Kitabı oku: «A Soldier's Trial: An Episode of the Canteen Crusade», sayfa 7
An hour later, as Miss Sanford was sallying forth on "an errand of mercy," as she had usually heard such missions described, – she was going to the post hospital with a fresh supply of temperance tracts and a small box of cherries, – she encountered her cousin at the door, and something in his face made her own lose color. The Dwights' phaeton came bowling down the road at the moment, Mrs. Dwight bowing and smiling bewitchingly, Captain Foster gallantly lifting his derby, for, when others could not wear it, Foster favored civilian dress. Miss Sanford responded vaguely, Sandy not at all. Possibly he did not wish to see. Possibly, said Priscilla to herself, it is that that has so upset him. She hoped, indeed, it might be that, and not that which, almost instantly, she feared. He said no word at all, merely motioned to her to turn back. Priscilla was accustomed to dominate, not to domination, but she saw the look of the father in the stern young face before her. Uncle Will she knew was the mildest of men in his dealings with women, until fully aroused. Then Uncle Will became dangerous, and looked very much as did Sandy now. The first question as he practically backed her into the little army parlor was, "Is mother home?"
Priscilla looked aloft. "In her room," she said.
"Then I cannot – speak to you now," said Sandy. "Colonel Stone has called me to account for one of the five inclosures to this paper. Before I answer we've got to have, you and I, a clear understanding, and before we can have that you must read these, and think over what other slanders you have written."
"I was going to the hospital," faltered Priscilla. "Sullivan's worse – and Blenke's been so queer – "
"The hospital, Sullivan, and Blenke can wait," said Sandy firmly, though his voice was shaking. "Colonel Stone and I cannot. I shall say nothing to mother of this as yet. Be ready to see me here at twelve o'clock. Mother will not be home."
So saying, and leaving in her hands the fateful packet, Ray turned abruptly and left the house, Priscilla mounting slowly to her room.
It still lacked an hour to noon, and she had time to read and to think. It was past the hour at which Jimmy Dwight generally came running in to say good-morning to Aunt Marion, but Jimmy had not come. Out on the sunlit parade a dozen garrison boys and girls were in the midst of a shouting, shrieking, frolicsome game of "Pull-Away," and Jimmy, usually one of the blithest and merriest, was not there. Priscilla had noted this when, from the little veranda of the lieutenant's quarters but a few minutes before, she had been disapprovingly watching the sport – it was so uninstructive, thought Priscilla. She could not, from the window at the side, see much of the parade. Over against it, midway along the barrack line of the northeast front, she could see the Exchange building, could see Sandy more than halfway across, walking even more swiftly, stiffly, than ever. She saw the few loungers and convalescents, sunning themselves on the southern benches, rising to their feet at the approach of the young officer. She could hear the tramp of the two battalions and the majors' ringing commands, exercising, one on the plain to the south where Dwight's squadron disported itself before breakfast, the other out on the parade. She could hear faintly the fine band of the infantry practicing at the assembly room adjoining the Exchange. From the open window of Sandy's room, across the hall, she could have seen the deserted veranda of the officers' club. Half an hour hence it would be swarming with thirsty and perspiring gentlemen in khaki just in from a lively drill. She felt rather than saw what was said in that relentless paper on her dressing table, and she shrank from the opening and reading. Sandy's face had told her what to expect. Sandy's tongue had spoken of slanders – slanders that well she realized, like curses, had come home to roost. She could not say, even to herself, that what she had written was never meant for public eyes. She had hoped – she had meant – it should be published, and that all good Christian men and women, readers of the Banner of Light, should approve and applaud her righteous efforts in behalf of so great and glorious a cause. But it had not occurred to her that the Banner would ever find its way to so godless a community as this at Minneconjou – where her statements might be challenged. She was stunned, temporarily, by this most unlooked-for catastrophe. Uncle Will and Aunt Marion had been her best friends and benefactors, and, even though duty demanded that she should make clear to them how deeply they erred in their attitude on so vital a question as that of the Canteen, she knew, and well knew, that what she had written in the enthusiasm of her faith, the intensity of her zeal, was far from warrantable by the cold facts in the case. She followed Sandy with her eyes as he neared the veranda, – saw the hands of the half dozen men go up in salute, – saw him suddenly turn and, facing west, salute in turn, and then the colonel marched into her field of vision, and the veteran of the Civil War and the subaltern of a few skirmishes stood a moment in conference, then strode away together toward the townward gate and the "auxiliary" guard-house, the orderly following after.
And then she heard her aunt's voice at her door.
"Have you seen anything of Jimmy this morning, 'Cilla? It's strange he has not come," and then cook from the kitchen appeared at the landing. "That young man, mum, Mr. Blenke, would like to speak with Miss Sanford a minute." And, leaving the papers on her bureau, glad of a respite, Priscilla hastened down.
Blenke's big mournful brown eyes had of late been darker than ever, and dark circles had sunk in beneath them. Blenke's sallow face had taken on an even sallower hue. "Nothing but indigestion and lack of exercise," said the junior doctor, of whom Priscilla had made inquiries. "The man spends his leisure hours moping or mooning around by himself. He ought to be made to play ball, tennis, spar, ride, wrestle, or something. He's a day-dreamer – maybe a pipe-dreamer," hazarded he, in conclusion, with a queer look at Priscilla, who had flushed indignantly at the insinuation. Blenke had sorrowfully and virtuously repelled that insinuation the moment she brought it to his attention, but circumstances had been combining to make her uneasy about her paragon. If not a "pipe-dreamer," Blenke was becoming odd and nervous, queer, and twitchy. To-day he came with a plea she had never heard him make before. Blenke, who never drank, gambled, smoked, swore, or otherwise misconducted himself, had come to tell Miss Sanford in the best of language that he had urgent need of ten dollars and two days' pass. The pass his captain had signed on the spot, but he wouldn't stand for the ten dollars. Blenke would tell Miss Sanford all about it on his return, but now there was not a moment to lose unless he lose also the train to Rapid City. Would Miss Sanford help him?
Priscilla had but ten dollars to her name, but swiftly she sped upstairs to get it. The bugle was sounding the recall from drill as she entered her little room, unlocked an upper drawer of the dressing-table, and found the two bills in her slender portemonnaie. The batch of official papers, with the portentous, red ink-lined, third indorsement uppermost, still stared at her from the prim, white-covered top, and impatiently she thrust it into the shallow pocket of the summer skirt and hastened away downstairs. Blenke's eyes were eloquent with subdued sadness, mystery, and gratitude as he received the money and turned away. The children out in front on the parade, with shrill shouting and laughter, had just gone racing away toward the eastward gate, and as their clamor died in the distance Priscilla's quick ear caught the sound of sobbing and a piteous wail for help.
Ever sympathetic with those in distress, she hurried through the hallway, out through the gate and there, crouched at the foot of the little shade tree at the edge of the parade, with blood streaming through the clutching fingers from a slashing cut at the edge of the left eye, was little George Thornton, son of a junior officer of infantry. Priscilla in an instant was bending over him.
"What is it, Georgie, dear? Oh, how did you get so cruel a hurt?"
Sobs and screams were at first the only answer. Clasping her kerchief to the wound with her right hand, and leading the little fellow, half running, with the left, she guided him homeward, where presently a badly frightened brace of women, mother and housemaid, busily hindered her skilled fingers in bathing and bandaging the cut. It was not long before the bleeding was stanched, the patient soothed and comforted and the maid had gone for the doctor. Meanwhile the mother, too, had made her demand, "Who – who could have done this?" And to every such query there was but one answer, "Jimmy Dwight."
"Surely not on purpose!" ventured Priscilla, in the interest of peace, truth, and justice, only to receive with vehement emphasis the to-be-expected answer of the stung, angered, and irresponsible child.
"He did, I tell you! We were racin', an' – an' when I was gettin' past him, he just whacked me with all his might."
The boys had all disappeared, when presently Priscilla again came forth, homeward bound. They had swarmed over to the stables, where some troop horses had broken away from their herd, and were having a hilarious time of it, but one or two little girls were slowly returning, and to the foremost of these Priscilla addressed herself for information. Was Jimmy Dwight with the other boys? Yes, he had only come out a few minutes ago. Had they seen how Georgie Thornton was hurt? They had not. They had started with the foremost, and George and Jimmy had run back after a ball, and so got behind. But presently came Kitty Blair, and Kitty had seen. Tiring of the chase she had dropped out as the last boys went bounding by her, and Jimmy Dwight was swinging his jacket, and he just slashed Georgie Thornton right in the face with it. Yes, she was sure. Millie Cross had seen it, too, and had run home to tell her mother.
Thoughtfully, with downcast eyes, Priscilla retraced her steps. Orderly and mess call were sounding now, and with a start she remembered that this was the moment set by Sandy for her explanation as to the clipping, and, glancing up in sudden fright, she found standing at the doorway, the accusing papers in hand, not her cousin, but her cousin's mother, her hostess and her benefactress – Marion Ray.
CHAPTER IX
AN INVITATION – TO GO
Between early morning drills and the fact that Jimmy was now quite big and old enough to look after himself, the father's supervision of the morning tub, rub, and toilet had ceased, and there was but time for a hug and a word before the major swallowed his solitary cup of coffee, swung into saddle, and trotted away. On this eventful morning he had kept his men at their work rather longer than usual and to no good purpose. In common with the rest of the garrison, Dwight had heard the fate of the Canteen, and heard it without remark. An abstemious man, he preferred that others should be the same, but other far more pressing matters were uppermost in his mind; matters here at Minneconjou – matters in far-away Mexico, where an importunate father-in-law, after making ducks and drakes of the thousands liberally supplied him, was now demanding more, or "all would be lost." Then it transpired that a lawyer in town had been retained, by certain of that father-in-law's creditors, to press Major Dwight for payment of the same, or with evidence of fraudulent doings on part of Mr. Farrell. To meet this lawyer, Dwight had ridden to town right after drill, and up to noon had not returned. Foster and Mrs. Dwight, driving thither in the pretty phaeton, with the pygmy tiger, were surprised, possibly disconcerted – to see his orderly with the two horses patiently waiting in front of the office. Possibly that had something to do with their return soon after twelve o'clock. Possibly there was design in Foster's selection of that hour of the day to visit the office of the post Exchange, still in active operation along all its accustomed lines, awaiting official orders, so far as comforting fluids were concerned, to close. At all events, there were no witnesses to a scene, – and but few to certain very audible words, – that became memorable in the chronicles of Fort Minneconjou from that day forth.
It will be remembered that Priscilla saw the meeting between the post commander and his Exchange officer, and their move in company toward the townward gate. But at that distance it was not to be expected that she could see the deep concern in the colonel's face or hear anything of the conversation that passed between them. It was barely an hour since their brief interview at the office. The colonel then looked solemn enough, but now the concern and smoldering wrath in his deep-set eyes exceeded anything his adjutant had ever seen or that Sandy Ray deemed possible in a soldier usually so placid and philosophical.
"Come with me, Mr. Ray," said Stone, in the hearing of the listening men. "There's a matter I want to talk over." Then, once fairly out of earshot, and after a glance to see that his orderly was well to the rear, "Sandy, were you at your office yesterday morning?"
"No, sir; I was at church."
"Ah, yes. I should have known. I used to go, too, while I had a mother," sighed the colonel. "But that was very long ago." Then, with sudden energy, "You wouldn't know whether – er – Captain Foster had been over here at the Exchange – writing letters? Ah – er – who would?"
"Sergeant Bates, sir, probably."
"It's a bit of business I don't like, Sandy. Nobody but my adjutant knows, though some may guess, and I'm going to tell you because – "
"I wish you wouldn't, sir. I – own I don't like Captain Foster," was the blunt interruption.
"I've got to, lad, for I may have to act! But it was your father who spake there, and you have known Foster longer and perhaps better than any man here – Major Dwight possibly excepted. There are reasons why I can't ask Dwight."
"Then, Colonel," and with face still graver the young officer turned appealingly to his commander, "all the more I ask you – don't ask me."
"See here, Ray," said the colonel, halting short. "No, keep back, orderly, I don't want you!" he added with impatient wave of the hand. "There's a piece of devilment going on at this post that it's my business to stop before it gets too late. Pray God it isn't too late yet! That man has no business here as Dwight's guest. He has no business here at all. He isn't straight. He tells everybody he can't imagine where his orders have gone, and that he's been wiring everywhere to find them. This morning I find that he's lying. Yesterday he left Dwight's house to write letters at the Club, as he said, and send more dispatches. He stayed there only about fifteen minutes, until church was fairly started. Then he said he wanted some keg beer which can't be had at the Club, and so he left, saying he'd go to the Canteen and finish the beer and his letters at your desk. That's almost the last they saw of him, but before eleven he went through the east gate and down to old Sergeant Sweeny's on the south flats. Sweeny served with him seven years ago, and he's laid up with rheumatism. The second relief started just at eleven, and the first problem the recruit on No. 4 had to deal with, before the relief that left him was fairly out of sight, was what to do with a gentleman, in civilian dress who was crossing his post. The sentry stopped him, and the stranger said: 'I'm Captain Foster, staying at Major Dwight's,' and went on in the back way. If Sweeny confirms this story I shall send for Captain Foster and – until this is settled never mind about that other matter. Er – have you seen Miss Sanford?"
"Yes, sir," answered Ray, half choking, "and – she was to answer me fully at twelve o'clock."
"Well – er – I may be able to see Sergeant Bates and perhaps you again. I won't take you farther. Wait for me at your desk, will you?"
A distant horseman, trotting swiftly homeward, splashed through the ford at the moment; but long before he reached the gate the colonel had gone on through upon his regular daily tramp, making the rounds of the big wide-spreading post. The young officer, silent and pale, had gone back to his office. The sentry at the gate presented arms as the tall haggard-looking rider came trotting in, sitting very erect and squarely down in the saddle. At the parting of the roads he suddenly reined in and dismounted. "Take him to the stables and get your dinner, Gribble," said he to the trumpeter boy. "I shall not ride again to-day." Then, with grave, anxious, downcast face, went striding up the southward line to his quarters at the farther end – the quarters that had been the Rays'.
On the gallery of Lieutenant Thornton's were two or three young army wives and mothers, who ceased chatting and somewhat curiously studied the coming officer. In brief, absent-minded fashion he lifted his cap and passed them by. Young Dr. Wallen was just coming forth and calling cheerily to them. "Oh, he'll do very nicely now. Miss Sanford handled him admirably;" then, "Oh, beg a thousand pardons, Major," as he bumped sideways into the tall soldier passing by.
"Who's hurt?" asked Dwight with scant interest.
"Why – er – Georgie Thornton got a little – er – gash playing. His mother was scared a bit, and I was coming that way and she called me in. The eye isn't injured."
"Why – how'd it happen?"
"Oh, er – well, I don't know, exactly," answered Wallen, in deep confusion. "Some boy scrap – mishap – accident, probably, and – er – good-day," he finished lamely, as he darted off.
Queer, thought Dwight. Is everybody seeking to avoid me? He only vaguely heard, and for the moment gave little heed to, the angry words that followed him from the open doorway. "Ask your boy how it happened, Major Dwight," for the mother was suffering still, and some natures, suffering, will spit and scratch. Not then, but just a little later, as Jimmy came bounding gladly to meet him and to seize his hand, did Dwight remember Mrs. Thornton's words, and looking down into the joyous, beaming, flushing face, with the big, wide-open, violet eyes, the father questioned:
"What's this about Georgie Thornton? How was he cut?"
"Georgie? Cut? Why, daddy, I didn't know it. Is he hurt?"
"You don't, Jim? Why, they told me to ask you, as though you would know. Weren't you with him?"
"Why, yes, daddy. I – I got out late," and here the young face began to cloud. "And then – such fun!" and the laughter once more came bubbling joyously from his happy heart. "Some 'B' Troop horses got loose, and we all ran to see the round-up, and we were hinder-most at the start, Georgie and I, but I caught 'em, and got there with the foremost, an' I guess he got tired and went home because we ran away from him, really."
But already the father's attention was diverted. His eyes were following Stanley Foster, who, dancing lightly down the steps, waved his hand with exuberant cordiality to the pair as he crossed the road and struck out over the parade.
"When that fellow begins putting his hand on my shoulder or patting my back or calling me old chap I know he's playing to 'do' me some way," once said a brother officer of Foster's, and Sandy Ray was thinking of it when three minutes later Foster came bounding breezily in, confidence, cordiality, and jovial good-fellowship beaming from his well-groomed visage:
"Sandy, old boy, lend me a horse this afternoon, will you?"
Ray was alone at his desk. The bare little army office, with its few maps and ornamental calendars adorning the unpapered walls, its barrack-built table and chairs, its stacks of letter-files, boxes and tins of samples, was an uninviting place at best, yet had never hitherto appeared inhospitable. Even under the management of the still half-crippled cavalryman, himself an abstainer from the cup that sometimes cheers, and a partaker of a cup that always saddens, there had ever been frank and cordial greeting for visiting comrades, followed usually by invitation to taste the good cheer of the Canteen and suggest, if possible, additional improvement. But it was a lack-luster eye that turned on the entering officer this day. Sergeant Bates had but just left the room after having, in answer to question, briefly stated that no one but Captain Foster had visited the lieutenant's office during church time Sunday. The captain had merely tasted the beer, glanced about him, and then departed. No, not the way he came, the parade side. The captain had looked into the reading-room and through the billiard-room, which latter was closed on account of the day, and had strolled out through the rear doorway, a short cut to the east gate. That, then, seemed to complete the chain of evidence described by the colonel, and the heart of Sandy Ray was seething when Foster bustled in, while his voice, when presently there came reply, was as icily cold. All the same he turned in his revolving chair and looked his visitor straight in the eye, as he arose.
"What do you want him for?"
Foster flushed. He read unerringly the intense dislike in the young officer's gaze, but he dissembled:
"To ride, 'bout four o'clock," was the matter-of-course reply.
"Major Dwight said both his horses were at your disposal. He's only had one out to-day. Is Mrs. Dwight going to ride the other?"
Foster's eyelids shut to a narrow slit. His mustache began to bristle at the ends. Now the red was flitting and his face was turning sallow.
"While I consider that none of your business, Mr. Ray – yes!"
"Then," said Sandy, his cheek white, his lips set, his eyes aflame, "you can't have mine."
The low hum of voices, the gurgle of laughter drifting through the stove-pipe hole and through the crevices of the pine partition from the lounging-room beyond, seemed to die away almost at the moment. Ray had hardly uplifted his voice. For an instant a silence fell on the facing pair in the Exchange office – the one rather tall, fair, stylishly garbed in the latest civilian fashion; the other short, slender, trimly built, with dark curling hair and snapping black-brown eyes; both men trembling now, but neither dropping an eyelid. Then with clinching fist and fiery eyes the elder took a step forward. He was throwing off the mask. He was speaking angrily, audibly:
"By Heaven, Ray, if I didn't happen to know that you are, or had been, madly in love with Mrs. Dwight, I – I'd consider that an insult."
"Well," came the ready response, "why not so consider it – anyhow?"
In an instant the larger, heavier, stronger man had hurled himself on the slender junior and, one sinewy hand on the back of the neck, the other at the throat, Foster shook him furiously – but only for a second. No sooner did Ray feel himself seized than he "let go" with both fists, and both fists found their mark on Foster's face – one swing, the right, stinging him on the unguarded jaw. Two more followed in the flash of a second, and Foster, stunned and amazed, dropped his hold and for a second recoiled. In blind fury the next moment he rushed again, Ray springing lightly aside, whirling and sending his right with electric snap square to the already smarting jowl – a blow that staggered yet did not fell the stronger man, the man who even in his rage managed partially, at least, to recover his wits, for as he straightened up he held forth protesting hand and panted: "Stop! Not now. They hear us, and by the God that made me you'll hear from me. You dare to strike – your superior officer!"
"Superior be damned!" shouted Ray, raging for battle and reckless of consequence. "You rank me two grades on the roster, but you're miles behind as a man. Come again, if you dare, you cad!" And like a young bantam the army-bred lad was dancing eagerly about, forgetful of his lameness and watching like a cat his bulky antagonist.
"Not here, I say, nor with blackguard weapons you seem to know how to handle; but – next time we meet, young man – next time!"
"Next time, this time, any time!" shouted Ray. "And mind you, you villain, make your will before you meet me!"
"And meantime, Captain Foster," came the stern commanding words from the threshold, where suddenly stood the colonel, "pack your belongings and quit the post. There, sir," and significantly he shook an open telegram, "there, sir, are your orders."
