Chapter 8

THE PLEADING EYES OF WOMEN

It was May before the winter loosened its grasp on Fort Blizzard. Once more, the fort was in touch with the outside world for a few months. The mails came regularly and there were two trains a day at the station, ten miles away. In May Anita had a birthday--her eighteenth.

"You can't call me a child any longer, daddy," she said to Colonel Fortescue, on the May morning when she was showered with birthday gifts. Nevertheless, Colonel Fortescue continued to call her a child, but a glance at her reading showed that Anita was very much grown up. She still read piles of books and pamphlets concerning the Philippines and knew all about the stinging and creeping and crawling things that made life hideous in the jungles, the horrors of fever, the merciless heat, and the treacherous Moros who stabbed the sleeping soldiers by night. No word had come from Broussard across the still and sluggish Pacific.

The chaplain did not fail to remind Anita that it was a Christian act to continue her visits to Mrs. Lawrence, who still remained weak and nerveless and ill, and Anita was ready enough to do so. Mrs. Lawrence never mentioned Broussard's name and, in fact, spoke little at any time. A mental and bodily torpor seemed to possess her, and she was never able to do more than walk feebly, supported by Mrs. McGillicuddy's strong arm, to a bench, sit there for an hour or two, and return to her own two rooms. Occasionally she asked if she should give up her quarters, but as the surgeon and the chaplain and Mrs. McGillicuddy all united in telling Colonel Fortescue that Mrs. Lawrence was really unable to move, the Colonel silently acquiesced in her occupation of the quarters, which were not needed for any one else.

Once or twice a week, Anita would go to see her, and read to her, and take the sewing or knitting out of her languid hand and do it for her. Mrs. Lawrence, who appeared to notice little that went on around her, observed that Anita's eyes always sought the photograph of Broussard on the mantel, but his name was never uttered between them, nor did Mrs. Lawrence ever ask Anita to write another letter.

On Anita's birthday, in the afternoon, she went to see Mrs. Lawrence, ostensibly to carry her some of the fruit and flowers that were so abundant at the Commanding Officer's house, where the great garden was blooming beautifully. Mrs. Lawrence accepted Anita's gifts with more animation than usual, and buried her face in the lilac blossoms. From her lap a letter dropped and Anita picked it up; it was in Broussard's handwriting, which Anita knew. A vivid blush came into Anita's face; however silent she might be about Broussard, her eyes and lips were always eloquent when anything suggested him. Mrs. Lawrence made no comment on the letter and presently Anita went away. The Colonel and Mrs. Fortescue, sitting in the drawing-room at tea, saw her pass the wide window and go into the beautiful walled garden, which was, next her violin, Anita's chief delight. It was a wonderful garden for a couple of years of growth and it had developed amazingly under Anita's hand.

Sergeant McGillicuddy was a good amateur gardener, and at that very moment, wearing a suit of blue overalls, was digging away industriously. The Sergeant had lost a good deal of his cheerfulness in those later days of winter, but the garden seemed to inspire him, as it did Anita. The girl went up to him and the two were in close conference concerning a bed of cowslips the sergeant was making. Through the open window the sunny air floated, drenched with perfume. Anita was laughing at something the Sergeant said;--they had usually been serious enough while working together in the garden.

Presently Anita came into the drawing-room, carrying in her thin, white skirt, as if it were an apron, a great mass of blossoms. Colonel Fortescue held out a letter to her.

"This was enclosed in a letter to me from Mr. Broussard," said the Colonel.

Anita, although eighteen years old that day, acted like a child. She dropped the corners of her skirt and the flowers fell to the floor. One moment she stood like a bird poised for flight, and then taking the letter, tripped out of the room and up the stairs.

Both Colonel and Mrs. Fortescue in the still May afternoon heard her turn the key in the lock of her little rose-colored room.

Mrs. Fortescue gathered up the blossoms, the Colonel with moody eyes looking down.

"Oh, the jealousy of fathers," said Mrs. Fortescue, after a minute. "You think we mothers are jealous, but it is nothing compared with the jealousy of fatherhood. I have already made up my mind to be all graciousness and kindness to Beverley's future wife, but you have already made up your mind to hate your future son-in-law, whoever he may be."

"How can a man love the man who robs him of his child? That's what actually happens," replied Colonel Fortescue.

"Then the only thing you can do," replied Mrs. Fortescue, "is to concentrate all of your love upon your wife, for then you have no other man for a rival."

Colonel Fortescue agreed to this proposition, and also that his objections to Broussard were purely fanciful and that he would contrive to pick flaws in any man to whom Anita was inclined.

"But she thinks and dreams too much about Broussard," said the Colonel. "Probably he looks upon her as a pretty child, just as Conway does."

"One can't control the thoughts and dreams of youth," replied Mrs. Fortescue, "Anita must study the lesson-book of life and love like other women."

"Did you see her face when I gave her the note?" asked Colonel Fortescue.

"You are an old goose," was all the reply Mrs. Fortescue would make to this question.

Locked in her own room, Anita read her precious note. It was very short and perfectly conventional, thanking her for writing to him for Mrs. Lawrence. Broussard knew of Lawrence being among the missing men.

"Lawrence, as you may have heard," said the letter, "was a playmate of mine in my boyhood and, although he has had hard luck, I have a deep interest in him and his wife and child."

Then came a sentence that, to Anita, contained a sweet and hidden meaning: "Although Gamechick is no longer mine, I shall always love the horse because of something that happened last Christmas at the music ride."

Anita was late for dinner that evening, and at the table, as she took her lace handkerchief from the bosom of her little blue evening gown, Broussard's note came out with the handkerchief, and fell upon the floor. Her father and mother in kindness looked away, but Kettle, with well-meant but indiscreet good will, picked the letter up, saying:

"Hi! Miss 'Nita, here's your letter you carry in your bosom."

Colonel Fortescue suddenly grew cross; this thing of having a man's daughter carrying around next her heart a letter from another man is very annoying to a father of Colonel Fortescue's type. And Anita was more tender and devoted than ever, keeping up a brave show of loyalty, although she had already surrendered the citadel.

As the winter at Fort Blizzard was like the frozen regions which the old Goths believed to be the Inferno, so the summer was like a blast from the eternal furnace. The hot winds swept over the arid plains and the sun was more vengeful than the biting cold. The energies of many drooped, and the sergeants grew short with the men. But cheerfulness prevailed at the Commandant's house. In July Beverley Fortescue, named for the fine old Virginia Colonel, Mrs. Fortescue's grandfather, was to come home, in all the glory of his twenty-one years, wearing for the first time the splendid cavalry uniform instead of the grey and gold and black of a military cadet. More than that, he was to be assigned to duty at Fort Blizzard. When Mrs. Fortescue heard this, she trembled a little; it was almost too much of joy; this last crowning gift of fate made her almost afraid. And Beverley was to see, for the first time, the After-Clap, who was so much like Beverley that the Colonel and Mrs. Fortescue could hardly persuade themselves he was their last born, and not their first born.

On the great day, Beverley came. In the soft July evening, at the threshold, stood Mrs. Fortescue, holding by the hand the After-Clap, a sturdy little chap for his two-and-a-half years. The mother was smiling and blushing like a girl. Behind her stood Kettle, his face shining as if it had been varnished, and next him was Sergeant McGillicuddy, who had taught Beverley to ride and to shoot and to skate and to box, and all the manly sports of boyhood. Mrs. McGillicuddy, ruddy and beaming, towered over the little Sergeant.

Colonel Fortescue and Anita stood on the lowest of the stone steps. Presently, a motor whirled up and Beverley stepped out, looking so handsome in his well-fitting civilian clothes, with his new straw hat, in which he felt slightly queer. The Colonel wrung his hand saying:

"Boy! Boy! How glad we are to have you once more!"

Anita covered Beverley's face with kisses, but Mrs. Fortescue stood like a queen, smiling and gracious, to receive her boy's reverence. Beverley caught her in his strong young grasp; she looked so young, so lovely, so full of radiant life, that she seemed like an older Anita. Then Mrs. Fortescue raised the After-Clap and put him in Beverley's arms. Accustomed to much adulation, the After-Clap was, in general, coolly supercilious to strangers, but he seemed much pleased with Beverley's appearance, and called him "Bruvver," as he had called Broussard, who had been long since forgotten by the After-Clap.

"What a jolly little rascal!" cried Beverley, whose experience with small children was nil.

The After-Clap returned the compliment, by rapturously hugging Beverley. In fact, they became such chums on the spot that much difficulty was experienced in persuading the After-Clap to go to bed when Mrs. McGillicuddy was ready for him.

There was a joyous dinner. Beverley, like Colonel Fortescue, was surprised to find that Anita was grown up, like other girls of eighteen. Also, that his father was almost as young and handsome as his mother.

"I say, Colonel," said Beverley, "you're the handsomest Colonel in the army."

The Colonel smiled.

"For your age, that is."

The Colonel scowled.

"Your father's touchy about his age," Mrs. Fortescue explained, "and so am I, so please, Beverley, keep away from the unpleasant subject."

Beverley Fortescue had three months' leave before taking up his duties as an officer at the post and it was a halcyon time at the Commandant's house. In spite of the torrid heat, there were parties of pleasure and little dances, and all the round of gaieties that prevail at army posts. The Colonel was proud of his well-set-up stripling, although, of course, a boy could never be of so much value in a family as a girl, according to Colonel Fortescue's philosophy. With Mrs. Fortescue it was the other way. Dear as was Anita to her, the mother's heart was triumphant over her soldier son. As for the After-Clap, he frankly repudiated his whole domestic circle, except Kettle, for Beverley, who was as tall and strong as his father and could do many more things amusing to a two-and-half-year-old than a stern and dignified Colonel. Anita and Beverley were as intimate and passionately fond of each other as when they were little playmates. Beverley asked some questions of his mother concerning Anita.

"All the fellows like to dance with her and ride with her, but she treats them all as she does old Conway."

"Old Conway," Colonel Fortescue's aide, was barely turned thirty; but to the twenty-one-year-old Beverley, Conway seemed an aged veteran.

"I can't understand it," plaintively responded Mrs. Fortescue. "Sometimes I think Anita has no coquetry in her. Again I think she is the worst type of coquette--she treats all men alike. You remember my writing you about Anita being thrown at the music ride last Christmas Eve, and Broussard jumping his horse over her?"

"I should think so," answered Beverley. "I wish you could have seen the letter the Colonel wrote me about it. I felt more sorry for what the poor old chap must have suffered than for you, mother."

"Don't call your father 'the poor old chap,'" said Mrs. Fortescue positively. "And don't make jokes about the After-Clap being the child of his old age. Your father doesn't like it. It's perfectly disgusting the way young people now speak of their elders, who are barely middle-aged, as if they were centenarians. Well, I think, and your father thinks, that Anita had a fancy for Broussard. He was a very attractive man. Your father thought him a prodigal with his money, but, of course, some fault must be found with every man who looks at Anita."

"But Anita is so young--a chit, a child."

"She is not quite three years younger than you," replied Mrs. Fortescue. "This notion that Anita is a child and must be treated as such is ridiculous. Why, when I was Anita's age, I had had a dozen love affairs."

"Did no one ever tell you, mother, that you are a born coquette, and you will be coquettish at ninety, if you live to bless us so long?"

Mrs. Fortescue laughed the soft, musical laugh that was a part of her armory of charms, and made no reply.

At dinner that night Beverley suddenly began to ask questions about Broussard, praising his horsemanship, but wanting to know what kind of a fellow he was. The Colonel spoke guardedly and damned Broussard with faint praise, as he would any man whom he thought likely to rob him of his one ewe lamb; yet the Colonel thought himself a just man.

The eloquent blood leaped into Anita's cheeks, and there was something like resentment in her eyes at the Colonel's cool commendation. After dinner she took Beverley into the garden, and the brother and sister walked up and down in the moonlight, and Anita, thinking she was keeping her secret, revealed everything to Beverley. Broussard was the finest young officer, the most beautiful horseman, he could sing Körner's Battle Hymn as no one else could, and when she played a violin obligato to his songs of love----

Anita stopped short, and turned her long-lashed eyes full on Beverley.

"Daddy doesn't do justice to Mr. Broussard," she said, "but you ought to have seen the way he grasped Mr. Broussard's hands after the music ride."

Colonel and Mrs. Fortescue, sitting in the cool, dim drawing-room, heard Beverley's laughter floating in from the garden. Beverley saw the case at a glance.

The torrid summer slipped by, and in November it was winter again, and the earth was snowbound once more. In all those months Mrs. Lawrence remained, feeble and nerveless, in the two little rooms she was still permitted to occupy. By that time she was a shadow. Mrs. McGillicuddy was more kind than ever to her, and Sergeant McGillicuddy grew more sombre every day, thinking that his words had brought Lawrence to ruin and his unfortunate wife close to the boundaries of the far country. The chaplain took the Sergeant in hand, and so did the Colonel, but the Sergeant, who had a tender heart under his well-fitting uniform, was not a happy man. Anita went regularly to see Mrs. Lawrence, and as the young are appalled at the thought of life going out, she watched with palpitating fear what seemed a steady journey toward the land where spirits dwell. But always on those visits to the woman who seemed slipping from life into the great ocean of forgetfulness, there was a thrill of joy for Anita; she could see Broussard's picture. Young and imaginative souls live and thrive on very little.

The introspective life that Anita led was strongly expressed in her music. Never had Neroda a pupil who was willing to work so hard as Anita, and the result charmed him. On this afternoon Anita was at her lesson in the great drawing-room, the red sunset pouring in through the long windows and flooding the room with crimson lights and purple shadows. Anita, wearing a little, nun-like black gown that outlined her slim figure, played, with wonderful fire and finish, a wild and gorgeous Hungarian dance by Brahms.

There was a delicate melody winding through all of the rich harmonies, as it ran up the scale, like a bird soaring into the blue sky, and then descended with splendid double notes, into the sombre and passionate G string, the string that touches the soul. It grew more of a miracle to Neroda than ever to watch Anita's slender bow-arm flashing back and forth, drawing out, with amazing force, the soul of the violin, her slender figure erect and poised high, vibrating with the strings, and her eyes darkening and lightening as the music grew deeply passionate or brilliantly gay. When she finished, and stood, smiling and triumphant, still holding the violin and bow, Neroda said to her:

"Are you not tired, Signorina?"

"Not a bit," cried Anita. "I feel that I could play as long as you did, in the days of which you told me when you first came to America and would play the violin all night long for dancers on the East Side in New York."

"I believe you could, almost," replied Neroda, smiling. "I, who had been a concert master in Italy, was only too glad to get three dollars for fiddling from eight in the evening until three in the morning; but they were happy nights, because I was young and strong and full of hope and loved my fiddle. Sometimes, when I am leading the band in my fine uniform, I long to take the instrument away from one of the bandsmen and play it as I did in those days, without any baton to hold me back; but the violin is a man's instrument and requires much strength. Now, where, Signorina, in your girlish arms and little hands, did you get such strength?"

"It is here," said Anita, smiling and tapping her breast. "I have a strong heart, my blood circulates well, and I am not afraid of the violin, like most girls. I am its master, and it shall do my will."

At that she tapped her violin sharply with the bow, saying to it:

"Do you hear me? You are my slave, and I shall make you do what I wish you to do. If I wish you to talk Brahms, you shall talk Brahms; if I wish you to be sad, I will make you sad with funeral marches. You shall speak Italian, German, French or English, as I tell you."

Neroda laughed with delight. He loved the imaginative nature of the girl, who treated her violin as if it were a living thing, and whispered her secrets into the ear of her riding horse, and told love stories to her birds.

"In Italy," said Neroda, "a fiddler, if he really knows how to play dance music, can dance as well as play. In those nights on the East Side, in New York, when I played for the workmen and working girls in their cheap finery, I went among the dancers myself while I played, and they always gave me a round of applause and danced harder themselves."

Anita suddenly swept the strings with her bow and dashed into another Hungarian dance of Brahms, herself taking pretty dancing steps and pirouetting as she played, sinking upon one knee and then rising, the toe of her little slipper pointing skyward. She felt an unaccountable gaiety of heart that day. Why, she knew not, only that some strong current of emotion inspired her arms, her hands, her little, twinkling feet, as she danced the length of the drawing-room and back again. Suddenly the music stopped with a crash. She looked up and saw Broussard standing in the door.

"Thank you, thank you!" said Broussard, advancing and bowing and smiling. "I have seen it all. When you dance and play at the same time, you can master the heart of a man, as well as that of a violin."

Anita stood still for a moment, thrilled with the shock of joy at seeing Broussard. She laid her violin and bow down on the piano, and gave him her hand, which trembled in his. Broussard's first thought was that Anita was grown into a woman. Anita's first glance at Broussard showed her that he was thin and sallow, and that his clothes hung loosely upon him, and that, in spite of his smile and playful words, his mind was not at ease.

Neroda, standing near, saw the glow in the eyes of Anita and Broussard, and as they had evidently forgotten his existence, he slipped, without a word, out of the room. The next moment Colonel Fortescue walked in.

All at once, Anita and Broussard assumed strictly conventional attitudes; poetry became prose, music became silence. Broussard hastened to explain his presence, after exchanging greetings with Colonel Fortescue.

"I came on private business, sir," he said, "very important. Not finding you at the headquarters building, I ventured to come to your house, as I wished to see you immediately."

"Will you come into my office?" said the Colonel, in a business-like voice, which seemed to reduce Anita to the age of the After-Clap, and classify Broussard with the poker that stood by the fireplace.

The two men crossed the hall and entered the private office and sat down. Then Colonel Fortescue noticed that Broussard looked haggard and worn, and his dark skin had turned darker. His face and manner assumed a gravity which made Colonel Fortescue feel that Broussard's errand was not one of pleasure.

"I am on sick leave," said Broussard. "We were in the jungles eight months and every one of us had fever. I was the last to come down, and I had a bad case. The doctors sent me home for three months, and when I go back--for I didn't mean to let the infernal climate out there get the better of me--I shall be in Guam. That's paradise compared with the interior."

"So I know," answered the Colonel, remembering the snakes and mosquitoes and the flies and the beetles and the hideous swamps and sickening forests, the slime, the mud, the marshes and all the horrors of the tropics.

"I should like to spend my leave at Fort Blizzard," Broussard continued, "I thought the climate here was what I needed."

Colonel Fortescue nodded courteously; nobody could stay at Fort Blizzard without the permission of the C. O. But Broussard felt that the Colonel saw through him and beyond him. As Colonel Fortescue would not encourage him by so much as a word, Broussard kept on:

"In the Philippines, I heard some news that was enough to kill a well man, much less a man just out of jungle fever. You perhaps remember, sir, the man Lawrence, who, I heard in the Philippines, had deserted?"

"He was supposed to have deserted," corrected the Colonel, who was always the soul of accuracy.

He glanced at Broussard's face and saw there deep agitation and distress.

"Lawrence has come back," continued Broussard.

Then he stopped, as if unable to keep on, and taking out his handkerchief, wiped away drops upon his forehead, so deadly white under his black hair.

Colonel Fortescue remained silent. He saw that Broussard had something to tell that racked his soul. Broussard sighed heavily, and after a pause spoke again:

"I found Lawrence in San Francisco; he was trying to work his way back to Fort Blizzard. I gave him the money to come and came here with him. He wishes to give himself up and is willing to take his punishment. He got frightened at striking McGillicuddy and deserted."

"Do I understand that Lawrence was returning voluntarily?" asked the Colonel.

"Yes, sir--voluntarily. He saw my arrival in the San Francisco newspapers and came straight to my hotel. If I ever saw a man crazy with remorse, it was Lawrence. His sobs and cries were terrible to hear. He knew nothing of his wife and child, and that, too, was helping to drive him to madness."

"His wife and child are still here," said Colonel Fortescue. "Lawrence's disappearance has nearly killed his wife; that's always the way with these faithful souls who do no wrong themselves. But somebody else always does wrong enough for both. Where is Lawrence now?"

"At the block house, a mile away," replied Broussard. "I wished to see you before Lawrence gives himself up."

Broussard's strange agitation was increasing. Colonel Fortescue took up a newspaper and glanced at it, to give Broussard a chance to recover himself. In a minute or two Broussard managed to speak calmly.

"You remember, sir," he said, "that I asked you to take my word there was nothing wrong in my association with Lawrence and his wife."

"I remember quite well," answered Colonel Fortescue, "I never doubted your word."

"Thank you," said Broussard. Once more he wiped the cold drops from his forehead, and continued in a low voice, tremulous and often broken.

"I told you that Lawrence and I had been playmates in our boyhood, although he is much older than I. Sir, Lawrence is my half-brother--the son of my mother. She was an angel on earth, and she is now an angel in Heaven. If heavenly spirits can suffer, my mother suffers this day that her son should have deserted from his duty."

Never had Colonel Fortescue felt greater pity for a man than for Broussard then. The shame of confessing that his mother's son had forfeited his honor was like death itself to Broussard.

"But there is joy in Heaven over a penitent sinner," said Colonel Fortescue, who believed in God, and was neither afraid nor ashamed to say so.

Broussard bowed his head.

"My mother--God bless her--was the very spirit of honor. She was the daughter of an officer. When I was a little chap and said I wanted to be a soldier, she would tell me the stories of the Spartan mothers, who hade their sons return with their shields or on them. Thank God, she was taken away before dishonor fell upon her eldest son. She thought him dead, and so did I, until last January, when Lawrence told me, the night before I left this post, who he really was. When I met him in San Francisco I told him I would come with him here to give himself up, that I would acknowledge him for my half-brother, that I would sit by him at his court-martial and go to the door of the military prison with him. He begged me to keep our relationship secret for the sake of our mother's memory."

Colonel Fortescue held out his hand, and grasped that of Broussard.

"You speak like a man," he said, "but Lawrence is right in keeping the relationship a secret, and it shows that he understands the height from which he has fallen. Does his wife know of the relationship?"

"Yes, sir," Broussard replied. "I thought it best to tell her. But she kept the secret well. My brother's wife is worthy of my mother."

"There are many heroic women in the world," said Colonel Fortescue.

"True," answered Broussard. "My sister-in-law was glad when my brother enlisted. She said it was a good thing for him, and he undoubtedly did better at this post than he had done for a long time. And his wife, who was born and bred to luxury, stood by my brother and tried to save him. She worked and slaved for him harder than any private's wife I ever saw. She never uttered a reproach to him. Each day she mounted a Calvary. I could kiss the hem of that woman's gown, in reverence for her."

"So could I," said Colonel Fortescue.

"Of course," continued Broussard, "I told her and wrote her that neither she nor her child should ever suffer. I have sent her money--all that was needed, as I have something besides my pay."

The Colonel, recalling the motors, the oriental rugs, the grand piano, and other articles _de luxe_, which Broussard had once possessed, thought Broussard had a trifle too much beside his pay.

"I don't think she has had much use for money since her husband deserted," said Colonel Fortescue. "She has been constantly ill. My wife and daughter and the other ladies at the post have done everything possible for her, and Sergeant McGillicuddy took the boy. McGillicuddy feels himself responsible for Lawrence running away. He said something exasperating to Lawrence, who struck him in a fit of rage, and then ran away."

"So my sister-in-law wrote, or rather Miss Fortescue wrote for her."

"The army is the place for good hearts," said the Colonel, well knowing what he was talking about.

As Colonel Fortescue spoke, a man was seen, in the fast falling dusk, to pass the window. The next moment a tap came at the door, and when Colonel Fortescue answered, the door opened and Lawrence walked in.

The Colonel, who had watched Lawrence closely, saw a subtle change in him. He held his head up, and his face, always handsome, had lost the dissipated, reckless look that dissipated and reckless men readily acquire. His hair and mustache, which a year before had been coal black, were now quite grey; he seemed another man than he had once been. He saluted the Colonel, and said quietly:

"I have come, sir, to give myself up--I am the man, John Lawrence, who struck Sergeant McGillicuddy last January, and deserted."

"You were a great fool," replied the Colonel, "I think it was a clear case of a fool's panic."

"All I have to say, sir," said Lawrence, after a moment, "is, that I had no intention of deserting until I struck the Sergeant and got frightened. And I've been trying to get back for the last two months. Mr. Broussard can tell you all about it."

"Mr. Broussard has told me all about it," said the Colonel. "Consider yourself under arrest until nine o'clock tomorrow morning, when you will report at the headquarters building. Meanwhile, go to your wife; she is a million times too good for you."

"I know it, sir," replied Lawrence.

"And my wife is a million times too good for me," added the Colonel, reflectively.

Lawrence went out and Broussard rose to go.

"You have not asked me to consider this talk as confidential," said the Colonel, "nevertheless, I shall so consider it. As your Colonel, I advise and require that you should say nothing about Lawrence's relationship to you. This much is due your mother's memory."

"Thank you, sir," replied Broussard, a great load lifted from his heart.

Broussard did not wish to go at once to Mrs. Lawrence; she should have one hour alone with her husband. Nor did he care to go to the officers' club at that moment. He walked toward the quarters of the non-commissioned officers, scarcely noticing where his steps led. As he passed the McGillicuddy quarters, the door opened, and little Ronald ran out bareheaded. He recognized Broussard, and Broussard, feeling strongly and strangely the call of the blood, took the boy in his arms and covered his little face with kisses much to the lad's surprise, and sent him to the house. The next minute, Broussard came face to face with Sergeant McGillicuddy.

The Sergeant, who did not often smile in those days, smiled when he saw Broussard.

"But, Mr. Broussard, you don't look quite fit," said the Sergeant. "The Philippines, drat 'em, ain't good for the complexion."

"I know I look like the devil," replied Broussard, "but I'm on sick leave and I hope Fort Blizzard is the right kind of a climate for me. By the way, the man Lawrence, who deserted in January, has come back. We travelled from San Francisco together. He has already given himself up--voluntarily, you know."

In the gloom of the November twilight Broussard could not see the Sergeant's face clearly. There was a bench close by, on the edge of the asphalt walk, and the Sergeant dropped rather than sat upon it.

"Excuse me, sir," he said to Broussard, "but the news you give me takes all my nerve away, and yet it's the best news I ever heard in my life. You know, sir, it was some words of mine--and God knows I never meant to harm Lawrence--that made him strike me, and then he got scared and----"

"I know all about it," replied Broussard, sitting down on the bench by the Sergeant. "Of course, you felt pretty bad about it. Any man would."

Something between a sob and a groan burst from the Sergeant.

"I've worn chevrons for twenty-seven years, sir," he said. "I was made a sergeant when I was twenty-five. I've handled all sorts of men and licked 'em into shape and I ain't got it on my conscience as I ever tried to make a man's lot any harder, or to discourage him, and I never spoke an insultin' word to a soldier in my life, and I hope I'll be called to report to the Great Commander before I do. But I said something chaffin'-like to that poor devil and he struck me, and I didn't hit him back--I didn't hit him back, thank God, nor threaten to report him. But I had to tell the truth to the Colonel and take part of the blame on myself."

"That's right," answered Broussard with deep feeling. The Sergeant little knew how great a stake Broussard had in the business.

"And the chaplain, he seen something was wrong with me and so did Missis McGillicuddy--she's a soldier, sir, is Missis McGillicuddy. I made a clean breast of it to the chaplain and he helped me a lot. I've been goin' to church on Sundays ever since I was married--to tell you the truth, sir, Missis McGillicuddy marched me off every Sunday without askin' me if it was agreeable, any more than she'd ask Ignatius or Aloysius. But since my trouble, I've gone of my own will, and I've headed the prayin' squad, I can tell you, Mr. Broussard."

"And you took good care of the boy, you and Mrs. McGillicuddy," said Broussard, who had learned of it from the letter written by Anita at Mrs. Lawrence's request. The Sergeant took off his cap for a moment, baring his grey head to the biting cold.

"The best we could, so help me God. There wasn't nothin' me and Missis McGillicuddy could do for the kid as we didn't do. The chaplain told us we done too much, we was over-indulgent to the boy. But we taught him to do right, although we give him better food and better clothes than any of our own eight children ever had, and now----"

The Sergeant stood in silence for a moment, his cap once more in his hand, his head bowed. Broussard knew he was giving thanks.

Broussard, under cover of the darkness, took his way to the quarters which Mrs. Lawrence had never left. He knocked and, receiving no answer, entered the narrow passage-way and walked into the little sitting-room. Lawrence lay back in the arm chair in which his wife had spent so many hours of helpless misery. His face was paler than ever and his lank hair lay damp upon his forehead. Mrs. Lawrence, who had been suffering from the cruel malady known as a shamed and broken heart, sat by her husband, speaking words of cheer and tenderness. As Broussard entered she rose to her feet with new energy, no longer tottering as she walked, and placed both arms about Broussard's neck.

"Oh, my brother! The best of brothers," she cried and could say no more for her tears.

Presently they were sitting together, all externally calm, but all filled with a tense emotion.

"Try to persuade her," said Lawrence to Broussard, "to go away before the court-martial sits. It will be too much for her."

Mrs. Lawrence turned her dark eyes, once tragic but now brimming with light, full on Broussard. Broussard said to Lawrence:

"These angelic women are very obstinate."

"Would your mother, of whom my husband has told me so much, go away if she were in my place?"

Both Broussard and Lawrence remained silent.

"Then," said Mrs. Lawrence, "can you blame me if I act as your mother would act?"

Broussard took her hand and kissed it; the marks of toil upon it went to his soul.

"But the boy must be sent away," cried Lawrence.

"Yes, he may go," replied Mrs. Lawrence, "but I shall stay."

It was nearly seven o'clock, the hour for dinner at the officers' club, before Broussard left the Lawrences' quarters. All the men at the club were delighted to see Broussard, and all of them told him he looked seedy and every one who had served in the Philippines and had caught the jungle fever proposed a different regimen for him, but all agreed that Fort Blizzard was a good place to recuperate and that the "old man," as the commanding officer is always called, was rather a decent fellow, and might let him stay, and then they plunged into garrison news and gossip. Broussard was thoroughly glad to be back once more at the handsome mess table, with the bright faces of the subalterns around him and the cheery talk and honest laughter, but his heart was full of other things--Anita Fortescue, for instance, and Lawrence and his wife and the little boy. Some questions were asked him about Lawrence. Broussard replied briefly that he found the man in San Francisco trying to get back to Fort Blizzard; he wanted to give himself up at the scene of his crime and Broussard had paid for his railway ticket.

"And brought him with you to keep him from getting away," said Conway, "very judicious thing to do with men like Lawrence."

"I think he would have given himself up anyway," Broussard replied quietly.

Military justice is short and simple and severe. Within forty-eight hours the court-martial sat. As Lawrence marched into the courtroom between two soldiers, guarding him, his wife, dressed in black, as always, and with Mrs. McGillicuddy sitting near her, rose from her seat and took another one as close to her husband as she could get and smiled encouragement at him. Lawrence, watching her tender gaze, burst into tears.

It was all done very quickly. Sergeant McGillicuddy was one of the two witnesses, Broussard being the other. The Sergeant testified as if he were the criminal and not Lawrence. Broussard was the second witness and merely told of Lawrence coming to him in San Francisco, saying he wished to get to Fort Blizzard and give himself up. He could have done so at San Francisco but he wanted to see his wife and child and believed he would get more mercy at Fort Blizzard than any where else.

Then the prisoner was called to tell his story. He did it quietly and in a few words. He had no thought of deserting until he struck the Sergeant. Then he was frightened and ran away and, making the railway station, hid in a freight car and got away. He worked his way East, and found employment as a miner and was earning good wages, but his conscience troubled him, especially after he received a letter from his wife. He had got as far as San Francisco, which took all his savings, when he saw Mr. Broussard's name in the newspapers and went to see him. He asked the mercy of the court.

The court was merciful, and gave him the shortest possible prison sentence, to be served out at the military prison of Fort Blizzard. All the officers kept their eyes turned from the pale woman in black, sitting close to the prisoner. They wished to do justice and not to be turned from it by a woman's pleading eyes.