UNFORGETTING
"As the passing of leaves, so is the passing of men." Thus it was with
Broussard. Another man came to take his place; his once luxurious
quarters, now plainly furnished, were occupied by another officer, his
fighting cocks had disappeared, and Gamechick became a lady's mount.
Anita quite gave over riding Pretty Maid, and rode Gamechick every day.
She had some of the superstitions of the Arabs about horses, and when
she dismounted, she always whispered something in the horse's ear. The
words were:
"We won't forget him, Gamechick, although he has forgotten us."
At this, Gamechick would turn his steady, intelligent eyes on her, and
nod, as if he understood every word. Colonel Fortescue and Mrs.
Fortescue noticed this little trick of Anita's and looked at each other
in silent pity for the girl. She suddenly developed amazing energy,
working hard at her violin lessons and delighting Neroda by her
progress, reading and studying until Mrs. Fortescue took the books away
from her, going to all the dances, doing everything that her young
companions did, and many things which they did not. She became the
chaplain's right hand for work among the soldiers' children, and from
daybreak until she went to bed at night Anita was ever employed at
something and throwing into that something wonderful force and
perseverance. One thing became immediately noticeable to Colonel and
Mrs. Fortescue; this was that Anita never spoke Broussard's name from
the hour he left Fort Blizzard.
"It is only a girl's fancy; she will get over it," said Mrs. Fortescue
to the Colonel.
"She would if she were like most girls, but I tell you, Betty, this
child of ours, this devoted, obedient little thing, has more mind, more
introspection, than any young creature I ever knew. There is the
making of a dozen tragedies in her."
"It is you who are too introspective and too tragic about her,"
answered Mrs. Fortescue, and the Colonel, recognizing the germ of truth
in his wife's words, remained silent for a moment. Then he said:
"It's the sky and the snow and this altitude, and being shut in from
all the world that make everything so tense. On these far-off,
ice-bound plains, life is abnormally vivid. We are all keyed up too
high here."
Mrs. Fortescue, seeing Anita reading often, and getting many books from
the post library, glanced at the literature that crowded the table in
Anita's sunny bed room. They were of two sorts--books of passionate
poetry and books about the Philippines, their geography, their history,
the story of the natives, "the silent, sullen peoples, half savage and
half child," tales of the creeping, crawling, stinging things that make
life hideous in the jungles, all these was Anita studying. Mrs.
Fortescue said nothing of this to the Colonel, but recalled that
Broussard was in the Philippines, and Anita's soul was there, although
her body was at Fort Blizzard. In a book of her own, Anita had written
her name, in the firm, clear hand that belonged to thirty rather than
to seventeen, and these words:
"This I, who walk and talk and sleep and eat here, is not I. It is but
my body; my soul is with the Beloved."
Mrs. Fortescue said nothing of this to the Colonel, but the trend of
Anita's reading was unexpectedly revealed at one of the stately and
handsome dinners that were given weekly at the Commandant's house
during the season. When the officers were in the smoking-room a
question of the geography of the Philippines came up, and was not
settled. Colonel Fortescue called for a book on the subject, which was
in Anita's room. Anita herself brought it, and hovered for a moment
behind her father's chair; the subject of the Philippines had a magic
power to hold her.
Not even the book gave the desired information and Anita leaned over
and whispered into her father's ear:
"Daddy, I can tell you about it."
"Do," answered the Colonel, smiling, and turning to his guests, "This
young lady will interest us."
Anita, whose air was shy and her violet eyes usually downcast, was the
least shy and the most courageous creature imaginable. She got a map,
and, spreading it out on the table, pointed out the true solution, and
produced books to explain it. The officers, all mature men, listened
with interest and amusement, complimenting Anita, and telling her she
ought to have an officer's commission. Colonel Fortescue beamed with
pride; no other girl at the post had as much solid information as Anita.
When the guests were gone and Anita was lying wide awake in her little
white bed, thinking of Broussard, Colonel Fortescue, in the pride of
his heart, was telling Mrs. Fortescue about it, as he smoked his last
cigar in his office.
"It was great!" said the Colonel. "The child knew her subject
wonderfully. She sat there, talking with men who had served in the
Philippines, and they said she knew as much as they did."
"Broussard is in the Philippines," replied Mrs. Fortescue quietly.
Colonel Fortescue dashed his cigar into the fireplace and remained
silent for five minutes.
"At any rate," he said presently, "The child's love affair hasn't made
a fool of her. She is actually learning something from it. That's
where she is so far ahead of most young things of her age."
"She will be eighteen next spring," said Mrs. Fortescue.
The mention of Anita's age always made the Colonel cross; so nothing
more was said between the father and mother about Anita that night.
But the Colonel yearned over the beloved of his heart, nor did he
classify Anita's silent and passionate remembrance of Broussard with
the idle fancies of a young girl; it was like Anita herself, of strong
fibre.
The winter wore on, and the whirlpool of life surged in the far-distant
post, as in the greater centres of life. The chaplain, an earnest man,
found men and women more willing to listen to him, than in any spot in
which he had ever spoken the message entrusted to him. Perhaps the
aviation field had something to do with it; the people in the fort were
always near to life and to death. The chaplain disliked to find
himself watching particular faces in the chapel when he preached the
simple, soldierly sermons on Sundays, and was annoyed with himself that
he always saw, above all others, Anita Fortescue's gaze, and that of
Mrs. Lawrence, as she sat far back in the chapel. Anita's eyes were
full of questionings, and dark with sadness; but Mrs. Lawrence, in her
plain black gown and hat, sometimes with Lawrence by her side, always
with the beautiful boy, sitting among the soldiers and their wives,
embodied tragedy. The chaplain sometimes went to see Mrs. Lawrence;
she was a delicate woman, and often ill, and the chaplain was forced to
admire Lawrence's kindness to his wife, although in other respects
Lawrence was not a model of conduct. As with Mrs. McGillicuddy, and
everybody else at the fort, Mrs. Lawrence maintained a still,
unconquerable reserve. One day, the chaplain said to Anita:
"I hear that Lawrence's wife is ill. Could you go to see her? You
know she isn't like the wives of the other enlisted men, and that makes
it hard to help her."
Anita blushed all over her delicate face. She felt a deep hostility to
Mrs. Lawrence; she had seen Broussard with her twice, and each time
there was an unaccountable familiarity between them. But women seek
their antagonists among other women, and Anita felt a secret longing to
know more about this mysterious woman.
"Certainly I will go," answered Anita. "My father is very strict about
letting me intrude into the soldier's houses--he says it's impertinent
to force one's self in, but I know if you ask me to go to see Mrs.
Lawrence my father will think it quite right."
The Colonel stood firmly by his chaplain, who was a man after his own
heart, and that very afternoon Anita went to Mrs. Lawrence's quarters.
The door was opened by the little boy, Ronald, whom Anita knew, as
everybody else did. The girl's heart beat as she entered the narrow
passage-way in which she had seen Broussard and Mrs. Lawrence standing
together, and it beat more as she walked into the little sitting-room,
where Mrs. Lawrence sat in an arm chair at the window. She was
evidently ill, and the knitting she was trying to do had fallen from
her listless hand.
The Colonel's daughter was much embarrassed, but the private soldier's
wife was all coolness and composure.
"The chaplain asked me to come to see you," said Anita, standing
irresolute, not knowing whether to stay or to go.
"Thank you and thank the chaplain also," replied Mrs. Lawrence. Then
she courteously offered Anita a seat.
Anita had meant to ask if Mrs. Lawrence needed anything, but she found
herself as unable to say this to Mrs. Lawrence as to any officer's
wife. All she could do was to pick up the knitting and say:
"Perhaps you will let me finish this for you. I can knit very well."
It was a warm jacket for the little boy, who needed it. Mrs.
Lawrence's coldness melted a little.
"Thank you," she said, "there is not much to be done on it now."
With that oblique persuasion, Anita took up the jacket, and her quick
fingers made the needles fly. Her glance was keen, and although
apparently concentrated on her work, she saw the strange mixture of
plainness and luxury in the little room. The floor was covered with a
fine rug, and a little glass cupboard shone with cut glass and silver.
The two women talked a little together but Mrs. Lawrence showed her
weariness by falling off to sleep in the chair. The little boy went
quietly out, and Anita sat knitting steadily in the silent room. The
setting sun shone upon Mrs. Lawrence's pale face, revealing a beauty
that neither time nor grief nor hardship could wholly destroy.
Involuntarily, Anita's eye travelled around the strange-looking room.
On the mantel was a large photograph; Anita's heart leaped as she
recognized it to be Broussard. It was evidently a fresh photograph,
and a very fine one. Broussard stood in a graceful attitude, his hand
on his sword, looking every inch the _beau sabreur_. Anita became so
absorbed that her hand stopped knitting; it was as if Broussard himself
had walked into the room.
Presently she felt, rather than saw, a glance fixed upon her. Mrs.
Lawrence was wide awake, lying back in her chair, her dark eyes bent on
Anita, whose hands lay idle in her lap.
The gaze of the two women met, for Anita was a woman grown in matters
of the heart. She imagined she saw pity in Mrs. Lawrence's expression.
Instantly, she began to knit rapidly. She wished to talk
unconcernedly, but the words would not come. Broussard's association
with the pallid woman before her was a painful mystery to Anita.
Jealousy is a plant that springs from nothing, and grows like Jonah's
gourd in the minds of women.
Anita was too innocent, too rashly confident in the honor of all the
other women in the world to think any wrong of the woman before her.
But it was enough that Mrs. Lawrence knew Broussard well, and was in
communication with him--a strange thing between an officer and the wife
of a private soldier, even if the soldier be of a station unusual in
the ranks. Ever in Anita's heart smouldered the joy of the words
Broussard had spoken to her under thousands of eyes on that memorable
night of the music ride, and the sharp pain that came from Broussard's
saying no more.
In a few minutes the jacket was done, and Anita rose. It required all
her generosity as well as justice to say to Mrs. Lawrence:
"If I can do anything for you, please let me know."
"I thank you," replied Mrs. Lawrence. "You have already done much for
me and for Ronald."
Then Anita went out into the dusk, and in her soul was rebellion.
Youth was made for joy and she was robbed of her share. Anita was
scarcely eighteen and deep-hearted.
In Mrs. Fortescue's room, Anita found Mrs. McGillicuddy, engaged in one
of the comfortable chats that always took place between the Colonel's
lady and the Sergeant's wife at the After-Clap's bed-time. As Sergeant
McGillicuddy kept the Colonel informed of the happenings at the fort,
so Mrs. McGillicuddy, who had great qualifications, and would have made
a good scout, kept Mrs. Fortescue informed of all the news at the fort,
from Major Harlow, the second in command, down to the smallest drummer
boy in the regiment. Mrs. Fortescue being nothing if not feminine, she
and Mrs. McGillicuddy were "sisters under their skins."
Anita's face was so grave that Mrs. Fortescue said to her tenderly--one
is very tender with an only daughter:
"Is anything troubling you, dear?"
"Nothing at all," replied Anita, "I went to see Mrs. Lawrence, as the
chaplain asked me, and finished a little jacket she was knitting for
her boy. She doesn't seem very strong."
"And I dessay," said Mrs. McGillicuddy, who had held Anita in her arms
when the girl was but a day old, "you saw all that cut glass and the
rugs, as Mr. Broussard give to Lawrence. Them rugs! They're fit for a
general's house. It seems to me it oughter be against the regulations
for privates to have such rugs when sergeants' wives has to buy rugs
off the bargain counter."
Mrs. McGillicuddy stood stiffly upon her rank as a sergeant's wife and
believed in keeping the soldiers' wives where they belonged.
"I don't fancy Mr. Broussard is living in luxury himself just now,"
said Mrs. Fortescue. And Mrs. McGillicuddy's kind heart, being touched
with remorse for having given Broussard a pin prick, hastened to say:
"No, indeed, mum, for McGillicuddy heard Major Harlow readin' a letter
from Mr. Broussard, and he says as how he lives on bananas and has got
only two shirts, and his striker has to wash one of 'em out every day
for Mr. Broussard to wear the next day. McGillicuddy says that Major
Harlow says that Mr. Broussard says that he don't mind it a bit, and
he's glad to see real service and proud to command the men that is with
him, and they behaves splendid."
Anita fixed her eyes on Mrs. McGillicuddy's honest, rubicund face, and
listened breathlessly as Mrs. McGillicuddy continued:
"And Mr. Broussard says the Philippines is one big hell full of little
hells, and nobody can get warm there in winter, or cool in summer, but
there's lots of life to be seen there, and he's a-seein' it. And
Blizzard is so far away, he can't sometimes believe there ever was such
a place."
Suddenly, without the least warning, a quick warm gush of tears fell on
Anita's cheeks. They were so far apart, the jungles and the icy peaks,
the palm tree on the burning sands, and the pine tree in the frozen
mountains! Anita walked quickly out of the room. Mrs. McGillicuddy,
soft-hearted as she was hard-handed, looked at Mrs. Fortescue. The
mother's eyes were moist; Anita was very unlike her, but Mrs. Fortescue
remembered a period in her own young life when she, too, felt that the
world was empty because of the absence of the Beloved. And suppose he
had never come back? Mrs. Fortescue, remembering the brimming cup of
happiness that had been hers merely because the man she loved came
back, felt a little frightened for Anita. The girl was so precocious,
so passionate--and how difficult and baffling are those women whose
loves are all passion!
Anita baffled her mother still more, by appearing an hour later in a
gay little gown, and taking the After-Clap from his crib and dancing
with him until he absolutely refused to go to sleep. Then, Anita was
in such high spirits at dinner that the Colonel told Mrs. Fortescue in
their nightly talk while the Colonel smoked, he believed Anita had
completely forgotten Broussard. At this, Mrs. Fortescue smiled and
remained as silent as the Sphinx.
The winter was slipping by, and work and study and play went on in the
snow-bound fort, and Colonel Fortescue was congratulating himself upon
the wonderfully good report he could make of his command. There had
not been a man missing in the whole month of February. But one day
Lawrence, the gentleman-ranker, was reported missing.
The Colonel had no illusions concerning broken men and said so to Mrs.
Fortescue.
"The fellow has deserted--that's the way most of the broken men end.
He was in the aviation field yesterday and his going away was not
premeditated, as he did not ask for leave. But something came in the
way of temptation, and he couldn't stand it, and ran away."
The "something" was revealed by Sergeant McGillicuddy, with a pale
face, while he was shut up with the Colonel in his office.
"It's partly my fault, sir," said the Sergeant. "The fellow has been
doing his duty pretty well, and yesterday, on the aviation field, the
aviation orficer was praisin' him for his work. You know, sir, how I
likes the machines and studies 'em at odd times. The flyin' was over
and there wasn't anybody around the sheds but Lawrence and me. I was
lookup at his machine, and, no doubt, botherin' him, an he says
sharp-like:
"'You can't understand these machines. It takes an educated man like
me to understand 'em. They're more complicated than buggies.' That
made me mad, sir, and I says, 'That's no way to speak to your
Sergeant.' 'You go to the devil,' says Lawrence. 'You'll get ten days
in the guard house for that,' I says. Then Lawrence seemed to grow
crazy, all at once. 'Yes,' he shouts, like a lunatic, 'that's a fit
punishment for a gentleman. You'll see to it, Sergeant, that I get ten
days in the guard house, and my wife breakin' her heart with shame, and
the other children tauntin' my boy!' With that, sir, he hit me on the
side of the head with his fist. I was so unprepared that it knocked me
down, but I saw Lawrence runnin' toward the station. I picked myself
up and went and sat down on the bench outside the sheds to think what I
ought to do. I knew, as well as I know now, that Lawrence was runnin'
away, and I had drove him to it. But I swear, sir, before my Colonel
and my God, that I didn't mean to make Lawrence mad, or misuse him in
any way. You know my record, sir."
"Yes," answered Colonel Fortescue, his pity divided among Lawrence and
his wife, and the honest, well-meaning McGillicuddy, who had brought
about a catastrophe.
"For God's sake, sir," said McGillicuddy, "wiping his forehead, be as
easy on Lawrence as you can, and give me a day--two days--leave to hunt
him up."
This the Colonel did, warning McGillicuddy not to repeat what had
occurred on the aviation plain.
The Sergeant got his leave, and another two days, all spent in hunting
for Lawrence. There was nowhere for him to go except to the little
collection of houses at the railway station. No one had seen Lawrence
board the train that passed once a day, but a man, even in uniform, can
sometimes slip aboard a train without being seen. The Sergeant came
back, looking woe-begone, and Lawrence was published on the bulletin
board as "absent without leave."
The shock of Lawrence's departure quite overcame his unhappy wife. She
took to her bed and had not strength to leave it.
Sergeant McGillicuddy begged that he might be allowed to tell to the
chaplain the provocation he had given Lawrence, who might tell Mrs.
Lawrence. The blow struck by Lawrence was the act of a mad impulse,
and having struck an officer, Lawrence might well fear to face the
punishment. This the Colonel permitted, and the chaplain, sitting by
Mrs. Lawrence's bed, told her of it, and of Sergeant McGillicuddy's
remorse. Until then, Mrs. Lawrence, lying in her bed, had remained
strangely tearless, although a faint moan sometimes escaped her lips.
At the chaplain's words she suddenly burst into a rain of tears.
"My husband never meant to desert," she cried between her sobs. "He
was doing his duty well--his own Sergeant said so. He must have been
crazy when he struck the blow!"
"Poor McGillicuddy," said the chaplain quietly. "The Colonel has
forbidden him to speak of it to any one, and he is breaking his heart
over it."
No word of forgiveness came from Mrs. Lawrence's lips.
"It is the way with all of them, officers and men, they were all down
on my husband because they thought he had done something wrong," said
Mrs. Lawrence, with the divine, unreasoning love of a devoted woman.
"Mr. Broussard was not down on your husband," said the chaplain.
"True," replied Mrs. Lawrence, and then shut her lips close. If any
one wished to know the secret bond between Broussard and Lawrence, one
could never find it out from Mrs. Lawrence.
Sergeant McGillicuddy could keep from Mrs. McGillicuddy the details of
what had occurred on the aviation field, but he could not conceal from
her the fact that he was unhappy and conscience-stricken. All he would
say to his wife was:
"I've done a man a wrong. I never meant it, as both God and the
Colonel know." McGillicuddy had a way of bracketing the Deity with
commanding officers, and did it with much simplicity and meant no
irreverence.
"And I know it too, Patrick," replied Mrs. McGillicuddy, with the faith
of a true wife in her husband.
"I'd tell you all about it, Araminta," said the poor Sergeant, "but the
Colonel forbid me, and orders is orders."
"I know it," answered Mrs. McGillicuddy, "and I'll trust you, Patrick,
I won't ever ask you the name because I can guess it easy. It's
Lawrence."
The Sergeant groaned.
"If you can do anything for Mrs. Lawrence," he said, "or the boy----"
"I'll do it," valiantly replied Mrs. McGillicuddy, and straightway put
her good words into effect.
Lawrence had then been missing five days. It was seven o'clock in the
evening, and Mrs. McGillicuddy had already put the After-Clap to bed
when she started for Mrs. Lawrence's quarters. There was no one to
open the door, and Mrs. McGillicuddy walked unceremoniously into the
little sitting-room, where the boy sat, silent and lonely and
frightened, by the window. Mrs. McGillicuddy spoke a cheery word to
him, and then passed into the bedroom beyond. The light was dim but
she could see Mrs. Lawrence lying, fully dressed, on the bed. At the
sight of Mrs. McGillicuddy she turned her face away.
"Come now," said Mrs. McGillicuddy undauntedly, "I think I know why you
don't want to see me. Well, Patrick McGillicuddy is as good a man as
wears shoe-leather, but every Sergeant that ever lived has made some
sort of a mistake in his life. So Patrick wants me to do all I can for
you until something turns up, and I hope that something will be your
husband--and my husband will be mighty easy on him at the
court-martial."
Mrs. Lawrence made no reply. Then Mrs. McGillicuddy went into the
little kitchen, and stirring up the fire soon had a comfortable meal
ready, and calling to the little boy, gave him his first good supper in
the five days that had passed since his father came no more.
"You'd feel sorry for McGillicuddy if you could see him," Mrs.
McGillicuddy kept on, ignoring Mrs. Lawrence's cold silence. "And
recollect, if you feel sorry for your husband, I feel sorry for mine.
'Taint right to keep the little feller here while you can't lift a hand
to do for him, so I'm goin' to take him to my house, with my eight
children, because there's luck in odd numbers, and I'll feed him up,
pore little soul, and wash him and mend him, and start him to playin'
with Ignatius and Aloysius, for children ought to play, and Patrick 'll
come every morning and start your fire, although he is a Sergeant, and
we want to help you, and you must help us."
Mrs. Lawrence was not made of stone, and could not forever resist Mrs.
McGillicuddy's kindness, and so it came about that the McGillicuddys
took care of Lawrence's boy, whose face grew round and rosy with the
generous McGillicuddy fare. A part of Mrs. McGillicuddy's good will to
him was that she instructed Ignatius and Aloysius McGillicuddy, both
excellent fist fighters for their age, that they were to lick any boy,
no matter what his age or size, who dared to taunt little Ronald about
his father or anything else. These orders were extremely agreeable to
the McGillicuddy boys, who loved fighting for fighting's sake, and who
sought occasions to practise the manly art.
Colonel Fortescue sent word to Mrs. Lawrence that she could occupy her
quarters until she was able to make some plan for the future. It
seemed, however, utterly indefinite when Mrs. Lawrence would be able to
plan anything. She lay in her bed or sat in her chair, silent, pale,
and as weak as a child. The blow of her husband's desertion seemed to
have stopped all the springs of action. Neither the chaplain, the
post-surgeon, nor Mrs. McGillicuddy, singly or united, could rouse Mrs.
Lawrence from the deadly lassitude of a broken heart. Both the
chaplain and the surgeon had seen such cases, and nothing in the
pharmacopoeia could cure them.
Mrs. Fortescue, whose heart was not less tender from long dwelling on
the airy heights of happiness and perfect love, was full of sympathy
for Lawrence's unfortunate wife, and would have gone to see her, but
Mrs. McGillicuddy, who delivered the message, brought back a
discouraging reply.
"She says, mum, as she don't need nothin' at all, and I think, mum, she
kinder shrinks from the orficers' wives more than from the soldiers'
wives."
Anita, who was sitting by, went to her mother and, putting her arms
around Mrs. Fortescue's neck, whispered:
"Mother, let me go to see Mrs. Lawrence. I don't think she will mind
seeing me. You and daddy are always telling me that I am only a child."
Mrs. Fortescue took Anita in her lap, as if the girl were indeed the
age of the After-Clap.
"Do what you like, dear child," she said. "Girls like you can do some
things that women can't, because you have the enormous advantage of not
knowing anything."