Kitabı oku: «A Soldier's Trial: An Episode of the Canteen Crusade», sayfa 12
CHAPTER XVII
A MOMENTOUS DAY
A week, – another long week, – went by at Minneconjou, and Major Dwight at last was declared out of danger, though a badly shattered man. Mrs. Dwight, who should have shown corresponding improvement, seemed, however, not so well. Just in proportion as the major mended, his wife appeared to fail. Both doctors persisted in the belief that her case was one of nerves entirely. There was nothing organically wrong. She had been under a great strain, of course, and her husband, in his lucid moments, as well as in those of delirium, had shown strong antipathy to her presence in the sick room. They had persuaded her, without much difficulty, that it were better she kept away, and though pathetically, properly grieved, she obeyed. Something, however, was preying upon her – something she could not and would not confide to Mrs. Stone and other sympathetic would-be consolers. "Madame was distressed at ill news from her parents," Félicie had gone so far as to admit, but the ill news did not seem to refer to illness, for there had been frequent letters addressed in Farrell's sprawling fist, or the señora's precise chirography, and of late these had begun to be supplemented by telegrams.
In all this fortnight of alternating hope and anxiety Mrs. Ray had, with proper inquiries, called but twice. She could do no less. She would do no more. Mrs. Dwight occasionally appeared for an afternoon drive now, but always with Félicie by her side in the phaeton – never, now that her husband's guest and wits were gone, with a man. Other companionship might have been better for her, it was generally suggested, but she seemed to shrink from the conversation and, possibly, the interrogations of those of her own sex and social caste.
Great was the surprise, therefore, when a polite and perfumed note came to the Rays for Miss Priscilla Sanford, and would Miss Sanford do Mrs. Dwight the great kindness to drive with her that day? Priscilla, who knew not why, and who would gladly have avoided her, ordinarily, was now doing universal penance according to her lights, and would have gone driving with a Jezebel. Priscilla accepted, and Félicie, for the first time, was left at home.
Sandy Ray's health had been suffering, and Stone saw it, and of his own motion came over and said he considered it necessary that Mr. Ray should take exercise. Walking being painful, the colonel said ride, and, despite his arrest, riding anywhere within five miles' limit of the flagstaff. Sandy thanked him, but really tried to sulk and stay home, until the mother's gentle appeal prevailed and he began as the colonel had suggested. There were men who thought the general would "row" Stone for such indulgence to a man under serious charges, but Stone said he knew his business – and the general. He would neither argue nor defend his position, but he would like to bet two to one the general would approve. It was rumored the general himself thought of running out to Minneconjou and perhaps away to Wister and looking into matters along the lower line, having but recently returned from a look along the upper. The court had not yet been ordered. It was believed that the charges might still be withdrawn, so difficult was it to believe Sandy Ray capable of such a crime. But Ray insisted on trial, said he desired the most rigid investigation, and could never be content without. It was a most unsatisfactory situation, so far as he was concerned, and, with no duty to perform, no drill to stir his blood, nothing to do but try to comfort mother, reassure Maidie, who was writing every day or two, watch for the coming of the mail from Manila and the detail for his court, Sandy Ray was growing morbid.
He was gone and loping up the valley when the phaeton with pale-faced, languid Mrs. Dwight stopped at the door for Miss Sanford. Ray did not wish to see her. He had not seen her to speak to since the night before Dwight's breakdown, as that episode by common consent was now referred to. He had altered his manner toward Priscilla, though resentment still rankled, because of her almost dependent position under their roof. Had Priscilla owned enough money to take her back to the seaboard States, and had then remained, Sandy, perhaps, would have found forgiveness beyond him. Even now he raged at heart when he thought of her willful exaggeration as to the Canteen, her utter misrepresentation of facts – especially as to his father. Again and again he owned to his mother he felt like shaking Priscilla whenever he looked at little Jim, who so often now became his companion on these daily rides. Once or twice, when the patient was sleeping soundly, the doctors had taken the lad to his bedside, but the meeting between them was yet to come. Dwight was still too weak for experiments, and how he would bear it all when stronger was a matter of grave conjecture.
But on this particular day when the phaeton came for Priscilla, little Jim had again been trouting with Sergeant French and, as luck would have it, came dancing in with his basket of prizes to show Aunt Marion just as Priscilla descended from her room, dressed for the drive. Three weeks agone Priscilla would have reproved his entering without first washing his hands and smoothing his hair. To-day she bent and hurriedly kissed his flushed and happy face, and he looked up astonished. They had never let him know – they could not bear to speak of – Priscilla's share in the events of that tragic morning, and when in her downright honesty Priscilla would have sought and told him, Aunt Marion forbade. The boy who formerly shrank from was now growing to like her. She read to him, helped him in the daily lessons, Aunt Marion deeming it wise he should study even though this was vacation time; but never before had he known Priscilla to tender a caress. Mrs. Ray watched them curiously as together they left the room to see his catch properly stored in the icebox. Presently, hand in hand, they returned through the hall and went forth upon the veranda just as the phaeton suddenly drew up at the gate, and Priscilla felt the little hand withdrawing. He did not know mamma was coming. He went unwillingly, but obedient, to receive her effusive words of greeting, and to hear, unresponsive, that he, dear child, was looking so much better since dear Mrs. Ray had taken charge of him in all these dreadful days. But she did not ask him to drive with them, nor did he wish to go, for she had need to speak with Priscilla, and Jimmy would have been in the way.
It seems that matters had come to such a pass that Mrs. Dwight felt that she must have advice, and, oh, how her heart yearned for a friend! Many of the ladies had been kind, yes, very kind, Mrs. Stone especially; and others, even Mrs. Ray, who she felt, she feared, she knew, did not like or trust her, though she had so longed to win Mrs. Ray's friendship. But even Mrs. Stone and Mrs. Ray could not be to her now what she so needed – a real friend and adviser, a confidant, in fact, and these ladies were, though they did not look it, of an age sufficient to be her mother. What she craved was one nearer herself in years (Miss Sanford was certainly ten years older and not easily flattered), for now a time had come, said Mrs. Dwight, when there might be conflict between the duty she owed her husband and – and – Priscilla gasped and bridled and began to bristle all over with premonition of what might be coming, then breathed a sudden sigh of relief, yet of disappointment, as Mrs. Dwight concluded with "the deference due her parents." In their letters both her father and her mother had been appealing to her to appeal to her husband to come further to their financial aid; that Major Farrell had relied upon the backing of his son-in-law in certain enterprises; that he was now in desperate straits, and – and finally they had gone so far as to threaten – threaten her, their daughter, with untold calamity if she did not instantly assure them that material aid would speedily be forthcoming. She had written, telling them of her husband's perilous plight, of the possibly fatal illness, of the impossibility of anything being done until his recovery, and their telegrams in acknowledgment were imperative. She felt that she must bring her burden of trouble and ask Miss Sanford, – of whose charity and gentleness the garrison never tired of telling by the hour, – for Miss Sanford must feel and know that since the day he so raged against his own son, he – he had even seemed to turn against her, his devoted and dutiful wife.
And now when the doctors said he was almost well enough to be approached on matters of urgent business, she dared not. She had lost, perhaps, her influence. "Then what could I possibly do?" asked Priscilla bluntly, and then came the explanation. The woman whom he most honored, respected, believed in, the woman who had been the devoted friend of her, – that was gone, with, alas, his heart buried by her side, – that woman, Mrs. Ray, if she would but speak with him, plead with him for her, his fond, but, ah, so cruelly misjudged wife, whose heart was failing her now, and at a time when for his sake as well as hers she needed all her strength. If Mrs. Ray could but see her way to do this, ah, with what gratitude and devotion would she, Inez, ever think of her – and all Minneconjou knew Mrs. Ray's love for her noble niece. Everyone said that if Miss Sanford but willed a thing and urged it upon her aunt it was a thing accomplished. Out of the goodness of her heart would not Miss Sanford strive for her, a heart-crushed, well-nigh hopeless wife, upon whom there had but recently dawned the knowledge that, that – could not Miss Sanford imagine?
And in the midst of the gush of tears with which she closed came sudden distraction. They had been trundling easily, aimlessly over the smooth, hard prairie road, the well-trained, well-matched ponies ambling steadily along. They had given the cavalry herds and herd guards a wide berth, and the townward route, for Mrs. Dwight shunned, she said, the sight of almost any face but the sweet and sympathetic one beside her. They had turned southward, after rounding Castle Butte, a bold, jagged upheaval among the nearest foothills, and were winding slowly down this narrow and crooked ravine toward the broad Minneconjou bottom, when, as the ponies reached a fairly level bit of road, and were swiftly turning a point of bluff, they suddenly and violently shied to the right, almost upsetting the dainty vehicle, and nearly pitching its helpless freight headlong into the road. Then with the bits in their teeth, away they tore, full gallop down the next incline, the phaeton bounding after them, and so, mercifully as it happened, out upon the broad level of the valley, with the Minneconjou and its fringing line of cottonwoods barely five hundred yards across the bench. The pygmy tiger had been left at home; his ears would have been too active, and Mrs. Dwight, though accustomed to driving her usually gentle and tractable team, was utterly helpless now. She hung on desperately to the reins. But this was a new and delirious experience for the merry little scamps in harness. They were headed for home. There was a deep bend of the stream and a ford through the shallows, and an abrupt dip of four feet from the bench level, and the words of their fair, frail charioteer were stimulating rather than soothing, so away they went, and it was high time for Miss Sanford, if she wished to save their necks, to throw convention and etiquette to the wind, to take personal control – and the reins.
No one ever doubted Priscilla's nerve, yet here sat Priscilla hanging on to the side-rail with both hands and staring backward, her head twisted half round, with all her wondering, startled eyes, for the objects that had stampeded the ponies were a brace of frowsy, blanketed Minneconjou braves, squatted on the bunch grass in the shade of the bluffs at the side of the road, in close conference with two men in khaki and campaign hats, one of them, though instantly the brim was jerked down over his eyes, she knew to be Blenke, – Blenke whose woe-begone, remorseful letters she had duly filed and docketed, but who, he declared, was too shame-stricken to show his face to her of all the world. What on earth was Blenke doing there in that out-of-the-way nook, and in confab with Indians? They were hidden from view by a wave of prairie almost as suddenly as they had been whirled into sight, and then Priscilla had to give her aid and attention to Mrs. Dwight, who was swaying in her seat. She grasped the reins with her strong, wiry hands, but the little devils were within an hundred yards of the brink and reckless of everything but the mad exhilaration of a runaway. She heard from somewhere a shout, "Pull your left rein hard!" and with both hands she tugged with sudden and startling result. The ponies almost instantly veered to the left; the light vehicle tipped slightly to the right, and with that Inez went toppling headforemost over the low, leathern mud guard, and Priscilla was alone. Still clinging to that left rein, she swung her discomfited steeds in broad, big circle, narrowly scraping yet safely missing the edge, and so, gradually, they found themselves galloping out once more over the prairie and away from the homeward road and back toward that narrow ravine whence two Indians were now lashing their finally captured ponies southward across the valley; and then, still circling, the pygmies discovering that they were heading westward once more and farther from home, their enthusiasm by degrees, therefore, became beautifully less. They slowed gradually down to a lunging canter, then to a shame-faced trot, and finally, with Priscilla in complete control of both reins, her own head and theirs, they were brought at a decorous gait back to the road and the point where their mistress had quit them – and the lady had disappeared.
Guiding them carefully down the short declivity to the water's edge, Priscilla came upon a not unlooked-for explanation. Sandy's horse had disappeared. His owner was kneeling at the edge of the rippling waters, bending over a lovely, prostrate form, alternately sprinkling and fanning the dusty, pallid, but beautiful face, then dropping his hat to chafe the limp little hands. With eyes full of terror he glanced up at his cousin. With a voice half-choked with dread, he called to her, "Let those little brutes go, Pris, and come here quick!" But Priscilla, with wisdom untrammeled by passion and dread, lashed their bits to a tree trunk before she would quit her charges, and by the time she reached the interesting group at the water's edge the dusky head was pillowed on a tan-colored knee, and further supported by a tan-colored arm, and the loveliest dark eyes in the world, just unclosing, were gazing imploringly up into her cousin's agonized features. A faint flush was rising to the soft cheek, and lips that were colorless but a moment or two agone, now reddening again, now quivering and beautifully alluring, seemed almost uplifting, as though to reward, to welcome his, as with joy unmistakable they murmured, "Sandy – Sandy – I knew – you'd come."
CHAPTER XVIII
BLENKE COVERS HIS TRACKS
Priscilla Sanford in the next few days, despite the fact that most of her pupils were gone, found her duties increasing. She had seen Blenke, but only through enlisting the interest of his captain, who directed Blenke to call upon Miss Sanford and give account of his stewardship or be sent thither in charge of a sergeant. Blenke appeared at last in the dusk of evening and the depth of despond. He wrung his white hands, he bowed his shapely head in shame. He could hardly speak, such was his humility, but he stuck to it that his story was true. She knew enough of his past (at least she should know, since he had told her so much of it) to believe that he had enjoyed the benefits of travel, prosperity, and education. He had trusted, however, where he should have guarded, and devotion to his fellows had resulted in his financial ruin. A man who owed him hundreds, and had promised to pay, was in Rapid City, and came thence to find him here at the very time Blenke started to find him there. The failure of this man to keep his promise had involved Blenke shamefully. He had borrowed much more than the ten dollars he still owed his benefactress. It was shame and worry, resulting in prostration and insomnia, that drove him forth at night, that led to his taking Skid's prescription, for Skid, who was so very grateful for Blenke's conduct at time of the fire, did not, however, come forward with offer of financial aid. He was going to do that, he said, when he got his insurance money, which was still suspiciously withheld. Skidmore gave Blenke Scotch ale, warranted to produce sleep. It at least led to oblivion, the disappearance of his watch, and the train of miserable, disgraceful woe that followed. How could Blenke ever face Miss Sanford again? Not until ordered could he bear the ordeal, even though her letters had assured him of forgiveness and further aid and confidence. As to his being with those Indians, lurking in that tortuous ravine, the explanation was simple. The man who had tricked him, a contractor, was said to be over at the reservation – Indians had so told him. They were forbidden to come to the fort or be seen about Skidmore's. They could only meet him out of sight of the post and its slum suburb. He and a comrade met them to hear their report at the crossing of the old road from Fort Siding by way of Castle Butte to the Belle Fourche country, and catching sight of Lieutenant Ray, riding slowly along the edge of the timber, the Indians had led on into the ravine, where they had hardly dismounted and turned loose their ponies when the phaeton flashed into view around a point of bluff, almost running them down, then running away. Startled as he was, Blenke would have grabbed a pony and galloped to Miss Sanford's aid, but their ponies, too, took fright and stampeded. The Indians went in pursuit, and by the time Blenke could again see the phaeton it was quietly descending the little ramp to the river bottom, and all seemed well. Then Lieutenant Ray's horse was seen galloping away toward the fort, and that was another reason why he, a poor private, should not presume to intrude when an officer was presumably there. He went in pursuit of the horse. Lieutenant Ray, he said, had never liked him, while he, Blenke, could almost lay down his life to serve Lieutenant Ray.
So Priscilla could say nothing but "Go and sin no more," and come back to the choir, which Blenke promised faithfully to do.
Then Major Dwight was at last sufficiently recovered to be pronounced convalescent, and there had been the meeting with his beloved boy, the first few minutes of which had been witnessed only by Dr. Waring and Mrs. Ray, who presently, reassured by his calm, withdrew and left father and child together. It had been followed by a regular visit each day, limited to less than an hour for the time being. There had been two interviews, Dr. Waring only being present and that not all the time, between Dwight and his wife. From both of these Inez came forth weeping convulsively, to be comforted by Félicie – and a pint of Pommery Sec. That something had been sent to the importunate Farrells the doctor had knowledge, and that something had been said to their daughter to plunge her in grief inexpressible the garrison was speedily informed. "She should leave him, this angel," said Félicie, "but she is of a devotion, my faith, the most incomparable – the most indomitable."
Then Dwight begged that Mrs. Ray should come to him, and there had been a long talk, a reconciliation, an understanding that brought comfort to his heart and rejoicing to hers, and then as convalescence advanced, and his mind demanded food, Priscilla had come to read to him, and from reading, first rather less than an hour, she was reading daily now as much as two. It gave Madame a frightful migraine, said the explanatory and fruitful Félicie, to read aloud at all.
But the projected alliance, the prospective friendship so desired by Mrs. Dwight of the elder – the highly gifted – maid had progressed no further. From the moment of their return from that memorable drive neither party to the proposed arrangement again referred to it. Priscilla, who preferred to call at any other house within the limits of Minneconjou, was now a daily visitor. Sandy Ray, who found himself longing to go thither, could not go at all. His arrest forbade it, and he was asking himself what might be his course were his arrest to end, for a rumor was current at the post that a separation was threatened – that Captain and Mrs. Dwight were certainly estranged. There were those who considered it most indelicate under the circumstances that an unmarried woman should appear upon the scene even as a reader to an aging and broken man. Perhaps it was, but the doctor smiled approval. The colonel said "Go ahead." Mrs. Ray considered her niece quite old enough to judge for herself. Mrs. Dwight declared it angelic, and Priscilla said nothing at all. Priscilla, who had been prone to speak on slight reflection, had become as silent or secretive as she had once been censorious, for never once had she mentioned to her aunt, never yet had she made known to Sandy, that she had heard the strange words which, with returning consciousness, Inez, the wife of Oswald Dwight, had murmured looking up into the pallid face of Sanford Ray. Yet Ray knew, and soon Inez, that Priscilla had heard and not forgotten.
It had so happened the day of that memorable drive and catastrophe that Sandy Ray, dismounting to the aid of Mrs. Dwight, whose slender and lovely form lay huddled by the roadside, while Priscilla and the ponies started on their circuit, had given no thought to his own steed, which fact enabled that inconsiderate brute to trot away homeward. Then when Inez came to herself (though not to her senses, else would she have said such shocking things when Priscilla was within earshot?) there arose a question of transportation. It was only four miles to the fort, but in his still somewhat crippled condition that was far for Sandy to walk. It was characteristic of Priscilla that she should promptly suggest her driving Mrs. Dwight home at once; then, if need be, sending Hogan back with the horse. Priscilla herself was a famous pedestrian, priding herself on sometimes "footing" it to and from town, but never once did Priscilla now suggest that Sandy drive Mrs. Dwight or Mrs. Dwight drive Sandy. Priscilla, indeed, behaved with some little asperity as well as impatience when she assured Mrs. Dwight that she had the ponies now under complete control, and all Mrs. Dwight had to do was to get in at once. But this required Sandy's aid and encircling arm. Then when Inez was fairly in her reclining seat, she could not release the hand. "But surely you are coming? Your horse is gone! What – walk, Miss Sanford? Indeed, he shall not, and after having carried poor me all that distance." (For a woman in a dead faint Inez was oddly alive to what had been going on.) "You are coming right in here, Mr. Ray!" and she edged vigorously over against the stout structured Priscilla in determined effort to make room for Sandy beside her. So there he rode, saying very little, but tumultuously thinking, Heaven only knows what, for Inez had then eyes, ears, aye – lips, had he dared – only for him. She nestled close and confiding in the arm trembling about her slender shoulders. He felt the contact of her rounded form. His head was in a whirl, his heart was in a tumult, when at last Priscilla reined in at the major's gate, and again Sandy had almost to carry the lovely burden up the major's steps and, with one, long, melting gaze from her glorious eyes, with five murmured words from her exquisite, parted, passionate lips, with a thrilling pressure from both her little hands, he delivered her into the waiting arms of Félicie, to become again a limp and prostrate being, to require at once her handmaid's best services – and champagne. The quantity of Pommery Sec consumed in that house during the major's confinement thereto, said Félicie afterwards, was, o ciel, of the most incredible!
It can readily be conceived that Priscilla could not soon forget the incidents of that day's drive, the last she ever took with Inez Dwight. What with the apparition of Blenke and the blanketed Indians at the ravine, the runaway of the ponies on the prairie, and the astounding revelation that followed, the honest-hearted girl was utterly at a loss as to her duty in the premises. Six weeks back she would not have hesitated. She would have known infallibly just what to say and do, and unflinchingly would she have said and done it. But, all was different now. Her faith was strong as ever, firm and unshaken, but her self-confidence was gone. She had made some of the worst mistakes of her thirty years within the last three months. She had justly offended her fondest, truest friends; had brought dire distress, untold suffering, on a most loving and devoted father, and cruel punishment to an innocent and trusting child. Her head had been bowed to the dust in self-condemnation, in humility unspeakable. She could have dragged herself upon her knees every inch of the road from their door to Dwight's, and with streaming eyes and clasping hands, a well-nigh broken and all contrite heart, could have bathed his feet with her tears and implored his forgiveness. It was characteristic of Oswald Dwight, – the old Oswald Dwight coming once again through this hell of suffering and from the very threshold of the other world into the kingdom of self-search and self-dominion, – that he should send for her, – beg that she should be brought to him, – that he might lift from her mind a moiety at least of its weight of self-accusation. It was characteristic of him thereafter that, after the first few hours with his blessed boy – and God alone knows what intensity of prayer, petition, love, and resolve surged through the heart and soul of the almost re-created man – he should try to show Priscilla Sanford that he blamed himself alone, not her; that he honored her, respected her, believed in her, and that he rejoiced to see the friendship that was daily growing between her and his beloved little son. The readings that seemed so long to the censorious were not all reading, after all, for presently and little by little the book would be dropped, the page would be discussed, and, once away from her hobby of original, sin and universal damnation – the Calvinistic creed of that stern, pure-hearted if Puritanical woman – there was much that appealed to the stern, true-hearted soldier nature of the even maturer man. A famous Covenanter – a Roundhead after Cromwell's own heart – might Oswald Dwight have been had he dwelt in Merry England, where sunstrokes were unknown and dark-eyed sirens seldom heard of. As for Priscilla, she needed but the garb to fit her for the austere duties of the sect whence sprung her mother and her name. But it was a chastened, softened, subdued Priscilla that now wrestled in spirit with the problem set before her. She knew no woman in all Minneconjou except Aunt Marion with whom to take counsel, and how could she wound, terrify, Aunt Marion with her growing suspicion! She knew but one man in all Minneconjou on whom she felt a longing to lean the burden of her deep trouble, and how could she bring herself to mention it to him!
For within the week that followed the day of that drive and disaster the level-headed soldier in command of the department had been to Fort Wister; had held an official inspection and a personal investigation at Minneconjou; had interrogated and, it was whispered, instructed Captain Foster, with the result that, though deeply injured and properly incensed, that officer, while urging continued effort to bring to justice his unknown assailants, decided it was unwise to press further, for the present at least, his charges against Lieutenant Ray. Much to Ray's disgust, therefore, he was released from arrest without the full and entire clearance he had hoped for, and now, with the Canteen closed and no longer demanding his supervision, with little to do at the Exchange, still unfit for drill or soldier duty, with his soul raging and dissatisfied, his heart stirred anew with strange and turbulent emotion, and his brain in a whirl, – nervous, restless, sometimes sleepless the livelong night, – Sandy Ray had again taken to riding long hours to get away from himself, – from everybody, as he told his anxious, watchful, but silent mother. (How little did Priscilla dream how much that mother knew! How little did that mother know how much Priscilla dreamed!) And in Ray's avoidance of everything, everybody, he rode never to town, but ever to the west and often to the clump of cottonwoods opposite the mouth of that crooked ravine where Inez Dwight, with the look, the touch, the temptation of the unforgotten days at Manila and Nagasaki, had come again into his life, and whither Inez Dwight, decorously accompanied by her sheepdog of a maid, found means to drive, no matter which way she started, and there or about there, to meet him, – to see him four days out of the seven, – until the climax came.
