Chapter 4

"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.

"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.