by Charles King
CHAPTER XII.
Within the week of their arrival, thanks to the energetic movements ofMr. Davies, the new couple were established in Number 12, the outermostof the long row of officers' quarters, the one nearest the open prairieand farthest from the official and social centre of the post, but thebest they could hope for on the rank of a junior lieutenant in a crowdedgarrison. Even this roost was not to be entirely their own, for ActingAssistant Surgeon Burroughs occupied the rear room aloft, and had hechosen to fight for his rights, would probably have been accorded theentire floor, but like everybody else he was eager to make everythingpleasant for the bride. Davies had expected no such luck, and had dulyexplained to her that a combined dining-, sitting-, and bedroom, and anout-door kitchen was absolutely all that they could expect, and morethan they were really entitled to. But Almira had enthusiasticallydeclared, as she had written, that even an Indian lodge in some vastwilderness she would rather share with her Percy than a palace with aprince royal. That there was a halo of romance about this marriage wassomething everybody in the Fortieth had heard and many in the Eleventhbelieved. All manner of theories and not a few stories had been put incirculation, and no end of questions propounded of Captain Cranston'shousehold--who were believed to know all the facts--and not a few of thefair bride herself, who showed no unreadiness to enter into particulars,but had evidently been cautioned to curb her confidences. Taking a leaffrom the journalism of the day, let us congratulate the reader on havingnow laid before him or her the first and only authentic record of thefacts in the case,--let us proudly await the commendation due theirherald.
It was no part of Percy Davies's plan when he left the roof of hisdevoted nurses at Cameron to return to the regiment within two months amarried man, but other forces had been at work. A halo of heroism hadbeen thrown about his head by the events of the summer. The papers ofhis State had made much of his prompt and soldierly tender of service.It was before the day of illustrated daily journalism, or his picturemight have appeared in several papers, all, presumably, copies from thesame photograph, and no two of them recognizably alike. According tolocal predictions he was on the high-road to fame, rank, and promotion,and Almira's romance was redoubled, and her importance in the community,in her own eyes at least, immeasurably enhanced. One paper indeed hadreferred poetically to the lovely bride from whose entwining arms at thecall of duty the heroic youth had torn himself, and the pen-picturedrawn of Almira was as flattering as the wood-cut might have beenfrightful. Then something occurred that turned her head as nothing hadbefore. Who should write to her but rich Aunt Almira, her own dear deadmother's long-talked-of sister, now the wife of the great railwaymagnate, and Aunt Almira urged her niece to come and visit her, andAlmira went, as pretty a village maid as ever set foot in a Pullman car;but Aunt Almira looked aghast at the rural cut of her garments, eventhough she gasped with envy over her complexion. She drove her lovelyniece forthwith to a great mart where all manner of feminine wear was inreadiness for immediate donning, and Almira was in a heaven of bliss andher aunt in corresponding spell of complacency over the improvementinstantly effected. This, however, was only a temporary arrangement. Toher own milliner, mantua-makers and modistes, and what not, the happy,blushing girl was next transported, and Urbana looked upon her with envyand delight when at the close of that changeful moon she was restored tofriends and fireside. Aunt Almira had given her niece a party, to whichcame famous officers of the army, stationed in the city, to say nicethings to her about her hero lieutenant and honeyed words about herself.There was a reception at which three cavaliers appeared in blue andgold, with medals on their broad chests, great braids and loops ofglittering cord pendent from their armored shoulders. (Percy at thattime, in the rags of his first uniform and a shocking bad hat and thewreck of a pair of soldier boots, cold and wet, faint and starving, wasstaggering through the Bad Lands, dragging his skeleton horse behindhim.) A great military band was playing thrilling waltz music, and ayoung lieutenant-colonel swung her twice around the whirling parlor andhelped her to champagne and praised her waltzing, which he declaredperfect,--and indeed she had enjoyed excellent teaching, but, alas! atthe hands of Powlett, not Percy, who would not dance at all. Yes, theaide-de-camp helped her to champagne and more flattery. There was amilitary wedding in a great cathedral church one evening where some ofPercy's classmates in glittering uniforms served as ushers and crowdedabout her to talk of "Dad," as they called him, and to dance with herand marvel among themselves later at her beauty, her unsophistication,and at her being his choice. She went back to Urbana at the end of themonth, believing army life to be one long round of balls, parties,music, dancing, champagne,--army men heroic gallants in gorgeous attirewho danced divinely and said the sweetest things ever whispered intodainty ears. She went back with Aunt Almira's promise to provide stillmore raiment for her _trousseau_, and finally with Aunt Almira's tearfultale that her heart, too, was with the Eleventh, wherein her own belovedboy, her idolized black sheep, was a trooper serving his country on aprivate's pay and under the name of Brannan; and then, with a start,Almira bethought her of certain wild, raving letters that she had lefthidden at home,--letters she had never spoken of to anybody,--lettersthat had come to her from time to time in the spring and early summerand then suddenly ceased, as Percy's had, entirely, for there were longweeks that battle year when the field column was cut off from allcommunication with friends and home, and these letters, too, had told ofBrannan,--told things she would not, could not tell Aunt Almira,--couldnot indeed tell anybody, for her letters, though signed Bertie, werewritten by another trooper, whose address was Howard.
After such joys under Aunt Almira's roof, life at home becameinsupportable. Mrs. Quimby said it was Almira herself, not the life.Clash followed clash; there came sneers, tears, squabbles, rows, and atlast practical banishment. Old Quimby could stand it no longer. Almirawent to live with her prospective mother-in-law, who was not sorry, andwho, hearing for weeks only her side of the story, believed all she saidabout home troubles and their inciting cause. She could not hear enoughabout Percy, and so who so welcome as Almira, who never tired of thetopic, or of the telling of the officers she had met and all they hadsaid of him and of his spirited conduct. Even a great general, she said,had been presented, and before all the company had drawn her to hisbroad-sashed, button-studded bosom and kissed her mantling cheek, as washis way with every pretty girl he met,--Almira did not mention that. Andthen these two women, invalid mother and impatient daughter-in-lawelect, were drawn closely together by tidings of Percy's illness,Percy's careful nursing, etc., then of Percy's slow convalescence. Theycould not go to him, because Mrs. Davies was far too feeble. Almiraraved about going,--wanted to go,--wept, implored, and ranted, but herfather was implacable and Mrs. Davies opposed. The latter was sureeverything was being done that could be done and she needed Almira. Butfrom the very first Almira was suspicious of Mrs. Cranston and MissLoomis, jealous of their attention, fearful of their influence. Percy,she cried, not she, would prove faithless. She would gladly, willingly,eagerly fly to his side, nurse him night and day, dwell with him inbliss and a wigwam if need be; but he--he was cold--he was changing--hewould prove faithless to his humble, adoring village maid, and thenthere would be nothing left for her but despair. Then as hisconvalescence progressed she became insistent and Mrs. Davies weaker.Almira poured forth her plaint to her aunt by letter. Aunt Almira gaveanother dinner, to which some of the staff were bidden, and a mellowsymposium it was, and over the oft-replenished champagne glasses did thekindly woman tell of Mrs. Davies's craving to see her boy once more, andhow the boy would ask no favors, though her husband, the magnate,offered to send to the lieutenant passes all the way from Cheyenne. TwoAlmiras prevailed, and the last month of the mother's life was blessedand gladdened by the presence of her devoted son. Almost the lastpromise asked of him was that there should be no delay in the marriageof her dear children, as she called them, though the poor soul had manya misgiving now as to whether Almira, after all, w
ould prove a worthyhelpmate for her earnest, duteous son. Indeed, she at one time hadthought to ask that they might be united before her eyes, but Almira'swedding garment wasn't ready, and Almira, who had urged all speed, wasnot prepared for speed so great as that. She, too, secretly nourishedthe idea of a military wedding and a big church. Davies never meant toretreat from his obligation, but he had hoped to make the girl fullyunderstand what was before her,--what army life and its duties werereally like,--but his every effort to talk with her gravely andearnestly met with reproach and tears. She didn't care what it was, allshe asked was to share his lot, no matter how poor, how humble. It washe who, after for years making her love him so, was now doubting anddistrusting her. She knew how it would be when those other women,instead of her, had been chosen to nurse and care for him. They hadusurped her place. They had undermined her. That--that Miss Loomis whomhe was holding up as a model to her--all this time! He'd break herheart, and she'd just go--anywhere except home--and die. She had nohome. She had given up everybody--everything for him, and now he wastiring of her. Well, it was pretty trying, but Davies strove to explainand to undeceive. He didn't take her in his arms and kiss away her tearsas he ought to have done, and plead and pet and soothe as she planned heshould do, poor child. It wasn't his way. He strove to appeal to herjudgment and to her common sense, but could not reach them. And thencame to him the great sorrow of his mother's death, peaceful, placid,hopeful though it was,--and then when she was laid away and he faced theworld again, he found that there were outstanding claims against thehomestead of which, through motives of kindness, both his mother andhimself had been kept in ignorance during her life. Unless he could payregularly the interest on a large sum the old place his father lovedmust go. It had ever been Percy's plan to hold it, and in the fulnessof time to return perhaps to take his father's place in the church, atany rate to strive to do so in the community. He had planned to lease ituntil he and Almira should be ready to go to housekeeping there if sheremained faithful all these years, but now only by pinching could hehope to save it at all.
And this he explained, but it made no difference. She would help himpinch and save and starve if need be. They could live on a crust, andshe could cook and bake and darn and sew and sweep for him. The onething she could no longer do was wait, for people were pestering to knowwhen she was to be married, and some girls had openly hinted that PercyDavies had changed his mind. Then came the naming of the day, and, as hewas in deep mourning, to her bitter disappointment he said their weddingmust be very simple and quiet,--just a few friends present as witnesses.She had projected on a smaller scale an imitation of the swell affairshe had seen in the fall, but Percy wouldn't even have a best man. Thenhe told her gravely that as they must live so quietly he thought heraunt should not lay out money on party and dinner dresses and expensivetrifles. Almira should dress very simply as became a poor soldier'swife, and as he was in deep mourning, and they could not go to dances ordinners or anything of the kind, that she should so notify her, butAlmira could not thwart her aunt, and Percy's brow darkened when thetrunks arrived. "I fear she looks in return for all this for variousthings which I cannot possibly do for her son," said he. He had not seenthe boy for months, and did not know how he might be withstanding thetemptations surrounding garrison life after long months of enforcedabstinence in the field.
In the days of Davies's convalescence Cranston had told him of Mrs.Barnard's call and of Brannan's story, and rejoiced that Brannan wasMiss Loomis's patient on the train, and that all through the campaignthe boy had borne himself well, and all this you may be sure didCranston write to Mrs. Barnard, and most gratefully was it allacknowledged. She urged that as soon as possible now her son should betransferred to Cranston's troop as a surer and simpler path to hiscommission. After meeting and knowing the military gentlemen athome,--people in whom she had taken no interest whatever until herwayward son had taken to the army,--she had begun to picture him in astaff uniform and on duty with the general at home, and, motherlike, waseager to speed the consummation. And then Cranston's next letter toldher that her boy's best friend and adviser, Lieutenant Davies, was fromUrbana, and then very soon came the story of his engagement to AlmiraQuimby, her own niece. It was then that Almira was sent for and becameQueen Paramount, for when do mothers cease to plan for wayward sons?
And now the bride was actually there in the army. The ladies hadgathered to welcome her. The band had seranaded her the night of herarrival. The colonel and his wife, captains and lieutenants by thedozen, came to call, most of them with their better halves, some of thelatter refined, high-bred, cultured women, some simple-mannered,warm-hearted army girls who knew no home but the regiment, no life butthat on the plains. Some vapid, frivolous, and would-be fashionable, butall full of kindly motive. She could have had luncheons, dinners, andparties in her honor, and secretly moaned that it could not be, but Mr.Davies's deep mourning prohibited. She had dined _en famille_ and indeep constraint at the Cranstons the evening after her coming, and notall Mrs. Cranston's cheery, chatty, cordial way, or Miss Loomis'scourtesy and tact, could put poor Almira at her ease. She was setagainst them from the start, and it made the feast an ordeal which bothCranston and Davies would gladly have eliminated from memory could theydo so. The latter had never yet spoken reprovingly to his wife, but thisnight he felt that something must be said. Just in proportion as hermanner to her hostess had been unresponsive and cold so had herassumption of little wifely airs and proprietorship been comical. Sheseemed bent on extracting from Percy public and frequent demonstrationof his lover-like side, and her appeals and endearments had furiouslyembarrassed him. They went home early, met callers at their own door,and were kept up late. That Mrs. Cranston should have turned and lookedinquiringly into Agatha Loomis's face the instant the door closed uponthem was to be expected. Her eyes were sparkling, her lips twitchingwith the mental ebullition going on within; but Agatha turned abruptlyaway. Mrs. Cranston then sought to search her husband's face, but thecaptain was forearmed and chose to keep his back towards his better halfand to pull on his arctics and overcoat and gather up his littlehurricane lamp. The trumpet was sounding first call for tattoo, andthough it was no concern of his, for Mr. Sanders, his cheery subaltern,had just gone whistling by on his way to the troop quarters, Cranstonpreferred to face the falling snow rather than those speaking, luminous,quizzical, questioning, tormenting eyes, and so invented business forthe occasion. "Don't sit up for me, Meg," said he, and she knew hesimply would not be drawn into a discussion.
But she had to talk to somebody, and what was Agatha for? Agatha hadpalpably dodged and gone to her room, and would have been glad not tocome down again. She even went into the boys' room and romped with hertwo young trooper cousins instead of allowing them to go to sleep. So upcame Mrs. Cranston and ordered her out, and then, when the girl wouldhave escaped and gone down-stairs again, Margaret confronted her in thehall, placed her hands on her shoulders, and with a world of mingledmerriment and commiseration in her tone said, or rather asked,--
"Well?"
"Well what?"
"What do you think now?"
"Simply what I have maintained all along. That he did right."
"But what do you think of--of her?"
And Miss Loomis, shaking herself free, hurried by her friend and downthe stairs. She refused to say.
Perhaps it might have been better had Mr. Davies postponed his firstmarital lecture. It was very gentle, very brief, but Almira had seen hisvexation as they hastened home and had striven to avert the comingcomments. She well knew wherein she had erred. Public endearments of anykind by word or touch had already been pointed out to her asunconventional in society. There were no people on the post in whosepresence he more dreaded such demonstration than the two ladies ofCranston's household. There were no people in the world in whosepresence she was more bent upon making display of her possession. He hadinterdicted the gown she longed to wear and indicated a simple blacksilk. In this point she had to yield, but she had conq
uered on theother, and now when he gravely reminded her of his caution, she declaredshe thought these people were his intimate friends, his confidants,--notmere society people,--and--of course--if he was ashamed to have themsee--how dear he was to her----Oh, but why go on with the rest? Sobs andtears and swollen eyelids and sore lamentation, and pleas to be takenhome again if this was to be the beginning of their married life. Daviesknelt alone that night, and his prayer for guidance and strength camefrom the depths of an anxious heart.