When Mr. Truscott appeared at breakfast on the following morning he was
surprised at the extremely cold manner in which Mr. Hunter returned his
salutation. Glenham he had not seen at all; the boy had risen early and
gone off upon a lonely ride. But Truscott had too many things to think
of to worry over a fact that at another time would have attracted his
attention. Glenham had actually avoided him all the previous evening as
well. Bucketts, Carroll, Crane, and the doctor greeted him as usual,
and went on with their speculations as to the probable result of the
scout just started, and Truscott, busied in his own reflections,
thought no more of Hunter’s averted eye. “The youngster possibly thinks
he ought to have been sent out instead of Dana, and that I’m to blame,”
was the explanation that occurred to him. “He will think better of it
after a while.”
Office-work over, he rose from his desk and went with his usual
straightforwardness to the colonel’s and rang at the bell. “Can I see
Miss Pelham?” he asked of the servant.
“Miss Pelham is not able to leave her room, say to Mr. Truscott,” said
the voice of her ladyship, at the head of the stairs.
The adjutant stepped quickly into the hall and gazed aloft. “Miss
Pelham is not seriously ill, I trust,” said he, with evident anxiety in
face and voice.
“She is far from well, and cannot see anybody,” was the reply, in a
very stately and unsympathetic tone.
“I am extremely sorry to hear it, Mrs. Pelham. Please express to her
my sincere sympathy and regret,” said he, and, hearing no response,
reluctantly withdrew. Leaving the house, looking anything but
comforted, Mr. Truscott turned in at an adjoining piazza, and knocked
at Captain Tanner’s door. While waiting for admission, something
prompted him to look at the side window of the colonel’s quarters. As
he did so, Mrs. Pelham suddenly withdrew her peeping head, but he had
distinctly seen her. Inquiry of the answering Abigail resulted in the
information that Mrs. Tanner, too, was indisposed, and had not left her
room. “But would Mr. Truscott stop in by and by?” Mr. Truscott said he
would, and mean time proceeded to his own quarters.
Passing Captain Turner’s, he raised his cap in acknowledgment of the
smiling greeting of the lady of the house. She was eagerly conversing
with young Mr. Hunter, who looked away. At home he found the house
deserted. Glenham had returned evidently, and was now probably engaged
in some of his company duties. Truscott unlocked his wardrobe and took
therefrom the pretty whip Grace had tossed him two days before, seated
himself in his easy-chair, and holding it in his hands, gave himself up
to thought. Two or three of the greyhounds, finding the entrance open,
stole to his doorway and looked wistfully in, begging for an invitation
to come, but he did not see them. An ambulance rattled past the house,
and he heard laughter and familiar voices, but paid no attention. For
nearly an hour he sat there thinking earnestly, or perhaps at times
only idly dreaming. At last he rose, replaced the dainty whip in the
wardrobe, seated himself at the desk, and wrote a brief note, closed,
sealed, and addressed it to “Miss Pelham, Camp Sandy,” and as the
noonday call was sounding from the guard-house, sent the note by the
hands of the office orderly. It had been a dreary morning to him, but
it had been worse for Glenham.
To begin with, the latter felt utterly certain that the whole garrison
was talking about him. He knew well that Ray had told several officers
that he, Glenham, had applied to be ordered out on the scout. It was
known all over the post before stable-call, for, had not Mrs. Pelham
heard it while at the Raymonds? and had not his own servant come
in to know what things the lieutenant would take in his pack, and
couldn’t he, too, go along? And then at the eleventh hour he had most
inexplicably backed out. Full well he knew the flood of conjecture,
gossip, and talk to which his sudden change of mind would give rise.
Full well he realized that among the officers he would be regarded
with grave disappointment, among the men as a milksop, and among the
ladies of the garrison as legitimate prey for all their questionings
and insinuations. The fact that Mrs. Raymond was the only one who, up
to late in the previous evening, had any idea of the real cause of
his conduct was not fraught with especial comfort: for the absolute
inability of that fascinating but volatile young matron to keep
anything to herself was only too well appreciated throughout the —th.
Within twenty-four hours, therefore, he counted on the story being
told with a score of exasperating embellishments all over the post,
and was furthermore certain that the next day’s mail for Prescott
would go up laden with a dozen letters from as many feminine pens; the
story of his “break-down”—so he regarded it—being the one topic. He
hated himself, hated, or began to hate, the woman whose influence had
brought the thing about. He felt ashamed to look his colonel in the
face, and he alone of all the officers of the post failed to put in an
appearance when Tanner’s command marched away. Nevertheless, he was
utterly, miserably in love, poor boy; and, like many another poor boy
under similar circumstances, he rated ambition, professional pride, the
“_qu’en dira-t-on?_” of Mrs. Grundy, everything—_anything_ as naught
in comparison with what had been set before him as the inevitable
consequence of his going away at this critical juncture,—the loss of
the lady of his love.
And this was the terrific whip held over him by that prospective
mother-in-law.
Mrs. Pelham heard the news of Glenham’s application as she sat with
Mrs. Raymond during her afternoon visit; the captain himself had come
in with the information. Startled as she was, madame had kept her wits
about her, and even while conversing with her host and hostess had
managed to review the situation and to decide on her plan of action.
Well she knew that, despite all her efforts to connect Mr. Truscott’s
name in a dishonorable affair with Mrs. Tanner, she had not been able
to more than temporarily shake the confidence in and respect for him
which she saw to be daily growing in Grace’s heart. She had marked all
too plainly the girl’s glad welcome of her soldierly friend, and the
glow of happiness in her face on her return from her ride. Then there
was this miserable affair of Ralph’s. If the truth concerning that were
to leak out at all, her hopes, her plans, were dashed to earth, for
now she felt assured that Truscott, not Glenham, had been her son’s
benefactor. Oh, what an idiotic blunder she had made in her wrath! Why
had she ever mentioned that matter, or shown Ralph’s letter to the
colonel? He would only probe it to the bottom, find out that he was
even more indebted to Truscott than he supposed; then Grace would be
told the story, and that would be the end of everything. Poor perturbed
lady! She could stand the contemplation of such disaster no longer. Not
only her plans would fail, but she herself must infallibly be exposed
to the contempt of her husband and, perhaps, that of her own daughter,
for whom she had been plotting, manœuvring, and lying all this time.
Prompt measures alone would avail her. She must see Glenham, and see
him at once. Not at home, for there she knew the colonel, Grace, and
probably others to be at that moment. Mrs. Raymond would befriend her
she felt sure. What wouldn’t that politic lady do to curry favor with
so ruthless an old agitator?
“I want to see Mr. Glenham at once. May I send for him to come here?”
she hurriedly asked.
“Why, of course. Sam will run and tell him. There goes stable-call
now,” said Mrs. Raymond.
Her ladyship seized a scrap of paper. “Come to me instantly at Captain
Raymond’s,” she wrote, and away went Sam with the brief, mandatory
missive. What need of explanation? thought she; had he not promised to
obey her implicitly? Quickly as he came, he could hardly come quickly
enough. She met him at the door, and ushered him into the vacant
parlor. Mrs. Raymond had withdrawn, of course, but, oh, how she hoped
that madame’s voice would reach the adjoining room in tones so loud
that she could not help hearing!
But Mrs. Pelham did not speak loud. In low, hurried, impressive tones
she told Arthur Glenham in plain words that his one chance of winning
Grace lay in his remaining at the garrison. “It is madness to think of
going now, at the very moment when her heart is beginning to feel its
dependence upon you,” she said. He glanced up quickly, a wild hope in
his young eyes. “I _know_ it,” she continued. “She has almost confessed
as much to me. But if you go, you subject her at once to the attentions
of a man who is no true friend of yours, and whom she is too innocent
to fathom.”
“What—who do you mean?” he gasped.
“Your _friend_, Mr. Truscott.”
He started as though struck. “I can believe no wrong of Truscott,” he
said. “He is my most trusted friend, but I never mentioned this—this to
him until last night.”
“Mark my words, though. You go at your own risk. _Even the colonel
is reluctant to have you go now._ _I_ shall say not another word to
warn you. It is only because of my promise to you that I have brought
myself to do this. If you love Grace and would win her, stay! If not,
go!”
And of course he stayed.
Despite Mrs. Pelham’s “worry and headache,” a number of officers and
ladies gathered in the colonel’s parlor soon after tattoo the night
that Tanner’s command marched away. Fleeing from the spot where she and
her escort had plainly seen Mr. Truscott and Mrs. Tanner, Grace had
called all her pride and pluck into requisition, and finding her father
with one or two of his cronies standing on the piazza, she had begged
them to come into the parlor.
“Yes, _do_ come,” urged the colonel, and “Grace will give us some
music.” And so it had happened that quite a number of the young people
had gathered there, and for over an hour mirth, music, and laughter had
reigned supreme. Never had Grace seemed so winsome, so full of life and
gayety. She sang for them again and again, and sang gloriously; her
voice rich, clear, and true, seemed more thrilling than ever, and they
would not let her stop. Twice the colonel bent to kiss her and praise
her singing. And she, looking up in his face, answered so that only
he could hear, “If it please you, father; I care for no one else.” In
the midst of it all who should enter but Truscott. She was singing at
the moment, but the colonel welcomed him cordially, and Mrs. Turner
motioned him to a seat by her side. The instant the song was finished
he rose and went forward; but before he could speak Miss Pelham, too,
had risen, and with perfect ease and the most radiant smile, exclaimed,
“This is indeed an honor, Mr. Truscott. You have been so confirmed a
recluse that an evening visit from you is more than a rarity.” Then
she turned instantly to reply to several requests for another song,
laughingly protesting that they must leave at least one or two for
some other occasion; and Truscott noted with vague uneasiness and
disappointment that the little hand so carelessly extended had barely
touched his, and was cold as ice.
During the rest of the brief half-hour he listened with delight to her
singing when she sang, and watched the grace and cordiality of her
manner among the guests with growing admiration, but not one word more
was vouchsafed him. It was soon time to go, for others were going, and
not even a good-night pressure of the hand could he gain. Mrs. Turner
had absolutely taken his arm after saying farewell, and Grace, quickly
noting the circumstance, had seized her opportunity.
“Ah! you going, too, Mr. Truscott? Good-night.” And with the words she
turned her attention to other departing guests. But when all were gone,
and her father would have detained her a few moments, she hurriedly
kissed his ruddy forehead and wished him pleasant dreams, darted up the
stairs and into her own room, locked the door, threw herself upon the
bed, and burst into a passion of tears.
Late the following afternoon, and not until late, she appeared in the
parlor. A violent headache had been her excuse for remaining in her
room all day, but she was wide awake when Truscott called, and as her
mother stepped to the head of the stairs, she had listened to that
brief conversation with strained attention. She could not help noting
the earnest anxiety in his voice, and a thrill of gladness for an
instant possessed her. Then she recalled the scene of the previous
night, and then again her mother’s voice was heard in the adjoining
room, “And now he is going into Mrs. Tanner’s.” And Grace hardened
her heart against him in bitter, jealous pain. Gladly would she have
shunned all eyes that day, but the Raymonds and Mr. Glenham had been
invited by Mrs. Pelham to dinner, so rise and dress she had to. Once
during the morning the colonel had come in to kiss and cheer her, but
she shrank from all conversation with her mother, and lay perfectly
still, as though striving to sleep, whenever that lady entered; but at
noon she heard the servant coming up the stairs after answering the
door-bell, and with a “sh-sh-sh” of caution, Mrs. Pelham had swooped
out from her own room and taken possession of the tiny note that
Grace could not see. No wonder that Truscott received no answer that
day,—that the tiny note never was answered. At stables he learned from
the colonel that she was better, and “had been resting quietly,” but
that was all. It had been his intention to have a talk with Glenham
after dinner, and on returning from stables he found the latter getting
into his full uniform. They had not met before during the day.
“What’s that for, Glenham?” he asked. “There is no parade to-night.”
“Dinner at the colonel’s,” was the brief reply.
“Indeed! I hope Miss Pelham is well enough to be down, then.”
“She was looking well as ever when I saw her ten minutes ago,” was
the dry response; and Truscott, pained and stung,—he hardly knew
why,—decided that he would postpone what he had to say to Glenham. He
spent the evening alone, and it was after eleven, and he had gone to
bed, when he heard Glenham return. It used to be the practice of the
latter when he came in late and found no one in their sitting-room to
go to Jack’s door and see if he had turned in; but this night he never
stopped an instant; and Truscott, lying sleepless for hours afterwards,
and thinking over the events of the past few days, felt sadly assured
that in many ways the course of his true love was to run no smoother
than was proverbially the case.
The next was a busy day in the office. Truscott stopped at the
colonel’s on the way thither to inquire after Miss Pelham, and was
told by the servant that she was much better, and at the moment
at breakfast. The colonel himself remained but a few moments at
headquarters, and yet Truscott’s practised eye saw at once that
something had gone very wrong with him. He was looking anxious
and harassed, and replied to the few questions addressed him by
the adjutant with evident constraint. All the morning and much of
the afternoon Truscott was chained to the desk, engaged with the
sergeant-major and the clerks on some important papers; but shortly
before stables he called at the colonel’s, and inquired if he could
see Miss Pelham. He heard the rustle of feminine garments in the
parlor as the servant ushered him through the hall, but it was
vacant when he entered, and the door leading to the dining-room was
closed; the piano was open, and on the rack was a favorite song
of Miss Pelham’s,—Millard’s “Waiting.” On the piano was a cavalry
forage-cap,—Glenham’s. In a moment the servant returned. “Miss Pelham
is lying down, and begs to be excused,” was the message; and with a
deep, dull pain, and a sense of injury he could not define rankling in
his heart, Jack Truscott turned and left the parlor. He never entered
it again.
Late that evening two soldiers of Captain Tanner’s troop rode into
garrison, went at once to the adjutant’s quarters, and delivered a
package addressed in the captain’s handwriting to Truscott. Opening it
he found a letter for himself, a second addressed to Tanner’s business
agent in San Francisco, a third to Mrs. Tanner. Sending the men to
their quarters he rapidly read the first note, and for a few moments
remained buried in thought. Then he started, looked at his watch, once
more glanced at his note, and, taking all three in his hand, left the
house.
Meantime, what has become of Mrs. Tanner? Just how she bore the tidings
that her husband was to be torn from her at the very day and hour when
she most needed his loving caresses, just what that parting cost her,
just how long, dreary, and tear-laden was the night that followed the
departure of his command, and how desolate and sad the succeeding day,
no words could tell; and, fortunately enough, the poor powers of this
narrator would fall too far short of adequate description to render
the faintest attempt pardonable. There are some sorrows too sacred
for prying eyes to look upon; too deep, too holy, for any record save
that of the All-Merciful on high. _Is_ it compensation? is it, can
it be sufficient to the eye of faith upturned in dumb, yet patient,
prayerful agony, that He who giveth only to take away, notes with
loving pity every sob and tear, and only chasteneth because He loveth?
Ah! I fear me there be mothers who cannot fathom the depths of a love
so infinite, mothers to whom the prattle and petting of some sweet,
sunny-haired baby were worth far more than a love infinite indeed,
yet infinitely beyond them. Bow and bend and bear it as they may, is
there a mother-heart so utterly sanctified by grief, I wonder, as to
be able to _feel_ the utter resignation of the words the quivering,
kiss-robbed lips so meekly strive to frame,—“Thy will be done”? Perhaps
so. Possibly it was so with her whose lot it was to be bereft of the
idols of her gentle life; to be left lone, desolate, wellnigh deserted
in her bereavement; to be shunned by those whose hands were not worthy
to unlatch the very shoes upon her feet, whose lips were too sullied to
breathe the least holy, womanly, wifely thought that ever found birth
in her pure and humble soul. Let us leave her with her grief and her
God. It was practically what Camp Sandy did.
The Raymonds and Mr. Glenham had dined at Colonel Pelham’s, as has
been seen, and it will be remembered that Mr. Hunter was in earnest
conversation with Mrs. Turner that morning. Very soon after Hunter’s
departure Mrs. Turner had run over to Mrs. Raymond’s. Later in the day
Mrs. Wilkins in a high state of excitement was observed to be imparting
some intelligence to no less than three ladies over on Captain Canker’s
piazza. That night after dinner Mrs. Raymond had a long whispered
conversation with Lady Pelham on the sofa, while Grace was trying to
sing for the benefit of the adoring Glenham, who hung rapturously about
the piano. Later still Mrs. Pelham had inflicted a curtain-lecture
upon the colonel which robbed him of sleep, and in course of which
she gave him a piece of information that made him utterly wretched.
The next morning on his return from the office he had sought Grace,
and after a few moments’ conversation, in which he had shown grievous
embarrassment, he had taken her in his arms, saying, “Grace, my
darling, sometimes I think I can believe nobody but you. For God’s
sake, tell me that this story I have heard of what you and Mr. Hunter
saw is not true!” And she, looking wildly up in his face one moment,
exclaimed, in horror-stricken tones, “Oh, father, he cannot have told
it!” and burst into a passion of hysterical tears.
Then poor Pelham knew it was true. He did not go to stables that
afternoon: he did not want to see Truscott. He shut himself in his
“den,” as a sort of study and smoking-room of his was called, and
strove to think. When the adjutant reported the command present at
tattoo, he merely replied, “Very well, sir,” and abruptly re-entered
the house. And when ten o’clock came and the trumpet-call for
extinguishing lights wailed through the garrison, its notes sounded
like a knell to his honest heart. Ah, how many there were to whom the
notes were even sadder! All because a weak-minded boy had not sense
enough to hold his tongue.
“You don’t seem to like Mr. Truscott,” Mrs. Turner had remarked to Mr.
Hunter that morning. “Why, I thought he was the Admirable Crichton
himself.”
Now Mr. Hunter was Mrs. Turner’s latest victim. The young fellow was
dancing around the limited circle of which her apron-string was the
radius much of his time, and he was jealous of her admiration for
Truscott, and was not a youth of profound good taste or discretion in
any event.
“I don’t like any man who is two-faced,” was his surly reply.
“But I always thought Mr. Truscott the personification of honor and
straightforwardness,” she persisted.
“He may be, only his way doesn’t strike me as eminently high-toned,”
was the answer. And in ten minutes she had deftly extracted his story
from his not unwilling lips and sent him about his business. This
was the delicious plum she carried to Mrs. Raymond, and it needs no
dilation now to tell how the plum expanded by the time it reached the
colonel.
No wonder no lady had called to see how poor little Mrs. Tanner was on
either of the two days succeeding her husband’s departure.
All that evening the colonel sat alone in his den. It was late, eleven
o’clock, when the wife of his bosom suggested his going to bed. She
herself had been having a long chat with Mr. Glenham, despite the fact
that she had monopolized him during much of the afternoon. Grace was
indeed up-stairs when Truscott called, but it was Mrs. Pelham, not she,
who sent the message that she was lying down. But the colonel would not
go to bed.
“I cannot sleep now, Dolly. I want to think. The mail goes up to
Prescott first thing to-morrow morning, and I must write two letters.”
It must have been long after midnight when at last he rose, and, with
a drawn, wearied look upon his face, extinguished the lights and went
to his room. Even then he stood for some little time at his window,
looking out upon the starry sky to the southward. Suddenly he heard
quick footsteps crossing the parade from the direction of the office.
Somebody bounded up on the piazza, and instantly the clang of the bell,
thrice repeated, resounded through the house. Pelham quickly waddled
down and opened the door.
“Who is it?” he sharply asked.
“Corcoran, sir. It’s an important despatch, and I brought it right
over. It’s lucky I sleep next to the instrument, or we might not have
got it until morning, sir.”
“Come in,” said Pelham. And leading the way to the parlor, he struck a
light, tore open the envelope, and hastily read the contents.
“Go and wake the adjutant at once, and tell him I want him,” he said.
And Corcoran was off without a word.
The next moment Grace’s light footstep was heard upon the stair, and in
a loose, warm wrapper, she stole hastily in upon him.
“What is it, papa? I could not call for fear of waking mother, and I
was anxious.”
“A very important message from the general with instructions for
Tanner’s command. Instructions he must get at once, too,” said the
colonel, “and there isn’t a scout in the garrison.”
“What can you do?” she asked, anxiously.
“I don’t know yet; I’ve sent for the adjutant,” he stammered. He
could not explain it, but he could not then pronounce his name in her
presence. Again he read the despatch.
“Advices just received from Stryker prove Eskiminzin to be near
Diamond Butte. Send couriers after Tanner at once and turn him that
way. Indians are strongly reinforced and making for Green Valley. Hold
entire command in readiness to move at moment’s notice. What force has
Tanner? Acknowledge receipt.”
He handed it to her. “You may read it, Grace. I had thought all this
was at an end, but you never can tell. There be agents and agents. It
looks like another general outbreak.”
The sweet face paled a little as the curt, business-like wording of the
despatch met her eyes. Then she looked up.
“Do not speak of it to any one,” he said. “Your mother sometimes
forgets that these are not matters for talk. But what keeps Corcoran?”
he asked, impatiently, and stepped forth upon the piazza. Despite the
chill night air, Grace threw his heavy cloak around her and followed
him, linking her arm through his and nestling close to his side.
“It is all so exciting, and yet, I can’t help it, I like it,” she said.
“You’re quite a soldier, Gracie,” he answered, fondly. “I believe you
were cut out for the army, despite your mother’s predilections for
civil life. Here comes Corcoran on the run, as usual. Did you find
him?” he asked.
“No, sir. He isn’t there at all.”
“What?” said Pelham, with sudden vehemence. “Not there? Are you sure?”
“Sure, sir. Mr. Glenham got up and we went through the house. He isn’t
there, and all is dark down at the store——” And Corcoran paused
irresolutely.
“Go and call the officer of the day, Captain Canker, quick,” said the
colonel, shortly.
Then there was silence. He put his arm around his daughter’s waist, and
she, shivering, though not from cold, nestled closer to him. From the
guard-house arose the prolonged cry of the sentry, “Number one, one
o’clock.” And one after another the sentries took up the call before
Corcoran returned. Behind him, with clanking sabre, came Captain Canker.
“Have you any idea where Truscott can be?” was the immediate question
from the colonel’s lips.
Before the astonished officer could reply, the door of Captain Tanner’s
quarters, close beside them, opened. A broad light shone forth upon
the parade, and, calm and erect, the adjutant stepped quickly from the
hall. The door closed behind him. With one bound Grace Pelham tore
herself from her father’s arm and fled up-stairs.
“You are calling me, colonel. What is it?” the deep, grave voice was
heard to ask, and Mr. Truscott stood before his commanding officer.
For an instant no one spoke. Pelham fairly staggered. Canker’s face
bore an expression of virtuous amaze and indignation. Truscott alone
looked self-possessed.
“Mr. Truscott,” at last said the colonel, with evident effort, and very
gravely, “I have been sending everywhere for you.” (A conventional
statement which many a post commander considers it justifiable to make
when the desired officer doesn’t happen to be in the first place he
is looked for.) “It is necessary to send a courier to Tanner at once,
some one who will be sure to find him. A most important despatch is
received, and it must get to him quick as possible. Who can take it?”
“I can, sir.”
“But I don’t want to send you. Stop, though,” said the colonel, and
a sudden thought seemed to flash across his mind. The look of deep
trouble, of stern, startled resolution, was still upon his face. “I
wish you _would_ go. It is best you should. I—I mean it is of such
moment that I like to intrust it to no one but an officer.”
“I can start inside an hour, colonel, and can catch him before the next
sunset.”
“Then take any escort you like, and get ready at once. Bucketts will
act for you in your absence. I will be at the office.” And Truscott
turned and left, turned suddenly again at Tanner’s quarters, and
knocked lightly at the door. It was opened at once, and he entered.
The colonel and Captain Canker gazed after him in silence. Then their
eyes met. “Come into the parlor, Canker,” said the colonel, hoarsely,
and led the way. “Corcoran, go and wake the sergeant-major, and send
the orderly trumpeter to report to the adjutant. Wake Major Bucketts
and say—no, never mind waking anybody else. Come in, captain.” And the
colonel closed his door.
In five minutes Mr. Truscott reappeared on the piazza, and Mrs. Tanner
followed him. “You will stop for the letter?” she anxiously asked.
“Certainly,” he answered, and was gone.
At two o’clock in the morning three horsemen rode rapidly away from the
adjutant’s office down the slope to the southward. With them were two
led horses. Jack Truscott had started on his dangerous mission.