West Point Colors

by Anna Bartlett Warner

"Who cares?" said the other girl, hurrying her along. "Come, we are late."

That party passed, followed, it must be owned, by some rather fierce looks from Magnus. Then, slowly strolling down the pathway, came two more: a girl, in the height of every fashion, and a tall fellow in close-fitting grey coat and the whitest of unwrinkled trousers. Over his head he carried the girl's scarlet and lace parasol, shielding himself as carefully as if she had brought it for that express purpose. As perhaps she had: who knows? At all events, the little lady gazed up at the dark sunburnt face, with its vivid background, as if nothing could be too good to screen such a complexion. And he looked down at her—well, women never get just what they give, but he did look very admiringly; as if the delicate face needed nothing, not even a parasol.

Whatever was the reason, this couple made Magnus more irate than any that had gone before. There was an instant antagonism to the tall cadet. His uniform was so becoming, and fitted so well; the glancing buttons were so attractive; the gold bars on the upper arm had such a distinguished look; the young stranger set him down at once for a coxcomb. But there was a little envy in it all. How cleverly he cut down the military stride to keep step with the girl's mincing feet; a difficult thing, as Magnus knew.

"Taking care of his own precious face, and letting hers burn!" quoth the young civilian; but all the same, he would have given more money than he was likely to have soon to be in just such guise himself, with Cherry by his side. He'd show that fellow a thing or two.

He was getting homesick again. All these people, with their friends and their fun, made him feel so desolately far away from everybody. He slouched his hat down further, and wandered off again, not looking much where he went; just following the path beneath his feet. Slowly round the guns, then on along the bank, and there found more seats. There was no sound of voice or step here, and Magnus sat down wearily, and leaned his head on his arm, and tried to fight the homesickness. For the moment he despised the whole race of girls, Cherry, of course, excepted. "Simpering up into that fellow's face, as if there had never been a man before, nor would be again."

Yes, there was certainly a twinge of envy in Charlemagne's heart. The tall cadet had carried himself with such careless, graceful erectness that there was no relief to be had out of calling him a "ramrod." And his white trousers were so white, and so without a wrinkle.

"I'd like to know how he manages that," thought Magnus, the envy passing into wonder. With him, white trousers had been always uncertain and short-lived things. And now his thoughts flew far away again, over hills and prairie land; and once more he was going through wild exploits at home; getting himself wet and muddy, and having the girls laugh at him from the midst of their intact fresh draperies. Magnus drew a long, heavy sigh.

Then he roused himself and sat up; for again those measured steps, the peculiar tread of which he was just learning to know, sounded near by; and another cadet, from the opposite direction, came down the walk. He glanced at Magnus, then crossed the grass, and took his seat on the other end of the same bench; but said not a word, only gazed placidly up the river. And now, as one always looks whither another is looking, so also did Magnus.

There were no trees in the way here, and the view was open. Close at his feet the ground fell sharply down to the level of the siege battery, where a dozen guns and mortars kept grim watch, their ugly black mouths pointed up-stream. Beyond the green parapet nothing made much show till you reached the river itself, which for ten miles here came flowing gently down, with no sharp turns; the whole of "Martlaer's Reach" lay full in sight. In the far, far distance, an irregularly broken line of blue peaks brushed softly against the sky. At their feet lay the green wooded slopes of the Newburgh hills, with Newburgh itself sparkling in the sun. The line stretched across so straight from side to side, as if there the river began.

Nearer, and on either hand, rising in abrupt masses from the water's edge, lay Butter Hill and Breakneck, Bull Hill and Crow Nest; pillars of the north Highland gateway. All green, from brow to base, except where every now and then the granite framework of the mountains pushed itself through in crags and ridges. The green was exquisite, with all the lush hues of June.