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The Lost Guidon
by
“Who are Captain Girard’s people, Papa?” she asked Colonel Duval next morning, as the family party sat at breakfast in quasi seclusion at one of the small round tables in the crowded dining-room, full of the chatter of people and the clatter of dishes.
“Girard?” Colonel Duval repeated thoughtfully. “I really don’t know. I have an impression they live somewhere in East Tennessee. I never met him till just about the end of the war.”
“Oh, Papa! How unsatisfactory you are! You never know anything about anybody.”
“I should think his people must be very plain,” said Mrs. Duval. Her social discrimination was extremely acute and in constant practice.
“I don’t know why. He is very much of a gentleman,” the Colonel contended. His heart was warm to-day with much fraternizing, and it was not kind to brush the bloom off his peach.
“Oh, trifles suggest the fact. He is not at all au fait.”
He was, however, experienced in ways of the world unimagined in her philosophy. The reunion had drawn to a close, ending in a flare of jollity and tender reminiscence and good-fellowship. The old soldiers were all gone save a few regular patrons of the hotel, who with their families were completing their summer sojourn. Captain Girard lingered, too, fascinated by this glimpse of the frivolous world, hitherto unimagined, rather than by the incense to his vanity offered by his facile acceptance as a squire of dames. For the first time in his life he felt the grinding lack of money. Being a man of resource, he set about swiftly supplying this need. In the dull days of inaction, when the armies lay supine and only occasionally the monotony was broken by the engagement of distant skirmishers or a picket line was driven in on the main body, he had learned to play a game at cards much in vogue at that period, though for no greater hazards than grains of corn or Confederate money, almost as worthless. In the realization now that the same principles held good with stakes of value, he seemed to enter upon the possession of a veritable gold mine. The peculiar traits that his one unique experience of the world had developed–his coolness, his courage, his discernment of strategic resources–stood him in good stead, and long after the microcosm of the hotel lay fast asleep the cards were dealt and play ran high in the little building called the casino, ostensibly devoted to the milder delights of billiards and cigars.
Either luck favored him or he had rare discrimination of relative chances in the run of the cards, or the phenomenally bold hand he played disconcerted his adversaries, but his almost invariable winning began to affect injuriously his character. Indeed, he was said to be a rook of unrivalled rapacity. Colonel Duval was in the frame of mind that his wife called “bearish” one morning as his family gathered for breakfast in the limited privacy of their circle about the round table in the dining-room.
“I want you to avoid that fellow, Alicia,” he growled sotto voce, as he intercepted a bright matutinal smile that the fair Alicia sent as a morning greeting to Girard, who had just entered and taken his seat at a distance. “We know nothing under heaven about his people, and he himself has the repute of being a desperate gambler.”
His wife raised significant eyebrows. “If that is true, why should he stay in this quiet place?”
Colonel Duval experienced a momentary embarrassment. “Oh, the place is right enough. He stays, no doubt, because he likes it. You might as well ask why old Mr. Whitmel stays here.”
“The idea of mentioning a clergyman in this connection!”
“Mr. Whitmel is professionally busy,” cried Alicia. “He told me that he is studying ‘the disintegration of a soul.’ I hope it is not my soul.”
The phrase probably interested Alicia in her idleness, for she was certainly actuated by no view of a moral uplift in the character of Girard, the handsome gambler. She did not recognize a subtle cruelty in her system of universal fascination, but her vanity demanded constant tribute, and she was peculiarly absorbed in the effort to bring to her feet this man of iron, her knight in armor, as she was wont to call him, to control him with her influence, to bend this unmalleable material like the proverbial wax in her hands. She had great faith in the coercive power of her hazel eyes, and she brought their batteries to bear on Girard on the first occasion when she had him at her mercy.