THE MEETING
Hamlin's first impulse was to ignore the note, trusting his position in
the ranks would be sufficient barrier to prevent any chance meeting,
and believing his stay at that garrison would be only a brief one.
Sheridan was evidently preparing for an early offensive campaign, and
it was rumored on all sides that the Seventh Cavalry had been selected
for active field service. Indeed, the urgent orders for the
consolidation of the regiment from scattered posts must mean this. Any
day might bring orders, and he could easily avoid this Mrs. Dupont
until then. Except for a faint curiosity, the Sergeant felt no
inclination to meet the woman. Whatever influence she might have once
exercised over him had been thoroughly overcome by years and absence.
Even the unexpected sight of her again--seemingly as beautiful as
ever--had failed to awaken the spell of the past. It was almost with a
thrill of delight that Hamlin realized this--that he was in truth
utterly free of her influence. There had been times when he had
anticipated such a possible meeting with dread; when he had doubted his
own heart, the strength of his will to resist. But now he knew he
stood absolutely independent and could laugh at her wiles. She who had
once been all--trusted, loved, worshipped with all the mad fervor of
youth--had become only a dead memory. Between them stretched a chasm
never to be bridged.
What could the woman possibly want of him? To explain the past? To
justify herself? He knew enough already, and desired to know no more.
Could she hope--natural coquette that she was--to regain her hold upon
him? The man smiled grimly, confident of his own strength. Yet why
should she care for such a conquest, the winning of a common soldier?
There must be some better reason, some more subtle purpose. Could it
be that she feared him, that she was afraid that he might speak to her
injury? This was by far the most likely supposition. Molly
McDonald--the woman was aware of their acquaintance, and was already
alarmed at its possible result.
Hamlin stood up resolved. He would meet the woman, not from any desire
of his own, but to learn her purpose, and protect the girl. The
meeting could not injure him, not even bring a swifter beating of the
heart, but might give him opportunity to serve the other. And Le
Fevre--surely she could tell him something of Le Fevre.
Leave was easily obtained, and the Sergeant, rejoicing in a freshly
issued uniform, dressed with all the care possible, his interest
reviving at this new point of view. It was not far down the bluff road
to the squalid little village which had naturally developed in close
proximity to the fort--near enough for protection, yet far enough
removed to be lawless--a rough frontier outpost town, of shacks and
tents, most of these dispensing vile liquors. Among these, more
enterprising spirits--hopeful of future development--had erected larger
buildings, usually barn-like, with false fronts facing the single main
street, filled with miscellaneous stocks of goods or used for purposes
not so legitimate. One of these housed the "Poodle Dog" saloon, with
gambling rooms above, while a few doors below was a great dance hall,
easily converted into a theatre if occasion arose,--a grotesque,
one-storied monstrosity. Below these was the stage office, built
against the three-storied wooden hotel, which boasted of a wide porch
on two sides, and was a picture of ugliness.
By daylight all was squalor and dirt, dingy tents flapping in the
ceaseless wind, unpainted shacks, wooden houses with boards warping
under the hot sun, the single street deep in yellow dust, the
surrounding prairie littered with tin cans, and all manner of débris.
But with the coming of night much of this roughness departed. Soldiers
from the garrison on pass, idle plainsmen, bull-whackers, adventurers
of all kinds stranded here because of Indian activity, stray cowboys
from the nearby valleys, thronged the numerous dives, seeking
excitement. Women, gaudy of dress, shrill of voice, flitted from door
to door through the jostling crowds. Lamps blazed over the motley
assembly, loud-voiced barkers yelled, and a band added its discords to
the din. The "Poodle Dog" glared in light, resounded with noise; lamps
gleamed from the hotel windows, and the huge dance hall stood wide
open. Out from the shacks and tents crept the day's sleepers for a
night of revelry; along the trails rode others eager for excitement; it
was the harvest-time of those birds of prey in saloon and gambling hell.
Hamlin saw all this, but gave the surroundings little thought. He was
of the West, of the frontier, and beheld nothing unique in the scene.
Moreover, the purpose for which he was there overshadowed all else,
left him indifferent to the noise, the jostling, drunken crowd. Some
he met who knew him and called his name, but he passed them with a
word, and pressed his way forward. At the hotel he mounted the steps
and entered. The office was in one corner of the bar-room. The
proprietor himself, a bald-headed Irishman, sat with feet cocked up on
the counter, smoking, and barely glancing up as the Sergeant asked for
Mrs. Dupont.
"Who are yer?" he asked.
"My name is Hamlin; I am here on the lady's invitation."
"Sure; thet 's ther name all right, me bhoy. Yer ter go out on the
east porch there, an' wait a bit whoile I sind her worrd yer here. Oi
'm imaginin' she hed sum doubts about yer comin', the way she spoke."
"How do I get there?"
"Through the winder of the parlur over thar--sure, it 's a noice quiet
spot fer a tate-a-tate." He got up, and peered through his glasses
across the room. "Here, Moike; damn thet slapy head. Will one o' yer
gents wake the lad--that's it. Now come here, Moike. You run over to
the Palace an' tell Mrs. Dupont the fellar is here waitin'. Hold on
now, not so fast; wait till Oi 'm done tellin' yer. Say thet to her
alone--do yer moind thet, ye sap-head; nobody else is to hear whut yer
say; stay there till yer git a chance ter whisper it to her. Now skip."
Hamlin hesitated, watching the boy disappear.
"At the Palace--the dance hall across the street?" he asked
incredulously.
"Sure," indifferently, relighting his pipe. "Officers' ball; couldn't
break in with a can-opener unless you had a invite. Guards at both
ends, sergeant taking tickets, an' Third Regiment Band makin' music.
Hell of a swell affair; got guests here from Leavenworth, Wallace, and
all around. Every room I got is full an' runnin' over--say, there are
fellars over thar in them fool swaller-tail coats; damned if there
ain't. If the b'ys ever git sight of 'em on the street there 'll be a
hot time. Say, ain' that the limit? Injuns out thar thick as fleas on
a dog, an' them swells dancin' here in swaller-tails like this yere was
Boston."
He was still talking when Hamlin crossed the narrow hall and entered
the dimly-lighted, unoccupied parlor. The side window was open, a
slight breeze rustled the heavy curtain, and the Sergeant stepped
outside on to the dark porch. There was a bench close to the rail and
he sat down to wait. A gleam of light from the Palace fell across the
western end, but the remainder of the porch lay in shadow, although he
could look up the street, and see the people jostling back and forth in
front of the Poodle Dog. The sound of mingled voices was continuous,
occasionally punctuated by laughter, or an unrestrained outburst of
profanity. Once shots echoed from out the din, but created no apparent
excitement, and a little later a dozen horsemen spurred recklessly
through the street, scattering the crowd, their revolvers sputtering.
Some altercation arose opposite and a voice called loudly for the
guard, but the trouble soon ceased with the clump of hoofs, dying away
in the distance, the regimental band noisily blaring out a waltz.
Hamlin, immersed in his own thoughts, scarcely observed the turmoil,
but leaned, arms on railing, gazing out into the darkness. Something
mysterious from out the past had gripped him; he was wondering how he
should greet her when she came; speculating on her purpose in sending
for him.
It seemed as though he waited a long time before the curtain at the
window was thrust aside and the lady emerged, the slight rustling of
her dress apprising him of her presence. The curtain still held
slightly back by her hand permitted the light from within to reflect
over her figure, revealing in softened outline the beauty of her
features, the flossy brightness of her hair. She was in evening dress,
a light shawl draping her shoulders. An instant she paused in
uncertainty, striving to distinguish his face; then stepped impulsively
forward, and held out her hands.
"I have kept you waiting, but you must forgive that, as I came as soon
as I could manufacture an excuse. Won't you even shake hands with me?"
"Is it necessary?" he asked, almost wearily. "You have come to me for
some purpose surely, but it can hardly be friendship."
"Why should you say that?" reproachfully. "I have deserted a rather
brilliant party to meet you here."
"That, perhaps, is why I say it, Mrs. Dupont. If my memory serves, you
would not be inclined to leave such friends as you have yonder to
rendezvous with a common soldier, unless you had some special object in
view. If you will inform me what it is, we can very quickly terminate
the interview."
She laughed, a little touch of nervousness in the voice, but drew her
skirts aside, and sat down on the bench.
"Do you think you can deceive me by such play-acting?" she asked
eagerly. "You are no man of wood. Tell me, is there nothing you care
to ask me, after--after all these years?"
Hamlin lifted his eyes and looked at her, stirred into sudden interest
by the almost caressing sound of the soft voice.
"Yes," he said slowly, "there are some things I should like to know, if
I thought you would answer frankly."
"Try me and see."
"Then why are you Mrs. Dupont, instead of Mrs. Le Fevre?"
"Then my guess is true, and you are not so devoid of curiosity," she
laughed. "My answer? Why, it is simplicity itself--because I was
never Mrs. Le Fevre, but am rightfully Mrs. Dupont."
"Do you mean you were never married to Le Fevre?"
"What else could I mean?"
"Then he lied."
She shrugged her white shoulders.
"That would not surprise me in the least. 'T was a characteristic of
the man you had ample reason to know. How came you to believe so
easily?"
"Believe? What else could I believe? Everything served to
substantiate his boast. I was in disgrace, practically drummed out of
camp. There was nothing left for me to live for, or strive after. I
was practically dead. Then your letter confessing came--"
"Wait," she interrupted, "that letter was untrue, false; it was penned
under compulsion. I wrote you again, later, but you had gone,
disappeared utterly. I wanted to explain, but your own people even did
not know where you were--do not know yet."
He leaned his body against the rail, and looked at her in the dim
light. Her face retained much of its girlish attractiveness, yet its
undoubted charms no longer held the man captive. He smiled coldly.
"The explanation comes somewhat late," he replied deliberately. "When
it might have served me it was not offered--indeed, you had
conveniently disappeared. But I am not here to criticise; that is all
over with, practically forgotten. I came at your request, and presume
you had a reason. May I again ask what it was?"