Betty at Fort Blizzard Part 13

Colonel Fortescue ground his teeth and gave himself such a jab with his razor that the blood came.

This subtle persecution of the Colonel went on, with variations, for three whole days.

On the Friday when Kettle's time was up he was released and his return was hailed with open delight by his partisans, Mrs. Fortescue, Mrs.

McGillicuddy and the After-Clap, and with secret relief by the Colonel, Anita and Sergeant McGillicuddy.

Kettle, on reporting to the Colonel, said solemnly, "Kun'l, I ain't never goin' ter try an' enlist no mo', so help me Gord A'mighty. An' I ain't a'goin' to pay no more 'tention to the chaplain's sermons, 'cause 'twuz that there chaplain as fust got me in this here mess, cuss him!"

This last was under Kettle's breath, and the Colonel pretended not to hear.

CHAPTER VII

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 pa.s.s 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 ap.r.o.n, a great ma.s.s of blossoms. Colonel Fortescue held out a letter to her.

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

[Ill.u.s.tration: "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 a.s.signed 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 st.u.r.dy 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.