"Come into the parlor, colonel," implored Collabone. "Say no more here. Let me explain. It's all a wretched mistake." And, half pushing, half pulling, but all impelling, the doctor succeeded in hustling the post commander and the inert, unresisting subaltern within the parlor. Then, to the infinite disgust of the colonel's wife, he shut—yes, slammed—the door.
A quarter of an hour later, in close arrest, Lieutenant Winn returned to his own roof and locked himself in his den. Mrs. Winn, kneeling at the keyhole, pleaded ten minutes for admission, all in vain; then she sent her maid for Dr. Collabone and Mrs. Faulkner, and went straightway to bed.
CHAPTER XVI.
Three days more, and back came Mullane with the wretched prisoner Marsden. The Irish captain's eyes grew saucer-big when he heard the harrowing details of recent events at the post. Never in its liveliest days, before or since, had Worth known an excitement to match this; for, with the best intentions in the world, there wasn't a woman in officers' row who could get at the bottom facts of the episode. Rumors of the wildest kind that were early in circulation were best left to the imagination of the reader. The only thing actually known was that Mrs. Winn and Captain Barclay were going out riding at reveille, that Winn surprised them and knocked the captain down, that Winn was now in close arrest, Barclay on the mend and again sitting up, Mrs. Winn confined by illness to her bed, Mrs. Faulkner (a most important person she) in devoted attendance, all their differences forgiven if not forgotten,—and there were few Mrs. Faulkner would not have forgiven for the bliss of being for the time the most sought-after woman at Worth, for every one wanted to know how Mrs. Winn was every hour of the day, and hoped to hear what dreadful imprudence of hers it was that caused the equally dreadful fracas.
Gravely and quietly the doctors told their story to the colonel; that there was no arrangement or engagement to ride together; that Captain Barclay had no idea Mrs. Winn ever rose—much less rode—that early; and most men accepted the statement as true. But there was the fatal exhibition of Barclay's letter by Mrs. Winn to confront the women, who would have held him guiltless and saddled all the blame upon her lovely, sloping shoulders. What had he to write to her about, unless it was to ask her to ride or something of the kind? And the idea of their daring to select such an hour, instead of going out when—when people could see! And then there was the fact that Mr. Winn still refused to be reconciled to his wife. What did that mean, if not that he deemed her guilty? Blythe, who had a kindlier feeling for Winn than had most men at Worth (for Brayton now was utterly set against him and refused to go near him), sent in his card and begged to be allowed to see him; and Blythe's face was sad and gray when, half an hour later, he came forth again.
"Colonel," said he to Frazier, "something has got to be done for that poor fellow, or he'll go mad. Collabone has told him Barclay was totally ignorant of Mrs. Winn's plan to ride that morning,—that his assault was utterly unjustifiable; and between that and the contemplation of his wife's brainless freak, and all his old trouble, I'm sorely afraid he'll break down,—go all to pieces. Can't something be done?"
Both Frazier and Brooks thought something ought to be done; and so said Blythe and De Lancy, and Follansbee and Fellows, when they came trooping home, empty-handed, from their scout. Only Mullane's detachment had accomplished anything, and such success as he had was due almost entirely to Winn's persistent effort and energetic trailing. Something was being done to hunt up stolen stores as revealed by Marsden, but poor Winn, who had ridden home so full of hope and pluck and energy, now paced his narrow room for hours, or lay upon his lounge, face buried in his arms, either dull and apathetic or smarting with agony. On Mrs. Winn old Collabone had little sympathy to waste. Bluntly he told her that she was responsible for the whole business and deserved to be down sick. So, too, he told the colonel, who was having a blissful time answering the questions and squirming under the nagging of his household at home. At first Laura had shown tremendous spirit. Mr. Winn's conduct was an insult. The doctor's comments were an insult. The instant she was well enough to move she would take her precious child and return to her mother's roof.
"Your mother hasn't any roof," said Collabone. "She's boarding in Washington, playing for another husband, and you'd spoil the whole game, turning up with a grandchild. What you've got to do is beg your husband's pardon for all the scrapes you've led him into,—this last one especially." Laura wailed and wept and cried out against the heartless cruelty of her husband, who left her sick and dying, for all he knew (Collabone had assured him there was nothing on earth the matter but nerves), and she thought Mrs. Faulkner ought to make him hear how ill she was. At last she managed to have herself appropriately arrayed, and with face of meekest suffering waylaid him on the lower floor before he could close the door against her, after a brief official visit from the adjutant.