Notwithstanding his prophecy that Canker and the boys would whip the
renegades back into the reservation in two or three days, the general
determined to go down to Sandy and take a hand himself. All that
day he had fidgeted about the office dissatisfied with the meagre
reports that came, and the more that came the more it looked as though
Canker’s brief administration of command had not been felicitous.
At five o’clock in the afternoon he quietly appeared at the house,
and without telling Colonel Pelham of his intention, was making his
characteristically brief preparations for the start when the colonel
caught him in the act, and very positively announced that he would
go too. Mrs. Pelham had protested, of course, but there were some
things in which she could not move her lord, and this was one of them.
“There, now, Dolly,” he said, “that will do. I’ve only ten minutes
in which to get ready and no time for argument. Where’s Grace?” So
Grace came with ready hand to her father’s assistance, asking no
questions and evidently regarding his decision as eminently proper and
incontrovertible.
Her ladyship would fain have button-holed the general himself and
importuned him not to let the colonel go, but, once before in her life,
such a performance on her part had come to the ears of her ordinarily
placid and even-tempered husband, and his remarks anent that piece
of petticoat interference had been a revelation. Indeed, nothing but
tears, contrition, and a solemn promise on her part never, never to
do such a thing again had saved her from consequences more serious
than a marital lecture; but this was a long time ago, so long that
her resolution never to do so again had been modified by the mental
reservation of “when there is a possibility of being found out.”
The general, indeed, had not intended to take Pelham with him, yet
was secretly glad to have him return at once to Sandy. “Things worked
better when he was there.” And so it resulted that by six o’clock that
afternoon Jack Truscott found himself left alone in a household of
ladies.
To say that he was downright unhappy over the circumstance would be
more than so gallant and courteous a man as Truscott would say himself,
but to say that he, on the contrary, was not, would be a wide departure
from the truth. He knew nothing of his superior’s plans until the
ambulance drove up to the door, and the sight of the general’s favorite
aide in his well-worn and well-known scouting costume sent Truscott’s
pulse up to one hundred and twenty at a bound.
Stepping into the hall, he met Grace with her father’s cloak and Navajo
blanket in her arms. “We are stealing a march on you, Mr. Truscott,”
she smilingly remarked, glancing over her shoulder at the colonel
himself, who came waddling after her down the stairs. Shall it be
recorded? Truscott’s eyes, full of surprise and pain, even of reproach,
had not so much as a glance for her; he answered not a word, but
mutely stood questioning his chief.
“I couldn’t help it, my dear boy; don’t look as though I had deserted
you,” that warm-hearted gentleman had hastened to explain. “I only
knew fifteen minutes ago that the general was going, and I decided to
slip off and run down with him. I knew just how you’d feel, Truscott,
and hadn’t the heart to tell you. Confound it, man, I’m only going to
Sandy, not into the field, and if you’ll only keep quiet you will be
able to come down yourself in less than a week.”
“Has anything gone wrong?” asked Truscott.
“Nothing at all. Only the general wants to look after things himself,
and can do so more readily at Sandy than here. I’ll leave Mrs.
Pelham in your charge, and you in Grace’s. Think you can keep him in
subjection, daughter? He is tractable enough ordinarily, but just now
he wants a steady hand.”
Then the general came forth, followed by his philosophical wife, who
was amiably assuring Lady Pelham that this was a thing she wouldn’t
mind after six months in Arizona. “I’ve grown so used to it as never to
be surprised at his waking up and starting off somewhere in the dead of
night.”
Five minutes more and the ambulance had rattled off down the
hill, leaving the three ladies and Truscott a silent group on the
piazza,—Grace looking sad and anxious, madame melodramatic, Truscott
very pale and quiet, and their hostess alone cheery.
“Come, now, I won’t have any moping,” she said. “We’ll get everybody
up here this evening and have lots of fun. Jack Truscott, you shall
have twenty nurses. Grace, all the infantry boys will be here on your
account. Come, let’s go in and order tea. I’m hungry as a dozen bears.”
Early in the evening Truscott managed to slip away from the noisy party
assembled in the parlor and sought his own room. He excused himself to
his hostess on the plea of fatigue, and she, big-hearted woman that she
was, and knowing full well that his heart was anywhere but in the glee
and merriment and music and twaddle going on, covered his retreat very
successfully.
Later she went to his door with some comforting drink of her own
manufacture, found him sitting up and pretending to read, and later
still, noting the interest with which Grace had inquired for him, she
placed some delicate custard in her hands, saying, “Take it to him;
he’ll like it.”
Truscott heard the light footsteps he had already learned to recognize
coming along the hall, then a pause at his door, and presently a timid,
fluttering little knock. “Come in,” he said.
The door slowly opened, and there stood Grace upon the threshold
smiling and with a suspicion of heightened color in her face. He rose
to greet her, but she protested. “Don’t get up; I was asked to bring
this to you,” with the slightest emphasis on the “asked.” Nevertheless
he stepped to the doorway, took the custard from her hands, and then,
leaning against the door-post, stood looking down at her.
“Miss Pelham, are you in a merciful mood?” he asked.
“I! Unquestionably. Why not?” And the earnest eyes looked frankly up in
his face.
“Then you will grant me absolution for a sin of omission,” he said,
smiling. “The sight of my chief starting for the war-path startled me
into a rudeness towards you.”
“In that you did not answer an utterly unimportant remark of mine, I
suppose. As you _ought_ to have discovered, Mr. Truscott, I claim to
be a soldier’s daughter, and do not expect to be considered at such a
time.”
“Then you are a marvellous exception to the rest of your sisterhood,”
said Jack, with an emphatic impulsiveness very unusual in him.
“Indeed, Mr. Truscott? Is that your opinion of our sex? How did
you ever succeed in winning the name of being so very gallant and
courteous, I wonder? I thought you the champion of all the ladies of
the regiment. I’m sure they do; and what _would_ they say if your
treachery were known?” she added, laughing.
“I am at your mercy,” he replied. “Betray me and I am ruined. Thank you
for bringing this to me, and good-night. Don’t let me keep you from the
fun.”
A ring at the door-bell, and the servant admitted a tall sergeant of
cavalry. “A despatch for Lieutenant Truscott,” they heard him say.
Truscott called to him to come thither, and as he opened the envelope
Grace, not knowing why, but anxious for any news, remained.
Leaning against the casement he slowly read the message, and Grace
patiently stood looking up into the pale, clear-cut face.
“This will be welcome news to Mrs. Tanner,” he said, presently, “and I
would like her to know it to-night. Is she here?” he asked Grace.
“Mrs. Tanner? No. She has not been here at all.”
“She never had heart for fun of any kind when he was in the field,
Miss Pelham, and this will greatly relieve her anxiety. His company is
ordered to remain at the agency on guard for a few days; the others
have gone across into the Red Rock country. Take this over to Captain
Lee’s quarters and ask that it be shown to Mrs. Tanner at once,
sergeant, then come back to me,” he said; then turning again to Grace,
“Late as it is I think she will still be awake, and this news may put
her to sleep.”
“I am so glad for her sake. She seems so very lovable a woman. They
have all been extremely pleasant to me, but there was something
especially winning in her manner, and I like her greatly. _You_ know
her very well, do you not?” asked she, still looking frankly up in his
eyes.
“Better than any of the ladies, I think,” he replied. “May I ask how
you so readily divine my friendships?”
“I had heard that you were very warm friends. It was Mr. Glenham who
told me—I think.” (You knew, Grace, and it wasn’t like you to hesitate
there.)
“Ah, yes,—Glenham,” he repeated, while for the life of him he could
not repress a mischievous merriment on noting how at the mention of
the name she had faltered, and, under the steady glance of his eyes,
colored red an instant after. “Glenham has doubtless been a most
efficient means of strengthening your acquaintance with the regiment,
but I warn you against his enthusiasm; you will come expecting to find
us models of genius and geniality, and will be all the more bitterly
disappointed.”
“He certainly glories in his regiment, Mr. Truscott, and, as one of his
heroes, you ought not to disparage his opinions.”
“Grace dear, I want you,” at this juncture was heard in solemn and
remorseless tones from the other end of the hall. Grace started like
the guilty thing she certainly was not, and beheld the matronly
form of her ladyship rigidly posed at the parlor-door. There was
something indefinably, gratingly disagreeable about her voice and
manner, that intangible something that a woman can throw into her
tones as expressive of the extreme of displeasure, and yet be able
to subsequently and triumphantly establish that you have no grounds
whatever for saying so.
“Good-night, Mr. Truscott,” said Grace. “Please let me know when you
send any despatch to the valley.” Then seeing her mother still stonily,
severely awaiting her, she did just what she would not have done had
she felt herself unwatched,—turned, held out her slender hand, and
said, warmly, “I _do_ hope you will have a good night’s rest and feel
ever so much better to-morrow. Good-night,” and then walked briskly
off down the hall, looking calmly into her mother’s face. That lady
contented herself for the time being with ushering her erring daughter
into the parlor. It must be admitted that the latter had delayed much
longer at Truscott’s door than the delivery of a plate of custard could
possibly warrant, and that her present attitude towards her mother was
not as dutiful and loving as it might be.
Half an hour afterwards, when the guests of the evening had gone home
and the ladies were preparing to abandon the parlor, Truscott himself
appeared at the doorway. Her ladyship was at the moment indulging in
some slight refreshment in the dining-room. He held a large despatch
envelope in his hand. “Miss Pelham, you desired me to let you know when
I had opportunity of sending word to the valley. It seems that the
sergeant is to start at daybreak to ride in search of Captain Canker’s
command, and I am sending a few lines by him. He will be glad to take
anything you have.”
“To Captain Canker’s command? Thank you, Mr. Truscott. I do not know of
any one with him. It was to father I wanted to write.”
“Oh, pardon me,” said Jack. “I’m sorry, but the sergeant will cross
the valley way to the north of the post, and won’t be apt to see any
one from there. I thought it possible you might wish to send a message
after some friends in the field column.”
“I believe not,” she answered. “Who is there with him to whom I owe a
message?” she asked, laughingly.
“I can simply answer for it that there are six or eight who would
be most happy to receive one,” said he, with an odd relapse into
his regimental manner of somewhat stately courtesy. “May I be the
transmitter?”
“Evidently he is thinking of Mr. Glenham,” said Grace to herself, and
a strange shade of annoyance swept over her. His change of manner too
struck her at once.
“Is it the customary thing in Arizona for us non-combatants to send
sustaining and encouraging messages to the front?” she coolly inquired.
“If so, put me down for anything that may occur to you as at once
brilliant and to the point. Mr. Truscott, that smile is satirical, and
you plainly mean to indicate that _then_ it would be recognised at once
as not my message.”
“Miss Pelham, I am no match for such acuteness. Are you repenting
having shown mercy half an hour ago?”
“Not quite, but that very superior smile is an aggravation, I confess.
Now, who is there to whom you supposed I wanted to send a message?
Answer that.”
“Let me answer by saying that Messrs. Glenham, Hunter, and Dana are by
this time with Captain Canker, and that Mr. Ray with his company will
have joined him to-morrow. I name them as young gentlemen any one of
whom would be charmed by a message from you, and two of them I have
heard absolutely raving about you.”
“Now you expect me to ask which two, do you not? But I decline. Mr. Ray
I never met until three days ago, though I have heard of him, and have
wanted to know him ever since father joined the —th. The others I knew
when they were cadets. Mr. Hunter has already distinguished himself.
Has Mr. Glenham been engaged?”
“Is not that a matter on which your own sex would be better informed
than I?” he asked, wilfully and mischievously.
She replied almost coldly.
“The question is utterly unworthy of you, Mr. Truscott. I mean, and you
know I mean, to ask has Mr. Glenham been in action?”
“She must know perfectly well whether he has or not,” thought Jack, but
gravely replied, “No. Glenham says that it is his ill luck. He has had
a few scouts, but the Indians have kept out of his way as yet. My note
is to him. You might inspire him.”
“And Mr. Ray?” she queried.
“Mr. Ray is a hero of many engagements, martial and matrimonial, and
I am bound to say that it isn’t his fault that he has escaped with so
little danger. He has received more recommendations for brevets for the
one and more ‘mittens’ for the other than any man in the regiment. I
testify to the first as custodian of the records, to the second on his
own frank statements. Ray says that he has been refused at least once a
year ever since he graduated.”
“Mr. Ray is unusually candid. Is it to him you suggest my sending a
message?”
“I do not presume to suggest anybody. You desired to be informed when I
had a chance of sending a messenger to ‘the valley,’ and I was so much
in error as to fancy that you might want to send a message to some one
in the command. Then my sympathies being with the possible recipient
made me obtrusive. I really beg pardon, Miss Pelham.”
Stepping to the door he quickly summoned the sergeant, handed him the
package, “Give it to Lieutenant Glenham,” he said, and then returning
to her with a quiet smile on his face, “So it goes without a pleasant
word for him after all, Miss Pelham.”
“Certainly,” said Grace. “Mr. Glenham would be surprised, to say the
least, at receiving any message from me.”
For an instant, only an instant, an expression of pain, even
incredulity, shot across his face. Brief as it was, looking steadfastly
into his eyes, she saw it and it stung her. But he recovered himself
and promptly, pleasantly spoke.
“Then it seems that I have twice to ask pardon. I’m glad my first
offence did _not_ offend, and shall strive to make amends for my
second.”
What Grace would have said cannot be told. Once again there suddenly
appeared before them her ladyship, re-entering from the dining-room
with her hostess. Once again the measured tones of her voice broke in
upon their interview. “Well, Mr. Truscott, I thought you left us two
hours ago to seek repose?”
“I did, Mrs. Pelham,” replied the adjutant, with calm civility, “and
found it.” And then, apparently inviting further remark, he stood
looking seriously down into her flushed features. She began to hate him
from that minute, but then it was the most natural thing in the world
that she should do so.
At that instant there came a knock at the front door, and a servant
handed in a note. “For Lieutenant Truscott,” he said, “and there is no
answer.”
“Why, Jack,” said the general’s wife in her straightforward innocence
of all possible harm, “that’s Mrs. Tanner’s writing. What is she
sending for at this time of night? I hope Rosalie isn’t sick. She can’t
have bad news either. What is it?”
“With your permission, then, I’ll open it,” said he; and with Mrs.
Pelham’s eyes glaring upon him he calmly glanced over the lines.
“Nothing wrong,” he continued. “She merely writes to thank me for
sending word of Tanner’s detention at the agency.” And yet madame
could have sworn that where the strong light from the hall-lamp fell
upon the page in his hand the distinctly saw the words, “God bless you,
dear Jack.” And so she did.
For three days after this event the confinement and monotony of his
life would have told on a man stronger than Truscott. No news came from
Canker’s command, no especial tidings from Sandy. He had much fever,
and was confined to his room many hours each day. When he did appear
Grace was not visible. His hostess brought kind inquiries from her each
day, and he frequently heard her blithe voice in the hall or mingling
in the hum of conversation in the parlor. On the third day, while the
doctor was dressing his shoulder and congratulating him upon a release
from confinement that morning, his hostess, who had been unremitting
in her care of and attentions to her favorite subaltern, came to the
door to ask the doctor if she could not take Mr. Truscott in town for a
drive. Receiving his permission, she was off in a moment, and presently
came back delighted. “Jack,” she whispered, “I am going to take Grace,
too. Her ladyship is out of the way, and Grace has just got back from
band practice. Ain’t we in luck?”
Truscott expressed due enthusiasm, and in a few minutes the trio were
bowling along the smooth road to Prescott. The bracing air, the bright
sunshine, the rapid motion, perhaps too the very sweet face and dainty
form of Grace Pelham seated so near him, all tended to bring brightness
to his eye and color to his wan cheek. Looking critically at him as he
sat opposite her, conversing with her _chaperon_, Grace decided that
he was an undeniably handsome man. But he spoke very little to or with
her, and this seemed odd to the general’s lady. Match-makers as her sex
are by every instinct of their being, she had already determined that
here was the very girl she wanted to see married to her friend. Rumors
of Glenham’s devotion had of course reached her, but she had virtually
scouted all ideas of the kind. Her ladyship, Mrs. Pelham, had twice
or thrice waxed confidential and shown an inclination to speak of him
and of Grace in conjunction, so had other women, but the lady would
not listen. “Don’t mention him in the same breath,” she exclaimed to
Mrs. Wickham and to Mrs. Wilkins, to the latter’s huge delight. “She
has more brains in her little finger than he in his whole good-natured
head.”
Somebody went so far as to say that she had pitched into her husband,
the general himself, for inviting Glenham to dine with them _en
famille_ before the ball. “It’s as good as giving her dead away, and
I don’t believe she likes it at all,” was what she did say, and the
chief had absolved himself by explaining that Mrs. Pelham herself
had requested it. This had mollified madame to a certain extent, but
increased the dislike she had already begun to feel for that lady.
She was determined to bring them together, and so, on arriving in town,
had bounced out of the Concord wagon (which answered all her purposes
as well as a landau) and saying she merely wanted to look in at two
or three shops, had precipitated upon her unprepared companions a
_tête-à-tête_ which neither had expected and yet to which each was by
no means disinclined.
From all that he had heard, Truscott had been led to suppose that, if
not actually engaged, it was more than probable that Miss Pelham and
his friend very soon would be. Consequently, when he confronted her the
morning after the ball, her face bathed in tears, just having parted
from her lover as he set forth on his hurried, probably dangerous duty,
Truscott had many reasons for supposing that the rumors were true,
and that it was not altogether a loveless match, as the ladies would
have made it, on her part. Else why should she have been so distressed
at parting? He had been unfeignedly glad to believe she did care so
much for him. He knew well how Glenham loved her, though the subject
had never been mentioned between them. Glenham, indeed, had more than
once given shy indication that he would not mind confiding the whole
story of his hopes and fears to his friend, but Truscott never invited
confidences and preferred not to be made a recipient in this case.
Everything Grace said or did attracted him from the first moment of
their meeting up to the time of his sending that letter to Glenham.
He liked, admired, and was beginning to feel a warm interest in her,
when she calmly looked him in the face and said, “Mr. Glenham would
be surprised at receiving any message from me.” “It was all very well
in her to decline sending a message,” thought Jack, “but why should
she attempt to—why should she desire to deceive me? It’s none of my
business, of course; but it isn’t what I had hoped for Glenham.”
As for Grace. We have seen that she did not care for Glenham, and was
distressed by his avowal. No woman wants to be considered attached to
a man for whom she feels nothing more than a friendly interest. She
saw in Jack Truscott a knightly soldier. She had heard of him for two
years as the model officer of the regiment, her father’s stand-by and
stanchest friend, and when she met him he was bleeding from a recent
fray in which all knew he had borne himself most gallantly. She saw
him, even in his fatigue and suffering, gentle, patient, courteous.
She heard of his bitter grief in the loss of his favorite horse, and,
thorough horsewoman herself, she had warmly sympathized with him
in that sorrow. She had been able to serve him in his anxiety and
loneliness the very day of their first meeting—then—then she had been
made to suffer on his account, to bear her mother’s injustice because
of her interest in him, and then—and now—he believed her engaged to or
in love with Arthur Glenham.
Given these conditions and a heart absolutely free before, a somewhat
romantic streak somewhere in her composition, and an enthusiastic
love for all that was soldierly and knightly in man, it must be
admitted that it only needed the strenuous opposition of parents or
circumstances to render any woman liable to fall in love. And now
Grace Pelham was being opposed in what she deemed a perfectly proper
and justifiable interest in Mr. Truscott. She was being reminded in
every look from the maternal eye that she was expected to concentrate
her thoughts on Mr. Arthur Glenham. She——Oh, well, why dissect the
situation further? She probably would have indignantly repudiated
the idea that already she was falling in love. Far be it from the
writer to assert anything of the kind, but one thing is certain:
she did not want him to think her engaged to or in love with his
friend, Mr. Glenham, and was worried and perturbed in spirit that
he evidently did think so. More than that, she had begun to read
him well enough to realize that he considered her virtual denial of
Glenham as disingenuous, and this stung her to the quick. Now she had
an opportunity of talking uninterruptedly with him, but how was she
to introduce such a subject? Time was short. It was he who broke the
silence.
“You have not been riding since I came, Miss Pelham. When am I to have
the pleasure of seeing you in the saddle?”
“Indeed I don’t know. Everything was broken up by the regiment’s rush
to the field. We have been so anxious I have hardly cared to ride,
and—shall I be humble and confess it?—nobody has asked me since the
ball. Don’t the staff or infantry officers ride?”
“Some of the youngsters do, very well,” said Truscott. “Possibly
‘mounts’ are not to be had.”
“But Mr. Glenham rode a very nice horse, and we were to have gone again
day before yesterday,” she said, “and he told me that both the horses
we used were regimental horses.”
“They are off in the Mogollon range somewhere by this time, but when
you get down to Sandy you shall ride all you can desire. We have just
the very nicest kind of a ‘mount’ for you there, a quick, nimble little
bay full of style and action, plenty of fire, too, and I do not believe
a horse at Sandy can catch him. Glenham wants to buy him provided the
company commander will part with him.”
“To whose company does he belong?”
“Captain Tanner’s,” answered Truscott. “You will easily win him over to
your cause, for he worships a woman who rides well.”
“Then Mrs. Tanner must want to keep the horse: she rides, of course?”
“No, Mrs. Tanner never rides. It is one of the sorrows of her life, I
think; she gave up all attempts some years ago.”
“What a pity! An army woman who cannot ride loses half the joy of being
in the cavalry; but, does no one besides Mr. Glenham ride the horse you
speak of?”
“A trumpeter boy of Tanner’s troop ordinarily, and Tanner won’t let
the ladies at Sandy ride him at all; their hands are too uncertain, he
says. As for Glenham or any of our heavy weights, he would not permit
it.”
“Then how did you and Mr. Glenham decide he would be just the mount for
me?”
“Ray did that, I believe; he doesn’t ride over a hundred and forty, and
has a very light hand, light as any girl’s on the bit, and Tanner would
let him have his whole stable. When your coming was first announced,
and the young officers commenced telling of your riding at the Point,
they decided on having a suitable horse for you. Ray came up from
Cameron on a scout, and he picked out ‘Ranger,’ and last week Glenham
was in despair because there was no suitable side-saddle, and the
colonel said it would be some time before yours could arrive.”
(“Always ‘Glenham’ or ‘they, the young officers,’” thought Grace. “Am I
so far beneath him that he could not afford to take any part in these
preparations?”)
“You have never ridden ‘Ranger’ yourself, then, Mr. Truscott?”
“Three or four times, possibly, just to try him and teach him a little
better manners than he would be apt to learn from his ordinary rider,
the trumpeter.”
“Will he stand the skirt, do you think? That seems to be the great
objection at first to a spirited horse.”
“Very well; he has been practised with a trailing blanket and then with
Mrs. Tanner’s old skirt.”
“And Captain Tanner—or was it the young officers, as you say, who took
all these precautions in my behalf? Pray whom am I to thank?”
“Nobody, Miss Pelham. They all look upon a young lady who would resign
the sweets of civilization to come out to us as a being for whom no
degree of devotion can be too great.”
“Now, Mr. Truscott, that is all very gratifying, too good to be true,
perhaps, and I mean to cross-examine you a moment. You say ‘they
all,’ referring, I suppose, to the ‘young officers’ aforementioned.
Now tell me to whom you refer; I had been led to suppose that of the
four companies at Sandy, Mr. Glenham, Mr. Crane, and Mr. Carroll were
the only young officers, the other lieutenants being on leave or
staff duty, or detached in some way, or like Mr. Wilkins, married and
settled down; and Mr. Crane being neither young in years nor exhibiting
anything like the faintest desire to make my acquaintance, the number
seems limited. _Who_ were _they_?”
Truscott laughed merrily, and looked frankly down into the bright face
before him. “You are too analytical,” he said. “I shall have to stop
and consider the weight of every word when talking with you. You see I
included Ray, Hunter, and Dana in the list with Glenham, because they
all took a hand when at the post.”
“Which must have been very seldom, if at all, for Mr. Hunter and Mr.
Dana both told me they never got a chance to come to headquarters, and
were so eager to do so.”
“Undoubtedly they are now,” said Truscott; “but they looked upon it as
purgatorial before.”
“Still you don’t answer my question, and you compel me to riddle your
statements. It finally must be reduced to the melancholy fact that Mr.
Glenham was the only one at Sandy who took an interest in my coming. I
am not exacting. I had looked for nothing of the kind, but when you say
‘all the young officers,’ and allude to such numbers being engrossed in
preparation, you must admit my right to disappointment either in them
or my informant when I find there is only one. Furthermore, you have
not once had the grace to confess yourself one of the interested.”
“That would simply have been presumption. I alluded to the young
officers.”
“And Mr. Ray, who graduated but one year behind you, and is said to
be one year older, why include him and exclude yourself, unless truth
compelled you to the admission that you had no earthly interest in the
matter? Mr. Truscott, you have taught me a lesson, but you leave me in
no further doubt. It is evident that I am to thank Mr. Glenham for all
the training of my horse (O Grace, what a subterfuge!), and that the
others were merely accidentally interested.”
“Miss Pelham, you overwhelm me with the consciousness of my neglect.
Glenham has so devoted himself to the matter that no efforts of mine
could have competed with his, and yet, I assure you, he will require no
thanks other than your pleasure in the general result.”
Grace Pelham was ready to stamp her pretty foot at this juncture.
Anything or anybody so utterly imperturbable as her new acquaintance
she had never met. She shrewdly suspected that poor Glenham had never
so much as attempted to mount the new horse, and that it being Mrs.
Tanner’s skirt that was employed, Jack Truscott himself had taken
charge of that part of the lessons. Womanlike, she longed to extract
the admission from his lips, but he would admit nothing. Then came
their jolly hostess, bundle-laden, and then, to her dismay, Mrs.
Wilkins with a party of friends from the post, in a vehicle similar to
their own.
Truscott removed his forage-cap in salutation, and Mrs. Wilkins’s
unmodulated tones straightway filled the plaza. “Is it you, Mr.
Truscott, and you, Miss Gracie?” (“Confound the woman!” thought Jack,
savagely biting his moustache, “how dare she call her that?”) “Faith,
I thought it was time you were getting him out in the air. You look
like a ghost; have you any news from the boys, pray? It’s time we were
hearing from them, I’m sure. How is your mother, Miss Pelham? I’d call
to see her, but I never feel like talking when the regiment is out
scouting” (here Grace’s eyes sought Truscott’s, and found them brimming
over with merriment. They had some thoughts in common, then), “but I’ll
be over to-night or to-morrow; you and he won’t miss me, I’ll be bound.
Go on, driver. Good-by all!” And off she rattled, triumphant.
“Jack Truscott,” said their matron, impressively, “do you know what I
would do with that woman if she were in my regiment, if I had one? I’d
appoint a day for prayer and humiliation, and——What are you laughing
at? You know you detest the ground she walks on.”
“Being Arizona soil, there is no harm in that, madame; but were harm to
come to Mrs. Wilkins the spice of life at Sandy would be snatched away.
To me she is invaluable.”
Bowling briskly along the smooth, hard road, they were soon again
within the limits of the military settlement and in sight of
headquarters. Grace Pelham, baffled in her effort to extract from
Mr. Truscott some admission that he had been instrumental in the
training of her horse, and feeling vaguely that she had not succeeded
in penetrating the armor of reserve with which he was surrounded,
determined on a final sally.
Turning to the general’s wife, she broke forth,—
“Mr. Truscott has mystified me completely. He tells me of a capital
horse awaiting me at Sandy, and endeavors to make me believe that a
number of young officers, as he calls them, have had him in training
for some time.”
“Young officers, indeed!” burst in her friend. “When I was there with
the general, three weeks ago, the _young_ officers were watching Mr.
Jack Truscott himself. He was cavorting round on that very bay, with
somebody’s old skirt, or a blanket, almost every day.”
Grace had won her point, but had no time for remarks on the subject.
The ambulance whirled up to the general’s quarters, and there on the
piazza stood Mrs. Pelham with her hands full of letters.
“Mail for everybody but me,” she remarked, as the ladies, scoffing at
the idea of accepting assistance from a one-armed man, sprang out, and
then jocularly offered to assist Mr. Truscott. “Grace, you will want
to run and read yours at once, I know.” And she ostentatiously handed
a little note to her. “These, madame, are yours.” And their hostess
turned away to peer into the envelopes of her letters and wonder who
could have written them. Then Mrs. Pelham turned to Truscott with a
small packet of letters, “And these for you. I know _that_ handwriting
to be Ralph’s; would you mind opening it at once and letting me know
how he is?”
The topmost letter in Truscott’s package was post-marked San Francisco,
and addressed, in a dashing, bold hand. He recognized it at once
as coming from Ralph Pelham, his colonel’s second son; and, with
Mrs. Pelham’s eyes eagerly searching his face, he slowly opened and
commenced to read. He had never received a line from young Pelham
before in his life, and, though knowing him well, was surprised at the
mere sight of a letter from him. Even as he opened the envelope he
noted the keen anxiety in Mrs. Pelham’s face, and it put him on his
guard. The first line was enough to test his nerve, but he glanced down
the page, coolly turned the leaf and read the next, then very gently
and courteously addressed her ladyship: “He seems in capital health,
madame. You were not anxious about it, I hope?”
“Who, mother?” asked Grace, rejoining them at this moment and fearing
that her father was spoken of.
“Merely a—not your father, Grace, so you need not worry. He is
perfectly well, as this letter will show you,” replied madame,
hurriedly.
Grace took the letter her mother handed her, and with one glance in
Truscott’s face, a look in which inquiry was blended with surprise,
turned and left them.
“Mr. Truscott,” said Mrs. Pelham the instant they were again alone, “I
did not know Ralph wrote to you. He—he has been somewhat wild at times,
and I fully expected a letter from him to-day, but the letter is to
you. His father is very anxious about him, and only yesterday wrote me
that he wished Ralph were here again instead of in San Francisco. The
colonel says you had so good an influence over him. Mr. Truscott, tell
me if anything has gone wrong with my boy.”
And Jack Truscott, looking steadily down in the anxious face before
him, replied,—
“Nothing that I know of, and nothing shall that I can avert. This
letter is about a matter of business in which I am interested. You
should see the letter, but it concerns others besides myself.” And Lady
Pelham, relieved in mind yet vaguely feeling that something might be
extracted by dexterous cross-questioning, was compelled to drop the
subject. She thanked him somewhat hesitatingly, looked as though she
longed to ask still more, but drew aside and watched him as, with a
grave bow, he entered the hall and went to his own room.
There Truscott seated himself by the window, and this time slowly read
the following letter:
“SAN FRANCISCO, November 15.
“TRUSCOTT,—Just what you warned me against has come to pass. You made
me promise that if I got into the scrape I would write at once and
let you know. God knows I don’t know another soul to whom to turn.
It is for five hundred dollars this time, and I’ve given my note at
thirty days. You see, they know my people, feel sure of their money,
and would rather have the interest on it than the cash. But they
don’t know what I know,—that father is drained dry; that Grace’s
outfit the mother insisted on her having and this tremendous pull of
a journey have strapped him completely. Four months ago he wrote me
sadly enough not to draw for a cent, and things were booming then. I
had been doing first-rate. Consolidated Virginia brought me in eight
hundred dollars in a week. To be sure, Best and Belcher knocked most
of it out of me, but the other fellows in the office were wild over
the New Nevada, and, Jack, I raised the money for the margins, and
it’s gone—utterly gone.
“What am I to do? Why do you wish me to write you? I cannot meet
this. I see nothing for it but a bullet or a bolt to the mines,
where I can change my name with my shirt and hire out as a day
laborer. The brokers will show me up to the firm and the situation be
swept from under me instanter.
“If you mean that you can get Glenham to let me have five hundred
dollars at once to meet my note I will give you my word to stick to
my desk, to live _en retraite_, and not to speculate or gamble a cent
until it is paid. Glenham has two or three thousand idle in the bank
here I know; but, my God, I can’t ask _him_ for money, and hardly
know him at all. But father must not know, and above all Grace. She
would scorn me if she knew I had accepted a cent from him, and she is
right. Yet it is that or ruin, Truscott, and—you helped me when I was
in Arizona last year—for God’s sake, for father’s sake, who trusts
you so, keep my secret, and if you see a way to help me, believe in
my resolution. Wire or write at once.
“Yours, RALPH PELHAM.”
Truscott sat with pale, stern features, his eyes fixed on vacancy, the
letter resting on his knee. He heard the voices of the ladies in the
hall, the rustle of feminine skirts past his door, the tinkle of the
luncheon-bell, but he did not stir. A year previous Ralph Pelham had
spent a month in Arizona with his father, had been thrown frequently
into Truscott’s society, and had soon learned to look up to him in
every way. Pelham was only twenty-two, full of spirit and buoyant with
hope, a handsome, cheery, reckless fellow, who had all the attributes
of a mother’s darling and a father’s torment. The colonel loved his
boy, but shrank from exercising much control over his movements.
He knew the youngster had his full share of youthful frivolity, had
cheerfully paid his boyish debts, and had shaken his head at some
college extravagances; but Ralph was the “brightest” of his sons, every
one said, and beyond doubt the most indulged. A very good position had
been secured for him in a business house in San Francisco, his salary
was fair, his prospects fairer, and all had promised well. Truscott,
however, had heard from the boy’s own lips in the confidence resulting
from an escapade of the previous year that he had, in common with other
young men in his station in life, a mania for getting rich in a hurry
and without the equivalent of labor. The fever of speculation was
raging all over the Pacific coast. Fortunes were being made every week
and lost every day. During a brief stay there Ralph Pelham had fallen
in with some acquaintances whose haunt was Montgomery Street, had tried
his luck on “margins,” and with ease and astonishment had realized a
few hundred dollars,—just enough to inspire him with wild visions of
wealth and grandeur, and to send him on his way to visit his father
with an unaccustomed plethora of funds, and a concomitant inflation of
conceit and business airs that vastly entertained the officers of the
—th. The money was soon spent and lost; more was needed, for Truscott
found his young friend deep in the toils of “draw-poker” on returning
to Sandy from court-martial duty. The colonel had just advanced the
boy a quarter’s allowance, and he dared ask for no more, and Truscott
insisted on becoming his banker. “I make no conditions whatever,
Pelham,” he said, “but, don’t play with those fellows, unless you
really want to throw money away.” And Pelham had played no more at
Sandy, where the scouts, the quartermaster’s employés, the traders, and
occasionally one or two of the officers were to be found in the nightly
game down at the store. But this strengthened his trust in Jack, and
steadied him a great deal, and before he left he manfully told his
father of the circumstance, begging him not to show Truscott that he
knew it, and the old soldier had forgiven his young prodigal, provided
him with money for his return to San Francisco, and Truscott suspected
that the truth was known, because of the fatherly way his colonel had
of speaking to him for some time after, but they never alluded to the
matter.
And now young Pelham was in a far more serious difficulty. Truscott
read those lines again.
“And above all Grace. She would scorn me if she knew I had accepted a
cent from him, and she is right.”
“Then Ralph, too, was certain there was an understanding or something
like it between his sister and Glenham,” mused Truscott, and again
the worn, tired look settled on his brow, and as he mused there came
along the hall the quick, light step he was growing to know so well,
the rustle of skirts that sent already a thrill to his heart, a light
tap on his door; he sprang up, dashed his hand across his forehead,
thrust the letter in the breast-pocket of his blouse, and strode to
the doorway. There stood Grace with a tiny tray in her hands, a light
luncheon and a cup of fragrant tea thereon.
“We thought you too tired perhaps, or too busy, to come to the
dining-room, so I was sent with this,” she said, smiling brightly. He
bent and took the tray from her hands and placed it on the table in the
room, thanking her as he did so, and stepping quickly back to her side.
“I brought it myself,” she continued, smiling archly and mischievously,
“in partial payment of a kindness and attention you would not confess.
It was you who trained my horse, sir, and you strove to conceal the
fact. Mr. Truscott, I don’t know how to thank you.”
The frank, glorious eyes were gazing up into his; the sweet, mobile
features, all smiles and sunshine, were turned towards him, her soft
white hand toying with the fringe of the Indian tobacco-pouch that hung
on the door-post. It was long since Truscott had looked upon a vision
half so fair, and, despite himself, look he did earnestly, seeing which
her eyes fell, a quick flush rose to her white forehead, she turned to
go, but he recovered himself.
“Don’t attempt to thank me,” he said. “Ride with me once or twice when
we get to Sandy, and I will be more than repaid.”
“Ride with you! Indeed I will—gladly.” And with that she was gone.
Truscott stood gazing after her as she disappeared through the parlor
doorway. There she had glanced quickly back: their eyes had met, she
smiled brightly, but never stopped. For a full minute he stood there,
then with a half-stifled sigh rising to his lips he turned to re-enter
the room, when a white object on the floor at his feet caught his
eye. He bent, picked it up, and bore it to the light. It was a dainty
handkerchief, and in one corner was embroidered the simple name
“Grace.”
With bowed head he stood a few moments holding it in his hand, thinking
intently, his eyes fixed upon the name. Then he took Ralph’s later
from his pocket, read it once again, and softly repeated to himself
the closing words, “For God’s sake, for father’s sake, who trusts you
so, keep my secret, and if you see a way to help me, believe in my
resolution.”
“For God’s sake, for father’s sake. Yes,” he whispered, “for Grace’s
sake I’ll help you, and then—and then—may God help me.”
And when Ralph Pelham’s letter was replaced in the breast-pocket of
Truscott’s uniform his sister’s handkerchief lay between it and the
wearer’s heart.