So Priscilla opened and read:

Miss Sanford will pardon, I pray, the liberty I probably take in presuming to address her, but our plea to the captain was fruitless. He insists on my going with the detachment to the wood camp; so, long before this reaches Miss Sanford we shall have started, and it may be days before relief will come. Meantime, with my a.s.surance that with Heaven's help I shall yet redeem myself in her estimation, I remain Miss Sanford's grateful and humble servant,

P. BLENKE.

Verily, the young man wrote with a pen of the courtier and scholar of olden time rather than the rude trooper. Verily, Blenke was a man of parts--and played them.

"Where is that wood camp?" asked Aunt Marion, with languid interest, relieved, she knew not why, that Blenke should be gone.

"Far up the foothills--west. It seems that lately the Indians have been threatening and abusive," said Priscilla. "That's why the guard was sent. They march soon after reveille, and--he was so unwilling to go just now, when he hoped to arrange matters about his--commission," and Miss Sanford's clear gray eyes, much finer and softer they seemed without the _pince nez_, were lifted again, half timidly, half hopefully.

"How could he expect or hope for such a thing now?" answered Mrs. Ray, with some asperity. "What officer would recommend him after that--that exhibition?"

Priscilla colored. That episode was a sore point, but not a settler. "He said it depended little on the officers, auntie," was the gently forceful answer, "so long as he had the senator behind him." Whereupon Aunt Marion arose and peered through the one window in the little dining-room that opened to the west. She was forever peering up the valley now, and Priscilla well knew why. The maid again appeared.

"Phelps, ma'am, Blenke's friend, came back with this," and she held forth a letter. "He said it was found on sentry post up the bench."

Mrs. Ray turned quickly and held forth her hand. Silently Miss Sanford pa.s.sed the letter to her. It was an ordinary missive, in business envelope, addressed to Lieutenant Sanford Ray, Fort Minneconjou, and it had been opened. The torn flap revealed the fact that there were two or three separate inclosures. For a moment Mrs. Ray turned it in her slender fingers, thinking intently, then, suddenly recollecting, told the maid to give her thanks to the soldier if he were still waiting. She wished to ask had anything else been found, but that, if he cared to, was for Sandy to do when he came. Then she took the letter to her room, and stowed it in a pigeonhole of her desk against her boy's return--then sat her down to wait.

Meanwhile the object of so much thought and love and care had ridden many a mile, his brain in a whirl of conflicting emotions. There had come to him the previous night, in the interval between that brief interview with Blenke and the later meeting with his mother, a messenger with a note. It was the same messenger, b.u.t.ts, the soldier groom, who had only a short time earlier met him with her note upon the parade.

Ray, fleeing from a possible meeting with Priscilla, had left her and her soldier _protege_ together, and slipping out of the rear gate had gone walking up the bluffs. It was not quite time for taps and the sentries to begin challenging. He could have gone through the yard of any one of the adjacent quarters and so reach the front, the promenade walk and the wide parade, but he wished to be alone, under the starry skies. He needed to think. What could she have meant by saying, "How they tricked me--how I lost you?" He had blamed her bitterly, savagely, for her cold-blooded, heartless jilting of him, without ever a word of explanation. It was so cruel, so abominable a thing that, perhaps, even Inez Farrell could not, without some excuse or reason, be guilty of it.

And now she was striving to tell him, to make him understand; now she was alienated from her husband and not, so Dwight's own references to Foster would go to prove, not because of this affair with Captain Foster. She said it was her right to be heard. Perhaps it was. If she had been tricked, deceived, wronged--such things had happened--the story was old as the Deluge and might be true, and if true, was it decent to treat her with studied contempt? If she had been tricked into throwing him over--if, if she had been true in saying she loved him, as fervently she swore that last sweet night under the cherry blossoms in j.a.pan, was it manly to--to crush and scorn her now?

He was again, with downcast eyes, slowly pacing the bluff and in rear of the major's quarters when, far over toward the guard-house, the soft, prolonged notes of "Lights out" were lifted on the night, and he almost collided with a man coming quickly forth from the gate. The rear door had closed with a bang but the moment before, and Felicie's voice, in subdued tone, had been faintly audible. The man proved to be the same who had come to him so short a time before, and the mission was practically the same, "A note for the lieutenant."

Ray took it to the west gate and read it under the lamp.

I ask for only five minutes, at the old place, about the same hour to-morrow. I will never ask again, for I am to leave Minneconjou--and him--forever.

Startled, stunned, he read her words. Was it then so _very_ serious as this would imply? Was it her doing, or her husband's, that she should leave? Was it possible that he, Sandy Ray, was even remotely a cause? He could not fathom it. He would not rudely refuse. That would be simply brutal. But why could she not see him here at home on the veranda? Why must the meeting be so far from the post--so close to the--clandestine?

Mother had said----Then suddenly he bethought him that mother wished to speak with him, that he had promised her to be home about taps, and, even though he could not, dare not, talk with her to-night, he could and should go to her at once.

He started; then, hearing laughing voices and light footsteps along the walk ahead of him, hesitated. Some of those teasing, tormenting garrison girls, of course! He could not face them. Abruptly he turned again, pa.s.sed round in rear of Dwight's, stowing the note in a little notebook as he sped and the book in the breast pocket of his khaki tunic. Some backstair flirtation was going on in the dusk of the summer night, not ten paces ahead, for there was sound of playful Hibernian pleading, a laughing, half-repelling, half-inviting "Ah, g'wan now!" followed by a slap. A trim young trooper leaped backward from a gateway to avoid another shock--and met it on Ray's stout shoulder. The collision startled one and staggered both. The Irish lad, all confusion, sprang for his officer's hat and restored it with, "Beg a thousand pardons, Lieutenant," and blessed his young superior's kindly, "No harm done, Kelly," as, whipping out his handkerchief, Ray sped along, dusting off the felt.

And that harm had been done he never knew till later.

He had managed to put mother off until the following day; had gone forth a second time, as has been told; had pa.s.sed a second time the gate where earlier in the evening she had awaited him. All at the moment was apparently quiet. He had almost reached home when the sound of harsh voices out beyond the east gate caught his ear--more poor devils coming or being dragged home from the hog ranch. Suddenly there came the sound of m.u.f.fled curses and blows. Sandy wondered why No. 2 did not call the corporal. He hastened onward and out beyond the gate and came upon the explanation: no need to call the corporal when two were already there, with several of the guard, striving hard to lug peaceably to the prison room a s.e.xtette of soldier revelers who resented being either lugged or persuaded. The guard couldn't bear to hurt their fellows: who could say but that conditions and parties might be reversed within the week? The row subsided with the sight of Lieutenant Ray, but not until it had prevented his hearing the call for the corporal that came from No. 4. He found the front door bolted when he got back to the house, and, remembering having bolted it, pa.s.sed round to the rear steps and then--met his mother at the door.

She had even more to ask him then, yet once more he pleaded: "Wait until to-morrow night." So wait she did, patiently, prayerfully, trustfully, until the morrow's night; and then, not so patiently, but, oh, even more prayerfully, longer, very much longer.

CHAPTER XXII

THE LOST FOUND

"At the usual place and about the usual hour" the pretty phaeton, with its fair charioteer and her black-browed companion, drew up that afternoon under such shade as the cottonwoods afforded and waited for the coming of a rider who, starting some time ahead, was now some time behind. Nor did he seem to hasten when finally he came suddenly into view at the mouth of that well-remembered ravine, and rode straight but slowly to the rendezvous. She, the charioteer, exquisitely gowned as we saw her parting from her invalid husband, watched him with dilating eyes, alighted as he neared the grove, walked a dozen yards or so to meet him and by his side as he led his mount to a point beyond earshot of the carriage. "_You_ may trust that woman, Mrs. Dwight," said he, "but I do not. I have come at last and against my judgment to hear----"

"_Mrs. Dwight!_" she began, with pouting reproach. "Are we at the hop room, Sandy, or are we,"--and the dark eyes slowly lifted,--"are we back again at Nagasaki?"

"We are never _that_!" was the quick reply, as he bent and knotted the reins about a sapling at the brink; then, suddenly facing her: "I said I should not meet you here again. I have come for this last time solely at your urging. Never until this week have I shrunk from my mother. Never after this day shall I do it again. You say I have wronged you--hurt you--inexpressibly, and you wish to tell me why. Go ahead!"

With that he pulled his hatbrim well down to his eyebrows, folded his arms, crossed one spurred heel over the tan-booted mate and leaned against a st.u.r.dy cottonwood. There was just a spice of the theatrical about it all, but he was young, sore-hearted and hurt. It left no support for her, unless she leaned on him, which nothing in his att.i.tude seemed to invite. Inez had no use for folded arms. To her they should be either outstretched or enfolding.

"You are harsh and cold and bitter, Sandy. You make it so much harder for me to begin," she whimpered, pathetically, prettily, like a spoiled child sure of ultimate triumph. "Why did you never answer my letter from San Francisco?"

"I never got it."

"Then even that early he had begun to doubt me and to fear--you," and again the lovely eyes were making play. "And now he hates me, because he himself was a brute to his boy. He upbraids me for that, and--and for Mr. Foster."

"G.o.d! I should think he might!"

"Sandy, Sandy!" she cried, stepping impetuously a pace nearer. "Do you, too--do you _dare_ think me so base--me, when at Naples I would not even let you stay--you whom I longed to speak with? Ah, how unjust!--how mean! how cruel! And now, when I am almost friendless, you who professed so much--_you_ are the first to turn from me." Indeed, he was turning, and his face was growing very white again--his eyes were gazing anywhere but at her, and she saw it, and with both her firm little hands seized his left arm as though to turn him back. "Sandy, you _shall_ hear me, for I'm desperate, starving, and that man, he--he tells me I lied to him; and I did, I did lie--_for you_! He talks to me of a--settlement--of sending me home. Why, I _have_ no home! I have no father. My own was buried years ago. I have no mother, for she has no thought but for him--who has disgraced us all and robbed Major Dwight of thousands and dared to threaten me--_me_, because the major would not send more. Oh, you _shall_ listen! It's for the last time, Sandy, and you _shall_ know the truth! Oh, how _can_ you so humiliate a woman who--who----_Look_ at me, Sandy, look, oh, my soldier boy, and see for yourself! They robbed me of you, my heart's darling! They stole every letter. They never let me see you, and they----Oh, you think this the old worn-out story of the cruel parent and the suffering child, but I _will_ convince you!" And now her hands quit their hold upon his arm and tore at the bosom of her dainty gown--tore it open to the filmy lace and ribbon underneath--tore off the driving glove from her right hand, hurling it to the ground, and then the slim, nervous little fingers went burrowing within. "You _dare_ doubt I love you!" she cried, and now her eyes were ablaze, her rich, red lips were parted, her breath came panting through the pearly gate, her young bosom was heaving like a troubled sea. "I told you I had burned your letters--such as I had. They burned them for me, but they could not burn your picture--_I_ did that--I, with my mad kisses, Sandy!" And from its warm nest she drew it, the very one he had given her in Manila, the brave, boyish face in its tiny frame of gold, moist and blurred as though indeed her lips, her tears, had worn it dim. "You will not look?" though one quick glance he shot, then, with the blood surging through his veins, he turned again and covered his eyes with his arm. "Then hear--this--and this," and long, pa.s.sionately, repeatedly she kissed the senseless, unresponsive counterfeit, and then, letting it hang by its slender chain, once more seized his arm and burst into a pa.s.sion of tears. Then suddenly, fiercely, she thrust him aside, turned, started swiftly away, took but four tottering steps and, finally, almost as she did the day of the drive, toppled headlong.

When Felicie thought it time to take another decorous look, Mr. Ray was kneeling by that fair, prostrate form, lifting the lovely head upon his knee, one arm about her neck, the other drawing her to his breast, and he was raining kiss after kiss upon the sweeping, long-lashed eyelids, upon the pallid cheek, upon the exquisite mouth, and presently a slender arm stole languidly about his neck and drew and held his lips to hers.

It was nearly five that evening when the pretty phaeton whirled homeward through the west gate. It was nearly nine when Lieutenant Ray came slowly up-hill from the stables and, climbing the short flight to the rear doorway, found his mother and Priscilla awaiting him in the dining-room. He had eaten nothing since a late breakfast, and an appetizing supper was in readiness. He looked very pale, very tired, and to the fond and anxious eyes uplifted hopefully at first, very ill--too ill, perhaps, to note how ill she looked, the loving and tender and faithful one, who long hours had been waiting, watching, listening for his step, praying for his safe return, hoping for the promised confidence. She knew when the phaeton came, though she said naught of it to her niece. Nearly a mile of the valley road could be seen from Sandy's window, where she hovered much of the time until the sun went down. Now she quickly rose and went to him, and with her soft hands on his temples kissed his forehead, for he bowed his head, and for the first time in his life his lips dared not even touch her cheek. "I--I'm about used up, mother," he faltered. "I--can I have some tea? Then I'll get a warm bath, please, and go to bed. Has--anyone been here for me--inquired for me?"

The sudden upward look, the anxiety in his tone, might well have warned her, but there was something she had to know, something that ever since evening gunfire had been preying on her mind. No. 4's story had spread by this time all over the post, growing, probably, with each repet.i.tion.

There had been a tragic scene of some kind at Major Dwight's shortly after midnight. Jimmy had prepared her for that much. No. 4 had heard screams; then lights went flitting to and fro, and there was sound of scuffling and running about, and the guard had almost arrested someone who came dashing from the rear gate and was lost in the darkness and the yards below. No, n.o.body had come to ask for Sandy! It seemed strange that so very few of the officers had even pa.s.sed that way. Everybody had business at the office, the Club, the barracks, the guard-house; even at Dwight's there had been a sort of impromptu conference, but n.o.body had been there to disturb them in any way--no officers, at least; but Sandy read the impending truth in his mother's eyes. She was talking nervously, with hardly a pause, as though she wished him to know all she knew before he could speak, and, even as Priscilla moved noiselessly about, brewing his tea and arranging his supper, Marion, the mother, talked rapidly, wretchedly on.

Yes, there was something. The notebook had been found and brought home.

She would get it for him. It was right there in her desk. Priscilla handed it, and he almost s.n.a.t.c.hed it from her, swiftly turning the leaves; then, seizing it by the back, shook it vehemently. A few sc.r.a.ps and clippings fluttered to the floor, but not the paper he needed.

"Who brought it? How did it come?" he demanded, a world of trouble, almost terror, in his eyes.

"Major Dwight's man," she answered, her blue eyes almost imploringly fixed upon his face.

"_Dwight's_ man! But how, _how_, mother? Was there no word? Was it wrapped, or----?"

"Just as you see it, Sandy. He merely said it had been picked up and left at the house. He brought it here when he heard it was yours."

The tea stood untasted before him. He had not even taken his seat. Pale to his lips, and with hands that trembled almost as did her own, Sandy stood facing his mother, and Priscilla stepped quietly from the room.

"Did he say _who_ found it--and where?" he asked.

"He finally said it was--picked up _at_ Major Dwight's," was her answer, and imploringly still the blue eyes searched his face, and for an instant lighted with hope.

"But I never set foot at Major Dwight's--I've never been inside his gates since I called there with you. The nearest I've been was the front gate, and then, _this_ couldn't have been with me."

"Why, Sandy?"

"Because it was in the breast pocket of my khaki--the thing I wore when we said good-night; but it seemed to grow chilly--or I did. I changed to the blue coat before going out at twelve. Lucky, too, for I had to go out front and help with some poor devils brought in from Skid's. I saw your light when coming home over the parade and wondered if the row had kept you awake."

"You--came in the _front_ way, Sandy?" And the blue eyes seemed to implore him to stop, to reflect, to remember.

"Why, certainly, mother. I was afraid you'd hear me trying the front door or hobbling round on the planks. What brought----Why, _mother_!"