The winter wore on, and the whirlpool of life surged in the far-distant post, as in the greater centres of life. The chaplain, an earnest man, found men and women more willing to listen to him, than in any spot in which he had ever spoken the message entrusted to him. Perhaps the aviation field had something to do with it; the people in the fort were always near to life and to death. The chaplain disliked to find himself watching particular faces in the chapel when he preached the simple, soldierly sermons on Sundays, and was annoyed with himself that he always saw, above all others, Anita Fortescue's gaze, and that of Mrs. Lawrence, as she sat far back in the chapel. Anita's eyes were full of questionings, and dark with sadness; but Mrs. Lawrence, in her plain black gown and hat, sometimes with Lawrence by her side, always with the beautiful boy, sitting among the soldiers and their wives, embodied tragedy. The chaplain sometimes went to see Mrs. Lawrence; she was a delicate woman, and often ill, and the chaplain was forced to admire Lawrence's kindness to his wife, although in other respects Lawrence was not a model of conduct. As with Mrs. McGillicuddy, and everybody else at the fort, Mrs. Lawrence maintained a still, unconquerable reserve. One day, the chaplain said to Anita:
"I hear that Lawrence's wife is ill. Could you go to see her? You know she isn't like the wives of the other enlisted men, and that makes it hard to help her."
Anita blushed all over her delicate face. She felt a deep hostility to Mrs. Lawrence; she had seen Broussard with her twice, and each time there was an unaccountable familiarity between them. But women seek their antagonists among other women, and Anita felt a secret longing to know more about this mysterious woman.
"Certainly I will go," answered Anita. "My father is very strict about letting me intrude into the soldier's houses—he says it's impertinent to force one's self in, but I know if you ask me to go to see Mrs. Lawrence my father will think it quite right."
The Colonel stood firmly by his chaplain, who was a man after his own heart, and that very afternoon Anita went to Mrs. Lawrence's quarters. The door was opened by the little boy, Ronald, whom Anita knew, as everybody else did. The girl's heart beat as she entered the narrow passage-way in which she had seen Broussard and Mrs. Lawrence standing together, and it beat more as she walked into the little sitting-room, where Mrs. Lawrence sat in an arm chair at the window. She was evidently ill, and the knitting she was trying to do had fallen from her listless hand.
The Colonel's daughter was much embarrassed, but the private soldier's wife was all coolness and composure.
"The chaplain asked me to come to see you," said Anita, standing irresolute, not knowing whether to stay or to go.
"Thank you and thank the chaplain also," replied Mrs. Lawrence. Then she courteously offered Anita a seat.
Anita had meant to ask if Mrs. Lawrence needed anything, but she found herself as unable to say this to Mrs. Lawrence as to any officer's wife. All she could do was to pick up the knitting and say:
"Perhaps you will let me finish this for you. I can knit very well."