"R-r-robert," began Miss Wren, as the captain unclasped his saber belt
and turned it over to Mickel, his German "striker." She would have
proceeded further, but he held up a warning hand. He had come homeward
angering and ill at ease. Disliking Blakely from the first, a
"ballroom soldier," as he called him, and alienated from him later, he
had heard still further whisperings of the devotions of a chieftain's
daughter at the agency, above all, of the strange infatuation of the
major's wife, and these had warranted, in his opinion, warning words
to his senior subaltern in refusing that gentleman's request to ride
with Angela. "I object to any such attentions--to any meetings
whatsoever," said he, but sooner than give the real reason, added
lamely, "My daughter is too young." Now he thought he saw impending
duty in his sister's somber eyes and poise. He knew it when she began
by rolling her r's--it was so like their childhood's spiritual guide
and mentor, MacTaggart, erstwhile of the "Auld Licht" persuasion, and
a power.
"Wait a bit, Janet," said he. "Mickel, get my horse and tell Sergeant
Strang to send me a mounted orderly." Then, as Mickel dropped the
saber in the open doorway and departed, he turned upon her.
"Where's Angela?" said he, "and what was she doing out after recall?
The stable sergeant says 'twas six when Punch came home."
"R-r-robert, it is of that I wish to speak to you, and before she
comes to dinner. Hush! She's coming now."
Down the row of shaded wooden porticos, at the major's next door, at
Dr. Graham's, the Scotch surgeon and Wren's especial friend and crony,
at the Lynns' and Sanders's beyond, little groups of women and
children in cool evening garb, and officers in white, were gathered in
merry, laughing chat. Nowhere, save in the eyes of one woman at the
commanding officer's, and here at Wren's, seemed there anything
ominous in the absence of this officer so lately come to join them.
The voice of Angela, glad and ringing, fell upon the father's ears in
sudden joy. Who could associate shame or subterfuge with tones so
charged with merriment? The face of Angela, coming suddenly round the
corner from the side veranda, beamed instantly upon him, sweet,
trusting and welcoming, then slowly shadowed at sight of the set
expression about his mouth, and the rigid, uncompromising, determined
sorrow in the features of her aunt.
Before she could utter a word, the father questioned: "Angela, my child, have you seen Mr. Blakely this afternoon?"