Pending the arrival of Mr. Glenham, for whom her ladyship had sent
her messenger, she took a seat upon the piazza. The evening air was
chilly, and she wrapped her mantle closely around her and fell to
thinking over the events of the day. It cannot be said that she felt
either elation or happiness over the result of her efforts. Now that
her paroxysm of rage had vanished she began to realize that she had
been horribly unjust to Grace, and yet had anybody suggested that
she had been brutally unjust it would have fired her with sufficient
self-righteous fervor to have nerved her to repeat with emphasis every
word she had uttered. Then there was her husband. She had humbled him
in the way of all others she well knew would hurt him the most. She
had goaded him into saying harsh and unjust things about one of his
officers, and then cracked over his head the terrific whip of his great
and hitherto unknown obligation to that gentleman. She had inflicted
upon him in Grace’s presence the deep humiliation of hearing that his
favorite son had again been resorting to questionable means of raising
money for stock-gambling, and having lost, had appealed to officers of
his regiment for assistance and got it. She had absolutely insinuated,
as though to throw brine upon the quivering flesh she had galled, that
Ralph had confessed to her that he had tampered with funds that he had
no authority to use, which was untrue and unpardonable in a mother,
but rage was in her heart when she did it, and she thought of nothing
but how surest to wound. She had humbled him in the dust, and what
had she gained? Now that it was all over she sat there brooding over
the affair. The colonel was sleeping heavily upon the lounge in the
parlor; Grace, who had gone to her room immediately after dinner, had
stolen down-stairs and arranged the pillow more comfortably under his
head, and then, after fanning him a while, had seated herself in a low
chair, and with her face buried in her hands was trying to think calmly
over all that had happened. The lamp burned low on the parlor table,
and Mrs. Pelham looking through the slats of the blind could see her
as she sat in this attitude of utter dejection. The mother’s heart for
a moment struggled within her and urged her to go and take her to her
bosom and beg her pardon for the hideous language she had used that
day, but no. It was no time for weakness, she argued. By all means,
by _any_ means, she must be made to marry Glenham, and then, said her
ladyship, once rich, independent, with a husband who adores her, she
will be happy, and will thank me for my unswerving course. Yes, the end
will justify the means. She must fret and worry now a while. Truscott
is no longer to be dreaded. Thanks to his devotion, or the story of
his devotion to Mrs. Tanner, _he_ is disposed of, and Ray will be as
easily settled. She cannot have learned to care for him so suddenly.
And so ran her ladyship’s reflections, and so she found excuses for her
unnatural conduct.
Ralph’s letter had by no means justified the tragic manner and
language of her announcement. It was a simple, warm-hearted, boyish
confession to his mother that he had lost five hundred dollars in
speculation, that the money for the margins had been raised unknown to
his father, and that he would have been swamped but for Glenham. “I
wrote to Truscott of my trouble, in accordance with a promise I had
made him, and instantly Glenham sent me the money. Now I have quit it
for good and all, and I want you to know it,” was pretty much what he
had written. All the rest of her sensational account was purely an
invention of her own. She hated to think that Truscott was in any way
mixed up in the matter; but there is no need of Grace’s knowing that,
she argued. She must understand that it is all Mr. Glenham’s doing. But
where was Glenham all this time? She had sent for him long since, and
he had not come, nor had the orderly returned. What did it mean? The
night was dark and chill, occasional gusts of wind whirled through the
line of deserted piazzas. Officers’ row outside was desolate. Every one
was in-doors. Nobody seemed to be calling on anybody. She had dreaded
that some of the ladies would be over to make further inquiries, but
none had come. In fact, her ladyship’s unpopularity had begun to be
recognized as established by this time, for she had snubbed pretty
much every woman in the garrison, and none of them cared to call upon
her unless some new story about somebody or other was floated upon the
tide of garrison talk, and thereby rendered a chat with her ladyship
endurable. Very lonely she felt as she sat there looking out on the
dark parade and listening for the clank of the orderly’s sabre as he
returned from his quest. Over at the adjutant’s office the lights were
burning brilliantly as ever, and there she knew Truscott to be at work.
Half an hour passed, and at last a form came stalking up before her
through the darkness,—the orderly, but no Glenham.
“Could you not find Mr. Glenham?” she asked.
“No, ma’am. The loot’nint isn’t in his quarters, nor down at the store,
nor over at the company. I’ve looked everywhere, ma’am, except among
the officers’ quarters.”
She pondered a moment. It was hardly possible that he would be calling
anywhere this evening of all others. A sudden thought struck her.
“Have you been to Mr. Ray’s camp?”
“Yes’m, an’ he ain’t there. Mr. Ray, he’s down at the store playin’——”
and the orderly finished his sentence with a conscience-stricken
gulp, it suddenly occurring to him that possibly poker was not to be
mentioned to so exalted a lady as the colonel’s wife, but madame had no
scruples in the matter. Here was a possibility of confirmatory evidence
at Mr. Ray’s expense.
“What was he playing, orderly?”
“Cards, ma’am.”
“Yes. Cards, of course; but what game?”
“They plays it with chips, ma’am,” said the orderly, vainly struggling
to repair the damage of his unlucky admission.
“You mean poker, of course,” persisted madame. “Who else was in the
game?”
“Faith, ma’am, I didn’t notice. I was lookin’ for Mr. Glenham,”
stammered the soldier, wishing to heaven he were out of her clutches;
and she, finding it useless to question further, dismissed him and
returned to her reflections.
Then soft and clear there rose from near the flag-staff the trumpet
signal for “first call;” and, as the mellow notes were repeated,
the doors of the men’s quarters across the parade were opened, and,
with jest and laughter and merry talk, the troopers came sauntering
out. Here and there lights flitted to and fro,—the lanterns of the
first sergeants. Then the trumpeters of the entire command, having
united, began their march around the garrison, sounding their stirring
quicksteps. Door after door along officers’ row opened and gave exit to
some muffled figure, and the lanterns of the company officers danced
away across the dark parade. Then her own door opened and closed with
a slam, and her husband stood beside her. He glanced curiously at her
one instant, and, without a word, strolled off to the other end of
the piazza; he who rarely met her without some kindly greeting, and
she knew well how deeply she had wounded him; then the assembly rang
out upon the still air, and the “here,” “here,” of the men could be
distinctly heard, and the gruff voices of the sergeants calling their
rolls; then the lanterns all seemed to be converging towards a solitary
light that stood under the flag-staff, each halting short some few
paces from it, and such communications as “Company ‘B,’ present, or
accounted for,” “Company ‘F,’ Private Mulligan absent,” came floating
along the chill night air; then all the lanterns scattered, and soon
were out of sight; all save one,—the stationary light in the centre
of the parade; and presently Truscott’s deep voice was heard calling
for the first sergeant of some company, and then the colonel sharply
turned,—
“Orderly, my compliments to the adjutant, and say I wish to see him.”
Another moment and the tall form of Mr. Truscott appeared, lantern
bearing, and the colonel spoke,—
“What troop was that failed to report?”
“‘K,’ sir.”
“‘K!’ Captain Canker’s! Whose duty was it to receive the report of the
roll-call?”
“Mr. Glenham’s, sir.”
“Why, where on earth is Glenham? I never knew him to miss roll-call
before.”
“Nor I, colonel. It is possible he has slept through over home. He was
looking very worn and tired at dinner.”
“Beg pardon, sir,” broke in the orderly; “I’ve been everywhere for the
loot’nint this evening, and I don’t believe he’s in garrison.”
“Where else could he be? There’s no earthly place to go to,” said
Pelham, impatiently. “See if you can find him, Truscott,—not that I
want to see him to-night,—and then—come back, will you? I want to see
you.”
“And should you find Mr. Glenham, be so kind as to say that Mrs. Pelham
would like to speak with him a few minutes,” said madame, placidly, and
Truscott walked rapidly away towards the northern end of the row.
Sitting in the parlor, Grace had heard most of the conversation. Her
heart was full of pity for Glenham before the events of this day, and
the suffering in his young face had touched her deeply when she saw
him at noon. Now, now it seemed that he had rescued Ralph, the brother
whom she dearly loved, from a fate that was bitter as death. How could
she thank him? Where was he? What did this strange absence mean?
Distressed and anxious, she stepped out on the piazza and joined her
father, who was standing in moody silence where Truscott had left him.
She slipped her hand within his arm, saying not a word, and rested her
soft cheek upon his shoulder. The colonel sighed deeply as he patted
the little hand, and then touched her brow with his lips. Neither
spoke, but in deep, sweet sympathy father and daughter understood and
comforted one another.
Meantime, Truscott had reached his quarters. The lamps were burning
dimly, and a brief inspection showed him that Glenham was not in the
house, but his cavalry overcoat and his favorite pipe were gone too,
and, taking his lantern, the adjutant quickly stepped out on the back
gallery, and in a moment more had gained the edge of the bluff north
of the post. Here, a short pistol range from the gate, there had
been built in the bank a stout timber framework, on which was hung
a huge wooden water-wheel, turned by the flow from the _acequia_ on
the plateau. The wheel worked a force-pump, by means of which a small
supply of water was driven through wooden pipes along the back of
officers’ row. The plash of the water fell with a musical sound upon
Truscott’s ear as he approached the little waste weir above the wheel.
He walked quickly and unhesitatingly towards it.
“Poor fellow,” he said to himself, “he has dreaded meeting any of the
‘crowd’ to-night, and has stolen out here somewhere to dodge them.”
Searching along the bank, he came to a pathway leading down to the well
below the wheel, and, cautiously descending it, he suddenly heard his
name called; a sleepy voice inquiring,—
“That you, Jack? What’s up?”
“Time you were up, youngster,” was the half-laughing answer. “What do
you mean by gipsying out here all night?”
“I suppose I must have been asleep,” replied Glenham; “though God knows
I didn’t expect to sleep this night,” he added, in a tone of such deep
dejection that, as he rose, Truscott stretched forth a kindly hand and
aided him up the slope.
“Never mind, old fellow, none of the gang will be around to bother you.
Come into the house and spruce up a bit. Mrs. Pelham wants to see you,
and the chief wants to see me. We’ll go down together.”
And so the watchers on the colonel’s piazza were soon rewarded by the
sight of the adjutant and his comrade rapidly approaching, the faithful
lantern still swinging in Truscott’s hand. Pelham greeted the younger
officer with an attempt at jocularity that well nigh choked him. Then
saying,—
“I believe Mrs. Pelham wants to have a word with you,” he turned to
Truscott. “Come in, Jack,” he said, and led the way into the parlor,
whither Grace had already fled. She rose as they entered, intending to
leave the room, but her father called to her not to go, and Truscott,
stepping forward, held out his hand, saying,—
“It is the first opportunity I have had, Miss Pelham. I heartily
congratulate you on your escape this morning. I think I ought to say on
your own pluck and good riding.”
“Pluck and good riding would not have saved me, Mr. Truscott, if Mr.
Ray had not been there.”
“Possibly not. Ray’s skill is proverbial, but pluck and good riding
kept you in your seat when many a woman would have been hurled out and
dragged.”
“See here, Truscott,” broke in the colonel, “suppose you ride with
Grace to-morrow. You can spare the time now, can you not? and I’ll feel
safe when she is with you.”
Despite his efforts at self-control the blood rushed to the very roots
of his hair. Truscott had marked all too keenly Grace’s constraint and
coldness towards him since their arrival at Sandy, and Mrs. Pelham’s
rudeness was the talk of the garrison. Grace, too, had colored at her
father’s abrupt request, but said no word of remonstrance. So Truscott
quickly spoke,—
“I shall be most happy, Miss Pelham, if you will honor me as the
colonel suggests;” and Grace could not but accept. “To-morrow morning,
then,” he added, and with that he turned to his colonel as she passed
on into the adjoining room.
Then the old soldier grasped his hand, and in a voice that trembled in
spite of his efforts at self-control, the colonel impetuously broke
forth,—
“Jack, what is this about Ralph? I want to know everything. He
writes to his mother that he has lost money in speculating, and that
through you he has borrowed five hundred dollars from Glenham; and he
intimates that but for this timely aid he would have been ruined.
Where—how did he raise the money in the first place?”
Again the flash of embarrassment rose to Truscott’s temples. He
hesitated before speaking, but presently the words came, calmly,
resolutely.
“Just where he got it I do not know, but this I do know, that in no
way has he employed the funds of his firm; in no way has he violated
his trust. He borrowed the money from some broker, giving his note at
thirty days,—some broker who knew him and felt sure of his money. He
has been led into this speculation by overconfident friends in San
Francisco, and he and they have been swallowed by larger and shrewder
operators. It is an expensive experience, colonel, but a valuable one.
He wrote me fully and frankly, and I feel confident that the case
stands as I tell it to you.”
“God bless you, Jack! God bless you for the lifting of this load from
my heart. I—I feared it was far worse. His mother said—well, she
misunderstood him, or his letter, or somehow she got it wrong. She
thought he might have been tempted and—you know, Jack—embezzled the
money. It upset her and made her nervous, I suppose, for she broke it
to us in rather a rough way. God bless you again, Jack! you’ve been
a good friend to my boy.” And now the tears were streaming down old
Pelham’s rugged face, and he stepped hurriedly to the door leading to
the dining-room.
“Grace, daughter, come here. I want you to hear what Truscott says; it
isn’t as your mother put it, thank God! it isn’t that at all.” And
leading her in, he sank upon the sofa and buried his face in his great
bandanna, almost sobbing in his relief and joy.
Looking down into the sweet, pale features, Truscott repeated to Grace,
in his grave, gentle way, just what he had told her father, and as he
finished, and the eager, anxious, wistful gaze fled from her face,
giving place to radiant joy, she stood one second looking up into his
eyes; then, with an uncontrollable impulse, she threw forward both her
little hands, seizing his with a clasp that sent the blood thrilling
through his veins, her glorious eyes welled with tears, and she
exclaimed, “Oh, no wonder father says ‘God bless you!’ Mr. Truscott.
I say it. I pray it again and again. God bless you! God bless you!”
And upon this most touching and delightful of domestic pictures who
should there be gazing in dismay and astonishment but Lady Pelham
herself? Yes, there she stood at the parlor-door, well-nigh petrified
with amazement. Not one of the three observed her. All were too much
occupied in their own affairs to think of her an instant. Listening,
she heard Truscott reply. Oh, could any woman mistake the meaning
of that intonation, the infinite tenderness, the tremulous, almost
caressing sweetness of his deep voice?
“I have done nothing to deserve such thanks, Miss Grace; though there
is nothing I would not do. Don’t fear for Ralph. You shall have his
own letters—yes, this very night if you like, and see for yourself how
undeserving he is of such suspicion.”
And then, of course, her ladyship swept forward. “If _you_ have any
letters of my son’s bearing upon this matter, Mr. Truscott, _I_ desire
to see them, and to-morrow morning will be time enough. Grace has had
quite enough agitation for one day and needs repose. Colonel Pelham,
with your permission I will say good-night. Come, Grace.”
But Grace did not come with the alacrity expected of her. Hardly
noticing her mother, she stepped to the colonel’s side as he sat
mopping his face in his handkerchief, bent over him, twining her arms
around his neck and kissing him tenderly. Then she rose, and standing
before Truscott, again held out her hand, and smiling brightly up in
his face, exclaimed,—
“I wish I knew how to thank you, Mr. Truscott, but now I can only say
good-night.”
Only say good-night! But what went with it? Oh, Grace, Grace! were
you after all immodest, unladylike? If not, how can you account for,
how can you defend, the fact that you did, honestly and actually, not
exactly squeeze, but press, Jack Truscott’s hand? To this day he has
never forgotten it.
That Mrs. Pelham was all ready by this time to inflict another tirade
of abuse upon her daughter is not to be doubted by any reasonable being
who had once become well acquainted with that energetic matron. Having
marshalled Grace out of the room, she likewise made her exit, closing
the door behind her, and the stairs were presently heard creaking under
her weight. Grace had fluttered up like a bird, and rushing to her room
had closed her door with some emphasis, quite as much as to say that
she was in no mood for further lectures. But her indomitable parent
followed relentlessly in her footsteps, and entered the sanctuary with
no ceremony whatever. Another moment, and her voice became audible
in the parlor below. Truscott bade his colonel good-night, and that
veteran went up the stairs two at a time and precipitated himself upon
his better-half in the midst of an imposing sentence.
“Dolly! We’ve had too much of this sort of thing to-day. Not one word
now. I mean it. Come at once to your own room and leave Grace in peace.”
Rare indeed were the occasions when he ventured thus to assert himself
before her. But when he did she had the deep sagacity to obey. One
experience at revolt years before had resulted so disastrously that
never again did she attempt it, and so now with a glance full of
meaning at her daughter, and a heart full of passion and bitterness,
she rose in silence and left the room.
Jack Truscott walked home with a wild elation in his heart, with pulses
still bounding from the pressure of that slender white hand. He heard
Glenham moving about in his own room, but somehow he could not bear
to see Glenham just then. Lighting his pipe, and throwing his cavalry
circular around him, he took a seat out in the darkness of the piazza,
and strove calmly to think it all over. Until this night she had
plainly shown a desire to keep him at a distance, and he, too proud to
question, had accordingly avoided her. He could understand the maternal
antipathy, but not that of Grace. To-night, all of a sudden, all was
changed, and sweeter, more attractive than ever, she had shown herself
to him in her true light. Striving to fathom it all, he became absorbed
in thought, and failed to hear Glenham’s footsteps as the latter
approached him; he started as a hand was laid on his shoulder.
“Jack, I want to talk to you; I want your advice.” It was Glenham, pipe
in mouth and camp-chair in hand, who had accosted him. He shook himself
together, and with an effort bade his young comrade pull up his chair
and fire away.
“It isn’t such a long story, Jack; I sha’n’t bore you a great while.
You know Mrs. Pelham sent for me to-night, and we had a talk about—Miss
Pelham.” And already poor Arthur began to stumble and hesitate. “You
_must_ know all about it, Jack; how—how I’ve loved her ever since we
met at the Point during my first class camp two years ago. It has got
to be something mighty—mighty serious with me, and I’m afraid you’ve
thought me unfriendly and forgetful of you of late; but it isn’t that,
Jack; I’m too miserable and unhappy to want to see anybody but—but her,
and that only makes me worse. Everything is going wrong; I thought I
had reason to hope; I was led to hope, Jack, but—it was all a mistake I
reckon, and luck is dead against me here.”
He stopped and looked appealingly towards the dimly-outlined figure in
the neighboring chair. There was a moment’s pause, and then Truscott’s
pipe was removed from his lips and he slowly spoke:
“Glenham, I have known it, of course,—that is, something of it. Do you
mean now that you _want_ me to know the whole story?”
“Yes, I do, Truscott, for I need your advice.”
There was another pause, and then came the question:
“You say you were led to hope. Had you spoken of the matter to her
before?”
“Yes, two years ago, at West Point.”
“And she led you to hope then?”
“No, not at all; she was gentle and kind, but—but she was nothing more.”
“Then how were you led to hope?”
“Mrs. Pelham, Jack, she talked to me two or three times, and told me
that it was only because Grace was too young then, that it would all
come right. That’s why I applied for the —th, and was content to come
in at the foot of the list. I’m no horseman; I’m only fit for the
infantry, and ought to have gone in it.”
“And since you have been here and at Prescott together, has there been
nothing more favorable?”
“I thought so, and Mrs. Pelham declares it is so, but after this
wretched morning—well, ever since Ray got here I’ve thought otherwise.”
“Do you mean that you look upon Ray as a rival?”
“How can I help it, Jack? He carries the tassel of her fan in his
vest-pocket. He was devoted to her every chance he got at Prescott, so
he has been here, and this morning—this morning he saved her life, and
you know it, and when I reached them—my God! he had her in his arms,
and—oh, I can’t tell you about it! She never moved even when I came.”
Truscott winced as though a sharp knife had suddenly pierced him, and
his voice was lower, deeper, than ever as he asked,—
“Do you think she cares for Ray?”
“I don’t know. I can only judge by what I saw. Why, Truscott, I—I saw
him kiss her, and she—well, if she fancied him before, this morning’s
work has finished it. She owes her life to him.”
Truscott sat a while in silence, then rose and slowly paced up and down
the piazza. Presently Glenham joined him, and the two walked side by
side.
“I don’t know what to make of Mrs. Pelham, Truscott,” said he. “She
sent to reassure me, she said, and told me that while Grace might be
grateful to Ray for rescuing her as he did, she would be far more
touched by the infinite service I had done her brother. I asked her
what she meant, and she replied that Ralph had confided to her that I
had supplied him with a large sum of money to relieve him from great
and pressing embarrassment. I swore I’d never done anything of the
kind; and when she found I was in earnest, she asked me to forget that
she had mentioned it, and to say nothing about it to any one; but she
is so mysterious that I don’t like it. What is she up to, do you think?
My brain is addled to-night.”
“Hard to say,” replied Truscott, briefly. “Tell me this, Glenham, has
she, Miss Pelham, ever alluded to her brother to you?”
“Never. She never does talk to me except on utterly matter-of-fact
affairs. That’s what grits me so. I know I’m far from being her equal
mentally, but I’m not utterly a blockhead.”
“Then as I understand you, Glenham, you think that but for Ray’s
interference you could hope for success?”
“Her mother says so, Jack, and I—I try to think so, but I can’t get
over the feeling that she—that she—well—almost pities me. She has so
much character, intellect, I suppose they call it, and I——” And here
poor Glenham stopped short with almost a sob, and leaned drearily
against one of the wooden pillars of the piazza. Truscott, too, ceased
his promenade and stood beside him, puffing somewhat nervously at his
meerschaum.
Then Glenham spoke again. “Jack, you have always been my best friend
here, and I have learned to lean upon you. I want your advice. Do you
think I have any chance with her?”
For a moment there was no reply; then it came, slowly, almost sadly.
“You have wealth and position, Glenham. You have the best wishes of her
parents. She herself cannot but respect you and your honest love for
her. I should say that the chances were in your favor; but, you said
‘advice.’ Do you mean it? Do you want to know just what I think of this
affair?”
“Yes,” said Glenham, huskily.
“Then, in all candor, Arthur, I say to you, it is my belief that the
man who marries a woman who either is, or who fancies she is, his
mental superior, makes the fatal blunder of his life.”