by Charles King
CHAPTER V.
MARION SANFORD.
As a school-girl Marion Sanford started by being unpopular. On firstacquaintance there were very few girls in Madame Reichard's excellentestablishment who did not decide that she was cold and unsympathetic.Courteous, well-bred, self-possessed, she was to a fault,but--unpardonable sin in school-girl eyes--she shrank from those dearand delicious intimacies, those mushroom friendships of our tenderyears, that are as explosive as fire-crackers and as evanescent as thesmoke thereof. The volumes of satire that have been written on thesubject have exhausted the field and rendered new ideas out of thequestion, but they have in no wise diminished the impetuosity with whichsuch friendships are daily, hourly entered into, and they never will.Ours is a tale which has little that is new and less that is didactic.Army life and army loves differ, after all, but little from those whichone sees in every community. Human nature is the same the world over,despite our different tenets and traditions. Boys are as full ofmischief and sure to get into scrapes as in the days of Elijah and thebears. Girls have had their sweet secrets and desperate intimacies withone another since long before Elijah was heard of. Nothing one can sayis apt to put a stop to what the Almighty set in motion. Let us not railat what we cannot correct, but make the best of it. Let us accept thetruth. School-girls meet, take desperate and sudden fancies, sweareternal friendships, have eternal tiffs and squabbles, kiss and make up,fall out again, and as they grow in grace and wisdom they keep up thesystem, simply taking a new object every few months. It is one of theirweaknesses by divine right, over which common sense has no more controlthan it has over most of ours.
But Marion Sanford had no such weakness. Being destitute of the longingfor intimate and confidential intercourse with some equally romanticsister, she was spared the concomitant heartburnings, recriminations,and enmities. She passed her first year at the school without anintimate friend. She left it without an enemy. Hers was not the mostbrilliant mind in the class. She was not the valedictorian of the schoolon that eventful day when,
"Sweet girl-graduates with their shining hair,"
they listened in tears and white muslin to Madame's parting injunctions;but her last two years at the old _pension_ had been very precious toher. Grace Pelham was her room-mate, and Grace Pelham's loving arms hadopened to her when, motherless and heart-broken, Marion Sanford hadreturned from the second year's summer vacation. Between the two girlsthere had gradually grown a deep and faithful friendship, born of mutualrespect and esteem. It would be saying too much to assert that at firstthere had been no differences. Four years at one school giveopportunities which are illimitable, but the present writer knew neitherof them in the bread-and-butter period, and was properly reproved by theone and snubbed by the other when, in the supposed superiority of hisyears and co-extensive views on the frangibility of feminine friendship,he had sought to raise the veil of the past and peer into the archivesof those school-days. Partly from school-mates and partly fromobservation the author formed his opinion of what Marion Sanford hadbeen as an undergraduate. What she became the candid reader must judgefor ----self.
For a woman she was reticent to a marked degree in discussing the faultsand foibles of others. She was slow to anger, loath to believe ill of aman or woman, truth-loving, sincere, and simple-hearted. She had notbeen the most studious girl at school. Deep down in her heart of heartsshe had a vein of romance that made the heroes of fiction the idols of avivid imagination. Wilfrid of Ivanhoe, Sir Galahad, Launcelot, WilliamWallace, Bayard, Philip Sidney, were men whom she fondly believed tohave existed in other shapes and names time and again, and yet she wasstaggered in her faith because the annals of our matter-of-fact daystold no such tales as those she loved of knighthood and chivalry.Once--once she had found a modern hero. Heaven only knows to what a wildworship would not that brief dream have expanded had she not seen him.He was the elder brother of one of her friends at school,--a navyofficer,--a man who when his ship was cut down by a blundering Briton,and sent to the bottom with over a hundred gallant hearts high-beatingbecause "homeward bound," he, the young ensign, gave his whole strength,his last conscious minute to getting the helpless into the loweredboats, and was the last man in the "sick-bay" before the stricken shiptook her final plunge, carrying him into the vortex with a fevered boyin his strong young arms. Both were unconscious when hauled into safety,and that ensign, said Marion, was the man she would marry. She was lessthan sixteen and had never seen him. The nearest approach to a desperateintimacy she ever had was with that fellow's sister: a girl of hithertofaint attractions. At last the ensign came to the school,--such a day ofexcitement!--and as a great, a _very_ great concession, Madame hadpermitted that he should be allowed in her presence to speak with hissister's most intimate friends. She was threatened with popularity forthe time being, and Marion was presented. The hero of her four months'dream was a stoutly-built youth of twenty-five, with florid complexionand hair, and a manner so painfully shy and embarrassed that additionalcolor was lent to his sun-blistered features. He had faced death withouta tremor and, in the most matter-of-fact way in the world, had savedthree lives at the imminent risk of his own, but he could not face thesewide-eyed, worshipping school-girls, and was manifestly ill at ease in avery unbecoming civilian suit. Still, he wriggled through the interviewand made his escape, leaving only a modified sensation behind. The fatal_coup_ occurred next day when, as prearranged, he came to say farewell.This time Jack Tar had braced for the occasion, and was unexpectedlyhilarious and demonstrative. In bidding good-by to his sister he hadeffusively embraced her, then turned suddenly upon Marion, and beforeshe could dream of what was coming, had caught her in his arms andimprinted upon her fresh young lips a bacchanalian salute that leftthereon a mingled essence of Angostura bitters, cloves, and tobacco, anddrove her in dismay and confusion from the room to seek her own in apassion of angry tears and disenchantment. Never before in her life hadshe known such an affront. Never for long afterwards did she worshipmodern heroes.
But while she sought no intimacies, as a school-girl her friendship andaffection for Grace Pelham strengthened with every week of theirassociation. Their last two years at school were spent as room-mates,and then Marion had gone almost immediately abroad. Some hint has beenconveyed to the reader of a domestic unpleasantness in the Sanfordhomestead. Sanford paterfamilias was a successful business man of largemeans and small sensibilities. His first wife, Marion's mother, was aNew York beauty, a sweet, sensitive, refined, and delicate girl; infine, "a sacrifice at the altar of Mammon." She married Mr. Sanford whenshe was eighteen and he thirty-eight, and she married him because thefamily necessities were such that she could not help herself. Marion wastheir first child, the darling of a young mother's heart, and later, thepride of a fond father's. Yet, before that daughter was eighteen she wascalled upon to welcome in the place of her idolized mother--who had diedafter some years of patient suffering--the children's governess. Itmarred all joys of graduation, so far as Miss Sanford was concerned. Shehad gone home in obedience to her conviction of filial duty, and hadstriven to make her little sister and her brother believe that the newmamma was all that she should be. She had been conscientiously earnestin her effort to like in her new role the ex-governess, whom she hadfound it impossible to believe in before. The effort was a failure, duequite as much to the jealous and suspicious nature of the lady of thehouse as to Miss Sanford's unconquerable prejudice. Pretences forrupture were easily found; the rupture came; Mrs. Sanford did all thetalking, Miss Sanford said nothing. When her father came home from thecity he found his new wife in tears and his daughter fled. The Frenchmanwho wrote _les absents ont toujours tort_ was undoubtedly thinking ofthe field as left in possession of a woman, and that Mrs. Sanford'srecital of the trouble was a finished calumny at Marion's expense we arespared the necessity of asserting. In her few words written to herfather that day, Miss Sanford simply said that she was going to pay abrief visit to the Zabriskies; but in less than a fortnight, with hisfull consent and a
liberal allowance, she went with them abroad. Thathis experiences in his new marital relations were not blissful we mayconjecture from the fact that he soon found reason to believe that hecouldn't believe Mrs. Sanford. Unbelief grew to conviction and developedinto profound distrust. Still, as she not infrequently had to remindhim, she was his lawfully wedded wife, and held the fort. He agedrapidly, and his struggles for the mastery were futile. She was young,active, healthy, and wise as the serpent. He mourned for his absentdaughter, and when, yielding to her own yearnings, she returned toAmerica in the spring of the Centennial year, he sent for her to come tohim. She went, and remained as long as she could, but in leaving, shetold him, with eyes that filled and lips that quivered but never shrank,that it was her last visit so long as her step-mother remained beneaththe roof, and he broke down and sobbed like a little child, but soughtnot to dissuade her.
"Her mother's fortune," said the Mrs. Grundys of Fort Hays, was now herown; but her mother had no fortune, and if she had, it would have beenshared by the two other children. In the old days her father hadlaughingly bought and set aside for Marion's own account some governmentbonds and some railway stocks; the latter at time of purchase beingpractically drugs on the market. In fifteen years they were at a heavypremium. When it came to parting, he had placed these bonds with alltheir unclipped coupons to her credit at his banker's, and she wasmistress of a little fortune it seemed to her, which, added to theliberal allowance he insisted on keeping up, gave her far more than shecould ever spend on herself even were her tastes extravagant.
She dressed richly; she would have nothing that was not of the best, butshe was never wasteful. It had been her habit to keep accurate accountof her expenditure, and to send her father a quarterly balance-sheetthat was a delight to his pragmatical eyes. He would have doubled herallowance her last two years at school, but she would not agree to it.She was in deep mourning and in sore distress, and money was the onething she had no use for. All the same he paid it to her account, as hetermed it, and in due time the money became her own. She had loved himdearly despite his rough exterior and what she thought his lack ofappreciation of her gentle mother. But when he married the governessbefore that second winter's snow had mantled the hallowed grave, hersoul rebelled in indignation and dismay. For a year her heart had heldout against him, and softened only when she saw that he was breakingunder the self-imposed burden,--a shrewish second wife. However, Mrs.Sanford "held the fort," as has been said, and Marion, high-spirited,sensitive, refined, and loving, was entering on her twentiethyear--without a home.
Was she pretty? Yes. More than pretty, said those who knew her best. Shewas simply lovely. But alas for those to whom disappointment is sure tocome, she was a decided blonde.
A fairer, lovelier, whiter skin than Marion Sanford's was rarely seen;her complexion was wellnigh faultless, her eyes were large, clear, fullof thought and truth and expression, and in tint a deep, deep blue,shaded, like Grace Truscott's, with curling lashes, not so long, butthick and sweeping; her hair was too dark, perhaps, for the purity ofher blond complexion. It was a shining, wavy brown, very soft, thick,and luxuriant. She would be far more striking, said her commentators,had she real blond hair, but those who grew to know her well soon lostsight of the defect. Her mouth was a trifle large, but her teeth wereperfect, and the lips so soft, so sweetly curved, that one readilyforgave the deviation from the strict rule of facial unity when watchingher frequent smiles. In stature she was perhaps below, as Grace wasabove, the medium height of womanhood, but her figure was exquisite. Herneck and arms were a soft and creamy white, and the perfection ofroundness and grace. "She must lace fearfully," was the invariablecomment of the sisterhood on first acquaintance. In truth, she did notlace at all. It was a fault beyond her control, but her waist wasperhaps too small. Her hands and feet were not like Grace's, long andslender. They were tiny, but her hand was plump and white and might becompressible. It was undeniably pretty, and her foot was always sostylishly shod that its shape was outlined most attractively.
But what would have made Marion Sanford attractive had she been simplyplain instead of pretty, was her manner. Cold and unsympathetic had beenthe original school-girl verdict pronounced because of her distaste forimparting confidences. This was amended in her second year, abandonedin her third, and would have been attacked, if asserted, in her fourth.Over no girl's departure was there such frantic lamentation among theyounger scholars as over Marion's. They had learned to love her. To allwho were her elders there was gentle deference, to her equals andassociates a frank and cordial bearing without degeneration into"confidences." To younger girls and to children Marion Sanford was anangel, the sweetest, the gentlest, the kindest, the most winning girlthat lived. No matter who was with her, no matter what her occupation,for them she had ever smiles and sunshiny greeting. It was to her theyounger girls soon learned to go in homesickness or troubles, sure ofwelcome to her arms and comfort in her sympathy; it was to her that thewee toddlers were never afraid to run for "sweeties," or refuge frompursuing nurse-maids; it was to her that girls of younger sets,accustomed to being snubbed and put down by those two years older, wouldyield the outspoken homage of loyal subjects. She was Queen Marion tothe youngsters of the school, brave, wise, and, oh! so generous; whileto the chosen few in the class, who knew something of her love for theheroic, she was Maid Marion, but only "Maidie" to one, her loyal andfaithful ally, Grace.
She was still abroad in the fall of '75 when that quiet wedding tookplace which she was vainly implored to attend as first bridesmaid. Threeyears had elapsed since her mother's death, but her heart was still inmourning. But early in the spring of the Centennial year, after a stormypassage, she was safely restored to her own land, and the evening afterthe arrival of their party Captain and Mrs. Truscott were dining withthem at the Clarendon. There had been a brief, a very brief call fromher father and step-mother, and then she accepted Grace's invitation tocome to them at the Point. A slight illness of Mr. Sanford's made itnecessary to abandon the visit at the time, as she was telegraphed forbefore she had been forty-eight hours at the Point. The month thatfollowed settled the question as to future relations with Mrs. Sanford.She would meet her father whenever or wherever he wanted except underthat roof; on that point she was adamant, and he neither could nor didblame her. And so it resulted that she was once more with Grace and the"Admirable Crichton," as she had been accustomed to allude to him in herletters for the past year; and up to the moment of his return from thecity he was the only hero who had appeared to her eyes in thatmanufacturing centre where the article is supposed to be turned out atthe rate of fifty a year. It never had occurred to her that men soparticular about the cut of their uniform trousers, the set of a"blouse," or the nice adjustment of the hair could by any possibilitydevelop heroic qualities, and yet Captain Truscott always looked asthough he had stepped out of a band-box.
It was late when she went to her room this lovely night in June. It wastrue that she had one or two letters to write, but they were very brief.She longed to have Grace come to her and tell her the result of herinterview with Jack, and she longed to know what that letter would say.Never for an instant had it occurred to her that at a moment's notice ahome could be abandoned, a young wife left to mourn, a delightfulstation left to anybody who wanted the place, and all as an every-dayincident of army life. That such things could be expected and demandedin the midst of a mortal struggle for national honor was another matterentirely,--something to be encountered once in a lifetime, and somethingto be cherished in family tradition as grand, patriotic, heroic, andworthy of keeping in remembrance from generation to generation; but thatto do all this merely as a piece of duty because one's particularregiment happened to be setting forth on probably hazardous service, butof a trivial nature as compared with the interests involved in the onlywar she heard much talked of, why, she never dreamed of such apossibility, and her ideas were no more vague than are those of thegeneral public on precisely the same subject.
Twelve o'cloc
k struck from the great bell over at the tower, and stillGrace and her husband remained below. It was time--high time to go tobed, said Miss Sanford, though still perplexed, anxious, and distressed.Grace would surely come to her as soon as matters were decided. Shestepped to her window to take a good-night look at the moonlit plain.Drawing aside the curtain, she peered through the blinds. Standing insilence at the front gate, leaning on the iron fence and gazing fixedlyin the direction of the library window which opened toward the north,there appeared the figure of a man. A moment he stood there motionless,attentive. Then, without a sound, he swung back the gate, and quicklyand almost on tiptoe, it seemed to her, stepped up the walk, passedthrough a broad, moonlit space, and was as quickly lost to sight andhearing around the corner of the house. She recognized the form andbearing at a glance. The man was Sergeant Wolf.
