Betty at Fort Blizzard Part 8

CHAPTER V

UNFORGETTING

"As the pa.s.sing of leaves, so is the pa.s.sing 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 c.o.c.ks 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 superst.i.tions 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 alt.i.tude, 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 pa.s.sionate 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 amus.e.m.e.nt, 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 cla.s.sify Anita's silent and pa.s.sionate 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 pa.s.sage-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 embarra.s.sed, 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 gla.s.s cupboard shone with cut gla.s.s 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 hards.h.i.+p 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 att.i.tude, 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 a.s.sociation 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."