THE COLORS ENTWINE.
She was talking brightly with a knot of half a dozen young officers, all
clamoring for "extras," when, soft and sweet, the strains of
"Immortellen," that loveliest of Gungl's waltzes, floated on the air,
and Ray stood there before her.
"My waltz, Miss Sanford. Can I claim you in face of such an array of
aspirants?"
She rested her hand on his arm, nodding blithely to the group, and
calling laughingly back to them as he led her away. Then she noticed how
silent he was, and for the first time looked up in his face.
"You have not been dancing, Mr. Ray?"
"No, Miss Marion; and it was a piece of selfishness in me to ask this. I
have not danced since coming back from the Cheyenne, and yet--I could
not go without one. Shall we try?"
Will he ever forget her as she looked that night? How gloriously deep
and soft and tender were her eyes, how wavy and rippling her hair, how
exquisite the delicate tints of her complexion, how rich, how lovely the
warmth of her parted lips! Her dress seemed as airy, as fair as her own
quiet grace. For the life of him he could not describe it, but it was
the first time he had seen her in evening attire, and Marion Sanford's
neck and shoulders and arms were perfect,--fair and white and round and
lovelier than an angel's, thought Ray, as his glowing eyes looked down
in rapture upon her. She had glanced up in his face as he spoke, but his
eyes met hers with such uncontrollable worship in their gaze that she
could not face them. His arm twined lightly about her waist, and without
a further word they swung away in the long, gliding measure that seemed
so perfectly in accord with the spirit of the dreamy music. She danced
lightly as a fairy; "guided," as he would have said, "with the faintest
touch of the rein," and he forgot the stiffness of the wounded thigh,
and everything else but that, to the music of all others he fancied most
(surely the leader had an unusual fit of inspiration that night), he was
dancing at last with the girl whose beauty enthralled his every sense,
whose loyalty to him in all his troubles had won his undying gratitude,
and whom he loved, humbly 'tis true, yet thrillingly, passionately. He
never saw that all over the ball-room curious eyes were watching
eagerly. Hers were downcast, while his were fixed almost in adoration on
her face. Sweeter, softer, dreamier rose and fell the exquisite strains.
Will he ever forget the "Immortellen"? Soft ripples of her hair were
drifting close to his lips. Their delicate fragrance stole over his
senses like a spell. He felt the light pressure of her tiny hand upon
his arm, and envied the dead gold of his shoulder-knot, when once, as
they reversed and a quick turn was necessary to avoid collision with a
bulkier couple, her flushing cheek had rested one instant upon it. He
could not speak; a lump rose in his throat and his heart beat wildly.
What could it mean? what could it mean? this strange thing Blake had
confessed to him? She--_she_ had bought Dandy to give to him? He must
find words to thank her, but how could he without betraying all?
Such silence could not last. Even in the thrilling instant of an avowal
the woman does not live who so far forgets herself as to be insensible
to the gaze of lookers-on. Totally ignorant of the extent of his
knowledge, since she had charged Blake that it was all to be kept a
profound secret; thinking only of the necessity of breaking that
treacherous, betraying silence, she summoned her courage, and, looking
up one instant, she made some laughing allusion to the fact that Mrs.
Turner would never forgive him if he left without dancing with her; and,
indeed, he _must_ dance with Miss Whaling, since he had dined there that
evening.
"I will try. I will do anything you ask or suggest; only, Miss Marion,
we march at eight to-morrow morning. Come with me to the gallery one
minute. I _must_ speak to you."
So after all she had only precipitated matters. He had ceased waltzing
directly opposite one of the open doors, and, without waiting for reply,
with the quick decision that so marked him at times, he led her,
speechless, from the room, snatching up a cavalry cape from a chair, and
this, as they stepped out on the low wooden piazza, he threw over her
shoulders. Several other couples were promenading slowly up and down, or
gazing in at the dancers. He led her rapidly past all these until they
came to the end of the platform, and there, with the moonlight shining
full on his eager features, Ray turned and faced his fate. She knew he
was trembling; she knew his voice was low and broken and husky. His
words had been hardly audible to her in the hop-room, but his emotion
any woman could see. Oh, how white and cold and still the distant
mountains shone in the pallid light! Oh, how silent, peaceful, deserted,
the far-away slopes and ridges over the prairie! Oh, how faint and far
and glimmering were the night lights of the stars, dimmed into
nothingness by the broad, brilliant, overwhelming radiance of the Queen
of Heaven! Oh, how sweet, luring, love-lighting were those witching
waltz strains floating out upon the breathless air! Oh, how warm and
close was the pressure of his strong arm as it held her hand upon his
beating heart! Knowing--well knowing what must be coming, powerless,
even if determined to check him, she bowed her sweet face, and the young
soldier's surging love words broke, low, tremulous, but irresistible,
upon her listening ears.
"God knows I meant to hide as yet, until my life could have shown the
influence you and your blessed faith have had.--God knows I meant to
have striven to show myself worthy before coming to say what now I
cannot restrain; but to-night the truth came out that to you I owe my
pet, my Dandy. No; let me speak," he went on, impetuously, as for one
instant she raised her head as though to check him; he had seized her
hand, too, and held it down there under the folds of that happy cavalry
cape. "I ask nothing. I know I've no right to hope or expect anything as
yet. You have blessed me infinitely beyond my deserts already; but now I
could not go, I _could_ not go without giving you to do with as you will
the only thing on earth I have to offer,--my heart, Marion. Oh, my
darling, my darling, don't shrink from me! Listen, sweet one. There can
be no wrong, no shame in your knowing that I love you, love you beyond
any power of mine to tell you. Were I to go now, after all you have done
for me, and hide all this simply because I did not and could not hope
you would return it,--yet, I would hang my head in shame. The man who
loves as I do _must_ tell it, no matter what the answer be."
And then there was a moment's silence, through which she could plainly
hear the loud beating of his heart, in which she could not find words to
speak, and yet there lay her hand in his, since it was powerless to
check him.
"Have I startled you, Marion?" he whispered low. "Did you not read much
of this in my letter?"
She looked bravely up in his eyes. Her own were full of unshed tears.
Her sweet face was lovely in the pale moonlight, and as once more she
saw the worship in his eyes, the flush of joy, pride,--of what else
could it be?--again mantled her soft cheeks. She made no effort to
withdraw her hand.
"I have no right to be startled, Mr. Ray. I could not but see something
of this all in your letter, though that might have been attributed to a
very unnecessary gratitude. But I would not have you think anything
like--like this due to me because of my interest in all that has taken
place this summer. We all thought--Mrs. Stannard and Grace and I--that
you had been most outrageously wronged, and it did seem as though
everything had turned against you, and I made Mr. Blake buy Dandy
because that seemed the only way to save him, too, from being abused. I
couldn't bear it. Oh, Mr. Ray, the letter did not half prepare me for
all this! I _have_ liked you. I _do_ like you better than any man I
know," she said; and now her swimming eyes were fixed full on his, and
his lips were quivering in their eagerness to kiss away the tears, but
he drew her no closer.
"That in itself is more than I had a right to hope, that in itself
nerves me to tell you this. I go back to my duty with a stimulus and to
my temptations with a safeguard I never knew before. I never have been
worthy your faintest thought, much less your love."
"Mr. Ray, don't say that! I know well that no man who has been such a
friend of Mrs. Stannard's, such a friend to Captain Truscott and Grace,
_could_ be what you paint yourself. Oh, don't think--don't think for an
instant I undervalue the gift; you--you shall not speak of yourself that
way! Do you think any woman who deserves a thought could fail to glory
in such a name as you have won? Oh, Mr. Ray, Mr. Ray, I hardly realize
that it is possible that you care for me! You, so brave and loyal and
daring."
His eyes were blazing with a rapture he could not control. It was so
infinitely sweet to hear her praise.
"You make me hope in spite of yourself, Marion," he murmured, with
trembling eagerness. "Oh, think; look way down into your heart, and see
if you cannot find one little germ of love for me,--one that I may teach
to grow. Try, my darling, try. Ah, heaven! am I mad to-night?"
And now her head was drooping again and her heart beating. She felt that
since it had come she could not bid him go comfortless.
"Only within the last day or two," she whispered, "have I been thinking
that--that--I've been wondering how I dared write to you as I did when
you were--in Cheyenne, wondering whether--if Dandy were not yours
to-day--I could find courage to say what I did to Mr. Blake.
Does--that--tell you anything, Mr. Ray?"
"Marion! Marion! Oh, my darling! let me see your face."
She struggled one instant. She even hid it upon his breast, and the
helmet cords made their mark upon her blushing forehead; but quickly he
took her face between his strong, trembling hands, gently but firmly
raised it until his eyes could drink in every lovely feature, though the
fringed lids still hid from him the eyes he longed to see.
"Marion, sweet one. _Maidie!_ with all my life and strength I love you.
Have you not one little word for me?"
"What--must I say?" she murmured, at last, still shrouding her eyes.
"Say,--'Will, I think I love you just a little.'"
No answer. Only beating hearts, only quick-drawn breath, only the
distant call of the sentry, "Half-past eleven o'clock;" only the dying
strains of the "Immortellen" wafting out through the open casements.
"Try, Maidie," he whispered, eagerly. "Try before the call comes back to
the guard-house. Try before the last notes of that sweet waltz die away
for good and all. Try, sweet love,--'Will, I think I do.'"
A moment's pause, then--then--
"Will, I--I _know_ I do."
And the strong, straining arms clasped about her under that blessed
cavalry cape, and the bonny face was hidden on his breast, and Ray's
trembling lips were raining passionate kisses on that softly rippling
bang, just as the last thrill of the "Immortellen" dreamed away, and the
rich, ringing, soldierly voice of the sentry on number one echoed far
out over the moonlit prairie the soldier watch-cry, "All's well."
* * * * *
What a gem of a morning was the morrow when they rode away northward!
After the command had filed out of the garrison, led by the band on
their placid grays, and the ladies all along the row had waved their
good-byes and kissed their dainty white hands, and the children had
hurrahed and shouted and rushed out among the horses' hoofs in their
eagerness to have one more farewell shake of the hand from some favorite
officer or man, and two or three dames and damsels had stolen away to
the back rooms up-stairs, Marion Sanford stood with tear-dimmed eyes at
the window, gazing far out over the prairie at the long blue column
disappearing in the dust over the "divide." By her side stood Grace
Truscott, twining her arms around that slender waist and clinging to her
with a new and sweeter sympathy. Who, who was the cynic that wrote that
even as she stood at the altar plighting her troth to the husband she
had chosen, no woman yet forgave the man whom, having rejected, she knew
to have consoled himself with another? Grace never for a moment admitted
that Ray had been her lover in Arizona; he had been devoted to
her--always--for Jack's sake; but there were those who thought that
only a little encouragement would have tumbled Mr. Ray over head and
heels in love with her in those queer old days. But all that was past.
There was no doubt that Mr. Ray was desperately, deeply in love now, and
that two women in that garrison--Mrs. Stannard and Mrs. Truscott--knew
it well, and rejoiced that his love was requited. But, late as it was,
Ray had had a very happy yet earnest talk with Marion on their return
from the hop. He told her plainly that he had a term of probation to
serve, and that not until he had freed himself from his burden of debt
and furnished his quarters, so that he might not be utterly ashamed to
welcome her to such a roof as even frontier cottages afforded, he would
not ask her to be his wife; he would not ask her to consider herself
even engaged to him. He had no right, he said, to speak to her of his
love, much less to plead for hers; but that was irresistible,--'twas
done. Long engagements are fearful strains, and our social license of
questionings renders them wellnigh intolerable to men and women, who
naturally shrink from speaking of matters which are to them so sacred.
Ray declared that she should not be harassed by any such torturing talk
and prying and questioning as that which has to be undergone by almost
every girl whom civilized society fancies to be engaged. She could never
doubt him for an instant, he felt assured, and he--well, he couldn't
begin to realize his blessed fortune at all, so she must excuse _his_
incredulity; but he declared he would leave her utterly untrammelled.
There should not even be an "understanding." He would not ask her to
accept his class-ring, all he had to offer, but write to her he _would_.
Grace and Mrs. Stannard should know if she saw fit, and Truscott, but
no one else at Russell. Then, if she came to her senses when she went
back to New York and her friends the Zabriskies in November, and met
some fellow worthy her acceptance, why--but here a little white hand was
laid firmly upon his lips; he said no more, but compromised by kissing
it--rapturously.
But he, and Dandy, too, had come to say good-by before marching, and
Dandy's coat shone like silk, and he arched his pretty neck and looked
at her with his soft brown eyes as though he wanted to tell her he knew
all about it, as indeed he did. Had not Ray gone into the stable early
that morning while he was crunching his oats and whispered it all, and
ever so much more, into that sensitive ear? A famous confidant was Dandy
on the long march that followed, for Ray used to bend down on his neck
and talk about her to him time and again, to the wonderment of his
"sub." Ray breakfasted at Mrs. Stannard's the morning of the start, and
when he came away and it was time to mount, he wore in the button-hole
of his scouting-shirt a single daisy--Marion's own flower--and a tiny
speck of dark-blue ribbon. The yellow facings of the cavalry were linked
with the Sanford blue.
And wasn't Blake in a gale that morning? Rattling with nonsense and
misquotation and eagerness to be off, he strode from gallery to gallery
with his Mexican spurs clattering at his heels. He had bought in town a
little china match-safe, which he gravely presented to Mrs. Whaling as a
slight addition to the collection of what she termed her brick-a-braw.
He implored Mrs. Turner to sing to him just once, for singing was a
doubtful accomplishment of hers, and she had already good reason to know
that he had paraphrased one of her songs, because of her defective
enunciation, into--
"Some day, some day, some day
I shall meat chew,"
and she never forgave ridicule. He declared he meant to kiss Mrs.
Wilkins good-by, and dared Mrs. Stannard to come down and see him do it;
but when it was really time to ride to the head of his troop of
recruits, he bowed to Miss Sanford with a knowing look in his eye, and
bent low over her hand.
"'Love sought is good, but given unsought is better;'
and yet, fair lady, you fail to see the overpowering advantages of
accepting mine. In the language of Schillerschoppenhausen, Ich habe
geliebt und gelebt, which being interpreted means, I've loved and got
left. Fare ye well." And away he rode, bestriding his horse like a pair
of bent dividers on a broad grin.
And Ray,--though pale from recent illness and confinement and lack of
the old open air life,--never had he looked so full of hope and buoyancy
and life as, after one thrilling little squeeze of her hand, he swung
into saddle, doffed his broad-brimmed hat to all, and went bounding away
to take his place in front of the long mounted line that awaited his
coming. Then his voice rang out clear and firm and true, and with the
daisy nestling in his breast he galloped to the head of column. Duty,
Loyalty, and Hope were leading on before.
Two long weeks of marching it took to carry them to the romantic valley
in the Black Hills where the old --th so eagerly awaited them, and
meantime letters were flying to and fro. Ray meant to bring his new
riders and new horses in perfect trim to their regiments, and so made
short marches and constant inspection of his stock. Heavens! what a
gloom had settled over the regiment that miserable day, when one of
their number, having ridden into Deadwood, came back with a several
days' old Cheyenne paper giving the fearful details of Gleason's death
and Ray's probable guilt. It was three days more before they met the
mail-stage fairly laden down with bags of letters for them. Stannard had
been almost sick, Truscott sad, silent, but incredulous. There had been
a difference between him and Billings, for the latter was inclined to
believe the story true, and Truscott said that he was prepared to hear
this from other men in the regiment but not from him. Eager as lovers
and husbands to get their mail, every man had dropped the letter he
happened to be reading when young Hunter, searching a later Cheyenne
paper, set up a whoop that made the pine-crested heights echo again and
again. Then waving his paper and dancing like a madman, the youngster
yelled at the top of his voice,--
"Ray's innocent! Ray's acquitted! 'Twas a deserter, Wolf, who did it!
He's confessed. _Now_, Crane. By heaven, swallow your words!
Wh-o-o-o-p!"
Officers and men, the whole regiment sprang to their feet and came
tearing to the spot, and such a scene of hand-shaking and shouting and
jubilee the Black Hills never knew before or since. It was easy enough
for the officers to hurry back to their letters from wives and children
or sweethearts, but for hours the men kept up their hurrah; Ray had been
their hero for years, and the affair of the July fight of Wayne's
command had simply intensified the feeling.
Naturally, the letters bearing the postmarks of latest dates were those
first opened. Fancy the faces of Stannard and Truscott as they read,
letter by letter, backward through that summer's record. Turner looked
as sad and anxious as ever; almost the first one he opened said, "If you
have not already seen and read those that precede this, please burn them
without reading. I was mistaken;" and Turner well knew that when his
wife got so far as to admit that she had been mistaken, it meant that in
some way she had been playing the mischief. He never read, therefore,
all her graphic details of Ray's mysterious flirtation with Mrs.
Truscott, or of the thrilling evidence in Mrs. Turner's possession of
his guilt. A good fellow was Turner, a loyal soldier and husband, who
loved his pretty and capricious better half, and deserved a still better
one.
That night when the first keen frosts of October made the camp-fires
doubly welcome, old Stannard and Jack went off among the pines and built
a little blaze all by themselves, and there talked gravely over the
strange events of the summer now so fully set before them in those
volumes from Russell. All Wolf's wild infatuation. All Gleason's cunning
malice, and--ah! _De mortuis nil nisi bonum._ May God forgive him! All
Ray's loyal and devoted services, and his cruel suffering and wrongs.
What wonder was it that for days the regiment could talk of nothing but
Ray? What wonder that they could not fathom the secret of the tie that
made Stannard and Truscott inseparable now? What wonder that those two
officers obtained permission to ride forward a day's march and meet Ray
and his command, and that when they came upon him cantering gayly up
through Buffalo Gap, he hardly knew them, so gaunt, worn, and ragged
were they; they hardly knew him, so radiant was the halo of hope and
love around his once devil-may-care face; so earnest, so grave, yet so
joyous had become his once flippant, reckless mien. Yet, in their very
greeting, Ray well knew that deep and faithful as had been the old
trust, there was new born from the harsh ordeal of this strange, sad
summer a friendship firmer, deeper, than ever earthly menace could
shake--a trust and loyalty that was registered in heaven. Not one word
for hours was interchanged between Jack and Ray as to that scene in
which he carried to Grace the letter Gleason had stolen, or found.
Together, with Blake occasionally injecting his rattling comments, they
talked over all the sea of troubles through which he had passed, and
together they would have mourned it all anew but for Ray.
"No, major. No, Jack. I see well that it was all for the best. God knows
I have been ten times rewarded for anything I may have suffered then.
There was a lesson I _had_ to learn, and did learn: that there are
hundreds of people who think that when a man drinks at all there is no
crime that may not properly be lodged at his door. It _has_ been a hard
siege, but every hour has been inestimable in result and in reward."
But before they rolled in their blankets that night Truscott looked him
in the eyes one moment, then held out his hand.
"Is it necessary for me to say how I value what you did and bore for
Grace and me, Billy?"
"Not a word, Jack."
Then came the march to meet the regiment, the royal, ringing welcome, a
day devoted to lionizing Ray, greeting the new officers, choosing
horses, assigning recruits to companies, and then a dash down the
Cheyenne, a week's ride in the glad October sunshine, and, one brilliant
evening as they returned, heading in toward the agencies, there met them
the courier with despatches and letters, and Ray's heart went bounding
up into his throat as four dainty envelopes, all addressed in the same
hand, were lifted up to him as he sat on Dandy, and then Jack Truscott
came riding quickly to his side, his eyes glowing, though wet with
emotion, his lips compressed, yet a world of joy and gratitude shining
in his face. Ray looked up eagerly, and their hands clasped.
"I have a son, Billy, and all is well,--thank God!"
* * * * *
And then came the day when with the long skirmish lines deployed, far as
eye could see, the --th, with the comrade battalions of the other
regiments that had shared the rigors of the Yellowstone campaign of '76,
came sweeping over the open prairies from the north, and whirling in
ahead of them the sullen, scowling, blanketed bands of old Machpealota;
"herding" them up the valley of the White River towards the agency, and
penning them between the glistening crags of Dancer's Butte and the
barrier bluffs on the other side, while MacKenzie's troopers, trim and
fresh in their natty garrison dress, "rounded them up" from the south
and west, and by night the work of disarming and dismounting the silent
Indians was begun. New forces were all there ready to take the field
against the hordes of Cheyennes still lurking in the mountains; but for
the --th the campaign of the centennial year was virtually over. A few
days of rest and jubilee and greeting of old and new friends among the
regiments there assembled, and then they turned their horses' heads
southward, gave one backward look at the valley where they turned the
tables on the Cheyennes, where Wayne had so nearly sacrificed his whole
command, where Ray had run the gauntlet of death by torture to save
them, where Truscott's night dash to the rescue had brought him charging
just in time, and over the rolling prairies they marched to seek far to
the south their winter homes.
Thither had Ray and Truscott already gone. The summer's work was done.
The campaign was ended, and there came by telegraph from Cheyenne a
notification that Lieutenant Ray would be needed as a witness on the
trial of the owners of that gambling-den in which the soldier Wolf had
been done to death. The "Gray Fox" was sending in his ambulance and a
staff-officer at that very moment. He sent for Ray to bid him good-by
and offer him the welcome lift. And just as Truscott was writing some
hurried lines to Grace, cheering her with the news that in two weeks he
could reach her, the colonel laid a quiet hand upon his shoulder,--an
unusual demonstration, and one that meant a good deal,--and said, "It
has occurred to the general that you might like to go ahead with Ray,
captain; he appreciates the circumstances under which you hurried to
join us, and thinks that now Mrs. Truscott is entitled to claim you, so
Mr. Billings will send your orders after you by mail." He did not say
that he had himself gone to the general to ask this indulgence for
Truscott, but so it happened that long before sundown the three old
comrades, Truscott, Ray, and Mr. Bright, of the staff, were whirling
ahead towards Laramie, and that the precious inmates of number eleven at
Russell were electrified by the news that Jack and Will,--"Jack and
Will!" would be there ten days ahead of the anticipated time.
A blessed ten days they were. Grace and Baby Truscott were in readiness
to welcome paterfamilias long before Mrs. Stannard, like sister Anne on
the watch-tower, reported the cloud of dust that told of the coming of
the Laramie stage, and when that grimy vehicle finally drew up at the
gate, and two eager warriors sprang out (maybe there were not dozens of
watching eyes along the row!), there was Maid Marion down the walk with
a troop of the garrison children flocking about her, and Mrs. Stannard
(by special arrangement and request) was awaiting them on the piazza;
and when Jack, after very brief and hearty greeting, was passed on into
the house and up the stairs, and into the hands of that awesome
potentate in petticoats before whom from the moment of their entry into
this world of troubles all men must bow in helpless submission--the
monthly nurse, and the bronzed and bearded and somewhat haggard soldier
meekly surrendered himself into her custody, and was ushered by her into
a little room, where he was bidden to make himself as civilized as
possible in appearance, lest his war-worn guise should shock mamma and
frighten baby into convulsions, he obeyed in silence, nay, even with
propitiatory smiles and gestures. Ay, lay down your arms and bend the
suppliant knee, sheathe your useless sword, and hush to soothing whisper
the voice that thundered in command a week agone; hide away with
noiseless hand the heavy boot and clinking spur; off with belt and
buckle and scratching shoulder-strap, and don your softest dressing-gown
and creakless slipper; submit to search for pins and needles you never
carried; promise you will only talk just so much, and stay only just so
long, and will sit only just in such a place and won't attempt to
agitate her, "for we must still be very, very careful," and at last you
are admitted, and you kneel by the white bed and hear the rapturous
ecstasy of welcome in her faint voice, and read of her sacred martyrdom
in the white cheek and fragile hand, and glory in the pride and joy of
that wondering, wonderful mother-look in the great, deep, lustrous eyes,
and kiss again the warm, sweet lips that are heaven's nectar to the
thirst of yours; and then--and then there is revealed to you that
little, wrinkled, ruddy head, all folds and puckers and creases, all the
redder and uglier for contrast with the snowy bosom in which it twists
and burrows, and those expressionless, saucer-blue, liquid, blinking
little eyes, and tiny upturned nose, and puckering, gurgling, querulous
mouth,--all that is visible from the folds of the white blanket worn as
only Indian and baby _can_ wear one; and you are bidden to declare that
he is the very, very image of you, bless his honeyed lips! and then you
must take him one minute,--nurse must let her see Jack with his baby
boy in his arms!--and though fearful, you assent, and with reverent,
prayerful gratitude, you receive your first-born to your heart, and
thank God for the infinite mercy that has brought her, the sweet young
wife and mother, through her deadly peril, and then you would kiss the
helpless, staring, blinking, little blanket-framed face; but at first
touch of those bristling moustaches a powerful spasm has convulsed the
tiny features, and a vehement, plaintive, wailing protest bursts from
the contorted lips, and then your son and heir is snatched away, and you
stand like convicted felon, while nursey dandles and tosses and condoles
and condones and cuddles. "Well, well, well, _did_ it nearly fighten its
pessus, pessus life out with its horrid, awful, uggy beard? Well, it
never, never sall aden, _never_! No, nursey wouldn't let it." That's it,
Jack; sit down and make the best of it. Your reign as lord and master is
over and done with. Lo! Baby is king, and Mrs. Muggins is his prime
minister!
But, down in the pretty parlor, the returning soldier is still master of
the situation. Thank heaven for the beneficence which surrounds the
birth of love with the supervisory ministration of no meddling old
woman! Were it otherwise, the ancient and honorable profession of which
Mrs. Sairy Gamp is the faithful exponent would never have been called
into being. Ray and Mrs. Stannard were exchanging rapturous "so glad to
see you's" and shaking hands, and giving and receiving news about all
manner of people, while Marion Sanford was still some distance "down the
row" with the romping group of youngsters, and chatting briskly with
Mrs. Wilkins and some of the infantry ladies for all the world as though
Ray were nowhere within a thousand miles. She wanted to keep faith with
the children, she said, and they made too much noise for Baby's slumbers
when playing about the house. Of course she looked, as did the other
ladies, all eagerness to see the returning officers, and was quite
prepared to parry all thrusts which were certain to come,--all the deft
insinuations which people are so practised in giving under certain
suspected circumstances. Of course that moonlit interview the night of
the hop had been seen by more than one, and told to more than a dozen,
though Ray had kept between her and the couples that happened to be on
the gallery, and so concealed the sweet _dénouement_, and his subsequent
devotions that night to Mrs. Turner and to Miss Whaling had completely
bewildered them. For her sake, he had written, the matter should be so
managed as to subject her to as little questioning as possible. It was
already arranged that she would be returning Eastward about the time the
regiment got fairly settled in winter quarters. Already the infantry
were packing up and shipping their goods and chattels to their new
posts, and it was just barely possible that, with a little dissembling
and apparent indifference, the train of talk might be thrown from the
track. Mrs. Stannard's blue eyes danced merrily as she welcomed Ray, and
they gave one quick glance towards her that he might know where "she"
was, and it was then arranged that he was to return to the house with
certain letters as soon as he could unpack his valise and change his
dress. By that time, too, Miss Sanford was recalled by a message from
Grace, and so when Ray reappeared and the servant ushered him into the
cool, darkened little parlor, and scurried away to the kitchen to
exchange confidences with cook, he had seen and spoken to all the ladies
of the regiment, and given them news of their lords, and had not yet
exchanged one word with the lady of his love. For a moment he stood
there, looking around at the familiar and dainty objects in the room
which he had pictured in his mind's eye a million times in that brief
month; at the piano,--closed and unused of late; at the pictures and
statuettes, and the quaint little odds and ends in the way of
"what-nots," book-stands, tables, and chairs; at the broad and inviting
lounge with its beautiful covering and soft pillows, and the bear-skin
rugs at the foot; at the rich silk and bamboo screen of Japanese
handiwork that kept the chilling draught from the piano or work-table
when the ladies were there, and was big enough to form a complete
enclosure about them,--their "corral" he had termed it,--and, _was_ that
her footstep on the floor above? No! Too heavy and slow. The maid had
just gone up with the mail; besides, her room--_Her_ room was now on the
ground-floor, off the dining-room. Why _didn't_ she come? She must know
how hard all this assumed indifference was to bear. She must know how
eager he was to look once more into her sweet blue eyes and read their
shy welcome; she must know how his arms longed to enfold her. His eyes
were growing more accustomed to the curtained light, and he could see
his own reflection in the mirror between the windows, and noted with
natural satisfaction how bronzed and "serviceable" he was looking again,
and then he thought it would be a good plan to draw that screen across
the end of the piano and hide behind it, and watch _her_ as she came in,
before rushing forth to--well, wait a moment! _Would_ she be quite
prepared for so rapturous a greeting as he longed to give her? Eyes and
lips and arms and breast were yearning for her, but, would she not be
abashed at such a demonstration? It would serve her right for keeping
him waiting, and he took hold of the screen to draw it towards him, and
the screen unaccountably resisted. He dropped on his knee to loosen the
foot from a supposed catch in the heavy rug, and gave a stronger pull
and away it came,--and there like Lady Teazle, only all sweet smiles and
welcome and blushes and shy delight, a lovely, winsome picture of loving
womanhood, crouched bonny Maid Marion.
"Maidie! Oh, you darling! you delight!" And his arms were about her in
an instant. He sprang to his feet, and, despite attempted resistance and
retreat, she was clasped to his heart, and held there,--held there close
and strong: held there so firmly that she could not get away, and so, in
default of other hiding-place, her face was buried on his breast,
and--well, she had to put her arms _somewhere_. When does a woman look
so like a stick as when her own arms hang straight down by her side
while a lover's are twining about her? If you need confirmation of this
startling theory, mademoiselle, simply take one look at that otherwise
delightful picture "At last--Alone." Observe the ardor of the
lover-husband; note the unresponsive droopiness of the charmingly
attired bride, and defend the straight-up-and-down hang of that useless
arm if you can. She might, at least, take the stiffness or limpness out
of it by simply placing the little hand on his shoulder, and that is
just what Marion did, until--until he himself seized and drew it around
his neck. The question as to how he should greet her had, somehow,
solved itself.
At last he raised her head. She was indistinctly murmuring something.
"Pardon me, Miss Blue-Eyes; but--to whom did you speak?"
"To you; I said that, if all the same to you, I would like to look at
you."
"And what did I hear you call me?"
"I said--Mr. Ray."
"_Mr._ Ray! Are you aware of the fact that Mr. Ray is quite a thing of
the past? very, very far in the past," he added, with deep and earnest
feeling in place of the playful tone of the previous words. "I have been
Ray or Mr. Ray, or Billy Ray and 'that scamp Ray,' many a long year.
Only one woman on earth called me always by the one name I strove to
teach you, Maidie, and that was--mother. Am I not yet 'Will' to you?"
A moment's silence, a moment's hesitation, and then, with blushing
cheeks and beaming eyes, bravely, loyally, comes the answer: "Yes! In
every thought, in every moment, only--it was not quite so easy to say."
"And now, if I forgive you, will you tell me, since you have had the
look you demanded, just what it was you wanted to see in such a
sun-tanned specimen? What is there to warrant such flattering notice,
Maidie mine?"
She was looking up at him with such a halo of hope and love and pride
and trust shining about her exquisite face; she stood there with one
soft little hand resting on his shoulder, while the other shyly plucked
at the tiny knot of dark-blue ribbon on his breast,--the ribbon that had
fastened her daisy to his scouting-shirt. He had relaxed the pressure of
his arms, but they still enfolded her, and he looked the picture of
brave young manhood blessed with the sweetest knowledge earth can give.
Two big tears seemed starting from the blue depths of those shining
eyes. He bent fondly towards her.
"What is it, sweet one? tell me."
"I had been thinking of all you had written me of your past, and of all
your troubles and wrongs this summer, and wondering--wondering how any
one could think of the loyalty you had always shown to those you
loved,--how any one could look into your eyes and say you would ever
disappoint--my faith."