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CHAPTER XVII.
A COWARD'S DEED.
Mr. Ray was hobbling about his room blithe as a lark. He had slept soundly, awaked refreshed, enjoyed his breakfast and the music of the band at guard-mounting; was rejoicing in the arrival of Dandy, who had been sent down from Laramie, and was now in a little paddock in the back-yard of the quarters he and Blake occupied in company. He had spent an hour delightfully at Mrs. Truscott's, where the ladies were out taking the morning air, and finally had come home to write to "the mother" at Lexington, who, with all her pride in her boy's achievements, was still vastly worried. She had written to the commanding officer, in fact, and begged particulars from him, as her son was so averse to writing. The colonel had shown the letter to Gleason, who happened, as usual, to be on hand, and Gleason had remarked, "Well! That's what I always told you. You'll get to know him after a while." Ray had written a joyous letter to her and a few jolly lines to sister Nell, whose last letter had perplexed him somewhat, and then, his work finished, he had risen, and was limping around with the aid of a stick singing lustily the old darkey camp-meeting lines,—
"Oh, de elder's on de road, mos' done trabbelin',
De elder's on de road, mos' done trabbelin',
De elder's on de road, mos' done er trabbelin';
I'se gwine to carry my soul to de Lawd,"
when the door opened, and in came Blake.
"What ho! Mercutio. Your bosom's lord sits lightly on his throne, anyhow! What you been drinking, Billy? Getting shot seems to agree with you. Faith! lad, I've had a joyous morn, chaffing Gleason and supervising his packing. What a damned sneak that fellow is, anyhow!" he broke off, in sudden disgust.
"What's he been doing now?"
"Oh!—I can't tell you; just hinting and insinuating as usual. He's no end grumpy at being sent off; seemed to think he had the inside track with the Jersey bluebell. (Look out, William, or you'll be moth to that candle next. She's the winningest thing I ever saw,—winning as four aces, i' faith!) Gad! Did you hear the K. O. W.'s[A] speech about her? Hullo! There they go now. She and Mrs. Stannard driving to town. Wouldn't wonder if they were going just to get rid of having to say good-by to Gleason. Come, Billy; let's limp over to the store and have a cup of sack."
"B'lieve not, Blakie, I've—well, let up on it, so to speak."
"What? Billy? Oh, come now, that's too—why, angels and ministers of grace! Ray, is it love? delirious, delicious, delusive love, again? Sweet William! Billy Doux! bless my throbbing heart! Odds boddikins! man,—nay, think,—
''Tis best to freeze on to the old love
Till you're solid as wheat with the new.'
Don't throw off on Hebe when Shebe, maybe, only fooling thee. Peace, say you? Nay, then, I mean no harm, sweet Will. Here's me hand on't. But for me, no dalliance with Venus,—
'Her and her blind boy's scandalled company
I have forsworn.'
You have my blessing, Billy, but—
'Dost thou think because thou art virtuous
There shall be no more cakes and ale?'
Avaunt! I'll hie me to metheglin and Muldoon's." And off he went, leaving Ray half vexed, half shaken with laughter.
It must have been one o'clock when, looking up the row as he sat basking in the sunshine, he saw Gleason come out of Captain Truscott's quarters and rapidly nearing him along the walk. He had been idly looking over a newspaper and thinking intently over matters which he was beginning to find vastly interesting; but something in Gleason's appearance changed Mr. Ray's expression from that of the mingled contempt and indifference with which he generally met him into one of more active interest. The big and bulky lieutenant lurched unmistakably as he walked; his face was flushed, his eyes red. He was muttering angrily to himself, and shot a quick but far from intelligent glance at Ray as he passed.
"Now, what on earth could have prompted him to go to Truscott's looking like that?" thought Ray. "I wonder if Mrs. Truscott saw him. She did not go driving."
Presently there came a little knot of ladies down the row. They stopped to speak to Ray, and he rose, answering with smiling welcome, and they on the sidewalk and he, leaning against one of the pillars of the low wooden portico, were in the midst of a lively chat when his own door opened and there came from within his quarters Mrs. Truscott's soldier servant, an old cavalryman whose infirmities had made him glad, long since, to exchange the functions of a trooper for those of general messenger, bootblack, and scullion on better pay and rations. He had come in from the rear. He held out a note.
"Mrs. Truscott said I was to find you at once, sir."
"Pardon me, ladies, I will see what this is," he said, opening it leisurely with pleasant anticipations of an invitation for tea. He read two lines: the color left his face. Amaze, consternation, distress, were all pictured there in an instant.
"Excuse me! I must go to Mrs. Truscott at once," he said, and went limping eagerly, rapidly up the walk.
"Why, what can she want?" asked one of the astonished ladies.
"I cannot imagine. Don't you think we—some of us ought to go and see if anything is the matter?"
"Nonsense! It is nothing where we would be of any service. What makes me wonder is what she can want of Mr. Ray; what made him look so startled?" (A pause.)
"Didn't Mrs. Turner say he was very attentive to her in Arizona, and that she threw him over for Captain Truscott?" (Tentatively.)
"It wasn't that at all!" promptly interrupted another, with the positive conviction of womankind. "Mrs. Wilkins told me all about it, and I know. It was another girl Mr. Ray was in love with, and—no, it was Mrs.—somebody—Tanner, whose husband was killed, and Mrs. Truscott did break an engagement with somebody——"
"I didn't know about that. What I say is that Mr. Ray was desperately in love with Mrs. Truscott, because——"
And by this time all four were talking at once, and the thread of conversation became involved.
But Ray had hurried on. What he read had indeed startled him.
"Come to me the moment you get this. I am in fearful trouble.
"G. P. T."
He knocked at the door, and she herself opened it and led him into the parlor. She was pale as death, her eyes distended with misery, every feature quivering, every nerve trembling with fright and violent emotion. She began madly walking up and down the little room wringing her hands, shivering, gasping for breath.
"In heaven's name, what has happened?"
"Oh! I cannot tell you! I cannot tell you! It is too fearful! Oh, Mr. Ray! Mr. Ray!"
"But you must tell me, Mrs. Truscott. Try and control yourself. Is anything wrong with Jack?"
"Oh, no—no!"
"Good God! Has there been an accident? Has anything happened to Miss Sanford?"
"No—no—no! It's only me!" she answered, hysterically inaccurate in her wild wretchedness. "I'll tell you.—It is that awful man, Mr. Gleason. He has been here and——"
Ray's face set like stone. The words came through clinched teeth now. He seized her hand—released it as suddenly.
"Tell me instantly. There's no time to lose. He goes at three."
And then at last, half sobbing, half raging with indignation, she managed to tell her story.
Gleason had come in half an hour before, and walking at once into the parlor, had sent up word that he wished to see her. She asked to be excused, but he called up that it was a matter of the utmost importance, and she came down. He closed the parlor door, stood between her and escape, and then proceeded to accuse her of slights and wrongs to him, and of interfering with his rights as a gentleman to pay his addresses to Miss Sanford,—of prejudicing her against him. He accused her husband of treating him with disdain, and then—she saw he had been drinking heavily—he with wild triumph told her she was in his power; he had long suspected her. She strove to check him and to call her servants (for a wonder they weren't at the keyhole), but she was powerless against him. Then he went on to denounce her
as a faithless wife, and to accuse her of a vile correspondence with a soldier,—an enlisted man, a sergeant formerly of her husband's troop. He drew a letter from his pocket, and with sneering emphasis read it aloud. It was an ardent love-letter from Wolf, in which he raved of his love for her, spoke of other letters he had written, and reminded her of his happiness in past meetings, and begged to be told when he could see her alone. She was horror-stricken; indignantly denied any knowledge of him whatever. He simply sneered, and told her he meant to take that letter "to crush her husband with" the first time he asserted any authority over him, and to hold as a menace over her. Then she implored him as an officer, as a gentleman, to give it to her, but he only added sneering insult.
Ray could hardly wait till she had finished. At first he blazed with wrath, then that odd preternatural coolness and sang-froid seemed to steal over him. He looked at his watch—One thirty: time enough—then asked a quiet question or two. Had any one heard? Did any one else know? Not a soul. Whom could she tell? Whom could she call but him,—Mrs. Stannard and Marion being away?
"Don't worry a particle. I'll have him here on his knees if need be. You say Wolf was the signature. Do you know any——Why! does he mean that good-looking German?"
And to his amaze she was blushing painfully.
"Yes, Mr. Ray, and he was with us at the Point, and always coming to borrow books of Jack, but indeed he never wrote me, nor I——"
"Hush! Who but a blackguard would think it? Just sit here quietly ten minutes or so. You shall have that letter. If any one comes, I think it would be best to keep quiet about this until later."
With that he went hobbling down the row. There were the ladies and they accosted him to know if anything were wrong,—if they had not better go to Mrs. Truscott? et cætera, et cætera; but he answered with unaccustomed brilliancy and mendacity that he had a scare for nothing because he could not read her fine Italian hand. She was only getting some things ready to send to Captain Truscott by the stage to Fetterman. All the same he slipped into his room, got his revolver, gave a quiet twirl to the cylinder to see that all was working smoothly, and the next minute, without knocking, banged into the front room of Gleason's quarters, finding that worthy sluicing his head and face with cold water at the washstand.
"Who's that?" he shouted, turning half round to find Ray standing less than ten feet away with a cocked six-shooter gleaming in his hand. There was dead silence a moment, then Ray's placid tones were heard,—
"Sit down, Gleason."
Gleason stood glaring at him an instant, a ghastly pallor stealing over his face, his rickety legs trembling beneath him.
"Do you hear? Sit down!"
And though the words were slow, deliberate, clean-cut, there was a hissing prolongation of the one sibillant that gave the impression of the 'scape-valve of some pent-up power that bore a ton to the square inch. There was a blaze, a glitter, in the dark, snapping eyes; there was a pitiless, contemptuous, murderous set to the lips and jaw; a fearful significance in the slowly-raising pistol hand and the pointing finger of the other. Limp as a wet rag, cowering like a lashed cur, terrified into speechlessness, Gleason dropped into the indicated chair.
"If you attempt to move except at my bidding I'll shoot you like a dog. I want that letter."
"What letter?" he whimpered, in his effort to dodge.
"The letter you were blackguard enough to steal and coward enough to threaten Mrs. Truscott with. Where is it?"
"Ray, I swear I meant no harm! It was all a—a joke. I didn't dream she'd take it so seriously. I picked it up in her yard, and meant to give it——"
"Shut up! Where is it?"
"I—I haven't got it now."
"You lie! Bring it out, or I'll——" And again the rising pistol hand with dread suggestiveness supplied the ellipsis.
Gleason began fumbling in the pocket of his waistcoat. It was evident that he was on the verge of maudlin tears; he shook and trembled and began protesting.
"Bah!" said Ray. "The idea of showing a pistol to such a whelp of cowardice! Hand me the letter!" And with an impatient step forward, he stood towering over the cringing, shrinking, pitiful object in the chair. The nerveless hands presently drew forth a letter from an inner pocket. This Ray quickly seized; glanced hurriedly over it, stowed it in his blouse, then walked to the door.
Fancying him going, Gleason's drunken wits began to rally. He half rose, and with a face distorted with rage, shook his fist, and his high, reedy, querulous tenor could have been heard all over the house.
"You think you've downed me, but, by God! you'll pay for this! You'll see if in one month's time you don't bemoan every insult you put upon me, and if she don't wish——"
"Silence! you whelp, you drivelling cur! Don't you dare utter her name! Just what I'll do about this infamous business I don't know—yet. A woman's name is too sacred to be dragged into court, even to rid the service of such a foul blot as you; but, now mark me: by the God of heaven, if you ever dare bring up this matter again to a single soul, I'll kill you as I would a mad dog."
And with one long look of concentrated wrath, contempt, and menace, Ray turned his back upon his abject enemy and left him. Gleason's orderly entering the room a minute after was told to hand him a tumbler and the whiskey-bottle, and with shaking hand the big subaltern tossed off a bumper, while the man went on strapping and roping his trunks and field-kit. Half an hour afterwards, half sobered and partially restored, he was able to say a brief word of farewell to the post commander,—a venomous word.
Meantime, stopping at his quarters a moment to return his revolver and wash his hands, Ray went up the row to Truscott's. He had not time to knock. Grace was waiting for his coming with an intensity of eagerness and anxiety, and the moment she heard his step flew to the door and admitted him, leading, as before, the way to the parlor.
Mrs. Turner had, meantime, been apprised by some of her infantry friends that Mrs. Truscott had sent a note to Mr. Ray, and also that there must be something queer going on. Mr. Ray had been much agitated at first and had hurried thither, and heaven only knows the variety of conjectures propounded. By the time Ray was seen coming up the row again there were four ladies on Mrs. Turner's piazza, who were vehemently interested in his next move. They watched his going to Truscott's; but, of course, watching was perfectly justifiable in view of their anxiety about her.
"Did you see?" said Mrs. Turner. "He didn't even knock. She was waiting to let him in."
It was by no means an unfrequent thing for any one of the ladies of the garrison to receive a visit from some old and tried friend of hers and her husband's while the latter was in the field. Mrs. Turner never thought anything of having officers call day or evening, though, as a rule, there was a sentiment against it, and the majority of the ladies—especially the elders—thought it wrong for the young matrons to receive the visits of young officers at any time when the head of the house was far away. Now that there were only four young officers in garrison and more than a dozen ladies, the feeling had strengthened to the extent of considerable talk. It was therefore the unanimous view of the ladies on Mrs. Turner's piazza that in Mrs. Truscott's receiving two visits from Mr. Ray in one morning, under circumstances provokingly mysterious, there was something indecorous, to say the least, and unless they knew the why and the wherefore, it was their intention to so declare. "Indeed!" said Mrs. Turner, "I think Mrs. Truscott ought to be spoken to."
Utterly oblivious of this most proper and virtuous espionage, Ray had returned to Mrs. Truscott. She looked at him with imploring eyes as they entered the parlor.
"There is the letter," he said; "do you want it or shall I burn it?"
She shrank back as though recoiling from a loathsome touch.
"Oh, no, no! Burn it! Here is a match," she cried, springing to the mantel, and then her overcharged heart gave way. She threw herself upon the sofa, burying her face in her hands, sobbing like a child with relief and exhaustion. Ray touched the match to the paper; h
ad just fairly started the flame, when laughing voices and quick footsteps were heard on the piazza. The door flew open, and all in a burst of sunshine and balmy air, Marion Sanford, saying, "Oh, come right in. You haven't a moment to spare, and she'll be so glad to see you!" whisked into the room followed by Captain Webb.
Tableau!
FOOTNOTES:
[A] Army argot for commanding officer's wife.
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CHAPTER XVIII.
DESERTION.
In that species of mental athletics known as jumping at conclusions Mrs. Turner was an expert. That she always hit the mark is something a regard for veracity will not permit us to assert. Indeed, it was not often that her intellectual subtlety enabled her to extract from outward appearances the true inwardness of the various matters that entered the orbit of her observations. All the same she was a born jumper, and, like the Allen revolver immortalized by Mark Twain, if she didn't always get what she went for she fetched something. Mrs. Turner could fetch a conclusion from everything she saw, and was happy in her facility. Time and again her patient lord had ventured to point a moral from her repeated mistakes of judgment, and to suggest less precipitancy in the future; but to no good purpose. Mrs. Turner's faith in the justice of her prognostications was sublime, though not unusual. It has been within the compass of our experience to meet and know undaunted women who, day after day, could, with equal positiveness, announce their theories as incontrovertible facts, or flatly contradict the assertions of those whose very position enabled them to be well informed. When Mrs. Turner was confronted with the proof of her error, and gently upbraided by the placid captain for being so positive in her affirmation or denial, that pretty matron was wont to shrug her lovely shoulders, and petulantly set aside the subject with the comprehensive excuse, "Oh, well! I didn't know."
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