THE LAST DANCE.
The blithest day of all the year has come. The graduating ball takes
place to-night. The Point is thronged with joyous visitors, and yet over
all there hovers a shadow. In the midst of all this gayety and
congratulation there hides a core of sorrow. Voices lower and soft eyes
turn in sympathy when certain sad faces are seen. There is one subject
on which the cadets simply refuse to talk, and there are two of the
graduating class who do not appear at the hotel at all. One is Mr.
McKay, whose absence is alleged to be because of confinements he has to
serve; the other is Philip Stanley, still in close arrest, and the
latter has cancelled his engagements for the ball.
There had been a few days in which Miss McKay, forgetting or having
obtained absolution for her unguarded remarks on the promenade deck of
the steamer, had begun to be seen a great deal with Miss Stanley. She
had even blushingly shaken hands with big Lieutenant Lee, whose kind
brown eyes were full of fun and playfulness whenever he greeted her. But
it was noticed that something, all of a sudden, had occurred to mar the
growing intimacy; then that the once blithe little lady was looking
white and sorrowful; that she avoided Miss Stanley for two whole days,
and that her blue eyes watched wistfully for some one who did not
come,--"Mr. Stanley, no doubt," was the diagnosis of the case by "Miss
Mischief" and others.
Then, like a thunder-clap, came the order for Phil Stanley's arrest, and
then there were other sad faces. Miriam Stanley's dark eyes were not
only troubled, but down in their depths was a gleam of suppressed
indignation that people knew not how to explain. Colonel Stanley, to
whom every one had been drawn from the first, now appeared very stern
and grave; the joy had vanished from his face. Mrs. McKay was flitting
about the parlors tearfully thankful that "it wasn't her boy." Nannie
had grown whiter still, and very "absent" and silent. Mr. Lee did not
come at all.
Then there was startling news! An outbreak, long smouldering, had just
occurred at the great reservation of the Spirit Wolf; the agent and
several of his men had been massacred, their women carried away into a
captivity whose horrors beggar all description, and two troops--hardly
sixscore men--of Colonel Stanley's regiment were already in pursuit.
Leaving his daughter to the care of an old friend at Craney's, and after
a brief interview with his boy at barracks, the old soldier who had come
eastward with such glad anticipation turned promptly back to the field
of duty. He had taken the first train and was already beyond the
Missouri. Almost immediately after the colonel's departure, Mr. Lee had
come to the hotel and was seen to have a brief but earnest talk with
Miss Stanley on the north piazza,--a talk from which she had gone
direct to her room and did not reappear for hours, while he, who
usually had a genial, kindly word for every one, had turned abruptly
down the north steps as though to avoid the crowded halls and piazzas,
and so returned to the barracks.
But now, this lovely June morning the news from the far West is still
more direful. Hundreds of savages have taken the war-path, and murder is
the burden of every tale from around their reservation, but--this is the
day of "last parade" and the graduating ball, and people cannot afford
time to think of such grewsome matter. All the same, they note that Mr.
Lee comes no more to the hotel, and a rumor is in circulation that he
has begged to be relieved from duty at the Point and ordered to join his
troop now in the field against hostile Indians.
Nannie McKay is looking like a pathetic shadow of her former self as she
comes down-stairs to fulfil an engagement with a cadet admirer. She
neglects no duty of the kind towards Willy's friends and hers, but she
is drooping and listless. Uncle Jack is worried about her; so, too, is
mamma, though the latter is so wrapped up in the graduation of her boy
that she has little time to think of pallid cheeks and mournful eyes. It
is all arranged that they are to sail for Europe the 1st of July, and
the sea air, the voyage across, the new sights and associations on the
other side, will "bring her round again," says that observant
"avuncular" hopefully. He is compelled to be at his office in the city
much of the time, but comes up this day as a matter of course, and has a
brief chat with his graceless nephew at the guard-house. Billy's utter
lack of spirits sets Uncle Jack to thinking. The boy says he can "tell
him nothing just now," and Uncle Jack feels well assured that he has a
good deal to tell. He goes in search of Lieutenant Lee, for whom he has
conceived a great fancy, but the big lieutenant has gone to the city on
business. In the crowded hall at the hotel he meets Miriam Stanley, and
her face gives him another pound of trouble to carry.
"You are going to the ball, though?" he hears a lady say to her, and
Miriam shakes her head.
Ball, indeed!--or last parade, either! She knows she cannot bear to see
the class march to the front, and her brother not there. She cannot bear
the thought of even looking on at the ball, if Philip is to be debarred
from attending. Her thoughts have been very bitter for a few days past.
Her father's intense but silent distress and regret; Philip's certain
detention after the graduation of his class; his probable court-martial
and loss of rank; the knowledge that he had incurred it all to save
McKay (and everybody by this time felt that it _must_ be Billy McKay,
though no one could prove it), all have conspired to make her very
unhappy and very unjust to Mr. Lee. Philip has told her that Mr. Lee had
no alternative in reporting to the commandant his discovery "down the
road," but she had believed herself of sufficient value in that
officer's brown eyes to induce him to at least postpone any mention of
that piece of accidental knowledge; and though, in her heart of hearts,
she knows she respects him the more because she could not prevail
against his sense of duty, she is stung to the quick, and, womanlike,
has made him feel it.
It must be in sympathy with her sorrows that, late this afternoon, the
heavens open and pour their floods upon the plain. Hundreds of people
are bemoaning the fact that now there can be no graduating parade. Down
in barracks the members of the class are busily packing trunks, trying
on civilian garb, and rushing about in much excitement. In more senses
than one Phil Stanley's room is a centre of gravity. The commandant at
ten o'clock had sent for him and given him final opportunity to state
whose place he occupied during the inspection of that now memorable
night, and he had respectfully but firmly declined. There was then no
alternative but the withdrawal of his diploma and his detention at the
Point to await the action of the Secretary of War upon the charges
preferred against him. "The Class," of course, knew by this time that
McKay was the man whom he had saved, for after one day of torment and
indecision that hapless youth had called in half a dozen of his comrades
and made a clean breast of it. It was then his deliberate intention to
go to the commandant and beg for Stanley's release, and to offer himself
as the culprit. But Stanley had thought the problem out and gravely
interposed. It could really do no practical good to him and would only
result in disaster to McKay. No one could have anticipated the luckless
chain of circumstances that had led to his own arrest, but now he must
face the consequences. After long consultation the young counsellors had
decided on the plan. "There is only one thing for us to do: keep the
matter quiet. There is only one thing for Billy to do: keep a stiff
upper lip; graduate with the class, then go to Washington with 'Uncle
Jack,' and bestir their friends in Congress,"--not just then assembled,
but always available. There was never yet a time when a genuine "pull"
from Senate and House did not triumph over the principles of military
discipline.
A miserable man is Billy! For a week he has moped in barracks, forbidden
by Stanley and his advisers to admit anything, yet universally suspected
of being the cause of all the trouble. He, too, wishes to cancel his
engagements for the graduating ball, and thinks something ought to be
done to those young idiots of yearlings who set off the torpedo.
"Nothing could have gone wrong but for them," says he; but the wise
heads of the class promptly snub him into silence. "You've simply got to
do as we say in this matter, Billy. You've done enough mischief
already." And so it results that the message he sends by Uncle Jack is:
"Tell mother and Nan I'll meet them at the 'hop.' My confinements end at
eight o'clock, but there's no use in my going to the hotel and tramping
through the mud." The truth is, he cannot bear to meet Miriam Stanley,
and 'twould be just his luck.
One year ago no happier, bonnier, brighter face could have been seen at
the Point than that of Nannie McKay. To-night, in all the throng of fair
women and lovely girls, gathered with their soldier escort in the great
mess-hall, there is none so sad. She tries hard to be chatty and
smiling, but is too frank and honest a little soul to have much success.
The dances that Phil Stanley had engaged months and months ago are
accredited now to other names, and blissful young fellows in gray and
gold come successively to claim them. But deep down in her heart she
remembers the number of each. It was he who was to have been her escort.
It was he who made out her card and gave it to her only a day or two
before that fatal interview. It was he who was to have had the last
waltz--the very last--that he would dance in the old cadet gray; and
though new names have been substituted for his in other cases, this
waltz she meant to keep. Well knowing that there would be many to beg
for it, she has written Willy's name for "Stanley," and duly warned him
of the fact. Then, when it comes, she means to escape to the
dressing-room, for she is promptly told that her brother is engaged to
Miss Waring for that very waltz. Light as are her feet, she never yet
has danced with so heavy a heart. The rain still pours, driving
everybody within doors. The heat is intense. The hall is crowded, and it
frequently happens that partners cannot find her until near the end of
their number on that dainty card. But every one has something to say
about Phil Stanley and the universal regret at his absence. It is
getting to be more than she can bear,--this prolonged striving to
respond with proper appreciation and sympathy, yet not say too
much,--not betray the secret that is now burning, throbbing in her
girlish heart. He does not dream it, but there, hidden beneath the soft
lace upon her snowy neck, lies that "knot of ribbon blue" which she so
laughingly had given him, at his urging, the last day of her visit the
previous year; the knot which he had so loyally treasured and then so
sadly returned. A trifling, senseless thing to make such an ado about,
but these hearts are young and ardent, and this romance of his has many
a counterpart, the memory of which may bring to war-worn, grizzled
heads to-day a blush almost of shame, and would surely bring to many an
old and sometimes aching heart a sigh. Hoping against hope, poor Nannie
has thought it just possible that at the last moment the authorities
would relent and he be allowed to attend. If so,--if so, angry and
justly angered though he might be, cut to the heart though he expressed
himself, has she not here the means to call him back?--to bid him come
and know how contrite she is? Hour after hour she glances at the broad
archway at the east, yearning to see his dark, handsome face among the
new-comers,--all in vain. Time and again she encounters Sallie Waring,
brilliant, bewitching, in the most ravishing of toilets, and always with
half a dozen men about her. Twice she notices Will among them with a
face gloomy and rebellious, and, hardly knowing why, she almost hates
her.
At last comes the waltz that was to have been Philip's,--the waltz she
has saved for his sake though he cannot claim it. Mr. Pennock, who has
danced the previous galop with her, sees the leader raising his baton,
bethinks him of his next partner, and leaves her at the open window
close to the dressing-room door. There she can have a breath of fresh
air, and, hiding behind the broad backs of several bulky officers and
civilians, listen undisturbed to the music she longed to enjoy with him.
Here, to her surprise, Will suddenly joins her.
"I thought you were engaged to Miss Waring for this," she says.
"I was," he answers, savagely; "but I'm well out of it. I resigned in
favor of a big 'cit' who's worth only twenty thousand a year, Nan, and
she has been engaged to him all this time and never let me know until
to-night."
"_Willy!_" she gasps. "Oh! I'm so glad--sorry, I mean! I never _did_
like her."
"_I_ did, Nan, more's the pity. I'm not the first she's made a fool of;"
and he turns away, hiding the chagrin in his young face. They are
practically alone in this sheltered nook. Crowds are around them, but
looking the other way. The rain is dripping from the trees without and
pattering on the stone flags. McKay leans out into the night, and the
sister's loving heart yearns over him in his trouble.
"Willy," she says, laying the little white-gloved hand on his arm, "it's
hard to bear, but she isn't worthy _any_ man's love. Twice I've heard in
the last two days that she makes a boast of it that 'twas to see her
that some one risked his commission and so--kept Mr. Stanley from being
here to-night. Willy, _do_ you know who it was? _Don't_ you think he
ought to have come forward like a gentleman, days ago, and told the
truth? _Will!_ What is it? _Don't_ look so! Speak to me, Willy,--your
little Nan. Was there ever a time, dear, when my whole heart wasn't open
to you in love and sympathy?"
And now, just at this minute, the music begins again. Soft, sweet, yet
with such a strain of pathos and of sadness running through every chord;
it is the loveliest of all the waltzes played in his "First Class
Camp,"--the one of all others he most loved to hear. Her heart almost
bursts now to think of him in his lonely room, beyond hearing of the
melody that is so dear to him, that is now so passionately dear to
her,--"Love's Sigh." Doubtless, Philip had asked the leader days ago to
play it here and at no other time. It is more than enough to start the
tears long welling in her eyes. For an instant it turns her from thought
of Willy's own heartache.
"Will!" she whispers, desperately. "This was to have been Philip
Stanley's waltz--and I want you to take--something to him for me."
He turns back to her again, his hands clinched, his teeth set, still
thinking only of his own bitter humiliation,--of how that girl has
fooled and jilted him,--of how for her sake he had brought all this
trouble on his stanchest friend.
"Phil Stanley!" he exclaims. "By heaven! it makes me nearly mad to think
of it!--and all for her sake,--all through me. Oh, Nan! Nan! I _must_
tell you! It was for me,--to save me that----"
"_Willy!_" and there is almost horror in her wide blue eyes.
"_Willy!_" she gasps--"oh, _don't_--don't tell me _that_!
Oh, it isn't _true_? Not you--not you, Willy. Not my brother! Oh,
quick! Tell me."
Startled, alarmed, he seizes her hand.
"Little sister! What--what has happened--what is----"
But there is no time for more words. The week of misery; the piteous
strain of the long evening; the sweet, sad, wailing melody,--his
favorite waltz; the sudden, stunning revelation that it was for Willy's
sake that he--her hero--was now to suffer, he whose heart she had
trampled on and crushed! It is all more than mortal girl can bear. With
the beautiful strains moaning, whirling, ringing, surging through her
brain, she is borne dizzily away into darkness and oblivion.
* * * * *
There follows a week in which sadder faces yet are seen about the old
hotel. The routine of the Academy goes on undisturbed. The graduating
class has taken its farewell of the gray walls and gone upon its way.
New faces, new voices are those in the line of officers at parade. The
corps has pitched its white tents under the trees beyond the grassy
parapet of Fort Clinton, and, with the graduates and furlough-men gone,
its ranks look pitifully thinned. The throng of visitors has vanished.
The halls and piazzas at Craney's are well-nigh deserted, but among the
few who linger there is not one who has not loving inquiry for the young
life that for a brief while has fluttered so near the grave. "Brain
fever," said the doctors to Uncle Jack, and a new anxiety was lined in
his kindly face as he and Will McKay sped on their mission to the
Capitol. They had to go, though little Nan lay sore stricken at the
Point.
But youth and elasticity triumph. The danger is passed. She lies now,
very white and still, listening to the sweet strains of the band
trooping down the line this soft June evening. Her mother, worn with
watching, is resting on the lounge. It is Miriam Stanley who hovers at
the bedside. Presently the bugles peal the retreat; the sunset gun booms
across the plain; the ringing voice of the young adjutant comes floating
on the southerly breeze, and, as she listens, Nannie follows every
detail of the well-known ceremony, wondering how it _could_ go on day
after day with no Mr. Pennock to read the orders; with no "big Burton"
to thunder his commands to the first company; with no Philip Stanley to
march the colors to their place on the line. "Where is _he_?" is the
question in the sweet blue eyes that so wistfully seek his sister's
face; but she answers not. One by one the first sergeants made their
reports; and now--that ringing voice again, reading the orders of the
day. How clear it sounds! How hushed and still the listening Point!
"Head-quarters of the Army," she hears. "Washington, June 15, 187-.
Special orders, Number--.
"_First._ Upon his own application, First Lieutenant George Romney Lee,
--th Cavalry, is hereby relieved from duty at the U. S. Military
Academy, and will join his troop now in the field against hostile
Indians.
"_Second._ Upon the recommendation of the Superintendent U. S. Military
Academy, the charges preferred against Cadet Captain Philip S. Stanley
are withdrawn. Cadet Stanley will be considered as graduated with his
class on the 12th instant, will be released from arrest, and authorized
to avail himself of the leave of absence granted his class."
Nannie starts from her pillow, clasping in her thin white fingers the
soft hand that would have restrained her.
"Miriam!" she cries. "Then--will he go?"
The dark, proud face bends down to her; clasping arms encircle the
little white form, and Miriam Stanley's very heart wails forth in
answer,--
"Oh, Nannie! He is almost there by this time,--both of them. They left
to join the regiment three days ago; their orders came by telegraph."
Another week, and Uncle Jack is again with them. The doctors agree that
the ocean voyage is now not only advisable, but necessary. They are to
move their little patient to the city and board their steamer in a day
or two. Will has come to them, full of disgust that he has been assigned
to the artillery, and filling his mother's heart with dismay because he
is begging for a transfer to the cavalry, to the --th Regiment,--of all
others,--now plunged in the whirl of an Indian war. Every day the papers
come freighted with rumors of fiercer fighting; but little that is
reliable can be heard from "Sabre Stanley" and his column. They are far
beyond telegraphic communication, hemmed in by "hostiles" on every side.
Uncle Jack is an early riser. Going down for his paper before breakfast,
he is met at the foot of the stairs by a friend who points to the
head-lines of the _Herald_, with the simple remark, "Isn't this hard?"
It is brief enough, God knows.
"A courier just in from Colonel Stanley's camp brings the startling news
that Lieutenant Philip Stanley, --th Cavalry, with two scouts and a
small escort, who left here Sunday, hoping to push through to the Spirit
Wolf, were ambushed by the Indians in Black Canyon. Their bodies, scalped
and mutilated, were found Wednesday night."
Where, then, was Romney Lee?