UNDER ORDERS
Many an unexpected event has resulted from the formal, concise orders
issued by the War Department. Cupid in the disguise of Mars has thus
frequently toyed with the fate of men, sending many a gallant soldier
forward, all unsuspecting, into a battle of the heart.
It was no pleasant assignment to duty which greeted First Lieutenant
Donald Brant, commanding Troop N, Seventh Cavalry, when that regiment
came once more within the environs of civilization, from its summer
exercises in the field. Bethune had developed into a somewhat
important post, socially as well as from a strictly military
standpoint, and numerous indeed were the attractions offered there to
any young officer whose duty called him to serve the colors on those
bleak Dakota prairies. Brant frowned at the innocent words, reading
them over again with gloomy eyes and an exclamation of unmitigated
disgust, yet there was no escaping their plain meaning. Trouble was
undoubtedly brewing among the Sioux, trouble in which the Cheyennes,
and probably others also, were becoming involved. Every soldier
patrolling that long northern border recognized the approach of some
dire development, some early coup of savagery. Restlessness pervaded
the Indian country; recalcitrant bands roamed the "badlands";
dissatisfied young warriors disappeared from the reservation limits and
failed to return; while friendly scouts told strange tales of weird
dances amid the brown Dakota hills. Uneasiness, the spirit of
suspected peril, hung like a pall over the plains; yet none could
safely predict where the blow might first descend.
Brant was not blind to all this, nor to the necessity of having in
readiness selected bodies of seasoned troops, yet it was not in soldier
nature to refrain from grumbling when the earliest detail chanced to
fall to him. But orders were orders in that country, and although he
crushed the innocent paper passionately beneath his heel, five hours
later he was in saddle, riding steadily westward, his depleted troop of
horsemen clattering at his heels. Up the valley of the Bear Water,
slightly above Glencaid,--far enough beyond the saloon radius to
protect his men from possible corruption, yet within easy reach of the
military telegraph,--they made camp in the early morning upon a wooded
terrace overlooking the stage road, and settled quietly down as one of
those numerous posts with which the army chiefs sought to hem in the
dissatisfied redmen, and learn early the extent of their hostile plans.
Brant was now in a humor considerably happier than when he first rode
forth from Bethune. A natural soldier, sincerely ambitious in his
profession, anything approximating to active service instantly aroused
his interest, while his mind was ever inclined to respond with
enthusiasm to the fascination of the plains and the hills across which
their march had extended. Somewhere along that journey he had dropped
his earlier burden of regret, and the spirit of the service had left
him cheerfully hopeful of some stern soldierly work. He watched the
men of his troop while with quip and song they made comfortable camp;
he spoke a few brief words of instruction to the grave-faced first
sergeant, and then strolled slowly up the valley, his own affairs soon
completely forgotten in the beauty of near-by hills beneath the golden
glory of the morning sun. Once he paused and looked back upon ugly
Glencaid, dingy and forlorn even at that distance; then he crossed the
narrow stream by means of a convenient log, and clambered up the
somewhat steep bank. A heavy fringe of low bushes clung close along
the edge of the summit, but a plainly defined path led among their
intricacies. He pressed his way through, coming into a glade where
sunshine flickered through the overarching branches of great trees, and
the grass was green and short, like that of a well-kept lawn.
As Brant emerged from the underbrush he suddenly beheld a fair vision
of young womanhood resting on the grassy bank just before him. She was
partially reclining, as if startled by his unannounced approach, her
face turned toward him, one hand grasping an open book, the other
shading her eyes from the glare of the sun. Something in the graceful
poise, the piquant, uplifted face, the dark gloss of heavy hair, and
the unfrightened gaze held him speechless until the picture had been
impressed forever upon his memory. He beheld a girl on the verge of
womanhood, fair of skin, the red glow of health flushing her cheeks,
the lips parted in surprise, the sleeve fallen back from one white,
rounded arm, the eyes honest, sincere, mysterious. She recognized him
with a glance, and her lips closed as she remembered how and when they
had met before. But there was no answering recollection within his
eyes, only admiration--nothing clung about this Naiad to remind him of
a neglected waif of the garrison. She read all this in his face, and
the lines about her mouth changed quickly into a slightly quizzical
smile, her eyes brightening.
"You should at least have knocked, sir," she ventured, sitting up on
the grassy bank, the better to confront him, "before intruding thus
uninvited."
He lifted his somewhat dingy scouting hat and bowed humbly.
"I perceived no door giving warning that I approached such presence,
and the first shock of surprise was perhaps as great to me as to you.
Yet, now that I have blundered thus far, I beseech that I be permitted
to venture upon yet another step."
She sat looking at him, a trim, soldierly figure, his face young and
pleasant to gaze upon, and her dark eyes sensibly softened.
"What step?"
"To tarry for a moment beside the divinity of this wilderness."
She laughed with open frankness, her white teeth sparkling behind the
red, parted lips.
"Perhaps you may, if you will first consent to be sensible," she said,
with returning gravity; "and I reserve the right to turn you away
whenever you begin to talk or act foolish. If you accept these
conditions, you may sit down."
He seated himself upon the soft grass ledge, retaining the hat in his
hands. "You must be an odd sort of a girl," he commented, soberly,
"not to welcome an honest expression of admiration."
"Oh, was that it? Then I duly bow my acknowledgment. I took your
words for one of those silly compliments by which men believe they
honor women."
He glanced curiously aside at her half-averted face. "At first sight I
had supposed you scarcely more than a mere girl, but now you speak like
a woman wearied of the world, utterly condemning all complimentary
phrases."
"Indeed, no; not if they be sincerely expressed as between man and man."
"How is it as between man and woman?"
"Men generally address women as you started to address me, as if there
existed no common ground of serious thought between them. They
condescend, they flatter, they indulge in fulsome compliment, they
whisper soft nonsense which they would be sincerely ashamed to utter in
the presence of their own sex, they act as if they were amusing babies,
rather than conversing with intelligent human beings. Their own notion
seems to be to shake the rattle-box, and awaken a laugh. I am not a
baby, nor am I seeking amusement."
He glanced curiously at her book. "And yet you condescend to read love
stories," he said, smiling. "I expected to discover a treatise on
philosophy."
"I read whatever I chance to get my hands on, here in Glencaid," she
retorted, "just as I converse with whoever comes along. I am hopeful
of some day discovering a rare gem hidden in the midst of the trash. I
am yet young."
"You are indeed young," he said, quietly, "and with some of life's
lessons still to learn. One is that frankness is not necessarily
flippancy, nor honesty harshness. Beyond doubt much of what you said
regarding ordinary social conversation is true, yet the man is no more
to be blamed than the woman. Both seek to be entertaining, and are to
be praised for the effort rather than censured. A stranger cannot
instinctively know the likes and dislikes of one he has just met; he
can feel his way only by commonplaces. However, if you will offer me a
topic worthy the occasion, in either philosophy, science, or
literature, I will endeavor to feed your mind."
She uplifted her innocent eyes demurely to his face. "You are so kind.
I am deeply interested just now In the Japanese conception of the
transmigration of souls."
"How extremely fortunate! It chances to be my favorite theme, but my
mental processes are peculiar, and you must permit me to work up toward
it somewhat gradually. For instance, as a question leading that way,
how, in the incarnation of this world, do you manage to exist in such a
hole of a place?--that is, provided you really reside here."
"Why, I consider this a most delightful nook."
"My reference was to Glencaid."
"Oh! Why, I live from within, not without. Mind and heart, not
environment, make life, and my time is occupied most congenially. I am
being faithfully nurtured on the Presbyterian catechism, and also
trained in the graces of earthly society. These alternate, thus
preparing me for whatever may happen in this world or the next."
His face pictured bewilderment, but also a determination to persevere.
"An interesting combination, I admit. But from your appearance this
cannot always have been your home?"
"Oh, thank you. I believe not always; but I wonder at your being able
to discern my superiority to these surroundings. And do you know your
questioning is becoming quite personal? Does that yield me an equal
privilege?"
He bowed, perhaps relieved at thus permitting her to assume the
initiative, and rested lazily back upon the grass, his eyes intently
studying her face.
"I suppose from your clothes you must be a soldier. What is that
figure 7 on your hat for?"
"The number of my regiment, the Seventh Cavalry."
Her glance was a bit disdainful as she coolly surveyed him from head to
foot, "I should imagine that a strong, capable-appearing fellow like
you might do much better than that. There is so much work in the world
worth doing, and so much better pay."
"What do you mean? Is n't a soldier's life a worthy one?"
"Oh, yes, of course, in a way. We have to have soldiers, I suppose;
but if I were a man I 'd hate to waste all my life tramping around at
sixteen dollars a month."
He smothered what sounded like a rough ejaculation, gazing into her
demure eyes as if she strongly suspected a joke hid in their depths.
"Do--do you mistake me for an enlisted man?"
"Oh, I did n't know; you said you were a soldier, and that's what I
always heard they got. I am so glad if they give you more. I was only
going to say that I believed I could get you a good place in McCarthy's
store if you wanted it. He pays sixty-five dollars, and his clerk has
just left."
Brant stared at her with open mooch, totally unable for the moment to
decide whether or not that innocent, sympathetic face masked mischief.
Before he succeeded in regaining confidence and speech, she had risen
to her feet, holding back her skirt with one hand.
"Really, I must go," she announced calmly, drawing back toward the
slight opening between the rushes. "No doubt YOU have done fully as
well as you could considering your position in life; but this has
proved another disappointment. You have fallen, far, very far, below
my ideal. Good-bye."
He sprang instantly erect, his cheeks flushed. "Please don't go
without a farther word. We seem predestined to misunderstand. I am
even willing to confess myself a fool in the hope of some time being
able to convince you otherwise. You have not even told me that you
live here; nor do I know your name."
She shook her head positively, repressed merriment darkening her eyes
and wrinkling the corners of her mouth. "It would be highly improper
to introduce myself to a stranger--we Presbyterians never do that."
"But do you feel no curiosity as to who I may be?"
"Why, not in the least; the thought is ridiculous. How very conceited
you must be to imagine such a thing!"
He was not a man easily daunted, nor did he recall any previous
embarrassment in the presence of a young woman. But now he confronted
something utterly unique; those quiet eyes seemed to look straight
through him. His voice faltered sadly, yet succeeded in asking: "Are
we, then, never to meet again? Am I to understand this to be your
wish?"
She laughed. "Really, sir, I am not aware that I have the slightest
desire in the matter. I have given it no thought, but I presume the
possibility of our meeting again depends largely upon yourself, and the
sort of society you keep. Surely you cannot expect that I would seek
such an opportunity?"
He bowed humbly. "You mistake my purpose. I merely meant to ask if
there was not some possibility of our again coming together socially
the presence of mutual friends."
"Oh, I scarcely think so; I do not remember ever having met any
soldiers at the social functions here--excepting officers. We are
extremely exclusive in Glencaid," she dropped him a mocking courtesy,
"and I have always moved in the most exclusive set."
Piqued by her tantalizing manner, he asked, "What particular social
functions are about to occur that may possibly open a passage into your
guarded presence?"
She seemed immersed in thought, her face turned partially aside.
"Unfortunately, I have not my list of engagements here," and she
glanced about at him shyly. "I can recall only one at present, and I
am not even certain--that is, I do not promise--to attend that.
However, I may do so. The Miners' Bachelor Club gives a reception and
ball to-morrow evening in honor of the new schoolmistress."
"What is her name?" with responsive eagerness.
She hesitated, as if doubtful of the strict propriety of mentioning it
to a stranger.
"Miss Phoebe Spencer," she said, her eyes cast demurely down.
"Ah!" he exclaimed, in open triumph; "and have I, then, at last made
fair capture of your secret? You are Miss Phoebe Spencer."
She drew back still farther within the recesses of the bushes, at his
single victorious step forward.
"I? Why certainly not. I am merely Miss Spencer's 'star' pupil, so
you may easily judge something of what her superior attainments must
necessarily be. But I am really going now, and I sincerely trust you
will be able to secure a ticket for to-morrow night; for if you once
meet this Miss Spencer you will never yield another single thought to
me, Mr.--Mr.--" her eyes dancing with laughter--"First Lieutenant
Donald Brant."