THE HEART OF A MAID
When the wild and throbbing excitement of the evening was over, the
fear, the horror, the joy, the triumph, the exulting exhilaration,
Broussard, smoking his last cigar at one o'clock in the morning, felt a
little ashamed of himself. After all, Anita was little more than a
child, being but seventeen, and it was hardly fair to her that he
should try to chain her young feet and blindfold her young eyes before
she had seen the great moving picture of the world. Broussard did not
in the least remember what he said to Anita when he was putting her cap
on her head, nor even the words in which she had replied; he only knew
that they were burning words that came from the heart and spoke through
the eyes as well as the tongue. But a man was not always master of
himself. Broussard had a good many plausible excuses to urge for
himself, and was always a good barker for Victor Broussard, and Anita
was so charming, she had so much more sense than the average
seventeen-year-old fledgling, she was so obviously more developed
mentally and emotionally for her age, she had grown up in an atmosphere
of tenderness and happiness, for everybody knew that the Colonel and
Mrs. Fortescue were still like lovers, after twenty years of married
life. Broussard fell into a delicious reverie that lasted until he
heard the clang of the changing sentries at two o'clock in the morning.
The Christmas gaieties went on for a fortnight, including another big
ball given by the officers. Colonel Fortescue brought upon himself
many maledictions from the junior officers by the way in which he
regulated these balls. The Colonel was neither bashful nor backward
with his young officers, and he liked them to dance, bearing in mind
the saying of a great commander that a part of every soldier's
equipment is gaiety of heart; but he was grimly particular about the
kind of dancing that took place at Fort Blizzard. Before every ball,
Colonel Fortescue's aide, Conway, a serious young lieutenant, delivered
the Colonel's orders that there was to be no tangoing or
turkey-trotting or chicken-reeling or "Here Comes My Daddy" business in
that ball-room. Moreover, Neroda, the bandmaster, had orders if any of
these dances, abhorred of the Colonel's heart, were started the music
was to stop immediately. Colonel Fortescue himself, by way of setting
an example, would do a sedate waltz with some matron of the post, or
select a rosebud girl for a solemn set of lancers quadrilles. Mrs.
Fortescue still held the palm as the prettiest waltzer at the post,
none the less gay for being dignified. However, the young people,
except Anita, revenged themselves on the C. O. by doing, in their own
drawing-rooms, all the prohibited dances. With Anita, nothing could
have induced her to do anything forbidden by the beloved of her
heart--a trait not without its dangers.
Broussard was treated as a hero by everybody at the post and enjoyed it
extremely, in spite of his deprecation of all praise and declaring that
Gamechick was the real hero.
Among the festivities was a big dinner given at the C. O.'s fine
quarters to the officers of high rank at the fort, and as a special
compliment Broussard was invited, the only bachelor officer except the
serious Conway, Colonel Fortescue's aide, who classified Anita with the
After-Clap in point of age.
Broussard had met Anita and danced with her many times that fortnight
but, with native good taste, he avoided thrusting himself upon her.
She was so calm, so well poised, that Broussard concluded she had
forgotten all about the words spoken under the influence of the near
presence of love and death. In truth, Anita had forgotten nothing, but
had suddenly become a woman in those few days. Always Broussard had
wakened her girlish admiration by his charm of manner, his sly
impudence, his way of singing love songs; and her eyes followed him,
while she turned away from him. But she knew exactly what Broussard
had said to her while they stood on the tanbark and she blushed to
herself at the answer that came involuntarily to her lips. She knew no
more of actual love-making than the After-Clap, but she was an
inveterate reader of poetry and romance, and had not studied the poets
and romancists for nothing. Perhaps Broussard would say more to
her--at that thought a lovely light came into Anita's innocent eyes.
Perhaps he had forgotten everything. Then Anita's eyes were troubled.
The pride of maidenhood was born, as it should be, with love, and Anita
no longer ran to the window to see Broussard, but when he was present
he filled the room; when he spoke she heard no other voice than his.
Colonel Fortescue had a theory which came amazingly true in his own
daughter. It was, that in high altitudes, with mountain ranges and
vast frozen rivers shutting out the rest of the world, the emotions
become preternaturally acute; that human beings grew more tragic or
more comic, according to their bent, and were closer to primeval men
and women than they knew. So it was at Fort Blizzard, standing grimly
watchful over the world of snow and ice and holding within its limits
all the struggle and striving and love, and laughter and dancing, and
the weeping and working and resting, and the hazards and the triumphs
of human life. On the aviation plain men daily played a fearful game
with destiny, the stakes being human lives, while the young officers,
when not flying toward the sun, were dancing every evening with the
dainty girls, in little muslin frocks that made them look like white
butterflies.
Broussard, owing to a slight defect of vision, was not in the aviation
corps, but, like Sergeant McGillicuddy, he would fly whenever he had an
invitation from Lawrence, the gentleman-ranker with whom Broussard was
seen too often to please Colonel Fortescue. Lawrence had a pale,
fragile, handsome wife, like himself, of another class than the honest
soldiers and their buxom wives, and there was a little boy, Ronald, who
looked like a young prince--a beautiful boy, much noticed by all who
knew him. The soldiers forgot their grudge against Lawrence for what
they called his "uppish airs," and the soldiers' wives forewent their
objections to Mrs. Lawrence and her aloofness from them, when the boy,
Ronald, appeared. The officers, and their wives, too, had a kind word
for the little fellow, so handsome and well-mannered, and especially
was he a favorite with Broussard. It was, indeed, more than friendly
favor toward the child; Broussard was conscious of a strong affection
for the boy, about whom there was something mysteriously appealing to
Broussard, an expression in the frank young eyes, a soft beauty in the
boy's smile, that reminded Broussard of something loved and lost, but
he knew not what it was nor whence it came. Anita, although knowing
nothing of the gentleman-ranker and his wife and the handsome boy
except that, obviously, they were unlike their neighbors and fellows in
the married men's quarters, yet always observed them with curiosity.
Their unlikeness to their station in life was of itself a mystery, and
consequently of interest. Mrs. Fortescue, the soul of kindness to the
soldiers' wives and children, could make nothing of Mrs. Lawrence, who
withdrew into herself at Mrs. Fortescue's approach, and Mrs. Fortescue,
seeing that Mrs. Lawrence wished to hold aloof, respected her wishes,
and from sheer pity left her alone. Mrs. McGillicuddy was not so
considerate, and told thrilling tales of rebuffs administered by Mrs.
Lawrence to corporals' wives, and even sergeants' wives who were
willing to notice her and get snubbed for their good intentions.
"Mr. Broussard is the only man Mrs. Lawrence gives a decent word to,"
said Mrs. McGillicuddy in Anita's hearing, "When she meets him
anywhere, walkin' about, she stops and smiles and talks to him as if
she was the Colonel's lady--that she does, the minx! And she
pretending to be so meek and mild and not looking at any man, except
that good-for-nothing, handsome husband of hers! Just watch her,
stoppin' in the post trader's to talk with Mr. Broussard, she so
haughty-like, and carryin' her own bundles home, like she was doin'
herself a favor!"
This sank deep into Anita's mind, as did every word referring to
Broussard. But she could make nothing of it; and Mrs. Lawrence, the
soldier's wife, became at once an object of interest, of mystery,
almost of jealousy, to Anita. The little boy she noticed, as did all
who saw him, and like everybody else, she was won by him.
The morning of the great dinner at the Fortescues', Neroda, the Italian
band-master, came to give Anita her violin lesson. Mrs. Fortescue,
listening and delighted with Anita's progress, came in to the
drawing-room as Neroda was shouting bravos in rapture over the way his
best pupil caught the soul of music in her delicate hands and made it
prisoner.
"Good-morning, Mr. Neroda," said Mrs. Fortescue in her pretty and
affable manner--Mrs. Fortescue would have been affable with an ogre--"I
must ask you to come this evening and play my daughter's
accompaniments. We are having a large dinner and I should like Anita
to play for us after dinner."
"Certainly, madam," answered Neroda, who, like everybody else, was
anxious to do Mrs. Fortescue's smiling bidding, "I am proud of the
signorina's playing."
"Mr. Broussard is coming to the dinner," continued Mrs. Fortescue after
a moment. "He sings so charmingly. It would be delightful to have him
sing and Anita to play a violin obligato."
"Admirable! Admirable!" cried Neroda, "Mr. Broussard has a superb
voice--much too good for an amateur."
Mrs. Fortescue laughed; Broussard's beautiful voice was one of the
Colonel's grave objections to him. Anita remained silent, but Mrs.
Fortescue noticed the happy smile on her lips, as she picked a little
air upon the strings; she longed to show off her accomplishments before
Broussard and to accompany his singing seemed a little incursion into
Paradise.
It was arranged that Neroda should come at half-past nine and have the
violin tuned. Anita, dropping the violin, found a book of songs, some
of which she had heard Broussard sing.
"Come," she cried eagerly, "I must play these obligatos over. You will
sing the songs."
Neroda sat down once more to the piano and played and sang in a queer,
cracked voice, the songs, while Anita, her soul in her eyes and all her
heart and strength in her bow arm, played the violin part. She did it
beautifully, and Mrs. Fortescue kissed the girl's glowing cheek when
the music was through. Kettle, who was himself a fiddler, at that
moment poked his head in at the door. He had a fellow artist's
jealousy of Neroda but he was forced by his artistic conscience to say:
"Lord, Miss 'Nita, you cert'ny kin make a fiddle talk!"
It was noon before the lesson was over and Neroda left. Anita,
exultant in the thought of playing to Broussard's singing, could not
remain indoors, but putting on her long, dark fur coat and her pretty
fur cap, which accentuated her delicate beauty, went out for a walk
alone.
Beyond the limits of the great post, was a long, straight promenade,
bordered with stately young fir trees, and as it led to nowhere, was in
general a solitary place. It was here that Anita loved to walk alone.
The only objection to the place was that it gave upon the aviation
field--a place abhorred by all the women at the fort, from the
Colonel's lady down to the company laundresses. Anita always turned
her face away from the aviation field when she was walking under the
pine trees.
The short way to the walk led by the big red brick barracks of the
married soldiers. Anita knew many of these soldiers' wives, honest and
hard-working women, doing their duty as if they were themselves
soldiers. As Anita passed along many of them, standing in their
doorways or carrying laundry baskets along the street, gave her a
kindly greeting. In one doorway stood Mrs. Lawrence, tall, young,
darkly beautiful, and looking as if she might have been a C. O.'s
daughter instead of being a private soldier's wife. Mrs. Lawrence was
so at odds with her surroundings that Anita, unconsciously, looked
questioningly at her. She stood, shading her eyes from the glare of
the snow and the sun, gazing anxiously toward the aviation field. It
was a flying day, and the hearts of the women at Fort Blizzard had no
rest or peace on those days. Anita could not but see that Mrs.
Lawrence's hands, browned and hardened with work, were small and
delicately formed, and, that the poise of the head, the fine contours,
were not those of a woman bred to toil.
It was not quite time for the ascent and the officers were not yet on
the field, although there were a dozen or two soldiers and civilian
employes standing about the sheds in the middle of the plain, and
working with the huge machines, dragged from their shelter. Afar off,
the voices of the soldiers, singing a service song, were borne upon the
crystal clear air.
They were trolling out the song as if there were no more risks in
aviation than in tennis.
We don't know what we're here for,
We don't know why we're sent,
But we've brought a few unlimbered guns
By way of com-pli-ment.
Anita walked quickly out of the entrance, keeping her eyes well away
from the flying field. It was a good half mile along the fir tree
walk, and Anita made it twice. The music was throbbing still in her
veins and the thought of playing to Broussard's singing had in it an
intoxication for her innocent heart. She heard the whirring and
clapping of the great aircraft above her head as they flitted across
the face of the sun, but Anita would not look; she hated aircraft and
wished they had never been invented. But she was forced to look when
she heard cries and shouts, as one of the great machines began to reel
about wildly in the air, when it was only twenty feet from the earth,
and then came down, with a crash, upon the snow. She saw Broussard
standing on the ground, he was in uniform, with his heavy cavalry
overcoat around him, and he was working with the men to drag the
aviator from the machine. They got him out, and putting him on a
stretcher, began to run with their burden toward the hospital. Anita
turned her eyes away. She did not see Mrs. Lawrence run out of the
entrance toward the field, her head bare in the icy cold, and no cloak
around her delicate shoulders. Broussard turned to meet her, and
taking off his cavalry overcoat, put it around the shivering woman, and
half led and half carried her as they followed the stretcher. Then
Anita knew it was Lawrence who was hurt.
Within the entrance there was an excited group of soldiers' wives.
Some said that Lawrence was only slightly hurt; others that every bone
in his body was broken. The chaplain, passing along, reassured them.
"Nothing but a few bruises and scratches," he said. "I asked the
surgeon if I was needed and he told me there was nothing doing in my
line; I am going to the hospital though, to see the man's wife--it is
Mrs. Lawrence. Good afternoon, Anita. Now don't let this trifling
accident break your little heart. It's nothing, I tell you."
Anita passed on, her face pale in spite of the chaplain's words. The
picture of Broussard folding his cape around Mrs. Lawrence's shoulders
was strangely photographed upon her mind. She wished she had not seen
it.
Whenever there was an accident, however small, on the aviation field
the whole post was anxious and quivering. Colonel Fortescue and Anita
were both silent and preoccupied at luncheon, and Mrs. Fortescue, who
never lost her brave cheerfulness, tried to interest them in the dinner
that was to be given that evening, and Anita's music, but without much
success.
"I declare, Jack," cried Mrs. Fortescue, "if I only knew the aviation
days in advance I would never arrange a dinner on one of those days.
You are as solemn as a mute at a funeral, and Anita always looks like a
ghost when she has been out to the aviation field. For my part, I do
not allow myself to see the aviation field nor even to think about it."
"But you say a great many prayers on aviation days," replied Colonel
Fortescue, smiling.
Mrs. Fortescue admitted this, but reminded her husband that she
believed in keeping a stiff spirit.
"The man Lawrence is not much hurt," said Colonel Fortescue. "He
wanted to be taken to his quarters where his wife could nurse him, and
the surgeon allowed it, after dressing his cuts and bruises."
Anita still looked so grave that Colonel Fortescue said to her:
"How about a ride this afternoon, Anita? We can get back in time for
you to dress for the dinner."
"Do go, Anita," urged Mrs. Fortescue plaintively, "it is such a relief
to have your father out of the house when I am arranging for a dinner
of twenty-four."
It was one of the great treats of Anita's simple life to ride with her
father and the proposition brought a smile, at last, into her serious
face.
"At four, then," said the Colonel, rising to return to the headquarters
building, while Anita ran to get his cap, and Mrs. Fortescue fastened
his military cape around him, and his gloves were brought by the
After-Clap, who had been drilled in this duty. The Colonel was well
coddled, and liked it.
Anita practised on her violin nearly the whole afternoon, and, not
satisfied with that, sent a message to Neroda asking him to come at six
o'clock, when she would have returned from her ride, and rehearse with
her once more the obligatos she was to play to Broussard's singing.
Anita's spirits rose as she rode by her father's side in the biting
cold of the wintry afternoon. They both loved these rides together and
the long talks they had then. The time was, when Colonel Fortescue
felt that he knew every thought in Anita's mind, but not so any longer.
He began to speak of Broussard, to try and search Anita's mind on that
subject, but Anita remained absolutely silent. The Colonel's heart
sank; Anita was certainly growing up, and had secrets of her own.
It was quite dark when the Colonel and Anita cantered through the lower
entrance, the short way to the C. O.'s house. One door alone was open
in the long row of red brick barracks. The electric light in the
passageway fell full upon the figures of Broussard and Mrs. Lawrence as
the woman impulsively put her hand on Broussard's shoulder; he gently
removed it and walked quickly out of the door. Under the glare of a
street lamp he came face to face with Colonel Fortescue.
An officer visiting the wife of a private soldier is not a thing to be
excused by a strict Colonel, and Colonel Fortescue was very strict, and
had Argus eyes in the bargain.
Broussard saluted the Colonel and bowed to Anita and passed on. The
Colonel returned the salute but Anita was too startled to acknowledge
the bow. When they reached the Commandant's house and Colonel
Fortescue swung Anita from her saddle she walked into the house slowly,
her eyes fixed on the ground. At the door the After-Clap met her with
a shout, but instead of a romp with his grown-up playmate, he received
only an absent-minded kiss. Almost at the same moment Neroda walked
into the hall.
"Here I am, Signorina," he said, "ready for the practice. Mr.
Broussard sings too well for you to do less than play divinely."
Anita, taking off her gloves and veil, went, unsmilingly, into the
drawing-room, Neroda following her, and putting up the top of the grand
piano.
It was Neroda's rule that Anita should tune her own violin. Usually
she did it with beautiful accuracy, but on this evening it was utterly
inharmonious. As she drew her bow across the strings Neroda jumped as
if he were shot.
"Great God! Signorina," he shouted, "every string is swearing at the
G-string! The spirit of music will not come to you to-night unless you
tune your violin better."
Anita stopped and laid down her bow, and once more holding the violin
to her ear, began tuning it. That time the tuning was so bad that she
handed the violin to Neroda.
"You must tune it for me, Maestro," she said, with a wan smile. "The
spirit of music seems far away to-night."
Neroda, in a minute, handed her back the instrument in perfect tune.
Anita, testing the strings, her bow wandered into the soft heart-moving
music of Mascagni's Intermezzo. Neroda said nothing, but watched his
favorite pupil. Usually she took up her violin with a calm confidence,
like a young Amazon taking up her well-strung bow for battle, because
the violin must be subdued; it must be made to obey; it must feel the
master hand before it will speak. But to-night the master hand failed
Anita, and she played fitfully and sadly and could do nothing as Neroda
directed her.
"Shall we give up the rehearsal?" asked Neroda presently, seeing that
Anita was not concentrated and that her bow arm showed strange weakness.
"No," replied Anita, with a new courage in her violet eyes, "Let us
rehearse for the whole hour."
If Neroda had been puzzled at Anita's inability he was now surprised at
her strength. She stood up to her full height and the bow was firm in
her grasp. Neroda was a hard master, but Anita succeeded in pleasing
him. Even Kettle, who had an artistic rivalry with Neroda, passing the
drawing-room door, cried:
"Lord, Miss 'Nita, you kin play the fiddle mos' as well as I kin."
As Mrs. Fortescue was putting the last touches to her toilette before
the long mirror in her own room, Colonel Fortescue came in, dressed to
go down-stairs. The Colonel's mind had been working on the problems of
Broussard's visit to Mrs. Lawrence, and the look he had noticed for
some time past in Anita's eyes when Broussard was present, or even when
his name was mentioned.
"I am afraid, Betty," said the Colonel, "that Anita thinks too much and
too often of Broussard. And in spite of that trick of horsemanship
there are some things a trifle unsatisfactory about him."
"Really, Jack," answered Mrs. Fortescue, "you take Anita's moods far
too seriously. The girl will have her little affairs as other girls
have theirs. It's like measles and chicken-pox and other infantile
diseases."
"Not for Anita," said Colonel Fortescue, "that child has in her tragic
possibilities. Her heart is brittle, depend upon it."
"So are all hearts," replied Mrs. Fortescue, "but you are so
ridiculously sentimental and lackadaisical about Anita!"
"She is my one ewe lamb," said the Colonel.
Then they went down-stairs together, and the next minute Anita
appeared, wearing a gown of white and silver, with a delicious little
train, which she managed as well as a seventeen-year-old could manage a
train.
In a minute or two the guests began arriving. They were handsome,
middle-aged officers and dignified matrons. Broussard was the only
young man present, which was understood as a special compliment to him,
and Anita was the only young girl in the company.
Broussard greeted the Colonel as coolly as if that unlucky meeting just
outside of Lawrence's quarters had not occurred two hours before. And
Broussard was a captivating, fellow--this the Colonel admitted to
himself, with an inward groan, watching Broussard's graceful figure,
his dashing manner, all these externals that dazzle women. The Colonel
also saw the color that flooded Anita's face when she took Broussard's
arm to lead her in to dinner. At the table, though, Broussard found
Anita strangely unlike the Anita he had been steadily falling in love
with since he first saw her, three months before, when Colonel
Fortescue took command at Fort Blizzard. She was no longer the dreamy,
mysterious child, who knew all the stories of the poets, whose
affections were all passions, but a self-possessed young lady, who read
things in the newspapers about the European war and knew something
about aviation records, although she hated aviation.
Broussard, with rage and chagrin in his heart, remembered that Anita
had probably seen him standing in the passage-way of Lawrence's
quarters, with Mrs. Lawrence's shapely hand on his shoulder. He
remained calm and smiling, nevertheless, and exerted to the utmost his
power to please. But Anita remained calm and smiling, and maddeningly
aloof. Broussard, inwardly cursing himself, made up his mind to have
it out with the Colonel the next day about the Lawrence affair.
When dinner was over and the men had come in from the smoking-room,
Mrs. Fortescue asked Broussard if he would sing; Neroda was already
there to play his accompaniments and Anita, would play the violin
obligato.
Broussard was not loth to show his accomplishments and he had a very
good will to try the magic of his voice upon Anita, gracious, and
obstinate and smiling.
The guests, in a circle in the drawing-room, watched and listened to
the group at the piano--Neroda, short and swarthy, with a rancorous
voice; Anita, in her blonde beauty, looking like another St. Cecilia,
and Broussard, dark and handsome, like Faust, the tempter.
With deep intent Broussard selected the most passionate of all his
passionate songs. It asked the old, old question, "I love thee; dost
thou love me?" Neroda struck into the accompaniment and Broussard's
voice, a tenor, with the strength and feeling of a baritone, took up
the song, while the music of Anita's violin delicately threaded the
harmonies, ever following and responding to Broussard's voice. All of
Anita's coldness vanished at the first strain of the music; Broussard's
voice penetrated her heart and inspired her hand. When the song was
over and she laid her violin down on the piano she was once more the
palpitating, shy enthusiast, the half-child, half-woman who had
captivated Broussard at the first glance.
During the interludes between the songs it was plain they forgot all
except each other. They turned over songs and read the titles to each
other, Broussard sometimes singing, under his breath, the words. Then,
when he sang them in full voice he infused all the verve, the passion,
the feeling he knew so well how to command, and played upon Anita's
heart-strings with the hand of a master, as Anita played upon the
strings of her violin. The men and women, listening and charmed,
smiled at each other; evidently a love affair was on foot such as
everybody had expected since the night of the music ride. Colonel
Fortescue alone was grave, leaning back in his chair with sombre eyes
fixed on Broussard. He saw in Broussard a wild young officer who
needed a stern warning about a soldier's handsome wife; and, while
watching him, Colonel Fortescue was phrasing the very words in which he
meant to call Broussard to account the next day, for the Colonel was
not a man to postpone a disagreeable duty. It would be a very
disagreeable duty; the poignant memory of Anita lying on the tanbark
and Broussard having the skill to save her, still haunted Colonel
Fortescue's thoughts and came to him in troubled dreams. And
Anita--undoubtedly Broussard had impressed her imagination, and she was
a creature of such strong fibre that she must love and suffer more than
most human beings the Colonel knew, well enough.
At last, the singing was over and the listeners came out of a waking
dream and complimented Anita and Broussard, and the pleasant chatter of
a drawing-room once more began. Presently there were leave-takings.
Broussard gave Anita's hand a sharp pressure, but she looked at him
calmly, all her coldness resumed. Out in the winter night Broussard
cursed himself for falling in love with a child, who was an embodied
caprice and did not know her own mind--one hour thrilling him with her
gladness and her low voice and her violin, and the next, looking at him
as if he were a stock or a stone. But she was so precociously
charming! And that unlucky meeting with her and with the Colonel in
front of Lawrence's door, with Mrs. Lawrence putting her hand on his
shoulder. Broussard meant to go to the Colonel the very next day and
explain the whole business. The resolve enabled Broussard to sleep in
peace that night.
It was noon the next day before Broussard had a chance to ask for an
interview with Colonel Fortescue. Meanwhile, the Colonel had been
finding out things. He looked up the records of Broussard and Lawrence
and found that they were both natives of the same little town in
Louisiana. That might account for their intimacy, although Lawrence
was fifteen years Broussard's senior.
Just as the Colonel's orderly was crossing the hall of the headquarters
building he came face to face with Broussard, headed straight for
Colonel Fortescue's office. The orderly had a message from the Colonel
for Mr. Broussard; the Colonel desired to see Mr. Broussard for a few
minutes.
Broussard, like the Colonel, was not the man to shirk an unpleasant
five minutes, so he made straight for the Colonel's private office. In
spite of his courageous advance, Broussard felt very much as Sergeant
McGillicuddy described himself when in the abhorred buggy which Mrs.
McGillicuddy had given him as a Christmas gift, "Hollow inside." There
is something appalling to a subaltern in the kind of an interview which
Broussard felt was ahead of him. He knew in advance the very tone in
which Colonel Fortescue and all other Colonels prepare a wigging for a
junior. "It is my painful duty." The extreme politeness with which
this was accompanied was not reassuring. Then the Colonel, taking the
advice of old Horace, plunged into the middle of things.
"I was very much surprised," said Colonel Fortescue, fixing his clear
gaze on Broussard, "when, yesterday evening, after dark, I saw you
standing in the passage-way to the home of an enlisted man, and
evidently upon familiar terms with the man's wife."
"I was on my way to you, sir, just now, to explain that occurrence when
I received your order," replied Broussard promptly.
"I shall be glad to have it satisfactorily explained," said the C. O.
Colonel Fortescue had the eye of command, that secure power in his
glance which is possessed by all the masters of men; the look that can
wring the truth out of a man's mouth even if that man be a liar, and
can see through the eyes of a man into his soul. This look of command
suddenly flashed into Colonel Fortescue's face, and gazing into the
clear eyes of Broussard saw honor and truth and candor there as
Broussard spoke.
"The man, Lawrence, as you may know, sir, is a gentleman in origin and
socially above most of the good fellows in the ranks."
"And these men sometimes make trouble," interrupted the Colonel.
"He came from the same place that I do and tells me he knew my
mother--God bless her--and that she was very kind to him in his
boyhood. That was before I was born. He knows a surprising deal about
my parents, both of whom died when I was a boy. Sometimes I have
doubted whether all he told me was true, but invariably it tallies with
my own childish recollections and what I have been told of my mother.
Lawrence has a passionate attachment to my mother's memory. He knows
her birthday, and the day of her death, and more even than I do about
her. The first word I had with him was on the anniversary of my
mother's death. He came to my quarters and asked to see me, told me of
my mother's goodness to him, and burst into tears before he got
through. Of course, that melted me--my mother was one of God's angels
on this earth. He is always in money troubles, and I helped him. That
brought me into contact with his wife--a woman of his own class, who
has stood by Lawrence, and is worthy, I think, to be classified with my
mother. If you could see the way that woman works for Lawrence and
their child--there's a little boy five years old,--and how she
struggles to keep him straight and sober. I had just done her a little
favor at the post trader's place, and went to her to explain it
privately. She was very grateful; you saw her put her hand on my
shoulder. The truth is, Mrs. Lawrence does not yet fully understand
her position as a private soldier's wife. What I have told you, sir,
is all, upon my honor."
"I believe you," said Colonel Fortescue, after a moment, and holding
out his hand, which Broussard grasped with a feeling of vast relief.
"The man seems to be doing pretty well, except about his money
troubles, of which I know nothing but what you tell me," went on the
Colonel. "He is one of the best aviators in the corps. Of course, his
name isn't Lawrence."
"So he admitted to me," replied Broussard, "I am all abroad concerning
his knowledge of my family. I only know that he loves my mother's
memory, that he evidently knew her well, and that his wife is an heroic
woman. I have promised her that when the little boy is old enough I
will do a good part by him. I have something besides my pay."
This "something" was of a size that made the Colonel think it was
rather a drawback to Broussard.
"I only advise you to be prudent in your intercourse with Lawrence and
his wife," said the Colonel, rising. And the interview was over.
Broussard went back with a light heart to his day's duties. The
Colonel knew the truth, and so, some day, would Anita, the little witch.
It was growing dusk when Broussard again passed the headquarters
building. The last mail had come in and the published orders were
fastened on the bulletin board. Broussard stopped to read them. The
first name mentioned was that of Lieutenant Victor Broussard, who was
detached from his present duty at Fort Blizzard and ordered on special
duty to the Philippines.