CHAPTER XXI.

Three days more, and an odd change had come over the spirit of Camp Sandy’s dreams. In the first place, all the ladies in the garrison had been to call at Mrs. Tanner’s, if only to leave their cards with “kind inquiries.” Even Mrs. Pelham had to go: the colonel made her. In the second place, despite the fact that “he would _not_ apologize,” Mr. Truscott was released from arrest, for Captain Canker had preferred no charges. One after another the officers whom he consulted told him that he really deserved to be knocked down for his language and manner to Truscott, and as he realized what a passion he had been in, and began to realize what he had said, and found out that after all he had been hideously unjust in his suspicions, and that he had lost the friendship of every man in the regiment whose friendship was worth having (even the colonel having intimated that no one but he could have been so preternaturally awkward and outrageous in his language), poor Canker found himself deserted and forlorn. At first he raged at his colonel. It was all Pelham’s fault, he said. Pelham had made him pull his chestnuts out of the fire, and now his hands were not only scarred for life, but the colonel had “gone back on him.” Unfortunately for Canker’s peace of mind, nobody would agree with him. Everybody knew that he had been directed through the acting adjutant to say not a word further to Truscott “until Tanner’s return,” and everybody knew that it did not mean “dead or alive” in Tanner’s case. A great revulsion of feeling had set in as the news of the doctor’s revelation to the colonel, which was not so much of a revelation anyhow, was circulated. Even the men who would have, possibly _had_, urged Canker to his most unfortunate step, now found it expedient to forget that they ever thought Truscott anything but the most perfect gentleman in the regiment, and Canker, being left without friends, true to human nature they who had started him down-hill lent occasional kicks to keep him going. With public sentiment dead against him, with the certainty that he would be awfully scorched should the case ever come to trial, Captain Canker notified the colonel that under all the circumstances he had decided to prefer no charges, and immediately applied for leave of absence, went up to Prescott, whence he speedily telegraphed to Mrs. Canker to have everything packed up at once and turned over to the quartermaster, the general having assured him that he should have six-months’ leave. To the infinite disgust of Mr. Ray, Captain Canker left the Territory without either an apology or a fight.

Three days after Christmas, Major Bucketts notified Mr. Truscott that he was released from arrest, and that the colonel desired to see him. In the interview that ensued, Pelham, in deep embarrassment and with many a painful stumble, strove to explain to his silent junior how he had been torn and twisted and warped in his judgment, and had allowed himself to be utterly misled. He strove to do this without in any way mentioning his wife’s connection with the matter, but it was useless. Truscott sat a patient but utterly impassive listener. He could forgive where the wrong had involved only him, but he was thinking of her. He could not aid the colonel by the suggestion of a single word, and at last the old gentleman in desperation rose and clasped his head in his hands.

“Truscott, try and forget this for old times’ sake, for what you know I was before this—these women drove me out of my wits.” And the two had shaken hands, but the colonel saw plainly that there was no such thing as bridging the gulf that stood between them. Truscott was perfectly gentle and courteous, full of respect, and evidently strove after that outburst to be cordial to his old friend and commander, but the colonel plainly saw the effort, plainly saw that Truscott had aged greatly in the brief month that had passed, and that the old faith and confidence was gone.

But he had still what he conceived another duty to perform. “Your resignation was tendered under a grievous misapprehension, and was accepted under another. I want you to return to your position at once, and would like to issue the order before to-morrow morning.”

And Truscott slowly and gravely replied,—

“Colonel, it is impossible. I cannot do it.”

“You will force me to believe that you cannot or will not accept the only amend in my power to offer,” said the colonel.

And Truscott strove to satisfy him.

“Do not think that, colonel. Believe me that I fully appreciate the confidence you show in me and the thorough amends you have made, but before this interview I had committed myself to another arrangement and accepted another detail.”

“Is it one that cannot be recalled, Truscott?” the colonel asked, gravely.

“It might be, sir,” said Jack, coloring painfully; “but I beg you not to press for further reasons. It is best in every way that I should not serve upon your staff.” And Pelham saw that the matter was settled once and for all, and at reveille on the following morning Lieutenant Truscott took command of Company “C,” vacated by the death of Captain Tanner.

Of that interview with his colonel Truscott never spoke until long afterwards. How, then, did it happen that it was soon known throughout the Department of Arizona that in releasing him from arrest the colonel had again tendered the adjutancy to him? Their conversation took place in the office. Major Bucketts had withdrawn, the sergeant-major and the clerks were at supper, not a soul was present other than the two officers, and the colonel would hardly be apt, as colonels go, to announce that a position on his staff had been declined.

But the adjutancy had to be filled. Major Bucketts could not do it; he was too stiff, old, and clumsy, as he very frankly said, to fill such a position. Six of the thirteen first lieutenants of the regiment were on staff or detached duty in the East, and Pelham swore that only men who served with the regiment in the field should hold its positions of honor under him. Crane and Wilkins were utterly unsuitable. There were very valid objections to two other first lieutenants serving in the southern part of the Territory. Mr. Ray, therefore, was the only one left, unless the colonel went down among the second lieutenants, which, said he on one occasion, is equivalent to saying that none of the first lieutenants are fit for the position. Why would not Ray do? And for two days the captains and officers generally derided that Ray was to be the coming man. He was a splendid little soldier in the field all admitted, and had a great deal of snap and energy in handling his troop on drill, but he despised “paperwork,” hated “red tape,” could not bear office duty of any kind, and withal was so hot-headed and impetuous that he would be sure to get into snarls with the company commanders in less than no time. Then he was utterly devil-may-care and reckless as to what people might think of his doings and sayings. He _would_ drink when he felt like it, and did gamble, not infrequently to the neglect of his garrison duties. He could not write a letter without the aid of a dictionary, and shunned correspondence of any kind as scrupulously as he did the catechism, but for all this, in spite of all this, the colonel liked him well. He was as true as steel, faithful in friendship, loyal in his likes and dislikes, and an out-and-out cavalryman. “A man,” as the colonel had very truly said, “of whom the regiment is proud.” And just so soon as he had satisfied himself that Truscott would not return to his old position he turned to Ray, and Ray very respectfully but positively declined it.

This was a facer. “Has it come to this, by thunder!” said the colonel to himself, “that my officers absolutely refuse to serve on my staff?”

“You doubtless have your reasons, Mr. Ray,” said the colonel, “and you must be aware that an offer of the adjutancy of a regiment like this is not a thing to be treated lightly. I think that I am entitled to hear your reasons, sir.”

Ray hesitated and looked perturbed. He had a way of throwing his head back and wagging it more or less when he had anything to say that was disagreeable to him, or was difficult to frame in diplomatic speech. After a moment’s demur the head went back and the answer came, and he looked straight in the colonel’s eye.

“It’s just this, Colonel Pelham, I’m too careless to fill the position; I’ve no head for that sort of work. I can’t tend to letters and such—and—well, sir, I drink too much anyhow.”

“Admitting all that, Ray,” said the colonel, very kindly, “and mind you I do not admit all of it, if I choose to take the responsibility and, despite your frank statement of what you consider your disqualifications, see fit to renew the offer, I think it your place to accept—unless you have grave additional reasons.”

“Well, then, colonel, I _have_.”

“And they are what?”

Again Ray hesitated.

“It is my right to know, I think,” said Pelham.

“Very well, sir.” And now the head was wagging in earnest. “In my opinion an adjutant should be an officer whom his colonel could trust before all others in his regiment. He has got to be thrown into constant intercourse with the colonel’s family and should be on cordial terms with them; and—and if such a gentleman as Mr. Truscott could not be satisfactory to Mrs. Pelham, why, the Lord knows I couldn’t.”

And Colonel Pelham, reddening painfully, pressed for no further reason. He was indignant at Mr. Ray for assigning such a cause, yet he knew well down in the depths of his heart that but for that very cause Jack Truscott would not be as he was—estranged. Ray was permitted to withdraw, and the colonel, with gloomy brow, went home to lunch. Grace was absent; had gone over to Mrs. Tanner’s again, said her ladyship; and she wished that Grace would keep away from there, she was getting altogether too intimate with that horrid Mrs. Wilkins; then again, said madame, she always manages to be there now, “playing with Rosalie,” she says, when Mr. Glenham comes here to see her, and plainly he does not like it.

“If he doesn’t like it, Mrs. Pelham, let him leave it,” said the colonel, very bluntly. “She cannot do too much now to undo the mischief you have played where Mrs. Tanner and—others are concerned. And as for this engagement to Mr. Glenham, I’m not half satisfied that it isn’t a source of distress instead of joy to her. She’s been looking worse and worse every day.”

This was altogether too delicious a conversation for Maggie the housemaid to leave unheard. Well she knew that presently her ladyship would lose her temper entirely, and then there would be revelations; so on one pretext or another she kept bustling in and out of the lunch-room, and sure enough the explosion came.

“Know it!” the colonel was wrathfully saying. “Know it! by the eternal, madame, how can I help know it when the two best officers in my regiment decline the adjutancy, and one of them plainly tells me that your infernal behavior is the reason?”

“Leave the room, Maggie!” her ladyship had shrieked before bursting into the flood of weeping and lamentation to be expected after such an accusation; and Maggie left, and took with her the story, “infernal” and all, to Bridget next door, who duly transmitted it along the row, so that by dinner-time it was coming back along the piazzas and parlors. Oh, those were joyous days at Sandy!

Since their return, neither Truscott nor Ray had called at the colonel’s. One, because of his arrest, itself an all-sufficient reason, though he had others quite as cogent. The other, out of sheer disgust at the thought of his dinner there. He had not even paid the conventional dinner-call, and on the few occasions when he met Miss Pelham she was with Mr. Glenham or some lady friends, and he had confined his remarks to a few awkward platitudes. He had never once congratulated her on her engagement, and to Truscott he made no allusion to it whatever, yet time and again it was in his thoughts, and so was that blood-stained handkerchief he had taken from Truscott’s breast. How came it there? thought Ray, and what did that portend? It was a new perplexity, and not a particularly pleasant one.

And now Glenham and Hunter had been to see Truscott, and presumably had “explained.” Certainly they had apologized for anything they might have said or done to wound him in the least, for they openly announced the fact at the mess, as though for Ray’s information. Truscott was very civil to both, and there was a faint resumption of his old kindly manner to Glenham, but _very_ faint, and he did not invite him to return to his roof. The holidays were gloomy in the last degree. Mirth and music and theatricals and fun went on at Prescott, and thither went the young lady visitors when Captain Canker’s ambulance drove up with him, but the general’s wife, who had invited Grace to spend the holidays with her, or at least expressed a wish that she should do so when they parted, was dumb thereafter. She had absolutely made no reply to the rather gushing note in which Lady Pelham had announced her precious daughter’s engagement to Mr. Glenham, but she had written to Jack Truscott, for Glenham saw the letter when the mail was opened, and very dutifully told her ladyship thereof.

And now Mrs. Tanner was beginning to sit up a few hours each day, and Dr. Harper had gone back to his duties at Fort Whipple. Both he and his able coadjutor at Sandy had been unremitting in their attention, and Mrs. Wilkins had been simply a wonder. Leaving her own sturdy brood to the care of her weaker half and the maid-of-all-work (who was likewise the cook), this energetic lady spent her days and nights in close attendance on the gentle sufferer, and whether it was from such incessant association with that pure, patient soul, or from remorse at having, if only to a very slight extent, lent herself to the circulation of the story at Mrs. Tanner’s expense, certain it is that her rugged and intractable nature was vastly softened and subdued. She would flare up and wax furious or else stony when Mrs. Pelham made her occasional calls to inquire after Mrs. Tanner, and to make sanctimonious or patronizingly sympathetic remarks. Mrs. Wilkins could see no good whatever in Mrs. Pelham, and it is to be feared that those who shared her opinions were in the majority, and very stiff and formal and “it’s-all-your-fault-anyhow” was her manner towards that self-satisfied lady when she came. As for Mrs. Pelham, it may be briefly said that, having accomplished her object in seeing Grace plighted to Glenham, she was quite ready to be magnanimous to those whom she had trodden under foot in her struggles to effect that end. She was quite willing to admit, she said, that Mrs. Treadwell was totally mistaken, and that “we had all been too censorious” where Mrs. Tanner was concerned. Indeed, to the vast indignation of Mesdames Raymond and Turner, these ladies were virtually given to understand that she, Lady Pelham, could never, never have believed such a thing of so sweet and gentle a lady had it not been for their positive statements, and now there wasn’t a woman in all the garrison except the two whom she had most injured (Mrs. Tanner and her own daughter are meant, not you, Mrs. Raymond,) who did not hate her and talk accordingly.

Madame, however, had long since convinced herself that, having heard all she had heard, it was her duty as a mother and a Christian woman to come down upon the offenders forthwith, and that because others had made a frightful blunder in their suspicions was no reason why she had in her acts. In making frequent visits at Mrs. Tanner’s and sending up consoling message to that lady she conceived that every amend that could be expected was being made. Why her husband should therefore continue to treat her with cold civility, why Grace should avoid her, why the whole garrison should hold aloof as though she were afflicted with some moral leprosy, was more than she could fathom. Glenham was her only consolation, and he, poor devil, was constantly at her beck and call. She “Arthured” him from morning till night, but never could Grace be induced to call him aught but Mr. Glenham, and it soon became patent to all beholders that while he but seldom appeared in public with, or was believed to be blessed by the society of Miss Pelham, he was at all hours dancing attendance upon his prospective mother-in-law. Lots of fun they had over it at the mess, where those stiff old prigs, as they were laughingly dubbed by Mr. Ray—Truscott and the doctor—were the only ones who did not take part in the sly witticisms at Glenham’s expense,—in his absence, of course, for his position was too seriously unenviable to permit of their chaffing him to his face.

“That old catamaran will disgust him yet, if she hasn’t already,” burst out Mr. Ray, one evening. “You hear _me_!” he added, in the slang of the day, and Truscott shot his friend a warning glance. He hated to hear any woman’s name mentioned in that or any mess-room.

It wanted but two days to New Year’s. Truscott had been busily occupied in arranging Tanner’s papers, working most of the time at his own quarters, but on two occasions he was in Tanner’s library when madame called to make her inquiries; and once, one bright sunshiny afternoon, he had stepped quietly in there, for, as he entered the house, he heard Grace Pelham’s sweet, low laugh, and a ringing peal from Rosalie. They were playing together in the hall above, while Mrs. Wilkins sat by Mrs. Tanner in the pretty room over the piazza. He could not help wondering how the little one could so soon forget her misery of the week before, and yet he was thankful to hear her joyous laugh; thankful that Grace Pelham was so constantly with her, striving to entertain the lonely little body. As yet he had not seen Mrs. Tanner, but every few hours he could learn how she was progressing, and had managed to get some few humble wild-flowers to send to her bedside, and Mrs. Wilkins brought her love and thanks and inquiries as to his wound. Just how deep, intense, and uncomplaining was the suffering of that silent little woman heaven only knew. As consciousness and the flutter of life came back to her there came with it the blight of a desolation that no human pen could ever picture. She lay for hours speechless, striving patiently to obey the directions of her physicians or the attendants beside her. There was no wailing, no wild raving, no upbraiding, but her pillow was wet with her ceaseless tears. O God! how she would have thanked Him could she only be laid there by the side of the gallant, gentle husband who had made her life one dream of joy and unutterable content! But there was Rosalie. There, too, was the baby, now a boisterous little two-year-old, full of vim, and exacting in the last degree. She strained them to her bosom, and prayed for strength to bear her cross. With such sorrow as hers this crabbed and ill-natured chronicle has naught to do.

Twice had Grace been admitted to see her by this time, and infinitely sweet and tender had her manner been. “Come often,” Mrs. Tanner had murmured to her, as she returned the warm pressure of the slender hand that lay lingeringly in hers. “Rosalie is growing so fond of you, and you are such a comfort.”

And then, as Grace’s eyes began to fill, and an odd tremor to creep about the corner of her mouth, the widow twined her fragile arm about her neck, and drew the pale, wistful face down to hers. Some cynic speaks of the Judas kisses women interchange, but in that caress there was a wealth of earnestness that would have disarmed the criticism of a Sterne. Mrs. Tanner wondered at the warmth of that embrace and kiss; wondered more at the agitation with which Grace suddenly withdrew herself from the clasping arm and hurriedly left the room.

And so it happened that, while Truscott was silently at work on Tanner’s old desk that afternoon, he heard Mrs. Wilkins’s voice aloft.

“I have to run over home a few minutes, Miss Gracie. Would you mind sitting by Mrs. Tanner till I come back? She’ll be glad to have you and Rosalie.”

Ten minutes after light footsteps came dancing down the stairs, and patting along the hall towards the library-door. Jack Truscott’s heart stood still. There was no time to escape, hardly time to think. The next instant the door flew open, and the woman he loved stood before him. It was their first meeting alone since the day of his avowal nearly three weeks agone, and from that day not one word had passed between them. She was in the room before she caught sight of him, still seated at the desk. Crimson flashed to the roots of her hair. Then she grew as pale as he.

“I—I beg your pardon,” she faltered. “I did not know any one was here. I’ve only come for a book of Rosalie’s.”

He bowed calmly, gravely.

“You will not disturb my work in the least,” he answered; and the profound would-be dissembler ruined the copy he was making by drawing thereon a series of pot-hooks that bore no resemblance whatever to his ordinary handwriting. “Disturb his work,” indeed! His heart was bounding like a trip-hammer with all the enforced calm on his features.

She stood looking hurriedly along the shelves. Then her hand was extended aloft to reach the book she needed, but fell short full six inches.

“Let me help you,” he said, quickly rising and stepping to her side. “Which book is it?”

“The red one,—there;” and her left hand touched with its finger-tips the shelf on which it lay, and in slender, snowy grace stood outlined before his eyes. Where was Glenham’s ring?

Silently he handed her the book and resumed his seat, and with murmured thanks she left the room.

“Who was there?” asked Mrs. Tanner. “I thought I heard you speak.”

“Mr. Truscott,” she replied, and despite every effort the color sprang again to her face, and Mrs. Tanner saw it. Grace instantly bent over Rosalie, and plunged into a highly moral and instructive article descriptive of the time-honored illustration of a luridly-colored lion in the meshes of an exaggerated fish-net, the mouse swallowed up in the general gorge of color being somewhat indistinguishable.

Presently stable-call sounded, and Mr. Truscott was heard to stow away his papers, close the library-door, and leave the house, and when Dr. Clayton came in soon afterwards, and Mrs. Tanner expressed a wish to see her old friend, if it could be permitted, he readily assented, but went off to caution Truscott that no business was to be talked that evening.

Shortly before sunset, therefore, while Grace and Rosalie were still playing or chatting together in the adjoining room, Mrs. Wilkins ushered Truscott up the stairs, and, bidding him enter, discreetly withdrew to where Grace was seated on the floor, a picture of amaze and embarrassment. She had heard nothing of the arrangement or she would have scurried home long ago, and through the open doorway every word they said was distinctly audible, and she could not but see the sweet, tearful face gazing so gratefully, trustingly up in his, but his back was towards her. She strove to resume her chatter with her eager little friend, but her thoughts wandered uncontrollably.

“It’s a blessing you are to that little one, Grace Pelham,” said Mrs. Wilkins, “and it’s a blessing he is to that poor little woman, hard though it must be for her to see him at first.”

For a few moments only broken, sobbing words came from Mrs. Tanner’s lips, when any sound came at all, but gradually the tearful accents ceased, and her voice, gentle and patient, was mingled with the calm, deep tones of his. Painful, sorrowing, tender as that first interview must have been to both, there was a sweetness in the very sorrow. At last she called Rosalie to come and see Uncle Jack, and the child, clinging to Grace’s hand, strove to draw her with her.

“Yes, come with her, Grace dear, _do_,” said Mrs. Tanner, and Grace had to come and take the hand the invalid held forth. “Jack, I don’t know how we would have got along without Miss Gracie. She has been everything to Rosalie, and an infinite comfort to me,” she continued, as she drew her down into a chair, and Jack, who had risen and courteously bowed on her entrance, resumed his own seat near the foot of the sofa. It was a strange meeting.

Lying there upon the lounge, the newly-widowed invalid held in hers Grace Pelham’s slender hand, and looking bravely up in the pale features of her husband’s chosen friend, listened eagerly to his recital of the incidents of the last scout and battles. She insisted on hearing them, and he had no reason to give,—he could not but obey. At last she asked him,—

“But are you not imprudent in resuming duty so soon? Are you sure you are strong enough? I never saw you look so pale and ill, Jack.”

“I am doing very well,” he answered, smiling gravely.

“And yet I know that this is such a busy time in the office, and with all your adjutant’s work I ought not to let you touch these affairs of mine. Surely they can wait——”

She stopped short. Grace Pelham’s hand, lying in hers, had given an unmistakable quiver, and, looking at her in surprise, Mrs. Tanner saw a flush of deep embarrassment on her face. Not divining its cause, she saw, too, that Truscott had reddened, and then the first call sounded for retreat. He rose, and promising to see her on the following day, hurriedly took his leave.

“It’s undress parade and publication of orders,” said Mrs. Wilkins, gazing out of the window. And, sure enough, the voices of the troop commanders could be heard as they marched out to the general parade and formed the line; the trumpets rang out the sunset call; the window shook to the thunder of the evening gun.

“I’ve so often lain here and listened to Mr. Truscott reading the orders, every word was so distinct,” said Mrs. Tanner. “Let us hear what they are to-night.” Whereat Mrs. Wilkins suddenly left the room, and all within was silence. In strained, wondering attention, Mrs. Tanner listened; the hand within hers was trembling violently.

“Why, Grace, that isn’t Mr. Truscott’s voice. You can’t understand a word of it, and yet he said he was on duty. What does it mean?”

And for all answer Grace Pelham burst into a passion of tears, buried her face in the pillow beside that of her friend, and sobbed as though her heart would break. Another moment and both Mrs. Tanner’s arms were round her; had drawn her head upon her own gentle bosom; her lips pressed kiss after kiss in silent sympathy upon the sunshiny glory of the beautiful hair,—the womanly heart had read her secret.

No wonder that when Miss Pelham was wanted for dinner that evening Miss Pelham sent back word that she had decided to stay and take tea at Mrs. Tanner’s, and Mrs. Pelham had again to explain matters as best she could to Mr. Arthur Glenham, who went home despondent.

Before Jack Truscott came to see her on the following morning Mrs. Tanner had heard from Mrs. Wilkins’s lips every item of the stories and events that had so upset the social serenity of Camp Sandy during the past month. It was no difficult matter to learn the whole story. It had been bottled up in Mrs. Wilkins’s brain for days, fermenting, seething, “coming to a head,” as it were; and when at last Mrs. Tanner gravely demanded of her a full statement of Truscott’s loss of the adjutancy, his arrest, and everything,—for poor Grace could only vaguely hint that there were troubles she could not explain, yet longed to that she might ask her forgiveness,—Mrs. Wilkins’s relief was something tragic in its intensity. Once uncorked, the story flew forth with a rush; and the reader probably has seen enough of Mrs. Wilkins to feel assured that Lady Pelham had small mercy shown her. Naturally, however, one’s principal alarm may be as to how Mrs. Tanner bore the recital. For her husband and for Truscott she was indignant in no mild degree, but she said very little. For herself, she hardly thought.

“It’s my belief,” said Mrs. Wilkins, among other things, “that if it hadn’t been for the venomous stories of that mother of hers Grace Pelham would no more be engaged to that little milksop of a Glenham than I would. It was Jack Truscott she fancied from the first.”

And despite her own bitter desolation, many a waking hour did the quiet little woman give to earnest thought over the whole matter. It was more than a revelation, it gave her something to plan and act upon.

It was after drill when Mr. Truscott came in on the following morning. Almost the first thing she did was to give him the key of a tin despatch-box belonging to the captain. “My letters to him are in that,” she briefly explained, “and I want the package marked ‘From Fort Phœnix.’” To him she made no allusion to his changed fortunes or to the story she had heard. She was frank, gentle, unembarrassed; but he noted a pink flush in the centre of each cheek, which alarmed him, and the doctor once more forbade business talks. “What wouldn’t he have said did he know of all I’d told her?” thought Mrs. Wilkins, though she excused herself by the reflection that had she _not_ related the whole affair Mrs. Tanner would have worried her life out trying to fathom it. And perhaps she would. Who knows? Truscott soon returned to the desk, and announced at luncheon-time that all the work was finished, her signature to certain papers being all that was needed. Then he left the house.

That afternoon Mrs. Raymond and Mrs. Turner came together and begged to be allowed to come up-stairs and sit with Mrs. Tanner a while. Mrs. Tanner begged to be excused. “Do you suppose that woman can have told her anything?” asked one of the other.

“She would tell anything she knew,” was the reply of Mrs. Turner, who never was known to keep a secret in her life, and yet in her own mind was set upon a very pinnacle of discretion.

Later came Grace Pelham, whom Rosalie eagerly ran to welcome, calling her “Aunt Gracie,” as she had in some mysterious way learned to speak of her sweet friend, and when her voice was heard in the hall below, Mrs. Tanner asked that she be invited up at once.

She had been riding with Mr. Glenham, and it would seem as though, of late, her favorite exercise had been bereft of all benefit or pleasure, and this day the conversation she had undergone with her adorer had been far from soothing. He had begun reproaching her for coldness and indifference, and she could not and did not specifically deny the charge. Very pale and tired she looked as she seated herself by the side of her friend, whom she was with every hour learning to love more dearly. Mrs. Tanner quickly marked her pallor and fatigue.

“Your ride has been far from enjoyable, I fear, Gracie,” she said, and the long interview of the previous evening must have been of a most intimate nature to warrant such a piece of impertinence on Mrs. Tanner’s part. “Mrs. Wilkins has told me the whole story.” (Here the bright, beautiful head hid itself in the most convenient and natural resting-place it could find.) “Now I have one to tell you. Are you too tired to hear it?” (What woman would be? The head was promptly shaken, though the face was still hidden. “Are you sure you are strong enough to tell it?” was indistinctly murmured.) “I do not propose to make an explanation,” continued Mrs. Tanner, while a very sad, sweet smile played for a moment over her pallid face, “but the story is one I _want you_ to hear.”

And so in the solemn stillness and peace of the sick-room the truth came out. Slowly, gently, the patient sufferer, forgetting for a time the bitterness of her bereavement, her illness, her wrongs, told the tale of her life since she had come into the regiment and Jack Truscott had come into her life; of the letters in which Captain Tanner had described him before they came East together; of his appearance and bearing at their wedding; of her sister’s admiration for him and the correspondence that followed; of the engagement and her own misgiving because of that sister’s acceptance of the attentions of the well-to-do widower at home. Of Jack’s home-life with them on the frontier, his love for little Bertie, his devotion to the baby during her illness, his deep tenderness and sympathy when baby died. Ah, no wonder the tears rained down her worn face as she spoke of that. Of her sister’s deceit and the rupture of their engagement, and of Jack’s delicate and manly bearing towards her and her husband after that affair. Of the order to Arizona and her own misery at having to leave that little grave in far-away Kansas. Of his letters to her and to the captain during his separation from the troop, all preserved and cherished yet. Of his care of the little grave when they had gone, and his arrival at Fort Phœnix six months after.

“He came suddenly,” she said, “and the captain was out on a scout. I heard his voice at the door and rushed down to greet him, and there on the table in the parlor was a box of earth in which were transplanted some of the flowers from Bertie’s grave, that he, the loving, loyal fellow, had brought, cared for, watered, and watched through all that long journey. No wonder I could not speak. I could only sob my thanks, and I did throw my arms round his neck and would have kissed him, only he was too tall or astonished, or something. Here’s my letter telling my husband all about it, Gracie, and if he thought no wrong of me, why should others? Of course _they_ could not know, could not understand.” And here Grace raised her own tearful face from the bosom whereon it had lain and twined her arms around the slender neck and kissed her, the pure lips meeting again and again.

And then the story went on. Of their pleasure at being ordered to join headquarters and to again be with Jack in garrison; of the trip to Prescott and their alarm when he did not appear; of his grief at the loss of “Apache.” “It was to go with him and see his grave that I left you all at Olson’s ranch that day.” Of his distress at having to communicate to Captain Tanner the order sending him off on a dangerous mission the very anniversary of Bertie’s death. “You know now what that was to me, Gracie. I had asked him to come and take me out on the bluff to see the last of them as they marched away, and when the call sounded, just as it did as my baby drew her last breath and lay dead in my arms, was it strange that one so ill as I am should swoon?” And then she told of the captain’s letters to her and to Truscott, asking that those papers should be made out at once and sent by first mail to San Francisco; and how they had worked together in the library at the copies, and of his hearing the colonel’s voice so late at night out on the road, and his going at once to see what was the matter. Of his departure to overtake her husband, and how strange she thought it that the adjutant should be sent on such a mission. Of his return; then of the receipt of the dreadful news, and she could speak no more. For hours they clung to one another is silent sympathy, that infinite and merciful sweetness of communion which God has given to women who mourn, and then, comforted unspeakably, yet infinitely humbled, Grace Pelham went home.

The colonel was sitting moodily in his den, and even at her kiss and caress did not rouse himself from his abstraction.

“There’s a letter for you from Ralph, dear,” he said, dejectedly. “I’d like to know what’s in it.”

She tore it open. A few fond, hurried words of congratulation on her engagement. Mother’s letter was just received. So proud and glad to think of her being so happily settled. Glenham _must_ be a splendid fellow to win and deserve such a prize, etc., etc. Love to all. Ralph.

“P.S.—Need I tell you that it is with infinite relief that I found it was not Glenham at all who furnished the money that got me out of my scrape? I would have been horribly embarrassed had the benefactor turned out to be my future brother-in-law. It was Jack Truscott again and all the time, as I found when I went to make the first payment, and he made me believe it was Glenham. What a trump that fellow is!”

Without a word Grace stood there staring blankly at the last page.

“What is it, daughter?” asked the colonel, anxiously. She threw the letter on the desk before him, rushed from the room, and locked herself in her own.

Poor girl! Her thoughts as she lay there sobbing convulsively in her trouble were far from hopeful. What had she done that in all the buoyancy of youth, health, and her radiant beauty this wretched blight should have fallen upon her? All that Mrs. Tanner had told her, all that she herself had begun to realize must be true of him, all that Ralph’s letter revealed, only showed him, the lover whom she had spurned, in nobler, brighter colors; and this knightly soldier, this honest and courteous gentleman, this brilliant, gallant officer, this loyal, trusted friend, this gentle-hearted man whom she had seen sorrowing over the coffin of his comrade, or mingling his tears with those of that comrade’s lonely little one, this Bayard without fear, without reproach, had laid his heart and honor at her feet, and she had turned from the priceless offering in contempt. She had not even deigned him one word of acknowledgment, and now, all too late! all too late! she knew that love her loyally, faithfully, tenderly as he might, no love could stand such a test as that. All too late she knew that love her loyally, faithfully, tenderly as he might, he could not love her better than she loved him. What reparation could she make? What could she say? What would she not do to win back one such look as she had seen in his dark, glowing eyes the day he told her of his love? And yet how could she utter one word that would not be a betrayal of her love that now might well be spurned in turn? How dare she do aught to recall him when—when—oh, merciful heaven! how at the thought she clutched her streaming hair in her quivering hands!—when she stood before him the betrothed wife of another,—another who too had wronged him?

With Ralph’s letter the last stone in the fabric of her regard for Glenham had been toppled to earth. In desperation at what she believed the utter dishonor of her lover she had yielded to the prayers of this other suitor and the vehement arguments of her mother. “You are even distressing your poor father” had been one of madame’s points, and her father had shown plainly that he only tolerated Glenham on her account. Even respect for him was gone, for she had heard of his vacillation and final abandonment of the chance to go on this last scout. She knew, of course, of his abandonment of Truscott’s roof. She had absolutely had to beg him to desist when, trying to defend his action to her, he ventured to disparage the best and most loyal friend he had ever found in the regiment, and now he was wearying her with his querulous complaints, his ceaseless moping. She had begged him to accept his freedom and give her hers, but he held her to her promise, and went and told her mother. Poor devil! Love had made an ass of him as it has of stronger men than he, and as for her mother——Ah, no! Let that be unsaid. “Honor thy father and thy mother” she had lisped in her babyhood, and only within this last month had ambition for her robbed that wretched mother of the ready tribute of love and faith and honor that hitherto had been unfailing. Poor lady! Sorrowful indeed had been her life of late, but what would not be her terror could she see her husband’s face as he sat staring at that letter of Ralph’s, while Grace lay weeping in her room?

A hand turned the knob of the door and rattled impatiently.

“Grace, if you propose going to Mrs. Turner’s this evening it is time you were dressed,” a dismal, monotonous voice was heard to say, and Grace started to her feet.

“Come what may, he shall know that I implore his forgiveness,” said Grace to herself, as she stood before the mirror; “and come what may, Arthur Glenham shall know the truth.”

Despite the general gloom in the garrison, Mrs. Turner had invited a few friends (which meant the entire commissioned force at the post, with the families of the married officers) to spend the evening at her house and mildly celebrate the birthday of her husband, whose birthday-cake, an elaborate affair, much studded with waxen tapers, had been sent all the way from San Francisco.

“It was a pity to lose it,” she argued, “so, though we are all so blue, you know, over dear Captain Tanner’s death, we might just as well have a quiet gathering.”

Mrs. Wilkins had refused outright, she had other things to attend to, and Mrs. Tanner, of course, was not to be expected; but everybody else had accepted, as is customary, unless there be some valid reason to urge. Yet, when Turner himself invited Mr. Truscott, he felt it necessary to say a few apologetic words. “I know you will not care to come anyway, Jack, and I fear that you have heard that which cannot be wholly denied, that my wife had some share in the circulation of those stories that caused such horrible trouble. Of course, you must know how cut up I feel to think that each has been the case, but the tongue is an unruly member we are taught; and—well, when you get married, old man, may the Lord spare you from finding out what ninety-nine out of a hundred husbands discover!—that a woman’s tongue is simply uncontrollable. Of course, she’s found out. I’ve told her that you have heard of her part in the affair, and she’s awfully nervous about the way you’ll meet her. I wouldn’t tell any one else this about my wife, Jack, but I rated her roundly for her share of the mischief, and—and—I’ll take it as a kindness if you will come and see us. You know well what you are to me.”

And so it happened that late that evening Mr. Truscott’s tall form appeared among the guests at Captain Turner’s. Mrs. Turner welcomed him with vividly coloring cheeks and somewhat over-eager cordiality. As for him, his manner was simply as composed and placid as ever, and he accepted a seat by the side of his hostess quite as a matter of course. Grace was surrounded by the youngsters of the regiment, as was to be expected, and Mr. Glenham was pulling discontentedly at the scanty hairs which ornamented his upper lip. To this group speedily appeared Mr. Ray, lively as ever, and apparently imbued with a spirit of mischief. It had occurred to him that here was a good chance to worry Mrs. Pelham, whom he had learned to detest most cordially. The colonel had been most solemn and gloomy in his manner towards him ever since his refusal of the adjutancy, and he had enjoyed no opportunity of speaking to Grace herself, and, as bad luck would have it, she did not at all care to be monopolized by him, this night of all others. Her whole heart was bound up in Truscott. She noted his every movement, though her eyes bravely did their duty, and strove to look interested in the chatter of Messrs. Dana and Hunter, and she managed to keep up her share in the conversation in a lively manner. How is it they can do it? If her heart were breaking, such a girl as Grace Pelham would manage to appear all life and vivacity under similar circumstances. Then Mr. Ray shouldered his way through the circle of admirers, and held forth his hand.

“I don’t propose to be kept on the outskirts of this crowd all night, Miss Pelham, if I am the oldest and worst-singed moth around the candle. I’ve come in to bask a few minutes anyhow, scorch or no scorch.”

She welcomed him cordially, of course. She liked him far better than any of the others. She had heard from Mrs. Wilkins all about his championship of Truscott’s cause, and of his refusal of her father’s offer. She could have blessed him for that. There was not a man fit to take her hero’s place, and evidently her father had come to the same opinion. She knew that Glenham now disliked Ray, and there was just enough of feminine coquetry about her to make that reflection a cause of additional cordiality to Ray. But, above all, he was nearer to Truscott, more intimate with him now than any of the others, and though it was Truscott, and Truscott alone, she longed to speak to, Ray would answer when there was nothing better. He rattled on in his reckless, superficial style, totally ignoring Glenham or her new relations with him; and when suppertime came it was he who hovered about her, bringing every dainty he could lay hands on, and playing the devoted in a way he could plainly see was making Glenham rabid and Mrs. Pelham hideously uncomfortable. “I don’t care,” he said to himself, as Arthur went scowlingly off to his would-be mother-in-law. “So long as they behaved decently I would, but now I don’t care a chip what they think.” But before very long he noticed a something in her manner he had never seen before. Bright as she was, and as she strove to be, he noted the wandering glance, the occasionally absent-minded replies, and it set him to thinking. Next he saw that Truscott and Colonel Pelham, punch-glasses in hand, were holding an earnest conversation, and that her eyes fled to that particular corner every other minute. “I mean to see what this means,” said Mr. Ray to himself. Then,—“Was it possible, so early? Surely not going yet?” Mrs. Turner was saying all this in response to Truscott’s quiet adieu, and Ray saw that Grace Pelham had lost all interest in anything he could say or do, and was gazing with wistful eyes after Truscott, who seemed bent on leaving the room at the time of all others when people would be too busy to note his departure, for supper was not over.

And Colonel Pelham went with him, quietly saying that he would return in time to escort madame home. Ray flew to the door.

“What’s your hurry, Jack?”

“Come to my quarters when you get through,” was his answer. “I must see Mrs. Tanner for a while, as I leave for Prescott at reveille. Say nothing about it,” and he was off.

Ray returned to Miss Pelham, whose eyes looked in earnest questioning up into his.

“Isn’t Mr. Truscott coming back? I had hoped to see him.”

“No. Something’s up. I don’t know what.”

“He can’t be—he is not ordered off, is he?” she exclaimed in startled tones, and with features rapidly paling despite her efforts at control.

Ray looked in amaze. Then he thought of the handkerchief, of Truscott’s changed, worn look, of a hundred little things that flashed upon him all at once, and of the intensity of emotion in the sweet, pallid face before him. Quick as a flash, he bent over her as he had bent to raise her the day of the runaway; hurried and low he spoke.

“If you have anything to say, to send to him, trust me. He goes to Prescott at reveille, but told me not to speak of it.”

Gone, and without a glance at her; without one word. Was she so utterly beneath him as that? Had she, then, sinned past all forgiveness? Was his love so light that it would vanish under the misunderstandings of the past week and never again seek for its answer? Was she——Pride and resolution came to the rescue. Grace Pelham looked proudly up into the sympathetic features of the misguided young man.

“Thanks, Mr. Ray. Nothing that I can think of now. A little more coffee, if you please.”

But she thanked heaven when it came time to go, and her father appeared. The colonel was sore disturbed about something, and while Mr. Glenham hung about the parlor on their return home, that gentleman had accompanied Lady Pelham aloft. There his voice was heard in vehement accents, hers in protestations, and presently in tears.

“I’ll go,” said Glenham, seeing her distress. “But I must see you to-morrow.”

“Yes, go,” she pleaded. “You surely want to say good-by to Mr. Truscott.”

“Oh, he’s only going up as witness on a court. He’ll be back in three days.”

She closed the door on him relentlessly, and that of the parlor as she returned. But her father came down at once.

“Grace dear,” he asked, in a tone of deep agitation, “have you ever received a note written you by Mr. Truscott just before he went out after Captain Tanner’s command?”

“Never, father.”

Instantly he returned to the room above. And just what transpired in that interview heaven forbid that we should care to hear. The colonel had discovered that his wife had intercepted Truscott’s letter to Grace, and that she had lied to him and to her. She well knew that Truscott, not Glenham, had been Ralph’s benefactor.

Two evenings after a number of our friends at Sandy were gathered at the colonel’s quarters. “Gloomy Glenham,” as he was now called, Mrs. Turner, Mrs. Raymond, Grace, and Mrs. Pelham, the colonel, and several junior officers were seated around the parlor. Grace had just been singing, and now there came a demand for more.

“Oh, _do_ sing ‘Douglas, Tender and True,’” begged Mrs. Turner.

“Yes, _please_ do,” chimed in Mrs. Raymond.

“It’s your very best song, I think,” said Captain Turner. “Please sing it.”

“Very well,” said Grace, reluctantly. She had not sung for days, and there were words to this that even in the mere temporary absence of Jack Truscott struck home to her heart as she thought of them. “I’m not in voice to-night, I fear,” she added; “but I’ll try.”

Had not Mrs. Tanner told her he would be back on the morrow? Had not there been something in her sweet, caressing manner that revived hope, courage, love in her heart? She turned to the piano again, and Mr. Glenham placed the music on the rack. It was no favorite of his. The servant entered with a telegraphic despatch, which the colonel opened and read.

“I thought so,” said he. “We’ve lost Truscott. He is ordered to West Point, and left this morning for San Francisco. Go on, Gracie.”

Go on? go _on_? The room was whirling round her; a deadly choking sensation had seized her throat; there was a confused buzzing of voices in her ears, exclamations of surprise, regret, dismay; but she heard nothing distinctly. White as a sheet, she grasped at the key-board, and Glenham stood stupidly staring at her. But in an instant, through filmy eyes, she saw a glass of water before her, and she eagerly seized and drank it, and a cheery voice was murmuring something quick and stirring in her ear. It was Ray.

“Rally all your pluck. Sing as you rode, Miss Gracie; I’ll back you to win.” And with all the _nonchalance_ in the world he replaced the goblet on a distant table, saying so that all could hear,—

“I really beg your pardon, Miss Pelham. When you asked for water I thought it was Glenham you addressed; and then that beggarly telegram came, and I forgot your request entirely.”

Bravely, gallantly, she raised her head and strove to crush out the whirl of wretchedness in which her father’s announcement had engulfed her. Hardly realizing what it was she was called upon to sing, she rapidly played the soft, sweet prelude, and, with voice that trembled as though in harmony with the spirit of the song, began,—

“Could ye come back to me, Douglas, Douglas In the old likeness that I know, I’d be so faithful, so loving, Douglas Douglas, Douglas, tender and true.”

All conversation had ceased; all ears were drinking in the exquisite, plaintive melody; all eyes were upon her, and she knew it. Oh, what would she not give to be singing anything—anything else? But it was too late now.

“I was not half worthy of you, Douglas, Not half worthy the like of you; Now all men beside you to me are shadows, Douglas, Douglas, tender and true.”

“My God! can she do it?” muttered Ray, between his set teeth. “It’s the next hurdle that will try her nerve.” And he leaned against the light table, looking quickly around upon its load of books and albums. Then his eyes returned to their eager watch. She was trembling; she threw back her head and forced herself to commence again,—

“O to bring back the days that are not! Mine eyes were blinded, your words were few; Do——”

Crash! came table, books, Ray, and all in clattering uproar and confusion over the parlor floor. He sprang to his feet, all dust, embarrassment, and profuse apologies. Shouts of laughter, long, ringing peals of merriment filled the room. Mrs. Turner and Mrs. Raymond went almost into hysterics; Raymond, Hunter, and Glenham guffawed outright; the colonel almost choked into an apoplectic seizure, and Grace,—Grace covered her face in her handkerchief and wept hysterically until she could regain control of herself, and thanked and blessed him from the bottom of her heart.

“Well, Mr. Ray,” gasped Mrs. Raymond, at length, “that’s the first clumsy thing I ever knew you to do in my life.”

Only one pair of eyes besides his had seen that she could not sing another word; that an utter break-down most come, and a flood of tears with it, and Mr. Ray anticipated the break-down, and provided a cover for the flood of tears. It might have been clumsy, but she knew better.