CHAPTER IV.

The ball was at its height. The well-waxed floor, on which the post quartermaster had lavished his finest boarding, and enthusiastic bachelor officers hours of individual supervision and personal effort, shone like satin, and rendered all but those who were thoroughly experienced vaguely nervous and reluctant about joining in the most solemn of square dances. Around the walls, draped with flag and guidon, and glittering with sabre and scroll-work, were interspersed dozens of lamps with polished reflectors. Candles and kerosene furnished all the illumination that sun or moon withheld, despite official edicts against volatile and explosive oils. Crude and warlike as may have been the decorations, never did the “swellest” German at Delmonico’s present much better music or any better dancing than was to be found at the large garrisons of the frontier, and certainly for genuine enjoyment an army ball yields the palm to no other. An army lady never becomes a wall-flower. She has this one compensation for marrying in the service. After two or three seasons in the great cities of the East even the prettiest girl becomes to society people _passée_, and, once married, only when exceptionally attractive and brilliant does she continue to be sought as a partner; but, owing probably to the dearth of young and unmarried ladies, the army wife retains all the hold she ever had upon bellehood, even increases it in many instances, and the bright and witty and dancing woman, though her children be tall as herself, never lacks for “attention.” As for the army girl, with any vivacity, with any pretensions to beauty or grace, she lives and moves a queen.

And so the ball-room was filled with dancers; the sombre uniforms of the staff and the infantry, the gayer trappings of the cavalry, the aiguillettes of the aides-de-camp mingling with many an exquisite toilet that would have shone resplendent in the distant East. It was long after midnight, supper had been served, even the musicians, in detachments, had been fed and otherwise comforted, some few elders had slipped away and gone homeward, but the ringing music of “Le Roi Carotte” sent ten full “sets” through the figures of the Lancers, and compelled many a staid spectator to beat time with his feet. Many a group of lookers-on watched the spirited movement of the dance from corner and doorway, while out in the “club-room,” where numbers of the senior officers and non-dancing civilians from Prescott had gathered for a smoke, many a time had beaming Colonel Pelham to touch glasses with friend or comrade who came to congratulate him on the arrival of madame, and to say, with serio-comic earnestness, “By Jove, Pelham, if I were twenty years younger there would be another victim on Gracie’s list.”

Well might they do her homage. Confessedly pretty before, Grace Pelham was simply lovely, radiant, to-night. Taller perhaps than many girls of her age, yet not above the average height, with a form slender, willowy, and graceful, there was a queenliness in her bearing that distinguished her even in her girlhood. Perhaps this was due to the carriage of her royal head, for that was Gracie’s glory. Small and shapely, it was crowned with a wealth of soft shining hair, the richest hue of golden brown, shot with radiant lights and tints of reddish bronze. Who could tell its color? “Red, of course,” said Mrs. Wilkins at first sight. “Chestnut sorrel,” said Captain Turner, who loved the color as that of the mount of his company. “Golden bronze,” said Ray of Camp Cameron; and the “bonniest brown in the world,” said a poetical aide-de-camp. All about her pure white forehead and temples it clustered in shimmering little curls, each with a halo of its own. Thence, brushed smoothly back, it was gathered in one massive knot, mantling, yet disclosing the perfect shape of the head it graced.

“A thing to be braided and jewelled and kissed, ’Twas the loveliest hair in the world, my pet,”

was poor Glenham’s constant thought of it, and all too soon that of more than one other.

But Gracie’s glories ended not here. The dark eyebrows which spanned her forehead were full, boldly marked, yet but slightly curved, and underneath the brows, curtained with lids of purest white, shaded and fringed with lashes long, thick, and curling, were eyes so large, so soft, yet so ready to flash with merriment or sparkle with animation, that to look into their dark depths was enough to make more than one young fellow long to see them melt with tenderness. Like her hair, Grace Pelham’s eyes were indescribable in color, for they too were shot with odd little gleams of golden light. “Yellow, you know; real like cats,” said Mrs. Wilkins, and yet those eyes were lovely. Lovely in the frank, fearless innocence of their gaze; lovely, in the truth and purity of soul that shone through every glance; lovely in the thought and earnestness of their expression; lovely despite the dash of yellow in their hazel brown; lovely enough to be declared her very best feature, unless the sweet soft mouth were excepted. Once before in his lifetime the narrator had seen such eyes as Grace Pelham’s, but not once a mouth like hers. Closed, it was the perfection of Cupid’s bow, so unerringly had nature stamped thereon the utmost grace of curve and line. Even the point in the short upper lip was as exact as though modelled from the marble of Praxiteles. Around the corners were clustered such shy little curves and ripples that—that looking was longing; and when Gracie smiled, white, even teeth flashed through their roseate frame-work. Her mouth was always an attractive feature, but simply exquisite in repose. _Du reste?_—a fair oval face, a straight, “thorough-bred” nose, a delicately modelled chin with its faint suspicion of lurking dimple, a throat and neck white and soft and spotless, and hands and feet long, slender, the former at least fragile-looking and softly white. “Too thin and scrawny to my taste,” said Mrs. Wilkins, redundant in person as she was in criticism. “The sweetest girl in the army, Nellie Blossom not excepted,” said Lieutenant Ray, as he gazed at her through the canopied entrance to the ball-room, and then sighing profoundly as he contemplated the mortgaged condition of his pay accounts, turned back into the club-room.

Not a vacancy was there on Grace’s card that night, and though she showed no favor, kept no waltz or galop for one who might prove a better partner than another, she had engagements for every number from first to last before she had been half an hour in the ball-room. Glenham as her escort had seized upon the card, and, with boyish selfishness, scribbled his initials in five different places. Later in the night, finding new applicants for her hand who protested against being compelled to go home without one dance with the belle of the evening, she had laughingly summoned her cavalier and notified him that he must yield at least two of his claims in favor of the unprovided-for applicants, a thing that young Arthur most grudgingly acceded to.

Waltz, lanciers, quadrille, and galop succeeded one another in rapid succession as the night wore on, and still even matrons and “chaperons” danced untiringly; still some new sweet strain from Paolo’s orchestra would call the half-wearied ones again to the glassy floor. There was marked diminution among the spectators at the windows where, earlier in the evening, dozens of the soldiers and the soldiers’ wives had gathered to feast their eyes upon the scene within. There was hardly an elderly man among the dancers, yet the sets continued full, and the spirit and movement untiring.

It must have been late in the morning, past three o’clock, when, after a genuine romp through the merry figures of the army quadrille, the dancers hurried out in couples to the club-rooms for a breath of fresh air and a sip of punch or lemonade, as tastes might demand. Among them strolled Grace with her partner, an aide-de-camp on the staff of the commanding general, and with him she stopped one moment at a table where Colonel Pelham, with three or four oldsters, was deep in a game of whist. The colonel looked fondly up into her sweet flushed happy face, and taking the hand she had rested lightly on his shoulder, pressed it to his cheek, as he inquired,—

“Having a good time, daughter? Any of these boys dance any better than your father could fifteen years ago?” Whereat everybody laughed. “Fact,” he continued; “I wouldn’t mind trying a tilt with the majority of them now, except Ray or Truscott. How does Truscott dance, Gracie?”

“I haven’t met him, father. Is he here to-night?”

“Here!” exclaimed the colonel. “Why! _isn’t he?_ General,” he cried, turning suddenly to another table, where, all alone, sat the chief; absorbed, as was his wont, in a game of solitaire. “General, hasn’t Truscott reported? I declare I had forgotten.”

“Not to me,” said the chief, looking up with an expression of evident anxiety. “Where’s Wickham?” A soldierly, black-haired, black-bearded officer stepped quickly to him. “Wickham, didn’t you get reply to the dispatch to Sandy about Mr. Truscott?”

“Yes, general. Truscott left the post before ten this morning.”

Grace noticed a sudden twitch of the arm of the aide-de-camp on which her hand was resting. Looking quickly up, she saw him biting at the heavy moustache which shaded his mouth, though his sharp, eager eyes were fixed upon the general’s face.

“I don’t understand it,” said Pelham, gravely. “It’s a long, rough, fifty-mile ride, but Truscott has often made it in ten hours.”

“Pardon me, Miss Pelham,” quietly spoke the aide-de-camp. “There goes the waltz you promised Evans, and he will be tearing things to pieces in his efforts to find you if we don’t get back to the ball-room.” And with that he led her quickly away, talking laughingly but in three minutes he was back beside his chief, and a hurried conversation took place in a low tone.

“No, gentlemen,” Colonel Pelham was saying, in answer to a suggestion from the card-table, “it’s no case of a lost shoe or a lame horse. Truscott never was known to lame a horse or to start with a loose shoe. Something has gone wrong, or he would have been here before ten o’clock, and now it’s half-past three.” Another minute, and after some muttered words with the general, Wickham and the aide-de-camp silently slipped out of the room.

Even the Pelham ball (as it was long afterwards termed among the participants) had to come to an end some time. Yet it was after four o’clock when the last waltz found still a dozen enthusiastic dancers gliding about the room, and the performer on the double-bass, falling asleep to the droning accompaniment of his own music, was aroused by a kick to the consciousness that his comrades were playing “Home, Sweet Home,” while he was still sawing away at his part of “Künstler Leben.” From first to last it had been one glowing triumph for Grace, and her ladyship had listened with pardonable and parental pride to many a tribute to her daughter’s beauty, her winning ways, and unaffected manner. Now, as fleecy wraps were being donned previous to venturing forth into the sharp morning air, Mrs. Pelham stood at the door of the dressing-room exchanging last good-nights with those who had lingered to the end. Of these were our Camp Sandy party, one and all indefatigable dancers, except Lieutenant Wilkins who had long since been snoring with his head on his arms in a sheltered corner of the card-room; but even the asperity of his better-half had melted under the genial influences of such music, such partners, and such punch, and for once she had spared him public reprimand; but the sight of her ladyship, smiling, portly, and majestic, showering confidential salutations upon her intimates and condescension upon the juniors, was, as she happily expressed it, “the red rag for my bull,” and once more the matrons met with a clash, and one incident occurred to mar the equanimity with which Mrs. Pelham had witnessed her daughter’s triumph. It had required no keenness of perception throughout the evening to note how thoroughly she had kept Grace and her partners under view; how eagerly she watched the devotion of Glenham; how frowningly the attentions of such ineligibles as Ray, Evans, Hunter, and the like had been regarded; for poor as those youngsters might have been in pocket, in point of personal attractions poor Glenham had little to offer in competition with them.

“Ah, Mrs. Pelham,” said Mrs. Wilkins, halting in front of the colonel’s wife, “Miss Gracie has won all hearts to-night. I predict it won’t be long before we have a grand wedding at this rate. Sure all the young fellows will be cutting one another’s throats if she isn’t married inside of the year.”

Amazed at the effrontery of her manner, as well as stung by its fearlessness, Mrs. Pelham’s portly bosom swelled with wrath, and the color surged to her forehead. In the desperately hopeless effort of crushing her foe with an overwhelming hauteur, she replied,—

“It is to be hoped, Mrs. Wilkins, that my daughter will have too much character to rush into any such matrimonial gulf as you suggest. She will be guided by her parents, not by freak or fancy, and need be in no hurry.”

“’Deed and you’re right, Mrs. Pelham; she’ll never be in a hurry so long as only such brainless boys as Glenham are allowed to approach her. But wait till men like Truscott step in. It’s her father’s own daughter she’ll be then, or I’m mistaken.” And a sarcastic laugh was the only rejoinder her ladyship had time to make before Glenham and Grace appeared at her side; but wrath was in her heart and vengeance plotting in her brain as she turned to her escort.

It was so new to her to be braved and badgered this way by a woman vastly her inferior in social station; the wife of an officer, to be sure, but that officer but an old lieutenant of her husband’s regiment, a man who, having rendered his country good service during the war of the Rebellion, had thankfully accepted a second lieutenancy in the regular cavalry at its close. He and his sharp-sighted, razor-tongued wife had “joined” together in ’67, and long association among ladies of refinement and culture had only slightly dulled the edges of her uncouthness; but she was a prudent, saving, and thrifty woman in her household; had been a far more valuable helpmeet to patient, plodding Wilkins than he knew, and, except when indulging in a fit of ill temper and consequent explosiveness of language, she kept his home in reasonable comfort and his children in excellent dress and discipline. Policy she had, and cared to have, none. She had some warm impulses; was a faithful friend in time of trouble or illness; had been a devoted nurse to young Gregg when he was down with the mountain fever, and to Plympton when he was slowly recovering from the wounds the pestilent Apaches had inflicted in the last fight he and her husband had had with them; but the moment another woman attempted to override or ignore her there rose in her bosom a spirit of resentment that overswept all bounds. She had neither education nor polish, but a faculty of saying just what she thought, and more too, and, to use her husband’s rueful admission, “She wasn’t afraid of the devil.”

Still swelling with suppressed wrath was the colonel’s wife when Lieutenant Ray, with his cavalry circular (“cape” as they called it) thrown over his arm, re-entered and hastily approached her. Well he knew that had more than once that night looked askance at his attentions to Grace; possibly, too, he realized the importance of seizing upon the opportunity while it served, for his manner was deferential and courteous in the extreme as he bowed before her ladyship. “Colonel Pelham has been called off with the general, madame. I cannot imagine what is going on, but may I not have the honor of escorting you home?”

Now, here was a young man who properly appreciated her position, or his own inferiority, no matter which. So lately dared by one of her own sex, her ladyship’s ruffled feathers were smoothed by the tone of deference with which the diplomatic Ray made tender of his services. Her flushed features unbent in a smile of patronizing (matronizing?) consent, and, with a sweeping and comprehensive good-night bow to the throng, she accepted the subaltern’s arm and majestically left the hall.

Gracie lingered, with Glenham flitting impatiently about her. There were so many good-nights to be said, so many repetitions of “Just the loveliest ball ever known,” so many projects for rides or drives and dances when they had had time to get over this one, though there was not a belle present who did not profess her entire ability to start right on and begin all over again, but at last the group broke away, and in a few moments Arthur Glenham was leading his sweet partner up the winding path towards the general’s house, and not a soul was within earshot.

Brilliantly the stars were gleaming in the rare purity of the Sierran atmosphere. Cold and calm and glittering they shone down upon the dark pine-crested heights, and upon the dim valley in which sleeping town and outlying cantonment lay nestled. High aloft the studded girdle of Orion hung resplendent in the zenith, while farther west, from the lowering front of the great Bull, Aldebaran, radiant in his isolation, shone sparkling through the silent skies. Eastward, fringing the tumbling, ragged outline of the hills, a grayish pallor overspread the firmament, but left in deeper shade all objects at their base. Here and there along the spur of foot-hill glimmering lights betrayed the homes of the officers, and lower down, midway across the valley, a broad yellow glare shot athwart the high road from the doors of the post-trader’s, opened at that late hour presumably for the benefit of the drivers and hangers-on who had conveyed the guests from Prescott, but probably more to the benefit of the trader himself, for Arizona whiskey is of the vile vilest. The last wagon-load had rolled away towards town, the beat of hoof and rumble of wheel dying in the distance full ten minutes ago, and still those enticing doors stood open, evidence of further patronage, yet no sound came from the usually noisy bar- or card-room. All was so still that the cry of the sentinel’s “Half-past four-o’clock and a-a-all’s well” rang through the frosty air like notes of clarion.

Along the opposite ridge the dim night-lights at the hospital had given place to some unwonted illumination. Glenham and his companion strolling slowly up the path must have marked it, had she known how unusual a feature these lights were at Whipple, had he marked anything but the beauty of the sweet face that enchained his eyes. For a moment they paused midway up the steep and looked back towards the now deserted ball-room “whose lights were fled.” It lay in a little valley midway between them and a line of low one-storied buildings on the rise beyond. Oh, Glenham, where were your eyes that you noted not the lights moving rapidly to and fro among them, the offices of the adjutant-general and aides and the telegraph station? Where were your eyes that you saw not, still farther beyond, the line of windows in the cavalry quarters, or down in the valley of the stream itself, the flitting lanterns in the stables and corral? Poor boy! he saw nothing, thought of nothing but the face and form beside him, the glorious eyes that had haunted his dreams for two long years. The pair had stopped one brief moment to look around at the scene they had so lately left, and she, noting how he had no eyes for aught but her, marking with woman’s quick intuition the silence that had taken possession of him, dreading the avowal she knew must be trembling on his lips, strove to move on again, and broke nervously into speech, but he resisted the gentle effort, and looking up she met his gaze. With an intensity of longing she had never dreamed of seeing Glenham’s blue eyes were fastened passionately upon her face, drinking in her beauty. With a quick, impulsive movement he seized the slender hand that had lain upon his arm, and eagerly, brokenly, almost sobbingly, the words burst from his lips,—

“Grace! Gracie! I can wait no longer. You know I love you; you _must_ know it. Haven’t you one word of hope for me after all this long time?”

No time to hesitate now, no backward look or step, the plunge was taken; the words that, come what might, could never be forgotten, were spoken irrevocably. All along she had known they must be said, though in many a gentle way she had striven to give him to understand how hopeless it was, and now she must meet the words and, all too late, turn them back. Looking quickly into his quivering face, yet making no effort to disengage the hand he clasped so tightly as almost to crush, her answer came like a cry of pain, “Oh, Mr. Glenham! I have tried so hard to avert this. I had hoped, almost prayed, you had forgotten what—what you told me at West Point.”

For a moment no further word was spoken. She could hear the heavy beating of his heart, the gasping sob that rose to his lips, as, in dumb misery, his head fell upon his breast.

“If it had been a thing I could write of, I would have tried even harder to explain to you why it could never be,” she presently went on gently, almost caressingly, her tone was so full of sympathy and sorrow. “You remember, don’t you, that I told you two years ago, when you first spoke of—of this, that, though I did like you, it could only be like?”

Mutely he bowed his head, then releasing her hands he clasped his own, and leaned drearily against the little tree that stood beside the path. Then once again his head drooped upon his breast, and, with sudden movement, he covered his face with his hands, and next great sobs shook his young frame. Distressed beyond measure, alarmed at his violent grief, Grace knew not what to do. The tears were streaming from her own eyes as she stretched forth her hands, and, clasping his wrist, strove to turn him towards her. “It breaks my heart to see you suffer so, and yet I have no words to comfort you. Oh, Arthur, I never deserved such. I never thought it possible. Why _did_ you not believe me when I told you then? Surely, I have not let you cherish this feeling for me.”

Almost roughly he shook her hand away, and started up. “I’m not reproaching you,” he said. “You could not crush it out if you had tried ten times as hard; but Grace, Grace, I could not help hoping. You were so young then; your mother——No! I couldn’t have crushed it even if she had not——”

“She! my mother!” broke in Grace. “How do you mean, Mr. Glenham? Mother could never have induced you to believe other than what I told you.”

But Glenham had no time to reply; a quick, springy step was heard approaching. In the dim light a soldierly form came swinging into the path, and, catching sight of the white “burnouse” which enveloped Grace’s throat and head, Lieutenant Ray stopped and held out his hand.

“Just in the nick of time, Miss Pelham. I’m off to join my troop fast as horse can take me. That you, Glenham? We’ll probably meet again then. All you Sandy fellows are ordered out. The Tontos have jumped the reservation. Good-by, Miss Pelham. If you miss the tassel of your fan to-morrow don’t think you lost it, I stole it an hour ago.” And with that he bounded down the path.

Even as he disappeared a ringing trumpet-call pealed stirringly through the air the well-known signal, “Boots and Saddles!” and Glenham started from his attitude of utter despondency with an exclamation of almost fierce delight: “Thank God for that,—for anything of the sort!” And, dashing his hand across his eyes, the boy turned hastily up the path, leading his startled companion by the hand.

“Tell me what it means, Mr. Glenham,” she said, as soon as she could recover breath.

“More fighting and scouting, I suppose. I hadn’t hoped for anything half so good,” he added, biting savagely at his lip.

Two horses, held by an orderly, stood in front of the general’s quarters, and the door opening suddenly gave exit to the aide-de-camp who had been one of Grace’s devotees during the night. Springing down the steps, he swung into the saddle before he heard Glenham’s hail.

“You’ll find Turner and Raymond over at Wickham’s office,” was all he had time to say. “They’ve got the orders for Sandy,” he called back as he disappeared, followed by his orderly.

“Then it’s good-by, Grace,” said Glenham, slowly, as they ascended the steps. His voice was harsh and constrained, stern and harsh it sounded to her, but he was struggling against his deep emotion now, and the soldier in him rebelled at the betrayal of weakness.

On the porch he stopped, still not looking in her face: “I don’t know when we’ll meet again. I did not mean to risk and lose all so soon, but—but I was a fool, I suppose. You let Ray have that tassel, give me this glove. It isn’t much to ask now.”

It was Grace’s turn to be wellnigh weeping. Despite her efforts the great tears were coursing down her cheeks, and she could not trust her voice to utter a word. The sight of his suffering, the utter dejection of his tone and mien, were too much for her nature, always sympathetic, always gentle.

“Just one word, Grace,” he said, as he suddenly turned and seized her hands. “You say I must not hope. I’m going now without another plea. Tell me the truth, is there any man for whom you do care?”

And her eyes, tear-dimmed, yet sweet and truthful, looked fearlessly up in his face. “No, Mr. Glenham, no.” He bent low over her hand, pressed it to his lips, and turned suddenly away. “No,” she cried, “no one whom I even like as I do you.” He would have turned once again to her, but the door opened suddenly, a broad light streamed out upon the porch, and Grace Pelham, her face flushed and wellnigh bathed in tears, confronted Jack Truscott.