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From the Ranks

by Charles King · English · Gutenberg #16558 · 380,938 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: From the Ranks

Author: Charles King


        
Release date: August 20, 2005 [eBook #16558]
                Most recently updated: December 12, 2020

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FROM THE RANKS ***




Produced by Suzanne Shell, Janet Blenkinship and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net









FROM THE RANKS.

BY

CAPT. CHARLES KING, U.S.A.,

AUTHOR OF "THE COLONEL'S DAUGHTER," "MARION'S FAITH," "KITTY'S
CONQUEST," ETC., ETC.

Transcriber's note:
This e-book of From the Ranks is based upon the edition found in The
Deserter, and From the Ranks. Two Novels, by Capt. Charles King.
Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott Company, 1890. The Deserter is also
available as a Project Gutenberg e-book.

PHILADELPHIA:

J.B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY.

1890.

Copyright, 1887, by J.B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY.




FROM THE RANKS.




I.


A strange thing had happened at the old fort during the still watches of
the night. Even now, at nine in the morning, no one seemed to be in
possession of the exact circumstances. The officer of the day was
engaged in an investigation, and all that appeared to be generally known
was the bald statement that the sentry on "Number Five" had fired at
somebody or other about half after three; that he had fired by order of
the officer of the day, who was on his post at the time; and that now he
flatly refused to talk about the matter.

Garrison curiosity, it is perhaps needless to say, was rather stimulated
than lulled by this announcement. An unusual number of officers were
chatting about head-quarters when Colonel Maynard came over to his
office. Several ladies, too, who had hitherto shown but languid interest
in the morning music of the band, had taken the trouble to stroll down
to the old quadrangle, ostensibly to see guard-mounting. Mrs. Maynard
was almost always on her piazza at this time, and her lovely daughter
was almost sure to be at the gate with two or three young fellows
lounging about her. This morning, however, not a soul appeared in front
of the colonel's quarters.

Guard-mounting at the fort was not held until nine o'clock, contrary to
the somewhat general custom at other posts in our scattered army.
Colonel Maynard had ideas of his own upon the subject, and it was his
theory that everything worked more smoothly if he had finished a
leisurely breakfast before beginning office-work of any kind, and
neither the colonel nor his family cared to breakfast before eight
o'clock. In view of the fact that Mrs. Maynard had borne that name but a
very short time and that her knowledge of army life dated only from the
month of May, the garrison was disposed to consider her entitled to
much latitude of choice in such matters, even while it did say that she
was old enough to be above bride-like sentiment. The womenfolk at the
fort were of opinion that Mrs. Maynard was fifty. It must be conceded
that she was over forty, also that this was her second entry into the
bonds of matrimony.

That no one should now appear on the colonel's piazza was obviously a
disappointment to several people. In some way or other most of the
breakfast tables at the post had been enlivened by accounts of the
mysterious shooting. The soldiers going the rounds with the
"police-cart," the butcher and grocer and baker from town, the old
milkwoman with her glistening cans, had all served as newsmongers from
kitchen to kitchen, and the story that came in with the coffee to the
lady of the house had lost nothing in bulk or bravery. The groups of
officers chatting and smoking in front of head-quarters gained
accessions every moment, while the ladies seemed more absorbed in chat
and confidences than in the sweet music of the band.

What fairly exasperated some men was the fact that the old officer of
the day was not out on the parade where he belonged. Only the new
incumbent was standing there in statuesque pose as the band trooped
along the line, and the fact that the colonel had sent out word that the
ceremony would proceed without Captain Chester only served to add fuel
to the flame of popular conjecture. It was known that the colonel was
holding a consultation with closed doors with the old officer of the
day, and never before since he came to the regiment had the colonel been
known to look so pale and strange as when he glanced out for just one
moment and called his orderly. The soldier sprang up, saluted, received
his message, and, with every eye following him, sped off towards the old
stone guard-house. In three minutes he was on his way back, accompanied
by a corporal and private of the guard in full dress uniform.

"That's Leary,--the man who fired the shot," said Captain Wilton to his
senior lieutenant, who stood by his side.

"Belongs to B Company, doesn't he?" queried the subaltern. "Seems to me
I have heard Captain Armitage say he was one of his best men."

"Yes. He's been in the regiment as long as I can remember. What on earth
can the colonel want him for? Near as I can learn, he only fired by
Chester's order."

"And neither of them knows what he fired at."

It was perhaps ten minutes more before Private Leary came forth from
the door-way of the colonel's office, nodded to the corporal, and,
raising their white-gloved hands in salute to the group of officers, the
two men tossed their rifles to the right shoulder and strode back to the
guard.

Another moment, and the colonel himself opened his door and appeared in
the hall-way. He stopped abruptly, turned back and spoke a few words in
low tone, then hurried through the groups at the entrance, looking at no
man, avoiding their glances, and giving faint and impatient return to
the soldierly salutations that greeted him. The sweat was beaded on his
forehead; his lips were white, and his face full of a trouble and dismay
no man had ever seen there before. He spoke to no one, but walked
rapidly homeward, entered, and closed the gate and door behind him.

For a moment there was silence in the group. Few men in the service were
better loved and honored than the veteran soldier who commanded the
----th Infantry; and it was with genuine concern that his officers saw
him so deeply and painfully affected,--for affected he certainly was.
Never before had his cheery voice denied them a cordial "Good-morning,
gentlemen." Never before had his blue eyes flinched. He had been their
comrade and commander in years of frontier service, and his bachelor
home had been the rendezvous of all genial spirits when in garrison.
They had missed him sorely when he went abroad on long leave the
previous year, and were almost indignant when they received the news
that he had met his fate in Italy and would return married. "She" was
the widow of a wealthy New-Yorker who had been dead some three years
only, and, though over forty, did not look her years to masculine eyes
when she reached the fort in May. After knowing her a week, the garrison
had decided to a man that the colonel had done wisely. Mrs. Maynard was
charming, courteous, handsome, and accomplished. Only among the women
were there still a few who resented their colonel's capture; and some of
these, oblivious of the fact that they had tempted him with relations of
their own, were sententious and severe in their condemnation of second
marriage; for the colonel, too, was indulging in a second experiment. Of
his first, only one man in the regiment, besides the commander, could
tell anything; and he, to the just indignation of almost everybody,
would not discuss the subject. It was rumored that in the old days when
Maynard was senior captain and Chester junior subaltern in their former
regiment the two had very little in common. It was known that the first
Mrs. Maynard, while still young and beautiful, had died abroad. It was
hinted that the resignation of a dashing lieutenant of the regiment,
which was synchronous with her departure for foreign shores, was
demanded by his brother officers; but it was useless asking Captain
Chester. He could not tell; and--wasn't it odd?--here was Chester again,
the only man in the colonel's confidence in an hour of evident trouble.

"By Jove! what's gone wrong with the chief?" was the first exclamation
from one of the older officers. "I never saw him look so broken."

As no explanation suggested itself, they began edging in towards the
office. The door stood open; a hand-bell banged; a clerk darted in from
the sergeant-major's rooms, and Captain Chester was revealed seated at
the colonel's desk. This in itself was sufficient to induce several
officers to stroll in and look inquiringly around. Captain Chester,
merely nodding, went on with some writing at which he was engaged.

After a moment's awkward silence and uneasy glancing at one another, the
party seemed to arrive at the conclusion that it was time to speak. The
band had ceased, and the new guard had marched away behind its pealing
bugles. Lieutenant Hall winked at his comrades, strolled hesitatingly
over to the desk, balanced unsteadily on one leg, and, with his hands
sticking in his trousers-pockets and his forage-cap swinging from
protruding thumb and forefinger, cleared his throat, and, with marked
lack of confidence, accosted his absorbed superior:

"Colonel gone home?"

"Didn't you see him?" was the uncompromising reply; and the captain did
not deign to raise his head or eyes.

"Well--er--yes, I suppose I did," said Mr. Hall, shifting uncomfortably
to his other leg, and prodding the floor with the toe of his boot.

"Then that wasn't what you wanted to know, I presume," said Captain
Chester, signing his name with a vicious dab of the pen and bringing his
fist down with a thump on the blotting-pad, while he wheeled around in
his chair and looked squarely up into the perturbed features of the
junior.

"No, it wasn't," answered Mr. Hall, in an injured tone, while an
audible snicker at the door added to his sense of discomfort. "What I
mainly wanted was to know could I go to town."

"That matter is easily arranged, Mr. Hall. All you have to do is to get
out of that uncomfortable and unsoldierly position, stand in the
attitude in which you are certainly more at home and infinitely more
picturesque, proffer your request in respectful words, and there is no
question as to the result."

"Oh! you're in command, then?" said Mr. Hall, slowly wriggling into the
position of the soldier and flushing through his bronzed cheeks. "I
thought the colonel might be only gone for a minute."

"The colonel may not be back for a week; but you be here for
dress-parade all the same, and--Mr. Hall!" he called, as the young
officer was turning away. The latter faced about again.

"Was Mr. Jerrold going with you to town?"

"Yes, sir. He was to drive me in his dog-cart, and it's over here now."

"Mr. Jerrold cannot go,--at least not until I have seen him."

"Why, captain, he got the colonel's permission at breakfast this
morning."

"That is true, no doubt, Mr. Hall." And the captain dropped his sharp
and captious manner, and his voice fell, as though in sympathy with the
cloud that settled on his face. "I cannot explain matters just now.
There are reasons why the permission is withdrawn for the time being.
The adjutant will notify him." And Captain Chester turned to his desk
again as the new officer of the day, guard-book in hand, entered to make
his report.

"The usual orders, captain," said Chester, as he took the book from his
hand and looked over the list of prisoners. Then, in bold and rapid
strokes, he wrote across the page the customary certificate of the old
officer of the day, winding up with this remark:

"He also inspected guard and visited sentries between 3 and 3.35 a.m.
The firing at 3.30 a.m. was by his order."

Meantime, those officers who had entered and who had no immediate duty
to perform were standing or seated around the room, but all observing
profound silence. For a moment or two no sound was heard but the
scratching of the captain's pen. Then, with some embarrassment and
hesitancy, he laid it down and glanced around him.

"Has any one here anything to ask,--any business to transact?"

Two or three mentioned some routine matters that required the action of
the post-commander, but did so reluctantly, as though they preferred to
await the orders of the colonel himself. Captain Wilton, indeed, spoke
his sentiments:

"I wanted to see Colonel Maynard about getting two men of my company
relieved from extra duty; but, as he isn't here, I fancy I had better
wait."

"Not at all. Who are your men?--Have it done at once, Mr. Adjutant, and
supply their places from my company, if need be. Now is there anything
else?"

The group was apparently "nonplussed," as the adjutant afterwards put
it, by such unlooked-for complaisance on the part of the usually
crotchety senior captain. Still, no one offered to lead the others and
leave the room. After a moment's nervous rapping with his knuckles on
the desk, Captain Chester again abruptly spoke:

"Gentlemen, I am sorry to incommode you, but, if there be nothing more
that you desire to see me about, I shall go on with some other matters,
which--pardon me--do not require your presence."

At this very broad hint the party slowly found their legs, and with much
wonderment and not a few resentful glances at their temporary commander
the officers sauntered to the door-way. There, however, several stopped
again, still reluctant to leave in the face of so pervading a mystery,
for Wilton turned.

"Am I to understand that Colonel Maynard has left the post to be gone
any length of time?" he asked.

"He has not yet gone. I do not know how long he will be gone or how soon
he will start. For pressing personal reasons he has turned over the
command to me; and, if he decide to remain away, of course some
field-officer will be ordered to come to head-quarters. For a day or two
you will have to worry along with me; but I shan't worry you more than I
can help. I've got mystery and mischief enough here to keep me busy, God
knows. Just ask Sloat to come back here to me, will you? And--Wilton, I
did not mean to be abrupt with you. I'm all upset to-day. Mr. Adjutant,
notify Mr. Jerrold at once that he must not leave the post until I have
seen him. It is the colonel's last order. Tell him so."




II.


The night before had been unusually dark. A thick veil of clouds
overspread the heavens and hid the stars. Moon there was none, for the
faint silver crescent that gleamed for a moment through the
swift-sailing wisps of vapor had dropped beneath the horizon soon after
tattoo, and the mournful strains of "taps," borne on the rising wind,
seemed to signal "extinguish lights" to the entire firmament as well as
to Fort Sibley. There was a dance of some kind at the quarters of one of
the staff-officers living far up the row on the southern terrace.
Chester heard the laughter and chat as the young officers and their
convoy of matrons and maids came tripping homeward after midnight. He
was a crusty old bachelor, to use his own description, and rarely
ventured into these scenes of social gayety, and, besides, he was
officer of the day, and it was a theory he was fond of expounding to
juniors that when on guard no soldier should permit himself to be drawn
from the scene of his duties. With his books and his pipe Chester whiled
away the lonely hours of the early night, and wondered if the wind would
blow up a rain or disperse the clouds entirely. Towards one o'clock a
light, bounding footstep approached his door, and the portal flew open
as a trim-built young fellow with laughing eyes and an air of exuberant
health and spirits came briskly in. It was Rollins, the junior second
lieutenant of the regiment, and Chester's own and only pet,--so said the
envious others. He was barely a year out of leading-strings at the
Point, and as full of hope and pluck and mischief as a colt. Moreover,
he was frank and teachable, said Chester, and didn't come to him with
the idea that he had nothing to learn and less to do. The boy won upon
his gruff captain from the very start, and, to the incredulous delight
of the whole regiment, within six months the old cynic had taken him
into his heart and home, and Mr. Rollins occupied a pleasant room under
Chester's roof-tree, and was the sole accredited sharer of the captain's
mess. To a youngster just entering service, whose ambition it was to
stick to business and make a record for zeal and efficiency, these were
manifest advantages. There were men in the regiment to whom such close
communion with a watchful senior would have been most embarrassing, and
Mr. Rollins's predecessor as second lieutenant of Chester's company was
one of these. Mr. Jerrold was a happy man when promotion took him from
under the wing of "Crusty Jake" and landed him in Company B. More than
that, it came just at a time when, after four years of loneliness and
isolation at an up-river stockade, his new company and his old one,
together with four others from the regiment, were ordered to join
head-quarters and the band at the most delightful station in the
Northwest. Here Mr. Rollins had reported for duty during the previous
autumn, and here they were with troops of other arms of the service,
enjoying the close proximity of all the good things of civilization.

Chester looked up with a quizzical smile as his "plebe" came in:

"Well, sir, how many dances had you with 'Sweet Alice, Ben Bolt'? Not
many, I fancy, with Mr. Jerrold monopolizing everything, as usual. By
gad! some good fellow could make a colossal fortune in buying that young
man at my valuation and selling him at his own."

"Oh, come, now, captain," laughed Rollins, "Jerrold's no such slouch as
you make him out. He's lazy, and he likes to spoon, and he puts up with
a good deal of petting from the girls,--who wouldn't, if he could get
it?--but he is jolly and big-hearted, and don't put on any airs,--with
us, at least,--and the mess like him first-rate. 'Tain't his fault that
he's handsome and a regular lady-killer. You must admit that he had a
pretty tough four years of it up there at that cussed old Indian
graveyard, and it's only natural he should enjoy getting here, where
there are theatres and concerts and operas and dances and dinners--"

"Yes, dances and dinners and daughters,--all delightful, I know, but no
excuse for a man's neglecting his manifest duty, as he is doing and has
been ever since we got here. Any other time the colonel would have
straightened him out; but no use trying it now, when both women in his
household are as big fools about the man as anybody in town,--bigger,
unless I'm a born idiot." And Chester rose excitedly.

"I suppose he had Miss Renwick pretty much to himself to-night?" he
presently demanded, looking angrily and searchingly at his junior, as
though half expecting him to dodge the question.

"Oh, yes. Why not? It's pretty evident she would rather dance and be
with him than with any one else: so what can a fellow do? Of course we
ask her to dance, and all that, and I think he wants us to; but I cannot
help feeling rather a bore to her, even if she is only eighteen, and
there are plenty of pleasant girls in the garrison who don't get any too
much attention, now we're so near a big city, and I like to be with
them."

"Yes, and it's the _right_ thing for you to do, youngster. That's one
trait I despise in Jerrold. When we were up there at the stockade two
winters ago, and Captain Gray's little girl was there, he hung around
her from morning till night, and the poor little thing fairly beamed and
blossomed with delight. Look at her now, man! He don't go near her. He
hasn't had the decency to take her a walk, a drive, or anything, since
we got here. He began, from the moment we came, with that gang in town.
He was simply devoted to Miss Beaubien until Alice Renwick came; then he
dropped her like a hot brick. By the Eternal, Rollins, he hasn't gotten
off with _that_ old love yet, you mark my words. There's Indian blood in
her veins, and a look in her eye that makes me wriggle, sometimes. I
watched her last night at parade when she drove out here with that
copper-faced old squaw, her mother. For all her French and Italian
education and her years in New York and Paris, that girl's got a wild
streak in her somewhere. She sat there watching him as the officers
marched to the front, and then _her_, as he went up and joined Miss
Renwick; and there was a gleam of her white teeth and a flash in her
black eyes that made me think of the leap of a knife from the sheath.
Not but what 'twould serve him right if she did play him some devil's
trick. It's his own doing. Were any people out from town?" he suddenly
asked.

"Yes, half a dozen or so," answered Mr. Rollins, who was pulling off his
boots and inserting his feet into easy slippers, while old "Crusty"
tramped excitedly up and down the floor. "Most of them stayed out here,
I think. Only one team went back across the bridge."

"Whose was that?"

"The Suttons', I believe. Young Cub Sutton was out with his sister and
another girl."

"There's another damned fool!" growled Chester. "That boy has ten
thousand a year of his own, a beautiful home that will be his, a doting
mother and sister, and everything wealth can buy, and yet, by gad! he's
unhappy because he can't be a poor devil of a lieutenant, with nothing
but drills, debts, and rifle-practice to enliven him. That's what brings
him out here all the time. He'd swap places with you in a minute. Isn't
he very thick with Jerrold?"

"Oh, yes, rather. Jerrold entertains him a good deal."

"Which is returned with compound interest, I'll bet you. Mr. Jerrold
simply makes a convenience of him. He won't make love to his sister,
because the poor, rich, unsophisticated girl is as ugly as she is
ubiquitous. His majesty is fastidious, you see, and seeks only the
caress of beauty, and while he lives there at the Suttons' when he goes
to town, and dines and sleeps and smokes and wines there, and uses their
box at the opera-house, and is courted and flattered by the old lady
because dear Cubby worships the ground he walks on and poor Fanny Sutton
thinks him adorable, he turns his back on the girl at every dance
because she _can't_ dance, and leaves her to you fellows who have a
conscience and some idea of decency. He gives all _his_ devotions to
Nina Beaubien, who dances like a _coryphée_, and drops _her_ when Alice
Renwick comes with her glowing Spanish beauty. Oh, damn it, I'm an old
fool to get worked up over it as I do, but you young fellows don't see
what I see. You haven't seen what I've seen; and pray God you never may!
That's where the shoe pinches, Rollins. It is what he _reminds_ me
of--not so much what he _is_, I suppose--that I get rabid about. He is
for all the world like a man we had in the old regiment when you were in
swaddling-clothes; and I never look at Mamie Gray's sad, white face that
it doesn't bring back a girl I knew just then whose heart was broken by
just such a shallow, selfish, adorable scoun--No, I won't use _that_
word in speaking of Jerrold; but it's what I fear. Rollins, you call him
generous. Well, so he is,--_lavish_, if you like, with his money and his
hospitality here in the post. Money comes easily to him, and goes; but
you boys misuse the term. _I_ call him selfish to the core, because he
can deny himself no luxury, no pleasure, though it may wring a woman's
life--or, more than that, her honor--to give it him." The captain was
tramping up and down the room now, as was his wont when excited; his
face was flushed, and his hand clinched. He turned suddenly and faced
the younger officer, who sat gazing uncomfortably at the rug in front of
the fireplace.

"Rollins, some day I may tell you a story that I've kept to myself all
these years. You won't wonder at my feeling as I do about these
goings-on of your friend Jerrold when you hear it all, but it was just
such a man as he who ruined one woman, broke the heart of another, and
took the sunshine out of the life of two men from that day to this. One
of them was your colonel, the other your captain. Now go to bed. I'm
going out." And, throwing down his pipe, regardless of the scattering
sparks and ashes, Captain Chester strode into the hall-way, picked up
the first forage-cap he laid hands on, and banged himself out of the
front door.

Mr. Rollins remained for some moments in the same attitude, still gazing
abstractedly at the rug, and listening to the nervous tramp of his
senior officer on the piazza without. Then he slowly and thoughtfully
went to his room, where his perturbed spirit was soon soothed in sleep.
His conscience being clear and his health perfect, there were no deep
cares to keep him tossing on a restless pillow.

To Chester, however, sleep was impossible: he tramped the piazza a full
hour before he felt placid enough to go and inspect his guard. The
sentries were calling three o'clock, and the wind had died away, as he
started on his round. Dark as was the night, he carried no lantern. The
main garrison was well lighted by lamps, and the road circling the old
fort was broad, smooth, and bordered by a stone coping wall where it
skirted the precipitous descent into the river-bottom. As he passed down
the plank walk west of the quadrangle wherein lay the old barracks and
the stone quarters of the commanding officer and the low one-storied row
of bachelor dens, he could not help noting the silence and peace of the
night. Not a light was visible at any window as he strode down the line.
The challenge of the sentry at the old stone tower sounded unnecessarily
sharp and loud, and his response of "Officer of the day" was lower than
usual, as though rebuking the unseemly outcry. The guard came scrambling
out and formed hurriedly to receive him, but the captain's inspection
was of the briefest kind. Barely glancing along the prison corridor to
see that the bars were in place, he turned back into the night, and made
for the line of posts along the river-bank. The sentry at the high
bridge across the gorge, and the next one, well around to the southeast
flank, were successively visited and briefly questioned as to their
instructions, and then the captain plodded sturdily on until he came to
the sharp bend around the outermost angle of the fort and found himself
passing behind the quarters of the commanding officer, a substantial
two-storied stone house with mansard roof and dormer-windows. The road
in the rear was some ten feet below the level of the parade inside the
quadrangle, and consequently, as the house faced the parade, what was
the ground-floor from that front became the second story at the rear.
The kitchen, store-room, and servants' rooms were on this lower stage,
and opened upon the road; an outer stairway ran up to the centre door at
the back, but at the east and west flanks of the house the stone walls
stood without port or window except those above the eaves,--the dormers.
Light and air in abundance streamed through the broad Venetian windows
north and south when light and air were needed. This night, as usual,
all was tightly closed below, all darkness aloft as he glanced up at the
dormers high above his head. As he did so, his foot struck a sudden and
sturdy obstacle; he stumbled and pitched heavily forward, and found
himself sprawling at full length upon a ladder lying on the ground
almost in the middle of the roadway.

"Damn those painters!" he growled between his set teeth. "They leave
their infernal man-traps around in the very hope of catching me, I
believe. Now, who but a painter would have left a ladder in such a place
as this?"

Rising ruefully and rubbing a bruised knee with his hand, he limped
painfully ahead a few steps, until he came to the side-wall of the
colonel's house. Here a plank walk passed from the roadway along the
western wall until almost on a line with the front piazza, where by a
flight of steps it was carried up to the level of the parade. Here he
paused a moment to dust off his clothes and rearrange his belt and
sword. He stood leaning against the wall and facing the gray stone gable
end of the row of old-fashioned quarters that bounded the parade upon
the southwest. All was still darkness and silence.

"Confound this sword!" he muttered again: "the thing made rattle and
racket enough to wake the dead. Wonder if I disturbed anybody at the
colonel's."

As though in answer to his suggestion, there suddenly appeared, high on
the blank wall before him, the reflection of a faint light. Had a little
night-lamp been turned on in the front room of the upper story? The
gleam came from the north window on the side: he saw plainly the shadow
of the pretty lace curtains, looped loosely back. Then the shade was
gently raised, and there was for an instant the silhouette of a slender
hand and wrist, the shadow of a lace-bordered sleeve. Then the light
receded, as though carried back across the room, waned, as though slowly
extinguished, and the last shadows showed the curtains still looped
back, the rolling shade still raised.

"I thought so," he growled. "One tumble like that is enough to wake the
Seven Sleepers, let alone a love-sick girl who is probably dreaming over
Jerrold's parting words. She is spirited and blue-blooded enough to have
more sense, too, that same superb brunette. Ah, Miss Alice, I wonder if
you think that fellow's love worth having. It is two hours since he left
you,--more than that,--and here you are awake yet,--cannot sleep,--want
more air, and have to come and raise your shade. No such warm night,
either." These were his reflections as he picked up his offending sword
and, more slowly and cautiously now, groped his way along the western
terrace. He passed the row of bachelor quarters, and was well out beyond
the limits of the fort before he came upon the next sentry,--"Number
Five,"--and recognized, in the stern "Who comes there?" and the sharp
rattle of the bayonet as it dropped to the charge, the well-known
challenge of Private Leary, one of the oldest and most reliable soldiers
in the regiment.

"All right on your post, Leary?" he asked, after having given the
countersign.

"All right, I _think_, sor; though if the captain had asked me that half
an hour ago I'd not have said so. It was so dark I couldn't see me hand
afore me face, sor; but about half-past two I was walkin' very slow down
back of the quarters, whin just close by Loot'nant Jerrold's back gate I
seen somethin' movin', and as I come softly along it riz up, an' sure I
thought 'twas the loot'nant himself, whin he seemed to catch sight o' me
or hear me, and he backed inside the gate an' shut it. I was sure 'twas
he, he was so tall and slim like, an' so I niver said a word until I got
to thinkin' over it, and then I couldn't spake. Sure if it had been the
loot'nant he wouldn't have backed away from a sintry; he'd 'a' come out
bold and given the countersign; but I didn't think o' that. It looked
like him in the dark, an' 'twas his quarters, an' I thought it _was_
him, until I thought ag'in, and then, sor, I wint back and searched the
yard; but there was no one there."

"Hm! Odd thing that, Leary! Why didn't you challenge at first?"

"Sure, sor, he lept inside the fince quick as iver we set eyes on each
other. He was bendin' down, and I thought it was one of the hound pups
when I first sighted him."

"And he hasn't been around since?"

"No, sor, nor nobody, till the officer of the day came along."

Chester walked away puzzled. Sibley was a most quiet and orderly
garrison. Night prowlers had never been heard from, especially over here
at the south and southwest fronts. The enlisted men going to or from
town passed across the big, high bridge or went at once to their own
quarters on the east and north. This southwestern terrace behind the
bachelors' row was the most secluded spot on the whole post,--so much so
that when a fire broke out there among the fuel-heaps one sharp winter's
night a year agone it had wellnigh enveloped the whole line before its
existence was discovered. Indeed, not until after this occurrence was a
sentry posted on that front at all; and, once ordered there, he had so
little to do and was so comparatively sure to be undisturbed that the
old soldiers eagerly sought the post in preference to any other, and
were given it as a peace privilege. For months, relief after relief
tramped around the fort and found the terrace post as humdrum and silent
as an empty church; but this night "Number Five" leaped suddenly into
notoriety.

Instead of going home, Chester kept on across the plateau and took a
long walk on the northern side of the reservation, where the
quarter-master's stables and corrals were placed. He was affected by a
strange unrest. His talk with Rollins had roused the memories of years
long gone by,--of days when he, too, was young and full of hope and
faith, ay, full of love,--all lavished on one fair girl who knew it
well, but gently, almost entreatingly, repelled him. Her heart was
wrapped up in another, the Adonis of his day in the gay old seaboard
garrison. She was a soldier's child, barrack-born, simply taught,
knowing little of the vice and temptations, the follies and the frauds,
of the whirling life of civilization. A good and gentle mother had
reared her and been called hence. Her father, an officer whose sabre-arm
was left at Molino del Rey, and whose heart was crushed when the loving
wife was taken from him, turned to the child who so resembled her, and
centred there all his remaining love and life. He welcomed Chester to
his home, and tacitly favored his suit, but in his blindness never saw
how a few moonlit strolls on the old moss-grown parapet, a few evening
dances in the casemates with handsome, wooing, winning Will Forrester,
had done their work. She gave him all the wild, enthusiastic,
worshipping love of her girlish heart just about the time Captain and
Mrs. Maynard came back from leave, and then he grew cold and negligent
_there_, but lived at Maynard's fireside; and one day there came a
sensation,--a tragedy,--and Mrs. Maynard went away, and died abroad, and
a shocked and broken-hearted girl hid her face from all and pined at
home, and Mr. Forrester's resignation was sent from--no one knew just
where, and no one would have cared to know, except Maynard. He would
have followed him, pistol in hand, but Forrester gave him no chance.
Years afterwards Chester again sought her and offered her his love and
his name. It was useless, she told him, sadly. She lived only for her
father now, and would never leave him till he died, and then--she prayed
she might go too. Memories like this _will_ come up at such times in
these same "still watches of the night." Chester was in a moody frame of
mind when about half an hour later he came back past the guard-house.
The sergeant was standing near the lighted entrance, and the captain
called him:

"There's a ladder lying back of the colonel's quarters on the roadway.
Some of those painters left it, I suppose. It's a wonder some of the
reliefs have not broken their necks over it going around to-night. Let
the next one pick it up and move it out of the way. Hasn't it been
reported?"

"Not to me, sir. Corporal Schreiber has command of this relief, and he
has said nothing about it. Here he is, sir."

"Didn't you see it or stumble over it when posting your relief,
corporal?" asked Chester.

"No indeed, sir. I--I think the captain must have been mistaken in
thinking it a ladder. We would surely have struck it if it had been."

"No mistake at all, corporal. I lifted it. It is a long, heavy
ladder,--over twenty feet, I should say."

"There _is_ such a ladder back there, captain," said the sergeant, "but
it always hangs on the fence just behind the young officers'
quarters,--Bachelors' Row, sir, I mean."

"And that ladder was there an hour ago when I went my rounds," said the
corporal, earnestly. "I had my hurricane-lamp, sir, and saw it on the
fence plainly. And there was nothing behind the colonel's at that hour."

Chester turned away, thoughtful and silent. Without a word he walked
straight into the quadrangle, past the low line of stone buildings, the
offices of the adjutant and quartermaster, the home of the
sergeant-major, the club and billiard-room, past the long, piazza-shaded
row of bachelor quarters, and came upon the plank walk at the corner of
the colonel's fence. Ten more steps, and he stood stock-still at the
head of the flight of wooden stairs.

There, dimly visible against the southern sky, its base on the plank
walk below him, its top resting upon the eaves midway between the
dormer-window and the roof of the piazza, so that one could step easily
from it into the one or on to the other, was the very ladder that half
an hour before was lying on the ground behind the house.

His heart stood still. He seemed powerless to move,--even to think. Then
a slight noise roused him, and with every nerve tingling he crouched
ready for a spring. With quick, agile movements, noiseless as a cat,
sinuous and stealthy as a serpent, the dark figure of a man issued from
Alice Renwick's chamber window and came gliding down.

One second more, and, almost as noiselessly, he reached the ground, then
quickly raised and turned the ladder, stepped with it to the edge of
the roadway, and peered around the angle as though to see that no sentry
was in sight, then vanished with his burden around the corner. Another
second, and down the steps went Chester, three at a bound, tip-toeing it
in pursuit. Ten seconds brought him close to the culprit,--a tall,
slender shadow.

"You villain! Halt!"

Down went the ladder on the dusty road. The hand that Chester had
clinched upon the broad shoulder was hurled aside. There was a sudden
whirl, a lightning blow that took the captain full in the chest and
staggered him back upon the treacherous and entangling rungs, and, ere
he could recover himself, the noiseless stranger had fairly whizzed into
space and vanished in the darkness up the road. Chester sprang in
pursuit. He heard the startled challenge of the sentry, and then Leary's
excited "Halt, I say! Halt!" and then he shouted,--

"Fire on him, Leary! Bring him down!"

Bang went the ready rifle with sharp, sullen roar that woke the echoes
across the valley. Bang again, as Leary sent a second shot after the
first. Then, as the captain came panting to the spot, they followed up
the road. No sign of the runner. Attracted by the shots, the sergeant of
the guard and one or two men, lantern-bearing, came running to the
scene. Excitedly they searched up and down the road in mingled hope and
dread of finding the body of the marauder, or some clue or trace.
Nothing! Whoever he was, the fleet runner had vanished and made good his
escape.

"Who could it have been, sir?" asked the sergeant of the officer of the
day. "Surely none of the men ever come round this way."

"I don't know, sergeant; I don't know. Just take your lamp and see if
there is anything visible down there among the rocks. He may have been
hit and leaped the wall.--Do you think you hit him, Leary?"

"I can't say, sor. He came by me like a flash. I had just a second's
look at him, and--Sure I niver saw such runnin'."

"Could you see his face?" asked Chester, in a low tone, as the other men
moved away to search the rocks.

"Not his face, sor. 'Twas too dark."

"Was there--did he look like anybody you knew, or had seen?--anybody in
the command?"

"Well, sor, not among the men, that is. There's none so tall and slim
both, and so light. Sure he must 'a' worn gums, sor. You couldn't hear
the whisper of a footfall."

"But whom did he _seem_ to resemble?"

"Well, if the captain will forgive me, sor, it's unwillin' I am to say
the worrd, but there's no one that tall and light and slim here, sor,
but Loot'nant Jerrold. Sure it couldn't be him, sor."

"Leary, will you promise me something on your word as a man?"

"I will, sor."

"Say not one word of this matter to any one, except I tell you, or you
have to, before a court."

"I promise, sor."

"And I believe you. Tell the sergeant I will soon be back."

With that he turned and walked down the road until once more he came to
the plank crossing and the passage-way between the colonel's and
Bachelors' Row. Here again he stopped short, and waited with bated
breath and scarcely-beating heart. The faint light he had seen before
again illumined the room and cast its gleam upon the old gray wall. Even
as he gazed, there came silently to the window a tall, white-robed form,
and a slender white hand seized and lowered the shade, noiselessly.
Then, as before, the light faded away; but--she was awake.

Waiting one moment in silence, Captain Chester then sprang up the wooden
steps and passed under the piazza which ran the length of the bachelor
quarters. Half-way down the row he turned sharply to his left, opened
the green-painted door, and stood in a little dark hall-way. Taking his
match-box from his pocket, he struck a light, and by its glare quickly
read the card upon the first door-way to his right:

                         "MR. HOWARD F. JERROLD,

                                 "----_th Infantry, U.S.A._"

Opening this door, he bolted straight through the little parlor to the
bedroom in the rear. A dim light was burning on the mantel. The bed was
unruffled, untouched, and Mr. Jerrold was not there.

Five minutes afterwards, Captain Chester, all alone, had laboriously and
cautiously dragged the ladder from the side to the rear of the colonel's
house, stretched it in the roadway where he had first stumbled upon it,
then returned to the searching-party on "Number Five."

"Send two men to put that ladder back," he ordered. "It is where I told
you,--on the road behind the colonel's."




III.


When Mrs. Maynard came to Sibley in May and the officers with their
wives were making their welcoming call, she had with motherly pride and
pleasure yielded to their constant importunities and shown to one party
after another an album of photographs,--likenesses of her only daughter.
There were little _cartes de visite_ representing her in long dresses
and baby-caps; quaint little pictures of a chubby-faced, chubby-legged
infant a few months older; charming studies of a little girl with great
black eyes and delicate features; then of a tall, slender slip of a
maiden, decidedly foreign-looking; then of a sweet and pensive face,
with great dark eyes, long, beautiful curling lashes, and very heavy,
low-arched brows, exquisitely moulded mouth and chin, and most luxuriant
dark hair; then others, still older, in every variety of dress,--even in
fancy costume, such as the girl had worn at fair or masquerade. These
and others still had Mrs. Maynard shown them, with repressed pride and
pleasure and with sweet acknowledgment of their enthusiastic praises.
Alice still tarried in the East, visiting relatives whom she had not
seen since her father's death three years earlier, and, long before she
came to join her mother at Sibley and to enter upon the life she so
eagerly looked forward to, "'way out in the West, you know, with
officers and soldiers and the band, and buffalo and Indians all around
you," there was not an officer or an officer's wife who had not
delightedly examined that album. There was still another picture, but
that one had been shown to only a chosen few just one week after her
daughter's arrival, and rather an absurd scene had occurred, in which
that most estimable officer, Lieutenant Sloat, had figured as the hero.
A more simple-minded, well-intentioned fellow than Sloat there did not
live. He was so full of kindness and good nature and readiness to do
anything for anybody that it never seemed to occur to him that everybody
on earth was not just as ready to be equally accommodating. He was a
perpetual source of delight to the colonel, and one of the most loyal
and devoted of subalterns, despite the fact that his locks were long
silvered with the frosts of years and that he had fought through the war
of the rebellion and risen to the rank of a field-officer in Maynard's
old brigade. The most temperate of men, ordinarily, the colonel had one
anniversary he loved to celebrate, and Sloat was his stand-by when the
3d of July came round, just as he had been at his shoulder at that
supreme moment when, heedless of the fearful sweep of shell and canister
through their shattered ranks, Pickett's heroic Virginians breasted the
slope of Cemetery Hill and surged over the low stone wall into Cushing's
guns. Hard, stubborn fighting had Maynard's men to do that day, and for
serene courage and determination no man had beaten Sloat. Both officers
had bullet-hole mementos to carry from that field; both had won their
brevets for conspicuous gallantry, and Sloat was a happy and grateful
man when, years afterwards, his old commander secured him a lieutenancy
in the regular service. He was the colonel's henchman, although he never
had brains enough to win a place on the regimental staff, and when Mrs.
Maynard came he overwhelmed her with cumbrous compliments and incessant
calls. He was, to his confident belief, her chosen and accepted knight
for full two days after her arrival. Then Jerrold came back from a brief
absence, and, as in duty bound, went to pay his respects to his
colonel's wife; and that night there had been a singular scene. Mrs.
Maynard had stopped suddenly in her laughing chat with two ladies, had
started from her seat, wildly staring at the tall, slender subaltern who
entered the gateway, and then fell back in her chair, fairly swooning as
he made his bow.

Sloat had rushed into the house to call the colonel and get some water,
while Mr. Jerrold stood paralyzed at so strange a reception of his first
call. Mrs. Maynard revived presently, explained that it was her heart,
or the heat, or something, and the ladies on their way home decided that
it was possibly the heart, it was certainly not the heat, it was
unquestionably something, and that something was Mr. Jerrold, for she
never took her eyes off him during the entire evening, and seemed unable
to shake off the fascination. Next day Jerrold dined there, and from
that time on he was a daily visitor. Every one noted Mrs. Maynard's
strong interest in him, but no one could account for it. She was old
enough to be his mother, said the garrison; but not until Alice Renwick
came did another consideration appear: he was singularly like the
daughter. Both were tall, lithe, slender; both had dark, lustrous eyes,
dark, though almost perfect, skin, exquisitely-chiselled features, and
slender, shapely hands and feet. Alice was "the picture of her father,"
said Mrs. Maynard, and Mr. Renwick had lived all his life in New York;
while Mr. Jerrold was of an old Southern family, and his mother a Cuban
beauty who was the toast of the New Orleans clubs not many years before
the war.

Poor Sloat! He did not fancy Jerrold, and was as jealous as so
unselfish a mortal could be of the immediate ascendency the young fellow
established in the colonel's household. It was bad enough before Alice
joined them; after that it was wellnigh unbearable. Then came the
3d-of-July dinner and the colonel's one annual jollification. No man
ever heard of Sloat's being intoxicated; he rarely drank at all; but
this evening the reminiscences of the day, the generous wine, the
unaccustomed elegance of all his surroundings, due to Mrs. Maynard's
taste and supervision, and the influence of Alice Kenwick's exquisite
beauty, had fairly carried him away.

They were chatting in the parlor, while Miss Renwick was entertaining
some young-lady friends from town and listening to the band on the
parade. Sloat was expatiating on her grace and beauty and going over the
album for the twentieth time, when the colonel, with a twinkling eye,
remarked to Mrs. Maynard,--

"I think you ought to show Major[A] Sloat the 'Directoire' picture, my
dear."

"Alice would never forgive me," said madame, laughing; "though I
consider it the most beautiful we have of her."

"Oh, where is it?" "Oh, do let us see it, Mrs. Maynard!" was the chorus
of exclamations from the few ladies present. "Oh, I _insist_ on seeing
it, madame," was Sloat's characteristic contribution to the clamor.

"I want you to understand it," said Mrs. Maynard, pleased, but still
hesitating. "We are very daft about Alice at home, you know, and it's
quite a wonder she has not been utterly spoiled by her aunts and uncles;
but this picture was a specialty. An artist friend of ours fairly _made_
us have it taken in the wedding-dress worn by her grandmother. You know
the Josephine Beauharnais 'Directoire' style that was worn in seventeen
ninety-something. Her neck and shoulders are lovely, and that was why we
consented. I went, and so did the artist, and we posed her, and the
photograph is simply perfect of her face, and neck too, but when Alice
saw it she blushed furiously and forbade my having them finished.
Afterwards, though, she yielded when her aunt Kate and I begged so hard
and promised that none should be given away, and so just half a dozen
were finished. Indeed, the dress is by no means as _décolleté_ as many
girls wear theirs at dinner now in New York; but poor Alice was
scandalized when she saw it last month, and she never would let me put
one in the album."

"Oh, _do_ go and get it, Mrs. Maynard!" pleaded the ladies. "Oh,
_please_ let me see it, Mrs. Maynard!" added Sloat; and at last the
mother-pride prevailed. Mrs. Maynard rustled up-stairs, and presently
returned holding in her hands a delicate silver frame in filigree-work,
a quaint foreign affair, and enclosed therein was a cabinet photograph
_en vignette_,--the head, neck, and shoulders of a beautiful girl; and
the dainty, diminutive, what-there-was-of-it waist of the old-fashioned
gown, sashed almost immediately under the exquisite bust, revealed quite
materially the cause of Alice Renwick's blushes. But a more beautiful
portrait was never photographed. The women fairly gasped with delight
and envy. Sloat could not restrain his impatience to get it in his own
hands, and finally he grasped it and then eyed it in rapture. It was two
minutes before he spoke a word, while the colonel sat laughing at his
worshipping gaze. Mrs. Maynard somewhat uneasily stretched forth her
hand, and the other ladies impatiently strove to regain possession.

"Come, Major Sloat, you've surely had it long enough. _We_ want it
again."

"Never!" said Sloat, with melodramatic intensity. "Never! This is my
ideal of perfection,--of divinity in woman. I will bear it home with me,
set it above my fireside, and adore it day and night."

"Nonsense, Major Sloat!" said Mrs. Maynard, laughing, yet far from being
at her ease. "Come, I _must_ take it back. Alice may be in any minute
now, and if she knew I had betrayed her she would never forgive me.
Come, surrender!" And she strove to take it from him.

But Sloat was in one of his utterly asinine moods. He would have been
perfectly willing to give any sum he possessed for so perfect a picture
as this. He never dreamed that there were good and sufficient reasons
why _no_ man should have it. He so loved and honored his colonel that he
was ready to lay down his life for any of his household. In laying claim
to this picture he honestly believed that it was the highest proof he
could give of his admiration and devotion. A tame surrender now meant
that his protestations were empty words. "Therefore," argued Sloat, "I
must stand firm."

"Madame," said he, "I'd die first." And with that he began backing to
the door.

Alarmed now, Mrs. Maynard sprang after him, and the little major leaped
upon a chair, his face aglow, jolly, rubicund, beaming with bliss and
triumph. She looked up, almost wringing her hands, and turned half
appealingly to the colonel, who was laughing heartily on the sofa, never
dreaming Sloat could be in earnest.

"Here, I'll give you back the frame: I don't want that," said Sloat, and
began fumbling at the back of the photograph. This was too much for the
ladies. They, too, rushed to the rescue. One of them sprang to and shut
the door, the other seized and violently shook the back of his chair,
and Sloat leaped to the floor, still clinging to his prize, and laughing
as though he had never had so much entertainment in his life. The long
Venetian windows opened upon the piazza, and towards the nearest one he
retreated, holding aloft the precious gage and waving off the attacking
party with the other hand. He was within a yard of the blinds, when they
were suddenly thrown open, a tall, slender form stepped quickly in, one
hand seized the uplifted wrist, the other the picture, and in far less
time than it takes to tell it Mr. Jerrold had wrenched it away and, with
quiet bow, restored it to its rightful owner.

"Oh, I say, now, Jerrold, that's downright unhandsome of you!" gasped
Sloat. "I'd have been on my way home with it."

"Shut up, you fool!" was the sharp, hissing whisper. "Wait till I go
home, if you want to talk about it." And, as quickly as he came, Mr.
Jerrold slipped out again upon the piazza.

Of course the story was told with varied comment all over the post.
Several officers were injudicious enough to chaff the old subaltern
about it, and--he was a little sore-headed the next day, anyway--the
usually placid Sloat grew the more indignant at Jerrold. He decided to
go and upbraid him; and, as ill luck would have it, they met before noon
on the steps of the club-room.

"I want to say to you, Mr. Jerrold, that from an officer of your age to
one of mine I think your conduct last night a piece of impertinence."

"I had a perfect right to do what I did," replied Jerrold, coolly. "You
were taking a most unwarrantable liberty in trying to carry off that
picture."

"How did you know what it was? You had never seen it!"

"There's where you are mistaken, Mr. Sloat" (and Jerrold purposely and
exasperatingly refused to recognize the customary _brevet_): "I had seen
it,--frequently."

Two officers were standing by, and one of them turned sharply and faced
Jerrold as he spoke. It was his former company commander. Jerrold noted
the symptom, and flushed, but set his teeth doggedly.

"Why, Mr. Jerrold! Mrs. Maynard said she never showed that to any one,"
said Sloat, in much surprise. "You heard her, did you not, Captain
Chester?"

"I did, certainly," was the reply.

"All the same, I repeat what I've said," was Jerrold's sullen answer. "I
have seen it frequently, and, what's more--" He suddenly stopped.

"Well, what's more?" said Sloat, suggestively.

"Never mind. I don't care to talk of the matter," replied Jerrold, and
started to walk away.

But Sloat was angry, nettled, jealous. He had meant to show his intense
loyalty and admiration for everything that was his colonel's, and had
been snubbed and called a fool by an officer many years, though not so
many "files," his junior. He never had liked him, and now there was an
air of conscious superiority about Jerrold that fairly exasperated him.
He angrily followed and called to him to stop, but Jerrold walked on.
Captain Chester stood still and watched them. The little man had almost
to run before he overtook the tall one. They were out of earshot when he
finally did so. There were a few words on both sides. Then Jerrold
shifted his light cane into his left hand, and Chester started forward,
half expecting a fracas. To his astonishment, the two officers shook
hands and parted.

"Well," said he, as Sloat came back with an angry yet bewildered face,
"I'm glad you shook hands. I almost feared a row, and was just going to
stop it. So he apologized, did he?"

"No, nothing like it."

"Then what did you mean by shaking hands?"

"That's nothing--never you mind," said Sloat, confusedly. "I haven't
forgiven him, by a good deal. The man's conceit is enough to disgust
anything--but a woman, I suppose," he finished, ruefully.

"Well, it's none of my business, Sloat, but pardon my saying I don't see
what there was to bring about the apparent reconciliation. That
hand-shake meant something."

"Oh, well--damn it! we had some words, and he--or I--Well, there's a
bet, and we shook hands on it."

"Seems to me that's pretty serious business, Sloat,--a bet following
such a talk as you two have had. I hope--"

"Well, captain," interrupted Sloat, "I wouldn't have done it if I hadn't
been mad as blazes; but I made it, and must stick to it,--that's all."

"You wouldn't mind telling me what it was, I suppose?"

"I can't; and that ends it."

Captain Chester found food for much thought and speculation over this
incident. So far as he was concerned, the abrupt remark of Sloat by no
means ended it. In his distrust of Jerrold, he too had taken alarm at
the very substantial intimacy to which that young man was welcomed at
the colonel's quarters. Prior to his marriage old Maynard had not liked
him at all, but it was mainly because he had been so negligent of his
duties and so determined a beau in city society after his arrival at
Sibley. He had, indeed, threatened to have him transferred to a company
still on frontier service if he did not reform; but then the
rifle-practice season began, and Jerrold was a capital shot and sure to
be on the list of competitors for the Department team, so what was the
use? He would be ordered in for the rifle-camp anyway, and so the
colonel decided to keep him at head-quarters. This was in the summer of
the year gone by. Then came the colonel's long leave, his visit to
Europe, his meeting with his old friend, now the widow of the lamented
Renwick, their delightful winter together in Italy, his courtship, her
consent, their marriage and return to America. When Maynard came back to
Sibley and the old regiment, he was so jolly and content that every man
was welcomed at his house, and it was really a source of pride and
pleasure to him that his accomplished wife should find any of his young
officers so thoroughly agreeable as she pronounced Mr. Jerrold. Others
were soldierly, courteous, well bred, but he had the air of a foreign
court about him, she privately informed her lord; and it seems, indeed,
that in days gone by Mr. Jerrold's father had spent many years in France
and Spain, once as his country's representative near the throne. Though
the father died long before the boy was out of his knickerbockers, he
had left the impress of his grand manner, and Jerrold, to women of any
age, was at once a courtier and a knight. But the colonel never saw how
her eyes followed the tall young officer time and again. There were
women who soon noted it, and one of them said it was such a yearning,
longing look. _Was_ Mrs. Maynard really happy? they asked each other.
_Did_ she really want to see Alice mate with him, the handsome, the
dangerous, the selfish fellow they knew him to be? If not, could
anything be more imprudent than that they should be thrown together as
they were being, day after day? Had Alice wealth of her own? If not, did
the mother know that nothing would tempt Howard Jerrold into an alliance
with a dowerless daughter? These, and many more, were questions that
came up every day. The garrison could talk of little else; and Alice
Renwick had been there just three weeks, and was the acknowledged Queen
of Hearts at Sibley, when the rifle-competitions began again, and a
great array of officers and men from all over the Northwest came to the
post by every train, and their canvas tents dotted the broad prairie to
the north.

One lovely evening in August, just before the practice began, Colonel
Maynard took his wife to drive out and see the camp. Mr. Jerrold and
Alice Renwick followed on horseback. The carriage was surrounded as it
halted near the range, and half a score of officers, old and young, were
chatting with Mrs. Maynard, while others gathered about the lovely girl
who sat there in the saddle. There came marching up from the railway a
small squad of soldiers, competitors arriving from the far West. Among
them--apparently their senior non-commissioned officer--was a tall
cavalry sergeant, superbly built, and with a bronzed and bearded and
swarthy face that seemed to tell of years of campaigning over mountain
and prairie. They were all men of perfect physique, all in the neat,
soldierly fatigue-dress of the regular service, some wearing the
spotless white stripes of the infantry, others the less artistic and
equally destructible yellow of the cavalry. Their swinging stride, erect
carriage, and clear and handsome eyes all spoke of the perfection of
health and soldierly development. Curious glances were turned to them as
they advanced, and Miss Renwick, catching sight of the party,
exclaimed,--

"Oh, who are these? And what a tall soldier that sergeant is!"

"That sergeant, Miss Renwick," said a slow, deliberate voice, "is the
man I believe will knock Mr. Jerrold out of the first prize. That is
Sergeant McLeod."

As though he heard his name pronounced, the tall cavalryman glanced for
the first time at the group, brought his rifle to the carry as if about
to salute, and was just stepping upon the roadside, where he came in
full view of the occupants of the carriage, when a sudden pallor shot
across his face, and he plunged heavily forward and went down like a
shot. Sympathetic officers and comrades surrounded the prostrate form in
an instant. The colonel himself sprang from his carriage and joined the
group; a blanket was quickly brought from a neighboring tent, and the
sergeant was borne thither and laid upon a cot. A surgeon felt his pulse
and looked inquiringly around:

"Any of you cavalrymen know him well? Has he been affected this way
before?"

A young corporal who had been bending anxiously over the sergeant
straightened up and saluted:

"I know him well, sir, and have been with him five years. He's only had
one sick spell in all that time,--'twas just like this,--and then he
told me he'd been sunstruck once."

"This is no case of sunstroke," said the doctor. "It looks more like the
heart. How long ago was the attack you speak of?"

"Three years ago last April, sir. I remember it because we'd just got
into Fort Raines after a long scout. He'd been the solidest man in the
troop all through the cold and storm and snow we had in the mountains,
and we were in the reading-room, and he'd picked up a newspaper and was
reading while the rest of us were talking and laughing, and, first thing
we knew, he was down on the floor, just like he was to-night."

"Hm!" said the surgeon. "Yes. That's plenty, steward. Give him that.
Raise his head a little, corporal. Now he'll come round all right."

Driving homeward that night, Colonel Maynard musingly remarked,--

"Did you see that splendid fellow who fainted away?"

"No," answered his wife, "you all gathered about him so quickly and
carried him away. I could not even catch a glimpse of him. But he had
recovered, had he not?"

"Yes. Still, I was thinking what a singular fact it is that occasionally
a man slips through the surgeon's examinations with such a malady as
this. Now, here is one of the finest athletes and shots in the whole
army, a man who has been through some hard service and stirring fights,
has won a tip-top name for himself and was on the highroad to a
commission, and yet this will block him effectually."

"Why, what is the trouble?"

"Some affection of the heart. Why! Halloo! Stop, driver! Orderly, jump
down and run back there. Mrs. Maynard has dropped her fan.--What was it,
dear?" he asked, anxiously. "You started; and you are white, and
trembling."

"I--I don't know, colonel. Let us go home. It will be over in a minute.
Where are Alice and Mr. Jerrold? Call them, please. She must not be out
riding after dark."

But they were not in sight; and it was considerably after dark when they
reached the fort. Mr. Jerrold explained that his horse had picked up a
stone and he had had to walk him all the way.




IV.


There was no sleep for Captain Chester the rest of the night. He went
home, threw off his sword-belt, and seated himself in a big easy-chair
before his fireplace, deep in thought. Once or twice he arose and paced
restlessly up and down the room, as he had done in his excited talk with
Rollins some few hours before. Then he was simply angry and
argumentative,--or declamatory. Now he had settled down into a very
different frame of mind. He seemed awed,--stunned,--crushed. He had all
the bearing and mien of one who, having defiantly predicted a calamity,
was thunderstruck by the verification of his prophecy. In all his
determined arraignment of Mr. Jerrold, in all the harsh things he had
said and thought of him, he had never imagined any such depth of
scoundrelism as the revelations of the night foreshadowed. Chester
differed from many of his brotherhood: there was no room for rejoicing
in his heart that the worst he had ever said of Jerrold was unequal to
the apparent truth. He took no comfort to his soul that those who called
him cynical, crabbed, unjust, even malicious, would now be compelled to
admit he was right in his estimate. Like the best of us, Chester could
not ordinarily say "_Vade retro_" to the temptation to think, if not to
say, "Didn't I tell you so?" when in every-day affairs his oft-disputed
views were proved well founded. But in the face of such a catastrophe as
now appeared engulfing the fair fame of his regiment and the honor of
those whom his colonel held dear, Chester could feel only dismay and
grief. What was his duty in the light of the discoveries he had made? To
the best of his belief, he was the only man in the garrison who had
evidence of Jerrold's absence from his own quarters and of the presence
of _some one_ at _her_ window. He had taken prompt measures to prevent
its being suspected by others. He purposely sent his guards to search
along the cliff in the opposite direction while he went to Jerrold's
room and thence back to remove the tell-tale ladder. Should he tell
_any_ one until he had confronted Jerrold with the evidences of his
guilt, and, wringing from him his resignation, send him far from the
post before handing it in? Time and again he wished Frank Armitage were
here. The youngest captain in the regiment, Armitage had been for years
its adjutant and deep in the confidence of Colonel Maynard. He was a
thorough soldier, a strong, self-reliant, courageous man, and one for
whom Chester had ever felt a warm esteem. Armitage was on leave of
absence, however,--had been away some time on account of family matters,
and would not return, it was known, until he had effected the removal of
his mother and sister to the new home he had purchased for them in the
distant East. It was to his company that Jerrold had been promoted, and
there was friction from the very week that the handsome subaltern
joined.

Armitage had long before "taken his measure," and was in no wise pleased
that so lukewarm a soldier should have come to him as senior subaltern.
They had a very plain talk, for Armitage was straightforward as a dart,
and then, as Jerrold showed occasional lapses, the captain shut down on
some of his most cherished privileges, and, to the indignation of
society, the failure of Mr. Jerrold to appear at one or two gatherings
where he was confidently expected was speedily laid at his captain's
door. The recent death of his father kept Armitage from appearing in
public, and, as neither he nor the major (who commanded the regiment
while Maynard was abroad) vouchsafed the faintest explanation, society
was allowed to form its own conclusions, and _did_,--to the effect that
Mr. Jerrold was a wronged and persecuted man. It was just as the
Maynards arrived at Sibley that Armitage departed on his leave, and, to
his unspeakable bliss, Mr. Jerrold succeeded to the command of his
company. This fact, coupled with the charming relations which were
straightway established with the colonel's family, placed him in a
position of independence and gave him opportunities he had never known
before. It was speedily evident that he was neglecting his military
duties,--that Company B was running down much faster than Armitage had
built it up,--and yet no man felt like speaking of it to the colonel,
who saw it only occasionally on dress-parade. Chester had just about
determined to write to Armitage himself and suggest his speedy return,
when this eventful night arrived. Now he fully made up his mind that it
must be done at once, and had seated himself at his desk, when the roar
of the sunrise gun and the blare of the bugles warned him that reveille
had come and he must again go to his guard. Before he returned to his
quarters another complication, even more embarrassing, had arisen, and
the letter to Armitage was postponed.

He had received the "present" of his guard and verified the presence of
all his prisoners, when he saw Major Sloat still standing out in the
middle of the parade, where the adjutant usually received the reports of
the roll-calls. Several company officers, having made their reports,
were scurrying back to quarters for another snooze before breakfast-time
or to get their cup of coffee before going out to the range. Chester
strolled over towards him.

"What's the matter, Sloat?"

"Nothing much. The colonel told me to receive the reveille reports for
Hoyt this week. He's on general court-martial."

"Yes, I know all that. I mean, what are you waiting for?"

"Mr. Jerrold again. There's no report from his company."

"Have you sent to wake him?"

"No; I'll go myself, and do it thoroughly, too." And the little major
turned sharply away and walked direct to the low range of bachelor
quarters, dove under the piazza, and into the green door-way.

Hardly knowing how to explain his action, Chester quickly followed, and
in less than a minute was standing in the self-same parlor which, by the
light of a flickering match, he had searched two hours before. Here he
halted and listened, while Sloat pushed on into the bedroom and was
heard vehemently apostrophizing some sleeper:

"Does the government pay you for this sort of thing, I want to know? Get
up, Jerrold! This is the second time you've cut reveille in ten days.
Get up, I say!" And the major was vigorously shaking at something, for
the bed creaked and groaned.

"Wake up! I say, I'm blowed if I'm going to get up here day after day
and have you sleeping. Wake, Nicodemus! Wake, you snoozing, snoring,
open-mouthed masher. Come, now; I mean it."

A drowsy, disgusted yawn and stretch finally rewarded his efforts. Mr.
Jerrold at last opened his eyes, rolled over, yawned sulkily again, and
tried to evade his persecutor, but to no purpose. Like a little terrier,
Sloat hung on to him and worried and shook.

"Oh, don't! damn it, don't!" growled the victim. "What do you want,
anyway? Has that infernal reveille gone?"

"Yes, and you're absent again, and no report from B Company. By the holy
poker, if you don't turn out and get it and report to me on the parade
I'll spot the whole gang absent, and then no _matinée_ for you to-day,
my buck. Come, out with you! I mean it. Hall says you and he have an
engagement in town; and 'pon my soul I'll bust it if you don't come
out."

And so, growling and complaining, and yet half laughing, Adonis rolled
from his couch and began to get into his clothes. Chester's blood ran
cold, then boiled. Think of a man who could laugh like that,--and
remember! _When_, how, had he returned to the house? Listen!

"Confound you, Sloat, _I_ wouldn't rout _you_ out in this shabby way.
Why couldn't you let a man sleep? I'm tired half to death."

"What have you done to tire you? Slept all yesterday afternoon, and
danced perhaps a dozen times at the doctor's last night. You've had more
sleep than I've had, begad! You took Miss Renwick home before 'twas
over, and mean it was of you, too, with all the fellows that wanted to
dance with her."

"That wasn't my fault: Mrs. Maynard made her promise to be home at
twelve. You old cackler, that's what sticks in your crop yet. You are
persecuting me because they like me so much better than they do you," he
went on, laughingly now. "Come, now, Sloat, confess, it is all because
you're jealous. You couldn't have that picture, and I could."

Chester fairly started. He had urgent need to see this young
gallant,--he was staying for that purpose,--but should he listen to
further talk like this? Too late to move, for Sloat's answer came like a
shot:

"I bet you you _never_ could!"

"But didn't I tell you I had?--a week ago?"

"Ay, but I didn't believe it. You couldn't show it!"

"Pshaw, man! Look here. Stop, though! Remember, _on your honor_, you
never tell."

"On my honor, of course."

"Well, there!"

A drawer was opened. Chester heard a gulp of dismay, of genuine
astonishment and conviction mixed, as Sloat muttered some
half-articulate words and then came into the front room. Jerrold
followed, caught sight of Chester, and stopped short, with sudden and
angry change of color.

"I did not know _you_ were here," he said.

"It was to find where _you_ were that I came," was the quiet answer.

There was a moment's silence. Sloat turned and looked at the two men in
utter surprise. Up to this time he had considered Jerrold's absence from
reveille as a mere dereliction of duty which was ascribable to the
laziness and indifference of the young officer. So far as lay in his
power, he meant to make him attend more strictly to business, and had
therefore come to his quarters and stirred him up. But there was no
thought of any serious trouble in his mind. His talk had all been
roughly good-humored until--until that bet was mentioned, and then it
became earnest. Now, as he glanced from one man to the other, he saw in
an instant that something new--something of unusual gravity--was
impending. Chester, buttoned to the throat in his dark uniform,
accurately gloved and belted, with pale, set, almost haggard face, was
standing by the centre-table under the drop-light. Jerrold, only half
dressed, his feet thrust into slippers, his fingers nervously working at
the studs of his dainty white shirt, had stopped short at his bedroom
door, and, with features that grew paler every second and a dark scowl
on his brow, was glowering at Chester.

"Since when has it been the duty of the officer of the day to come
around and hunt up officers who don't happen to be out at reveille?" he
asked.

"It is not your absence from reveille I want explained, Mr. Jerrold,"
was the cold and deliberate answer. "I wanted you at 3.30 this morning,
and you were not and had not been here."

An unmistakable start and shock; a quick, nervous, hunted glance around
the room, so cold and pallid in the early light of the August morning; a
clutch of Jerrold's slim brown hand at the bared throat. But he rallied
gamely, strode a step forward, and looked his superior full in the face.
Sloat marked the effort with which he cleared away the huskiness that
seemed to clog his larynx, but admired the spunk with which the young
officer returned the senior's shot:

"What is your authority here, I would like to know? What business has
the officer of the day to want me or any other man not on guard?
Captain Chester, you seem to forget that I am no longer your second
lieutenant, and that I am a company commander like yourself. Do you come
by Colonel Maynard's order to search my quarters and question me? If so,
say so at once; if not, get out." And Jerrold's face was growing black
with wrath, and his big lustrous eyes were wide awake now and fairly
snapping.

Chester leaned upon the table and deliberated a moment. He stood there
coldly, distrustfully eying the excited lieutenant, then turned to
Sloat:

"I will be responsible for the roll-call of Company B this morning,
Sloat. I have a matter of grave importance to bring up to this--this
gentleman, and it is of a private nature. Will you let me see him
alone?"

"Sloat," said Jerrold, "don't go yet. I want you to stay. These are my
quarters, and I recognize your right to come here in search of me, since
I was not at reveille; but I want a witness here to bear me out. I'm too
amazed yet--too confounded by this intrusion of Captain Chester's to
grasp the situation. I never heard of such a thing as this. Explain it,
if you can."

"Mr. Jerrold, what I have to ask or say to you concerns you alone. It is
_not_ an official matter. It is as man to man I want to see you, alone
and at once. _Now_ will you let Major Sloat retire?"

Silence for a moment. The angry flush on Jerrold's face was dying away,
and in its place an ashen pallor was spreading from throat to brow; his
lips were twitching ominously. Sloat looked in consternation at the
sudden change.

"Shall I go?" he finally asked.

Jerrold looked long, fixedly, searchingly in the set face of the officer
of the day, breathing hard and heavily. What he saw there Sloat could
not imagine. At last his hand dropped by his side; he made a little
motion with it, a slight wave towards the door, and again dropped it
nervously. His lips seemed to frame the word "Go," but he never glanced
at the man whom a moment before he so masterfully bade to stay; and
Sloat, sorely puzzled, left the room.

Not until his footsteps had died out of hearing did Chester speak:

"How soon can you leave the post?"

"I don't understand you."

"How soon can you pack up what you need to take and--get away?"

"Get away where? What on earth do you mean?"

"You _must_ know what I mean! You _must_ know that after last night's
work you quit the service at once and forever."

"I don't know anything of the kind; and I defy you to prove the faintest
thing." But Jerrold's fingers were twitching, and his eyes had lost
their light.

"Do you suppose I did not recognize you?" asked Chester.

"When?--where?" gulped Jerrold.

"When I seized you and you struck me!"

"I never struck you. I don't know what you mean."

"My God, man, let us end this useless fencing. The evidence I have of
your last night's scoundrelism would break the strongest record. For the
regiment's sake,--for the colonel's sake,--let us have no public
scandal. It's awful enough as the thing stands. Write your resignation,
give it to me, and leave,--before breakfast if you can."

"I've done nothing to resign for. You know perfectly well I haven't."

"Do you mean that such a crime--that a woman's ruin and disgrace--isn't
enough to drive you from the service?" asked Chester, tingling in every
nerve and longing to clinch the shapely, swelling throat in his
clutching fingers. "God of heaven, Jerrold! are you dead to all sense of
decency?"

"Captain Chester, I won't be bullied this way. I may not be immaculate,
but no man on earth shall talk to me like this! I deny your
insinuations. I've done nothing to warrant your words, even if--if you
did come sneaking around here last night and find me absent. You can't
prove a thing. You----"

"What! When I saw you,--almost caught you! By heaven! I wish the sentry
had killed you then and there. I never dreamed of such hardihood."

"You've done nothing but dream. By Jove, I believe you're sleepwalking
yet. What on earth do you mean by catching and killing me? 'Pon my soul
I reckon you're crazy, Captain Chester." And color was gradually coming
back again to Jerrold's face, and confidence to his tone.

"Enough of this, Mr. Jerrold. Knowing what you and I both know, do you
refuse to hand me your resignation?"

"Of course I do."

"Do you mean to deny to me where I saw you last night?"

"I deny your right to question me. I deny anything,--everything. I
believe you simply thought you had a clue and could make me tell.
Suppose I _was_ out last night. I don't believe you know the faintest
thing about it."

"Do you want me to report the whole thing to the colonel?"

"Of course I don't. Naturally, I want him to know nothing about my being
out of quarters; and it's a thing that no officer would think of
reporting another for. You'll only win the contempt of every gentleman
in the regiment if you do it. What good will it do you?--Keep me from
going to town for a few days, I suppose. What earthly business is it of
yours, anyway?"

"Jerrold, I can stand this no longer. I ought to shoot you in your
tracks, I believe. You've brought ruin and misery to the home of my
warmest friend, and dishonor to the whole service, and you talk of two
or three days' stoppage from going to town. If I can't bring you to your
senses, by God! the colonel shall." And he wheeled and left the room.

For a moment Jerrold stood stunned and silent. It was useless to attempt
reply. The captain was far down the walk when he sprang to the door to
call him again. Then, hurrying back to the bedroom, he hastily dressed,
muttering angrily and anxiously to himself as he did so. He was thinking
deeply, too, and every movement betrayed nervousness and trouble.
Returning to the front door, he gazed out upon the parade, then took his
forage-cap and walked rapidly down towards the adjutant's office. The
orderly bugler was tilted up in a chair, leaning half asleep against the
whitewashed front, but his was a weasel nap, for he sprang up and
saluted as the young officer approached.

"Where did Major Sloat go, orderly?" was the hurried question.

"Over towards the stables, sir. Him and Captain Chester was here
together, and they're just gone."

"Run over to the quarters of B Company and tell Merrick I want him right
away. Tell him to come to my quarters." And thither Mr. Jerrold
returned, seated himself at his desk, wrote several lines of a note,
tore it into fragments, began again, wrote another which seemed not
entirely satisfactory, and was in the midst of a third when there came a
quick step and a knock at the door. Opening the shutters, he glanced out
of the window. A gust of wind sent some of the papers whirling and
flying, and the bedroom door banged shut, but not before some few
half-sheets of paper had fluttered out upon the parade, where other
little flurries of the morning breeze sent them sailing over towards
the colonel's quarters. Anxious only for the coming of Merrick and no
one else, Mr. Jerrold no sooner saw who was at the front door than he
closed the shutters, called, "Come in!" and a short, squat, wiry little
man, dressed in the fatigue-uniform of the infantry, stood at the
door-way to the hall.

"Come in here, Merrick," said the lieutenant, and Merrick came.

"How much is it you owe me now?--thirty-odd dollars, I think?"

"I believe it is, lieutenant," answered the man, with shifting eyes and
general uneasiness of mien.

"You are not ready to pay it, I suppose; and you got it from me when we
left Fort Raines, to help you out of that scrape there."

The soldier looked down and made no answer.

"Merrick, I want a note taken to town at once. I want _you_ to take it
and get it to its address before eight o'clock. I want you to say no
word to a soul. Here's ten dollars. Hire old Murphy's horse across the
river and _go_. If you are put in the guard-house when you get back,
don't say a word; if you are tried by garrison court for crossing the
bridge or absence without leave, plead guilty, make no defence, and I'll
pay you double your fine and let you off the thirty dollars. But if you
fail me, or tell a soul of your errand, I'll write to--you know who, at
Raines. Do you understand, and agree?"

"I do. Yessir."

"Go and get ready, and be here in ten minutes."

Meantime, Captain Chester had followed Sloat to the adjutant's office.
He was boiling over with indignation which he hardly knew how to
control. He found the gray-moustached subaltern tramping in great
perplexity up and down the room, and the instant he entered was greeted
with the inquiry,--

"What's gone wrong? What's Jerrold been doing?"

"Don't ask me any questions, Sloat, but answer. It is a matter of honor.
_What_ was your bet with Jerrold?"

"I oughtn't to tell that, Chester. Surely it cannot be a matter mixed up
with this."

"I can't explain, Sloat. What I ask is unavoidable. Tell me about that
bet."

"Why, he was so superior and airy, you know, and was trying to make me
feel that he was so much more intimate with them all at the colonel's,
and that he could have that picture for the mere asking; and I got mad,
and bet him he _never_ could."

"Was that the day you shook hands on it?"

"Yes."

"And that was her picture--_the_ picture, then--he showed you this
morning."

"Chester, you heard the conversation: you were there: you know that I'm
on honor not to tell."

"Yes, I know. That's quite enough."




V.


Before seven o'clock that same morning Captain Chester had come to the
conclusion that only one course was left open for him. After the brief
talk with Sloat at the office he had increased the perplexity and
distress of that easily-muddled soldier by requesting his company in a
brief visit to the stables and corrals. A "square" and reliable old
veteran was the quartermaster sergeant who had charge of those
establishments; Chester had known him for years, and his fidelity and
honesty were matters the officers of his former regiment could not too
highly commend. When Sergeant Parks made an official statement there was
no shaking its solidity. He slept in a little box of a house close by
the entrance to the main stable, in which were kept the private horses
of several of the officers, and among them Mr. Jerrold's; and it was his
boast that, day or night, no horse left that stable without his
knowledge. The old man was superintending the morning labors of the
stable-hands, and looked up in surprise at so early a visit from the
officer of the day.

"Were you here all last night, sergeant?" was Chester's abrupt question.

"Certainly, sir, and up until one o'clock or more."

"Were any horses out during the night,--any officers' horses, I mean?"

"No, sir, not one."

"I thought possibly some officers might have driven or ridden to town."

"No, sir. The only horses that crossed this threshold going out last
night were Mr. Sutton's team from town. They were put up here until near
one o'clock, and then the doctor sent over for them. I locked up right
after that, and can swear nothing else went out."

Chester entered the stable and looked curiously around. Presently his
eye lighted on a tall, rangy bay horse that was being groomed in a wide
stall near the door-way.

"That's Mr. Jerrold's Roderick, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir. He's fresh as a daisy, too,--hasn't been out for three
days,--and Mr. Jerrold's going to drive the dog-cart this morning."

Chester turned away.

"Sloat," said he, as they left the stable, "if Mr. Jerrold was away from
the post last night,--and you heard me say he was out of his
quarters,--could he have gone any way except afoot, after what you heard
Parks say?"

"Gone in the Suttons' outfit, I suppose," was Sloat's cautious answer.

"In which event he would have been seen by the sentry at the bridge,
would he not?"

"Ought to have been, certainly."

"Then we'll go back to the guard-house." And, wonderingly and
uncomfortably, Sloat followed. He had long since begun to wish he had
held his peace and said nothing about the confounded roll-call. He hated
rows of any kind. He didn't like Jerrold, but he would have crawled
_ventre à terre_ across the wide parade sooner than see a scandal in the
regiment he loved; and it was becoming apparent to his sluggish
faculties that it was no mere matter of absence from quarters that was
involving Jerrold. Chester was all aflame over that picture-business, he
remembered, and the whole drift of his present investigation was to
prove that Jerrold was _not_ absent from the post, but absent only from
his quarters. If so, where had he spent his time until nearly four?
Sloat's heart was heavy with vague apprehension. He knew that Jerrold
had borne Alice Renwick away from the party at an unusually early hour
for such things to break up. He knew that he and others had protested
against such desertion, but she declared it could not be helped. He
remembered another thing,--a matter that he thought of at the time, only
from another point of view. It now seemed to have significance bearing
on this very matter; for Chester suddenly asked,--

"Wasn't it rather odd that Miss Beaubien was not here at the dance? She
has never missed one, seems to me, since Jerrold began spooning with her
last year."

"Why, she _was_ here."

"She was? Are you sure? Rollins never spoke of it; and we had been
talking of her. I inferred from what he said that she was not there at
all. And I saw her drive homeward with her mother right after parade: so
it didn't occur to me that she could have come out again, all that
distance, in time for the dance. Singular! Why shouldn't Rollins have
told me?"

Sloat grinned: a dreary sort of smile it was, too. "You go into society
so seldom you don't see these things. I've more than half suspected
Rollins of being quite ready to admire Miss Beaubien himself; and since
Jerrold dropped her he has had plenty of opportunity."

"Great guns! I never thought of it! If I'd known she was to be there I'd
have gone myself last night. How did she behave to Miss Renwick?"

"Why, sweet and smiling, and chipper as you please. If anything, I think
Miss Renwick was cold and distant to her. I couldn't make it out at
all."

"And did Jerrold dance with her?"

"Once, I think, and they had a talk out on the piazza,--just a minute. I
happened to be at the door, and couldn't help seeing it; and what got me
was this: Mr. Hall came out with Miss Renwick on his arm; they were
chatting and laughing as they passed me, but the moment she caught sight
of Jerrold and Miss Beaubien she stopped, and said, 'I think I won't
stay out here; it's too chilly,' or something like it, and went right
in; and then Jerrold dropped Miss Beaubien and went after her. He just
handed the young lady over to me, saying he was engaged for next dance,
and skipped."

"How did she like that? Wasn't she furious?"

"No. That's another thing that got me. She smiled after him, all
sweetness, and--well, she _did_ say, 'I count upon you,--you'll be
there,' and he nodded. Oh, she was bright as a button after that."

"What did she mean?--be 'where,' do you suppose? Sloat, this all means
more to me, and to us all, than I can explain."

"I don't know. I can't imagine."

"Was it to see her again that night?"

"I don't know at all. If it was, he fooled her, for he never went near
her again. Rollins put her in the carriage."

"Whose? Did she come out with the Suttons?"

"Why, certainly. I thought you knew that."

"And neither old Madame Beaubien nor Mrs. Sutton with them? What was the
old squaw thinking of?"

By this time they had neared the guard-house, where several of the men
were seated awaiting the call for the next relief. All arose at the
shout of the sentry on Number One, turning out the guard for the officer
of the day. Chester made hurried and impatient acknowledgment of the
salute, and called to the sergeant to send him the sentry who was at the
bridge at one o'clock. It turned out to be a young soldier who had
enlisted at the post only six months before and was already known as one
of the most intelligent and promising candidates for a corporalship in
the garrison.

"Were you on duty at the bridge at one o'clock, Carey?" asked the
captain.

"I was, sir. My relief went on at 11.45 and came off at 1.45."

"What persons passed your post during that time?"

"There was a squad or two of men coming back from town on pass. I halted
them, sir, and Corporal Murray came down and passed them in."

"I don't mean coming from town. Who went the other way?"

"Only one carriage, sir,--Mr. Sutton's."

"Could you see who were in it?"

"Certainly, sir: it was right under the lamp-post this end of the bridge
that I stood when I challenged. Lieutenant Rollins answered for them and
passed them out. He was sitting beside Mr. Sutton as they drove up, then
jumped out and gave me the countersign and bade them good-night right
there."

"Rollins again," thought Chester. "Why did he keep this from me?"

"Who were in the carriage?" he asked.

"Mr. Sutton, sir, on the front seat, driving, and two young ladies on
the back seat."

"Nobody else?"

"Not a soul, sir. I could see in it plain as day. One lady was Miss
Sutton, and the other Miss Beaubien. I know I was surprised at seeing
the latter, because she drove home in her own carriage last evening
right after parade. I was on post there at that hour too, sir. The
second relief is on from 5.45 to 7.45."

"That will do, Carey. I see your relief is forming now."

As the officers walked away and Sloat silently plodded along beside his
dark-browed senior, the latter turned to him:

"I should say that there was no way in which Mr. Jerrold could have gone
townwards last night. Should not you?"

"He might have crossed the bridge while the third relief was on, and
got a horse at the other side."

"He didn't do that, Sloat. I had already questioned the sentry on that
relief. It was the third that I inspected and visited this morning."

"Well, how do you know he wanted to go to town? Why couldn't he have
gone up the river, or out to the range? Perhaps there was a little game
of 'draw' out at camp."

"There was no light in camp, much less a little game of draw, after
eleven o'clock. You know well enough that there is nothing of that kind
going on with Gaines in command. That isn't Jerrold's game, even if
those fellows _were_ bent on ruining their eyesight and nerve and
spoiling the chance of getting the men on the division and army teams. I
wish it _were_ his game, instead of what it is!"

"Still, Chester, he may have been out in the country somewhere. You seem
bent on the conviction he was up to mischief here, around this post. I
won't ask you what you mean; but there's more than one way of getting to
town if a man wants to very bad."

"How? Of course he can take a skiff and row down the river; but he'd
never be back in time for reveille. There goes six o'clock, and I must
get home and shave and think this over. Keep your own counsel, no matter
who asks you. If you hear any questions or talk about shooting last
night, you know nothing, heard nothing, and saw nothing."

"Shooting last night!" exclaimed Sloat, all agog with eagerness and
excitement now. "Where was it? Who was it?"

But Chester turned a deaf ear upon him, and walked away. He wanted to
see Rollins, and went straight home.

"Why didn't you tell me Miss Beaubien was out here last night?" was the
question he asked as soon as he had entered the room where, all aglow
from his cold bath, the youngster was dressing for breakfast. He colored
vividly, then laughed.

"Well, you never gave me much chance to say anything, did you? You
talked all the time, as I remember, and suddenly vanished and slammed
the door. I would have told you had you asked me." But all the same it
was evident for the first time that here was a subject Rollins was shy
of mentioning.

"Did you go down and see them across sentry post?"

"Certainly. Jerrold asked me to. He said he had to take Miss Renwick
home, and was too tired to come back,--was going to turn in. I was glad
to do anything to be civil to the Suttons."

"Why, I'd like to know? They have never invited you to the house or
shown you any attention whatever. You are not their style at all,
Rollins, and I'm glad of it. It wasn't for their sake you stayed there
until one o'clock instead of being here in bed. I wish--" and he looked
wistfully, earnestly, at his favorite now, "I wish I could think it
wasn't for the sake of Miss Beaubien's black eyes and aboriginal
beauty."

"Look here, captain," said Rollins, with another rush of color to his
face; "you don't seem to fancy Miss Beaubien, and--she's a friend of
mine, and one I don't like to hear slightingly spoken of. You said a
good deal last night that--well, wasn't pleasant to hear."

"I know it, Rollins. I beg your pardon. I didn't know then that you were
more than slightly acquainted with her. I'm an old bat, and go out very
little, but some things are pretty clear to my eyes, and--don't you be
falling in love with Nina Beaubien. That is no match for you."

"I'm sure you never had a word to say against her father. The old
colonel was a perfect type of the French gentleman, from all I hear."

"Yes, and her mother is as perfect a type of a Chippewa squaw, if she is
only a half-breed and claims to be only a sixteenth. Rollins, there's
Indian blood enough in Nina Beaubien's little finger to make me afraid
of her. She is strong as death in love or hate, and you must have seen
how she hung on Jerrold's every word all last winter. You must know she
is not the girl to be lightly dropped now."

"She told me only a day or two ago they were the best of friends and had
never been anything else," said Rollins, hotly.

"Has it gone that far, my boy? I had not thought it so bad, by any
means. It's no use talking with a man who has lost his heart: his reason
goes with it." And Chester turned away.

"You don't know anything about it," was all poor Rollins could think of
as a suitable thing to shout after him; and it made no more impression
than it deserved.

As has been said, Captain Chester had decided before seven o'clock that
but one course lay open to him in the matter as now developed. Had
Armitage been there he would have had an adviser, but there was no other
man whose counsel he eared to seek. Old Captain Gray was as bitter
against Jerrold as Chester himself, and with even better reason, for he
knew well the cause of his little daughter's listless manner and tearful
eyes. She had been all radiance and joy at the idea of coming to Sibley
and being near the great cities, but not one happy look had he seen in
her sweet and wistful face since the day of her arrival. Wilton, too,
was another captain who disliked Jerrold; and Chester's rugged sense of
fair play told him that it was not among the enemies of the young
officer that he should now seek advice, but that if he had a friend
among the older and wiser heads in the regiment it was due to him that
that older and wiser head be given a chance to think a little for
Jerrold's sake. And there was not one among the seniors whom he could
call upon. As he ran over their names, Chester for the first time
realized that his ex-subaltern had not a friend among the captains and
senior officers now on duty at the fort. His indifference to duties, his
airy foppishness, his conceit and self-sufficiency, had all served to
create a feeling against him; and this had been intensified by his
conduct since coming to Sibley. The youngsters still kept up jovial
relations with and professed to like him, but among the seniors there
were many men who had only a nod for him on meeting. Wilton had
epitomized the situation by saying he "had no use for a masher," and
poor old Gray had one day scowlingly referred to him as "the
professional beauty."

In view of all this feeling, Chester would gladly have found some man to
counsel further delay; but there was none. He felt that he must inform
the colonel at once of the fact that Mr. Jerrold was absent from his
quarters at the time of the firing, of his belief that it was Jerrold
who struck him and sped past the sentry in the dark, and of his
conviction that the sooner the young officer was called to account for
his strange conduct the better. As to the episodes of the ladder, the
lights, and the form at the dormer-window, he meant, for the present at
least, to lock them in his heart.

But he forgot that others too must have heard those shots, and that
others too would be making inquiries.




VI.


A lovely morning it was that beamed on Sibley and the broad and
beautiful valley of the Cloudwater when once the sun got fairly above
the moist horizon. Mist and vapor and heavy cloud all seemed swallowed
up in the gathering, glowing warmth, as though the King of Day had
risen athirst and drained the welcoming cup of nature. It must have
rained at least a little during the darkness of the night, for dew there
could have been none with skies so heavily overcast, and yet the short
smooth turf on the parade, the leaves upon the little shade-trees around
the quadrangle, and all the beautiful vines here on the trellis-work of
the colonel's veranda, shone and sparkled in the radiant light. The
roses in the little garden, and the old-fashioned morning-glory vines
over at the east side, were all a-glitter in the flooding sunshine when
the bugler came out from a glance at the clock in the adjutant's office
and sounded "sick-call" to the indifferent ear of the garrison. Once
each day, at 7.30 a.m., the doctor trudged across to the
hospital and looked over the half-dozen "hopelessly healthy" but
would-be invalids who wanted to get off guard duty or a morning at the
range. Thanks to the searching examination to which every soldier must
be subjected before he can enter the service of Uncle Sam, and to the
disciplined order of the lives of the men at Sibley, maladies of any
serious nature were almost unknown. It was a gloriously healthy post, as
everybody admitted, and, to judge from the specimen of young-womanhood
that came singing, "blithe and low," out among the roses this same
joyous morning, exuberant physical well-being was not restricted to the
men.

A fairer picture never did dark beauty present than Alice Renwick, as
she bent among the bushes or reached high among the vines in search of
her favorite flowers. Tall, slender, willowy, yet with
exquisitely-rounded form; slim, dainty little hands and feet; graceful
arms and wrists all revealed in the flowing sleeves of her snowy,
web-like gown, fitting her and displaying her sinuous grace of form as
gowns so seldom do to-day. And then her face!--a glorious picture of
rich, ripe, tropical beauty, with its great, soulful, sunlit eyes,
heavily shaded though they were with those wondrous lashes; beautiful,
too, in contour as was the lithe body, and beautiful in every feature,
even to the rare and dewy curve of her red lips, half opened as she
sang. She was smiling to herself, as she crooned her soft, murmuring
melody, and every little while the great dark eyes glanced over towards
the shaded doors of Bachelors' Row. There was no one up to watch and
tell: why should she not look thither, and even stand one moment peering
under the veranda at a darkened window half-way down the row, as though
impatient at the non-appearance of some familiar signal? How came the
laggard late? How slept the knight while here his lady stood impatient?
She twined the leaves and roses in a fragrant knot, ran lightly within
and laid them on the snowy cloth beside the colonel's seat at table,
came forth and plucked some more and fastened them, blushing, blissful,
in the lace-fringed opening of her gown, through which, soft and creamy,
shone the perfect neck.

  "Daisy, tell my fortune, pray:
  He loves me not,--he loves me,"

she blithely sang, then, hurrying to the gate, shaded her eyes with the
shapely hand and gazed intently. 'Twas nearing eight,--nearing
breakfast-time. But some one was coming. Horrid! Captain Chester, of all
men! Coming, of course, to see papa, and papa not yet down, and mamma
had a headache and had decided not to come down at all, she would
breakfast in her room. What girl on earth when looking and longing and
waiting for the coming of a graceful youth of twenty-six would be
anything but dismayed at the substitution therefor of a bulky,
heavy-hearted captain of forty-six, no matter if he were still
unmarried? And yet her smile was sweet and cordial.

"Why, good-morning, Captain Chester. I'm so glad to see you this bright
day. Do come in and let me give you a rose. Papa will soon be down." And
she opened the gate and held forth one long, slim hand. He took it
slowly, as though in a dream, raising his forage-cap at the same time,
yet making no reply. He was looking at her far more closely than he
imagined. How fresh, how radiant, how fair and gracious and winning!
Every item of her attire was so pure and white and spotless; every fold
and curve of her gown seemed charged with subtile, delicate fragrance,
as faint and sweet as the shy and modest wood-violet's. She noted his
silence and his haggard eyes. She noted the intent gaze, and the color
mounted straightway to her forehead.

"And have you no word of greeting for me?" she blithely laughed,
striving to break through the awkwardness of his reserve, "or are you
worn out with your night watch as officer of the day?"

He fairly started. Had she seen him, then? Did she know it was he who
stood beneath her window, he who leaped in chase of that scoundrel, he
who stole away with that heavy tell-tale ladder? and, knowing all this,
could she stand there smiling in his face, the incarnation of maiden
innocence and beauty? Impossible! Yet what could she mean?

"How did you know I had so long a vigil?" he asked, and the cold,
strained tone, the half-averted eyes, the pallor of his face, all struck
her at once. Instantly her manner changed:

"Oh, forgive me, captain. I see you are all worn out; and I'm keeping
you here at the gate. Come to the piazza and sit down. I'll tell papa
you are here, for I know you want to see him." And she tripped lightly
away before he could reply, and rustled up the stairs. He could hear her
light tap at the colonel's door, and her soft, clear, flute-like voice:
"Papa, Captain Chester is here to see you."

Papa indeed! She spoke to him and of him as though he were her own. He
treated her as though she were his flesh and blood,--as though he loved
her devotedly. Even before she came had not they been prepared for this?
Did not Mrs. Maynard tell them that Alice had become enthusiastically
devoted to her step-father and considered him the most knightly and
chivalric hero she had ever seen? He could hear the colonel's hearty and
loving tone in reply, and then she came fluttering down again:

"Papa will be with you in five minutes, captain. But won't you let me
give you some coffee? It's all ready, and you look so tired,--even ill."

"I have had a bad night," he answered, "but I'm growing old, and cannot
stand sleeplessness as you young people seem to."

Was she faltering? He watched her eagerly, narrowly, almost wonderingly.
Not a trace of confusion, not a sign of fear; and yet had he not _seen_
her, and that other figure?

"I wish you could sleep as I do," was the prompt reply. "I was in the
land of dreams ten minutes after my head touched the pillow, and mamma
made me come home early last night because of our journey to-day. You
know we are going down to visit Aunt Grace, Colonel Maynard's sister, at
Lake Sablon, and mamma wanted me to be looking my freshest and best,"
she said, "and I never heard a thing till reveille."

His eyes, sad, penetrating, doubting,--yet self-doubting, too,--searched
her very soul. Unflinchingly the dark orbs looked into his,--even
pityingly; for she quickly spoke again:

"Captain, _do_ come into the breakfast-room and have some coffee. You
have not breakfasted, I'm sure."

He raised his hand as though to repel her offer,--even to put her aside.
He _must_ understand her. He _could_ not be hoodwinked in this way.

"Pardon me, Miss Renwick, but did you hear nothing strange last night
or early this morning? Were you not disturbed at all?"

"I? No, indeed!" True, her face had changed now, but there was no fear
in her eyes. It was a look of apprehension, perhaps, of concern and
curiosity mingled, for his tone betrayed that something had happened
which caused him agitation.

"And you heard no shots fired?"

"Shots! No! Oh, Captain Chester! what does it mean? _Who_ was shot? Tell
me!"

And now, with paling face and wild apprehension in her eyes, she turned
and gazed beyond him, past the vines and the shady veranda, across the
sunshine of the parade and under the old piazza, searching that still
closed and darkened window.

"Who?" she implored, her hands clasping nervously, her eyes returning
eagerly to his face.

"It was not Mr. Jerrold," he answered, coldly. "He is unhurt, so far as
shot is concerned."

"Then how is he hurt? Is he hurt at all?" she persisted; and then as she
met his gaze her eyes fell, and the burning blush of maiden shame surged
up to her forehead. She sank upon a seat and covered her face with her
hands.

"I thought of Mr. Jerrold, naturally. He said he would be over early
this morning," was all she could find to say.

"I have seen him, and presume he will come. To all appearances, he is
the last man to suffer from last night's affair," he went on,
relentlessly,--almost brutally,--but she never winced. "It is odd you
did not hear the shots. I thought yours was the northwest room,--this
one?" he indicated, pointing overhead.

"So it is, and I slept there all last night and heard nothing,--not a
thing. _Do_ tell me what the trouble was."

Then what was there for him to say? The colonel's footsteps were heard
upon the stair, and the colonel, with extended hand and beaming face and
cheery welcome, came forth from the open door-way:

"Welcome, Chester! I'm glad you've come just in time for breakfast. Mrs.
Maynard won't be down. She slept badly last night, and is sleeping now.
What was the firing last night? I did not hear it at the time, but the
orderly and old Maria the cook were discussing it as I was shaving."

"It is that I came to see you about, colonel. I am the man to hold
responsible."

"No prisoners got away, I hope?"

"No, sir. Nothing, I fear, that would seem to justify my action. I
ordered Number Five to fire."

"Why, what on earth could have happened around there,--almost back of
us?" said the colonel, in surprise.

"I do not know what had happened, or what was going to happen." And
Chester paused a moment, and glanced towards the door through which Miss
Renwick had retired as soon as the colonel arrived. The old soldier
seemed to understand the glance. "_She_ would not listen," he said,
proudly.

"I know," explained Chester. "I think it best that no one but you should
hear anything of the matter for the present until I have investigated
further. It was nearly half-past three this morning as I got around here
on Five's post, inspecting sentinels, and came suddenly in the darkness
upon a man carrying a ladder on his shoulder. I ordered him to halt. The
reply was a violent blow, and the ladder and I were dropped at the same
instant, while the man sprang into space and darted off in the direction
of Number Five. I followed quick as I could, heard the challenge and the
cries of halt, and shouted to Leary to fire. He did, but missed his aim
in the haste and darkness, and the man got safely away. Of course there
is much talk and speculation about it around the post this morning, for
several people heard the shots besides the guard, and, although I told
Leary and others to say nothing, I know it is already generally known."

"Oh, well, come in to breakfast," said the colonel. "We'll talk it over
there."

"Pardon me, sir, I cannot. I must get back home before guard-mount, and
Rollins is probably waiting to see me now. I--I could not discuss it at
the table, for there are some singular features about the matter."

"Why, in God's name, what?" asked the colonel, with sudden and deep
anxiety.

"Well, sir, an officer of the garrison is placed in a compromising
position by this affair, and cannot or will not explain."

"Who?"

"Mr. Jerrold, sir."

"Jerrold! Why, I got a note from him not ten minutes ago saying he had
an engagement in town and asking permission to go before guard-mounting,
if Mr. Hall was ready. Hall wanted to go with him, Jerrold wrote, but
Hall has not applied for permission to leave the post."

"It is Jerrold who is compromised, colonel. I may be all wrong in my
suspicions, all wrong in reporting the matter to you at all, but in my
perplexity and distress I see no other way. Frankly, sir, the moment I
caught sight of the man he looked like Jerrold; and two minutes after
the shots were fired I inspected Jerrold's quarters. He was not there,
though the lamps were burning very low in the bedroom, and his bed had
not been occupied at all. When you see Leary, sir, he will tell you that
he also thought it must be Mr. Jerrold."

"The young scapegrace!--been off to town, I suppose."

"Colonel," said Chester, quickly, "you--not I--must decide that. I went
to his quarters after reveille, and he was then there, and resented my
visit and questions, admitted that he had been out during the night, but
refused to make any statement to me."

"Well, Chester, I will haul him up after breakfast. Possibly he had been
up to the rifle-camp, or had driven to town after the doctor's party. Of
course _that_ must be stopped; but I'm glad you missed him. It, of
course, staggers a man's judgment to be knocked down, but if you had
killed him it might have been as serious for you as this knock-down blow
will be for him. That is the worst phase of the matter. What could he
have been thinking of? He must have been either drunk or mad; and he
rarely drank. Oh, dear, dear, dear, but that's very bad,--very
bad,--striking the officer of the day! Why, Chester, that's the worst
thing that's happened in the regiment since I took command of it. It's
about the worst thing that _could_ have happened to us. Of course he
must go in arrest. I'll see the adjutant right after breakfast. I'll be
over early, Chester." And with grave and worried face the colonel bade
him adieu.

As he turned away, Chester heard him saying again to himself, "About the
worst thing he could have done!--the worst thing he could have done!"
And the captain's heart sank within him. What would the colonel say when
he knew how far, far worse was the foul wrong Mr. Jerrold had done to
him and his?




VII.


Before guard-mounting--almost half an hour before his usual time for
appearing at the office--Colonel Maynard hurried in to his desk, sent
the orderly for Captain Chester, and then the clerks in the
sergeant-major's room heard him close and lock the door. As the subject
of the shooting was already under discussion among the men there
assembled, this action on the part of the chief was considered highly
significant. It was hardly five minutes before Chester came, looked
surprised at finding the door locked, knocked, and was admitted.

The look on the haggard face at the desk, the dumb misery in the eyes,
the wrath and horror in it all, carried him back twenty years to that
gloomy morning in the casemates when the story was passed around that
Captain Maynard had lost a wife and an intimate friend during the
previous night. Chester saw at a glance that, despite his precautions,
the blow had come, the truth been revealed at one fell swoop.

"Lock the door again, Chester, and come here. I have some questions to
ask you."

The captain silently took the chair which was indicated by a wave of the
colonel's hand, and waited. For a moment no word more was spoken. The
old soldier, white and trembling strangely, reseated himself at the
desk, and covered his face with his hands. Twice he drew them with
feebly stroking movement over his eyes, as though to rally the stunned
faculties and face the trying ordeal. Then a shiver passed through his
frame, and with sudden lift of the head he fixed his gaze on Chester's
face and launched the question,--

"Chester, is there any kindness to a man who has been through what I
have in telling only half a tale, as you have done?"

The captain colored red. "I am at a loss to answer you, colonel," he
said, after brief reflection. "You know far more than you did half an
hour ago, and what I knew I could not bear to tell you as yet."

"My God! my God! Tell me _all_, and tell me at once. Here, man, if you
need stimulant to your indignation and cannot speak without it, read
this. I found it, open, among the rose-bushes in the garden, where she
must have dropped it when out there with you. Read it. Tell me what it
means; for, God knows, I can't believe such a thing of her."

He handed Chester a sheet of note-paper. It was moist and blurred on
the first page, but the inner pages, though damp, were in good
condition. The first, second, and third pages were closely covered in a
bold, nervous hand that Chester knew well. It was Jerrold's writing,
beyond a doubt, and Chester's face grew hot as he read, and his heart
turned cold as stone when he finished the last hurried line.

"MY DARLING,--

"I _must_ see you, if only for a moment, before you leave. Do not let
this alarm you, for the more I think the more I am convinced it is only
a bluff, but Captain Chester discovered my absence early this morning
when spying around as usual, and now he claims to have knowledge of our
secret. Even if he was on the terrace when I got back, it was too dark
for him to recognize me, and it seems impossible that he can have got
any real clue. He suspects, perhaps, and thinks to force me to
confession; but I would guard your name with my life. Be wary. Act as
though there were nothing on earth between us, and if we cannot meet
until then I will be at the dépôt with the others to see you off, and
will then have a letter ready with full particulars and instructions. It
will be in the first thing I hand to you. Hide it until you can safely
read it. Your mother must not be allowed a glimmer of suspicion, and
then you are safe. As for me, even Chester cannot make the colonel turn
against me now. My jealous one, my fiery sweetheart, do you not realize
now that I was wise in showing her so much attention? A thousand kisses.
Come what may, they cannot rob us of the past.                   HOWARD.

"I fear you heard and were alarmed by the shots just after I left you.
All was quiet when I got home."

It was some seconds before Chester could control himself sufficiently to
speak. "I wish to God the bullet had gone through his heart!" he said.

"It has gone through mine,--through mine! This will kill her mother.
Chester," cried the colonel, springing suddenly to his feet, "she must
not know it. She must not dream of it. I tell you it would stretch her
in the dust, _dead_, for she loves that child with all her strength,
with all her being, I believe, for it is two mother-loves in one. She
had a son, older than Alice by several years, her first-born,--her
glory, he was,--but the boy inherited the father's passionate and
impulsive nature. He loved a girl utterly beneath him, and would have
married her when he was only twenty. There is no question that he loved
her well, for he refused to give her up, no matter what his father
threatened. They tried to buy her off, and she scorned them. Then they
had a letter written, while he was sent abroad under pretence that he
should have his will if he came back in a year unchanged. By Jove, it
seems she was as much in love as he, and it broke her heart. She went
off and died somewhere, and he came back ahead of time because her
letters had ceased, and found it all out. There was an awful scene. He
cursed them both,--father and mother,--and left her senseless at his
feet; and from that day to this they never heard of him, never could get
the faintest report. It broke Renwick,--killed him, I guess, for he died
in two years; and as for the mother, you would not think that a woman so
apparently full of life and health was in desperate danger. She had some
organic trouble with the heart years ago, they tell her, and this
experience has developed it so that now any great emotion or sudden
shock is perilous. Do you not see how doubly fearful this comes to us?
Chester, I have weathered one awful storm, but I'm old and broken now.
This--this beats me. Tell me what to do."

The captain was silent a few moments. He was thinking intently.

"Does she know you have that letter?" he asked.

Maynard shook his head: "I looked back as I came away. She was in the
parlor, singing softly to herself, at the very moment I picked it up,
lying open as it was right there among the roses, the first words
staring me in the face. I meant not to read it,--never dreamed it was
for her,--and had turned over the page to look for the superscription.
There was none, but there I saw the signature and that postscript about
the shots. That startled me, and I read it here just before you came,
and then could account for your conduct,--something I could not do
before. God of heaven! would any man believe it of her? It is
incredible! Chester, tell me everything you know now,--even everything
you suspect. I must see my way clear."

And then the captain, with halting and reluctant tongue, told his story:
how he had stumbled on the ladder back of the colonel's quarters and
learned from Number Five that some one had been prowling back of
Bachelors' Row; how he returned there afterwards, found the ladder at
the side-wall, and saw the tall form issue from her window; how he had
given chase and been knocked breathless, and of his suspicions, and
Leary's, as to the identity of the stranger.

The colonel bowed his head still deeper, and groaned aloud. But he had
still other questions to ask.

"Did you see--any one else at the window?"

"Not while he was there."

"At any time, then,--before or after?" And the colonel's eyes would take
no denial.

"I saw," faltered Chester, "nobody. The shade was pulled up while I was
standing there, after I had tripped on the ladder. I supposed the noise
of my stumble had awakened her."

"And was that all? Did you see nothing more?"

"Colonel, I _did_ see, afterwards, a woman's hand and arm closing the
shade."

"My God! And she told me she slept the night through,--never waked or
heard a sound!"

"Did you hear nothing yourself, colonel?"

"Nothing. When she came home from the party she stopped a moment, saying
something to him at the door, then came into the library and kissed me
good-night. I shut up the house and went to bed about half-past twelve,
and her door was closed when I went to our room."

"So there were two closed doors, yours and hers, and the broad hall
between you?"

"Certainly. We have the doors open all night that lead into the rear
rooms, and their windows. This gives us abundant air. Alice always has
the hall door closed at night."

"And Mrs. Maynard,--was she asleep?"

"No. Mrs. Maynard was lying awake, and seemed a little restless and
disturbed. Some of the women had been giving her some hints about
Jerrold and fretting her. You know she took a strange fancy to him at
the start. It was simply because he reminded her so strongly of the boy
she had lost. She told me so. But after a little she began to discover
traits in him she did not like, and then his growing intimacy with Alice
worried her. She would have put a stop to the doctor's party,--to her
going with him, I mean,--but the engagement was made some days ago. Two
or three days since, she warned Alice not to trust him, she says; and it
is really as much on this as any other account that we decided to get
her away, off to see her aunt Grace. Oh, God! how blind we are! how
blind we are!" And poor old Maynard bowed his head and almost groaned
aloud.

Chester rose, and, in his characteristic way, began tramping nervously
up and down. There was a knock at the door. "The adjutant's compliments,
and 'twas time for guard-mount. Would the colonel wish to see him before
he went out?" asked the orderly.

"I ought to go, sir," said Chester. "I am old officer of the day, and
there will be just time for me to get into full uniform."

"Let them go on without you," said Maynard. "I cannot spare you now.
Send word to that effect. Now,--now about this man,--this Jerrold. What
is the best thing we can do?--of course I know what he most
deserves;--but what is the _best_ thing under all the circumstances? Of
course my wife and Alice will leave to-day. She was still sleeping when
I left, and, pray God, is not dreaming of this. It was nearly two before
she closed her eyes last night; and I, too, slept badly. You have seen
him. What does he say?"

"Denies everything,--anything,--challenges me to prove that he was
absent from his house more than five minutes,--indeed, I could not, for
he may have come in just after I left,--and pretended utter ignorance of
my meaning when I accused him of striking me before I ordered the sentry
to fire. Of course it is all useless now. When I confront him with this
letter he _must_ give in. Then let him resign and get away as quietly as
possible before the end of the week. No one need know the causes. Of
course shooting is what he deserves; but shooting demands explanation.
It is better for your name, hers, and all, that he should be allowed to
live than that the truth were suspected, as it would be if he were
killed. Indeed, sir, if I were you I would take them to Sablon, keep
them away for a fortnight, and leave him to me. It may be even judicious
to let him go on with all his duties as though nothing had happened, as
though he had simply been absent from reveille, and let the whole matter
drop like that until all remark and curiosity is lulled; then you can
send her back to Europe or the East,--time enough to decide on that; but
I will privately tell him he must quit the service in six months, and
show him why. It isn't the way it ought to be settled; it probably isn't
the way Armitage would do it; but it is the best thing that occurs to
me. One thing is certain: you and they ought to get away at once, and he
should not be permitted to see her again. I can run the post a few days
and explain matters after you go."

The colonel sat in wretched silence a few moments; then he arose:

"If it were not for _her_ danger,--her heart,--I would never drop the
matter here,--never! I would see it through to the bitter end. But you
are probably right as to the prudent course to take. I'll get them away
on the noon train: he thinks they do not start until later. Now I must
go and face it. My God, Chester! could you look at that child and
realize it? Even now, even now, sir, I believe--I believe,
someway--somehow--she is innocent."

"God grant it, sir!"

And then the colonel left the office, avoiding, as has been told, a word
with any man. Chester buttoned the tell-tale letter in an inner pocket,
after having first folded the sheet lengthwise and then enclosed it in a
long official envelope. The officers, wondering at the colonel's
distraught appearance, had come thronging in, hoping for information,
and then had gone, unsatisfied and disgusted, practically turned out by
their crabbed senior captain. The ladies, after chatting aimlessly about
the quadrangle for half an hour, had decided that Mrs. Maynard must be
ill, and, while most of them awaited the result, two of their number
went to the colonel's house and rang at the bell. A servant appeared:
"Mrs. Maynard wasn't very well this morning, and was breakfasting in her
room, and Miss Alice was with her, if the ladies would please excuse
them." And so the emissaries returned unsuccessful. Then, too, as we
have seen, despite his good intention of keeping matters hushed as much
as possible, Chester's nervous irritability had got the better of him,
and he had made damaging admissions to Wilton of the existence of a
cause of worriment and perplexity, and this Wilton told without
compunction. And then there was another excitement, that set all tongues
wagging. Every man had heard what Chester said, that Mr. Jerrold must
not quit the garrison until he had first come and seen the temporary
commanding officer, and Hall had speedily carried the news to his
friend.

"Are _you_ ready to go?" asked Mr. Jerrold, who was lacing his boots in
the rear room.

"No. I've got to go and get into 'cits' first."

"All right. Go, and be lively! I'll wait for you at Murphy's, beyond the
bridge, provided you say nothing about it."

"You don't mean you are going against orders?"

"Going? Of course I am. I've got old Maynard's permission, and if
Chester means to revoke it he's got to get his adjutant here inside of
ten seconds. What you tell me isn't official. I'm off _now_!"

And when the adjutant returned to Captain Chester it was with the
information that he was too late: Mr. Jerrold's dog-cart had crossed
the bridge five minutes earlier.

Perhaps an hour later the colonel sent for Chester, and the captain went
to his house. The old soldier was pacing slowly up and down the parlor
floor.

"I wanted you a moment. A singular thing has happened. You know that
'Directoire' cabinet photo of Alice? My wife always kept it on her
dressing-table, and this morning it's gone. That frame--the silver
filigree thing--was found behind a sofa-pillow in Alice's room, and she
declares she has no idea how it got there. Chester, is there any new
significance in this?"

The captain bowed assent.

"What is it?"

"That photograph was seen by Major Sloat in Jerrold's bureau-drawer at
reveille this morning."

And such was the situation at Sibley the August day the colonel took his
wife and her lovely daughter to visit Aunt Grace at Lake Sablon.




VIII.


In the big red omnibus that was slowly toiling over the dusty road
several passengers were making their way from the railway-station to the
hotel at Lake Sablon. Two of them were women of mature years, whose
dress and bearing betokened lives of ease and comfort; another was a
lovely brunette of less than twenty, the daughter, evidently, of one of
these ladies, and an object of loving pride to both. These three seemed
at home in their surroundings, and were absorbed in the packet of
letters and papers they had just received at the station. It was evident
that they were not new arrivals, as were the other passengers, who
studied them with the half-envious feelings with which new-comers at a
summer resort are apt to regard those who seem to have been long
established there, and who gathered from the scraps of conversation that
they had merely been over to say good-by to friends leaving on the very
train which brought in the rest of what we good Americans term "the
'bus-load." There were women among the newly-arrived who inspected the
dark girl with that calm, unflinching, impertinent scrutiny and
half-audibly whispered comment which, had they been of the opposite sex,
would have warranted their being kicked out of the conveyance, but which
was ignored by the fair object and her friends as completely as were
the commentators themselves. There were one or two men in the omnibus
who might readily have been forgiven an admiring glance or two at so
bright a vision of girlish beauty as was Miss Renwick this August
afternoon, and they _had_ looked; but the one who most attracted the
notice of Mrs. Maynard and Aunt Grace--a tall, stalwart,
distinguished-looking party in gray travelling-dress--had taken his seat
close to the door and was deep in the morning's paper before they were
fairly away from the station.

Laying down the letter she had just finished reading, Mrs. Maynard
glanced at her daughter, who was still engaged in one of her own, and
evidently with deep interest.

"From Fort Sibley, Alice?"

"Yes, mamma, all three,--Miss Craven, Mrs. Hoyt, and--Mr. Jerrold. Would
you like to see it?" And, with rising color, she held forth the one in
her hand.

"Not now," was the answer, with a smile that told of confidence and
gratification both. "It is about the german, I suppose?"

"Yes. He thinks it outrageous that we should not be there,--says it is
to be the prettiest ever given at the fort, and that Mrs. Hoyt and Mrs.
Craven, who are the managers for the ladies, had asked him to lead. He
wants to know if we cannot possibly come."

"Are you not very eager to go, Alice? I should be," said Aunt Grace,
with sympathetic interest.

"Yes, I am," answered Miss Renwick, reflectively. "It had been arranged
that it should come off next week, when, as was supposed, we would be
home after this visit. It cannot be postponed, of course, because it is
given in honor of all the officers who are gathered there for the
rifle-competition, and that will be all over and done with to-day, and
they cannot stay beyond Tuesday next. We must give it up, auntie," and
she looked up smilingly, "and you have made it so lovely for me here
that I can do it without a sigh. Think of that!--an army german!--and
Fanny Craven says the favors are to be simply lovely. Yes, I _did_ want
to go, but papa said he felt unequal to it the moment he got back from
Chicago, day before yesterday, and he certainly does not look at all
well: so that ended it, and I wrote at once to Mrs. Hoyt. This is her
answer now."

"What does she say?"

"Oh, it is very kind of her: she wants me to come and be her guest if
the colonel is too ill to come and mamma will not leave him. She says
Mr. Hoyt will come down and escort me. But I would not like to go
without mamma," and the big dark eyes looked up wistfully, "and I know
she does not care to urge papa when he seems so indisposed to going."

Mrs. Maynard's eyes were anxious and troubled now. She turned to her
sister-in-law:

"Do you think he seems any better, Grace? I do not."

"It is hard to say. He was so nervously anxious to get away to see the
general the very day you arrived here that there was not a moment in
which I could ask him about himself; and since his return he has avoided
all mention of it beyond saying it is nothing but indigestion and he
would be all right in a few days. I never knew him to suffer in that way
in my life. Is there any regimental matter that can be troubling him?"
she asked, in lower tone.

"Nothing of any consequence whatever. Of course the officers feel
chagrined over their defeat in the rifle-match. They had expected to
stand very high, but Mr. Jerrold's shooting was unexpectedly below the
average, and it threw their team behind. But the colonel didn't make the
faintest allusion to it. That hasn't worried him anywhere near as much
as it has the others, I should judge."

"I do not think it was all Mr. Jerrold's fault, mamma," said Miss
Renwick, with gentle reproach and a very becoming flush. "I'm going to
stand up for him, because I think they all blame him for other men's
poor work. He was not the only one on our team whose shooting was below
former scores."

"They claim that none fell so far below their expectations as he, Alice.
You know I am no judge of such matters, but Mr. Hoyt and Captain Gray
both write the colonel that Mr. Jerrold had been taking no care of
himself whatever and was entirely out of form."

"In any event I'm glad the cavalry did no better," was Miss Renwick's
loyal response. "You remember the evening we rode out to the range and
Captain Gray said that there was the man who would win the first prize
from Mr. Jerrold,--that tall cavalry sergeant who fainted
away,--Sergeant McLeod; don't you remember, mother? Well, he did not
even get a place, and Mr. Jerrold beat him easily."

Something in her mother's eyes warned her to be guarded, and, in that
indefinable but unerring system of feminine telegraphy, called her
attention to the man sitting by the door. Looking quickly to her right,
Miss Renwick saw that he was intently regarding her. At the mention of
Fort Sibley the stranger had lowered his paper, revealing a bronzed face
clean-shaven except for the thick blonde moustache, and a pair of clear,
steady, searching blue eyes under heavy brows and lashes, and these eyes
were very deliberately yet respectfully fixed upon her own; nor were
they withdrawn in proper confusion when detected. It was Miss Renwick
whose eyes gave up the contest and returned in some sense of defeat to
her mother's face.

"What letters have you for the colonel?" asked Mrs. Maynard, coming _au
secours_.

"Three,--two of them from his devoted henchman Captain Chester, who
writes by every mail, I should imagine; and these he will go off into
some secluded nook with and come back looking blue and worried. Then
here's another, forwarded from Sibley, too. I do not know this hand.
Perhaps it is from Captain Armitage, who, they say, is to come back next
month. Poor Mr. Jerrold!"

"Why poor Mr. Jerrold?" asked Aunt Grace, with laughing interest, as she
noted the expression on her niece's pretty face.

"Because he can't bear Captain Armitage, and--"

"Now, Alice!" said her mother, reprovingly. "You must not take his view
of the captain at all. Remember what the colonel said of him--"

"Mother dear," protested Alice, laughing, "I have no doubt Captain
Armitage is the paragon of a soldier, but he is unquestionably a most
unpleasant and ungentlemanly person in his conduct to the young
officers. Mr. Hall has told me the same thing. I declare, I don't see
how they can speak to him at all, he has been so harsh and discourteous
and unjust." The color was rising in earnest now, but a warning glance
in her mother's eye seemed to check further words. There was an
instant's silence. Then Aunt Grace remarked,--

"Alice, your next-door neighbor has vanished. I think your vehemence has
frightened him."

Surely enough, the big, blue-eyed man in tweeds had disappeared. During
this brief controversy he had quickly and noiselessly let himself out of
the open door, swung lightly to the ground, and was out of sight among
the trees.

"Why, what a strange proceeding!" said Aunt Grace again. "We are fully a
mile and a half from the hotel, and he means to walk it in this glaring
sun."

Evidently he did. The driver reined up at the moment in response to a
suggestion from some one in a forward seat, and there suddenly appeared
by the wayside, striding out from the shelter of the sumachs, the
athletic figure of the stranger.

"Go ahead!" he called, in a deep chest-voice that had an unmistakable
ring to it,--the tone that one so readily recognizes in men accustomed
to prompt action and command. "I'm going across lots." And, swinging his
heavy stick, with quick, elastic steps and erect carriage the man in
gray plunged into a wood-path and was gone.

"Alice," said Aunt Grace, again, "that man is an officer, I'm sure, and
you have driven him into exile and lonely wandering. I've seen so much
of them when visiting my brother in the old days before my marriage that
even in civilian dress it is easy to tell some of them. Just look at
that back, and those shoulders! He has been a soldier all his life.
Horrors! suppose it should be Captain Armitage himself!"

Miss Renwick looked genuinely distressed, as well as vexed. Certainly no
officer but Captain Armitage would have had reason to leave the stage.
Certainly officers and their families occasionally visited Sablon in the
summer-time, but Captain Armitage could hardly be here. There was
comforting assurance in the very note she held in her hand.

"It cannot be," she said, "because Mr. Jerrold writes that they have
just heard from him at Sibley. He is still at the sea-shore, and will
not return for a month. Mr. Jerrold says he implored Captain Chester to
let him have three days' leave to come down here and have a sail and a
picnic with us, and was told that it would be out of the question."

"Did he tell you any other news?" asked Mrs. Maynard, looking up from
her letter again,--"anything about the german?"

"He says he thinks it a shame we are to be away and--well, read it
yourself." And she placed it in her mother's hands, the dark eyes
seriously, anxiously studying her face as she read. Presently Mrs.
Maynard laid it down and looked again into her own, then, pointing to a
certain passage with her finger, handed it to her daughter.

"Men were deceivers ever," she said, laughing, yet oracularly
significant.

And Alice Renwick could not quite control the start with which she
read,--

"Mr. Jerrold is to lead with his old love, Nina Beaubien. They make a
capital pair, and she, of course, will be radiant--with Alice out of the
way."

"That is something Mr. Jerrold failed to mention, is it not?"

Miss Renwick's cheeks were flushed, and the dark eyes were filled with
sudden pain, as she answered,--

"I did not know she was there. She was to have gone to the Lakes the
same day we left."

"She did go, Alice," said her mother, quietly, "but it was only for a
brief visit, it seems."

The colonel was not at their cottage when the omnibus reached the lake.
Over at the hotel were the usual number of loungers gathered to see the
new arrivals, and Alice presently caught sight of the colonel coming
through the park. If anything, he looked more listless and dispirited
than he had before they left. She ran down the steps to meet him,
smiling brightly up into his worn and haggard face.

"Are you feeling a little brighter, papa? Here are letters for you."

He took them wearily, barely glancing at the superscriptions.

"I had hoped for something more," he said, and passed on into the little
frame house which was his sister's summer home. "Is your mother here?"
he asked, looking back as he entered the door.

"In the north room, with Aunt Grace, papa," she answered; and then once
more and with graver face she began to read Mr. Jerrold's letter. It was
a careful study she was making of it this time, and not altogether a
pleasant one. Aunt Grace came out and made some laughing remark at
seeing her still so occupied. She looked up, pluckily smiling despite a
sense of wounded pride, and answered,--

"I am only convincing myself that it was purely on general principles
that Mr. Jerrold seemed so anxious I should be there. He never wanted me
to lead with him at all." All the same it stung, and Aunt Grace saw and
knew it, and longed to take her to her heart and comfort her; but it was
better so. She was finding him out unaided.

She was still studying over portions of that ingenious letter, when the
rustle of her aunt's gown indicated that she was rising. She saw her
move towards the steps, heard a quick, firm tread upon the narrow
planking, and glanced up in surprise. There, uncovering his
close-cropped head, stood the tall stranger, looking placidly up as he
addressed Aunt Grace:

"Pardon me, can I see Colonel Maynard?"

"He is at home. Pray come up and take a chair. I will let him know.
I--I felt sure you must be some friend of his when I saw you in the
stage," said the good lady, with manifest and apologetic uneasiness.

"Yes," responded the stranger, as he quickly ascended the steps and
bowed before her, smiling quietly the while. "Let me introduce myself. I
am Captain Armitage, of the colonel's regiment."

"There! I _knew_ it!" was Aunt Grace's response, as with both hands
uplifted in tragic despair she gave one horror-stricken glance at Alice
and rushed into the house.

There was a moment's silence; then, with burning cheeks, but with brave
eyes that looked frankly into his, Alice Renwick arose, came straight up
to him, and held out her pretty hand.

"Captain Armitage, I beg your pardon."

He took the extended hand and gazed earnestly into her face, while a
kind--almost merry--smile lighted up his own.

"Have the boys given me such an uncanny reputation as all that?" he
asked; and then, as though tickled with the comicality of the situation,
he began to laugh. "What ogres some of us old soldiers do become in the
course of years! Do you know, young lady, I might never have suspected
what a brute I was if it had not been for you? What a blessed thing it
was the colonel did not tell you I was coming! You would never have
given me this true insight into my character."

But she saw nothing to laugh at, and would not laugh. Her lovely face
was still burning with blushes and dismay and full of trouble.

"I do not look upon it lightly at all," she said. "It was unpardonable
in me to--to--"

"To take so effective and convincing a method of telling a man of his
grievous sins! Not a bit of it. I like a girl who has the courage to
stand up for her friends. I shall congratulate Jerrold and Hall both
when I get back, lucky fellows that they are!" And evidently Captain
Armitage was deriving altogether too much jolly entertainment from her
awkwardness. She rallied and strove to put an end to it.

"Indeed, Captain Armitage, I _do_ think the young officers sorely need
friends and advocates at times. I never would have knowingly spoken to
you of your personal responsibilities in the woes of Mr. Jerrold and Mr.
Hall, but since I have done so unwittingly I may as well define my
position, especially as you are so good-natured with it all." And here,
it must be admitted, Miss Renwick's beautiful eyes were shyly lifted to
his in a most telling way. Once there, they looked squarely into the
clear blue depths of his, and never flinched. "It seemed to me several
times at Sibley that the young officers deserved more consideration and
courtesy than their captains accorded them. It was not you alone that I
heard of."

"I am profoundly gratified to learn that somebody else is a brute," he
answered, trying to look grave, but with that irrepressible merriment
twitching at the corners of his mouth and giving sudden gleams of his
firm white teeth through the thick moustache. "You are come to us just
in time, Miss Renwick, and if you will let me come and tell you all my
sorrows the next time the colonel pitches into me for something wrong in
B Company, I'll give you full permission to overhaul me for everything
or anything I say and do to the youngsters. Is it a bargain?" And he
held out his big, firm hand.

"I think you are--very different from what I heard," was all her answer,
as she looked up in his eyes, twinkling as they were with fun. "Oh, we
are to shake hands on it as a bargain? Is that it? Very well, then."




IX.


When Captain Armitage left the cottage that night he did not go at once
to his own room. Brief as was the conversation he had enjoyed with Miss
Renwick, it was all that Fate vouchsafed him for that date at least. The
entire party went to tea together at the hotel, but immediately
thereafter the colonel carried Armitage away, and for two long hours
they were closeted over some letters that had come from Sibley, and when
the conference broke up and the wondering ladies saw the two men come
forth it was late,--almost ten o'clock,--and the captain did not venture
beyond the threshold of the sitting-room. He bowed and bade them a
somewhat ceremonious good-night. His eyes rested--lingered--on Miss
Renwick's uplifted face, and it was the picture he took with him into
the stillness of the summer night.

The colonel accompanied him to the steps, and rested his hand upon the
broad gray shoulder.

"God only knows how I have needed you, Armitage. This trouble has nearly
crushed me, and it seemed as though I were utterly alone. I had the
haunting fear that it was only weakness on my part and my love for my
wife that made me stand out against Chester's propositions. He can only
see guilt and conviction in every new phase of the case, and, though
you see how he tries to spare me, his letters give no hope of any other
conclusion."

Armitage pondered a moment before he answered. Then he slowly spoke:

"Chester has lived a lonely and an unhappy life. His first experience
after graduation was that wretched affair of which you have told me. Of
course I knew much of the particulars before, but not all. I respect
Chester as a soldier and a gentleman, and I like him and trust him as a
friend; but, Colonel Maynard, in a matter of such vital importance as
this, and one of such delicacy, I distrust, not his motives, but his
judgment. All his life, practically, he has been brooding over the
sorrow that came to him when your trouble came to you, and his mind is
grooved: he believes he sees mystery and intrigue in matters that others
might explain in an instant."

"But think of all the array of evidence he has."

"Enough, and more than enough, I admit, to warrant everything he has
thought or said of the man; but--"

"He simply puts it this way. If he be guilty, can she be less? Is it
possible, Armitage, that you are unconvinced?"

"Certainly I am unconvinced. The matter has not yet been sifted. As I
understand it, you have forbidden his confronting Jerrold with the
proofs of his rascality until I get there. Admitting the evidence of the
ladder, the picture, and the form at the window,--ay, the letter,
too,--I am yet to be convinced of one thing. You must remember that his
judgment is biassed by his early experiences. He fancies, that no woman
is proof against such fascinations as Jerrold's."

"And your belief?"

"Is that some women--_many_ women--are utterly above such a
possibility."

Old Maynard wrung his comrade's hand. "You make me hope in spite of
myself,--my past experiences,--my very senses, Armitage. I have leaned
on you so many years that I missed you sorely when this trial came. If
you had been there, things might not have taken this shape. He looks
upon Chester--and it's one thing Chester hasn't forgiven in him--as a
meddling old granny; you remember the time he so spoke of him last year;
but he holds you in respect, or is afraid of you,--which in a man of his
calibre is about the same thing. It may not be too late for you to act.
Then when he is disposed of once and for all, I can know what must be
done--where she is concerned."

"And under no circumstances can you question Mrs. Maynard?"

"No! no! If she suspected anything of this it would kill her. In any
event, she must have no suspicion of it _now_."

"But does she not ask? Has she no theory about the missing photograph?
Surely she must marvel over its disappearance."

"She _does_; at least, she _did_; but--I'm ashamed to own it,
Armitage--we had to quiet her natural suspicions in some way, and I told
her that it was my doing,--that I took it to tease Alice, put the
photograph in the drawer of my desk, and hid the frame behind her
sofa-pillow. Chester knows of the arrangement, and we had settled that
when the picture was recovered from Mr. Jerrold he would send it to me."

Armitage was silent. A frown settled on his forehead, and it was evident
that the statement was far from welcome to him. Presently he held forth
his hand.

"Well, good-night, sir. I must go and have a quiet think over this. I
hope you will rest well. You need it, colonel."

But Maynard only shook his head. His heart was too troubled for rest of
any kind. He stood gazing out towards the park, where the tall figure of
his ex-adjutant had disappeared among the trees. He heard the low-toned,
pleasant chat of the ladies in the sitting-room, but he was in no mood
to join them. He wished that Armitage had not gone, he felt such
strength and comparative hope in his presence; but it was plain that
even Armitage was confounded by the array of facts and circumstances
that he had so painfully and slowly communicated to him. The colonel
went drearily back to the room in which they had had their long
conference. His wife and sister both hailed him as he passed the
sitting-room door, and urged him to come and join them,--they wanted to
ask about Captain Armitage, with whom it was evident they were much
impressed; but he answered that he had some letters to put away, and he
must attend first to that.

Among those that had been shown to the captain, mainly letters from
Chester telling of the daily events at the fort and of his surveillance
in the case of Jerrold, was one which Alice had brought him two days
before. This had seemed to him of unusual importance, as the others
contained nothing that tended to throw new light on the case. It said,--

"I am glad you have telegraphed for Armitage, and heartily approve your
decision to lay the whole case before him. I presume he can reach you by
Sunday, and that by Tuesday he will be here at the fort and ready to
act. This will be a great relief to me, for, do what I could to allay
it, there is no concealing the fact that much speculation and gossip is
afloat concerning the events of that unhappy night. Leary declares he
has been close-mouthed; the other men on guard know absolutely nothing,
and Captain Wilton is the only officer to whom in my distress of mind I
betrayed that there _was_ a mystery, and he has pledged himself to me to
say nothing. Sloat, too, has an inkling, and a big one, that Jerrold is
the suspected party; but I never dreamed that anything had been seen or
heard which in the faintest way connected _your_ household with the
matter, until yesterday. Then Leary admitted to me that two women, Mrs.
Clifford's cook and the doctor's nursery-maid, had asked him whether it
wasn't Lieutenant Jerrold he fired at, and if it was true that he was
trying to get in at the colonel's back door. Twice Mrs. Clifford has
asked me very significant questions, and three times to-day have
officers made remarks to me that indicated their knowledge of the
existence of some grave trouble. What makes matters worse is that
Jerrold, when twitted about his absence from reveille, loses his temper
and gets confused. There came near being a quarrel between him and
Rollins at the mess a day or two since. He was saying that the reason he
slept through roll-call was the fact that he had been kept up very late
at the doctor's party, and Rollins happened to come in at the moment and
blurted out that if he was up at all it must have been after he left the
party, and reminded him that he had left before midnight with Miss
Renwick. This completely staggered Jerrold, who grew confused and tried
to cover it with a display of anger. Now, two weeks ago Rollins was most
friendly to Jerrold and stood up for him when I assailed him, but ever
since that night he has had no word to say for him. When Jerrold played
wrathful and accused Rollins of mixing in other men's business, Rollins
bounced up to him like a young bull-terrier, and I believe there would
have been a row had not Sloat and Hoyt promptly interfered. Jerrold
apologized, and Rollins accepted the apology, but has avoided him ever
since,--won't speak of him to me, now that I have reason to want to draw
him out. As soon as Armitage gets here he can do what I cannot,--find
out just what and who is suspected and talked about.

"Mr. Jerrold, of course, avoids me. He has been attending strictly to
his duty, and is evidently confounded that I did not press the matter of
his going to town as he did the day I forbade it. Mr. Hoyt's being too
late to see him personally gave me sufficient grounds on which to excuse
it; but he seems to understand that something is impending, and is
looking nervous and harassed. He has not renewed his request for leave
of absence to run down to Sablon. I told him curtly it was out of the
question."

The colonel took a few strides up and down the room. It had come, then.
The good name of those he loved was already besmirched by garrison
gossip, and he knew that nothing but heroic measures could ever silence
scandal. Impulse and the innate sense of "fight" urged him to go at once
to the scene, leaving his wife and her fair daughter here under his
sister's roof; but Armitage and common sense said no. He had placed his
burden on those broad gray shoulders, and, though ill content to wait,
he felt that he was bound. Stowing away the letters, too nervous to
sleep, too worried to talk, he stole from the cottage, and, with hands
clasped behind his back, with low-bowed head he strolled forth into the
broad vista of moonlit road.

There were bright lights still burning at the hotel, and gay voices came
floating through the summer air. The piano, too, was thrumming a waltz
in the parlor, and two or three couples were throwing embracing,
slowly-twirling shadows on the windows. Over in the bar-and
billiard-rooms the click of the balls and the refreshing rattle of
cracked ice told suggestively of the occupation of the inmates. Keeping
on beyond these distracting sounds, he slowly climbed a long, gradual
ascent to the "bench," or plateau above the wooded point on which were
grouped the glistening white buildings of the pretty summer resort, and,
having reached the crest, turned silently to gaze at the beauty of the
scene,--at the broad, flawless bosom of a summer lake all sheen and
silver from the unclouded moon. Far to the southeast it wound among the
bold and rock-ribbed bluffs rising from the forest growth at their base
to shorn and rounded summits. Miles away to the southward twinkled the
lights of one busy little town; others gleamed and sparkled over towards
the northern shore, close under the pole-star; while directly opposite
frowned a massive wall of palisaded rock, that threw, deep and heavy and
far from shore, its long reflection in the mirror of water. There was
not a breath of air stirring in the heavens, not a ripple on the face of
the waters beneath, save where, close under the bold headland down on
the other side, the signal-lights, white and crimson and green, creeping
slowly along in the shadows, revealed one of the packets ploughing her
steady way to the great marts below. Nearer at hand, just shaving the
long strip of sandy, wooded point that jutted far out into the lake, a
broad raft of timber, pushed by a hard-working, black-funnelled
stern-wheeler, was slowly forging its way to the outlet of the lake, its
shadowy edge sprinkled here and there with little sparks of lurid
red,--the pilot-lights that gave warning of its slow and silent coming.
Far down along the southern shore, under that black bluff-line, close to
the silver water-edge, a glowing meteor seemed whirling through the
night, and the low, distant rumble told of the "Atlantic Express"
thundering on its journey. Here, along with him on the level plateau,
were other roomy cottages, some dark, some still sending forth a guiding
ray; while long lines of white-washed fence gleamed ghostly in the
moonlight and were finally lost in the shadow of the great bluff that
abruptly shut in the entire point and plateau and shut out all further
sight of lake or land in that direction. Far beneath he could hear the
soft plash upon the sandy shore of the little wavelets that came
sweeping in the wake of the raft-boat and spending their tiny strength
upon the strand; far down on the hotel point he could still hear the
soft melody of the waltz; he remembered how the band used to play that
same air, and wondered why it was he used to like it; it jarred him now.
Presently the distant crack of a whip and the low rumble of wheels were
heard: the omnibus coming back from the station with passengers from the
night train. He was in no mood to see any one. He turned away and walked
northward along the edge of the bench, towards the deep shadow of the
great shoulder of the bluff, and presently he came to a long flight of
wooden stairs, leading from the plateau down to the hotel, and here he
stopped and seated himself awhile. He did not want to go home yet. He
wanted to be by himself,--to think and brood over his trouble. He saw
the omnibus go round the bend and roll up to the hotel door-way with its
load of pleasure-seekers, and heard the joyous welcome with which some
of their number were received by waiting friends, but life had little of
joy to him this night. He longed to go away,--anywhere, anywhere, could
he only leave this haunting misery behind. He was so proud of his
regiment; he had been so happy in bringing home to it his accomplished
and gracious wife; he had been so joyous in planning for the lovely
times Alice was to have,--the social successes, the girlish triumphs,
the garrison gayeties of which she was to be the queen,--and now, so
very, very soon, all had turned to ashes and desolation! She _was_ so
beautiful, so sweet, winning, graceful. Oh, God! _could_ it be that one
so gifted could possibly be so base? He rose in nervous misery and
clinched his hands high in air, then sat down again with hiding,
hopeless face, rocking to and fro as sways a man in mortal pain. It was
long before he rallied and again wearily arose. Most of the lights were
gone; silence had settled down upon the sleeping point; he was chilled
with the night air and the dew, and stiff and heavy as he tried to walk.
Down at the foot of the stairs he could see the night-watchman making
his rounds. He did not want to explain matters and talk with him: he
would go around. There was a steep pathway down into the ravine that
gave into the lake just beyond his sister's cottage, and this he sought
and followed, moving slowly and painfully, but finally reaching the
grassy level of the pathway that connected the cottages with the
wood-road up the bluff. Trees and shrubbery were thick on both sides,
and the path was shaded. He turned to his right, and came down until
once more he was in sight of the white walls of the hotel standing out
there on the point, until close at hand he could see the light of his
own cottage glimmering like faithful beacon through the trees; and then
he stopped short.

A tall, slender figure--a man in dark, snug-fitting clothing--was
creeping stealthily up to the cottage window.

The colonel held his breath: his heart thumped violently: he
waited,--watched. He saw the dark figure reach the blinds; he saw them
slowly, softly turned, and the faint light gleaming from within; he saw
the figure peering in between the slats, and then--God! was it
possible?--a low voice, a man's voice, whispering or hoarsely murmuring
a name: he heard a sudden movement within the room, as though the
occupant had heard and were replying, "Coming." His blood froze: it was
not Alice's room: it was his,--his and hers--his wife's,--and that was
surely her step approaching the window. Yes, the blind was quickly
opened. A white-robed figure stood at the casement. He could see, hear,
bear no more: with one mad rush he sprang from his lair and hurled
himself upon the shadowy stranger.

"You hound! who are you?"

But 'twas no shadow that he grasped. A muscular arm was round him in a
trice, a brawny hand at his throat, a twisting, sinewy leg was curled in
his, and he went reeling back upon the springy turf, stunned and
wellnigh breathless.

When he could regain his feet and reach the casement the stranger had
vanished; but Mrs. Maynard lay there on the floor within, a white and
senseless heap.




X.


Perhaps it was as well for all parties that Frank Armitage concluded
that he must have another whiff of tobacco that night as an incentive to
the "think" he had promised himself. He had strolled through the park to
the grove of trees out on the point and seated himself in the shadows.
Here his reflections were speedily interrupted by the animated
flirtations of a few couples who, tiring of the dance, came out into the
coolness of the night and the seclusion of the grove, where their
murmured words and soft laughter soon gave the captain's nerves a strain
they could not bear. He broke cover and betook himself to the very edge
of the stone retaining wall out on the point.

He wanted to think calmly and dispassionately; he meant to weigh all he
had read and heard and form his estimate of the gravity of the case
before going to bed. He meant to be impartial,--to judge her as he would
judge any other woman so compromised; but for the life of him he could
not. He bore with him the mute image of her lovely face, with its clear,
truthful, trustful dark eyes. He saw her as she stood before him on the
little porch when they shook hands on their laughing--or his
laughing--compact, for she would not laugh. How perfect she was!--her
radiant beauty, her uplifted eyes, so full of their self-reproach and
regret at the speech she had made at his expense! How exquisite was the
grace of her slender, rounded form as she stood there before him, one
slim hand half shyly extended to meet the cordial clasp of his own! He
wanted to judge and be just; but that image dismayed him. How could he
look on this picture and then--on that,--the one portrayed in the chain
of circumstantial evidence which the colonel had laid before him? It was
monstrous! it was treason to womanhood! One look in her eyes, superb in
their innocence, was too much for his determined impartiality. Armitage
gave himself a mental kick for what he termed his imbecility, and went
back to the hotel.

"It's no use," he muttered. "I'm a slave of the weed, and can't be
philosophic without my pipe."

Up to his little box of a room he climbed, found his pipe-case and
tobacco-pouch, and in five minutes was strolling out to the point once
more, when he came suddenly upon the night-watchman,--a personage of
whose functions and authority he was entirely ignorant. The man eyed
him narrowly, and essayed to speak. Not knowing him, and desiring to be
alone, Armitage pushed past, and was surprised to find that a hand was
on his shoulder and the man at his side before he had gone a rod.

"Beg pardon, sir," said the watchman, gruffly, "but I don't know you.
Are you stopping at the hotel?"

"I am," said Armitage, coolly, taking his pipe from his lips and blowing
a cloud over his other shoulder. "And who may you be?"

"I am the watchman; and I do not remember seeing you come to-day."

"Nevertheless I did."

"On what train, sir?"

"This afternoon's up-train."

"You certainly were not on the omnibus when it got here."

"Very true. I walked over from beyond the school-house."

"You must excuse me, sir. I did not think of that; and the manager
requires me to know everybody. Is this Major Armitage?"

"Armitage is my name, but I'm not a major."

"Yes, sir; I'm glad to be set right. And the other gentleman,--him as
was inquiring for Colonel Maynard to-night? He's in the army, too, but
his name don't seem to be on the book. He only came in on the late
train."

"Another man to see Colonel Maynard?" asked the captain, with sudden
interest. "Just come in, you say. I'm sure I've no idea. What was he
like?"

"I don't know, sir. At first I thought you was him. The driver told me
he brought a gentleman over who asked some questions about Colonel
Maynard, but he didn't get aboard at the dépôt, and he didn't come down
to the hotel,--got off somewhere up there on the bench, and Jim didn't
see him."

"Where's Jim?" said Armitage. "Come with me, watchman. I want to
interview him."

Together they walked over to the barn, which the driver was just locking
up after making everything secure for the night.

"Who was it inquiring for Colonel Maynard?" asked Armitage.

"I don't know, sir," was the slow answer. "There was a man got aboard as
I was coming across the common there in the village at the station.
There were several passengers from the train, and some baggage: so he
may have started ahead on foot but afterwards concluded to ride. As
soon as I saw him get in I reined up and asked where he was going; he
had no baggage nor nuthin', and my orders are not to haul anybody except
people of the hotel: so he came right forward through the 'bus and took
the seat behind me and said 'twas all right, he was going to the hotel;
and he passed up a half-dollar. I told him that I couldn't take the
money,--that 'bus-fares were paid at the office,--and drove ahead. Then
he handed me a cigar, and pretty soon he asked me if there were many
people, and who had the cottages; and when I told him, he asked which
was Colonel Maynard's, but he didn't say he knew him, and the next thing
I knew was when we got here to the hotel he wasn't in the 'bus. He must
have stepped back through all those passengers and slipped off up there
on the bench. He was in it when we passed the little brown church up on
the hill."

"What was he like?"

"I couldn't see him plain. He stepped out from behind a tree as we drove
through the common, and came right into the 'bus. It was dark in there,
and all I know is he was tall and had on dark clothes. Some of the
people inside must have seen him better; but they are all gone to bed, I
suppose."

"I will go over to the hotel and inquire, anyway," said Armitage, and
did so. The lights were turned down, and no one was there, but he could
hear voices chatting in quiet tones on the broad, sheltered veranda
without, and, going thither, found three or four men enjoying a quiet
smoke. Armitage was a man of action. He stepped at once to the group:

"Pardon me, gentlemen, but did any of you come over in the omnibus from
the station to-night?"

"I did, sir," replied one of the party, removing his cigar and twitching
off the ashes with his little finger, then looking up with the air of a
man expectant of question.

"The watchman tells me a man came over who was making inquiries for
Colonel Maynard. May I ask if you saw or heard of such a person?"

"A gentleman got in soon after we left the station, and when the driver
hailed him he went forward and took a seat near him. They had some
conversation, but I did not hear it. I only know that he got out again a
little while before we reached the hotel."

"Could you see him, and describe him? I am a friend of Colonel
Maynard's, an officer of his regiment,--which will account for my
inquiry."

"Well, yes, sir. I noticed he was very tall and slim, was dressed in
dark clothes, and wore a dark slouched hat well down over his forehead.
He was what I would call a military-looking man, for I noticed his walk
as he got off; but he wore big spectacles,--blue or brown glass, I
should say,--and had a heavy beard."

"Which way did he go when he left the 'bus?"

"He walked northward along the road at the edge of the bluff, right up
towards the cottages on the upper level," was the answer.

Armitage thanked him for his courtesy, explained that he had left the
colonel only a short time before and that he was then expecting no
visitor, and if one had come it was perhaps necessary that he should be
hunted up and brought to the hotel. Then he left the porch and walked
hurriedly through the park towards its northernmost limit. There to his
left stood the broad roadway along which, nestling under shelter of the
bluff, was ranged the line of cottages, some two-storied, with balconies
and verandas, others low, single-storied affairs with a broad hall-way
in the middle of each and rooms on both north and south sides.
Farthermost north on the row, almost hidden in the trees, and nearest
the ravine, stood Aunt Grace's cottage, where were domiciled the
colonel's household. It was in the big bay-windowed north room that he
and the colonel had had their long conference earlier in the evening.
The south room, nearly opposite, was used as their parlor and
sitting-room. Aunt Grace and Miss Renwick slept in the little front
rooms north and south of the hall-way, and the lights in their rooms
were extinguished; so, too, was that in the parlor. All was darkness on
the south and east. All was silence and peace as Armitage approached;
but just as he reached the shadow of the stunted oak-tree growing in
front of the house his ears were startled by an agonized cry, a woman's
half-stifled shriek. He bounded up the steps, seized the knob of the
door and threw his weight against it. It was firmly bolted within. Loud
he thundered on the panels. "'Tis I,--Armitage!" he called. He heard the
quick patter of little feet; the bolt was slid, and he rushed in, almost
stumbling against a trembling, terror-stricken, yet welcoming
white-robed form,--Alice Renwick, barefooted, with her glorious wealth
of hair tumbling in dark luxuriance all down over the dainty
night-dress,--Alice Renwick, with pallid face and wild imploring eyes.

"What is wrong?" he asked, in haste.

"It's mother,--her room,--and it's locked, and she won't answer," was
the gasping reply.

Armitage sprang to the rear of the hall, leaned one second against the
opposite wall, sent his foot with mighty impulse and muscled impact
against the opposing lock, and the door flew open with a crash. The next
instant Alice was bending over her senseless mother, and the captain was
giving a hand in much bewilderment to the panting colonel, who was
striving to clamber in at the window. The ministrations of Aunt Grace
and Alice were speedily sufficient to restore Mrs. Maynard. A
teaspoonful of brandy administered by the colonel's trembling hand
helped matters materially. Then he turned to Armitage.

"Come outside," he said.

Once again in the moonlight the two men faced each other.

"Armitage, can you get a horse?"

"Certainly. What then?"

"Go to the station, get men, if possible, and head this fellow off. He
was here again to-night, and it was not Alice he called, but my--but
Mrs. Maynard. I saw him; I grappled with him right here at the
bay-window where _she_ met him, and he hurled me to grass as though I'd
been a child. _I_ want a horse! I want that man to-night. How did he get
away from Sibley?"

"Do you mean--do you think it was Jerrold?"

"Good God, yes! Who else could it be? Disguised, of course, and bearded;
but the figure, the carriage, were just the same, and he came to this
window,--to _her_ window,--and called, and she answered. My God,
Armitage, think of it!"

"Come with me, colonel. You are all unstrung," was the captain's answer
as he led his broken friend away. At the front door he stopped one
moment, then ran up the steps and into the hall, where he tapped lightly
at the casement.

"What is it?" was the low response from an invisible source.

"Miss Alice?"

"Yes."

"The watchman is here now. I will send him around to the window to keep
guard until our return. The colonel is a little upset by the shock, and
I want to attend to him. We are going to the hotel a moment before I
bring him home. You are not afraid to have him leave you?"

"Not now, captain."

"Is Mrs. Maynard better?"

"Yes. She hardly seems to know what has happened. Indeed, none of us do.
What was it?"

"A tramp, looking for something to eat, tried to open the blinds, and
the colonel was out here and made a jump at him. They had a scuffle in
the shrubbery, and the tramp got away. It frightened your mother: that's
the sum of it, I think."

"Is papa hurt?"

"No: a little bruised and shaken, and mad as a hornet. I think perhaps
I'll get him quieted down and sleepy in a few minutes, if you and Mrs.
Maynard will be content to let him stay with me. I can talk almost any
man drowsy."

"Mamma seems to worry for fear he is hurt."

"Assure her solemnly that he hasn't a scratch. He is simply fighting
mad, and I'm going to try and find the tramp. Does Mrs. Maynard remember
how he looked?"

"She could not see the face at all. She heard some one at the shutters,
and a voice, and supposed of course it was papa, and threw open the
blind."

"Oh, I see. That's all, Miss Alice. I'll go back to the colonel.
Good-night!" And Armitage went forth with a lighter step.

"One sensation knocked endwise, colonel. I have it on the best of
authority that Mrs. Maynard so fearlessly went to the window in answer
to the voice and noise at the shutters simply because she knew you were
out there somewhere and she supposed it was you. How simple these
mysteries become when a little daylight is let in on them, after all!
Come, I'm going to take you over to my room for a stiff glass of grog,
and then after his trampship while you go back to bed."

"Armitage, you seem to make very light of this night's doings. What is
easier than to connect it all with the trouble at Sibley?"

"Nothing was ever more easily explained than this thing, colonel, and
all I want now is a chance to get that tramp. Then I'll go to Sibley;
and 'pon my word I believe that mystery can be made as commonplace a
piece of petty larceny as this was of vagrancy. Come."

But when Armitage left the colonel at a later hour and sought his own
room for a brief rest he was in no such buoyant mood. A night-search for
a tramp in the dense thickets among the bluffs and woods of Sablon
could hardly be successful. It was useless to make the attempt. He slept
but little during the cool August night, and early in the morning
mounted a horse and trotted over to the railway-station.

"Has any train gone northward since last night?" he inquired at the
office.

"None that stop here," was the answer. "The first train up comes along
at 11.56."

"I want to send a despatch to Fort Sibley and get an answer without
delay. Can you work it for me?"

The agent nodded, and pushed over a package of blanks. Armitage wrote
rapidly as follows:

"CAPTAIN CHESTER,

"Commanding Fort Sibley.

"Is Jerrold there? Tell him I will arrive Tuesday. Answer.

                                            "F. ARMITAGE."

It was along towards nine o'clock when the return message came clicking
in on the wires, was written out, and handed to the tall soldier with
the tired blue eyes.

He read, started, crushed the paper in his hand, and turned from the
office. The answer was significant:

"Lieutenant Jerrold left Sibley yesterday afternoon. Not yet returned.
Absent without leave this morning.

                                                "CHESTER."




XI.


Nature never vouchsafed to wearied man a lovelier day of rest than the
still Sunday on which Frank Armitage rode slowly back from the station.
The soft, mellow tone of the church-bell, tolling the summons for
morning service, floated out from the brown tower, and was echoed back
from the rocky cliff glistening in the August sunshine on the northern
bluff. Groups of villagers hung about the steps of the little sanctuary
and gazed with mild curiosity at the arriving parties from the cottages
and the hotel. The big red omnibus came up with a load of worshippers,
and farther away, down the vista of the road, Armitage could see others
on foot and in carriages, all wending their way to church. He was in no
mood to meet them. The story that he had been out pursuing a tramp
during the night was pretty thoroughly circulated by this time, he felt
assured, and every one would connect his early ride to the station, in
some way, with the adventure that the grooms, hostlers, cooks, and
kitchen-maids had all been dilating upon ever since daybreak. He dreaded
to meet the curious glances of the women, and the questions of the few
men whom he had taken so far into his confidence as to ask about the
mysterious person who came over in the stage with them. He reined up his
horse, and then, seeing a little pathway leading into the thick wood to
his right, he turned in thither and followed it some fifty yards among
bordering treasures of coreopsis and golden-rod and wild luxuriance of
vine and foliage. Dismounting in the shade, he threw the reins over his
arm and let his horse crop the juicy grasses, while he seated himself on
a little stump and fell to thinking again. He could hear the reverent
voices of one or two visitors strolling about among the peaceful,
flower-decked graves behind the little church and only a short
stone's-throw away through the shrubbery. He could hear the low, solemn
voluntary of the organ, and presently the glad outburst of young voices
in the opening hymn, but he knew that belated ones would still be coming
to church, and he would not come forth from his covert until all were
out of the way. Then, too, he was glad of a little longer time to think:
he did not want to tell the colonel the result of his morning
investigations.

To begin with: the watchman, the driver, and the two men whom he had
questioned were all of an opinion as to the character of the stranger:
"he was a military man." The passengers described his voice as that of a
man of education and social position; the driver and passengers declared
his walk and carriage to be that of a soldier: he was taller, they said,
than the tall, stalwart Saxon captain, but by no means so heavily built.
As to age, they could not tell: his beard was black and curly,--no gray
hairs; his movements were quick and elastic; but his eyes were hidden by
those colored glasses, and his forehead by the slouch of that
broad-brimmed felt hat.

At the station, while awaiting the answer to his despatch, Armitage had
questioned the agent as to whether any man of that description had
arrived by the night train from the north. He had seen none, he said,
but there was Larsen over at the post-office store, who came down on
that train; perhaps he could tell. Oddly enough, Mr. Larsen recalled
just such a party,--tall, slim, dark, dark-bearded, with blue glasses
and dark hat and clothes,--but he was bound for Lakeville, the station
beyond, and he remained in the car when he, Larsen, got off. Larsen
remembered the man well, because he sat in the rear corner of the
smoker and had nothing to say to anybody, but kept reading a newspaper;
and the way he came to take note of him was that while standing with two
friends at that end of the car they happened to be right around the man.
The Saturday evening train from the city is always crowded with people
from the river towns who have been up to market or the _matinées_, and
even the smoker was filled with standing men until they got some thirty
miles down. Larsen wanted to light a fresh cigar, and offered one to
each of his friends: then it was found they had no matches, and one of
them, who had been drinking a little and felt jovial, turned to the dark
stranger and asked him for a light, and the man, without speaking,
handed out a little silver match-box. It was just then that the
conductor came along, and Larsen saw his ticket. It was a "round trip"
to Lakeville: he was evidently going there for a visit, and therefore,
said Larsen, he didn't get off at Sablon Station, which was six miles
above.

But Armitage knew better. It was evident that he had quietly slipped out
on the platform of the car after the regular passengers had got out of
the way, and let himself off into the darkness on the side opposite the
station. Thence he had an open and unimpeded walk of a few hundred yards
until he reached the common, and then, when overtaken by the hotel
omnibus, he could jump aboard and ride. There was only one road, only
one way over to the hotel, and he could not miss it. There was no doubt
now that, whoever he was, the night visitor had come down on the evening
train from the city; and his return ticket would indicate that he meant
to go back the way he came. It was half-past ten when that train
arrived. It was nearly midnight when the man appeared at the cottage
window. It was after two when Armitage gave up the search and went to
bed. It was possible for the man to have walked to Lakeville, six miles
south, and reached the station there in abundant time to take the
up-train which passed Sablon, without stopping, a little before
daybreak. If he took that train, and if he was Jerrold, he would have
been in the city before seven, and could have been at Fort Sibley before
or by eight o'clock. But Chester's despatch showed clearly that at
8.30--the hour for signing the company morning reports--Mr. Jerrold was
not at his post. Was he still in the neighborhood and waiting for the
noon train? If so, could he be confronted on the cars and accused of his
crime? He looked at his watch; it was nearly eleven, and he must push on
to the hotel before that hour, report to the colonel, then hasten back
to the station. He sprang to his feet, and was just about to mount,
when a vision of white and scarlet came suddenly into view. There,
within twenty feet of him, making her dainty way through the shrubbery
from the direction of the church, sunshine and shadow alternately
flitting across her lovely face and form, Alice Renwick stepped forth
into the pathway, and, shading her eyes with her hand, gazed along the
leafy lane towards the road, as though expectant of another's coming.
Then, attracted by the beauty of the golden-rod, she bent and busied
herself with gathering in the yellow sprays. Armitage, with one foot in
the stirrup, stood stock-still, half in surprise, half stunned by a
sudden and painful thought. Could it be that she was there in hopes of
meeting--any one?

He retook his foot from the stirrup, and, relaxing the rein, still stood
gazing at her over his horse's back. That placid quadruped, whose years
had been spent in these pleasant by-ways and were too many to warrant an
exhibition of coltish surprise, promptly lowered his head and resumed
his occupation of grass-nibbling, making a little crunching noise which
Miss Renwick might have heard, but apparently did not. She was singing
very softly to herself,--

  "Daisy, tell my fortune, pray:
  He loves me not,--he loves me."

And still Armitage stood and gazed, while she, absorbed in her pleasant
task, still pulled and plucked at the golden-rod. In all his life no
"vision of fair women" had been to him fair and sacred and exquisite as
this. Down to the tip of her arched and slender foot, peeping from
beneath the broidered hem of her snowy skirt, she stood the lady born
and bred, and his eyes looked on and worshipped her,--worshipped, yet
questioned, Why came she here? Absorbed, he released his hold on the
rein, and Dobbin, nothing loath, reached with his long, lean neck for
further herbage, and stepped in among the trees. Still stood his
negligent master, fascinated in his study of the lovely, graceful girl.
Again she raised her head and looked northward along the winding, shaded
wood-path. A few yards away were other great clusters of the wild
flowers she loved, more sun-kissed golden-rod, and, with a little murmur
of delight, gathering her dainty skirts in one hand, she flitted up the
pathway like an unconscious humming-bird garnering the sweets from every
blossom. A little farther on the pathway bent among the trees, and she
would be hidden from his sight; but still he stood and studied her
every movement, drank in the soft, cooing melody of her voice as she
sang, and then there came a sweet, solemn strain from the brown, sunlit
walls just visible through the trees, and reverent voices and the
resonant chords of the organ thrilled through the listening woods the
glorious anthem of the church militant.

At the first notes she lifted up her queenly head and stood, listening
and appreciative. Then he saw her rounded throat swelling like a bird's,
and the rich, full tones of her voice rang out through the welcoming
sunshine, and the fluttering wrens, and proud red-breasted robins, and
rival song-queens, the brown-winged thrushes,--even the impudent
shrieking jays,--seemed to hush and listen. Dobbin, fairly astonished,
lifted up his hollow-eyed head and looked amazedly at the white
songstress whose scarlet sash and neck-ribbons gleamed in such vivid
contrast to the foliage about her. A wondering little "cotton-tail"
rabbit, shy and wild as a hawk, came darting through the bushes into the
sunshiny patchwork on the path, and then, uptilted and with quivering
ears and nostrils and wide-staring eyes, stood paralyzed with helpless
amaze, ignoring the tall man in gray as did the singer herself. Richer,
rounder, fuller grew the melody, as, abandoning herself to the impulse
of the sacred hour, she joined with all her girlish heart in the words
of praise and thanksgiving,--in the glad and triumphant chorus of the Te
Deum. From beginning to end she sang, now ringing and exultant, now soft
and plaintive, following the solemn words of the ritual,--sweet and low
and suppliant in the petition, "We therefore pray Thee help Thy servants
whom Thou hast redeemed with Thy precious blood," confident and exulting
in the declaration, "Thou art the King of Glory, O Christ," and then
rich with fearless trust and faith in the thrilling climax, "Let me
never be confounded." Armitage listened as one in a trance. From the
depth of her heart the girl had joined her glorious voice to the chorus
of praise and adoration, and now that all was stilled once more her head
had fallen forward on her bosom, her hands, laden with golden-rod, were
joined together: it seemed as though she were lost in prayer.

And this was the girl, this the pure, God-worshipping, God-fearing
woman, who for one black instant he had dared to fancy had come here
expectant of a meeting with the man whose aim had been frustrated but
the night before! He could have thrown himself at her feet and implored
her pardon. He _did_ step forth, and then, hat in hand, baring his
proud Saxon head as his forefathers would have uncovered to their
monarch, he waited until she lifted up her eyes and saw him, and knew by
the look in his frank face that he had stood by, a mute listener to her
unstudied devotions. A lovely flush rose to her very temples, and her
eyes drooped their pallid lids until the long lashes swept the crimson
of her cheeks.

"Have _you_ been here, captain? I never saw you," was her fluttering
question.

"I rode in here on my way back from the station, not caring to meet all
the good people going to church. I felt like an outcast."

"I, too, am a recreant to-day. It is the first time I have missed
service in a long while. Mamma felt too unstrung to come, and I had
given up the idea, but both she and Aunt Grace urged me. I was too late
for the omnibus, and walked up, and then I would not go in because
service was begun, and I wanted to be home again before noon. I cannot
bear to be late at church, or to leave it until everything is over, but
I can't be away from mother so long to-day. Shall we walk that way now?"

"In a minute. I must find my horse. He is in here somewhere. Tell me how
the colonel is feeling, and Mrs. Maynard."

"Both very nervous and worried, though I see nothing extraordinary in
the adventure. We read of poor hungry tramps everywhere, and they rarely
do harm."

"I wonder a little at your venturing here in the wood-paths, after what
occurred last night."

"Why, Captain Armitage, no one would harm me here, so close to the
church. Indeed, I never thought of such a thing until you mentioned it.
Did you discover anything about the man?"

"Nothing definite; but I must be at the station again to meet the
up-train, and have to see the colonel meantime. Let me find Dobbin, or
whatever they call this venerable relic I'm riding, and then I'll escort
you home."

But Dobbin had strayed deeper into the wood. It was some minutes before
the captain could find and catch him. The rich melody of sacred music
was again thrilling through the perfumed woods, the glad sunshine was
pouring its warmth and blessing over all the earth, glinting on bluff
and brake and palisaded cliff, the birds were all singing their
rivalling psaltery, and Nature seemed pouring forth its homage to the
Creator and Preserver of all on this His holy day, when Frank Armitage
once more reached the bowered lane where, fairest, sweetest sight of
all, his lady stood waiting him. She turned to him as she heard the
hoof-beat on the turf, and smiled.

"Can we wait and hear that hymn through?"

"Ay. Sing it."

She looked suddenly in his face. Something in the very tone in which he
spoke startled her,--something deeper, more fervent, than she had ever
heard before,--and the expression in the steady, deep-blue eyes was
another revelation. Alice Renwick had a woman's intuition, and yet she
had not known this man a day. The color again mounted to her temples,
and her eyes fell after one quick glance.

"I heard you joining in the Te Deum," he urged. "Sing once more: I love
it. There, they are just beginning again. Do you know the words?"

She nodded, then raised her head, and her glad young voice carolled
through the listening woods:

  "Holy, holy, holy! All
    Heaven's triumphant choir shall sing,
  When the ransomed nations fall
    At the footstool of their King:
  Then shall saints and seraphim,
  Hearts and voices, swell one hymn
  Round the throne with full accord,
  Holy, holy, holy Lord!"

There was silence when the music ceased. She had turned her face towards
the church, and, as the melody died away in one prolonged, triumphant
chord, she still stood in reverent attitude, as though listening for the
words of benediction. He, too, was silent, but his eyes were fixed on
her. He was thirty-five, she not twenty. He had lived his soldier life
wifeless, but, like other soldiers, his heart had had its rubs and aches
in the days gone by. Years before he had thought life a black void when
the girl he fancied while yet he wore the Academic gray calmly told him
she preferred another. Nor had the intervening years been devoid of
their occasional yearnings for a mate of his own in the isolation of the
frontier or the monotony of garrison life; but flitting fancies had left
no trace upon his strong heart. The love of his life only dawned upon
him at this late day when he looked into her glorious eyes and his whole
soul went out in passionate worship of the fair girl whose presence
made that sunlit lane a heaven. Were he to live a thousand years, no
scene on earth could rival in his eyes the love-haunted woodland pathway
wherein like forest queen she stood, the sunshine and leafy shadows
dancing over her graceful form, the golden-rod enhancing her dark and
glowing beauty, the sacred influences of the day throwing their mystic
charm about her as though angels guarded and shielded her from harm. His
life had reached its climax; his fate was sealed; his heart and soul
were centred in one sweet girl,--and all in one brief hour in the
woodland lane at Sablon.

She could not fail to see the deep emotion in his eyes as at last she
turned to break the silence.

"Shall we go?" she said, simply.

"It is time; but I wish we could remain."

"You do not go to church very often at Sibley, do you?"

"I have not, heretofore; but you would teach me to worship." "You _have_
taught me," he muttered below his breath, as he extended a hand to
assist her down the sloping bank towards the avenue. She looked up
quickly once more, pleased, yet shy, and shifted her great bunch of
golden-rod so that she could lay her hand in his and lean upon its
steady strength down the incline; and so, hand in hand, with old Dobbin
ambling placidly behind, they passed out from the shaded pathway to the
glow and radiance of the sunlit road.




XII.


"Colonel Maynard, I admit everything you say as to the weight of the
evidence," said Frank Armitage, twenty minutes later, "but it is my
faith--understand me: my _faith_, I say--that she is utterly innocent.
As for that damnable letter, I do not believe it was ever written to
her. It is some other woman."

"What other is there, or was there?" was the colonel's simple reply.

"That is what I mean to find out. Will you have my baggage sent after me
to-night? I am going at once to the station, and thence to Sibley. I
will write you from there. If the midnight visitor should prove to have
been Jerrold, he can be made to explain. I have always held him to be a
conceited fop, but never either crack-brained or devoid of principle.
There is no time for explanation _now_. Good-by; and keep a good
lookout. That fellow may be here again."

And in an hour more Armitage was skimming along the winding river-side
_en route_ to Sibley. He had searched the train from pilot to rear
platform, and no man who in the faintest degree resembled Mr. Jerrold
was on board. He had wired to Chester that he would reach the fort that
evening, but would not resume duty for a few days. He made another
search through the train as they neared the city, and still there was no
one who in stature or appearance corresponded with the descriptions
given him of the sinewy visitor.

Late in the afternoon Chester received him as he alighted from the train
at the little station under the cliff. It was a beautiful day, and
numbers of people were driving or riding out to the fort, and the high
bridge over the gorge was constantly resounding to the thunder of hoofs.
Many others, too, had come out on the train; for the evening
dress-parade always attracted a swarm of visitors. A corporal of the
guard, with a couple of men, was on hand to keep vigilant eye on the
arrivals and to persuade certain proscribed parties to re-enter the cars
and go on, should they attempt to revisit the post, and the faces of
these were lighted up as they saw their old adjutant; but none others of
the garrison appeared.

"Let us wait a moment and get these people out of the way," said
Armitage. "I want to talk with you. Is Jerrold back?"

"Yes. He came in just ten minutes after I telegraphed to you, was
present at inspection, and if it had not been for your despatch this
morning I should not have known he had remained out of quarters. He
appeared to resent my having been to his quarters,--calls it spying, I
presume."

"What permission had he to be away?"

"I gave him leave to visit town on personal business yesterday
afternoon. He merely asked to be away a few hours to meet friends in
town, and Mr. Hall took tattoo roll-call for him. As I do not require
any other officer to report the time of his return, I did not exact it
of him; but of course no man can be away after midnight without special
permission, and he was gone all night. What is it, Armitage? Has he
followed her down there?"

"Somebody was there last night and capsized the colonel pretty much as
he did you the night of the ladder episode," said Armitage, coolly.

"By heaven! and I let him go!"

"How do you know 'twas he?"

"Who else could it be, Armitage?"

"That's what the colonel asks; but it isn't clear to me yet awhile."

"I wish it were less clear to me," said Chester, gloomily. "The worst
is that the story is spreading like a pestilence all over the post. The
women have got hold of it, and there is all manner of talk. I shouldn't
be surprised if Mrs. Hoyt had to be taken violently ill. She has written
to invite Miss Renwick to visit her, as it is certain that Colonel and
Mrs. Maynard cannot come, and Hoyt came to me in a horror of amaze
yesterday to know if there were any truth in the rumor that I had caught
a man coming out of Mrs. Maynard's window the other night. I would tell
him nothing, and he says the ladies declare they won't go to the german
if _she_ does. Heavens! I'm thankful you are come. The thing has been
driving me wild these last twelve hours. I wanted to go away myself.
_Is_ she coming up?"

"No, she isn't; but let me say this, Chester: that whenever she is ready
to return I shall be ready to escort her."

Chester looked at his friend in amazement, and without speaking.

"Yes, I see you are astonished, but you may as well understand the
situation. I have heard all the colonel could tell, and have even seen
the letter, and since she left here a mysterious stranger has appeared
by night at Sablon, at the cottage window, though it happened to be her
mother's this time, and I don't believe Alice Renwick knows the first
thing about it."

"Armitage, are you in love?"

"Chester, I am in my sound senses. Now come and show me the ladder, and
where you found it, and tell me the whole story over again. I think it
grows interesting. One moment: has he that picture yet?"

"I suppose so. I don't know. In these last few days everybody is
fighting shy of him. He thinks it is my doing, and looks black and sulky
at me, but is too proud or too much afraid of consequences to ask the
reason of the cold shoulders and averted looks. Gray has taken seven
days' leave and gone off with that little girl of his to place her with
relatives in the East. He has heard the stories, and it is presumed that
some of the women have told her. She was down sick here a day or two."

"Well, now for the window and the ladder. I want to see the outside
through your eyes, and then I will view the interior with my own. The
colonel bids me do so."

Together they slowly climbed the long stairway leading up the face of
the cliff. Chester stopped for a breathing-spell m

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