Half an hour after Colonel Fortescue and Broussard rode away, Anita, walking into her mother's room, said to Mrs. Fortescue:
"Mother, let us ride this afternoon. It is so gloriously clear and cold."
Mrs. Fortescue turned from the desk where she was writing and hesitated.
"I saw your father go off on Gamechick. You can ride Pretty Maid, but your father objects so much to my riding Birdseye."
"But there are plenty of mounts besides Birdseye," said Anita.
Mrs. Fortescue glanced out of the window at the winter landscape and shivered a little.
"It is very cold," she said, "and rather late; the sun will be gone in a little while."
Anita came behind her mother and put her hands under Mrs. Fortescue's pretty chin.
"Dear mother," she said, "I want so much to ride this afternoon; I feel that I must. Won't you go out, if it is only for half an hour?"
Anita's eloquent eyes and pleading voice were not lost upon Mrs. Fortescue, who found it difficult always to resist pleadings.
"Well then," she said, "call up the stables and tell them to bring the horses around as soon as possible, and some one to go with us, perhaps McGillicuddy."
Ten minutes later, Mrs. Fortescue and Anita, in their trim black habits and smart little hats fastened on with filmy veils, came out on the stone steps. The trooper was leading the horses up and down, and Sergeant McGillicuddy, as escort, put both ladies into their saddles and then himself mounted. Just as Mrs. Fortescue settled herself in saddle and gave her horse a light touch with her riding-crop, a strange sound was borne upon the sharp wind, the unmistakable sound of a runaway horse. Sergeant McGillicuddy and Anita heard the sound at the same moment, and stood motionless to listen. It grew rapidly near and nearer and stray passers-by turned toward the main entrance, from which direction came the wild clatter of iron-shod hoofs in maddened flight. Suddenly through the open main entrance dashed Gamechick without a rider.
A riderless horse fleeing in terror, is one of the most tragic sights on earth. The horse came pounding at breakneck speed, blinded in his fright, as runaway horses are, but instinctively taking the straight path across the plaza. It was as if the frantic hoof-beats awakened the whole post. Soldiers ran out and officers stepped from their comfortable quarters, while the officers' club emptied itself into the street. The horse was recognized in a moment as Colonel Fortescue's mount, and he made straight for the commandant's house. It was not necessary for the trooper to seize the reins hanging loose on Gamechick's neck. He came to a sudden halt, his sides heaving as if they would burst, and he was dripping wet as if he had been in a river. He stood, quivering, his sensitive ears cocking and uncocking wildly.
Mrs. Fortescue's face grew pale, but she said to McGillicuddy calmly:
"Some accident has happened to Colonel Fortescue. Send word at once to Major Harlow and to my son."
Major Harlow, next in command, was on the spot almost as Mrs. Fortescue spoke.
"It is all right, Mrs. Fortescue," said Major Harlow, cheerfully. "The Colonel probably dismounted and the horse got away. We will find him in a little while."
"Yes," replied Mrs. Fortescue, "and Anita and I will ride with you."
Anita looked with triumphant eyes at her mother.
"I felt that we must be on horseback," she said, "I didn't understand why a few minutes ago, but now I know why."
A messenger was sent for Beverley Fortescue, but he was not to be found. Some one in the group of officers remembered having seen him riding off with Sally Harlow. Major Harlow did not attempt to keep up with his daughter's cavaliers.
"We'll find the Colonel all right," said Major Harlow, confidently, "the horse will show us the way."
Major Harlow rode in front with Sergeant McGillicuddy, who led Gamechick, his head hanging down, looking the picture of shame but carefully retracing his steps. Behind them rode Mrs. Fortescue and Anita, and then came a small escort. Gamechick, walking wearily in advance over the frozen snow, suddenly lifted his head and gave a loud whinnying of joy, and at the same moment his tired legs seemed to gain new strength, and he started off in a brisk trot.
"He has caught the trail, Mrs. Fortescue," called back Major Harlow, turning his head and meeting Mrs. Fortescue's glance; her face was pale and so was Anita's, but the eyes of both were undaunted.
Gamechick trotted ahead, sometimes faltering and going around in a circle, the escort waiting patiently until he once more found his own tracks. They were still a mile away from the entrance of the mountain pass when Anita, looking up into the clear dark blue sky where the palpitating stars were coming out, saw the blue smoke curling upward from the pass.
"Daddy and Mr. Broussard have made a fire," she cried.
"Is Mr. Broussard with the Colonel?" asked Major Harlow, in surprise. Until then, no one had spoken Broussard's name, or knew he was with Colonel Fortescue.
"I think so," replied Anita, "I was watching my father as he rode toward the main entrance and I saw Mr. Broussard join him and they rode off together."
When they reached the rugged mountain road, the horses, with rough-shod feet, scrambled up like cats. Now the searching party could not only see the blue smoke floating above their heads, but they perceived a delicate odor of burning fir branches. When they reached a spot in the pass where a bridle path diverged Gamechick halted, putting his nose to the ground as he stepped about and then throwing back his head in disappointment.
In the midst of the stillness came the sound of a voice; Broussard was trolling out a ballad in Spanish which he had learned in the far-off jungles of the Philippines. Mrs. Fortescue glanced at Anita. A brilliant smile and a warm blush illuminated the girl's face. The mother smiled; she knew the old, old story that Anita's violet eyes were telling.
Major Harlow raised a ringing cheer in which Sergeant McGillicuddy and the officers and troopers joined. An answering cheer came back. It was unnecessary then for Gamechick to show the way by galloping ahead.
Within five minutes the pass was full of cavalrymen. Mrs. Fortescue, down on her knees in the snow, was examining Colonel Fortescue's broken ankle. Anita, for once losing the quiet reserve that was hers by nature, was sitting by the Colonel, her arm around his neck, her cheek against his, and the tears were dropping on her cheeks.
"Oh, daddy," she was whispering, "I knew that something had happened to you and that I must come to you, and that was why I begged and prayed my mother to come with me, and now we have found you, we have found you!"
Colonel Fortescue drew the girl close to his strong beating heart for a brief moment.
"It is a very neat splint," said Mrs. Fortescue, rising to her feet and bestowing one of her brilliant smiles on Broussard. "Mr. Broussard is a capital surgeon."
"And a capital soldier," said the Colonel, quite clearly.
A smile went around, of which Broussard's was the brightest and the broadest. Everybody present knew that the stern Colonel was melting a little toward Broussard.
Then Colonel Fortescue insisted upon mounting Gamechick.
"You are so obstinate," murmured Mrs. Fortescue, in his ear. "You are as bent on riding that horse as you say I am on riding Birdseye."
The Colonel nodded and smiled; the little differences which arose between Mrs. Fortescue and himself were not settled in the presence of others.
Colonel Fortescue was helped on Gamechick's back and a trooper dismounted and gave his horse to Broussard, the trooper mounting behind a comrade; and without asking anybody's leave, Broussard rode beside Anita. As the cavalcade took its way down the road, the darkness of a moonless night descended suddenly, and the difficult way out of the pass was lighted only by the large, bright stars, that seemed so strangely near and kind. Often, in guiding Anita's horse along the rocky road, Broussard's hand touched Anita's. Sometimes he dismounted to lead her horse; always he was close to her, and when they spoke it was in whispers. The rest of the party, including even Colonel Fortescue, in sheer good nature left them to themselves and their happiness.
Soon the party reached the broad, white plain from which a great crown of lights from the fort shone brilliantly in the dusk of the evening. Half way across the plain they met Beverley Fortescue, riding in search of them. He glanced at Anita, who blushed deeply, and at Broussard, who smiled openly, and the two young officers exchanged signals, which meant that the Colonel had been outgeneralled, out-footed and "stood on his head," as Beverley undutifully expressed it at the officers' club an hour later.
"How did you manage the C. O.?" asked Beverley of Broussard, as they exchanged confidences in the smoking-room.
"I sang to him, like David did to Saul, and got the evil spirit out of him. You ought to have seen him, sitting before the fire, grinding his teeth with the pain of his ankle, and listening to 'Love's Old Sweet Song.' I gave him a genteel suffering of sentimental songs, I can tell you, and never cracked a smile, and no more did the old man"—this being the unofficial title of all commanding officers.
"Do you think it would work on Major Harlow?" anxiously inquired Beverley, "because this afternoon Sally and I——"
Here the conference was reduced to whispers, as plans were made to conquer Major Harlow. Only daughters are highly prized by doting fathers.
A broken ankle at fifty does not heal in a day, and until Christmas Eve Colonel Fortescue was a prisoner in his chair, doing his administrative work; and when that was done being cheered and soothed by the tenderness in which he had been lapped since the day when, as a young lieutenant, he married Betty Beverley in an old Virginia church. Never was anything seen like Anita's devotion to her father. It seemed as if she were never out of sound and reach of him and gave up all the merry-making of the Christmas time to be with him. This prevented Broussard from seeing Anita very often, and never alone, but they had entered the Happy Valley together, and basked in the delicate joy of love unspoken, but not unfelt. Anita knew that Broussard was only biding his time, and Broussard knew that Anita was waiting, in smiling silence. The Colonel wrote Broussard a very handsome note of thanks and Mrs. Fortescue greeted him with grateful thanks. Then, Christmas was coming, the claims of the After-Clap and the eight McGillicuddys became insistent. Broussard did not forget the prisoner in the grim military prison, nor the woman so faithful to the prisoner. Sergeant McGillicuddy spent a small fortune in such comforts as Lawrence was allowed to receive at Christmas time, and his knotty, weather-beaten face grew positively cheerful over the way Lawrence was really reforming.
Broussard knew that Anita would not come to the Christmas Eve ball, because in the evening her father liked her to read to him. But Broussard went to the ball, and for the first time found a Christmas ball dull. Flowers were scarce at Fort Blizzard, but by the expenditure of much time and money Broussard succeeded in getting a great box of fresh white roses for Anita on Christmas Day.
Broussard went to the early service at the chapel in the darkness that comes before the dawn. The little chapel shone with lights and echoed with the triumphant Christmas music. It was quite full, but Anita sat alone in the C. O.'s pew. She was all in black, except a single white rose pinned over her heart. When the service was over, and the people had streamed out, and the brilliant lights were replaced by a radiance, faint and soft, Anita remained on her knees, praying. Broussard remained on his knees, too, thinking he was praying, but in reality worshipping Anita. Presently, she rose and passed out into the cold, gray dawn. Broussard went out, too, meaning to intercept her and walk home with her. But at the door Kettle appeared, carrying in his arms the After-Clap, now nearly three years old, and capable of making a great deal of noise. At once, he sent up a shout for "'Nita!" and Anita, cruelly oblivious of Broussard's claims, took the After-Clap by the hand and ran off to see his Christmas tree—that being the After-Clap's day. Kettle, however, lagged behind to administer consolation to Broussard.
"Doan' you mind, Mr. Broussard," said Kettle, confidentially, "Miss 'Nita, she's jes' cipherin' on you all the time. She makes the Kun'l tell her all 'bout them songs you done sing him that night in the mountains, an' she and Miss Betty laffed fit ter kill when the Kun'l tell 'em he made you sing like the devil to keep him from groanin' over his ankle."
For six mortal days, Broussard sought his chance to be alone with Anita, but that chance eluded him in a maddening manner. Either the Colonel or the After-Clap was perpetually in his way, and neither Beverley Fortescue nor Kettle, who were his open allies, nor Mrs. Fortescue, who was secretly on his side, could help him. Broussard, however, swore a mighty oath that he would have Anita's promise before the new year began.
Late in the afternoon of the last day of the year, Broussard, who kept, from the officers' club, a pretty close watch on the Commanding Officer's house, saw Anita come out in her dark furs and the little black gown and hat in which she looked most charming, and take her way to the chapel. There was a back entrance, screened from the plaza by a stone wall and a projection of the chapel, and Broussard thought there could not be a better place for the words he meant to speak to Anita. He seized his cap and ran out, ignoring the jeers of his comrades, who had seen Anita pass and suspected Broussard's errand. In two minutes he had entered the little walled-in spot, and there, indeed, stood Anita. Within the chapel he could hear voices—the chaplain's voice directing some changes; Kettle and a couple of men moving seats and arranging things at the chaplain's directions. But as long as they remained in the chapel they mattered little to Broussard.
Anita's cheeks hung out their red flags of welcome.
"At last!" said Broussard, clasping her hand, "I have watched and waited for this chance!"
In the little secluded spot, with a small, crescent moon stealing into the sunset sky and the happy stars shining down upon them, Broussard told Anita of his love. He knew not what words he spoke, for Love, the master magician, speaks a thousand languages, and is eloquent in all. Nor did Anita know what reply she made. After a deep and rapturous silence they returned to earth, only to find it still Heaven.
"I love you better than anything on earth except my honor," said Broussard, holding Anita's little gloved hand in his.
"Yes," answered Anita softly, "next your honor."
"And I have loved you for a long time," Broussard continued, "for a whole year." In their brief, bright lives, a whole year seemed a long time. "But you were so young—last year you were but a child, and I was ashamed of myself for what I said to you the night of the music ride—it isn't right to speak words of love to a girl who is not yet a woman. Will you forgive me?"
Anita's forgiveness shone in her eyes and smiled upon her scarlet mouth when Broussard laid his lips on hers.
Suddenly, a wild shriek resounded. The After-Clap, who had been in hiding behind Anita, and was unseen by Broussard, and forgotten by Anita, emerged and set up a violent protest. Being now a sturdy three-year-old, he was well able to express himself.
"You go 'way!" screamed the After-Clap, raising a copper-toed foot, and kicking Broussard's shins.
"You let my 'Nita 'lone, you bad man!"
The After-Clap's shrieks brought the chaplain and Kettle and a couple of soldiers quickly out of the chapel. Meanwhile, with what Broussard thought superhuman and intelligent malice, the After-Clap dragged the iron gate open that led to the plaza, and rushed straight into the arms of Colonel Fortescue, returning from his first walk, aided by a stick in one hand and Mrs. Fortescue's arm on the other side.
"Daddy! Daddy! You come here and beat Mr. Broussard. He kissed 'Nita! He kissed 'Nita!" shrieked the After-Clap.
Broussard and Anita, standing in the circle of eyes, were much embarrassed; Kettle, grabbing the After-Clap, shook him well, saying:
"Heish yo' mouth! you didn't see no sich a thing!"
This only increased the After-Clap's indignation, and he bawled louder than ever:
"I see Mr. Broussard kiss 'Nita! I see him kiss my 'Nita."
"Yes, I kissed Anita," responded Broussard, recovering his native impudence, "but she is my Anita and not your Anita any longer."
This produced another attack on Broussard's shins by the After-Clap.
"I think," said Mrs. Fortescue demurely, "Kettle had better take the After-Clap home."
"So do I," said Broussard, "he has been very much in my way ever since he began yelling."
The Colonel and the chaplain began to make conversation, as Kettle carried the After-Clap off, still proclaiming he had seen Broussard kiss Anita. The two soldiers grinned silently at each other. The whole party started off to the C. O.'s house, Mrs. Fortescue walking between the Colonel and the chaplain, while Broussard and Anita brought up the rear.
When they reached the house, Colonel Fortescue went straight to his office. Mrs. Fortescue and the chaplain made little jokes on the lovers, but the Colonel had looked as solemn as the grave. The hour had come when his little Anita was no longer his.
"Come," said Broussard to Anita, "let us face the battery now."
Hand in hand they entered Colonel Fortescue's office. The Colonel behaved better than anybody expected. When he had given his formal consent, Anita slipped behind his chair and said to him softly:
"Daddy, I made up my mind when I was a little girl, a long time ago, that I would never marry any man that was not as good as you, my darling daddy!"
Fond fathers are generally won by these tender pleas. Broussard turned his head away as the Colonel drew his daughter to him; the passion of father-love was too sacred even for the eyes of a lover. On the way out they met Sergeant McGillicuddy, who tried to look unconscious.
"Congratulate me!" cried Broussard.
"I do, sir," replied the Sergeant, solemnly, "and if I may make bold to say it, the Colonel will make a father-in-law-and-a-half, sir."
This was enigmatic, but Broussard was too happy then to study enigmas.
That night, when the Colonel, limping a little, entered the ballroom he leaned upon Beverley's strong young arm, while on the other side was Mrs. Fortescue, always particularly radiant in evening dress. Broussard and Anita walked behind them. The news, as rashly announced by the After-Clap, that Mr. Broussard had kissed Anita, had spread like wildfire through the post. Everybody knew it, and everybody smiled upon Broussard and Anita; even second lieutenants who envied Broussard's luck; good wishes and kind congratulations were showered upon them.
It was a very gay ball; as Colonel Fortescue held, the sharp cold, the radiant arc lights, always going, the wall of ice by which the fort was surrounded, gave an edge to joy as well as to pain. To mark this last ball of the year the young officers introduced some of the prankish features of their happy cadet days.
At five minutes to midnight, when the great floor was a whirl of dainty young girls, their heads crowned with roses or with flashing ornaments that matched their sparkling eyes, and with dashing young officers, glittering in gold and blue, the band, with Neroda leading, stopped suddenly. A handsome young bugler appeared and in the midst of the tense silence the wonderful melody of "Taps," the last farewell, was played for the dying year. Then Anita, as the commanding officer's daughter, had the honor of turning off the lights. To-night she looked her sweetest, wearing a little white dancing gown that showed her satin-slippered feet. With Broussard escorting her, Anita walked the length of the long ballroom to the point where, with one touch of the hand every light went out in an instant of time, and the ballroom was plunged into the blackness of darkness and the stillness of silence.
The band then played softly the delicious waltz "Auf Wiedersehen," with its sweet promise of eternal meeting.
On the stroke of twelve came a great roar and reverberance from the outside and a dazzling flash of light blazed in at the window from afeu de joieon the plaza. At the same moment, the young bugler played the splendid fanfare that welcomes the dawn, the reveille. Broussard and Anita, looking into each others' smiling eyes, began the new year of their perfect happiness with the joyous echo of the silver trumpet proclaiming the coming of the sunrise.