CHAPTER VI.
THE LAST DANCE.
The blithest day of all the year has come. The graduating ball takesplace to-night. The Point is thronged with joyous visitors, and yet overall there hovers a shadow. In the midst of all this gayety andcongratulation there hides a core of sorrow. Voices lower and soft eyesturn in sympathy when certain sad faces are seen. There is one subjecton which the cadets simply refuse to talk, and there are two of thegraduating class who do not appear at the hotel at all. One is Mr.McKay, whose absence is alleged to be because of confinements he has toserve; the other is Philip Stanley, still in close arrest, and thelatter has cancelled his engagements for the ball.
There had been a few days in which Miss McKay, forgetting or havingobtained absolution for her unguarded remarks on the promenade deck ofthe steamer, had begun to be seen a great deal with Miss Stanley. Shehad even blushingly shaken hands with big Lieutenant Lee, whose kindbrown eyes were full of fun and playfulness whenever he greeted her. Butit was noticed that something, all of a sudden, had occurred to mar thegrowing intimacy; then that the once blithe little lady was lookingwhite and sorrowful; that she avoided Miss Stanley for two whole days,and that her blue eyes watched wistfully for some one who did notcome,--"Mr. Stanley, no doubt," was the diagnosis of the case by "MissMischief" and others.
Then, like a thunder-clap, came the order for Phil Stanley's arrest, andthen there were other sad faces. Miriam Stanley's dark eyes were notonly troubled, but down in their depths was a gleam of suppressedindignation that people knew not how to explain. Colonel Stanley, towhom every one had been drawn from the first, now appeared very sternand grave; the joy had vanished from his face. Mrs. McKay was flittingabout the parlors tearfully thankful that "it wasn't her boy." Nanniehad grown whiter still, and very "absent" and silent. Mr. Lee did notcome at all.
Then there was startling news! An outbreak, long smouldering, had justoccurred at the great reservation of the Spirit Wolf; the agent andseveral of his men had been massacred, their women carried away into acaptivity whose horrors beggar all description, and two troops--hardlysixscore men--of Colonel Stanley's regiment were already in pursuit.Leaving his daughter to the care of an old friend at Craney's, and aftera brief interview with his boy at barracks, the old soldier who had comeeastward with such glad anticipation turned promptly back to the fieldof duty. He had taken the first train and was already beyond theMissouri. Almost immediately after the colonel's departure, Mr. Lee hadcome to the hotel and was seen to have a brief but earnest talk withMiss Stanley on the north piazza,--a talk from which she had gonedirect to her room and did not reappear for hours, while he, whousually had a genial, kindly word for every one, had turned abruptlydown the north steps as though to avoid the crowded halls and piazzas,and so returned to the barracks.
But now, this lovely June morning the news from the far West is stillmore direful. Hundreds of savages have taken the war-path, and murder isthe burden of every tale from around their reservation, but--this is theday of "last parade" and the graduating ball, and people cannot affordtime to think of such grewsome matter. All the same, they note that Mr.Lee comes no more to the hotel, and a rumor is in circulation that hehas begged to be relieved from duty at the Point and ordered to join histroop now in the field against hostile Indians.
Nannie McKay is looking like a pathetic shadow of her former self as shecomes down-stairs to fulfil an engagement with a cadet admirer. Sheneglects no duty of the kind towards Willy's friends and hers, but sheis drooping and listless. Uncle Jack is worried about her; so, too, ismamma, though the latter is so wrapped up in the graduation of her boythat she has little time to think of pallid cheeks and mournful eyes. Itis all arranged that they are to sail for Europe the 1st of July, andthe sea air, the voyage across, the new sights and associations on theother side, will "bring her round again," says that observant"avuncular" hopefully. He is compelled to be at his office in the citymuch of the time, but comes up this day as a matter of course, and has abrief chat with his graceless nephew at the guard-house. Billy's utterlack of spirits sets Uncle Jack to thinking. The boy says he can "tellhim nothing just now," and Uncle Jack feels well assured that he has agood deal to tell. He goes in search of Lieutenant Lee, for whom he hasconceived a great fancy, but the big lieutenant has gone to the city onbusiness. In the crowded hall at the hotel he meets Miriam Stanley, andher face gives him another pound of trouble to carry.
"You are going to the ball, though?" he hears a lady say to her, andMiriam shakes her head.
Ball, indeed!--or last parade, either! She knows she cannot bear to seethe class march to the front, and her brother not there. She cannot bearthe thought of even looking on at the ball, if Philip is to be debarredfrom attending. Her thoughts have been very bitter for a few days past.Her father's intense but silent distress and regret; Philip's certaindetention after the graduation of his class; his probable court-martialand loss of rank; the knowledge that he had incurred it all to saveMcKay (and everybody by this time felt that it _must_ be Billy McKay,though no one could prove it), all have conspired to make her veryunhappy and very unjust to Mr. Lee. Philip has told her that Mr. Lee hadno alternative in reporting to the commandant his discovery "down theroad," but she had believed herself of sufficient value in thatofficer's brown eyes to induce him to at least postpone any mention ofthat piece of accidental knowledge; and though, in her heart of hearts,she knows she respects him the more because she could not prevailagainst his sense of duty, she is stung to the quick, and, womanlike,has made him feel it.
It must be in sympathy with her sorrows that, late this afternoon, theheavens open and pour their floods upon the plain. Hundreds of peopleare bemoaning the fact that now there can be no graduating parade. Downin barracks the members of the class are busily packing trunks, tryingon civilian garb, and rushing about in much excitement. In more sensesthan one Phil Stanley's room is a centre of gravity. The commandant atten o'clock had sent for him and given him final opportunity to statewhose place he occupied during the inspection of that now memorablenight, and he had respectfully but firmly declined. There was then noalternative but the withdrawal of his diploma and his detention at thePoint to await the action of the Secretary of War upon the chargespreferred against him. "The Class," of course, knew by this time thatMcKay was the man whom he had saved, for after one day of torment andindecision that hapless youth had called in half a dozen of his comradesand made a clean breast of it. It was then his deliberate intention togo to the commandant and beg for Stanley's release, and to offer himselfas the culprit. But Stanley had thought the problem out and gravelyinterposed. It could really do no practical good to him and would onlyresult in disaster to McKay. No one could have anticipated the lucklesschain of circumstances that had led to his own arrest, but now he mustface the consequences. After long consultation the young counsellors haddecided on the plan. "There is only one thing for us to do: keep thematter quiet. There is only one thing for Billy to do: keep a stiffupper lip; graduate with the class, then go to Washington with 'UncleJack,' and bestir their friends in Congress,"--not just then assembled,but always available. There was never yet a time when a genuine "pull"from Senate and House did not triumph over the principles of militarydiscipline.
A miserable man is Billy! For a week he has moped in barracks, forbiddenby Stanley and his advisers to admit anything, yet universally suspectedof being the cause of all the trouble. He, too, wishes to cancel hisengagements for the graduating ball, and thinks something ought to bedone to those young idiots of yearlings who set off the torpedo."Nothing could have gone wrong but for them," says he; but the wiseheads of the class promptly snub him into silence. "You've simply got todo as we say in this matter, Billy. You've done enough mischiefalready." And so it results that the message he sends by Uncle Jack is:"Tell mother and Nan I'll meet them at the 'hop.' My confinements end ateight o'clock, but there's no use in my going to the hotel and trampingthrough the mud." The truth is, he cannot bear to meet Miriam Stanley,and 'twould be just
his luck.
One year ago no happier, bonnier, brighter face could have been seen atthe Point than that of Nannie McKay. To-night, in all the throng of fairwomen and lovely girls, gathered with their soldier escort in the greatmess-hall, there is none so sad. She tries hard to be chatty andsmiling, but is too frank and honest a little soul to have much success.The dances that Phil Stanley had engaged months and months ago areaccredited now to other names, and blissful young fellows in gray andgold come successively to claim them. But deep down in her heart sheremembers the number of each. It was he who was to have been her escort.It was he who made out her card and gave it to her only a day or twobefore that fatal interview. It was he who was to have had the lastwaltz--the very last--that he would dance in the old cadet gray; andthough new names have been substituted for his in other cases, thiswaltz she meant to keep. Well knowing that there would be many to begfor it, she has written Willy's name for "Stanley," and duly warned himof the fact. Then, when it comes, she means to escape to thedressing-room, for she is promptly told that her brother is engaged toMiss Waring for that very waltz. Light as are her feet, she never yethas danced with so heavy a heart. The rain still pours, drivingeverybody within doors. The heat is intense. The hall is crowded, and itfrequently happens that partners cannot find her until near the end oftheir number on that dainty card. But every one has something to sayabout Phil Stanley and the universal regret at his absence. It isgetting to be more than she can bear,--this prolonged striving torespond with proper appreciation and sympathy, yet not say toomuch,--not betray the secret that is now burning, throbbing in hergirlish heart. He does not dream it, but there, hidden beneath the softlace upon her snowy neck, lies that "knot of ribbon blue" which she solaughingly had given him, at his urging, the last day of her visit theprevious year; the knot which he had so loyally treasured and then sosadly returned. A trifling, senseless thing to make such an ado about,but these hearts are young and ardent, and this romance of his has manya counterpart, the memory of which may bring to war-worn, grizzledheads to-day a blush almost of shame, and would surely bring to many anold and sometimes aching heart a sigh. Hoping against hope, poor Nanniehas thought it just possible that at the last moment the authoritieswould relent and he be allowed to attend. If so,--if so, angry andjustly angered though he might be, cut to the heart though he expressedhimself, has she not here the means to call him back?--to bid him comeand know how contrite she is? Hour after hour she glances at the broadarchway at the east, yearning to see his dark, handsome face among thenew-comers,--all in vain. Time and again she encounters Sallie Waring,brilliant, bewitching, in the most ravishing of toilets, and always withhalf a dozen men about her. Twice she notices Will among them with aface gloomy and rebellious, and, hardly knowing why, she almost hatesher.
At last comes the waltz that was to have been Philip's,--the waltz shehas saved for his sake though he cannot claim it. Mr. Pennock, who hasdanced the previous galop with her, sees the leader raising his baton,bethinks him of his next partner, and leaves her at the open windowclose to the dressing-room door. There she can have a breath of freshair, and, hiding behind the broad backs of several bulky officers andcivilians, listen undisturbed to the music she longed to enjoy with him.Here, to her surprise, Will suddenly joins her.
"I thought you were engaged to Miss Waring for this," she says.
"I was," he answers, savagely; "but I'm well out of it. I resigned infavor of a big 'cit' who's worth only twenty thousand a year, Nan, andshe has been engaged to him all this time and never let me know untilto-night."
"_Willy!_" she gasps. "Oh! I'm so glad--sorry, I mean! I never _did_like her."
"_I_ did, Nan, more's the pity. I'm not the first she's made a fool of;"and he turns away, hiding the chagrin in his young face. They arepractically alone in this sheltered nook. Crowds are around them, butlooking the other way. The rain is dripping from the trees without andpattering on the stone flags. McKay leans out into the night, and thesister's loving heart yearns over him in his trouble.
"Willy," she says, laying the little white-gloved hand on his arm, "it'shard to bear, but she isn't worthy _any_ man's love. Twice I've heard inthe last two days that she makes a boast of it that 'twas to see herthat some one risked his commission and so--kept Mr. Stanley from beinghere to-night. Willy, _do_ you know who it was? _Don't_ you think heought to have come forward like a gentleman, days ago, and told thetruth? _Will!_ What is it? _Don't_ look so! Speak to me, Willy,--yourlittle Nan. Was there ever a time, dear, when my whole heart wasn't opento you in love and sympathy?"
And now, just at this minute, the music begins again. Soft, sweet, yetwith such a strain of pathos and of sadness running through every chord;it is the loveliest of all the waltzes played in his "First ClassCamp,"--the one of all others he most loved to hear. Her heart almostbursts now to think of him in his lonely room, beyond hearing of themelody that is so dear to him, that is now so passionately dear toher,--"Love's Sigh." Doubtless, Philip had asked the leader days ago toplay it here and at no other time. It is more than enough to start thetears long welling in her eyes. For an instant it turns her from thoughtof Willy's own heartache.
"Will!" she whispers, desperately. "This was to have been PhilipStanley's waltz--and I want you to take--something to him for me."
He turns back to her again, his hands clinched, his teeth set, stillthinking only of his own bitter humiliation,--of how that girl hasfooled and jilted him,--of how for her sake he had brought all thistrouble on his stanchest friend.
"Phil Stanley!" he exclaims. "By heaven! it makes me nearly mad to thinkof it!--and all for her sake,--all through me. Oh, Nan! Nan! I _must_tell you! It was for me,--to save me that----"
"_Willy!_" and there is almost horror in her wide blue eyes."_Willy!_" she gasps--"oh, _don't_--don't tell me _that_!Oh, it isn't _true_? Not you--not you, Willy. Not my brother! Oh,quick! Tell me."
Startled, alarmed, he seizes her hand.
"Little sister! What--what has happened--what is----"
But there is no time for more words. The week of misery; the piteousstrain of the long evening; the sweet, sad, wailing melody,--hisfavorite waltz; the sudden, stunning revelation that it was for Willy'ssake that he--her hero--was now to suffer, he whose heart she hadtrampled on and crushed! It is all more than mortal girl can bear. Withthe beautiful strains moaning, whirling, ringing, surging through herbrain, she is borne dizzily away into darkness and oblivion.
* * * * *
There follows a week in which sadder faces yet are seen about the oldhotel. The routine of the Academy goes on undisturbed. The graduatingclass has taken its farewell of the gray walls and gone upon its way.New faces, new voices are those in the line of officers at parade. Thecorps has pitched its white tents under the trees beyond the grassyparapet of Fort Clinton, and, with the graduates and furlough-men gone,its ranks look pitifully thinned. The throng of visitors has vanished.The halls and piazzas at Craney's are well-nigh deserted, but among thefew who linger there is not one who has not loving inquiry for the younglife that for a brief while has fluttered so near the grave. "Brainfever," said the doctors to Uncle Jack, and a new anxiety was lined inhis kindly face as he and Will McKay sped on their mission to theCapitol. They had to go, though little Nan lay sore stricken at thePoint.
But youth and elasticity triumph. The danger is passed. She lies now,very white and still, listening to the sweet strains of the bandtrooping down the line this soft June evening. Her mother, worn withwatching, is resting on the lounge. It is Miriam Stanley who hovers atthe bedside. Presently the bugles peal the retreat; the sunset gun boomsacross the plain; the ringing voice of the young adjutant comes floatingon the southerly breeze, and, as she listens, Nannie follows everydetail of the well-known ceremony, wondering how it _could_ go on dayafter day with no Mr. Pennock to read the orders; with no "big Burton"to thunder his commands to the first company; with no Philip Stanley tomarch the colors to their place on the line. "Where is _he_?" is thequestion in
the sweet blue eyes that so wistfully seek his sister'sface; but she answers not. One by one the first sergeants made theirreports; and now--that ringing voice again, reading the orders of theday. How clear it sounds! How hushed and still the listening Point!
"Head-quarters of the Army," she hears. "Washington, June 15, 187-.Special orders, Number--.
"_First._ Upon his own application, First Lieutenant George Romney Lee,--th Cavalry, is hereby relieved from duty at the U. S. MilitaryAcademy, and will join his troop now in the field against hostileIndians.
"_Second._ Upon the recommendation of the Superintendent U. S. MilitaryAcademy, the charges preferred against Cadet Captain Philip S. Stanleyare withdrawn. Cadet Stanley will be considered as graduated with hisclass on the 12th instant, will be released from arrest, and authorizedto avail himself of the leave of absence granted his class."
Nannie starts from her pillow, clasping in her thin white fingers thesoft hand that would have restrained her.
"Miriam!" she cries. "Then--will he go?"
The dark, proud face bends down to her; clasping arms encircle thelittle white form, and Miriam Stanley's very heart wails forth inanswer,--
"Oh, Nannie! He is almost there by this time,--both of them. They leftto join the regiment three days ago; their orders came by telegraph."
Another week, and Uncle Jack is again with them. The doctors agree thatthe ocean voyage is now not only advisable, but necessary. They are tomove their little patient to the city and board their steamer in a dayor two. Will has come to them, full of disgust that he has been assignedto the artillery, and filling his mother's heart with dismay because heis begging for a transfer to the cavalry, to the --th Regiment,--of allothers,--now plunged in the whirl of an Indian war. Every day the paperscome freighted with rumors of fiercer fighting; but little that isreliable can be heard from "Sabre Stanley" and his column. They are farbeyond telegraphic communication, hemmed in by "hostiles" on every side.
Uncle Jack is an early riser. Going down for his paper before breakfast,he is met at the foot of the stairs by a friend who points to thehead-lines of the _Herald_, with the simple remark, "Isn't this hard?"
It is brief enough, God knows.
"A courier just in from Colonel Stanley's camp brings the startling newsthat Lieutenant Philip Stanley, --th Cavalry, with two scouts and asmall escort, who left here Sunday, hoping to push through to the SpiritWolf, were ambushed by the Indians in Black Canyon. Their bodies, scalpedand mutilated, were found Wednesday night."
Where, then, was Romney Lee?