature the horse had an affiliation that was simply strong
as a friendship. Nothing could shake Ray's conviction in the reasoning
powers, the love, loyalty, gratitude, and devotion of the animal that
from his babyhood he had looked upon as a companion,--almost as a
confidant. He had little faith in Mrs. Turner's voluble admiration of
Dandy. To use his Blue Grass vernacular, he "didn't take any stock (he
called it stawk) in that sort of gush." He knew that there was only one
four-legged domestic animal of which Mrs. Turner was more desperately
afraid, and that was a cow. She made a ninny of herself when she went
out to drive, and the mere pricking up of the horses' ears was to her
mind premonitory symptom of a runaway, and excuse for immediate demand
to be set down on the open prairie and allowed to walk home. As for
riding, she couldn't be induced to try. To her a horse was a thing that
kicked or bit or showed the whites of his eyes and set his ears back and
switched his tail and gave other evidences of depraved moral nature, and
she would no more touch or approach one than she would a wild-cat,
except when in so doing, with an admiring audience, she could become the
central figure in an effective tableau. Ray wished her in Jericho, as
she stood at arm's length and touched Dandy with the tips of her dainty
fingers and began to speak of him as "it." Equine sex was a matter
beyond Mrs. Turner's consideration, and with eminent discretion she
compromised on "it" as a safe descriptive.
Then old Whaling came along with his better half, and the lady stopped
to see the now celebrated sorrel, and when Ray cordially addressed his
post commander with the natural question, "What do you think of him,
colonel?" he was genuinely surprised at the embarrassed, lifeless
response. The colonel looked away as he replied,--
"Very pretty, very pretty, Mr. Ray," and then walked on as though he
desired to keep aloof, and Mrs. Whaling, announcing that she was going
to see poor Mrs. Muldoon, who was living outside the gate, moved on
after her husband with hardly a glance for Ray.
Something strange in the colonel's manner, something constrained and
distant in that of the adjutant, had occurred to him once or twice
before, but he had given little thought to it. Now he felt that it could
no longer be overlooked. Even Mrs. Turner, who knew that in the regiment
from the colonel down almost everybody had a cordial word for Ray, and
that now he was the idol of the hour,--even Mrs. Turner looked after the
colonel in amaze and then quickly at Ray. A light flashed over her busy
intellect. This was further confirmation of her theory. The colonel,
too, had heard of Ray's devotions to Mrs. Truscott and was offended
thereat.
But now the sunset call was sounding, the band marched away, and Ray and
his fair companion stood watching Dandy, who was being led back to his
paddock. A deep flush was on her cheek. She, too, had noted the
colonel's cold and distant manner to Ray. She saw that he was stung by
it, but was trying to give no sign so long as they were together. She
had learned many things since her return from town. She and Mrs.
Stannard knew all about the terrible affair of the morning, and fully
understood Ray's presence at the house and Mrs. Truscott's agitation.
They had recalled many of Gleason's bitter sneers and insinuations
against Ray, and all three felt that, unknown to him, some covert
influence was at work here at the post to do him injury, and that his
loyal services this day in Mrs. Truscott's behalf had but intensified
the hatred against him. It was agreed among them that not one word
should be breathed of the affair, except what Mrs. Stannard should write
to the major. Mrs. Truscott was sure that Jack would shoot Mr. Gleason
on sight the moment he was informed, and Mrs. Stannard thought it quite
probable. Miss Sanford was silent in this discussion, but all agreed
that Ray must be warned that there was some plot against him. It was
mysteriously whispered among the ladies about the garrison. Knowing
this, and knowing that she could not well be the one to tell him, Marion
Sanford, with her whole heart in her beautiful eyes, stood there by his
side as the sun went down. She liked him for his frank, manly ways; she
honored him for his loyalty; she respected him for the lack of certain
traits which every one had been so careful to ascribe to him as
habitual. She gloried in the daring, the self-sacrifice, the heroism of
his conduct in the recent events on the campaign. She felt personal
gratitude--deep and earnest--for his invaluable service to Grace--to
them all--this day; and just because she could not give utterance to him
of any one of these emotions, was it to be wondered at that, as he
turned towards her again and caught the earnest look in her swimming
eyes, Ray's heart gave one great bound?
"I want you to ride him some day, Miss Sanford. I cannot yet. Will you?"
And his voice was low, and there was an odd tremor in it for Ray.
"Ride Dandy?" she said, after an instant's pause, "Mr. Ray. If he were
my horse, after what he has done,--after such a deed,--do you think I
would let any one use him?"
"That would rule me out, Miss Sanford," he answered, smiling.
"You?" She had clasped her hands. She was looking down nervously at the
tip of her little boot. Her eyes were half suffused, her face flushing,
then growing suddenly hot and cold by turns. She knew his eyes were
glowing upon her. She knew there was no earthly excuse for such absurd
sensations. She knew that it was highly unconventional to experience
any such difficulty of expression where acquaintance had been so brief;
but was there, after all, anything unwomanly in letting him see that she
was proud of him,--of his friendship, his daring? Had not every other
woman gushed over him and called him splendid and some of them "lovely,"
while she had never yet dared speak of it at all? He had simply laughed
off their adulation; but he was not laughing now. She never saw such
intensity in his face. Why! this very silence was dangerous,
distracting. If she--she cared for him she could not be more nervous and
shy. With sudden effort she looked up in his face.
"You? Why, Mr. Ray, I never think of one without the other. How could I
tell you," she broke forth impulsively, "how simply splendid I thought
you--both?"
And now, with flaming cheeks, she turned and ran into the house, leaving
him all astir with delight at the gate.
And yet when he called that evening to inquire after Mrs. Truscott, and
Marion, with Mrs. Stannard, received him in the parlor, she was all
animation, self-possession, and mistress of the situation again. Even
when Mrs. Stannard found means to leave them alone, Ray could find no
pretext for diverting the talk into the delicious channel in which it
flowed at sunset. Perhaps, after all, it was only the glow of departing
day, like the throes of the dying dolphin lending hectic radiance to his
colors, that so dazzlingly, bewilderingly, beautifully tinged the
current of her words, and gave him glimpses of a heaven of hope his
wildest dream had never pictured.
But Mr. Ray had still a stern duty for that night. Having disposed of
Gleason during the afternoon, he had sent for the soldier Wolf, but was
told he would be on pass until tattoo. Until he had sifted the matter to
the bottom he would not know how to proceed with regard to Gleason.
Charges of conduct unbecoming an officer and a gentleman, court-martial
and publicity, were not to be thought of as involving her name in such a
scandal. After what she had said of Wolf, his first theory--that it was
all a forgery of Gleason's--was abandoned. He must see Wolf, obtain from
him any similar letter he might have, clearly point out to him the
madness of his conduct, and satisfy himself whether indeed Wolf might
not be insane. Immediately after tattoo, therefore, he had again
despatched his orderly for the bandsman, and in two minutes the latter
appeared, knocked, and stood, cap in hand, within the door. Ray turned
up the lamp and coolly surveyed his man. The two stood a moment
confronting each other in silence. Wolf was very pale, and beads of
sweat were starting on his brow, but the blue eyes never flinched. He
had never served a day under the lieutenant's command, but he knew him
well, as all soldiers know the various officers of their regiments: the
verdict is rarely at fault. He knew there was no trifling with the man
before him; he felt that no slight pretext had called him to his
presence, and the instant he set eyes on him he knew his secret was in
his hands.
"Wolf," said Ray, "have you written any letters to Mrs. Truscott since
the one you left in her yard last week?" The question reads harshly. It
was spoken calmly, without a vestige of menace or sneer; yet the
soldier's hands clinched, as though in fierce convulsion. His forehead
seemed to wrinkle into one mass of corrugations; he bowed his ghastly
face in an agony of shame.
"I ask in no anger. Let me tell you briefly what has happened. I have no
word to add to the reproach you feel. That letter fell into the hands of
a scoundrel. He took it to Mrs. Truscott this day, and threatened her
with full exposure; accused her, in fact, of corresponding with you
because you mentioned other letters."
"Oh, my God! my God! Kill me, Herr Lieutenant, kill me!" was the
soldier's gasping cry, and before Ray could do aught to stay him he had
plunged forward on his face, and lay writhing on the painted floor,
tearing wildly at his hair, calling down curses on himself, on his mad
love, on the hand that penned the fatal letter, on the hound who had
carried it to that innocent,--that angel. Then on his knees, with
outstretched arms, he looked up at Ray, who stood utterly astounded at
his paroxysm of misery and despair. "His name, lieutenant. I implore,--I
demand. I _demand_ his name! Sir, I am not unworthy to ask it. I was a
gentleman in my country. I am a gentleman! How know you this? Where is
he that has done this so foul wrong?"
"Far away by this time. Be calm now. I want the truth in this matter."
"Far away?" He sprang to his feet. "It is that devil; it is that dog
Gleason! He spied upon me. It was he who found the letter. Ach Gott!
Where--when did he dare threaten that--that angel? Where is the
letter?"
"The letter is all right. He had to give it up. It was this morning he
threatened her, and she is prostrate now."
For all answer he burst into a mad passion of tears. Never had Ray
witnessed such self-abasement. Never had he seen such awful remorse. It
was an hour, nearly, before he could calm him sufficiently to extract
from him his story, and it amounted practically to this:
He had killed an opponent in a duel over cards in Dresden. There was
nothing for it but to leave instantly and to seek safety in America. His
rank was that of rittmeister in the hussars, and he had nothing to do
but enlist in the cavalry. He was penniless and starving when he reached
Truscott's quarters, and her face, bending over him as he rallied from
his swoon, had haunted him day and night with its beauty, its sympathy
and tenderness. She became the idol, the goddess of his life; he watched
her day and night in his mad infatuation; he dreamed of her as his own;
he wrote letter after letter to her as the sole means of giving vent to
the wild, passionate love which had turned his brain; he destroyed them
one after another; he never by word, or look, or deed, so far as he
knew, let her see aught of his hopeless love. He never thought to let
one of these letters fall from his hands. Yet, whenever he was alone he
wrote. He had sung under her window because in his country everybody
sang and played, and it was no unusual attention for any gentleman to
pay the compliment of a personal serenade. Still he had avoided, as he
thought, all recognition until the night he found Gleason creeping upon
him. At mention of that name his paroxysms broke forth afresh. Never,
never could he forgive himself for the fearful misery he had caused her.
Never, never would he forgive the hound who had so basely dealt with
her. "He shall wipe out his foul crime in his heart's blood," he swore,
and Ray had to order silence. He gave Ray his word that never again
would he be tempted to write a line; he implored him to ask for him her
forgiveness. Never again would he cross her path. His grief broke forth
afresh every few moments, and he was weak as a child. Ray became really
alarmed about him, and going into the dining-room where he and Blake
were accustomed to take their bachelor sustenance, he rummaged around in
the dark for some brandy. Of late he had given up all use of stimulants,
and Blake was down at the store. It was some minutes before he found the
decanter, but when he returned the room was empty. Wolf had gone.
The next morning there was a ripple of excitement at the adjutant's
office. A horse was missing from the band stables, and a musician from
the band barracks. At retreat that evening it was definitely settled
that Sergeant Wolf had deserted.