Part 8 (1/2)

But to Canker's dismay the officer of the guard made prompt report. The sentry was sent, but the sergeant's tent was empty. The colonel's pet had flown. This meant more trouble for the colonel.

Meantime Stanley Armstrong had hied him to General Drayton's headquarters. The office tents were well filled with clerks, orderlies, aides and other officers who had come in on business, but this meeting was by appointment, and after brief delay the camp commander excused himself to those present and ushered Armstrong into his own private tent, the scene of the merry festivities the evening of Mrs. Garrison's unexpected arrival. There the General turned quickly on his visitor with the low-toned question:

”Well--what have you found?”

”Enough to give me strong reason for believing that Morton, so-called, is young Prime, and that your nephew is with him, sir.”

The old soldier's sad eyes lighted with sudden hope. Yet, as he pa.s.sed his hand wearily over his forehead, the look of doubt and uncertainty slowly returned. ”It accounts for the letters reaching me here,” he said, ”but--I've known that boy from babyhood, Armstrong, and a more intense nature I have never heard of. What he starts in to do he will carry out if it kills him.” And Drayton looked drearily about the tent as though in search of something, he didn't quite know what. Then he settled back slowly into his favorite old chair. ”Do sit down, Armstrong. I want to speak with you a moment.” Yet it was the colonel who was the first to break the silence.

”May I ask if you have had time to look at any of the letters, sir?”

”Do I look as though I had time to do _any_-thing?” said the chief, dropping his hands and uplifting a lined and haggard face, yet so refined. ”Anything but work, work, morn, noon and night. The ma.s.s of detail one has to meet here is something appalling. It weighs on me like a nightmare, Armstrong. No, I was worn out the night after the package reached me. When next I sought it the letters were gone.”

”How long was that, General?”

Again the weary hands, with their long, tapering fingers, came up to the old soldier's brow. He pondered a moment. ”It must have been the next afternoon, I think, but I can't be sure.”

”And you had left them----?”

”In the inside pocket of that old overcoat of mine, hanging there on the rear tent pole,” was the answer, as the General turned half-round in his chair and glanced wistfully, self-reproachfully thither.

Armstrong arose, and going to the back of the tent, made close examination. The canvas home of the chief was what is known as the hospital tent, but instead of being pitched with the ordinary ridgepole and uprights, a substantial wooden frame and floor had first been built and over this the stout canvas was stretched, stanch and taut as the head of a drum. It was all intact and sound. Whoever filched that packet made way with it through the front, and that, as Armstrong well knew, was kept tightly laced, as a rule, from the time the General left it in the morning until his return. It was never unlaced except in his presence or by his order. Then the deft hands of the orderlies on duty would do the trick in a twinkling. Knowing all this, the colonel queried further:

”You went in town, as I remember, late that evening and called on the Primes and other people at the Palace. I think I saw you in the supper room. There was much merriment at your table. Mrs. Garrison seemed to be the life of the party. Now, you left your overcoat with the boy at the cloak stand?”

”No, Armstrong, that's the odd part of it. I only used the cape that evening. The coat was hanging at its usual place when I returned late, with a ma.s.s of new orders and papers. No! no! But here, I must get back to the office, and what I wished you to see was that poor boy's letter.

What can you hope with a nature like that to deal with?”

Armstrong took the missive held out to him, and slowly read it, the General studying his face the while. The letter bore no clue as to the whereabouts of the writer. It read:

”March 1st, '98.

”It is six weeks since I repaid all your loving kindness, brought shame and sorrow to you and ruin to myself, by deserting from West Point when my commission was but a few short months away. In an hour of intense misery, caused by a girl who had won my very soul, and whose words and letters made me believe she would become my wife the month of my graduation, and who, as I now believe, was then engaged to the man she married in January, I threw myself away. My one thought was to find her, and G.o.d knows what beyond.

”It can never be undone. My career is ended, and I can never look you in the face again. At first I thought I should show the letters, one by one, to the man she married, and ask him what he thought of his wife, but that is too low. I hold them because I have a mad longing to see her again and heap reproaches upon her, but, if I fail and should I feel at any time that my end is near, I'm going to send them to you to read--to see how I was lured, and then, if you can, to pity and forgive.

”ROLLIN.”

Armstrong's firm lips twitched under his mustache. The General, with moist eyes, had risen from his chair and mechanically held forth his hand. ”Poor lad!” sighed Armstrong. ”Of course--you know who the girl was?”

”Oh, of course,” and Drayton shrugged his shoulders.

”Well, we'll have to go,” and led on to the misty light without.

Over across the way were the headquarters tents of a big brigade, hopefully awaiting orders for Manila. To their left, separated by a narrow s.p.a.ce, so crowded were the camps, were the quarters of the officers of the --teenth Infantry, and even through the veil of mist both soldiers could plainly see along the line. Coming toward the gate was Mr.

Prime, escorted by the major. Just behind them followed Mildred and the attentive Schuyler. But where was Miss Lawrence? Armstrong had already seen. Lingering, she stood at Billy's tent front, her ear inclined to his protruding pate. He was saying something that took time, and she showed no inclination to hurry him. Miss Prime looked back, then she and Schuyler exchanged significant smiles and glances. There was rather a lingering handclasp before Amy started. Even then she looked back at the boy and smiled.

”H'm!” said the General, as he gazed, ”that youngster wouldn't swap places with any subaltern in camp, even if he _is_ under charges.”