"Maidie! Oh, you darling! you delight!" And his arms were about her in an instant. He sprang to his feet, and, despite attempted resistance and retreat, she was clasped to his heart, and held there,—held there close and strong: held there so firmly that she could not get away, and so, in default of other hiding-place, her face was buried on his breast, and—well, she had to put her arms somewhere. When does a woman look so like a stick as when her own arms hang straight down by her side while a lover's are twining about her? If you need confirmation of this startling theory, mademoiselle, simply take one look at that otherwise delightful picture "At last—Alone." Observe the ardor of the lover-husband; note the unresponsive droopiness of the charmingly attired bride, and defend the straight-up-and-down hang of that useless arm if you can. She might, at least, take the stiffness or limpness out of it by simply placing the little hand on his shoulder, and that is just what Marion did, until—until he himself seized and drew it around his neck. The question as to how he should greet her had, somehow, solved itself.
At last he raised her head. She was indistinctly murmuring something.
"Pardon me, Miss Blue-Eyes; but—to whom did you speak?"
"To you; I said that, if all the same to you, I would like to look at you."
"And what did I hear you call me?"
"I said—Mr. Ray."
"Mr. Ray! Are you aware of the fact that Mr. Ray is quite a thing of the past? very, very far in the past," he added, with deep and earnest feeling in place of the playful tone of the previous words. "I have been Ray or Mr. Ray, or Billy Ray and 'that scamp Ray,' many a long year. Only one woman on earth called me always by the one name I strove to teach you, Maidie, and that was—mother. Am I not yet 'Will' to you?"
A moment's silence, a moment's hesitation, and then, with blushing cheeks and beaming eyes, bravely, loyally, comes the answer: "Yes! In every thought, in every moment, only—it was not quite so easy to say."
"And now, if I forgive you, will you tell me, since you have had the look you demanded, just what it was you wanted to see in such a sun-tanned specimen? What is there to warrant such flattering notice, Maidie mine?"
She was looking up at him with such a halo of hope and love and pride and trust shining about her exquisite face; she stood there with one soft little hand resting on his shoulder, while the other shyly plucked at the tiny knot of dark-blue ribbon on his breast,—the ribbon that had fastened her daisy to his scouting-shirt. He had relaxed the pressure of his arms, but they still enfolded her, and he looked the picture of brave young manhood blessed with the sweetest knowledge earth can give. Two big tears seemed starting from the blue depths of those shining eyes. He bent fondly towards her.
"What is it, sweet one? tell me."
"I had been thinking of all you had written me of your past, and of all your troubles and wrongs this summer, and wondering—wondering how any one could think of the loyalty you had always shown to those you loved,—how any one could look into your eyes and say you would ever disappoint—my faith."
* * *
CHAPTER XXIX.
A CAVALRY WEDDING.
And now the —th were all in from the field, and the wives and families of those officers who were there to be stationed were arriving by every train, and the post was all bustle and confusion and rejoicing. Some changes had occurred, as had been predicted by the colonel, but many of our old friends and several of later date were ensconced within the homely walls, and preparing for the combined rigors and comforts of a Wyoming winter in garrison. Here again were old Stannard and his loyal, radiant wife: here were the Turners and Raymonds and Webbs and Waynes and Truscotts and Heaths and Freemans, and others of whom we have not heard, and stanch old Bucketts, the sorely badgered but imperturbable quartermaster, and Billings, the peppery adjutant, and Mrs. Billings (whom their next-door neighbor Mr. Blake epitomized forthwith, to the lady's vehement indignation, as Billings and Cooings), and Mr. and Mrs. Wilkins and the little Wilkinses, and a "raft of youngsters," as the junior bachelor officers were termed, and with Blake was his sworn friend and ally Billy Ray, now the senior lieutenant of the regiment. Life was gayety to all but him, for Marion—the light of his very existence—had returned to the East. For ten days before the arrival of the regiment Russell was paradise. There were long, joyous, exquisite interviews in the dear little parlor at the Truscotts'. There were rides and drives over the boundless prairie; there were plannings and promises, and—I fear for once in his life Ray felt no great joy in the arrival of the old regiment, for on that day Major Taylor's family went East for the winter, and under their escort Miss Sanford departed. Bright and gay as was the winter that followed to all the ladies and most of the officers, there was one fellow at least to whom hops and dinners and germans had faint attraction. Routine duty at a cavalry post soon palls on the most enthusiastic. The endless round of roll-calls, stables both morning and evening, of drills and guard-mount, boards of survey and garrison courts, recitations and rifle-practice,—all serve to keep up constant demands on time and attention. There is just one thing that will throw about them all a halo of romance and interest,—the presence at the garrison of the girl you love; and when such a blessing has once been enjoyed and then is suddenly taken away, the utter blank is beyond description. Only to a few has it happened that the love of their lives has been found in garrison, and only they will quite realize what life at Russell became to Ray after Marion Sanford went East. He had greatly changed as every one saw. Not that he was less buoyant and brave, but that he was far more thoughtful, grave, and earnest. He was exact and punctilious in the performance of every military duty, was always ready to "bear a hand" at the entertainments and parties, but the haunts where he had once reigned supreme knew him no more. The post trader was heard regretfully to remark that Ray wasn't half the man he expected to find him, and there were rattle-pates among the youngsters in the regiment to whom "Ray's reformation" was a source of outspoken regret. "If that's the effect of getting all over in love," said Mr. Hunter, "I don't want any of it in mine."
Poker, too, languished as a popular pastime; the demand for morning cocktails had unaccountably fallen off; the bar-keeper would fall asleep at the club-room from sheer lack of employment during the afternoons and early evenings, for many of the married ladies had brought maiden relatives as friends to spend the winter with them, and half a dozen new romances were starting; and the colonel had his eye on some of the old habitués of "the store," and Wilkins and Crane and one or two other formerly reliable patrons were kept too busy to spend time or money at that once seductive retreat, and with the injustice of embittered human nature it was their wont to ascribe it all to Ray's backsliding, a matter of which that young gentleman was for some time in ignorance. He spent his off-duty hours in writing or reading or long chats with Truscott and romps with Baby Jack; he always dined with them on Sunday, and was in and out between their house, the Stannards', and "Saint's Rest" (as Blake had named the bachelor ranch which he and Ray occupied in partnership) at all hours of the day or evening; he was properly attentive at the colonel's, and called frequently upon the young ladies visiting the Waynes' and Heaths' and Billings' (Mrs. Turner never would have young ladies with her, they were too distracting), and of course he was subjected to incessant queries about Miss Sanford. It was too absurd to deny the engagement, said the garrison, for everybody knew he wrote regularly and she answered. Nevertheless, Ray, Truscott, Stannard, and, of course, Mrs. Truscott and Mrs. Stannard, denied that any engagement existed. Ray and Marion had quietly decided, as has been indicated, that there should be none, until—until he could offer her a little army home. But denials only stimulated the womenfolk into hazarding ingenious questions and suggestions, and the men to various conjectures more or less wooden-headed. At first it was theorized that he had proposed and been rejected; that was disposed of by her frequent letters. Then that "she had him on probation," and would marry him if he could keep clear of the old temptations a year,—two years or so,—u
nless some fellow came along meantime and swept her off. Bets were hazarded on the different events, and there was no end of talk about it, and Ray was the object of much sentimental interest among the ladies. One thing, however, was clearly observable. They, the ladies, with the confiding, caressing, insinuating, and delicious impertinence of the sex, could and would hazard their suggestions to him in person, and were laughingly parried; but if any one among the men were ass enough to suppose that all the old Ray had vanished he had only just to attempt to be jocularly familiar or inquisitive with him on that or a kindred subject, and get a Kentucky kick, as Blake called Ray's snubs, that would make him red in the face for a week. Poor Crane was the victim of the final experiment, and it was his last attempt to be facetious for many a weary month. It was a snapping December morning, one of the Advent Sundays, Truscott was officer of the day, and Ray had escorted Mrs. Truscott to church in town, and it so happened that a number of officers were in the club-room (for the colonel and Billings had gone away to North Platte on a court-martial, and the major did not care to haul in on the reins while the chief was absent), and looking out on the wintry prairie as they came driving into the garrison. There was some little sly comment, thoroughly good-natured, over the metamorphosis which a year had made in Ray, when suddenly the door opened and he bounded in.
"Give me a flask of good brandy, Muldoon; our driver is almost frozen."
Of course there was a ripple of laughing chaff over the unchristian spirit which prompted people to search the Scriptures in such weather and freeze the helpless victims of their piety,—the drivers. All this Ray parried in his old jaunty way, his white teeth gleaming and his eyes twinkling with merriment over some unusually good hit; but as ill luck would have it Mr. Crane had been up too late or too early—or both—and had managed to drink more than was prudent. He had always smarted under the scoring Ray had given him in Arizona, and he saw, or murkily thought he saw, a chance to say a stinging thing. The bar-keeper had just wrapped the flask in paper and was handing it to Ray, when Crane thickly began,—
"Makes a heap of difference in a man this gettin' spooney, don't it? Year ago Ray would have sneered at fellow's going to church, an' now he's doin' it—self. Next thing, by George, he'll be havin' 'ligious scruples 'bout goin' Indian-fighting."
There were sharp, sudden growls of "Shut up, you idiot!" "Choke him off, somebody!" but all too late. Ray heard every word of it, and his eyes blazed in an instant. Every man saw the coming storm, and there was an awkward rising from chairs and gathering about Crane as though to hustle him out of the room. For a moment Ray stood there quivering with wrath, seemingly making strong effort at self-control, then, with the old ring and snap to every word, he first sent the bar-keeper out of the room, telling him to take the flask at once to his quarters, then turned quickly on Crane, who was stupidly shuffling at a pack of cards.
"This is the third time, Mr. Crane, that you have made it necessary for me to bring you up with a round turn. You intimate that a year ago I would have sneered at a man's going to church. Never, sir, in my whole life has man or woman, boy or girl, heard from my lips one word of ridicule or disrespect for religious faith or religious observances. You are in no condition to-day to appreciate what I say, perhaps, so you may have until to-morrow for complete apology and retraction; but this much you can understand, sir: if you fancy for one instant that religions scruples, or any other kind, will interfere with my fighting now or at any time, you are most damnably mistaken, sir, as you will find as soon as you are sober enough to receive a message." And with that he turned and left the room. The next morning Blake was out with a note, as everybody knew would be the result, and poor Crane tied a wet towel around his head and sent for Wilkins and Heath and others, and they all told him the same thing. He had made an outrageous ass of himself, and had best write a full apology,—and he did. It was "the church militant," said Blake, "that Billy joined," and it was evident enough that the chip was still there on Ray's shoulder. Even Marion Sanford's sunny head had not displaced it.
And then came a time in the spring when Ray's letters began to be very frequent, and Rallston's big fist sprawled in on all manner of envelopes from all manner of Iowa and Nebraska hotels. He was doing a lively business in the horse and cattle trade again, had quit gambling, said rumor, and Mrs. Rallston was with him now on all his journeyings, and looking marvellously well and happy; and along in April Blake and Ray were doing all they knew how, with Mrs. Stannard's assistance, to make their quarters habitable for lady's use, and Rallston and Nell came and paid them a visit of an entire week, and went away enraptured with the regiment. Rallston was ill at ease at first, but his wife's grace and beauty, the fact that she was Ray's sister, and that Mrs. Stannard and Mrs. Truscott became devoted to her from the start, and that "old Stannard" and Truscott took Rallston under their protecting wings, and showed him around as though there had never been a flaw in his record,—all these things and his natural good nature combined to make him popular among the officers, and the night before they left he had the whole crowd in at a "stag party" in town, whereat there was much conviviality and good feeling; and the next thing whispered about the garrison was that Ray had "an interest in the business," for when Billings wanted a new horse, and could find none just to suit him in the stables, he sought Ray's advice, as he always did in such matters (the cloud between them had long since drifted away, but not until Billings had "made a clean breast of it"), and Ray told him to wait a few days and the horse to suit him would be there, and he could take his own time in paying for him, too. (He did, by the way.) And when May came, and with it orders for a summer camp, Ray's old troop took the field without him. Another vacancy had occurred, and Rallston sent three baskets of champagne from Omaha that all might drink the health of the new captain, whose troop was down the road at Sidney. Verily, Fortune was smiling on the gallant fellow on whom she had seemed to frown. Even the course of true love was defying all previous record, and had run with exceptional smoothness. Barring the one fearful task of having to write to her father, his courtship had been sweet and unimpeded as all its first surroundings had been bitter. And now, free, hopeful, redeemed, what was there to wait for? Why not claim his bride and a long leave of absence, and take her with him to see the dear old mother in Kentucky? "The engagement is at last announced," wrote Grace to Truscott, who was scouting over the Big Horn, "and the wedding will be some time this summer. Was it not odd that you and he should each have received promotion just before marrying? Little did dear Maidie and I ever dream in the old days at Madame Reichard's that we were to marry captains of cavalry in the same regiment. Oh, Jack! why didn't I have a military wedding? Marion says that the entire community is so shocked at the idea of her accepting an unknown army officer that she has determined to have a brilliant affair of it, and Mr. Sanford says that she shall have everything she wants that money can buy, and they say he is 'rolling in wealth' now. His wife has been behaving like an angel ever since Marion's return, and, much to the Zabriskies' disappointment, the reception will be at the Sanfords', and she will be married from there and the whole clan will be gathered to see it, and there will be eight bridesmaids, three of whom were our classmates at school, and, of course, the wedding itself will be in the old cathedral church, and all the officers there in full dress and the band from Governor's Island. Oh, Jack! can't we go back and do it all over again? Marion says there is only one thing to mar her happiness: she cannot have cavalry officers for groomsmen because almost all Mr.—Captain Ray's (there I go making the same blunder that used to exasperate me so in Mrs. Turner last year: she would speak of you as Mister long after you were captain, only I knew she did it on purpose)—Captain Ray's friends are in the field and cannot be spared, but Mr. Blake is to be best man, and there will be plenty of other officers. Marion says that at first her father looked very, very solemn at the idea of her falling in love with a cavalry officer, and could not be reconciled to it, but one evening he came home late from New York,—
he had been at a dinner at the Union Club, and there was introduced to General S——, who sat next him, and in some way he asked about Mr. Ray, and the general said there wasn't a braver man or finer officer in the cavalry, and spoke of him in such a glowing way that Mr. Sanford came home radiant. Well, excepting my Jack, the general was right." And Jack's answer was that he thought it would be an excellent plan for Mrs. Grace to take Baby Jack and a "two months' leave," and go East and exhibit her glory and delight to grandpapa and grandmamma, and see Marion married. Mrs. Stannard was to start by June 30,—why not go with her? The California mining venture—his old Arizona investment—would fully warrant the extravagance. Many a woman will refrain from attending the gayest of balls because her Strephon cannot be there, but where is the woman who can resist a wedding? Grace went, as a matter of course.
What pen can describe the sensation that had shaken society to its foundation when it began to leak out that the lovely Miss Sanford, eldest daughter of the Honorable Blank Sanford,—plutocrat,—was going to marry an army officer? This, then, was the reason why swains from Philadelphia and New York had sighed in vain all that winter. Ever since November she had been the acknowledged belle, frank, joyous, radiant, gracious, winning, a woman all men worshipped and all women envied. "I wish I could find something in her to criticise," was the despairing summary of a would-be rival. "She is so courteous, so considerate, so generous, so hopelessly regardful of everybody else's rights and feelings. I don't think she's a radiant beauty. You cannot but see defects in her features, but who ever saw a more winning face? I don't wonder everybody, old and young, is simply fascinated by her. I watched her there all last evening when they had that little party. She was surrounded every moment. She was having the best kind of time, but her eyes were everywhere watching to see that everybody was entertained, and no sooner was a woman left alone for an instant than she was by her side with a gracious word—or a man. It is so everywhere she goes. Now, who on earth can this officer be? What's an officer like, anyhow?"
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