"GOOD-BYE, SWEETHEART, GOOD-BYE"
Broussard, after reading his orders, walked quickly to his quarters.
On the desk in his luxuriously furnished sitting-room was a letter from
the C. O. giving the order in detail from the War Department; Broussard
was to make the next steamer sailing from San Francisco. He went
through with a rapid mental calculation. To do that, he would be
obliged to leave Fort Blizzard not later than the next afternoon.
Broussard took his orders with a soldier's coolness. He particularly
disliked them; he did not want to leave Fort Blizzard for any other
spot on the habitable globe, and least of all did he want to go to the
island possessions. But he said no word of complaint, took, with
perfect good humor, the condolences and chaff of his brother officers
at the mess dinner that night, and plunged into his preparations to
leave.
The disposal of the expensive impedimenta which Broussard had
accumulated gave him much trouble. He did not value them greatly, and
without much thought determined to give his costly rugs and lamps and
glass and china to the Lawrences--they were originally used to that
sort of thing and Broussard was in no fear of the Colonel's
misunderstanding it, or any one else, for that matter, as it had been
well known that there was some tie or association between Broussard and
Lawrence in their childhood.
The scattering of costly gifts by a very free-handed person is usually
most indiscreet, and Broussard was no exception to the rule. He
presented his finest motor to a brother officer, who had to support a
wife and children on a captain's pay and could not afford to support
the motor besides. The game chickens, the beloved of Broussard's
heart, he presented to another officer, whose wife objected seriously
to cock-fighting. The chaplain, seeing the grand piano was about to be
thrown away on anybody who could take it, managed to secure it for the
men's reading-room. The thing which perplexed Broussard most was, what
to do with Gamechick. He longed to give the horse to Anita but dared
not. However, fate befriended him in this matter and Anita got
Gamechick by other means. When Colonel Fortescue came home for the cup
of tea that Mrs. Fortescue was always waiting to give him at five
o'clock, with the sweet looks and tender words that made the hour so
happy, he mentioned, in an off-hand way, Broussard's orders and that he
was leaving the next day. Neither the father nor the mother looked
toward Anita, sitting a little in the shadow of the dim drawing-room.
Mrs. Fortescue, by way of making conversation, said:
"I wonder what he will do with his motors and horses and game chickens,
and all those beautiful things he has in his quarters?"
"Oh, that's easy enough to tell," answered Colonel Fortescue. "All
these young officers who load themselves up with that kind of thing act
just alike. As soon as they are ordered somewhere else they throw away
these things. They call it giving, but it is merely largesse."
"I wish," said Anita, in a soft, composed voice, "that I could have
Gamechick. I can't help loving the horse that might have killed me and
did not. Daddy, if I give up half my allowance for every month until I
pay for him, would you buy him for me?"
Colonel Fortescue was quite as well able as Broussard to own Gamechick,
but Anita had been brought up with a wholesome economy.
"I think so, my dear," replied the Colonel, gravely.
It would, in reality, have taken Anita's modest allowance for a couple
of years to buy Gamechick. Mrs. Fortescue said as much.
"It would take all your allowance for a long time, Anita, to buy
Gamechick. The horse has a pedigree longer than mine, and I have often
noticed that ancestors are worth a great deal more to horses than to
human beings."
"Oh, the price can be managed," said the Colonel, good naturedly.
"Broussard's horses will probably be sold for a song."
Gamechick was not sold for a song, however, but for an excellent price.
Colonel Fortescue was not the man to buy a good horse for a song of any
man, least of all one of his own subalterns. When Broussard got the
Colonel's note containing an offer for Gamechick, he laughed with
pleasure, although he was not in a laughing mood.
"I should like to own the horse," the Colonel's note ran, "which,
together with your fine horsemanship, saved my daughter's life, and he
is well worth my offer."
Broussard would have given all of his other possessions at Fort
Blizzard if he could have made Anita a gift of the horse, but the next
best thing to do was, to sell him to her father. Broussard felt sure
that Anita would ride Gamechick and there was much solid comfort in
that, for an officer's charger, which carries him in life and is led
behind his coffin in death, is near and dear to him. So, Broussard
lost not a moment in accepting the Colonel's offer for Gamechick.
It was quite midnight before Broussard, with the assistance of his
soldier attendant, had got those of his belongings which he intended to
take with him sorted out and packed up. He dismissed the man and in
the midst of his disordered sitting-room settled himself for his last
cigar before turning in for the night. At that moment he heard a tap
at the door, and opening it, Lawrence was standing on the threshold.
He entered, taking off his cap and loosening his heavy uniform
greatcoat. Once he had been a handsome fellow, but he had danced too
long to the devil's fiddling, and that always spoils a man's looks.
For the first time, Lawrence seemed to forget the distance between the
private soldier and the officer. He sat down heavily, without waiting
for an invitation, and turned a haggard face on Broussard.
"So you are going," said Lawrence.
"Yes," replied Broussard.
Broussard saw that Lawrence was oppressed at the thought, there would
be no more Broussard to help him pay the post trader's bills and to
give him a good word when he got into trouble with the non-coms.
Broussard handed him a box of cigars and Lawrence absently took one.
It was a very expensive cigar, as Broussard's things were all
expensive. Lawrence, after rolling it in his fingers for a moment,
laid it down.
"It's a shame not to be able to smoke such a brand as that," he said,
"but the truth is, I can't stand tobacco to-night. It makes me nervous
instead of soothing me."
Broussard, lighting a cigar for himself, looked closely at Lawrence,
whose face was pallid and his eye sombre and uneasy.
"What's the trouble? More bills at the post trader's?" asked Broussard.
"Worse," replied Lawrence, becoming more agitated as he spoke. "My
wife--the best wife that ever lived--has been traced here by her
people. Of course, my name isn't Lawrence, and there was some trouble
in finding her. They want her to leave me, and offer to provide for
her and the boy. The work is killing her--you see how pale and thin
she is--and the boy hasn't the chance he ought to have. They are worth
more than a broken and beaten man like I am. But ever since I married
her I've led a fairly decent life--she is the one creature who can keep
me a little on this side of the jail. If she leaves me, I'm lost.
What shall I do?"
Lawrence rose to his feet, and stood, trembling like a leaf. Broussard
rose, too. By some strange, psychic foreknowledge, Broussard knew that
some disclosure, poignant and even vital to himself, was then to be
made by Lawrence. It came in Lawrence's next words, dragged out of
him, as it were, by a force like that which drags the soul from the
body.
"I ask you this," cried Lawrence, "in the name of our mother, for you
and I, Victor Broussard, are brothers of the half blood."
By that time, Lawrence was weeping convulsively. Broussard's lighted
cigar dropped to the floor, and lay there smoldering.
"But--but--" stammered Broussard, "my half-brother, my mother's son by
her first marriage, died when I was a boy. My mother wore mourning for
him."
"Yes," answered Lawrence, recovering himself a little, "she thought I
was dead when I was in double irons for mutiny on a merchant ship. It
was one of God's mercies that she thought me dead when I was living a
life that would have been worse than death to her. Look you, I have
disobeyed and defied and disgraced the God that made me, but I have
never ceased to believe in Him. And, blackguard that I was and am, I
had the best mother, and I have the best wife----"
There was a tense silence for a minute. Through all the bewildering
and overwhelming thoughts that were crashing through Broussard's brain,
but one thing was clear and unshakable, the deathless loyalty that a
son owes to his mother.
"Of course," said Broussard, in a cool and resolute voice, "I'll stand
by my mother's son, for my mother's sake. I was always puzzled at your
knowledge of my parents, but I want some actual proof of what you say.
Not for myself, you understand, but for others."
"Here it is," said Lawrence, taking a small, thin gold ring from his
little finger. "When my mother married your father, I was fourteen
years old. She gave me the wedding ring my father had given her; she
put it on my finger and it has never been removed since--but I will
take it off to show to you."
Lawrence pulled the ring off and Broussard, under the glare of the
electric lamp, read the initials and the date he had seen in the family
record. Then, handing the ring back, Broussard studied Lawrence's
haggard face. Lawrence, answering the unspoken words, said:
"I was always thought like my mother, and the boy is the image of her."
A sudden illumination flooded Broussard's mind with light. He recalled
the child's face, frank and handsome--a face that had always appealed
to him so strongly, and so strangely. Yes, it was the call of the
blood, and instantly the mysterious attraction the boy had for him
developed into the affection of a kinsman.
"If you could see my wife and talk with her," continued Lawrence,
recovering himself a little. "I can't urge her to leave me, but I
think in common justice to her somebody ought to put the thing before
her."
"Certainly," replied Broussard.
He was turning things rapidly in his mind. It would never do, after
the Colonel's warning, to go to Lawrence's quarters, and he said so.
"It would look as if I had called for a farewell visit to your wife,
when I haven't time to pay any calls except to the C. O.," said
Broussard, after a moment. "But I will see the Colonel in the morning
and try to arrange, through him, an interview with your wife."
"But don't, for God's sake, tell who I am," cried Lawrence. "Don't
tell it, for the sake of our mother's memory. It isn't necessary."
"No, it is not necessary," replied Broussard. He was full of brotherly
pity for Lawrence, his respect and sympathy for Mrs. Lawrence suddenly
changed into the love of a brother for a sister, and the little boy
became dear to him in the twinkling of an eye.
A silence fell between the two men, which was broken by Broussard.
"Couldn't you get a discharge from the army?"
"No," answered Lawrence, "there are too many black marks against
me--not enough to turn me out, but enough to keep me in. However, I've
kept soberer and acted straighter since I've been an enlisted man than
for a long time past; the non-coms. know how to handle men like me.
And I'm a good aviator, and they want to keep me."
"At all events," said Broussard, taking Lawrence's hand, "I'll look out
for your wife and child. The boy shall have his chance--he shall have
his chance, the jolly little chap!"
Then, standing up, the two men embraced as brothers do, and felt their
mother's tender spirit hovering over them.
The next morning, while Colonel Fortescue was at breakfast, a note was
handed to him by Broussard's soldier attendant. It read:
"Last night I had a visit from Lawrence. He has a great affection for
his wife and child, and wanted me to talk with his wife about a family
matter in which he feels he can not advise her. Can you kindly suggest
some way by which I may have a private talk of a few minutes with Mrs.
Lawrence?"
Colonel Fortescue scribbled on the back of the note:
"Come to my office in my house at ten o'clock and I will have Mrs.
Lawrence here."
Broussard felt a little chagrined when he received this note. Suppose
Anita should see him? She had already seen Mrs. Lawrence put her hand
on his shoulder. There was, however, no gainsaying the C. O., and at
ten o'clock Broussard rang the bell at the Commandant's house.
Sergeant McGillicuddy opened the door for him and showed him into the
little office across the hall, saying:
"Them's the Colonel's orders, sir."
At the same moment Mrs. Lawrence, pale, beautiful and stately, walked
in from the back entrance. As she and Broussard met in the sunny hall,
brimming with the morning light, Anita walked down the stairs and came
face to face with Broussard and Mrs. Lawrence.
Broussard's dark skin turned dull red; Mrs. Lawrence, calmly
unconscious, bowed to Anita, who, in her turn, bowed and passed on; her
head, usually with a graceful droop, was erect; she radiated silent
displeasure. Then Broussard and Mrs. Lawrence entered the office and
Broussard closed the door. He was full of discomfort and chagrin, but
it did not make him forgetful of the pale woman before him.
Mrs. Lawrence sat down in a chair; it was plain that she was not
strong. Broussard, taking her hand, said to her affectionately:
"Last night Lawrence told me all. Remember, after this, that you and
he have a brother, and the boy will be to me as a son."
The slow tears gathered in Mrs. Lawrence's eyes and fell upon her thin
cheeks.
"My husband told me when he came home last night. I can't express what
I feel--but the boy shall remember you in his innocent prayer."
"It's the boy I want to speak about," said Broussard, "Lawrence tells
me that you have a chance of going back to your own people and that you
are breaking down under the hard work of a soldier's wife. You can
never get used to it."
"Perhaps not," replied Mrs. Lawrence, calmly, "especially as I was
brought up to have a French maid. But I don't intend to leave my
husband. I love him too well. Don't ask me why I love him so. I
couldn't explain it to you to save my life, but I will say that since
the day we were married--I ran away to marry him--he has never spoken
an unkind word to me. He had nothing to give me except his love, but
he has given me that. Whatever his faults may be as a soldier, he has
been a good husband to me."
"A good husband!"
Broussard involuntarily repeated the words, marvelling and admiring the
constancy, the self-delusion, the blind devotion of the woman before
him.
"A loving husband, I should have said," said Mrs. Lawrence, a faint
color coming into her face, "But my resolution is made. What you said
about helping the boy only fixes it firmer, because it did seem as if
his only chance would be thrown away."
The conversation had not lasted five minutes but Broussard saw that
five decades of persuasion would not move Mrs. Lawrence. Besides, he
had spoken to her from a profound sense of justice; in his heart, the
tie of blood between him and Lawrence made him wish that the wife
should continue to stand by the husband.
They both rose, feeling that the matter was settled inevitably.
Broussard took from his breast pocket a roll of notes.
"It is better for you than bank checks," he said; "when this is gone,
write to me and there will be more. Lawrence feels, as I do, that for
the sake of our mother's memory it would be better that his identity
should not be revealed."
A vivid blush flooded Mrs. Lawrence's face. Her woman's pride was cut
to the quick and Broussard, seeing it, said quickly:
"It was his suggestion, not mine."
Then, taking Mrs. Lawrence's hand, Broussard gave her a brother's kiss,
which she returned as a sister might, and they passed out of the
office. In the hall Broussard left cards for Colonel and Mrs.
Fortescue and Anita. Kettle, having heard that Broussard was leaving,
came out of the dining-room, where he had been washing dishes, and
wiping his hands on his long checked gingham apron, offered a friendly
grasp to Broussard.
"I ain' goin' ter let Miss 'Nita furgit you, suh," Kettle whispered,
"doan' you be skeered of Mr. Conway--he treat Miss 'Nita same like he
did when she wear her hair down her back."
Broussard inwardly thought that perhaps Conway's plan was best. But he
gave Kettle a confidential wink and a bank note.
"Some day I'll come back, Kettle, and then----"
Broussard did not finish the sentence in his own mind. Anita had seen
just enough to prejudice a young, innocent girl against him.
Outside the door, a trooper was holding Gamechick by the bridle,
delivering the horse to his new master.
"Good-bye, good horse," said Broussard, patting Gamechick's neck. "You
did me the best turn any creature, man or beast, ever did me, and I
promise never to forget my obligations to you."
Horses are sentimental creatures. Gamechick knew that Broussard's
words were a farewell. He turned his large, intelligent eyes on
Broussard, saying as plainly as a horse can speak:
"Good-bye, good master. Never will I, your faithful horse, forget you."
Broussard, walking rapidly off, in the bright January morning, turned
around for one last glimpse at the house that held Anita. At that
moment the great doors of the Commandant's house opened, and Anita,
with a long crimson cloak around her and a hood over her head, ran down
the broad stone steps to where Gamechick was standing like a bronze
horse, the best-trained and best-mannered and best-bred cavalry charger
at Fort Blizzard. Anita put her arm about his neck and rubbed her
cheek against his satin coat, Gamechick receiving her caresses with
dignity, as a cavalry charger should, and not with the tender bondings
and nosings for lumps of sugar, like Pretty Maid. The last glimpse
Broussard had of Anita was, as she stood, her arm about Gamechick's
neck, her crimson mantle falling away from her graceful shoulder.
[Illustration: The last glimpse Broussard had of Anita was, as she
stood, her arm about Gamechick's neck.]
"How much simpler," thought Broussard, as he buttoned his heavy fur
coat, for the ride to the station, "is love for a horse, for a child,
for anything created, than love for a woman! No man gets out of that
business without complications, and when the woman is half a child, an
idealist, precocious, an angel with a devil lurking somewhere about
her, it's the most complicated thing on this planet!"
Broussard carried these thoughts with him through the frozen Northwest,
across the sapphire seas, and into the jungles of the tropics, to which
he was destined.