CHAPTER XVIII.

Four days afterward, at even an earlier hour, just as the first trembling of the willows along the stream announced the stir of the morning breeze, two troopers forded the Sandy below the garrison and rode slowly up the slope to the parade. A light was burning at the guard-house, and others were gleaming in the company kitchens where the cooks were already at work getting coffee and breakfast for the men, for old Catnip was a firm believer in the theory that a soldier was far more apt to take an interest in the grooming of his horse when his own stomach was comfortably filled than when he was suffering for his breakfast. As a consequence, stable-duty was not the bugbear in the —th that it was in other regiments, where the men had to spend an hour or more, shivering and hungry and cross, spattering away with curry-comb and brush, and swearing _sotto voce_ at their steeds in the same listless and perfunctory manner with which they would have cleaned several muddy pairs of boots. In Pelham’s regiment the principal difficulty seemed to be that of restraining the men from whistling or singing at their work,—a thing which could not be permitted, because it was unprofessional from a military point of view.

Inclining to the right, the leading horseman rode at rapid walk along under officers’ row, under the colonel’s quarters, at an upper window of which he gazed lingeringly as he passed; under in succession all the others until he came to the northernmost building. Here he dismounted, slowly and stiffly, and the other horseman, dismounting also, sprang forward and took the reins.

Stepping to the door, the former turned the knob and pushed, but the door was locked. Going around to a side-window, he knocked upon the pane, and called,—

“Glenham!”

No answer. Thrice he knocked and called, and still there came no reply. Jack Truscott had returned to find himself locked out of his own house.

“Go and ask the corporal of the guard to come here,” he said, wearily, seating himself upon the steps and taking the reins of the patient horses. His comrade walked rapidly away, and Truscott, leaning his head upon his hand, fell to thinking of the strange reception. His heart was sore, and vague distress and perplexity had possessed him. Immediately after the fight Tanner had penned a despatch to Colonel Pelham announcing the result of the affair, detailing his plans, and requesting him to send the hospital steward with assistance to meet the wounded whom Truscott was escorting, two of whom were so badly hit as to be regarded as in a dangerous condition; yet with the prospect of another battle before him, he could not permit his only medical officer to leave the command. The post-surgeon would undoubtedly come forward to meet the party,—so argued the doctor on duty with him,—and meantime, carried on the springy mule-litters, improvised out of saplings, the wounded would do as well as they could anywhere. For three days Truscott had plodded along in great pain and weariness himself, and in deeper anxiety on account of one of his men, who seemed sinking rapidly. At last, on the evening of the third day, he had reached Fossil Creek, where, at the latest, aid should have reached him, but aid there was none, and there the soldier died. Taking only an hour’s rest, weak and weary though he was, the adjutant decided to push right on to Sandy by a night ride, and secure the assistance so greatly needed by the other men.

Presently the corporal of the guard came hurrying forward.

“Who is officer of the day, corporal?”

“Lieutenant Glenham, sir.”

“Lieutenant Glenham! Why! there is no light in his room, and I cannot wake him.”

“Beg pardon, sir. _The lieutenant has moved._ He lives in Lieutenant Dana’s quarters.”

Truscott sat for an instant in stunned silence. When he spoke his voice was stern and strange.

“Go and tell him I am here, and ask for the key of my quarters.”

In two minutes the corporal returned with the key.

“Is Mr. Glenham coming?” asked Truscott.

“He didn’t say, sir. I told him you was here, and he didn’t answer.”

“Then go and wake the post-surgeon. Give him my compliments, and ask if I can see him at once. Take the horses to the stable,” he added to the orderly, then unlocked his door, entered the dark sitting-room, and, after some fumbling on the mantel, found a match and struck a light.

All was cold, cheerless, desolate. The hearth was piled with dead embers and ashes. Even the dogs had deserted the house. On the centre-table lay a paste-board box tied with ribbon, and the box was addressed to him—in her handwriting.

Quickly he tore it open. Wrapped in tissue-paper lay his silver spurs; but with them, not a line, not a word.

When the surgeon arrived, some ten or fifteen minutes later, the trumpets were just sounding the first call for reveille, and Jack Truscott was sitting motionless in his great easy-chair, his chin upon his hands, his elbows on his knees, his eyes staring vacantly into the empty fireplace. Not until the doctor had called him twice by name, and shaken him by the shoulder, did he rouse himself. One glance in his wan face was sufficient for the keen professional eye. He cut Truscott short in his attempt to detail the events of the past week.

“Never mind that now,—swallow this,” he said, as he poured out some brandy from the decanter. “I’ll send the steward with the ambulance and supplies at once, and gallop down the valley myself after I get you settled. Of course no messenger has got in, or we would have met you forty-eight hours ago. Now, off with these clothes. Hurry up with that fire, Hogan. I want warm water quick as it can be had.”

In vain Truscott protested that he must see the colonel and make his report.

“I’ll do all your reporting for you, and to begin with report you sick from wound; and as I want no brain-fever patient on my hands, you’ll get to bed just as quick as I can dress that scratch, as you call it.” So talked the doctor, as he rapidly and skilfully divested Truscott of his blood-stiffened garments. “Mighty lucky for you that was a blunted arrow, man; you would have been spitted otherwise; that’s a jagged tear as it is. What had you on besides these things? Nothing? That’s queer! Oh, a handkerchief in there, was there? Of course that checked it a little, but not much.”

At last the process of sponging and rebandaging was complete, and Mr. Truscott was snugly stowed away in bed. It had been a desperately hard ordeal, this interview with the doctor; for if ever man wanted to be all alone and to calmly think over his troubles, that man was Jack Truscott. But while he thoroughly intended that his patient should be left alone, it was not part of the doctor’s programme that he should be allowed to brood over his perplexities and distress, and “Pills” saw clearly enough that the mental condition of the adjutant was infinitely worse than the bodily. An attendant from the hospital had brought over some medicines, and then been sent in search of Major Bucketts. The latter came with anxiety and promptitude, and the doctor met him at the outer door.

“Come in, Bucketts. I’ve got Truscott to bed now, and first he must be allowed to make his report to you for the colonel, then I want him to go to sleep and stay asleep, and to remain utterly undisturbed during the day. I’m going at once to Fossil Creek to meet the wounded, and I want you to see to it that Truscott is kept quiet, and _not one word of the business that has been going on must be allowed to reach him_.” Bucketts nodded grimly, and then, with the doctor, softly entered Jack’s room, and the two friends gripped hands.

Truscott told his story uninterrupted, and the quartermaster listened to every detail until it was finished. Then he spoke.

“Now, Jack, I understand it fully, and can give it to the colonel just as you gave it to me. Everything is going smoothly in the office. There isn’t a thing to demand your attention, and all you’ve got to do is to get thoroughly rested. Now I’m off, but every few hours I’ll be over to see if you want anything, and there will be a hospital attendant in the next room all day. I tell you the colonel and the chief will be tickled to death to hear what a larruping you gave Eskiminzin.”

Then the doctor gave him a sleeping potion, darkened the room, and once more bent over him.

“Jack, it is necessary that you should rest to-day. I’ll be back to-night, and will let you up then, but meantime sleep all you can. Now I’m going to see Mrs. Tanner, who is very anxious about the captain, and will rejoice in knowing of his safety. Then I’ll be ready to start down the valley.”

Then fatigue and suffering were soon forgotten. Hour after hour throughout that chill December day Jack Truscott slept peacefully. Waking towards evening, he found that the attendant had set a little table by his bedside, and that besides the conventional tea and toast from the mess some dainty, tempting dishes were there in readiness for him.

“Who sent these?” he asked.

“Mrs. Tanner, sir, and Mrs. Wilkins. The quartermaster has been here several times, and the colonel called, and lots of the officers have been here to ask how you were, but my orders was not to let you be disturbed.”

And so, feeling hungry, Jack took his tea, and when he next woke it was late in the night, and then he had nothing to do for it but lie awake and think, and he could think of nothing but why those spurs had come back to him in that ungracious way, and why had Glenham abandoned his roof.

It was late on the following day when the doctor reached him, and found him much better. Truscott insisted upon getting up and dressing, and was surprised to find that the doctor seemed most unwilling to allow him to go out. Being determined, however, he carried his point, for, except a certain degree of weakness consequent upon loss of blood, and the painful and fatiguing journey, no reason against it could be assigned; but, while he was dressing, the doctor went forth and held a rapid and earnest conversation with two or three officers whom he met. There were others to whom he did not stop to speak at all, but proceeded on his way to the colonel’s. Mrs. Pelham and Lieutenant Glenham were seated on the piazza.

“And how is Mr. Truscott now?” inquired her ladyship.

“Rested end doing very well, madame, and yet he must be very prudent. Can I see the colonel?”

“You will find him in the parlor, doctor.” And as he entered the house she turned to Mr. Glenham: “Now, Arthur, be firm and lose no time. You are to ride in half an hour, so it had better be settled at once.”

Glenham rose, and merely saying, “I suppose you are right,” with a countenance in which perturbation and distress of mind were vividly portrayed, walked uneasily along the row. Nearing the adjutant’s quarters he looked back. There on the southernmost piazza stood Mrs. Pelham watching him. His face turned a shade paler, his teeth set, and he sprang up the steps and knocked at the door which for over a year he had banged open or shut without formality of any kind. It was opened by the hospital attendant.

“Can I see Lieutenant Truscott?” he asked.

“Hullo, Glenham! Come right in. Glad to see you,” rang Truscott’s voice from the sitting-room, and with extended hand and welcoming face he stepped to the doorway.

In a constrained, embarrassed, half-dazed manner Glenham took the hand and dropped it.

“I came to see you yesterday, Truscott, but they said you were not to be disturbed;” and as he spoke he stood uneasily at the door.

“Come in, Glenham,” said Truscott. “Close the door and wait outside,” he continued, turning to the soldier. “Come in _here_.” And slowly Truscott turned again and looked him searchingly in the face. The younger man could not meet his eye. He went and leaned his elbow upon the sideboard, his head upon his hand.

“You have something to tell me, youngster, and you don’t know how to begin,” said Truscott, gravely and kindly. “What is it?”

For a moment Glenham answered not. His eyes were fixed on a picture of the Yosemite that hung upon the wall, but he tapped his top-boot impatiently with a little stick he carried. At last he broke forth, straightening himself and speaking rapidly; speaking as though by rote, as though it were a lesson he had learned and was now repeating; speaking in desperate haste, as though afraid either to stop or to be stopped, as though he feared his resolution might fail him.

“I _have_ something to say. It is hard to do it, too, but it must be done. Your coming back suffering and wounded makes it all the harder. Truscott, I thought you were the best friend I had in the regiment. I thought you were the truest gentleman in it, but the events that have come to light recently have proven to me that you have not been fair and square with me, that you have not acted as a friend; and, as for the _other_ matters, I have nothing to say, except that you cannot expect me to believe in your friendship or in you as I did. The less said the better, I suppose, and so I moved into other quarters. Even now I don’t like to have you think that I am ungrateful for all the kindness you certainly showed me up to this fall, but, in future, our ways lie apart.” And having said his piece, he raised his eyes, and for the first time looked Truscott in the face. “And now,” he said, “I have come to ask for Miss Pelham’s whip.”

While he was speaking, the face of his listener was a study. Pain, incredulity, indignation, and deep sorrow, all were depicted in the set, stern expression that fastened on his features. Truscott listened without one word, but very, very pale he grew, until her name was mentioned. Then the blood leaped to his forehead, fire flashed in his eyes, his hands clinched, and Glenham, who for an instant had met his gaze, looked nervously away.

For a few seconds there was dead silence. Glenham could hear the throb of his own heart. Then Truscott spoke. Measured, calm, and slow, his words, nevertheless, were sharp and clear. There was not a trace of irritation in voice or manner, neither was there aught that was repellent. The self-control was simply perfect.

“Let me clearly understand you, Glenham. Do you mean to say that you have fully satisfied yourself that I am no longer worthy your confidence and trust?”

“Well, not that; not——Well, what I mean is that you have behaved neither as a friend to me, and, worse than that, to—to others who trusted you even more,” said Glenham, desperately.

And still Truscott leaned there on the mantel, looking calmly at him.

“And your information, Glenham. Is it the result of your own observation, or what you have been told?”

“It comes to me in such a way that I cannot discredit it,” said Glenham, with changing color and manifest hesitation.

“That is dodging the question. Have you seen or do you know of any act of mine to warrant your language, or is it all hearsay evidence?”

“I have seen nothing, but what I have heard is—is undeniable.”

“Then on purely one-sided statements you have decided upon your course in the matter. By every right I am entitled to hear, and to hear explicitly, what your allegations are. There are at least two sides to every story, as you ought to know; and what I had a right to expect of you was that you would never have condemned me unheard. You have done so, however, and now—let it stand. No,” he continued, holding up his hand, as Glenham attempted to speak; “I have now no desire whatever to hear or to answer your accusations. The time has passed. What is this about Miss Pelham’s whip?” he broke off, abruptly.

“I have come for it,” said Glenham, sullenly.

“Did Miss Pelham send you for it?”

“N—o; but it is her wish to have it. She has returned your spurs, and—I consider it my duty to reclaim it of you.”

“Your duty! How so?”

“Miss Pelham and myself are engaged.”

There was again a moment of intense silence. Then Truscott stepped to the wardrobe, took therefrom the dainty whip with its loop of dark-blue ribbon, and calmly handed it to Glenham without a word.

Glenham took it and moved uneasily, wretchedly, towards the door. There he paused and looked back. Truscott had resumed his position at the mantel-shelf, very pale, very stern he looked, but there was not the tremor of a nerve or muscle. And Glenham was trembling from head to foot, and knew it.

“Is there anything further?” asked Truscott, calmly.

Again Glenham hesitated. At last he muttered,—

“No, I believe not. Good-morning.”

And with that he turned and left. Truscott waited until the sound of his footsteps died away. Then he closed and locked his door, stretched himself at full length in his easy reclining-chair, and, with his head thrown back, flung his arms over his eyes and lay there in silence.

Meantime, Mr. Glenham returned to the colonel’s quarters with his prize, and Camp Sandy turned out to see him and his _fiancée_ go forth on their ride.

It was a lovely December day, so bright and warm down in that deep, sheltered valley that in many of the quarters the windows were thrown open, and the flies were buzzing about as though jubilant over a renewed lease of a life that, after all, was not so much worth living. The ladies were out in force, three only being conspicuous by their absence from the front of the row. Mesdames Canker, Tanner, and Wilkins were not visible, and when the latter was not to be seen among the gatherings along the piazzas something extraordinary must be going on. Something extraordinary _was_ going on in this particular instance,—Mrs. Wilkins was devoting herself to Mrs. Tanner, who was ill.

She had been failing for several days it seems, and had not been at all well since the night her husband marched away with his command. The doctor went frequently to see her, and was plainly anxious on her account, but the ladies had held aloof. That it was the proper and conventional thing for them to accost the perturbed physician—who was blessed with no wife of his own—with a perfunctory inquiry as to how Mrs. Tanner was getting along seemed to be conceded, but that it would be improper and unconventional in the last degree to go and visit the sick in this particular instance was apparently a unanimous opinion. He noted with much perplexity that the fair lips that framed the name of the gentle sufferer were pursed up, as though shrinking from the probable besmirching that would follow its mere mention. What could it mean?

Briefly, it meant this,—and the sooner the details of this dismal episode are related and done with forever, the sooner will our story be finished and the better will it be for all parties concerned.

Colonel Pelham, it will be remembered, had summoned Captain Canker in-doors after giving his adjutant instructions to prepare for his ride in search of Tanner’s column, and a very sad and trying conversation, to the colonel at least, had taken place.

“Of course you noticed where Truscott came from; I saw you did,” said the colonel.

The captain bowed assent with much solemnity of mien, but said nothing, and the commanding officer, motioning him to a seat, paced up and down the floor. Grace had fled to her room, and Mrs. Pelham, wide awake by this time, divining that something unusual was going on, concluded that she wanted a glass of water, or anything in the dining-room, slipped into her wrapper and down the back-stairs through the kitchen. The front-stairs always creaked under her weight, poor lady, and of course she did not wish to be seen in such toilet. Once in the dining-room it was no difficult matter to hear the conversation going on in the parlor. It was very brief. Captain Canker went away with the injunction of secrecy on his lips, but, with wild excitement and unmistakable delight, Mrs. Pelham heard enough to convince her that Mr. Truscott had been at Captain Tanner’s quarters long after midnight, and was virtually detected there by her husband. More than that, she had heard him say to Captain Canker,—

“Then you will call upon him for an explanation immediately upon his return, and of course, if it prove unsatisfactory, his resignation must follow.”

Poor Pelham! Attached as he was to his adjutant, the insidious statements of his wife, the letter of Mrs. Treadwell, the admission of Captain Canker that the matter had been a source of regimental gossip for a long time past, and finally, the very suspicious appearance of Mr. Truscott at Tanner’s quarters during Tanner’s absence, and long after other people had gone to bed, had together formed a combination too powerful for him. “I cannot bear to think it of him,” said he, “but the evidence is such that makes it at least necessary that he should leave this post.”

An hour after, when he came up-stairs to his room, Mrs. Pelham had waylaid him and added fresh information of her own against Truscott, who was then speeding on his mission down the valley.

“Nothing must be said of this, Dolly,” said the colonel, very miserably. “Of course, Mr. Truscott will be called to account on his return, and Captain Tanner will be properly notified.”

Nothing said of it, indeed! Before Jack Truscott was twelve hours on his way mysterious whisperings were to be heard among the denizens of officers’ row. Ladies were flitting to and fro; significant glances shot from eye to eye; such words as “How shocking!” might have been heard murmured by rosy lips. Even those dear girls, the Crandalls, down for a few days’ visit from Prescott, were observed to take a lively interest in the murmured confab between the matrons on Mrs. Turner’s piazza. Then the colonel had been moody and forlorn at the office, had hardly spoken to Bucketts, had had a long, confidential talk with Captain Canker, with whom he rarely consorted, and Lieutenant Hunter had been sent for, and the three were closeted together for an hour, and at afternoon stables were again seen in close conversation; and Mrs. Pelham had spent that hour at Mrs. Turner’s, with her and with Mrs. Raymond, and later had had a long talk with Glenham; but Grace,—Grace did not leave her room all day.

Nothing said of it, indeed! Inside of forty-eight hours: even while Truscott lay weak and pale from loss of blood down under the cold rocks of the Black Mesa; even while Mrs. Tanner, lonely and heart-sick, was lying on a bed of pain, gasping for breath, and longing for the presence of her devoted husband. Even while he, spurring from one savage conflict, was about leading his men in a gallant dash upon a concealed and powerful foe,—this was how it was told to more than one household at department headquarters. Even the virgin modesty of one, perhaps both, of those dear Crandall girls had not been proof against the delirious rapture of imparting such tidings. “Only think of it!” one (perhaps both) had written, “at two o’clock this morning Mr. Truscott was found at Mrs. Tanner’s (you know the captain is away), and he was ordered out of the post by Colonel Pelham at once. She, of course, is prostrate, unable to see any one, even if any one went,” etc., etc., etc. “Mrs. Turner has just told us. Everybody is so shocked.”

Pah! Not to be spoken of, indeed! Even among his brother officers, who was there to stand up for Jack Truscott and stamp the thing as a lie? Who was there to act for Tanner and crush the vile slander in the throat of the first man who dared to breathe it? Who was there to demand that no steps should be taken, no more be said, until he who stood accused could return and face his accusers? Not Canker. He believed him guilty. Not Glenham. Mrs. Pelham had taken care that he should be fully informed of everything she knew and much that she did not; and he now believed Truscott guilty of treachery to himself and dishonor towards Tanner. Not Raymond. He was one of the many who, knowing nothing against a man, believing him true and worthy, yet dare not stand up for him against such odds, for fear that it might be true after all, and then he would have made a fool of himself. Not Crane, Carroll, or Hunter. We know what manner of men they were. But where was sturdy old Bucketts? Where was Turner?

Bucketts was one of those men who seeing others conversing in whispers would walk away. He didn’t want to know what men felt obliged to talk of in that way. Turner was another, and so was the doctor. Thus it happened that as no one man in the garrison wanted to broach the subject to either of the three, as two of them were destitute of the natural sources of such information, and the wife of the third had good reasons of her own for saying nothing to her lord and master on the subject,—thus it had happened that not until the third day after Truscott’s departure did the story come to the ears of Bucketts, and then there was a row. It came about in this way. Glenham notified him of his intention of moving at once from Truscott’s quarters into Dana’s, and in his confused explanation he let drop some allusions to a total rupture of his relations with the adjutant, for which Bucketts soundly rated him, so that Glenham, goaded and stung, had rushed into a detailed account of the whole scandal as he understood it, poor boy! and Bucketts, foaming with indignation, had called upon Turner. Turner had fired up instantaneously and demanded of his wife what she knew, and then returning to the quartermaster’s, they had held a brief consultation, had gone to the colonel, and placed their views before him.

“As a matter of simple justice, Colonel Pelham, I ask that you take no steps in this matter until Mr. Truscott is given an ample opportunity to explain,” said Captain Turner. “I am confident of his innocence, and more than confident of hers. What is more, I think that every effort should be made to stop all talk at once. Mrs. Tanner, too, is ill.” And Colonel Pelham had risen and warmly shaken hands with the captain, and thanked him for the first words of cheer and confidence he had heard. Then Turner went home and asked Mrs. Turner whether she had been to see Mrs. Tanner in her illness; finding that she had not, he marched her forthwith to Tanner’s quarters. Mrs. Tanner was not well enough to see them, and begged to be excused.

“Please say to Mrs. Tanner that Captain and Mrs. Turner called, and that they beg to know if they can do anything to assist her. May we not take Rosalie a while?” asked Turner in a loud, hearty voice, that reached the invalid as she lay upon the lounge in her room; and then meeting Mr. Hunter, he had scowled at him so blackly that that young gentleman concluded it best not to call there that evening, as had been his intention.

As for Bucketts, he and the colonel had some further talk, at the expiration of which the quartermaster had stumped across parade, and meeting Captain Canker, had stared him in the face and cut him dead.

And then Mrs. Wilkins had come to the fore. The story reached her as quick as it did the majority of the ladies, and after staring a minute in blank amaze at her informant, she demanded to know how it had reached him, for, in this case at least, Mr. Wilkins was the transmitter. Then, as it came from her husband, the lady promptly averred that she didn’t believe a word of it, and next she had gone off to extract all that could be told by the not unwilling lips of Mrs. Turner, “who had everything direct from Mrs. Pelham herself.”

Now such was the element of antagonism in this unterrified lady that she needed only this announcement to convince her that the whole story was an outrage. Of course Mrs. Turner properly hoped it might prove so, and trusted that Mrs. Tanner might be vindicated. “But it all looked very queer.”

“Trash!” said Mrs. Wilkins. “I suppose I’ve found fault with Mrs. Tanner like the rest of you (it sounded almost like the rest o’ ye’s), and as for Jack Truscott, I suppose he laughs at me; but mind you, Mrs. Turner, there’s plenty of ways to explain this, and I don’t believe there’s a thought of wrong in that little woman, and I’ll go to her the first thing to-morrow.”

And go she did, and never hinting at anything out of the way in the garrison, and parrying everything like a question as to whether any of the other ladies had come to see her, very useful had she made herself about the house, and very much had she cheered her patient and grateful little friend, so that towards afternoon on the day succeeding Mr. Truscott’s return she was down on the piazza and eager to see him. The doctor joined her as she sat there with Mrs. Wilkins, warmly congratulating her upon her improvement, and then Truscott came. Oh, how pale, how strange he looked! No wonder her soft brown eyes filled with tears as she gazed up into his face and pressed his cold hand. He who had been her faithful friend through everything, he who had so recently shared her husband’s dangers and successes.

“Why, Jack! How ill you look! You ought to be stretched out here in this chair,—not I. You must have suffered terribly.”

But he smiled gently, seated himself by her side, and with Rosalie upon his knee and the eyes of Mrs. Wilkins and the doctor closely watching him, he told the story of the stirring fight. Catching sight of him, Turner and Bucketts joined the little party, and when the story was done all sat there chatting, and Mrs. Pelham coming suddenly upon her own piazza, stared as she saw the gathering at Mrs. Tanner’s. Then there rose the sudden clatter of hoofs, and Grace Pelham and Mr. Glenham came at rapid lope along the road. With the color rushing to her cheeks, the former bowed gravely in acknowledgment of the upraised caps of the officers, who stood as she passed, and then resumed their seats.

“Mrs. Wilkins tells me the engagement is announced,” said Mrs. Tanner, and nobody seemed to feel called upon to say anything further. An orderly came running over from the office.

“A letter from the captain, mum,” he said, with a grin of delight, as he handed a soiled missive to Mrs. Tanner. “Sergeant Stein is just in with despatches.”

Eagerly she seized and tore it open. Then with sparkling eyes and reddening cheeks, with lips parted and her breath coming quick and fast, she hurriedly read the lines.

“Oh, thank God! thank God!” she cried, as she threw her arms around Rosalie and drew her to her bosom. “Thank God, darling, papa will be here for Christmas, and all is well. Oh, Jack, it’s such glad news! Yes, read it. Read it aloud if you like,” though the heightened color in her cheek warned him not to do that. “They have had another fight, and now the Indians have scattered in every direction, and they are coming home,—will be here in two days. Oh, Rosalie, aren’t you glad?” And mother and child clung rapturously to one another.

“Ah, Mrs. Tanner,” said the doctor, “my occupation is gone. I’ll leave you now. Come, Bucketts; come, Turner. I want to chat with you a while, and leave Truscott to plan for Christmas with Rosalie.” Yet, as he passed, he said in a low tone to Mrs. Wilkins,—

“Don’t let her excite herself too much.”

And that worthy dame nodded appreciatively.

But Bucketts, of course, had to go at once to the office to see Sergeant Stein, and get the despatches for Colonel Pelham. The colonel had been there for a few moments only immediately after guard-mounting, and then, saying he did not feel very well, had gone to his quarters. In five minutes, Major Bucketts, as acting adjutant, appeared at the colonel’s door with the despatches in his hand, and was met by Mrs. Pelham.

“The colonel is sleeping now, major, and he has been far from well for two days. Is it anything important?”

“Despatches from Captain Tanner, madame, with details of another fight. I think the colonel ought to see them, as he may want to report the result at once to department headquarters.”

And so Bucketts was admitted to the colonel’s bedside, and found him indeed feverish and forlorn. He roused himself at the mention of despatches, and listened eagerly as the quartermaster read them aloud. Grace stole in on tiptoe, and took her father’s hot hand; but there was breathless attention to every word, the colonel interjecting an occasional “good!” “tip-top!” and an enthusiastic “bully for Ray!” when, in brief, soldierly words, Captain Tanner gave high praise to that young officer for heading the dash in the second fight, and then came the “_finale_.”

“I cannot close this report without expressing my great obligations to Lieutenant Truscott, to whose tireless energy the whole success of the expedition is due. Without him we would have missed the trail entirely, and it was he who guided us to the rancheria and led the attack in person, receiving a painful wound as his share of the casualties.”

Here Bucketts stopped and waited a moment. Nobody said anything.

“Bully for Truscott say I,” remarked Major Bucketts, very calmly, on satisfying himself that no one else proposed to express commendation where his friend was concerned. Then he finished the despatches, and waited for instructions.

“Have copies made of these to be sent by to-morrow’s mail with my report, major, and I want a brief synopsis to be sent at once by telegraph. I suppose I’ll have to do it myself,” he added, drearily. Already he missed beyond expression the arm on which he was accustomed to lean. He hated to write. Everything of that kind fell on Truscott’s shoulders. The colonel had only to indicate what he needed and it was ready for his signature on his desk; but now he could not ask Truscott.

“How is Mr. Truscott?” he asked, moodily.

“Much better, sir. I left him talking with Mrs. Tanner, who has just been receiving our congratulations,” said Bucketts, with a tone largely suggestive of “Whether _you_ like it or not,” as he looked squarely at Lady Pelham. It is to be feared that his zeal for his friend the quartermaster was not strengthening his own position, a thing that is of so rare occurrence as to warrant its being made a note of. Then Major Bucketts bowed himself out, and went back to the adjutant’s office, where for some time he was busied over the recent despatches. After making out the “synopsis,” he carried his work to Truscott, who was still seated on Mrs. Tanner’s piazza; and as he approved, the necessary copy was made and carried to the colonel for his signature. Stable-call had sounded when Major Bucketts turned to leave the colonel. The latter called him back.

“Bucketts, just close that door and come here, will you?”

The quartermaster obeyed.

“Has anything been said? Has Canker spoken to Mr. Truscott yet?”

“I do not know, sir. I had no idea that it was your intention to delegate this matter to Captain Canker,” said Bucketts, a tremor of surprise and indignation betraying itself in his voice.

The colonel colored hotly under the unmistakable reproach in the staff-officer’s tone. Oh, Bucketts, had you not learned in your years of army service that discretion was the better part of valor, when defending a friend against a commander’s ire?

“There were reasons why Captain Canker was selected to speak for me,” said the colonel, with much dignity and reserve; “but now it may be well to postpone action until Captain Tanner’s return, since he is so soon to be here. You will see Canker at stables, and may say so for me.” And then Bucketts withdrew.

That evening as the officers came strolling back from the mess-room they noted with surprise an unusual gathering in front of the colonel’s quarters. A broad light streamed from the open doorway, and in it, only partially dressed, with ashen face and holding an open despatch in his hand, stood Colonel Pelham apparently questioning two soldiers in rough scouting-rig, who had dismounted and were holding their panting horses by the rein. One of them was weeping like a woman. Grace, covering her face in her hands, ran back into the house. Glenham, white as a sheet, stood beside the colonel, dazed and stupefied.

“What’s happened?” asked some of the party; and Truscott and the doctor, walking together behind the rest, hurried eagerly forward just in time to see Mrs. Pelham throw a shawl over her shoulders and scurry up the row.

“Gentlemen,” said Colonel Pelham, in a voice choking with emotion, “we have lost our best. Captain Tanner was killed last night at sunset.”

For an instant there was an awful stillness, broken only by the sobs of one of the soldiers, who had buried his face in his horse’s mane and thrown his arms around the sturdy neck. Then the doctor spoke.

“God of heaven! Who can break it to her?”

“Mrs. Pelham has gone,” said Glenham, briefly.

“_What!_ Mrs. Pelham! For God’s sake stop her!”

Two men sprang from the group and rushed in pursuit,—Truscott and the doctor. Her hand was on the bell as the latter seized it.

“Mrs. Pelham, stop!” said he. “I adjure you not to speak to her.”

“Why not, pray? Who but the commanding officer’s wife should be the first to tender sym——” The door opened and she attempted to enter. Instantly she was seized. The doctor’s arms were round her waist, Truscott had her hand.

“Madame, you must not——” said the former; but she furiously interrupted him.

“Unhand me, I say! Who dares restrain me! This outrage——”

And here with alarm upon her face Mrs. Tanner came running into the hall. Truscott sprang within the door.

“Get her away quick, doctor,” he muttered, and then, taking Mrs. Tanner’s hand, strove to lead her back into the parlor, but in his death-like pallor she saw the awful premonition.

“My husband?” she gasped. “What is it? Quick!” and then the doctor saw it was too late. He too sprang to her side, releasing Mrs. Pelham, who between rage, agitation, and possibly genuine emotion burst into tears and threw herself forward with outstretched arms.

“Oh, my poor, stricken friend! Oh, poor little——” And then Rosalie’s agonised cry rang out upon the parade.

“Oh, mamma, mamma! Have they killed my papa?”

Now with wild, dilated eyes she looks from one to another. What need to ask? In one frightful second the whole truth flashes over her. The soft little white hands are thrown tightly clinched in air; she totters: one gasping cry issues from her ashen lips and down she would have gone to earth but for the strong arms that seize and raise her.

White as her own is Truscott’s face as he bears her up the stairs. He looks back for one instant as others come rushing in, and sterner, lower than ever before, they hear the words,—

“Get that woman away! Doctor, come quick!”

“It is heart-disease, madame, and you would have killed her,” says the doctor, as he hands her ladyship over to the colonel, who all too late has come tearing after her.