Meantime, the colonel and Truscott remained at their desks in the
office, the former occasionally addressing some question to his silent
subordinate, and then going on in his methodical way with his letters.
From time to time the sergeant-major or a clerk would enter with a
fresh batch of papers, which would be noiselessly deposited on the
adjutant’s desk, and those already signed were as quietly removed, and
in the adjoining room, where the clerks were busily at work, made ready
for the mail.
At last, as eleven o’clock drew nigh, the colonel appeared to have
completed his writing, and, with a stretch and yawn, rose and strolled
over to Truscott’s desk.
“Don’t you think it strange we have no answer from the general about
those scouts?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” replied Truscott, rising. “But you know that Sieber is
still out. He may be waiting for his report.”
“All he says is this,” said the colonel, hunting first in his
coat-pockets, then among the papers on his desk, and picking up finally
a telegraphic despatch: “‘Hold Fanshawe, Craig, and the Indian scouts
at Sandy until further orders;’” and in order to read he had stepped to
the window looking out on the parade. “Have you any idea when Sieber
will be in?” he asked. “By Jove! I believe the chief will come down
again himself. Even the telegraph is too slow for him. Truscott,” he
continued, while waiting for reply to his own question, “you cannot be
well. I never saw you so white and haggard, and the circles under your
eyes haunt me. ’Pon my word, I think you need medical advice, or rest,
or change, or something. I thought you looked ill enough yesterday, but
this morning it’s worse.”
“It is nothing serious, colonel. I’ve been sitting up late and smoking
too much, I fancy. There was a vast deal to be done when we got back,
and I could not let the work go.”
“That is why we see so little of you at the house, I suppose,” said
Pelham. “You must try and come in often. Jack—I—well—I never knew
how to speak to you about it, but that wild boy of mine has recently
written me something of what you have been to him. He hasn’t told me
all, he says, but he has told me enough to make me very grateful, as
his mother would be too if she knew the influence for good you have
over him; but he shrinks from letting her know anything of his scrapes,
or Grace either. I don’t know how to thank you, old fellow, but—let us
see more of you. I want you to know Grace.”
He had put his hand affectionately on Truscott’s shoulder, and now,
though his eyes were filled with tears, the old soldier looked straight
into Truscott’s, and for a second the two clasped hands, but the
adjutant said not a word. Then they strolled out on the piazza together.
“Did you see Grace and Glenham start this morning?” asked the colonel.
“I had to hurry over here to answer those telegrams, and missed it.
Hollo! here come Mrs. Tanner and Rosalie,” he went on. “Morning, Mrs.
Tanner,” he called out, cheerily, as the stanch Concord wagon span
along past them, and the smiling faces of its occupants nodded cordial
response to the salutations of the officers. “Been taking Rosalie a
drive down the valley, I suppose,” he said. “Truscott, I never knew
that little woman until Tanner’s troop came here last summer, and, do
you know? I think she’s one of the most perfect ladies I ever met. And
yet my wife, and Grace, too, by Jupiter, are perfectly dumb when I
speak of her to them. What’s the reason, hey?”
But Truscott did not hear; was not listening. With cheek growing whiter
every instant, his eyes were fixed upon the figure of a soldier running
towards them,—the stable sergeant of Tanner’s troop. An awful dread had
seized upon him. He sprang forward to meet the man.
“What is it, sergeant? Quick!”
“Ranger, sir. He’s just come in all foam, and——”
“What, Jack! What is it?” gasped the colonel, with ashen face and
storing eyes.
“Get into Mrs. Tanner’s ambulance and go right up the valley, sir. Take
her with you. Ranger is in without Grace!”
“Oh, my God!” cried poor old Pelham, as, bewildered and
horror-stricken, he ran with Truscott towards Tanner’s quarters. There
Jack almost lifted him into the wagon, and quickly told Mrs. Tanner
what was wanted. Crack went the whip, and at a dead run they darted
through the north gate, leaving poor little Rosalie crying with fright
and astonishment upon the piazza. As they tore down the hill, Truscott,
seated beside the driver, rose and almost hurrahed,—
“Cheer up, colonel. We’ll find her all right. Here’s Ray’s horse too,
and he’s got her.”
On they went, the driver lashing his mules into a gallop as they
whirled along the sandy flats. Once or twice a groan escaped the
colonel’s lips, and Mrs. Tanner gently spoke,—
“I’m sure you will find her safe. Mr. Ray was there in time, or his
horse would not be here now.”
Two miles out, and——“Here comes Glenham!” exclaimed Truscott.
“Where is Grace? Is she hurt?” almost screamed the colonel, thrusting
head and half his body through the doorway.
“No, sir. All safe—at Four-Mile——”
“_Go_ on, driver!” shouted the colonel, never caring to hear the
rest of Glenham’s report. Away went the ambulance, and poor Arthur,
breathless, unnerved by excitement, terror, and misery, turned his
panting horse about to follow in their tracks, and then, drooping his
head upon the brawny neck before him, covering his face with his hands,
he burst into tears.
A short drive took the party in the ambulance to the Point, much
to the astonishment and very much to the disgust of Mr. Ray, whose
determination to make hay while the sun shone was thus summarily broken
in upon. He had calculated that at least an hour would elapse before
any vehicle could reach them from the post, and here it was barely
thirty minutes. Pelham sprang out and seized his daughter in his arms,
kissing her repeatedly before he spoke at all. Then he turned to Ray,
and grasped his hand.
“I have heard no particulars. Glenham said she was unhurt, but somehow
I feel that we owe it to you.”
“You ought to have seen it, father,” said Grace; “it was the most
skilful catch of a runaway horse that ever I heard of. Ranger had
the bit in his teeth and was simply uncontrollable; and when we came
tearing down this hill, and I saw those rocks ahead—well, you can
hardly imagine how glad I was to hear Mr. Ray’s voice.”
Meantime, Truscott had assisted Mrs. Tanner to alight, and the gentle
little lady came forward with him to congratulate Miss Pelham on her
escape. Grace looked embarrassed the instant she caught sight of the
pair, but thanked them with great civility for their prompt appearance.
Then the colonel insisted upon her driving home with them at once. The
wagon was reversed, and the entire party took seats therein except
Glenham, who had meantime arrived, and remained in the saddle a silent
and miserable spectator of the scene. His woe-begone aspect caught
Grace’s eye, and she leaned forward holding out her hand. “_Please_
don’t worry about it, Mr. Glenham,” she said, in her gentle voice.
“_Please_ don’t worry. It was all my own fault; you know I insisted on
trying that gallop against your advice.” And the young fellow’s face
brightened as he eagerly clasped the extended hand. Then they parted;
the “Concord” driving back to the post, and Glenham riding up the road
in search of the vanished chimney-pot.
That evening Mr. Ray dined at the colonel’s. On every account it ought
to have been to him a most enjoyable occasion; but long before coffee
was served the young gentleman wished that he were dining, as indeed
he often had dined, on hard-tack, cheese, and herring, with bottled
beer _ad libitum_, down at the sutler’s store. To begin with, Grace
was very pale and silent. She strove to entertain him at first, and
to appear bright and cheerful, but despite her efforts he plainly
saw that something had gone very much amiss. Her beautiful eyes gave
unmistakable tokens of recent and excessive weeping, and her sweet,
low voice was tremulous in the last degree. In pity and sympathy he
turned to the colonel, and addressed his conversation exclusively to
him. It was the colonel who, with great effusiveness, had burst into
his tent about one o’clock in the afternoon and seized him by both
hands. “Ray, my dear boy, in my anxiety to get Grace into the house and
with her mother I did not half thank you for the inestimable service
you rendered me. By heaven! I believe that we owe her life to you,”
he had exclaimed, and then after a chat of half an hour had made Ray
promise to come to dinner and gone off homeward. But dinner at the
colonel’s did not take place until after evening parade, and meantime
all sorts of things had happened; and when dinner-time came Grace was
well-nigh prostrated, the colonel was wretched, and madame, the lady
of the house, appeared only as dinner was announced, took her seat
with an air of melodramatic grandeur, and not only failed to say one
word of thanks to Ray for the rescue of the morning, but absolutely
treated him with haughty displeasure. Not one civil word did she
speak during the hour he spent in the house; and to be brief, she had
started in about two o’clock, when the colonel came home saying he had
invited Ray to dinner, and spent the afternoon in making her husband
and daughter utterly miserable. How she accomplished this will be
detailed presently. Ray, as has been said, addressed his conversation
to the colonel, and with all the tact at his command strove to hide his
own discomfiture. The colonel, for his part, made fitful efforts to
appear jolly and hospitable. To this end he kept the wine in constant
play, and to Grace’s consternation it soon became evident that the
unusual indulgence was telling upon him with startling effect. He
talked incessantly, he made frequent repetitions, his face flushed,
and his tongue grew thick; and finally, with a glare of wrath and
defiance at his wife, he brought his clinched fist down on the table
with a thump that made the glasses ring, and exclaimed, “Ray, you
saved my daughter’s life, my dear boy, and you shall be welcome to my
house and my table whenever you choose to come, no matter who dares
to interfere.” Whereupon her ladyship rose and left the table, Grace
following, but stopping to bend and press her pure lips upon her
father’s heated brow; then giving her hand to Ray, she begged him to
excuse her going to her room, saying that after all she found she was
a trifle shaken by the morning’s adventure; but her eyes plainly said
“Please go,” and go he did ten minutes after, declaring he heard first
call for tattoo, with tattoo still an hour away. Then the colonel took
a nap on the sofa, and Mrs. Pelham sent a messenger to say that she
would like to see Mr. Glenham.
No wonder Grace was looking pale and exhausted that evening. With her
buoyant health and her years of experience in the saddle, there was
nothing in the runaway of the morning to cause any especial distress as
an after-effect; and so to reassure her mother she had laughed off the
affair, changed her dress, and appeared at luncheon as though nothing
had happened. She had recounted the entire adventure to her ladyship
in all its essential particulars, but notwithstanding a rigorous
cross-examination she had found it possible to make no mention of Mr.
Ray’s emotional method of restoring her to consciousness. Madame had
sharply watched her as she told how the last thing she remembered was
his lifting her from the saddle, and the vivid blush that rose to her
temples had excited the maternal curiosity, if not suspicion, and had
filled her with vague alarm. Still, all might have gone well had not
Mr. Glenham appeared about noon bringing the riding-hat and veil. Mrs.
Pelham welcomed him eagerly, led him into the parlor, and, noting
his pallor and distress, had made him swallow a glass of wine. Then
she relentlessly assailed him with questions, found him hopeless and
dejected, and strove to encourage him, but he broke forth impulsively,—
“It is no use, Mrs. Pelham. I have no luck. Everything is against me.
I might have some chance were it not for Ray, but every moment only
adds to his advantage. She has liked him from the very first; and
to-day—to-day—she _must_ care for him, for when I reached them she was
in his arms and—and he kissing her.” And poor Glenham covered his face
with his hands and groaned.
Lady Pelham was horrified. What! Grace—her Grace falling in love with
that penniless, dissolute young reprobate Ray! It was monstrous; it was
unbearable. It _should_ not be. She made Glenham promise to obey her
instructions implicitly, and finally dismissed him with the assurance
that Ray should be sent to the right-about, and that Grace should be
brought to her senses forthwith. Then she started for Grace’s room; but
the ladies began to flock in to inquire after the young lady, and not
until after luncheon did she get her innings.
Of that interview the less said the better. Grace was accused of
everything that was indelicate, immodest, unladylike. A disgraceful
flirtation with a man who was utterly beneath her—accepting his
caresses—and for aught she knew returning them—_lying_ in his arms.
Shameful! shameful! And all the time leading Glenham on and encouraging
him, and Truscott, too. It was bad enough with him at Prescott; but
this—oh, what _would_ her poor father say if he knew it?
Great heaven! why attempt to describe it? Is there on earth, can there
be in Gehenna, anything to equal in bitterness, in rank injustice,
in stinging, scourging, scalding venom, the ruthless tongue of
an infuriated and disappointed woman? In vain Grace implored and
protested; in vain she declared that it was only in her swoon that he
had held her; in vain she denied all knowledge of his kiss. Her mother
stormed on until in her agony Grace rushed from the room just as her
father entered the house, and threw herself, in a passion of tears,
into his arms. Sobbing and breathless, she strove to tell her story,
but could not, though he led her into the parlor, and taking her on his
knee, holding her close to his breast, as he had done so many a time in
her childhood, he strove to soothe and calm her. Her ladyship followed
and took the floor, reiterating her accusations, for, thoroughly
enraged, she cared not what she said. For a moment he listened in dumb
amaze. Then, with his arm still holding his daughter close to his
heart, he sprang to his feet and stood confronting her.
“Stop it, I say! Stop it at once! I will not listen to such outrageous
talk,” he sternly spoke, while his face grew white and his firm mouth
set like a rigid line under the crisp gray moustache.
“Oh, better hear it from me, Colonel Pelham, than as the scandal of the
garrison, as you _will_ hear it,” she answered.
“_Who_ dared tell you such a thing? I don’t believe a word of it. You
are crazy, Dolly. Think what you are saying, and restrain yourself.
Grace, darling, I know it is all a lie. Don’t sob so, girlie; _don’t_
sob so,” he pleaded, as his lips were pressed upon her forehead and his
trembling hand caressed her shining hair.
She raised her face to his, striving to smile through her tears,
striving to control herself.
“I had fainted, papa. I—I know that he lifted me in his arms,
but—oh!—nothing else, except—except some foolish words he spoke.”
“How did you know this? _Who_ is your authority for _your_ statement?”
he said, angrily, turning towards his wife, who was pacing the floor
like a tragedy queen. She stopped and glared at them as she almost
hissed her reply.
“Mr. Glenham, the gentleman she has been trifling with, saw it all. He
is my authority. Perhaps you will doubt me now, Colonel Pelham.”
“Glenham be d——d!” shouted the colonel, now fairly beside himself
with wrath. “The idea of his coming whining here to you with such a
miserable complaint! If that’s the sort of man you want your daughter
to marry, you can understand right here that I won’t stand it. As for
Mr. Ray, by Gad! Mrs. Pelham, he has my respect and sympathy. _Yes_,
ma’am, my respect and sympathy. I don’t see how he could help kissing
her; I—I’d have done it myself in his place; and she’s no more to
blame than you are, nor half as much, by Gad!” Evidently the colonel
was getting madder and madder, and waxing illogical and incoherent.
Madame saw it and recognized her advantage. Oh, woman, woman! you might
have spared him, you might have spared her, the bitter blow you had in
reserve, but in your relentless wrath nothing short of torture could
suffice.
“Mr. Ray comes here to dinner to-day, Mrs. Pelham, and you will see
that he is properly received and entertained. He saved our Gracie’s
life, God bless him! And you—you’ve no more gratitude than a cat,”
continued our irate and injudicious colonel. “And as for this infernal
story of your friend, Mr. Glenham, I mean to sift it for myself. I had
some regard for him before. _Now_ it’s my belief he’s a mere milksop.”
Seeing her father’s increasing rage, poor Grace had checked her tears
and was striving in vain to restrain him. He still stood with his
left arm closely enfolding her, his right arm free and gesticulating
violently. It was upraised as he closed with his denunciation of
Glenham, and he stood there with flushed and angry features frowning at
his wife.
For an instant there was silence. Then came her answer. Every word
sharp as the crack of a whip, remorseless, relentless.
“Invite your gamblers and libertines if you will, Colonel Pelham, but
spare your abuse of an honest and generous gentleman. _Possibly_ you
may feel some regret for your intemperate language when I tell you
that but for Mr. Glenham your own flesh and blood would now have been
involved in ruin and disgrace, that but for his magnanimity your son
would have been driven to suicide.”
Slowly the color faded from Pelham’s face, slowly he unwound his arm
from his daughter’s waist and leaned uneasily forward, slowly the angry
light faded from his eyes, and little by little a wistful, bewildered
gaze took its place. He attempted to speak, but choked in the effort.
At last the words came. “What do you mean?” he whispered. “I don’t
understand.”
“Simply this,” she answered, coldly: “Ralph has been speculating: he
obtained in some way five hundred dollars which he felt sure of being
able to replace in three days; lost it all and was ruined. He had only
one hope—Mr. Glenham, and Mr. Glenham instantly telegraphed him the
money from Prescott.”
“How do you know this?” gasped the colonel. “Has Mr. Glenham told you
this, too?” he asked, unjust in his misery, as many and many a man has
been, warm-hearted as he was.
“Mr. Glenham is too much of a gentleman to mention such a thing. There,
sir, is your son’s letter to me.” And she tossed him a rumpled sheet.
He took it from the table mechanically, seated himself on the lounge,
and began to read. Without a word Mrs. Pelham strode from the room and
ascended the stairs. Grace stood a moment like one in a trance, then
wearily turning, slowly, dreamily sought her own room. Colonel Pelham
remained motionless on the lounge, and Maggie, the housemaid, putting
things to rights in the dining-room, knocked off work and went in next
door to tell Bridget, the cook, of the high jinks at the commanding
officer’s that afternoon.