volume 1 CHAPTER I.  IN THE MILITARY CRADLE.
To the right, under the arch leading to the casemate barracks at Triggertown, dwelt Jonadab Larkins, a deserving public servant who had enjoyed the proud position of barrack sergeant for some years. He was like the old lady who lived in the shoe. He had more children than he could do with comfortably, so he gave it up as a bad job, and let them do for themselves. Mrs. Larkins, what with cooking, cleaning, and the family washing, had no spare time on her hands; and except to yell out shrill[2] cautions which no one heeded, or threats of corporal punishment which were forgotten as soon as uttered, allowed her brood to risk their lives as freely as they pleased. They had many outlets of this kind; one favourite amusement was to hang themselves to the chains of the drawbridge leading to the barracks; another to walk along the brick edge of the counterscarp; but that which all enjoyed most was to watch the approach of vehicles in the main thoroughfare, and to rush madly across the road right under the horses’ feet. It was often a very near thing; and the nearer they went to self immolation the better they were pleased. But the pitcher goes once too often to the well. One fine day there was a tremendous disturbance in the street; a crowd gathered quickly, and presently a message reached Mrs. Larkins that[3] one of her bairns had been driven over and was killed.

‘Which on ’em is it?’ shrieked the red-armed but pleasant-visaged dame. ‘Not Rechab, nor yet Sennacherib, nor yet Jemimer Ann?’

No; it was Hercules Albert, the eldest of the family, who was just then carried in and laid upon the bed.

A lady—a middle-aged lady, with silver white hair and a worn emaciated face—followed, and looking round with a strange wild look in her eyes, asked almost hysterically:

‘Is he much injured? Will he live? Where are the people who call themselves his parents?’

The lad was only stunned, and a little water quickly brought him to.

‘I should have been so grieved had he[4] come to harm,’ went on the lady. ‘It was my coachman’s fault. It has been a terrible shock to me; quite terrible. But tell me—’

She looked hastily round, then whispered to Larkins—

‘How did you come by this child?’

The Sergeant stared at her in amazement—

‘Honestly! Why, it’s our own—leastways it’s the mother’s.’

‘Do you mean that you are its mother?’ she asked of Mrs. Larkins.

‘Certainly I do! Do you dispute it?’

‘Mother? Yes. It may be so. But you, you man, you are not his father? You cannot be. It is impossible, simply impossible. Why, the child has his eyes; his own dear eyes, I could swear to them among a thousand. You cannot, you shall[5] not deceive me. How came you by this child?’

‘He’s not my own son, that I won’t deny,’ said the Sergeant. ‘But he is my missus’s; she was a widow when I married her, and—’

‘I must have the boy. You cannot refuse him to me. I will buy him of you; will pay you any price you please. But he must leave this place. It is no place for him.’

And she gazed scornfully at the humble surroundings. The little dark vaulted room with its one deep recessed window, its inner space curtained off to form a second bedroom, the litter and mess about the floor.

‘This is no place for—’

She paused suddenly, and a wild scared look came over her face. A footman, one of her own people, a tall, black-whiskered[6] and pompous Jeames, was standing in the doorway, and the sudden apparition seemed to put a seal upon her tongue.

‘The horses, m’lady,’ said the man respectfully enough, although there was an accent of authority in his voice. ‘The horses have been standing nearly half an hour, m’lady, and the coachman says—’

‘Yes, yes, I’ll come at once—at once, Robert. Good people, you will understand my anxiety for the boy. The blame rested so entirely upon us. It is an immense relief to know that he is not injured.’

Then watching her opportunity, she hissed out with frenzied eagerness—

‘Not a word to a soul; not a syllable, as you value his future and my peace. I will come again to-morrow, or sooner, unattended. H—sh, for heaven’s sake, h—sh,’ and she hurriedly left the room.
 
‘Well, I’m blowed,’ said the Sergeant, drawing a long breath. ‘If that ain’t the rummest game. What does it mean, missus? Can you tell?’

Mrs. Larkins met his inquiring eyes quite steadily, and if she was conscious of any mystery no suspicion of it could be traced in her voice and manner.

‘She must be off her head—that’s my notion—clean, stark, staring mad.’

‘And mine too. Yon flunkey was her keeper, I expect. Bound to look after her and keep her out of mischief. It’ll make a fine talk in the barracks, this will.’

‘I don’t see why it should. I wouldn’t let on if I was you; don’t gossip about it at the canteen, Sergeant, or at the sergeants’ mess. What’s the good?’

A docile and obedient husband was Sergeant Larkins, who, through all the[8] years of his married life, had accepted his wife’s will as law. Mrs. Larkins was a buxom, bright-eyed dame, who made a man’s home comfortable for him, so long as he allowed her to rule.

‘You’re right. It’s a folly always to talk, leastways when you’ve nothing to talk about, and the freaks of a mad woman don’t amount to much. We shan’t hear no more about her.’

Nor did they for days, nay, weeks, but months, and the episode was fading from their memories, at least from that of the Sergeant, when the lady suddenly re-appeared unattended and alone.

She looked suspiciously about her as she entered the room.

‘I could not come before. I have been watched. Even now I fear they are on my track. Quick! Where is the boy?’
 
Hercules Albert was where he and his brothers generally were—in mischief.

‘I must see him; my heart yearns for him. And to think that I should find him thus! How inscrutable are the ways of Providence! My sweet, my pet, it is balm to my wounded heart!’ And she kissed and fondled the boy, regardless of the mud with which his dirty face was encrusted, and of his own evident perturbation and objection to these endearments.

‘But I must not waste time. I may be disturbed before I have said my say. Listen: you will let me have the child? You shall name your own price. I will ask no questions. Keep your own counsel. You shall not divulge your secrets.’

‘There ain’t no secrets to divulge,’ said the Sergeant stoutly. ‘And you shan’t buy[10] a brat of mine, as though he were a full-blooded Congo on the West coast.’

‘Wait, Larkins—let’s see what the lady means,’ the practical wife interposed. Mrs. Larkins was quite quiet and self-possessed, as she looked her strange visitor full in the face. ‘Perhaps she will explain. Do you wish to adopt the child?’

‘I do—and more. I wish to educate him to be worthy of his birth, and of that position which he must some day come to, in spite of all. He shall have all my love while I live, all my possessions after death. They are his by right, indefeasible. Has he not Herbert’s eyes? Is he not my—?’

‘Say no more, Madam,’ Mrs. Larkins interrupted her. ‘If you are in sober, serious earnest, if you mean what you say—’

‘Surely you would not part with the child, not like this?’
 
‘We have seven, Jonadab, and it is a fine chance for one. If you are in earnest, Madam—’

‘Will this prove to you that I am in earnest?’ said the lady, taking from her purse a roll of bank notes. ‘Here are fifty pounds. Spend it in outfit; get him proper clothes, books, boxes, all that a boy wants when he is going to a school. Within a fortnight you shall hear from me through a lawyer. I will send full instructions, and a confidential messenger, who shall take Herbert—Herbert he must be called, not Hercules—Herbert Farrington.’

‘Is that your own name?’ asked Mrs. Larkins, rather hurriedly.

‘Certainly, I am Lady Farrington. You have then heard the name before? You know me? Say you know me, that you knew Herbert. Confess that Herbert was—’
 

‘My lady, you are mistaken; I never knew any Herbert Farrington—never in all my life!’

Lady Farrington shook her head sadly.

‘If you know, and will not speak, you may do the child irreparable harm. No matter. It is sufficient for the present that he is mine; that he passes into my keeping; that I am free to lavish upon him the whole of my pent-up yearning affection. The rest will come—all in good time. Heaven bless you, Herbert, and prosper you, and bring you some day to your own.’

She kissed the bewildered boy repeatedly, shook hands with his father and mother, and then left the place.

‘I don’t like it, I don’t; blowed if I do,’ said the Sergeant. ‘It ain’t fair on the youngster, it ain’t—to give him over to that[13] crack-brained old idiot! Why, you may tell she is mad by her talk and her ways. Maybe she’ll fatten him up and eat him; or perhaps she’ll turn him into a Papist or a Frenchman. He shan’t go.’

‘You’re a fool, Larkins! But it’s more my business than it is yours after all. And where’s the harm? Doesn’t she promise fair enough, and ain’t these notes a pretty certain proof that she is all above board? We won’t lose sight of the boy—not altogether. We’ll stipulate that we are to see him sometimes, and then he can’t go far wrong. But you hold your tongue, that’s what you’ve got to do. None of your blabbing or gossipping about. If they ask you what’s become of Herkles, why say he’s got into the Duke of York’s school, and won’t be back for ever so long.’

‘I wish he had. I could see my way[14] then. But I can’t now, and it beats me how you can take it all so coolly.’

The honest Sergeant was chiefly concerned as to the little chap’s future prospects. But although he was not a man of keen intelligence or of suspicious nature, he was also a little exercised as to the strangeness of the whole affair. He might explain the lady’s conduct by calling it eccentricity or madness, but he could not quite understand the part his wife had played.

He would have been still more perplexed had he returned unexpectedly from the canteen that evening after all the children were in bed. He would have found his wife engrossed with the treasures of a little box which she had emptied on her lap. A few gilt buttons, a lock of fair hair, a bow of ribbon—that was all.
 
Yet she wept bitterly as she kissed them again and again, and restored them one by one to the sacred box reverentially, as though each was a relic in her eyes.

CHAPTER II.  THE FARRINGTON FAMILY.
Farrington Court was the dower-house of the Farrington family, where dowagers and heirs apparent resided, according as it might happen to suit. The Lady Farrington mentioned in the last chapter had occupied it for years—ever since the death of her husband and her sons, when the bulk of the property, with the title, had passed to Rupert Farrington, the late baronet’s nephew. Sir Rupert lived now at Farrington Hall, with his wife and one son of his own.

Old Lady Farrington, in her losses and her loneliness, was a woman much to be pitied. She had seen her children die, all of them but one. He also was dead, but[17] miserably, and at a distance probably from home. Her husband she had mourned last of all, at a time when she had most needed strength and support. The new baronet did not treat her well. She was no doubt fortified by ample settlements. Farrington Court was hers also, by right inalienable, during her lifetime. Yet Sir Rupert had had it in his power to put her to infinite pain, and wittingly or unwittingly had not spared her in the least. The ejectment from the Hall—her once happy home, the scene of her married life, where all her children had been born, and where all were buried, save one—had been carried out with an almost brutal abruptness, which cut the poor afflicted soul to the quick. Sir Rupert had driven hard bargains with her also in taking over the house and the estate; had insisted upon the uttermost[18] farthing, had denied her many possessions, small and great, which she valued as reminding her of the past, but which were his, according to the strict letter of the law. His unkindness pursued her even to the house which she might still call her own. But hers was only a life-interest, after all; and, as Farrington Court must in due course lapse back to the family, Sir Rupert felt bound, he said, for his own and his son’s sake, to see that the place came to no harm. His interference and inquisitiveness were, in consequence, constant and vexatious. He insisted upon inspecting the house regularly; he must satisfy himself that the repairs were duly executed, that the gardens and glass houses were properly kept up, and that no timber was cut down. He did not scruple to tell Lady Farrington that he looked upon her as a tenant, and[19] by no means a good one, to whom he would gladly give notice to quit if he could.

These first causes for irritation and dislike deepened in time to positive hatred. Lady Farrington came by degrees to fear Sir Rupert with a terror that was almost abject; and when we fear others to this extent we undoubtedly hate them very cordially too. Her terror was not difficult to explain. It had its grounds in the conviction that she was more or less in his power. There was a secret which she had as she thought kept hitherto entirely to herself, but which he, as time passed and brought him opportunities for close observation, had eventually discovered. She herself knew, and by degrees she felt that he also knew that her mind was a little unsound.

Lady Farrington had been an eccentric woman even in her husband’s lifetime. Her[20] ways had been odd; her manners strange. She was given to curious likes and dislikes, which showed themselves in extraordinary ways. Thus she hated the wife of a neighbouring squire—an upstart woman, certainly, but nothing worse than gauche or ill-bred. Whenever this lady called at the hall the chair on which she had sat was sent to the upholsterers to be re-covered. On one occasion, when she came at the time of afternoon tea, Lady Farrington threw the cup and saucer her visitor had used into the fire, declaring it should never be drunk out of again. A more unnatural antipathy was that which she long entertained for her second son—a dislike which had caused him much misery, and her much subsequent anguish of mind. As against all this, she had been extravagantly fond of her husband and her first-born. When the former[21] left her even for a few hours, she kept his hat and walking-stick in the room with her, as though to cheat herself into the belief that he was really in the house; the latter she coddled and cossetted to such an extent that he grew up weakly and died young.

But after all her bitter trials and heavy blows, her eccentricity had developed so rapidly that it might fairly be called by a stronger name. At first she shut herself up in a private chamber, surrounded by the relics of happier days, and brooded sorrowfully over riding-whips, cricket-bats, and all manner of childish toys. Then she went to the other extreme; threw off her widow’s weeds and decked out in gay colours, and with a long white veil, drove about the country lanes in a carriage with grey horses, as though she were a newly-married bride.[22] When Sir Rupert’s persecution had grown into a serious annoyance, she concentrated upon him all the aversion she had once levelled at more innocent objects of dislike. She never would have admitted him to the house, but as he would take no denial she consoled herself by throwing open all the windows and doors, whatever the weather, directly he had left the house, insisting that the place was unfit for habitation until it had been thoroughly aired. Then, saying his threats and menaces put her in bodily fear, she got into the habit of packing all her most treasured belongings in one or two trunks which she kept locked in her bedroom, under her own eye, in readiness as it were for immediate flight.

For a long time Sir Rupert seemed to take but little notice of her vagaries. When the county folk commiserated him, and[23] inquired after poor Lady Farrington, he merely shrugged his shoulders and touched his forehead in a melancholy pitying way. She had had so much trouble in her time, poor soul. It was very dreadful of course. But what could be done? She had every care and attention he could secure for her. He went to see her frequently in spite of her strange dislike, so did his wife. He did his duty by her as well as he possibly could. She was harmless, and as he thought perfectly safe. She had good servants about her; he himself saw to that, and there was no necessity to put her under restraint—unless indeed, she became very much worse. If her malady increased to the extent of endangering the safety of those about her or of the house—by no means a secondary consideration with him—why then, as a last alternative, she must be shut up.

[24]

He did not conceal from her, however, that this would ultimately be her fate. More than once he warned her that he knew her condition, and would some day be compelled to take steps to make her secure. But he said this with no object but to prove his power, and Lady Farrington would probably have been left to pursue the curious tenour of her ways, had not her mania taken a direction which threatened to be distinctly inconvenient to Sir Rupert.

Of all the woes which Lady Farrington suffered, the keenest perhaps was remorse for her treatment of her second son. As has been said, she had looked upon him always with disfavour; Herbert never could please. Where another more tenderly cared for would have been gently corrected, he was called wilful, obstinate, perverse,[25] and sharply chicled and admonished. He it was who was always in the wrong; he it was who led the other boys into mischief. It was his fault, or said to be his, when the boat upset, or the ice broke, or the gun went off, or any mishap occurred. As he grew to man’s estate his mother’s indifference did not soften into warmer feelings. Poor Herbert failed at school and college, the obvious consequence of early neglect. He could not pass the army examination, although he longed to wear a red coat. All he could do was to roam the woods with dog and gun at Farrington, consorting with grooms and keepers, enjoying an open air life the more because he thereby escaped from the house and his mother’s sneers. But these last, although thus rarely encountered, became at length unbearable, and one fine morning Herbert was not to be[26] found. He had gone off, leaving a note to say that pursuit or inquiry would be fruitless, as he meant to leave England for good and all; nothing should induce him to return to Farrington Hall.

The blow fell heaviest upon Lady Farrington, who felt that she had been principally to blame. Prompt search was accordingly instituted, but all to no purpose.

Some said that he had emigrated, some that he had enlisted, others that he had gone to sea. No one ever saw him in the flesh again. Only Lady Farrington, in whom the catastrophe had worked a strong revulsion of feeling, was positive that she had seen him in the spirit more than once. He had appeared to her, last of all, just after the death of Algernon, the eldest son. Nor had he appeared alone. Hand-in-hand with him was a comely fair-haired girl, with[27] a baby in her arms. Herbert had pointed significantly to the child, and Lady Farrington interpreted the gesture to mean that he and his son were now the rightful heirs of the Farrington title and estates. This vision she tremulously described to her husband and to others, but it was treated even by Sir Algernon as a mere dream, or the hallucination of an over-wrought brain.

Nothing more would have been thought of the circumstances of Herbert’s disappearance and shadowy return, except as a great and irreparable sorrow, but for the arrival of a mysterious packet, a year or two later, which contained a lock of light curly hair—Herbert’s?—and a scrap of paper, on which was written, in Herbert’s handwriting, ‘Be kinder to my boy.’

After this, a frantic desire to discover and do justice to her injured son possessed Lady[28] Farrington, to the exclusion of all other objects in life. The family lawyers were called in; detectives, public and private, were employed; advertisements were inserted in the agony columns of the journals with the largest circulation in the world. As substantial rewards were offered, numbers of sons were promptly forthcoming. But not one of them was the right one; nor was any information which could be relied upon obtained, neither as to whether Herbert Farrington himself was alive or dead, or whether, in the latter case, he had left any heirs. Lady Farrington endured another and a more bitter disappointment than any she had hitherto experienced in life.

It was not till long after the death of her husband and her occupation of Farrington Court, that the old theory as to the[29] existence of a grandson was revived by her. Why or wherefore no one could understand. Had she come upon any traces of the long-lost son? Or was it merely that her mind, in its increasing weakness, worked back into old grooves? Be the cause what it might, Lady Farrington seemed at times strangely positive that she should find the missing dear one, or his representative, after all. She often hinted, darkly and mysteriously, that there was a great surprise in store for Sir Rupert. Something he little expected would assuredly come to pass when matters were properly ripe. There was no hurry. It was better to make all sure before the mine was sprung. No link in the chain must be wanting. But all would be ready ere long. Then let Sir Rupert look to himself.

All this gave the baronet, who was[30] really the man in possession, but little uneasiness. As the next heir, he had heard long ago of the eager inquiries for the missing Herbert; and although he had resented them then, he had accepted their impotent conclusion as an unanswerable proof that his presumptive rights were not to be impugned. On the death of Sir Algernon his title had not been disputed, and he had succeeded, as a matter of course. Lady Farrington had made no protest. There was no shadow of foundation for a protest. And if not then, would any person in his sober senses think of disputing his rights now, when he had a firm grip of the title, property, and place? Only an old mad woman would harbour such an idea. Even she would hardly dare to raise the question openly, after such a lapse of years. And who would believe her if she did?

[31]

He told her so, very roughly, when her allusions became more and more significant. He warned her too that ‘she had better be careful what she said or did. It was a fact well known to the whole country-side that she was quite unable to take care of herself, that she was not responsible for her actions, that her proper place was an asylum, and she might come to that yet if—’

One day, when he had been taunting thus longer and more bitterly than usual, she was goaded into making an incautious reply.

‘The cup is nearly full to the brim, Rupert. Your time is fast drawing to a close.’

‘What new craze is this, Lady Farrington?’ he said, laughing scornfully, but with a black look on his face.

Sir Rupert’s was a hard dark face, with[32] full eyes rather prominent, and a long, drooping, black moustache. When he looked black it was not a pleasant face to see.

‘It is nothing new, Rupert. I have waited patiently, hopefully. I thought the end would never come. It is near at hand now, although the consummation has been long delayed.’

‘Your ladyship’s language is, as usual, clear and perspicuous, yet you will forgive me if I ask you to explain.’

‘Listen,’ she said, as she laid her hand upon his arm, and hissed out her words slowly one by one. ‘Within a few short months, nay weeks, whenever I choose, I can produce the rightful heir of the Farringtons; and he shall come to his own.’

‘This is mere rhapsody, mere raving. You cannot touch me, you know that.’

[33]

‘I can, ay, and I will, miserable fool! You have not the shadow of a claim to the title and estates. My grandson, Herbert’s son, lives, and you must make way for him.’

‘Psha! Herbert’s son? How do you know that? What proof have you?’

‘The youth himself. He has been under my charge these five years past, and more. I found him—I myself found him. I knew I could not err. He had Herbert’s eyes, he is Herbert’s image; he—’

‘He must have more proof than this if he is to make good his case in a court of law,’ said Sir Rupert coolly.

‘I know it, and the proof shall be forthcoming. Every link in the chain.’

‘All right. If it is to be war to the knife, so let it be. But I tell you plainly that no one will believe a word you say.’

[34]

‘They will believe my beautiful boy, my own Herbert’s boy, when they hear his story from his own sweet lips. He shall come forward himself when the occasion is ripe for him to speak.’

‘Where is he now?’ asked Sir Rupert, carelessly, but with deeply cunning intent.

She laughed in his face.

‘No, no, Sir Rupert, I am not to be so easily beguiled. He is safe, quite safe, to be produced at exactly the right time.’

Sir Rupert gave her another fierce look, which boded her no good, but he said nothing more. He was not exactly disconcerted by her positive assertions, which he only half believed, yet his peace of mind had been rudely assailed. That he must discover the whereabouts of this mysterious claimant, and test the accuracy of Lady Farrington’s far-fetched statements, was[35] clear. It was equally clear that he must, if possible, put a gag upon the old woman, and remove her where she could work no further harm.
CHAPTER III.  ’TWIXT CUP AND LIP.
Hercules Albert—or Herbert, as he was henceforth to be called—was not a little taken aback by the sudden change in his circumstances, which followed Lady Farrington’s supposed recognition of him. To be measured for a suit of black cloth, which befitted best the Larkins’ notion of gentility; to have a brand new box, painted green, with sundry new shirts, new boots, and a broad-brimmed wide-awake hat, all his own; these were so many delicious surprises, the full effect of which was fully borne in upon him by the openly-expressed envy of the rest of the family. But it was a wrench to him when the time[37] came to leave his home—the only one he had ever known—to lose the companionship of his playmates, and the warm, though roughly-expressed, affection of the sergeant and his wife.

‘Be a man, Herkles,’ the sergeant had said, as the boy stood snivelling at the door of the casemated room, which represented the whole of the Larkins’ establishment. ‘Eat your cake.’ They had provided him with a huge slice of bun-loaf, upon which little Sennacherib Larkins, a freebooter like his Assyrian sponsor, had made many inroads while Herbert’s attention was distracted by the new cares of property and the pangs of making his adieux.

‘Eat your cake, and keep up your heart; me and the missus’ll be over to see you before the month’s out, and we’ll bring Rechab and Senn and Jemimer Ann.’

[38]

‘It’s all for your own good, Herbert,’ said Mrs. Larkins. ‘They’re going to make a gentleman of you. You’ll get learning, and Latin, and French mathematics; and by and by you’ll be an officer, perhaps, and live like a lord.’

The prospect was brilliant, but remote. Herbert, as a child of the barracks, had been brought up to believe that officers were almost superior beings. He saw his father, the sergeant, and all soldiers salute them always, and pay them extraordinary deference. When in uniform they were resplendent in crimson and gold; when out of it they drove dog-carts and played cricket and owned dogs, all of which Herbert would have liked to have done too. Yet the off-chance of some day becoming an officer himself did not reconcile him to separation from the best friends he had in[39] the world; and as he left Triggertown casemates, he wept bitterly, and refused to be comforted.

If life looked black and forbidding then, it was a thousand times worse when he got to school. A cross-grained old man—it was Mr. Bellhouse, Lady Farrington’s solicitor—escorted him thither, and snubbed him all the way. The old lawyer was a little sick of her ladyship’s caprices, and considered this last the most serious of all. But it was none of Herbert’s fault, and the poor woe-begone home-sick lad did not deserve to be made to answer for Lady Farrington’s sins. At school he was left stranded, like a waif of the sea upon an unknown shore. Presently the natives, troops of little savage school-boys, swooped down upon him to scalp and torture him. He was pestered with questions, and his[40] hair pulled, his strange wide-awake was jeered at, and given to the winds.

But the instincts of self-defence are strong, and Herbert, if new to school life, was not new to the use of his fists. His tormentors were numerous, but with one or two exceptions were not much older or bigger than himself, and when it came to a question of blows and hard knocks he was physically well able to take care of himself. Presently a ‘straight un’ from the shoulder relieved him of the most troublesome of his assailants, and a second, planted upon the nose of a tall bully, proved that Herbert thought nothing of disparity in height when disposing of his foes. Boys are sensibly affected by the display of pluck, especially against superior odds, and Herbert soon gained for himself the respect[41] due to his prowess, and immunity from further annoyance.

He was vexed and irritated no more, but he went to his bed, a far more cleanly and luxurious couch than that which he had been accustomed to in the crowded casemate at Triggertown, with a sad and sorrowful heart. There are no woes so acute as those of early youth. Happily they are as transient as they are intense. Herbert at night was in the depths of woe; next morning he was already in a fair way to recover his spirits, and before the day was out, in the excitement of the new life opening before him, he had forgotten his sorrows and was as happy as a bird. He was just the boy to get on at school. Brisk and buoyant in disposition, with a well-knit vigorous frame, a predilection for games of every kind in which, with a little experience,[42] he soon excelled, he rapidly advanced in the estimation of his fellows. He was liberal and free-handed too, which did not make him the less appreciated, and he had plenty to give away. ‘His people,’ as boys call their friends, were evidently of the right sort. The old lady with the snow-white hair and large mournful eyes, who came to see him regularly every month, was right royal in her tips, and not to him alone, but to any whom he called particular friends. He got tuck baskets continually and presents of all kinds to which others administered as freely as himself. These are substantial grounds for school popularity, and Herbert enjoyed it in the highest degree.

As he grew in years and developed in strength and good looks, Lady Farrington’s affectionate admiration knew no bounds.[43] She lavished caresses on him without ceasing, declaring that he was daily becoming more and more fitted for the station which would some day be his.

‘Yes, yes, the end cannot be far off now,’ she said one day as she sat in the headmaster’s drawing-room, holding Herbert’s hand in hers and patting it from time to time in the fulness of her contentment. ‘Who shall gainsay your claim when they see you thus, my Herbert’s living image? my son! My son, my lost unhappy son!’ and in a moment she was in a paroxysm of tears.

Herbert was quite accustomed to her now. At first he had been dismayed by her sudden outbursts. The rapid transition from joy to sorrow, from smiles to hysterical tears, were sufficient to frighten him, and when to these were added her wild talk, her bitter self-reproaches, her mysterious[44] hints of his coming greatness, he scarcely knew what to do or say. But by degrees he became familiar with her eccentricities, and he felt that although she might be queer, she was certainly uncommonly kind.

‘I cannot control myself when I think of the miserable past. But, please God, in you I shall make some atonement for my sins, and soon, soon,—for the time draws nigh. You are equal, Herbert, I trust, to a great and arduous trial?’

He was now nearly seventeen, tall and well-built for his age; and as he shook his light curls and looked steadily at her with his clear, honest eyes, he seemed the incarnation of youth and hope.

‘I am game for anything, Lady Farrington, only try me. I’d face the whole world if you asked me.’

‘My own brave boy! The struggle[45] may be sharp, but with such a spirit the victory is certain to be ours.’

‘When may I know what it is that I have to do?’

‘The time draws nigh. It depends only on you and your fitness to play your part. You have not neglected your opportunities I know. Dr. Jiggs gives you a high character. You have profited by his studies, you have learnt to ride and shoot, and when you come to your own you will comport yourself as an English gentleman should.’

‘I am a gentleman born, then?’

‘Of the best,’ she replied proudly. ‘You are—why conceal it longer? Here you have for reasons been still known as Herbert Larkins, my ward, but you are really my grandson, the only child of Herbert, my second boy. You are Sir Herbert[46] Farrington, the rightful heir of the family honours of an old name and wide estates.’

‘Is this certain, quite certain?’

‘Absolutely—at least to me. I have never doubted from the first. My instinct assured me I was right when I recognised you in Triggertown. But as the world needs more material proof I have sought them out, and hold them now all but one. This also I should have possessed had not one person failed me.’

‘Who was that?’

‘Mrs. Larkins. She alone can tell us what we want to know, and she has most unaccountably hesitated or refused to speak. This is why I have broken with her—why I have forbidden them to come and see you again.’

These honest people had paid several visits to Herbert at school, visits he had[47] received with delight. They had ceased suddenly, and he had wondered greatly thereat.

‘But if my mother—if Mrs. Larkins—’

‘Mrs. Larkins is not your mother, Herbert, of that you may rest assured.’

‘She was as good as one to me always, I know that. But if she is the only person who can help us in this matter, was it prudent to break with her altogether?’ Herbert asked very pertinently.

‘I was annoyed, angry, and they were proud—I will seek them out again. They are necessary to us. Mrs. Larkins shall speak, and we will proceed at once to establish your claim. My patience is exhausted and Rupert’s cup is full.’

This conversation occurred at a time mentioned in a previous chapter when her[48] relations with Sir Rupert had become more and more constrained. War had long been imminent between them, but a rupture had been precipitated by the overbearing harshness of his ways. She had spoken, therefore, a little rashly and prematurely perhaps, and in doing so had shown her hand. She had practically thrown down the glove, daring him to do his worst. He accepted the challenge, and acted with a promptitude and determination for which the poor cracked-brained old lady was certainly no match.

His first step was to put a watch upon Lady Farrington’s movements. Mr. Oozenam, the well-known private detective, was employed, who set about his task with his usual skill and despatch. Within a week or two he came with his first report.

‘Lady Farrington goes once every month, often twice, to Deadham School, in[49] Essex. She has done so these five years past and more.’

‘Of course. The cub, her protégé, is there. Well?’

‘A ward of her ladyship’s, Herbert Larkins, is at school there. He is now seventeen years of age, is tall and well grown, has fair curly hair and greyish blue eyes. Her ladyship is said to take an immense interest in him. Their interviews are long. She must be very liberal to him; the lad is always well provided with money which he spends freely. He is a fair scholar, has been taught especially to ride and shoot, has learnt foreign languages and all extras.’

‘That is enough, Mr. Oozenam. You have handsomely earned your fee.’

‘It has gone very far,’ Sir Rupert said to himself as soon as he was alone. ‘What an idiot I have been not to have observed[50] her more closely! But let us hope it is not too late even now.’

And then, after a long cogitation, he called for his carriage, and driving first into the neighbouring country town, where he made one or two calls, he bade the coachman next proceed to Farrington Court.

He asked for Lady Farrington, and was in due course ushered into her private boudoir.

‘The time has come, Lady Farrington, as you were good enough to say some time back—the time for plain speaking. I mean to put an end to your tomfooleries once for all. So long as they merely made you appear ridiculous I could have borne with you, although you scandalized our name. But I cannot permit you to plot against me and mine without protest and something more.’

‘Plot?’ she asked, in a voice which[51] anger and agitation combined to make nearly inarticulate.

‘I have discovered all. You have kept your secret well, but I have found it out. This base-born pretender—’

‘He is my own grandson. I have the proofs.’

‘They will not bear the test of legal scrutiny, you know that. On the contrary, I can show that the whole affair is a conspiracy from beginning to end. That this Larkins is an adventurer—’

‘You will not harm him, surely? It is I, only I, who am to blame.’

‘I shall hand him over to the police, prosecute him, and make him pay dearly for his attempt to defraud.’

‘You would not dare,’ she cried aghast. Surprise and indignation combined to confuse her mind, and she did not pause to[52] consider that he had no grounds of procedure; that his threats were vain, and could never be put into execution.

‘I shall not spare him nor you.’

‘Then you shall take the consequences. I will proclaim you to be the villain that you are; will tear you from your present exalted station, and will send you back to your former poverty and rags. You shall be dispossessed. You shall disgorge the rents and all that you have improperly acquired. You—’

He merely laughed at her, mockingly and rudely, which exasperated her beyond all bounds.

‘Begone, sir! You shall not remain here another second to insult me. Begone! or—’

He only laughed more loudly and mockingly than before. Instantly her rage[53] passed into fury which seemed uncontrollable.

‘Begone!’ she cried again, snatching up a sharp-pointed paper knife and rushing on him with so much intention that Sir Rupert precipitately retired. She followed him downstairs with a wild shriek, little recking how completely she was playing into his hands.

The butler had just admitted several other visitors, who heard and saw all that passed. Sir Rupert went up to them apparently for protection, but his first words showed that he was eager for more than this.

‘Gentlemen, you have arrived most opportunely. You can see for yourselves. It is clearly not safe to leave her any longer at large.’

The butler had quelled poor Lady Farrington[54] almost instantly, but although he held her back she was still furious and foamed at the mouth.

‘Scarcely. We cannot refuse the certificate,’ said Mr. Burkinshaw, of Bootle, a local magistrate and magnate. ‘Sir Henry quite agrees with me, and the doctors have no manner of doubt. Poor woman, she ought clearly to be put under restraint.’

And she was, without unnecessary delay.

Thus Herbert Larkins lost his protectress just when his fortune seemed close at hand. The cup was dashed away just before he had lifted it to his lips, with consequences which were by no means pleasant to himself, as will be seen in the next chapter.
CHAPTER IV.  TAKING THE SHILLING.
Herbert Larkins was in the class-room when he was summoned to see a gentleman who had called.

‘I come from Lady Farrington,’ said his visitor, rather abruptly.

He was a tall, dark-eyed man, with a sinister look upon his face.

‘She is well, I hope? Nothing has happened? I half expected her to-day or to-morrow.’

‘She is well, but she cannot come here, and wishes you to go to her at once. You are aware, no doubt—’

‘The time then has arrived?’ Herbert said, a little incautiously.

[56]

‘It has arrived. You are ready, I presume?’

‘I must speak to Dr. Jiggs. I cannot leave the school without his permission, of course.’

‘That is all arranged. When you have got your belongings together, we will start. You are not to return here. You know that, I presume?’

‘We are going to join Lady Farrington?’

The visitor bowed assent.

An hour or two later they were in the train and on the road to London.

There was little conversation between them. Herbert was shy, and his companion by no means talkative or sociable.

‘Where does Lady Farrington live?’ Herbert asked.

‘You really don’t know?’

[57]

‘She never told me,’ Herbert replied, looking rather shamefaced.

‘She is a strange person, of that you must be aware. It is impossible to account for all she says and does.’

‘She has always been most kind to me,’ Herbert said, stoutly.

‘No doubt,’ the other replied, drily. ‘But perhaps that was a form of eccentricity. People are sometimes too affectionate by half.’

Herbert would have liked some explanation of this speech, but he could not bring himself to ask for it. He only knew that he began to dislike this man excessively, and hoped they might never have much to say to each other.

Arrived in London, they drove from one terminus to another. Fresh tickets were taken, for which his companion made[58] Herbert pay; and after a hasty meal at the refreshment-room, they were again seated in a railway carriage, travelling westward. This second was a wearisome journey, which continued far into the chill autumn night. Towards nine they alighted at a station, where their baggage was transferred to a fly, into which they entered, and were driven half-a-dozen miles or more. At length they reached a small country inn, had some supper, and were shown to their rooms.

‘Remember,’ said his companion, as he bade him good-night, ‘our affair is secret. Keep your own counsel; do not gossip with any one you may meet here. Lady Farrington does not wish her name bandied about; so mind you do not mention it to a soul.’

Herbert slept late next morning, and[59] when he went downstairs he found himself alone. The other gentleman had gone out, they told him, and would not return till late. Breakfast—what would he like? He might like what he pleased, but all he could get was cold bacon and bread, with thin cider to drink. A school-boy has a fine appetite, and is nowise particular. Herbert enjoyed his breakfast, as he did also his lunch and his dinner. He felt jolly enough. He asked where he was, and they told him King’s Staignton in Devonshire. Was there anything to do in the place? Yes, he might fish the trout stream, which he did, very much to his own satisfaction, and spent a thoroughly pleasant day.

But when night fell, and his companion did not return, he began to feel the least bit uneasy. He ate his trout, however, and his bacon and bread, and slept the[60] sleep of the young, undismayed by fears of to-morrow. To-morrow came, but no companion. A third and a fourth day, and Herbert was still alone. What could it mean? He felt absolved from the necessity of holding his tongue, and he asked the landlady if she knew any one of the name of Farrington in the country round about. He was resolved to go to her ladyship himself.

‘No, they had never heard the name before.’

He now became more than puzzled. He was filled with an inexplicable but increasing dread of coming trouble, and he was just beginning his preparations for returning at once to Deadham, when the absentee suddenly reappeared.

Herbert was young, inexperienced, and terribly shy. But his was no craven spirit,[61] and he had enough of school-boy plain-speaking frankness about him to say,

‘Come, this is a fine lark. You would not have kept me waiting here much longer, I can tell you. I was just going to cut and run.’

‘You may cut and run as soon as you please,’ said the other gruffly. ‘The sooner the better.’

‘And what would Lady Farrington say?’

‘Lady Farrington is not in a position to say much.’

‘I should like to see her.’

‘You can’t. She’s gone off in a hurry.’

‘She never was here, or near here. I know that much, for I have enquired.’

‘You broke through my instructions, did you? Not that it matters much; and it is time you should know all. Lady Farrington[62] has been put under restraint. You do not understand? Locked up in an asylum, I mean. She is mad, insane; and of all her ravings, the wildest were those which led you to suppose you were somebody, instead of a beggar’s brat picked up out of the mire.’

‘That I’m not, I’ll swear, and no one shall call me so,’ cried Herbert, hotly. He looked so fierce, with his clenched fists, broad shoulders, and light active figure, that the man for the moment was cowed.

‘I don’t know who you are, or where you came from. But you’re not what you think you are, nor what Lady Farrington has made you believe. That is enough for me.’

‘I have her word.’

‘That of a mad woman!’

‘And she has proofs.’

[63]

‘Which exist only in her own distraught brain.’

‘That remains to be seen. But who are you? Why are you so bitter against me? Why did you bring me here?’

‘I am Sir Rupert Farrington. It is I whom this mad old lady wishes to wrong. She has been seeking what she calls a rightful heir all these years—only that she may dispossess me. You are not the first pretender she has set up. But I think it is not unlikely you will be the last.’

Had he brought Herbert there to injure him? The thought suddenly flashed across the young man’s mind. But then there were other people at the inn; the landlady, ostlers, keepers, police not far off, none of these would knowingly suffer any foul play to be done.

‘I defy you and your threats,’ said Herbert.[64] ‘If I am in a false position it was none of my seeking, but I prefer to believe Lady Farrington rather than you. There are others who know of my claims, and with their help I shall yet put them forward as you will see.’

Sir Rupert snapped his fingers at him. ‘How do you propose to live meanwhile? Remember you can get nothing from Lady Farrington now. You cannot go back to the school; I brought you all this way on purpose that you should not. Besides, I have written to Dr. Jiggs to put him on his guard.’

‘He would still help me if I asked him; but I do not need to do that.’

‘You cannot have money hoarded? That would be very unlike a school-boy. You must be nearly cleaned out by this time. I made you pay your own expenses[65] on purpose; and there will be the bill here. You ought to be nearly penniless. You will have to remain here, and turn farm labourer or starve.’

‘I shall not do that, you may depend. I have been well educated, thanks to Lady Farrington. I am not afraid of work, and I am well able to take care of myself. At any rate I look to you for nothing, and all I wish now is to get away from you and this place.’

Herbert called for his bill, paid it with his last sovereign, asked the way to the nearest railway station—Newton Abbot—and started off on foot, determined to get back to London as soon as he could. Thence he would find his way to Triggertown. The Larkins were the only friends left in the world; and Mrs. Larkins, as[66] Lady Farrington had said, was the person who possessed the only link wanting in the chain of proofs which was to establish his claims.

At Newton Abbot he sold his watch, and had money for his ticket to London and to spare. Parting with other articles of his apparel to supply his necessities upon the road, he found himself at Triggertown upon the third day. How familiar the place seemed! Six years since he left it—a child, and now returning as a man he found everything unchanged. He passed up the covered way, across the drawbridge under the arch, and stood at the door of the casemate, expecting next moment to see the sergeant and Mrs. Larkins, and the whole of the brood.

But it was a stranger who came to answer his knock; a small vixenish woman[67] with a shrewish tongue. She gave him a very short answer.

‘Larkinses? They don’t stop here. Been gone these years. Where? How do I know? They got the route right enough; that’s all I can tell you.’

‘Was there no one in the barracks who could tell him?’ Herbert asked.

‘No,’ said the woman, abruptly, and shut the door in his face.

The sentry would not let him pass the inner gates. The gate sergeant, who came up, peremptory and consequential, was still more inhospitable. Whom did Herbert want? A barrack sergeant of the name of Larkins? There was no such name in the garrison.

‘Better write to the Secretary of State for War, my man,’ said the gate sergeant with gruff condescension, ‘or to the Archbishop[68] of Canterbury. One’s as likely to tell you as another. But you must clear out of this. Can’t have no loiterers about here. Them’s my orders. May be the adjutant or the sergeant-major’ll come this way, and I don’t choose to be blamed for you.’

‘What regiment do you belong to?’ asked Herbert.

‘Can’t you see for yourself?’ Where could this young man have been raised not to recognise the uniform of the Duke’s Own Fusiliers?

‘Is it a good corps?’

The sergeant was aghast at the fellow’s impudence. Like every soldier of the old school, he had been brought up to believe that his regiment was not only a good one, but the very best in the service.

[69]

‘G’long; I want no more truck with you. Clear out, or you’ll be put out.’

‘What’s your colonel’s name? I want to see him.’

‘You can’t want to see him if you don’t know his name.’

‘I do, though, on business.’

‘Pretty business! A tramp like you can’t have no business here at all, much less with the colonel or any other officer of ours.’

‘Won’t you pass me in?’

‘I won’t, there, that’s flat.’

‘All right; I’ll wait till some one comes out.’

Herbert coolly seated himself a little way down upon the slope of the glacis. If the sergeant meant to dislodge him it could only be by force.

The fact was our hero was meditating a[70] serious step. The disappointment of not finding his old friends where he had left them was great. He had perhaps overrated the assistance which Mrs. Larkins could give him in substantiating his claims, but he had looked for advice from them as to the disposal of his immediate future. How was he now, unknown and seemingly without a friend in the world, to find employment? That was the serious question he was called upon to solve, and that without unnecessary delay. His pockets were empty, his clothes—such as he had not pawned—had reached that stage of irretrievable seediness which clothes worn uninterruptedly for weeks will always assume. He might or might not be the heir of the Farringtons. What did it matter who he was or might be if he died of starvation before he could prove his case?

[71]

These wholesome reflections led him to accept the only means of livelihood which offered just then. He would enlist. Why not? He had been brought up within sound of the drum; his earliest recollections and associations were connected with the barrack. The life might be rough compared to the luxury of Deadham, but at least he would be fed, clothed and housed, and he need not stand still. The theory of the marshal’s baton, which every knapsack is said to contain, is not exactly supported by fact in the British Army, but times were not what they had been, and he might now hope to rise rapidly enough. Yes, he would take the shilling and join the Duke’s Own Fusiliers.

These were the words he addressed to the first officer who issued from the gates.

It happened to be the adjutant himself.[72] Mr. Wheeler was the beau ideal of a smart young soldier, quick and energetic in movement, with an eagle eye to take in the ‘points’ of a possible recruit.

‘Want to enlist, do you? Hey, what, what, what? Where do you come from? Won’t say, I suppose? Where do you belong to? Don’t know, of course. What’s your age? You won’t tell the truth. Height? we can see to that. Health? are you sound in wind and limb? hey, what, what, what?’

All this time he had been appraising Herbert’s value, had noted his broad shoulders, thin flanks, his seventy-two inches, and his erect bearing, as keenly as though he were a slave merchant about to turn a penny on a deal. The scrutiny was satisfactory. The medical examination confirmed it, the nearest magistrate sanctioned[73] the enlistment, and before sundown, Herbert Larkins had joined the Duke’s Own and had sworn to serve Her Majesty and her heirs for a term of years.

By a strange coincidence, within a week or two, Ernest Farrington, Sir Rupert’s only son, was gazetted to the same regiment, and the two young men presently found themselves in the same squad at recruit’s drill.
CHAPTER V.  A CRACK CORPS.
The Duke’s Own Fusiliers had the credit of being one of the most distinguished regiments in the service of the Queen. Its colours were emblazoned with the victories in which it had shared; its mess plate was rich in gifts from the great captains and men of mark who had held commissions in its ranks. It considered itself in every respect a crack corps, and held its head high always on account of its thorough efficiency and undeniably ‘good form.’ Its claims to the latter could not be denied; but its rights to the former were sometimes questioned by keen-eyed critics and[75] people behind the scenes. The regiment no doubt turned out smartly upon parade; it always looked well, and was fairly well-behaved. But there were flaws and short-comings in its system, hidden a little below the surface, which in the crucial test of emergency would probably be laid bare. The gulf between officers and men was a little too wide; inferiors had no great confidence in those above them, the latter were generally indifferent, taking but little interest in their business, as though soldiering was not their profession, but a chance employment to fill up their hours when not otherwise engaged.

A certain Colonel Prioleau commanded the regiment at the time when Herbert Larkins enlisted into it; a soldier of the old school, at times fussy, testy, and sharp-spoken, but really a good-natured easy-going[76] man. He was without much strength of character however, and not over-burthened with brains. It was not strange, therefore, that he should suffer his authority to slip a little out of his own hands. He was far from supreme in the body of which he was the ostensible head. English regiments are very variously governed. This is ruled by the sergeant-major, that by the colonel’s wife; in another, the general of the brigade or district, with his staff-officers, works his own wicked will. Some are, so to speak, self-governed, and the Duke’s Own was one of these. In it, the will of the body corporate, of the officers banded together like a joint-stock company, and trading under the name of ‘the regiment’ was absolute law. By and for ‘the regiment,’ everything was settled and decided. The regimental idea was a species of impalpable but all-pervading[77] essence, which no one could resist. To quote regimental custom; to invoke regimental prestige; to talk of the credit of the regiment; to insist upon the maintenance of esprit de corps, were so many irresistible appeals, so many precepts of a powerful unwritten code universally accepted, and admitted to be binding upon all. In its highest form, this thorough-going devotion might be productive, as indeed it has often proved to be, of extraordinary good; but it was possible to develop it in the wrong direction, and this was to some extent the case with the Duke’s Own Fusiliers. It was generally understood in the regiment that its credit depended less upon its military proficiency than upon the dash it cut in the world.

Military matters, in fact, were not held[78] in the highest esteem in the Duke’s Own. Nobody cared much about them. They were left to be managed by anybody, anyhow. Now and again Colonel Prioleau raised a feeble protest, but nobody listened to him or cared. He was told that the regiment wished this, or thought that, and he immediately succumbed. Those next senior to him, his two majors, were of little assistance to him in driving the coach. One, Major Diggle, of whom more directly, did not pretend to be a soldier at all. According to his own ideas, he was always much better engaged. The other, Major Byfield, had, unfortunately, been raised in another regiment, and was so unpopular that he was worse than a cipher; the Duke’s Own knew too well what was due to itself to allow an outsider to dictate to it or interfere in its affairs. The only person who did[79] anything in the regiment was the adjutant, and he had come by degrees to monopolise the whole of the power. The colonel gave in to him more and more, till presently he abdicated his functions to him altogether. After all, Mr. Wheeler was a smart young gentleman, not without military aptitudes. He had no dread of responsibility, and having a fair knowledge of the red-books and routine, disposed of his work daily in an airy off-hand fashion which was always refreshing, and which, in the face of any serious difficulty, would have been absolutely sublime. He pulled all the strings, decided all the moot points, gave all orders, drafted all letters, which his humble slave, the colonel, obediently signed; it was he, practically, who man?uvred the battalion, although his puppet, the colonel, nominally gave the word of command. It saved everybody[80] else a great deal of trouble. The men perhaps were not quite as well cared for and commanded as they ought to have been, the sergeants looking to the adjutant rather than to their officers, sometimes exceeded their powers, and carried matters with rather a high hand. Complaints of tyranny and ill-usage, however, seldom cropped up, and no suspicion ever arose that the condition of the regiment was otherwise than perfectly sound.

It was not difficult to understand why the officers as a body rather neglected their duties. They were too fully occupied in maintaining the credit of the regiment according to their own interpretation of the phrase. This meant that it should be renowned—not for marching and man?uvres, for demeanour, discipline, and drill—but for its ostentation and display, for the grand[81] balls and entertainments it gave, for its mess perfectly appointed, its artistic chefs, its exquisite wines. It was for the credit of the regiment that it should keep up a regimental drag, a cricket and lawn tennis club, and give weekly afternoon teas; that during the season six or seven at least of the Duke’s Own should turn out in scarlet to hunt with the nearest hounds, that some one amongst their number should take a shooting or a river, which the regimental sportsmen might honour in turn; that half the regiment at least should rush up to town from Friday to Monday every week, and enjoy themselves in loafing about the park and the Burlington Arcade, or idling away the hours at the club, and devoutly wishing they were back at their own regimental mess.

These high-flown ideas very rapidly developed[82] into extravagant tastes, which had reached their highest point about the time when Herbert Larkins became one of the Duke’s Own. The regiment had only returned a year or two previously from a lengthened tour of foreign service, and after their long exile in outer darkness everyone with any spirit or capacity for enjoyment had been resolved to take his pleasure to the full. It was expected of the officers of the Duke’s Own to come well to the front, and this they pretended was a more potent inducement to them to spend money than any hankering after personal gratification. So, with but few exceptions, they launched forth freely enough. It was, with many, a case of the earthen pots swimming with the brass; but all, or nearly all, were determined to do their duty to the regiment and go the pace, or as Mr. Crouch, the sporting quartermaster[83] styled it, ‘go to the devil hands down.’ What if any serious financial crisis supervened? Their people would have to stump up; their fathers—probably by drawing upon a wife’s provision or daughter’s portion, and always by impoverishing themselves—would pay their debts, but they would have had ‘a high old time,’ and the imperishable credit of the Duke’s Own Fusiliers would have been most brilliantly maintained.

The leading spirit and showman of the regiment at this particular epoch was the junior major Cavendish-Diggle. Diggle was, in his way, a man of parts, young, pushing, ambitious, passably rich. No one knew exactly where he came from, or who were his belongings or his people. One of his patronymics was decidedly patrician, the other as unmistakeably commonplace. He[84] might be a cousin of the Duke of Devonshire; and again he might not. When anyone asked him the question—and it was one he liked to have put to him—he smiled pleasantly, and said that the Cavendishes were all related, as everybody knew. But he was not so well pleased when people, envious or cynical, or both, remarked casually that Diggle was the name of the great grocers in Cheapside. There was no connection on that side of course, but the allusion was far from agreeable to him, as a shrewd observer might have noticed from his face and his avowed hostility to anyone who dared to make the remark.

There were not many who were bold enough to attack him however. He could hold his own always. Nature had endowed him with a good presence and abundance of self-confidence; he could talk well, had a[85] good voice, and was an excellent raconteur. These gifts were naturally of great service to him; not alone for purposes of repartee and self-defence; they were also exceedingly useful in assisting him to obtain that social success which had ever been one of the principal aims of his life. In his boyhood, when he had made his début as a second lieutenant in the Duke’s Own Fusiliers, he had had an uphill game to play. The regiment was then, as it still aspired to be, eminently aristocratic, and no one was disposed to welcome a Diggle with rapturous effusion. There was nothing against the lad, however, except the possible obscurity of his origin; on the contrary, there was much in his favour. He was modest and unpretending, fully impressed with the ‘greatness’ of ‘the regiment’ he had joined, falling down readily to worship the principal[86] personages who were its idols at the time. He sought to attach himself to one or two of the most distinguished cadets of noble houses, who were nobodies at home, but made a good deal of in the Duke’s Own. Diggle’s hero worship, accompanied as it was by a willingness to bet, play écarté, and do good turns to his superiors—he thought them so himself—met with its reward, and he soon found himself in the position to enjoy the daily companionship and friendship of one or two baronets and several lords’ sons. It was long, however, before he advanced himself beyond the rather undignified status of a ‘hanger-on.’ His friends and comrades were very affectionate—with the regiment—but they were not so fond of him in town; nor did they help him into society, or get him invitations to their homes. But as time passed, and he gained[87] promotion and seniority, his persistent efforts gradually achieved a certain success. He now took a prominent part in regimental entertainments, was willing to accept all the drudgery of managing balls and parties, because he thus came more to the front. At one rather dull country station he struck out the happy idea of giving dances on his account in his own quarters, which happened to be large, and at his own expense, and this gained for him great popularity in the neighbourhood. It was about this time that he began to lay much stress upon the Cavendish prefix to his proper name; he always called himself Cavendish-Diggle, had it so put in the Army List and upon his cards. Then the regiment went on foreign service, and while stationed in an out-of-the-way colony, he had the good fortune to be selected to act upon the personal staff of[88] the governor and commander-in-chief. He turned this appointment to excellent account. He was soon the life and soul of Government House, developing at once into a species of diplomatic major-domo, who was simply indispensable to his chief. In this way he made many new and valuable friends; a young royalty on his travels, who was charmed with Captain Cavendish-Diggle’s devotion to his person; several heirs apparent also, and itinerant legislators, who took Barataria in their journey round the world, and who could not be too grateful for all he did for them, or too profuse in their promises of civilities whenever he might be in England. All this bore fruit in the long run, when the regiment returned. He experienced many disappointments, no doubt; for your notable on his travels, so cordial and so gushing, is apt to[89] give you the cut direct if you meet him in his own hunting-grounds, at home. Still there were some did not quite forget the hospitable and obliging A.D.C.; and Major Cavendish-Diggle, at the invitation of one, went into Norfolk to shoot; of another to Scotland to fish; in the London season he found several houses open to him; and he was finally raised to a pinnacle of satisfaction by Royal commands to attend a garden party and a court ball.

In the Duke’s Own he was now a very great personage indeed. As both the Colonel and Major Byfield were married he was the senior member of the mess; always its most prominent figure; the chief host in all impromptu parties at home; the great man at all entertainments abroad. He had now a following of his own; a band of personal adherents who imitated him in his[90] dress and talk and ways, who deferred to him, flattered him, and admired him fully as much as he had the shining lights around which he had himself revolved when he was young. This homage did not do him any great good. It confirmed him in the high opinion he had formed of himself: it indorsed and justified his aspirations, which were now by no means unambitious, although very carefully concealed. Why should he not make a brilliant marriage? There were plenty of heiresses about; if he could but find one in whom the charms of blood and beauty were united, why should he not go in and win? He was still comparatively young; he had kept his figure; he was répandu in the best society and appreciated wherever he went. Who should have a better chance? And what might he not achieve in the way of future[91] distinction with a rich and well-born wife to help him in climbing the tree?

These ideas had been uppermost in his mind for some time past. It was in obedience to them that he had been at some pains to inform himself whether any likely partis were running loose about Triggertown or in the country round. But he had so far met with little success. Hopshire is a county owning many families of antiquity and repute, but none were especially renowned for their wealth. Diggle would have gone further afield and commenced his chase in London, or at one of the great watering places, but he wished first to exhaust the resources of the neighbourhood. The gay major was not wrong in supposing that he showed off to the best advantage upon his own territory, doing the honours of his own mess, backed up and supported[92] by so many brilliant comrades and disciples. Just when he began to despair of finding any young lady who from substantial reasons was entitled to receive his addresses, he came across the Farringtons. They lived at the other end of the county. There was a daughter in the house—a very charming girl, he thought, who, having one brother only and no sisters, would assuredly be well portioned. This led him to consolidate his acquaintance with Sir Rupert, to accept many invitations and pay frequent visits to Farrington Hall.

It was entirely through his advice and intervention that Sir Rupert sent young Ernest into the Duke’s Own. The regiment would probably remain at Triggertown for a year or two longer, and this would break Lady Farrington gradually to the separation from her beloved son. Besides,[93] Major Cavendish-Diggle would have the young fellow especially under his wing—a precious advantage no doubt, as we shall presently see.
CHAPTER VI.  IN THE BARRACK-ROOM.
Within twenty-four hours of his arrival in barracks, Herbert Larkins was bathed, cropped, clothed, numbered, and, so to speak, put away. His ‘rags,’ in plain English, his civilian clothes—invariably so called whether undeniable garments or veritable rags—had been exchanged for uniform, such as it was. A recruit, and especially in the fall of the year, when the annual issue of new clothing is near at hand, gets only things ‘part worn.’ So Herbert’s shell jacket, his regimental trousers, and his ammunition boots, were all of them palpable misfits.

He said as much to the corporal of the[95] pioneers, who helped the quartermaster-sergeant in rigging out recruits.

‘Too large?’ replied the corporal, contemptuously. ‘Wait till you’re at the extension motions, or at club drill, and you’ll wish they were more than twice as big.’

‘But my trousers are too long, and—’

‘It’ll be longer before you get another pair. Besides, you ain’t done growing yet. Two months on full rations, and you’ll be as tall as a hop-pole. How do you think your legs ’d look then? Showing half a yard of sock above the high-lows, and the captain ’d be safe to put you down for a new pair of bags.’

‘And these boots are far too loose. I can’t feel the sides even.’

‘You’ll feel something else afore long, I can tell you, and not half so soft as leather. Them boots! Why, flash Alick Nokes wore[96] them till he went “out”—and it ’d take a dozen Johnny Raws like you to make half a soldier such as him.’

Yet Herbert had really some reason to be discontented with his personal appearance. Always a trim and dapper youth, his patroness, Lady Farrington, had loved to see him neatly dressed, and had cheerfully paid his tailor’s bills when at Deadham school. But now, speaking exactly, he was not dressed at all; his figure was only concealed with clothes. His jacket was baggy at the back; the arms were so long that the cuffs came as far as his knuckles; his trousers, if they had been tied in at the ankle, would have suited a Janissary Turk; his forage-cap—it was before the days of smart glengarries—not yet ‘blocked’ and set up, fell like a black pudding-bag, over one forehead and one ear. His boots were[97] quite amorphous, quite without form, and they might have been void were it not probable they encased a pair of feet shaped like wedges of Cheshire cheese. So deteriorating was the effect of these incongruous habiliments, that Herbert Larkins seemed to lose his erect bearing and springy step; and as he reached the barrack-room, to which he was presently marched, carrying his kit-bag full of cleaning utensils under one arm, and his new knapsack under the other, he hung his head and looked utterly ashamed of himself.

‘Oh! it’s you is it?’ said the sergeant in charge of the room, who took him over from the corporal of the pioneers.

Herbert recognised the sergeant with whom he had had the colloquy at the barrack-gate.

‘So you got past the gate, did you?[98] Mind you stop, now you’ve got in. Don’t try and run off again with your bounty and kit.’

The suspicious sergeant scented a probable deserter.

‘I shouldn’t have come in if I’d wanted to go out directly afterwards,’ Herbert plucked up courage to say; but the scene was so new, and he felt so forlorn in his loneliness and his strange new clothes, that he had not much spirit left in him.

‘Don’t answer me with cheek,’ cried the sergeant, very sharply. ‘I want none of your slack jaw or back jaw. Hold your tongue, that’s what you’ve got to do, and do as you’re bid.’

‘Now look here,’ he went on, after a pause; ‘there’s your bed, and that’s your shelf; mind you keep them clean and proper. Don’t you try to lie down on the one before the right time, nor put what ain’t[99] authorised on the other. You’ll be for recruits’ drill at six sharp to-morrow; don’t let me have to tell you twice to turn out, and mind you don’t get straying away so that you can’t answer your name at tattoo roll-call to-night. Mind, too, what your comrade says; I’ll tell you off to Boy Hanlon because you’re much of an age; mind him and what he tells you, and he’ll keep you straight. Lads’—this to the room—‘have any of you seen “the Boy”?’

‘No, sergeant, not these hours past. He’s in the usual place, I’ll go bail.’

‘The canteen?’

Some of the men laughed and nodded, and the sergeant went off in search.

No one took any notice of Herbert, as he sat upon the edge of his iron cot at the far end of the room. Everybody seemed busy with his own affairs.

[100]

But presently some one near the door shouted, ‘Why, here’s “the Boy”! Duke’s Own! “’Tchun,”’ giving the word of command as though an officer was approaching.

It was only a wizened little man, who might have been fifty or barely five. He hadn’t a hair on his fresh coloured cheeks, but they were much wrinkled as though he were prematurely aged.

Boy Hanlon was one of the oldest soldiers in the regiment. He had been in it all his life from the time they had picked him up like a waif or stray on the line of march between Exeter and Plymouth till now, when he had upwards of twenty years’ service, and was growing grey-haired. He had begun as a boy in the band, thence he went to the drums; by-and-bye he became a bugler, from which, although barely of[101] the standard height, he had been passed into the ranks. Now, as a veteran who knew his rights and what was due to himself, he gave himself great airs. No one was half so well acquainted as he was with professional topics. He could tell you the names of all the officers past and present, in the Duke’s Own; he was a keen critic upon drill from his own point of view—somewhere in the rear rank of one of the central companies; he could pipeclay belts to perfection, and had not his equal with brass ball, heel ball, boot-blacking, button stick and brush. But the chief source of his pride were his confidential relations with Colonel Prioleau, the present commanding officer. The two had ‘soldiered’ together all these years, in every clime, and knew each other thoroughly. More, they had stood side by side at the battle of Goojerat,[102] where the Duke’s Own had fought remarkably well, and they were the only two survivors of that glorious day. ‘Boy’ Hanlon—he got his soubriquet of course from his insignificant size—traded a good deal on that battle of Goojerat. He was perpetually celebrating the victory. For one single battle it had an extraordinary number of anniversaries. Whenever ‘the Boy’ was thirsty—and with him drought was perennial—he turned up at the orderly room and told the colonel it was a fine morning ‘for the day.’

‘What day?’ old Prioleau would ask with pretended ignorance, although he knew and really enjoyed the joke.

‘The great day, of course, colonel; the day of Goojerat.’

‘Why, it was that only three weeks ago; surely—’

[103]

‘Well, sir, we’re the only two Goojeraties left, you know, sir, and I’d like to drink your health.’

It always ended in the same way—the transfer of half-a-crown from the colonel to ‘the Boy;’ the speedy exchange of the whole sum into liquor, the most potent description preferred, a free fight, for ‘the Boy’ was quarrelsome in his cups, a temporary relegation to the guard-room, from which he was sure to be immediately released by the officer of the day. When Hanlon misconducted himself he always got off scot free. Colonel Prioleau would never punish ‘the Boy.’

‘Where’s my towney?’ Hanlon asked directly he entered the room.

They pointed to where Herbert sat disconsolate; and the dapper little soldier, who was still trim in figure, and straight as a[104] dart, walked over to the lad and gave him a friendly pat on the back.

‘Now, young chap, you must brush up, brush up, and show yourself a man. We’ve to be comrades, you and I, and it won’t suit me to consort with a chap as is given to peek and pine. What do you call yourself?’

This was delicately put. Recruits do not always enlist under their own names; so Hanlon asked, not what Herbert was called, but what he called himself.

‘Herbert Larkins.’

‘Good; and not a bad looking chap either. Too tall—leastwise I’m afraid you’re going to grow—’

Hanlon, like many little men, hated those whose inches far exceeded his own. In the days when there had been grenadiers, it was his favourite pastime, when at all the[105] worse for liquor, to beard the giants in their own barrack-room. He called them ‘hop-poles,’ ‘sand-bags,’ ‘wooden ramrods,’ and other opprobrious names, and his onslaughts generally ended in his being carried, bodily, to the guard-room, under some stalwart soldier’s arm. Now that the grenadier company was abolished, he disseminated his dislike, and abused every private who was more that five feet six in height.

‘Too tall, unless you stop as you are. Gin perhaps’d do it; or whiskey; or perhaps “four” ale—if you took enough of it. Fond of “four” ale, eh?’

Hanlon’s eyes glistened with a toper’s joy as he mentioned his favourite fluid.

‘Ah! there’s nothing like “four” ale. I’m under stoppages myself,’ he went on, meditatively, ‘or I’d stand treat. But you’ll[106] have got your bounty, and the money for your “coloured” clothes. You ain’t got the price of a glass about you?’

Herbert admitted readily enough that he had the price of several. He had lost none of his schoolboy freehandedness, and he had moreover the wit to see that his new comrade might, if propitiated, prove an uncommonly useful friend.

Hanlon first made Herbert swallow some piping hot tea which was brought in just then, and gave him the whole of his ‘tea’ bread; Hanlon’s own appetite was indifferent; and then the two, amid the winks and jeers of the rest, strolled over to the canteen. The place was not over full. Nothing stronger than ale and porter could be sold in it, and the Duke’s Own generally preferred the Triggertown taverns. So would Hanlon, but he knew that a newly[107] enlisted recruit would not be permitted to leave barracks.

They had a quart ‘of the best;’ Hanlon called for it—and drank it, all but a glass; a second quart followed, and a third; and as the little veteran became more and more steeped in liquor he grew more and more communicative. He told Herbert all about the regiment; who were the chief personages in it; he spoke with awe of the sergeant-major, but of the colonel as a familiar friend. He described the ways of the officers, the habits and customs of the regiment, the chances there were of promotion for a smart lad who’d had any schooling and knew how to keep himself straight. ‘Can you read? good—and write? better still. If you can only cipher and do accounts you won’t have long to wait for a lance stripe. I’ll get it for you, aye and[108] more too. I’ll get you put in the orderly-room as a clerk, or perhaps the pay office. You shall be a colour-sergeant before you’re many years older; who knows, perhaps you’ll be sergeant-major afore you die. All through Joe Hanlon; poor old Joe Hanlon—Letshavesmoreale.’

From Hanlon drunk to Hanlon sober there was a great distance. The big promises he made so freely in his cups were all of them forgotten next day. Yet the little man was, in his way, a good friend to Herbert Larkins. In the days, arduous and often wearisome, of the recruit’s novitiate, the old soldier acted always as mentor and adviser. He taught Herbert all he knew. He helped him with his exercises, rehearsing the manual and platoon in the privacy of the citadel ditch, so that Herbert soon won especial favour with the[109] drill instructor of his squad; he took a pride in Herbert’s personal appearance, arranged a ‘swop’ for the misfitting jacket and highlows, contracted with one of the regimental tailors to alter the baggy trousers in his spare hours.

‘I’ll make you the smartest soldier in the Duke’s Own,’ said ‘the Boy’ enthusiastically. ‘You’re the right stuff; you’ve got it in you; you’re a soldier born, every inch. I don’t ask no questions. I don’t want to know who you are, or where you comes from, but you’ve got soldier’s blood in you; you come of a soldier’s stock, I’ll wager a gallon of the best four ale. I like you, lad. You’re free handed and open spoken, and you’ve got an honest mug of your own. I like you, and I’ll stick to you through thick and thin.’

The advantages of Boy Hanlon’s counsel[110] and protection were soon apparent. Herbert, thanks to Hanlon’s coaching, but aided not a little by his own native intelligence, and the excellent education he had received, proved an apt scholar in the military school. He soon learnt his drill, and was passed for duty much more quickly than was usually the case with recruits. Mr. Farrington, who had commenced drill at the same time, but who enjoyed the officer’s privilege of taking it easy, and who was somewhat slow of apprehension to boot, was still at company drill when Private Larkins, fully accoutred, and admirably ‘turned out,’ took his place in the ranks on guard, mounting parade.

It was with a beating heart that he found Mr. Wheeler, the adjutant, in making his minute and critical inspection, pause just in front of him.

[111]

‘Fall out,’ said the adjutant curtly; and Herbert scarcely knew whether to expect praise or blame.

‘Colonel’s orderly. Report yourself at his quarters after parade.’

Here was an honour indeed! To be selected on his first guard-mounting parade, as commanding officer’s orderly—a post which, apart from the privileges it brought of immunity from ‘sentry go’ and a sure night’s rest in bed, every private soldier in the regiment coveted and esteemed—was a compliment which Herbert, and Hanlon also, appreciated to the full.

What befell the young orderly at Colonel Prioleau’s quarters must be reserved for another chapter.
CHAPTER VII.  A FRENCH LESSON.
Herbert Larkins presented himself with some trepidation at the commanding officer’s quarters, a house outside, but not far from the barracks. The hall door was wide open, but he did not go in. The man whom he relieved told him ‘to patrol up and down in front of the house—that was all he had to do.’

This he did religiously for half an hour or more, and then he heard himself called from within.

‘Orderly!’ A clear, sweet voice it was; very musical in its intonation and very different from the gruff accents to which he had most recently been accustomed.

[113]

‘Orderly!’ again; this time much more sharply spoken, and with undoubted petulance. ‘How stupid! Why don’t you come when you’re called?’ and then the owner of the voice appeared. Mahomet had come to the mountain.

A bright-faced beautiful child; a fair golden-haired girl, not yet in her teens, wearing a fresh pink and white frock, with pink ribbons in her sunny locks, and a pink silk handkerchief tied like a shawl over her shoulders and neck. Herbert took it all in at a glance, and remembered the picture for the rest of his life.

A very imperious young person, evidently; she had honest kindly eyes, but her small nose slightly ‘tip tilted,’ and the upward curve of scorn in her lip indicated a proud, haughty nature, and the wilfulness of one who, though still a child, had everything[114] always her own way. An only child, born late in their married life, Edith Prioleau ruled languid mother and doting father with a despotism against which they had neither the inclination nor power to protest.

‘Are you the orderly?’ she asked, almost stamping her foot.

‘Yes.’

‘Yes? Yes—what?’

‘Yes, I am.’

‘Yes, Miss, you should say when you speak to me. Do you know who I am? I am the colonel’s daughter.’

Whereat Herbert drew himself up, and saluted her formally with hand to cap, as though she were the commander-in-chief.

‘You’re only a recruit, I suppose?’ She spoke quite contemptuously. ‘I never saw you before. I don’t like strangers. I shall[115] speak to Mr. Wheeler about it. How long have you been dismissed drill?’

Herbert smiled at her intimate acquaintance with military details, and the smile seemed to give her fresh annoyance.

‘You’re a rude soldier. You shan’t come as orderly again. But here’—she remembered what she wanted—‘take this list to the barrack library; be quick, please, and bring me all those books. I want them at once, please, all. You understand? At once, and all; and when you come back bring them in to me—there in the back room.’

‘Edith!’ said another voice just then, faintly and querulously, ‘you are losing the whole morning. Your French—’

‘Oh, bother!’ cried Edith, and retired, dragging one foot after the other, as though loth to return to her studies.

[116]

Herbert executed his commission promptly enough, and presently returned laden with books—some, but not all, of those for which Edith had sent. He carried them straight into the back room.

‘I am sorry to say, miss, that the “Loss of the Wager” is out, and so is Maxwell’s “Stories of Waterloo,” but I have brought you “Thaddeus of Warsaw” and the “Romance of War.”’

Then he stopped short, for he saw that the young lady was not attending to him in the least. Her head was buried in her hands, and when she eventually looked up her eyes were suffused with tears.

‘Oh, dear, it is so hard. I can’t make head or tail of it.’

It was only a French exercise after all, about which there was all this coil. But Edith was not an industrious scholar. In[117] plain English, she hated books, and would any day throw them aside to get on her pony to scamper across the Hopshire downs, or ride out to the drill-field with her father, or to stand by at band practice, or accompany the regiment when it marched out.

‘I know a little French,’ said Herbert diffidently; ‘perhaps I can help?’

Edith stared at him through her tears. A private soldier know French! More, probably, than she knew herself! The notion filled her with amazement—with gratitude, perhaps, but also with chagrin.

But when, after a few minutes’ close application, he untied the terrible knot, gratitude overpowered all other sentiments, and she could have shaken hands with him—almost—in her glee.

‘It’s most extraordinary,’ she cried, dancing about the room with delight. ‘I[118] never heard of such a thing; you’re the most wonderful orderly—’

‘You seem very merry, Miss E.,’ said an officer who put his head into the room just then.

‘Oh, Major Diggle! Just look here.’ And in a few words, volubly spoken, she explained what had occurred.

‘So you know French, do you?’ said the major to Herbert, in a supercilious tone impossible to describe. ‘And Latin and Greek perhaps, and Hebrew?’

‘No, sir, not Hebrew.’ Herbert had drawn himself up straight, and stood correctly at ‘attention.’ He had already learnt the lesson of respect due to an officer, and was fully conscious of the great gulf which separated the major from the private soldier.

‘What’s your name? Larkins? Where[119] were you at school? When did you enlist? And why?’

Herbert answered all these questions except the last.

‘You don’t choose to tell that, eh? Oh, with all my heart. It’s none of my business. But now, if Miss Prioleau does not want you—that will do; you can go.’

Herbert saluted, and walked off.

Directly the door was shut, the major turned to Edith, and said,

‘You ought not to be so familiar with private soldiers. You mustn’t do that again, Miss E.’

‘I shall do as I please, and don’t choose to be called Miss E., Major Diggle.’

He equally hated to be called Diggle without the Cavendish.

‘I shall tell the colonel,’ he said rather angrily, as he left the room.

[120]

She only made a face after him when he had gone, as though she did not care a bit what he did. There was no love lost between these two. The child, with intuitive perception, disliked the parvenu’s pretentious airs. He thought her, en revanche, a very pert and forward child, who ought to be snubbed and kept in her place. There were one or two old feuds between them, too. He had accused her, although she hotly repudiated the charge, of telling tales. He had caught her, he declared, looking out of the windows, to see and tell her father what officers came late for parade. She, on the other hand, had discovered, and had announced her discovery openly, that he wore—not a wig—but one of Unwin and Albert’s coverings for bald heads; and Diggle, who was proud of his looks, did not like it at all.

[121]

It was not likely, therefore, that any friend of Edith’s would find much favour with the major. But even if she had been disposed to champion the erudite recruit, so young and obscure a soldier was really beneath the notice of the great Cavendish Diggle. By-and-bye Herbert might prove a thorn in the major’s side, and give him many anxious hours—but that time was still to come.

Meanwhile, Herbert Larkins pursued the even tenour of his ways, taking the rough with the smooth, but finding that the first considerably preponderated. What he lacked most were congenial companions and agreeable occupation for his idle hours. Herbert found the time hang very heavy on his hands. He could not bring himself to spend hours with Joe Hanlon in the canteen; nor, indeed, did ‘the Boy’ wish[122] him to do so. Hanlon was ambitious for his young comrade, and he knew the way to preferment too well to encourage Herbert to take to drink. There was nothing left by way of amusement, after all needful polishing and cleaning-up was done, but patrolling the Triggertown streets, and frequenting such ginshops and music-halls as suffered private soldiers in the Queen’s uniform to pass their doors.

Herbert, as a last resource, turned bookworm. He had attended the regimental school as in duty bound; but it was soon very clear that a regimental schoolmaster, however well certificated, could not teach an ex-sixth-form boy very much. Herbert passed all the required standards, and was very quickly dismissed as a prodigy of learning. He might indeed have obtained a billet as an assistant teacher in the school,[123] but Joe Hanlon supported him in his refusal of the post. There would be much better openings for him later on, and in the regular line. All he had to do was to wait patiently for his ‘lance stripe,’ and this he was certain to obtain so soon as he had completed the twelve months’ service from the time of joining, which was the usual time of probation in the Duke’s Own.

The books he read he got from the barrack library, a place well stocked enough, but not with volumes covering a wide range of subjects. After exhausting the list of good works of fiction and travel, he felt himself fortunate at finding ‘Lecky’s Rise and Progress of Rationalism in Europe.’

One day when Herbert was absent on guard, a volume of this was lying upon his shelf—in the wrong place—and the captain, who was inspecting the rooms, noticed it.

[124]

‘It’s that Larkins, sir.’ His old enemy the gate sergeant, Sergeant Pepper, spoke. ‘A young soldier, sir. Very careless young fellow, sir. No use my speaking to him, sir. Better have his name put on the gate, sir?’

‘Let me see the book. “Lecky”? Strange! a recruit, do you say? What’s he like? Smart? Send him over to my quarters to-morrow.’

Captain Greathed was an officer of a somewhat uncommon type. Thoughtful, studious, steady, he concealed under a quiet demeanour a true soldierly spirit and keen professional ambition. He yearned secretly for military distinction, and only bided his time. Meanwhile he read and pondered deeply the lessons of the past. He had mastered military literature in all its branches. Had he chosen, he might have entered the[125] Staff College with ease, and would certainly have passed through it with distinction; but he was too fond of his regiment to care to leave it even to study or to serve upon the staff. He took an interest too in his men, which was more than many of his brother officers did.

‘I sent for you, Larkins,’ he said to Herbert, ‘to see what you are made of. You are reading “Lecky;” do you understand it? Have you read any other books of the kind?’

‘I was always fond of philosophic reading.’

‘You have been well educated, then? You are the man, I suppose, who did Miss Prioleau’s French lesson for her?’ That story had soon got about. ‘Well, that’s not everything; let’s see how much you know,’ and Captain Greathed put a series[126] of questions to him which soon tested the extent of his learning.

‘You ought to do well enough, but book-lore is not everything. You look strong. Are you active? Are you good at gymnastics? Can you play cricket, and walk and run well? Try you? We will. Meanwhile keep straight and steady, and you’ll do. It’ll be your own fault if you don’t get on.’

From that time forth Captain Greathed took especial notice of Herbert, spoke to him frequently—an honour highly prized by the private soldier—advised him as to his reading, and lent him military books. All this did not pass unobserved in the company, and it soon became evident that his comrades rather resented the captain’s undisguised preference for Larkins. The body of the men in the Duke’s Own were not[127] particularly attached to their officers, and to be a favourite with superiors was not a certain passport to popularity with the rank and file. Herbert, in spite of Boy Hanlon’s championship, found himself kept at arm’s length rather, and often subjected to innuendoes and sneers.

One day there was some commotion in the barrack-room. Several men who had been slovenly on parade had had their ‘passes’ stopped. These permits to be absent from quarters after hours are much appreciated, and those who had forfeited them were naturally sore. Herbert, who wished to attend a lecture at the Mechanics’ Institute, had also ‘put in a pass,’ backed by the captain, which had been granted, much to the disgust of the other men.

It’s a burning shame,’ said one; and[128] others followed on the same side, but with louder and coarser expletives.

‘A young jiggermy-dandy like you,’ cried a big soldier, Jubbock by name, who had the reputation of being cock and bully of the company. ‘What right have you to what’s denied your betters? A sneaking young lickspittle, who’s got the length of the captain’s foot. I’ll teach you to—’

Jubbock advanced towards him with a threatening air.

‘Well?’ said Herbert coolly, ‘what’ll you teach me?’

‘To know your master. Take that,’ and Jubbock aimed a tremendous blow at Herbert, which the latter promptly parried, and with a smart ‘one—two’ put the great fellow flat on his back.

There was a shout in the barrack-room as Jubbock rose furious and closed with his[129] opponent. Then came a hubbub of voices. ‘The sergeant, the sergeant! Sergeant Pepper, the “Real Cayenne!”’ as he was commonly called when he looked like mischief.

‘What’s this? Quarrelling in the barrack-room? I’ll not have it. drop it. Who began it? You, Larkins? Then to the guard-room you’ll go, double quick. Here, Corporal Smirke, get a file of men.’

‘But t’other chap rasperated him,’ Hanlon put in. ‘Jubbock’s more to blame than Larkins. If you shop one you must shop the other.’

‘So I will. I’ll run them both in—march them off.’

And so Herbert, with a smarting sense of injustice, found himself relegated to the guard-house, and locked up for the night.
CHAPTER VIII.  THE ORDER BOOK.
Herbert woke after a troubled night’s rest, disturbed by the occasional irruption of comrades brought in by the piquet and patrols, in various stages of intoxication, and the visits of the sergeant of the guard. The bare boards had been his bed, and he ached in every limb. It was with a sense of relief almost, although he dreaded the ordeal before him, that he washed and cleaned himself up preparatory to taking his place in the ranks with the rest of ‘the prisoners.’ With them, under escort of the guard, he was presently marched to the orderly-room, and then, after waiting half-an-hour for his turn, he was marched into the presence of[131] his commanding officer, to answer for his alleged crime.

He and Jubbock appeared together before their judge, Colonel Prioleau. The sergeant, who was the only witness, gave his evidence fairly, although not without a bias against Herbert, but the Colonel withheld judgment till he heard the defence.

‘What have you got to say?’ he asked of both abruptly.

‘Please, your honour,’ began Jubbock, ‘we wasn’t fighting at all; we was only wrastling. This young chap says, says he, he knew a thing or two about the Cumberland cropper, and I, says I, know’d more about the Hampshire hug; and with that we had a set-to, and the sergeant found us at it.’

The old soldier’s tendency to misstatement—to call it by no stronger name—was very repugnant to honest Herbert.

[132]

‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ he put in, ‘he is not telling you the truth. We were fighting. He struck me, and I knocked him down.’

Colonel looked up a little curiously. Herbert’s accent and his language were both more accurate than one is accustomed to find in a private soldier.

‘You did, did you? And would you do it again?’

‘I would, sir, if he provoked me; I’m not afraid of him,’ cried Herbert, hotly.

‘He’d better try,’ Jubbock said, growing also warm, notwithstanding the awe inspired by the great man in whose presence he stood.

‘It’s quite evident you can’t agree. There’s bad blood between you still. Well, you know the old rule—no, Captain Greathed, I won’t hear a word—young soldiers[133] must find their level, and hold their own. Besides, there is the old regimental custom. You must fight it out. Send them down to the main ditch, as usual, and let the orderly sergeant go with them to see fair play. It’s no use talking to me, Captain Greathed; I shall stick to the old rule of the Duke’s Own so long as I am commanding the corps.’

Captain Greathed thought it wisest to let matters take their course. Any further interference to protect Herbert might have looked like favouritism, and have done the young fellow more harm than good. He may have thought, too, that Herbert could give a good account of his antagonist.

The mill was conducted according to custom, in semi-official fashion. The orderly sergeant, as before said, and two[134] bottle-holders—Hanlon was Herbert’s—were the only spectators.

For a long time it seemed a close affair. Jubbock’s weight and great reach of arm were immensely in his favour. But Herbert had more science. Self-defence, although fast becoming an old-fashioned art, was not unknown at Deadham School, and he had grown into an accomplished practitioner in it. He was lighter, too, and far more active than Jubbock, and this told in the long run. His adversary tried in vain to get at him; but Herbert danced around him like a cork, till by degrees Jubbock lost all patience and struck out wildly. The wily Herbert promptly seized his advantage, and began to punish Jubbock severely. After this the victory was not long in doubt. At the end of the fourteenth round, Jubbock[135] threw up the sponge, and Herbert was declared, officially, to have won the day.

The result of the fight, noised about as it was in the company, naturally added greatly to Herbert’s prestige. Jubbock was a coarse, rough fellow, inclined to be brutal and overbearing, and he had so long tyrannised over his comrades that his defeat was hailed with much satisfaction. ‘The Boy’—old Joe Hanlon—was wild with delight. He was never tired of expatiating upon Herbert’s prowess, and talked so much about it, taking so much credit to himself, that you might have thought it was he who had won the fight.

Herbert received even higher approval.

‘So I hear you held your own,’ the captain had said to him one day. ‘I thought it was not unlikely you would. But don’t be puffed up by your victory. Take heed[136] to your going—Jubbock’s not likely to love you the more because you have shown yourself the better man.’

There was wisdom in this advice. Jubbock bore malice, as Herbert soon found, from his sulky demeanour and the way he scowled when he dared. Hanlon too reported that Jubbock had sworn to be even with young Larkins yet. But what could he do? Herbert laughed such vague threats to scorn.

It was not long after this that unpleasant rumours became rife in the barrack-room. It was clear that the occupants thereof were not all loyal to one another. The men missed things. First, odds and ends disappeared. A button-brush, a comb, a tin of blacking or a red herring bought for tea. Then money went—pence, not too plentiful with soldiers, and hoarded up[137] between pay-days, in cleaning bag or knapsack, to be drawn upon as required for the men’s menus plaisirs.

There was evidently a thief in the room.

‘Yes: and he’s got to be found out too,’ said Joe Hanlon. ‘There ain’t been such a thing known in the Duke’s Own these years past.’

‘No, nor wouldn’t be now,’ said another, ‘if we got honest lads as recruits. We want no swell-mobsmen and high-falutin dandies with their grand airs, and their fine talk, who come from no one knows where.’

‘What d’ye mean?’ asked Hanlon sharply. ‘If that’s a slap at my towney, I give you the lie, and no two words about it. Larkins is as honest a young chap as ever took the shilling.’

‘Well, Jubbock said—’

[138]

‘It’s just what I thought,’ said ‘the Boy.’ ‘Jubbock means mischief, but I’ll circumvent him, or my name’s not Joe Hanlon.’

Matters were presently brought to a crisis. Two half-crowns, a shilling and some coppers were stolen on the day following pay-day, and the men were growing furious.

‘I’d swear to my half-crown anywhere,’ said one victim. ‘It had a twist at the edges and a scar on the Queen’s nose.’

‘Let’s all agree to be searched—our kits, and packs, and all.’

‘Yes, yes,’ everybody cried. ‘We’ll call the colour-sergeant, and do it all regular and proper, so we will.’

There was a general stampede out of the room. Jubbock only was left in it, and Hanlon, who had been shaving behind the door, and was not visible.

[139]

The men came trooping back, headed by the colour-sergeant—a stout, consequential little man, who felt that his position was only second in dignity to that of the commander-in-chief.

‘No man must leave the room. You, Corporal Closky, see to that. Now, Sergeant Limpetter, we’ll take the beds with their kits as they come.’

The search was regularly and carefully conducted amid a decorous silence.

All at once there was a loud shout. The money had been discovered in one of the packs.

It was Herbert’s.

‘Larkins,’ cried the colour-sergeant, ‘I’d never have believed it.’

There was a hubbub of voices, the prominent expressions being, ‘I told you so,’ or ‘What did I say?’ followed by a hoarse[140] shout for vengeance, for condign punishment of the despicable thief.

‘A court-martial! a barrack-room court-martial,’ cried several men in a breath, and the cry was taken up by the room.

‘Stop! Give the lad fair play,’ said a new voice, and Joe Hanlon stepped from behind the door.

‘Why, what do you know about it?’ the colour-sergeant asked. ‘Isn’t the evidence as straight as it can be? He was all but taken in the act. The money, which is sworn to, is found in his pack.’

‘Aye, but who put it there?’

‘Himself, of course. Who else?’ It was Jubbock who spoke.

‘You did. I saw you.’

The shot told. Jubbock visibly quailed.

‘It’s a lie. I’ll swear I never touched the pack; I’m ready to take my dying oath—’

[141]

‘I saw you, man; I was there, behind the door, shaving, and you thought you was all alone’st in the room. I saw you go to Larkins’ bed, take the money out of your pocket, wrap it in a rag, and put it in Larkins’ pack.’

‘I didn’t, I swear.’

‘After all, it’s only one man’s word against another’s,’ said the colour-sergeant, magisterially.

‘How else could it have got there? Don’t you know,’ Hanlon asked of Jubbock, ‘don’t you know that Larkins is in hospital, and been there these three days past? How could he have touched the pack? He’s not been in the room for three days or more.’

‘That’s right,’ said the colour-sergeant. ‘There’s no more to be said. Jubbock, I would not be in your shoes. You must go to the guard-room.’

[142]

‘No, no, no;’ the men were all furious. ‘He’s the thief, the mean hound. Let’s settle it ourselves. A court-martial, a barrack-room court-martial, sergeant.’

‘Well, have it your own way. Here, Snaggs, Cusack, Hippisley, and Muldoon, you’re the four oldest soldiers in the company; go into my bunk and talk it over. Say what’s to be done with him.’

They came back presently.

‘He’s guilty. Three dozen with the sling of his own rifle; that’s our sentence—’

‘Which I approve,’ said the colour-sergeant, and the informal punishment was forthwith administered in a way which would have gladdened the heart of the fiercest old martinet who ever told the drummer to lay on.

Herbert heard all about it, as soon as[143] he came out of hospital, and was not sorry for the villain who had so nearly led him into a terrible scrape. Had the case been proved against him it would have ruined him utterly, for now at length promotion, humble enough, but still advancement, was close at hand. Within a week or two the regimental orders contained a notification that Private Herbert Larkins, of F company, was appointed a lance-corporal.

This raised him at once above the malevolence of enemies such as Jubbock. But it gave him work enough for half a dozen. The lance-corporal, the junior grade of non-commissioned officer, is a sort of general utility man, whose duties begin at daylight and do not end at night. He must be always clean and well dressed, or adieu to hope of further promotion. He must be at the beck and call of the company sergeants,[144] and ready to fly for the sergeant-major. He must be peremptory yet judicious with the privates, whom, although he was one himself yesterday, he is called upon now to command. Difficult, not to say arduous, as were his functions, Herbert managed to discharge them to the satisfaction of his superiors, and soon became known in the regiment as a smart and intelligent young man.

One evening it fell to his lot to take the ‘order book’ round for the perusal of the officers of the company. Ernest Farrington was one of them, and in due course Herbert came to his quarters. He knocked and heard the usual ‘Come in.’

‘Orders, sir.’

‘Orders! All right. One moment—’ ‘Yes, sir; that’s all I know about it,’ went on young Farrington, in continuation evidently[145] of a previous talk. His interlocutor was Major Cavendish-Diggle.

‘You don’t know what became of Lady Farrington? Where is she?’

‘At a private asylum—Dr. Plum’s, at Greystone, the other end of the county, you know.’

‘To be sure. It must have given Sir Rupert great annoyance. But now it’s all happily settled, of course?’

Diggle was just then making the running for Miss Farrington, and wished to be quite certain that there was no fear of future disinheritance.

‘Absolutely,’ said Ernest. ‘The crazy old creature won’t be heard of again, probably.’

‘Shall I leave the order book, sir?’ Herbert then asked, and they remembered they were not alone. They little[146] guessed who their listener was, and how much they had inadvertently revealed to him.

He had long wished to ascertain the whereabouts of his kind patroness, and now he knew. What use he might make of the information did not occur to him. After all, what could a poor soldier do against such a powerful enemy as Sir Rupert Farrington? Still the mouse helped the lion. And it was something to know exactly what had become of poor Lady Farrington. If he could but come across the Larkins, there might be some hope of his re-establishing himself, perhaps of again putting forward his claims. But the only reply he received from the War Office, to which he had written, was that Sergeant Larkins was employed as a barrack-sergeant abroad, and could not at the moment be traced. He[147] must wait, that was clear. But everything comes to him who can wait, and Herbert was still young enough to be sanguine and full of hope.
CHAPTER IX.  A BALL IN BARRACKS.
The first of September was a great day always at Farrington Hall. Sir Rupert preserved very strictly; he was fond of shooting, and his coverts were always well stocked. They had a large party in the house; men chiefly, good guns who could be relied upon to do their share in swelling the Farrington ‘bag.’

This year several of Ernest’s brother officers were to have been invited, but Major Diggle man?uvred so cleverly that none of them were asked but himself. He had his own reasons for keeping men away from the Hall. He was not afraid of rivals, of course—who among the Duke’s Own was[149] there to compete with him? Still they might inadvertently interfere with his little game; and he preferred, at least for the present, to have the field all to himself.

Major Cavendish-Diggle was much appreciated at the Hall. Lady Farrington, a foolish, inconsequent woman, who was entirely wrapped up in Ernest, her only son, received the Major almost with effusion. He had been, oh, so kind to Ernest! She knew it; it was no use his disclaiming it, and she was deeply grateful to him.

‘Ith thutch a trial joining a regiment; everything tho thrange, and Erney tho young, tho inexperienced; he would have been mitherable, quite mitherable, but for you.’

Lady Farrington was a large fair woman; so fair as to be almost colourless. Her manner was not without distinction, and[150] would have been impressive but for the vapidity of her remarks, and a trick of utterance due, seemingly, to her having too many teeth in her mouth, which robbed her words of anything like expression, and sometimes made them unintelligible. Ernest, her son, greatly took after her. He was tall, but rather shambling in gait, and still excessively thin. In voice and manner of speech he reproduced Lady Farrington exactly. His mouth also seemed full of hot potatoes, or too full of teeth; and as he had a trick of keeping it constantly open, as though to cool the potatoes, or air his teeth, his general expression was vacuous in the extreme. A rather full lower lip and a very receding chin did not add to his personal charms. You gathered at once from his face and air that he was weak, irresolute, easily led, and that he[151] might, if misled, slide soon into vicious ways.

But he had improved wonderfully since he had joined the Duke’s Own. They all said so. Even Sir Rupert, dark and undemonstrative as he was generally, thawed enough to say that he thought soldiering would make a man of Ernest—if anything would. Letitia, as Miss Farrington was called, and who in many respects resembled her father, changed her tone on seeing how much Ernest was changed for the better. Her attitude towards him had hitherto been one of patronage mixed with spite. Although outwardly she was very affectionate—in her heart she bore him a grudge because he was one of the sex commonly called superior to her own. She was the elder by three or four years; she had far more brains—‘not that that was surprising’—as[152] she said when she was more than usually venomous, seeing that Ernest had next to none. She was a Farrington, as was evident from her likeness to her father, while her brother was clearly a Burdakin, like his mother. Why should an absurd and monstrously unfair custom constitute him the heir and future head of the family, while she must be satisfied with what her father might choose to give her as a marriage portion or as a settlement for life? She had always bitterly resented the Salic law as it obtained in England with regard to the succession of estates and titles.

Letitia was, however, much more civil to Ernest now. There may be many subtle reasons for such sudden changes of demeanour. Major Cavendish-Diggle was perhaps not remotely connected with Letitia’s. He was Ernest’s bosom friend; what if he presently[153] developed into a friend and admirer of her own? Letitia was not exactly ill-favored, but she was certainly not a beauty in the strict sense of the term. Dark complexioned and thin lipped, but with a nose too sharp, and cheek bones too high, her face was not strikingly attractive to say the least of it; and the fact was being gradually borne in upon her, as she grew on in years, by the slackness with which suitors sought her hand. Major Cavendish-Diggle was one of the first who showed better taste. Why should not men admire her? She had a neat well-proportioned figure. Her eyes were good, of the deep brown piercing order; her dark hair was abundant and rich. She was a good talker, had all the accomplishments of a well-educated young lady, and a large share of that indescribable air of good breeding, of that perfect ease in[154] manner and thorough savoir faire, which are only to be seen in women of good station—all of which Diggle felt would be extremely becoming in a colonel’s or general officer’s wife. If the thin lips and fierce eyes foretold a vixenish temper when thwarted, or if the world went wrong with her, these were bad points still in embryo, little likely to deter so matter of fact a wooer as Diggle from prosecuting his suit.

Not that he precipitated matters. He could see, with half an eye, that Miss Farrington accepted his attentions cheerfully enough; but he was very doubtful whether her parents would look upon him with equal favour. Indeed, Sir Rupert had more than once spoken in a way to damp Diggle’s hopes. The baronet held his head high. He evidently knew what was due to himself. Having passed his early years as a[155] struggling solicitor, barely able to keep the wolf from his door, he was now very eloquent about mésalliances, and the proper maintenance of distinctions of class. The major’s heart misgave him, for reasons best known to himself, when he heard Sir Rupert inveighing against the annoyance of upstart tradesmen, who, on the strength of fortunes amassed by not too reputable business (so he said), aped the manners of their betters, and tried to push themselves forward into the front rank of society. This very visit to Farrington Hall, a crusty old county magnate to whom Diggle had been formally introduced, had remarked rather pointedly upon the major’s name.

‘Diggle, Diggle, I know the name. To be sure. Get my tea from Diggle’s. Devilish good tea too—no connection, major, eh?’

[156]

At which Major Cavendish-Diggle inwardly shuddered, although he replied promptly enough.

‘Come and taste our champagne at Triggertown, Mr. Burkinshaw; it’s far better than the best tea in the world.’ Whereby the inconvenient question was for the moment satisfactorily shelved.

Diggle knew, therefore, that much circumspection would be necessary if he aspired to Letitia’s hand. All he could hope to gain was the girl’s good-will and co-operation, and this, by his assiduous, although diplomatically veiled attentions, he secured in due course.

Meanwhile he sought and entirely succeeded in making himself agreeable to all in the house. He talked ‘central fire’ with Sir Rupert, parochial business and district visiting with Lady Farrington, who pretended[157] to play the Dorcas in the parish; he discussed turnips and quarter sessions with the squires and local magnates, who thought that such matters comprised the whole duty of man; last of all, he played duets and danced with Miss Farrington after dinner, in a way she called, and really felt to be divine.

‘It does not bore you to dance?’ she asked him one evening.

‘And with you? No, indeed, and really I am passionately devoted to it.’

‘Some men now-a-days are so fine. They stand about the doors at a dance like farm servants at a fair waiting to be hired.’

‘That’s not the way with the Duke’s Own,’ said Diggle, laughing. ‘No idlers are allowed when we give a ball. You should see our youngsters dance; and we have a string band on purpose for dance music.’

[158]

‘Delightful! Do give us a ball, Major Diggle.’

‘With all my heart; when you like. You shall fix the day, and it shall be the finest Triggertown has ever seen.’

The subject was re-opened another day, when Diggle was not by.

‘Does it rest with him?’ incredulous Sir Rupert asked of Ernest. ‘What does your colonel say?’

‘Oh, Colonel Prioleau’s “not in it” compared to Major Cavendish. We always call him Major Cavendish, he likes it better. The Major’s the leading man in the regiment. He does just as he pleases. There’s nobody like him.’

And Ernest went off into p?ans of praise, expatiating upon Diggle’s innumerable good qualities with all the eloquence (it was not much) he could command.

[159]

But he did not exaggerate the Major’s influence in the regiment. The ball, which came off a month or so later, was on a scale of unprecedented splendour, mainly because Diggle had resolved that it should be so. He had taken the affair altogether into his own hands. It was he who insisted that the ices should come straight from Gunter’s, that there should be foie gras, plovers’ eggs, and fresh truffles at supper; it was he who had conceived the brilliant idea of placing silver-hooped barrels in the tea rooms, full of champagne constantly on tap. He had commissioned the best decorators in London to do up the ball rooms; one built, contiguous to the mess-house, a boudoir, intended for the sole use of ladies, which was furnished with ivory toilet appliances, and lined with amber satin throughout; another designed an artificial grotto filled with[160] blocks of real ice, which, as they melted, fed a number of fountains, whose waters fell in showers of sweet-scented spray; a third, entrusted with the floral decorations, grouped great masses of tropical plants, a wealth of rich variegated colours in the corridors, before the fireplaces, and in all the best points of view. There were two rooms for dancing; in one the inimitable string band of the Duke’s Own performed, in the other a detachment of Coote and Tinney’s was specially engaged.

‘Ith moth wontherful, thertainly,’ said Lady Farrington, in raptures, as Diggle received her; and having presented her to quiet Mrs. Prioleau, who was in duty bound to do the honours, but who was utterly bored and worn out after the first five minutes, led her to a seat of state on a sort of dais at the top of the room.

[161]

‘Oh, Major Cavendish-Diggle!’ cried Letitia, ‘you have indeed achieved a most triumphant success. It’s like a scene in fairy-land. The flowers, and the innumerable lights, the falling waters. Exquisite, enchanting;’ and she half closed her eyes, as in an ecstasy of bliss.

‘I wonder what it will all cost?’ growled Sir Rupert, sotto voce. ‘A pretty penny. I shall have Ernest overdrawing again.’

The fact being that, although Ernest received a handsome allowance, his account was perpetually overdrawn. Constant association with Diggle did not tend to economical ways. What with grouse for breakfast, and hot-house fruits for lunch; what with great guest nights, and expensive wines flowing freely, his mess bills were enormous. Then there were his horses, his dog-cart to take him to the station, his[162] chambers in the neighbourhood of St. James’s, his boot varnish, and his new hats once a fortnight, and his fresh ‘button-holes’ every two or three hours. Sir Rupert hardly knew how the money went, but he knew that the six hundred a year he allowed his son, which was more than he had enjoyed for years until he came into the title, did not go half as far as it should, and he grumbled at the extravagance and ostentation of this great ball.

The baronet was not in the best of humours, therefore, as he stood upon one of the two raised platforms which had been erected on each side of the regimental colours, for the accommodation of the most distinguished guests. The colours were uncased, and drooped gracefully over a trophy of swords and bayonets, the whole being under the protection of two stalwart[163] sentries in full uniform, who stood erect and impassive, like stone statues, perfectly unmoved by the revels in progress around. It was a signal honour to be permitted to mount guard in the ball-room, and only the finest-looking and the steadiest men were selected for the duty. But the duty was fatiguing, and the sentries were relieved every hour, the relief being carried out quietly, but strictly in accordance with the regulations, by non-commissioned officers carefully selected, like the sentries, on account of their smartness and gallant bearing.

While Sir Rupert was standing scowling at the entertainment, for which, without sharing in the honour and glory, he would probably have to pay, the relief marched in. He looked on at the ceremony without interest, heard with indifferent ears the[164] trite words of command, ‘Port arms, take post, shoulder, order,’ and the rest, when something in the aspect of the corporal in command attracted his attention, and he found himself looking curiously at the soldier’s face.

Surely he knew it? Where had he seen it before?

Then with a sudden start he remembered. The man was the living image of cracked Lady Farrington’s protégé—of that lad whom he, Sir Rupert, had inveigled down into Devonshire, and left there to starve. Could it possibly be the same man? Did the fellow know him? Apparently not.

He was still debating the point as the relief marched away, when all doubts were set at rest by hearing a very young lady, a child, in fact (it was Edith Prioleau), say[165] laughingly, and with the accents of Stratford-le-Bow, as she touched the corporal on the arm with her fan,

‘En bien, Caporal Larkins, comment vous portez-vous?’

To which the corporal replied, with a smile,

‘Très bien, mademoiselle. Et vous?’

There could be no mistake. Look, name, voice, all were the same. What a curious fatality! In the same regiment as his son—the true heir and the false serving side by side. Should he tell Ernest? Then Sir Rupert, pondering much, came to the conclusion that it would be best to keep his own counsel, but resolved to put, if possible, a watch upon the young man.
CHAPTER X.  MUTINY IN THE RANKS.
There was great grief in the Duke’s Own. Colonel Prioleau was about to leave the regiment. He had commanded it for a number of years, and would have liked to have gone on commanding it to the end of the chapter, but promotion to the rank of general was fast approaching him, and he felt that he must ‘realise’ at least a part of his cash. Colonels of regiments in old days served for about tenpence a-day. The rest of their pay barely represented the interest upon the capital sum they had sunk in purchasing their rank. By exchanging to half-pay before promotion, a regimental lieutenant-colonel was able to pull a few[167] thousands out of the fire; and this Colonel Prioleau did.

There was great grief in the regiment at his approaching retirement. It was not so much on account of his personal qualities, although these—more particularly his easy-going laissez aller system—had long gained him great popularity, but because the command was to pass into the hands of one who was not, as the saying is, a ‘Duke’s Own man.’ Major Byfield had exchanged into the corps some few years previously, very much against the will of the regiment. Not that there was anything against him. Appearances were indeed in his favour. He was a quiet gentlemanly little person, with that slightly apologetic manner, and hesitating air, which often earn a man appreciation from his fellows, because they indicate a tacit acknowledgment of his inferiority.[168] Major Byfield showed himself still more nervous and undecided on joining the Duke’s Own. Although as a field officer his position was assured, and entitled him to considerable deference from all, he seldom claimed it or asserted himself more than he could help. His brother officers tolerated him, and were civil to him when they saw him, which was not often; but they yielded him no respect, and suffered him to interfere very little in the discipline and management of the corps. What could he know about the Duke’s Own, or its regimental ‘system?’ He had come from the 130th which, it was well known, had a very different ‘system,’ although both were, in fact, ruled by the Queen’s Regulations, and should have been governed on precisely the same lines. There is a good deal of mystery made and much stress laid upon the ‘system’[169] in force in a regiment. No doubt in many minor details there is a marked difference, but the broad outlines are, or ought to be, the same. But it is a favourite dogma, especially with officers in whom esprit de corps is strong, that no one can understand this system unless he has been trained in a regiment and assimilated it with his earliest ideas. So when the major spoke even in a whisper, or made the faintest hint of a suggestion, he was pooh-poohed and put down. Diggle, his fellow, although junior field officer, quietly said that it was all nonsense, that Byfield misunderstood the situation, that he had better wait till he had longer experience in the regiment before he presumed to put forward his views.

Major Byfield was thus satisfactorily repressed—but only for the time. He had[170] views and opinions of his own upon soldiering, and he was determined when opportunity came to give them full play. They had long persistently preached up and paraded before him the system in force in the Duke’s Own, but he had for as long come to the conclusion that the system was a bad one, and was resolved to reform it should he ever come into power. His character was a strange medley of opposite qualities. Behind the nervous diffidence, which being upon the surface seemed his most prominent trait, was an amount of quiet self-opinionated obstinacy which boded ill for those under his orders should he ever have much authority in his hands. Mrs. Byfield could have opened people’s eyes had she been permitted to disclose the secrets of the Byfield ménage. The major was as narrow-minded as a woman, and as[171] prone to mistake the relative proportion of things, to entirely ignore the main issues, to neglect or overlook broad questions, and concentrate himself with much tenacity upon comparatively unimportant details.

These peculiarities began to develop themselves very soon after he obtained the command. It became evident that the new colonel was a different man from what was supposed. He had been deemed a cipher—one who could hardly call his soul his own; but he proved a fussy, fidgetty, anxious creature, who from nervous apprehension, backed up by no small amount of self-conceit, promised to make everybody’s life a burden to him. The officers as a body began to fear that the good old times were on the wane. The decadence of the Duke’s Own must have fairly commenced when leave for hunting was refused and[172] there were two commanding officers’ parades on the same day. The fact was, the Colonel had resolved to reform the regiment according to his own ideas, and had already set to work with a will. The points on which it fell short of perfection were very clear to his own mind—a weak, but extremely active mind. He thought the officers neglected their business and knew too little of it—facts incontrovertible no doubt, although the remedy was not easy to discover, and needed stronger treatment than Colonel Byfield was in a position to apply. He felt dissatisfied, too, with the demeanour of the men in quarters and on parade, and if it was more within his compass to bring about improvement in these respects, his task was likely to be surrounded with the greater difficulty if his officers were discontented and soured. But the Colonel could[173] not see much beyond the end of his nose, and rushed forward blindly to his fate.

To come in for a large share of criticism, not to say abuse, from those under his orders, is too commonly the lot of the regimental lieutenant-colonel. Colonel Byfield was no exception to the general rule. Before he had been in command a month, his officers generally began to disapprove of his proceedings; after three, they disliked him cordially; and this grew into positive hatred at the end of six. Of course they kept their opinions very much to themselves. English officers, however grievous their wrongs, whether real or fancied, never overstep the bounds of due subordination; and however much those of the Duke’s Own may have chafed at their commanding officer’s trying ways and irksome rule, they did no more than call him a ‘beast’ to one[174] another, and utter frequent and fervid, but private prayers for his translation to some other sphere in this world or the next. They bore their burden bravely enough, silently too and without protest, except when some graceless subaltern or more artful captain wilfully exhibited an utter ignorance of the very rudiments of drill by clubbing his company upon parade, or comported himself disgracefully at the weekly examinations—offences especially heinous in the eyes of a Colonel whose greatest ‘fad’ was to make his officers walking vade mecums or living encyclop?dias of military knowledge. The schoolmaster was abroad in the Duke’s Own, very much to everyone’s discomfort and dissatisfaction.

Excessive timidity, an exaggerated fear of constituted authority, were the secrets of Colonel Byfield’s irritating line of conduct.[175] He was for ever invoking the distant deities of the Horse Guards, and deprecating their wrath. As for their local chief priest, the general officer commanding the Triggertown district, whose authority was much more tangible and near at hand, Colonel Byfield had for him the most wholesome and abject apprehension. It was to appease the possible fury of this awful functionary that he worried and harassed the regiment from morning till night.

‘What will the general say?’ or ‘What will the general do?’ were phrases continually on his lips. He forgot that, as a matter of fact, the general, who was an ordinary general, would probably say or do nothing at all. But this professional ‘Jorkins’ was quoted on every occasion.

‘I cannot overlook your misconduct,’ he would say to Joe Hanlon, when brought up[176] for the thousandth time for being drunk. ‘The general won’t let me.’

‘As if the general cared,’ muttered ‘the Boy’ to himself.

‘I must punish you; I must, indeed.’

‘Colonel Prioleau never did, sir; and I hope, sir—’

‘Colonel Prioleau is not here now, and I don’t choose to be spoken to in that way. Fourteen days’ marching order drill; and if you come here again, I’ll try you for “Habitual”—I will, mark my words.’

‘What’s the good of serving on in the old corps now?’ said Hanlon, very wroth, after he had done his defaulter’s drill. ‘It’s not what it used to be. I’ll put in for my discharge.’

He was fully entitled to it. Twenty-one years’ service, all told. Five good-conduct badges, less one, which his recent misconduct[177] had robbed him of; for with old soldiers it is strength of head, or immunity from punishment that brings reputation; and Hanlon, thanks to Colonel Prioleau’s good nature, had the credit of being one of the best behaved men in the regiment.

‘I won’t stay to be humbugged about,’ he said, indignantly, to his comrade Herbert. ‘I’ll take my pension and look out for a billet in civil life.’

‘What can you get to do?’

‘Lots of things. Commissionaire, prison warder, attendant in a lunatic ’sylum.’

Herbert pricked up his ears.

‘Do you think you could get the last? I wish you would, and I’ll tell you why You’ve never heard my story?’

Whereupon Herbert told it all.

‘I knew you was a nob from the first. I saw it in your talk and in the cut of your[178] jib. Dr. Plum’s of Greystone, you say. Right you are. That’s where I’ll go. To-morrow, if not sooner, and I’ll give you the office—double quick. Hold on a bit, that’s all you’ve got to do; hold on, and do your duty, and it’ll all come right in the end. And see here—’

Hanlon looked about him, as if afraid of listeners.

‘Things ain’t comfortable in the old corps, not just now; and there’s going to be a row. They won’t let on to you,’cos you’re a non-com, and what’s more, only a recruit. There’s men in the regiment mean mischief, if they only get the chance; and if they don’t, they’ll make it, sure as my name’s Joe.’

‘What can they do?’

‘They don’t think or care. All they want is a rumpus, so as to get old Byfield[179] in trouble and make him leave, and that they’ll be able to do. Don’t join them, not whatever they say. Keep your ears cocked, and nip in—only on the right side.’

Hanlon had taken his discharge and got the promise of a billet at Dr. Plum’s, when the storm actually broke in the Duke’s Own.

Colonel Byfield had been agitated beyond measure at the news of the approaching move of his regiment to one of the large camps, and in view of the scrutiny which there awaited him his petty tyranny had passed all bounds. He had parades morning, noon, and night. He exercised the men ad nauseam at squad drill, goose step, and the manual and platoon. He marched them perpetually in battalion up and down the barrack yard, and he took them out day after day upon Triggertown[180] Common for light infantry drill. All this, albeit torture of the most painful description, they could have tolerated probably without a murmur had not the Colonel, dissatisfied with the progress made, sentenced the regiment to be deprived of all leave in all ranks.

This was the point at which the worm turned. One fine morning, long after the ‘dressing’ bugle had sounded, followed by the ‘non-commissioned officers call’ and the ‘fall-in,’ not a man made his appearance upon parade. Colonel Byfield and the officers had the whole square to themselves. The rest of the regiment with the exception of a number of men belonging to one company, F, formed up in the ditch, and while the commanding officer was whistling at vacancy, marched off in excellent order to a distant part of the glacis,[181] where they piled arms and refused to return.

It would be tedious, and it indeed forms no part of this history to narrate, except in the briefest terms, the progress of this very serious military lache. The men, as is usual in such cases, went to the wall. The ringleaders were hunted out, tried and severely punished, and the whole regiment was ordered to proceed on foreign service forthwith. The causes which had led to the disturbance were closely investigated, and as a natural consequence Colonel Byfield was placed upon half-pay.

It was for a long time doubtful whether Diggle, who was the next senior, should be allowed to succeed to the command; but he brought all the interest he could to bear, and he eventually won the day.

As Colonel Diggle, commanding a corps[182] really distinguished, although temporarily under a cloud, he found Sir Rupert Farrington not indisposed to accept his proposals for Letitia; and the marriage came off just before the regiment embarked for Gibraltar.

It was at Farrington Hall that the conversation turning, as it had done more than once before, upon the recent mutiny, brought our hero, Herbert Larkins, prominently to the front.

‘The movement was not general, certainly not,’ Diggle had said. ‘One of the companies, F, Ernest’s in fact, did not take any share in it.’

‘Does Ernest deserve the credit of that?’

‘Not exactly. It was due rather to an astute young corporal, who quietly locked the doors of the men’s rooms. They couldn’t get out to join.’

[183]

‘Really? He was promoted, of course?’

‘Yes; he is now a sergeant, and is sure to get on. Oh yes, young Larkins is sure to get on.’

‘It was young Larkins, was it?’

‘Do you know him?’

‘I think I do. I will tell you about it one of these days.’

Diggle, as one of the Farrington family, would soon have a right to know.
CHAPTER XI.  SOME OLD FRIENDS MEET.
For some time after their arrival on the Rock, the officers of the Duke’s Own called it a detestable hole. They were sore at their expatriation and the manner of it; they regretted the joys they had left behind, and could see no good thing in the much vaunted station where they were now relegated for their sins. There was nothing to be done in the place; the climate was intolerable, and there was nothing to eat. They had arrived towards the end of the summer, and the season, never cool, had been unusually sultry. They came in too for the tail end of a long visitation of the ‘Levanter,’ the much dreaded east wind,[185] which caps the Rock with a perpetual cloud and makes life miserable to all; and the welcome change, when it came at length, was heralded by a tremendous thunderstorm and drenching rains. The Duke’s Own were still under canvas at the North Front, waiting till the outgoing regiment vacated its quarters at Windmill Hill, and their encampment was nearly swept away by the storm. Officers lost baggage, the men their kits, and the whole regiment united in deep denunciations of the inhospitable Rock.

Nor did Gibraltar seem to improve upon a closer acquaintance. Its joys and amusements, what were they after London and the shires? Racing! the idea was too preposterous. Half-a-dozen tinpot nags without pace or breeding, cantering round a Graveyard and finishing in a trot. What[186] sort of sport was that to offer the Duke’s Own, which had always had its own regimental drag to witness the great events at home, and which kept open house in its luncheon tent at Ascot and Goodwood and upon Epsom Downs? The hunting too! heaven save the mark! To talk of hunting with the sweepings of a few second-rate kennels, dignified with the name of a pack, when the huntsman was a local genius, and foxes were said to be so scarce or so little enterprising that it was often necessary to have recourse to a red herring! What was such hunting to men who had been constantly out (so they said) with the Heythorp, the Bramham Moor, the Pytchley and Quorn?

These were the earliest impressions of Gibraltar prevailing among the officers of the Duke’s Own. But our friends eventually[187] changed their tone. By their first contemptuous abstention, they found, in the first place, that they lost all the fun that was going, and, next, that, although the sport was second-rate, they could not excel in it even when they tried. One or two of the Duke’s Own, who were said to be in all the secrets of the Dawson and John Scott stables, went in for some of the plates and cups at the autumn meeting, and signally failed in everything. Later on, when the hunting season really began, and they turned out in a body in red coats and the most undeniable tops, to cut everybody down, they were chagrined to find that it was much more difficult to follow than they supposed. Red coats and mahogany tops were nowhere at the end of the first burst. One or two men were completely thrown out; a few tried the breakneck[188] country between ‘the Rivers’ only to crane at length and turn back from the precipices and steep inclines. After that first day the Duke’s Own spoke more respectfully of the Calpe Hunt. By and bye they became less critical in other respects, and at length, when they had been some six months on the Rock, entered as fully into its amusements, and enjoyed them as thoroughly as the oldest stagers in the place.

There was one person, however, connected with the Duke’s Own who highly appreciated Gibraltar from the first. Mrs. Cavendish-Diggle found the station extremely to her taste. A bride still in the hey-day of her married life, full of satisfaction at the importance of her position as the commanding officer’s wife, with the attention she thereby received from all the Duke’s Own, Letitia found soldiering, particularly[189] at Gibraltar, everything that could be desired. But what she enjoyed most of all was the chance she now had of bullying the brother who hitherto had had it all his own way at home. Ernest might be the most worthy at Farrington Hall, but in the Duke’s Own he was under Colonel Diggle’s command, and Colonel Diggle was now unquestionably under that of his wife. How the exquisite and self-sufficient Diggle had succumbed was a mystery which will probably remain unexplained till the curtain lectures of the Diggle couple are given to the world. Then it will no doubt transpire that in the exercise of those inquisitorial functions which every wife naturally arrogates to herself, Letitia had come across certain damaging facts connected with the Colonel’s antecedents which put him completely under his partner’s thumb. That[190] Mrs. Diggle would come ere long to command the regiment was already plainly apparent to all, and the fact was not hailed with particular joy in the corps. Petticoat government in a regiment is not the most successful with, nor is it the most palatable to, those most closely concerned. Letitia’s temper was a little too imperious to be pleasant. She made nipping remarks, and snubbed and put people down in a way they hated but were powerless to resent. ‘Oh! how can you say so, Major Greathed! You are wrong, quite wrong. She married Lord Chigford’s second son. But then you can’t be expected to know;’ or ‘It’s not what I have been accustomed to, Mrs. Moxon. In my father’s house the housekeeper looked to these things. But then of course you—’ which might be taken to imply that Mrs. Moxon had been brought up[191] very differently, and could not be expected to know what was what. Or she lectured the youngsters when they came within her reach, which was only when they wanted leave, knowing that without her good word they could not expect an hour. ‘I hear you are getting sadly in debt, Mr. Mauleverer. I shall write to Sir George.’ ‘So you were not at church parade last Sunday, Mr. Smythe. The Colonel was quite cross.’ ‘Don’t get entangled by any of these bright-eyed scorpions, Mr. Curzon. You see I know all about it. Carmen Molinaro would never do for you.’ All of which irritated and exasperated the officers of the Duke’s Own very considerably.

The man who most cordially hated her, however, was the adjutant, Mr. Wheeler. He was chafed perpetually by her interference. Nothing was sacred to her. She[192] rushed into professional matters with all the effrontery of the fool. So long as she contented herself with favouring her pets among the soldiers’ wives Wheeler did not care. It was when she presumed to advise as to the orderly room work, the correspondence, promotions, and daily routine, that he not unnaturally turned rusty. Whether or not she read the colonel’s letters he scarcely cared, but he did resent having to prepare important despatches from her notes, or send out letters which she had obviously drafted with her own hand. Nor could he, after so many years of nearly absolute authority, readily or cheerfully resign his power in the regiment. Hitherto advancement for the non-commissioned officers had depended mainly upon his good word. Now it was becoming evident that their promotion would[193] depend in future upon that of the colonel’s wife. In one particular case which nearly affected a friend of ours they had fought a sharp battle; the adjutant was obstinate, but the lady was more so, and in the end the latter won the day. It was entirely through Letitia’s good offices that Herbert Larkins became a colour-sergeant long before the ordinary time. She had taken a fancy to the young man—not, you may be sure, because of his presumed connection with the family, for of that she had not the slightest inkling—but because it had lain within his power to do her important service, and because he was a smart, well-grown fellow to boot. Letitia, like many other ill-favoured women, had a keen eye for manly beauty.

But she had really reason to be grateful to Herbert. One day, when he was on[194] guard upon the Upper Road, Mrs. Cavendish-Diggle, followed by her groom, passed on their way towards the town. Something startled Letitia’s horse, and, although an excellent rider, she found he was more than she could manage. After passaging like a crab along the road for some hundred yards, he took to plunging and rearing in a way to dislodge the most accomplished horse-woman from her seat. The groom had ridden up alongside, but he was able to render little assistance, and his best efforts only made Letitia’s horse worse. Had not Herbert promptly supervened, Mrs. Diggle would undoubtedly have been thrown, and probably badly hurt. But with firm hand on the rein he soon mastered the horse, then gradually pacified him.

‘I’m sure, sergeant, I’m extremely[195] obliged to you,’ said Mrs. Cavendish, directly she recovered her breath. ‘What is your name? I must speak of you specially to the Colonel—Colonel Diggle—you know me, I presume? and I see you belong to “us.”’

‘Herbert Larkins, Madam, F company,’ said our hero briefly, as he saluted.

‘Thank you again, so much.’ And with that the Colonel’s wife rode off.

She did speak of him and his conduct in the most glowing terms.

‘You must do something for him, Conrad.’

‘Certainly, I’ll make him a present; or, better still, you shall—a watch, or a pencil-case, or something.’

‘No, no; something in the regiment, I mean. Promote him.’

‘He’s very young. Barely a year a[196] sergeant. I don’t see my way, I don’t indeed.’

‘There are those vacant colours in G company,’ she said, displaying a curiously intimate acquaintance with regimental news.

‘Colour-sergeant! Impossible!’

‘Surely not, when I ask it.’

‘It would be grossly unfair. Promotions must not go by favour.’

‘Kissing does,’ she replied, as though he might expect no such reward unless he were more obliging. It was just possible that by this time Diggle could have deprived himself of the pleasure without any acute pang.

‘What would Mr. Wheeler say?’

‘That’s where it is. You think far more of displeasing Mr. Wheeler than of pleasing me. I feel hurt, Conrad; it’s not[197] what I have a right to expect, considering—’

When she got on this tack the Colonel threw up the sponge. He gave in about the promotion, although the adjutant, thereby making Letitia his enemy for life, tried hard to keep him up to the mark.

The whole thing would have been a job of the worst kind had Herbert been less worthy. But he had really developed into an excellent soldier, smart, personable, and thoroughly well up in his work. He had his drill-book at his fingers’ ends, and could handle a squad as well as any man in the corps. He had learnt by heart all the details of interior economy, and was fully competent to take the charge and payment of a company, or to do credit to his regiment in any position in which he might be[198] placed. All this Mr. Wheeler was forced to admit; and although he cherished a grudge against Herbert on account of what had passed, he so loved a good soldier that he could not bear malice long.

Colour-Sergeant Larkins was indeed fast becoming a very prominent person in the corps. Some backbiting and no little jealousy existed, no doubt, but he was the sort of man to soon outgrow and outlive such feelings. There was much in his manner and address to make him generally popular. His bright face, his cheerful voice, his manly straightforward ways, commended him of themselves. But he had other claims to the suffrages of his fellows. His old skill in games had not deserted him, and soldiers are very like schoolboys in their admiration and respect for personal prowess. The Duke’s Own eleven, thanks[199] to Herbert’s batting and bowling, won every match always at the North Front. His brother sergeants felt lucky if they could secure him for a hand of fives. In all other gymnastic exercises he came equally well to the front. At the garrison athletic sports, which presently came off, as they always do, upon the racecourse at the North Front, he carried everything before him, to the intense gratification of his comrades in the corps.

The name of Sergeant Larkins was indeed on every lip that day. All the world of Gibraltar was present. His Excellency the Governor came in state, so did the general, second in command, and officers of all grades with their wives; crowds of soldiers of all the regiments in garrison were there, and all cheered Herbert to the echo as he carried off the hurdle-race in magnificent[200] style. As for the Duke’s Own, a lot of them, frantic with delight, got him on their shoulders, and were carrying him about in triumph, when some one came up, and with a hurried nervous manner, said,

‘Sergeant Larkins; where’s Sergeant Larkins?’

‘Who wants him?’ said a dozen voices, thinking perhaps the governor had asked him to dinner, or the Queen had sent to make him a general on the spot.

‘An old friend. The oldest he’s got, I think he’ll say, when he sees me and hears my name.’

His enthusiastic supporters dropped Herbert, who came forward to speak to the inquirer.

‘It’s himself, himself, by all that’s holy! Hercules Albert, don’t you remember me?’ cried the man, as he seized both Herbert’s[201] hands, shaking them furiously, and seeming to wish to hug him in his arms.

It was the old Sergeant Larkins, his stepfather, for whom he had so long searched in vain.

‘I heard them calling out the name, and it sounded so queer that I thought I’d have a look at you. How you’ve grown! But tell me all about yourself. Quick, lad. I want to hear, and the mother she—’

‘She’s all right and well, I hope,’ Herbert asked, as soon as he could put in a word. ‘Let’s go to her at once. How comes it I’ve never seen you before?’

‘Only landed from Malta on transfer last week, myself, the missus, and three of the bairns, that’s how it was. But come along, come to the mother at once; she’ll be crazy with delight when she sees you, and so will all the rest.’
CHAPTER XII.  REVELATIONS.
The Larkins family had taken up their residence in a small cottage on the road to the Moorish Castle. Larkins père was now principal barrack-sergeant, and as such was entitled to fairly good quarters. He had aged considerably since our first acquaintance with him. His hair was grizzled, his gait was stiff as though his ankle-joints were affected by innumerable barrack inspections, and his eyes were weak from constant search for nail-holes or other barrack damages, or the continuous appraisement of fair wear and tear. Mrs. Larkins had also changed appreciably. She was still buxom, however, and her voice had[203] lost none of its shrill power when she was aroused. This was more seldom than of yore. Her children were no longer the trial they had once been. The two eldest boys were out in the world; Sennacherib was in the band of a regiment at Malta, and Rechab was at the same place on board a man-of-war. Two younger ones, Ascanius and Leonora, were still at home, and so was Jemima Ann, familiarly called Mimie, now a blooming maiden of nineteen, with a soft voice, a sweet face, and eyes bright enough to give the heart-ache to half the young fellows of the place.

The old sergeant preceded Herbert into the cottage, to prepare his wife for a surprise.

‘Some one I know, Jonadab? Some one I’ve not seen these years? A colour-sergeant in the Duke’s Own? What are[204] you driving at? I know no colour-sergeants; for the matter of that none of the Duke’s Own,’ Herbert heard her say as she came to the door.

The moment she set eyes upon her visitor she started and shook all over. She seemed dazed, and could frame no word of speech. Then all at once she gave way, and taking Herbert’s hands in hers, drew him towards her, kissing him again and again, while tears of joy ran down her cheeks.

‘What, Hercules, boy! My boy, my own sweet boy! This is a sight for sore eyes. Where have you dropped from, and in this dress? Come in, boy, come in and tell us all your news.’

And Herbert was led into the house.

Mimie came shyly forward when she was called to add her welcome to the brother she had almost forgotten. But she[205] offered him her cheek quite naturally, and received a sister’s salute, which, nevertheless, sent the warm blood tingling through her veins.

‘You are a sister to be proud of,’ said Herbert. ‘What a beauty you have grown!’

‘Grown!’ interrupted Mrs. Larkins. ‘It’s you who’ve grown out of all memory almost, except to those who love you. But now sit down and let’s know all about it. What brought you to take the shilling? and you never let on, not one word. You might have written to us, Hercules. We, Jonadab and me, have had you always in our thoughts, thinking you were getting to be a fine gentleman who’d have nothing to do with the likes of us.’

‘As if I could ever forget my mother.’

Mrs. Larkins made a gesture which[206] might have meant a strong negative to the expression.

‘When did you leave school? Why did you enlist! You never wrote to us.’

‘Four years ago. I was turned adrift in the world, that was why. I wrote over and over again to the Horse Guards, but could not hear where you were.’

‘And Lady Farrington, did she change her mind, or what?’

‘She went mad, so they said, and they locked her up in an asylum.’

‘Mad!’ shouted the sergeant. ‘Didn’t I always tell you so? mad? She were madder than Mike Horniblow who shot the Maltee, and as mad as our old colonel on an inspection parade.’

‘How was she locked up? who did it? Let’s know all that,’ said Mrs. Larkins.

Herbert recounted fully all that had[207] occurred. His leaving Deadham School, the visit to the west country, Sir Rupert Farrington’s ill-treatment.

‘So that’s what the poor soul was after! Searching for a grandson to succeed to the title and estates,’ cried the sergeant. ‘And you were the last that she found. Well: it’s an ill wind, you know; leastways you got the schooling, even if you are none of her kith or kin.’

‘I suppose I am not, really?’ Herbert asked, looking very hard at Mrs. Larkins, who met the glance without lowering her eyes. There was something in her expression which Herbert immediately understood. There must be an explanation between them, but it could not take place then and there.

‘How should you be?’ asked the sergeant. ‘Didn’t I take you over with the[208] mother when I married her at York? The widow Conlan, she was then, and you her only child.’

‘Conlan is my name then?’

‘By rights, yes; but you’ve took that of Larkins now, and you are a credit to it; so you may take it for what it’s worth, and keep it till you can find a better.’

Was there ever a chance of that? Was he really a Farrington after all, and might he yet prove his claims? Of this no one could give him a clue but Mrs. Larkins, and he gathered from her manner that the subject was one which she would only discuss when they were alone. He had no chance that time of speaking to her on this the subject nearest his heart. The rest of the evening was spent in the interchange of personal news, as is the case when friends and relatives meet after a long separation,[209] and there is so much on both sides to tell and hear.

But Herbert went to the cottage next day. The sergeant, fortunately, was at the barrack-office; Mimie was out of the way, and Mrs. Larkins had the house all to herself.

‘I want to know all you can tell me, mother. Is it not natural? To whom else should I come? For you are my mother, are you not?’

‘No mother could feel more warmly for her child than I do for you, Hercules.’

‘Do but tell me, plainly—I am really your son?’

Mrs. Larkins was silent.

‘It is cruel to keep me in this suspense, mother,—for you have been one to me always. I implore you to tell me the whole truth.’

[210]

‘I will, Hercules, or Herbert as you ought by rights to be called. It is a hard matter to tell you all the tale, for there is shame and sorrow in it enough, and that for both you and me.

‘I must begin at the beginning. Years, years ago when I was a bit of a girl in my father’s house, I and my twin sister Annie—whom I loved dearly, as the apple of my eye—father lived at Newark-on-Trent; he was a small tradesman, but well enough to do. Mother died when we were quite chicks, and we grew up to have things much our own way. Annie was a real beauty, and had dozens of lads after her always, but she never fancied none of them. At last luck sent a recruiting party of the 12th Lancers to Newark. One of them was a young corporal, as proper a chap as ever took the shilling, fair spoken, well[211] educated, and superior to the common run. He soon got courting our Annie, and he was the first she favoured. Father did not like it—not a bit. He hated soldiers, and was very rough about Corporal Smith. Annie and he had high words over it, and one day she was not to be found.

‘The recruiters had left the town too.

‘I won’t tell you what grief there was at home. Father was like a madman, and I was little better. He tried hard to get her back. He went miles—to the other end of England—after the regiment, but he never caught them up. He was too late. The regiment had been ordered off to the Cape of Good Hope. Through the rector, father wrote to the War Office, inquiring after Corporal Smith and his wife. The answer came months later, to say that the corporal was alive and well, but that[212] he had no wife—at least no one according to the regimental books.

‘Father never held up his head after that, and within the year he died. I was nearly heart-broken too; but I was young, and I bore up better. As I was all alone in the world, and had the shop on my hands, I took a husband, who offered just then—Michael Conlan, a clerk in a maltster’s at Newark. He was a kindly soul, not over strong, but he helped me in the business, and we managed to get along.

‘One night Annie returned—not alone—she had a child with her, her own, a few months old only, and the two came, seeking shelter and rest. It was as I thought at first—the old story—betrayed, neglected, left.’

‘But you took her in?’ Herbert asked, eagerly.

[213]

‘Of course. Neither Michael nor myself asked any questions; our duty was plain, and it was one of love besides for me. All I know is what Annie herself told me, and that was not much. The corporal, it seems, belonged really to a higher station in life. He had quarrelled with his friends and left his home, and wanted never to see or hear of them again. But when Annie’s child was born—’

‘He had married her?’

‘Annie would not acknowledge it; although her silence told only against her own sweet name. She wore a ring, but so may any one; and as to all other proofs she obstinately refused to speak. I pointed out the hardship to her boy. She admitted that, but said she had promised and could not break her word. So I did not worry her, but left her to speak in her own good[214] time. That time never came. Before Annie had been back a week I saw she was not long for this world. She pined and pined. She looked eagerly for news from abroad, but none came from where she sought it, and the disappointment helped the disease in bringing on the end.

‘On her death-bed I swore to be a mother to her boy—’

‘To me?’ said Herbert, no longer in doubt; and as she nodded assent, he took her hard hand and kissed it again and again.

‘And nobly you have fulfilled your oath.’

‘I did my best, Herbert. But I have more to tell you. Your mother, just before she died, gave me a letter. It was from your father to his friends, and was only to be sent to them at Annie’s death, or if she[215] was in dire distress. The letter was addressed to Lady Farrington of Farrington Hall. It was not sealed, and I thought I might read what was inside. There were only a few words: “From Herbert to his mother—Be kinder to my boy.” I added a few of your bright curls, Herbert, and sent the letter on at once. But I gave no clue as to where it had come from. I wanted no answer. I was resolved to take no help from any one in doing my duty by you. I hated the whole of the Farringtons. I so hated the name of Herbert even, that we called you Hercules Albert instead.

‘Later on I lost Michael, my first husband; and I could not bear to remain in Newark alone. I sold up the shop and my belongings, and moved to York. It was there, as Mrs. Conlan, a widow, with one boy—you, Herbert—I met the Sergeant.[216] Things were not prospering with me. I married him gladly, and he has been a thorough good man to me.’

Herbert’s heart was too full for him to speak for some time. Anger, disappointment, anguish—all three feelings possessed him. He was angry with his father, sore at heart for his mother’s sorrow, disappointed that there was no more to tell him.

‘Do you think there was a marriage, mother?’

‘I do. I always did.’

‘It all turns upon that. I may have Farrington blood in me; but whether or no would matter little if I was not entitled to bear the name.’

‘You must make up your mind to your disappointment, Herbert. What clue can we get to the marriage after all these years?[217] Everybody who could speak to it is probably dead.’

‘My father—perhaps he is still alive.’

‘Would he not have sought us out before this if he had been? But he has never made a sign. Nothing but a miracle could do you any good, my boy. Better be contented as you are. And why should you be cast down? You are young and strong. You have been educated like a gentleman; have made a first-rate start, and have everything before you. Make a name for yourself in the world if you can, and don’t pine after what others might have given you.’

‘How is a mere sergeant to make himself a name?’

‘By sticking to his colours and doing his duty like a man. Non-commissioned[218] officers have got to the top of the tree before now. Why should not you?’

‘If we could only have a chance of service—there’s no other hope for a soldier. But we never have any fighting in these days.’

‘How do you know? You be ready for the chance when it offers, that’s all you’ve got to do. Get a commission, and you’ll hold yourself as high as Sir Rupert then, and meet him on equal terms.’
CHAPTER XIII.  FARRINGTON S’AMUSE.

It seemed as if fate had resolved to make Gibraltar the gathering-place of those with whom Herbert Larkins was destined to be most closely concerned. Not long after the rencontre with his best friends, the Larkins’, the news came that General Prioleau had been appointed to the command of the Infantry Brigade upon the Rock. Before the year was out, the former colonel of the Duke’s Own arrived with his wife and little Edith, now fast growing into a beautiful and attractive girl.

It was not long before Herbert saw her, and had an opportunity of noticing the change.

[220]

General Prioleau, like many others of his rank, had a strong affection for his old corps, a sort of sneaking regard which, although it did him all honour, led him to wish that he still commanded it, and to act very much as if he did. He was not the first general officer who, entrusted with the charge of several battalions, narrowed his interest to the one in which he had himself served. To dry-nurse the Duke’s Own on field days, to take an active share in its interior economy, to watch over its mess and all that appertained to the credit of the regiment, and generally to be as intimately associated with it as though he were still its colonel, were delights he could not forego. He was continually sending for Colonel Diggle to talk matters over, an interference which the great Cavendish resented, but was prohibited from protesting[221] against, by the rules of the service. Mrs. Diggle was not, and took full advantage of her exemption from the restrictions of military etiquette, to the extent of soundly abusing the general upon every occasion. Not that General Prioleau much cared. He did not command Mrs. Cavendish-Diggle, and directly he had made her acquaintance in her new character, he was heartily glad that he did not.

The general also visited the barracks of his old regiment repeatedly, on one excuse or another, but always with the avowed and really sincere intention of doing it a good turn. Now it was the reappropriation of quarters. Now the examination of drainage. Now the inspection of the married quarters or the canteen. Edith almost invariably accompanied him. She was in her element out here upon the Rock. The[222] r?le she now played was even more delightful than that of daughter of the regiment. There was much more importance and more movement in it. More variety too, and more power. Instead of knowing one regiment only, she now knew half a dozen. The circle of her acquaintance widened, and her military knowledge, such as it was. But her heart was with her first love always—the Duke’s Own. When the general inspected the old regiment, she stayed by his side through it all. They made her go in to lunch, much to quiet Mrs. Prioleau’s indignation when she heard of it; she sat on her pony close by the general, and, to judge by her remarks, seemed to take an active part in the whole proceedings. She kept up a running fire of comments.

‘There’s Mr. Wheeler; why, he’s getting quite old. And the sergeant-major,[223] he’s gray; why do they keep him so long, father? He must be past his work before this. And Colonel Diggle—is he a good colonel, father? I don’t think so. Well, as you say, perhaps I’m not a judge of colonels, but I am of gentlemen, and I don’t call him a gentleman—not a real gentleman—do you?’

‘My dear,’ the general said reprovingly, ‘you are a little too fast. Please remember—’

‘He’s not a gentleman according to my ideas. There are lots of better gentlemen in the ranks—why,’ almost with a shriek, ‘there’s my friend the learned pig—I mean the learned orderly. And, father, look! do look! They’ve made him a colour-sergeant—already!’

But her father was not attending.

‘Be good enough to form open column,[224] pile arms, and lay out kits,’ he was saying to Colonel Diggle, which man?uvre satisfactorily carried out, the general continued his inspection on foot, accompanied by his daughter, who tripped along, holding up her habit, nodding to old friends as she went along, and so deeply interested in holdalls, tins of blacking, and pairs of socks, that you might have thought kit inspection was the one joy of her life.

‘I am very glad to see you’ve got on so quickly,’ she said gravely to young Colour-Sergeant Larkins, as she touched him on the arm with her whip by way of emphasis. ‘You promised well, and I am pleased to think I was not disappointed,’ went on the young personage, with the air of a queen-regnant reviewing her troops.

It was a gracious sight, and one no man—an impressionable young sergeant like[225] Larkins least of all—was likely to forget. The trim figure in its snow-white habit, the pretty bright face and its framework of light curls, surmounted with a coquettish little white hat; the air with which she pointed with her whip to his chevrons and the bright colours surmounting them, as she tripped daintily along. Never before or afterwards did Edith Prioleau seem more bewitching, and Herbert Larkins felt that he could lay down his life for her then and there.

Perhaps he talked a little more about her than he need have done when he next visited the cottage near the Moorish Castle. The Larkins’ house had come to be quite his home, and he went there whenever he was off duty and could spare time. Life upon the Rock was a little monotonous for all below the rank of officer, and Herbert[226] was thankful that he had friends in the place. The narrow limits of the fortress, beyond which none but the commissioned may pass except on rare occasions, and then only by special permission, forbade any great variety of amusement or much change of scene. The rank and file rung the changes upon guard-house and drinking shop; when the first was done with for a time they identified themselves with the other. After twenty-four hours on Ragged Staff or New Mole, at Landport, Waterport, or the North Front, there was an especial sweetness for the soldier in ‘black strap’ or ‘partridge eye’—variations of the local wine; while for the fireproof head which craved for the strongest stimulants, there was the aguardiente, or burning water, a title this engaging but curiously potent liquid richly deserved. For the sergeants,[227] in whom steadiness and sobriety were indispensable traits, these delights were forbidden, and they had but little relaxation after they had completed their day’s routine, including the preparation of small returns, the responsibilities of minor commands, beyond a stroll upon the Alameda when the band played, or the perusal of the newspapers in the mess.

Herbert was more fortunate. Fond of books, Major Greathed supplied him with plenty, mainly of professional character, for although still in subordinate grades, soldiering was becoming more and more to our hero’s taste, and he was eager to qualify for higher charges should it ever be his good fortune to rise. But it was greater pleasure to him still to talk at the cottage over what he had read; to pour forth to his mother, as he still called her, his ambitious[228] yearnings, to express with increasing vehemence his vain regrets that he had not lived in another country and another age.

‘I wish I had been a Frenchman in the last century! No soldiers had such chances! One day a private, the next commanding a brigade. You’ll never see such things in our service.’

‘Don’t be cast down, Herbert,’ said warm-hearted sympathetic Mrs. Larkins. ‘Your chance will come if you’ll only wait.’

‘Yes, wait till I’m grey-haired. And when it comes what’ll it be? They may make me a quartermaster at fifty, or a second lieutenant at forty-five. I want my cake now, when it’s sweet and I am fit to enjoy it.’

‘And offer half to some one else? Is that what you’re dreaming about?’ asked Mrs. Larkins, with a sigh.

[229]

‘Psha! A general’s daughter, a mere child too! What absurdity to talk like that! No; I prefer to keep to my own station.’

Mrs. Larkins said nothing, but silence is sometimes more eloquent than words; and Mimie Larkins, who was present, looked up with a quick blush, which any man whose heart was touched would have interpreted his own way. The fiction of the relationship between these two had long since melted away. Good Mrs. Larkins, who had hated herself for keeping a secret from her husband, had told him the whole story very soon after Herbert had learnt the truth. Mimie, too, soon knew that the handsome sergeant who had kissed her and called her sister was really only a cousin, and as things went a very eligible parti.

[230]

Perhaps Mrs. Larkins, womanlike, was a matchmaker too. Why should she not encourage it? Herbert and her Mimie were cut out for each other; and if in the long run he should come into his own, why should not her daughter share his good fortune? Herbert was himself on the point of accepting the situation and succumbing to his fate. Mimie was attractive in no ordinary degree. She was a bright-eyed, sweet-voiced girl, with a gentle confiding manner, and very light-hearted ways. But then Herbert thought of his great aims, of the object of his life. To marry at all, at his age, would be to tie a millstone around his neck, a folly from which he would never recover.

When a man thinks thus, there is but little fear of his falling desperately in love. Then came the vision of the little lady, at[231] present so far above him in station, and he found himself drawing comparisons in which poor Mimie Larkins came off second-best.

For a time she resented it very bitterly. Mimie’s was a simple impulsive nature; she was of a yielding malleable disposition, readily amenable to better influences, but she was also, like every daughter of Eve, fond of admiration and grieved when it was denied. Her heart was ready to go out to Herbert the moment she knew he was not her brother, and as time passed and he made no sign, she grew more and more discontented and cross. Now, his loud praises of this Miss Prioleau made her angrier than ever. Little minx, why did she come poaching upon other people’s preserves? Oh, for a chance of showing Herbert that others were not so blind as he!

[232]

The chance came—all too soon. It was at a sergeants’ ball that Ernest Farrington first crossed her path, and threw himself at once, metaphorically, at her feet. His attentions were perfectly respectful, but very marked, and Mimie was more than flattered by them. Here indeed was a chance of spiting Herbert! and she availed herself of it to the full, forgetting, in the pleasure it gave her, the terrible risk she ran. Her clandestine relations with young Farrington, who was not slow to follow up his advantage, had already become far too intimate to promise well for her peace of mind, when Herbert discovered all.

He taxed her with meeting Mr. Farrington alone upon the Alameda.

She tossed her head, first disdaining to reply, then saucily asking what business it was of his.

[233]

‘I shall tell your mother at once.’

‘Oh, don’t, don’t, please don’t do that! It would kill her if she knew. I’ll promise never to meet him again. Oh, Herbert, do not get me into such terrible trouble—you, of all people, to do it too! I didn’t think you could be so mean.’

Herbert was over-persuaded; at least, he was induced to spare Mrs. Larkins for the present and determined to try first an appeal to the other side.

He went to the colonel, Diggle, and told him all.

‘Really, my good fellow,’ said the colonel, ‘it’s no affair of mine. They don’t belong to the regiment, you see. I cannot interfere. I am not answerable for Mr. Farrington’s morals. I’m not indeed.’

Herbert was not to be done. He spoke[234] next to Ernest, the first time he got a chance.

‘Damn it, sir, what business is it of yours?’ asked the officer hotly.

‘It’s very much my business. She is my sister—at least we were brought up together as such,’ the sergeant no less hotly replied.

‘Then why don’t you speak to her instead of to me?’

‘Because I thought an appeal to you as a gentleman,’—there was a plain sneer in his intonation—‘which I fancied you were, would have the desired effect.’

‘Do you dare to say I am not a gentleman? By George, I’ll—’

‘I dare do more than that. Listen to me, Mr. Farrington; I swear you shall not do her harm. I’ll break every bone in your body.’

[235]

‘This is rank mutiny, by George. I’ve a good mind to put you in arrest. Do you dare to threaten your superior officer, sir?’ and Ernest walked off as the simplest way of ending the discussion.

Herbert had one other card to play. He wrote a full account of the whole affair to Sir Rupert Farrington, and signed his name.

Sir Rupert would probably have cared as little for Ernest’s proceedings, from the moral point of view, as did Diggle, but he had a not unnatural dread of entanglements, especially where so weak a person as his son was concerned. Moreover, although enraged against Larkins, and somewhat uneasy at the tone of the letter in which Herbert made pointed reference to his claims, and hinted mysteriously at certain close relations between the Larkins’ and[236] Farringtons, Sir Rupert felt it wisest not to enlighten Diggle further. He satisfied himself with writing at once to his son-in-law, begging him to let Ernest have leave and send him home. This Diggle did, without other reason than that Sir Rupert wished it, and Ernest, very obediently as it seemed, fell into the trap.

The young gentleman was, however, deeper than they gave him credit for being. He went home by the next mail, but Mimie Larkins followed him within a week, as soon as she could give her unhappy parents the slip; and thus, for the second time, Mrs. Larkins had reason to curse the Farrington name.

END OF VOL. I.
volume 2 CHAPTER I.  THE ROUTE.
Poor old Larkins and his wife were completely broken by Mimie’s terrible mishap. They could not find it in their hearts to speak harshly of their unhappy child; but they were loudly indignant against the man who had tempted her to leave her home. Herbert, too, came in for his share of their reproaches, when he confessed that he had been for some time aware of the intimacy between Mimie and Ernest Farrington, and had long dreaded some such catastrophe.

‘Oh, Herbert!’ Mrs. Larkins had said to him more than once, ‘to think you should[2] have seen her in such danger, and never to let on a word. I thought better of you—after all—’

‘I know I am greatly to blame, mother. You cannot say anything harder of me than I do of myself. But she promised me never—never to meet him again, and I trusted her. Wasn’t it natural?’

‘Trust her? I’d have trusted her with untold gold. I thought she was as good as gold herself, and better. That’s what stings me. To think that she should have held herself so cheap as to be led astray by such a fellow as that, and a Farrington, too.’

‘Farrington or no Farrington, he shall answer for this to me, mother, and that I swear.’

‘Hush, Herbert lad, remember who he is, and who you are.’

‘I warned him that if she came to any[3] harm, I’d be even with him, and I will, so help me Heaven,’

‘Don’t, Herbert, don’t talk like that. You might be court-martialled, and for ever disgraced, even for those words. Do you think he will not be punished some day as he deserves, and that, whether you raise a little finger against him or no? We must leave him in other hands.’

Mrs. Larkins’ resignation hardly chimed in with Herbert’s impetuous mood.

‘I’d be after him now; aye, although I’m a soldier, and tied by the leg. I’d show a clean pair of heels, only—’

It was clear that desertion was in his mind.

‘Promise me, Herbert, swear to me, Herbert, that you will do nothing rash. Don’t desert your colours. Don’t forget your sacred duty, even for us.’

[4]

‘I had made up my mind to follow them last night. I could have got a passage home, and plain clothes and everything, but the steamer did not start, and to-day it’s too late.’

‘Too late? Thank God for that; but why?’

‘Haven’t you heard the news, mother?’ Then he bethought himself that in her grievous trial there was but little likelihood of the gossip of the garrison reaching her ears.

‘The route’s in,’ Herbert went on, using the catch phrase of the soldier. ‘The regiment’s under orders for active service, and we start directly the steamer arrives.’

‘Start? For where?’

‘Ashanti. It was in orders last night, and the generals coming to inspect us this afternoon, with the P.M.O., to see who’s fit[5] for service and who’s not. The whole barrack’s upside down. Officers and men mad with delight. So should I be for this chance, which may not come twice.’

‘Mayhap when you meet him next it will be on more equal terms.’

‘Aye, but when will that be? I may have to wait months before I get my knuckles at his throat.’

‘Surely these orders will bring him out to head-quarters at once?’

‘They ought to; but he’s mean enough to try and shirk the whole business, I’ve heard officers of the regiment say as much—and in any case he can’t arrive before we start for the Coast.’

The staunch old couple came down themselves to the new Mole to bid their boy Godspeed.

‘There’ll be more Larkins’ out there[6] than you, Herkles, boy,’ said the old Sergeant, with a fierce light in his eye. He had made no great demonstrations; but Mimie’s conduct had, perhaps, wounded him more deeply than his wife. Now, for a moment, he brightened up like an old war-horse, but it was with more than the scent of the coming fray. ‘Rechab’s ship ordered to the coast, and maybe they’ll send him ashore with the Naval Brigade. He’s carpenter’s mate and a right handy lad. So you’ll foregather, and between you you might have a chance of bringing yon scoundrel to book.’

‘I’ll try,’ said Herbert, with his teeth set.

‘If he’d only make an honest woman of my sweet bird. If he’d only marry and behave decently to her.’

‘Decently!’ cried Mrs. Larkins, interposing[7] in a strong indignant voice. ‘Was there ever a Farrington who behaved decently to one of us?’

‘I’d like to force him and all his relations too. But time’s up. God bless you, mother, and you, sergeant, and bring all things right in the end.’

With that, amidst thundering cheers and the invigorating strains of ‘Auld Lang Syne’ and ‘The Girl I left behind me,’ the good ship slowly got under weigh.

It is no part of my intention to dilate upon the events of the Ashanti war. It will be in all men’s minds how early mischances brought the enemy close to our gates and rendered imperative the despatch of some capable leader to grapple with the emergency; how Sir Garnet Wolseley, the hero of the hour, accompanied by a brilliant staff, was desired to drive back the foe[8] with such forces as he found to his hand; how Fantee allies proved the most despicable cowards, and the small force of British seamen and marines were clearly unequal single-handed to the task of marching upon Coomassie, the objective point; how the demand for British regiments was at length complied with by the home Government, and how, when these had arrived and all was ready for the forward movement, a sudden collapse in transport arrangements threatened to paralyse the whole of the operations. Hence it was that the British regiments were not immediately disembarked, but cruised the seas till a new and more vigorous organisation of transport could be devised and carried out. We will take up the thread of our narrative at a time when the little invading army was across the Prah and almost within striking[9] distance of Coomassie. No serious collision with the enemy had as yet occurred, but some sharp fighting was obviously imminent. It was thought that the Ashantis would hold the Adansi Hills, and, even if forced therefrom, would make more than one subsequent stand; and it was probable that by nothing less than obstinate fighting would the ends of the campaign be achieved.

They had been long days of weary waiting for all concerned. The country was hateful and noxious in the extreme; yet all fought bravely, not against the foe, with whom they had scarcely been pitted, but against the malaria, the ever present fever, the intolerable heat. None behaved more pluckily than the Duke’s Own. Wellington once said, ‘Give me the dandies for hard work,’ and the apothegm might be[10] extended, into including crack corps. Now that they were at the real business of war, they bore hardships, privations and continuous discomfort without a murmur. The once splendid mess was now represented by a scratch meal under the fetich tree of a deserted village; its entertainments were to offer to comrades a cup of chocolate, a slice of tinned meat or sardine au naturel upon biscuit instead of toast. Luxury was a thing forgotten by all. Days of toilsome marching through the interminable forest, nights in drenching rain, with short commons in almost everything except quinine, were but poor substitutes for what they had left behind at Gibraltar and at home. Yet the Duke’s Own took everything as it came, indulging only in the occasional grumble which is deemed the British soldier’s birthright, and which, if nothing[11] else, is an outlet and safety-valve for discontent.

But the regiment had suffered considerably from sickness. Colonel Diggle was down with fever. He had been one of the first attacked, and though he had borne up with all the fortitude he could muster, his nature was not of that resolute kind which successfully resists disease. Very soon after disembarkation he had succumbed, and while he was lying in his cot on board the hospital ship Major Greathed had the honour of commanding the Duke’s Own in the field. Several other officers were also on the sick list, and a large percentage of the rank and file. Among the latter was Herbert Larkins.

He had fought with extraordinary pluck against the insidious advances of the fever. He had doctored himself, had taken quarts[12] of quinine, had refused persistently to seek for medical advice lest he should be struck off duty and sent to hospital. With it all he had stuck manfully to his work—no easy task—for during a portion of the time the quartermaster-sergeant had been hors de combat, and Greathed had selected Herbert to act in his place. All this told on him.

One day after many hours’ unremitting toil whipping up the craven carriers who tardily brought forward the regimental supplies, followed by long labours in issuing rations, Herbert suddenly dropped as if he had been shot through the head. They laid him in a hammock and carried him with them for a time, as they were then approaching the Adansi Hills, and an action seemed imminent. Nothing of the kind, as is well known, occurred. After a short[13] breathing space the advance was resumed. Herbert, who had at length recovered consciousness, saw to his mortification the regiment march out of the village in which they had been encamped, while he was left with a score or so of sick and helpless behind. It was the more aggravating because the crisis of the campaign was seemingly near at hand. Coomassie itself was not more than five and twenty or thirty miles distant; the enemy was known to be in force in front and in flank. Fighting more or less severe there must be, and that very soon. To think that he should miss it after all!

But, as will be seen, Herbert’s luck was not entirely against him. Young, strong, and sound as a bell, he had rallied wonderfully from his attack, and was already on the high road to convalescence[14] within a day or two of the regiment’s departure.

‘If ye gae on like this, ye’ll be as fit as a fiddle in a week,’ the Scotch doctor said.

‘And when may I go to the front, sir?’

‘At once, if the commanding officer here’ll let you.’

Herbert almost jumped off his bed, and hurriedly smartened himself as well as he could, to appear before the commandant.

But on leaving the hospital, a substantial building which had evidently been the palace of an Ashanti chief, he found the little garrison which held the village—I will call it Yankowfum—in a state of agitation, almost uproar. Important news had come back from the front. There had been a great battle (Amoaful). We had won it, but not without serious losses. The enemy[15] was still full of fight. A special despatch had been received by the commandant at Yankowfum to be on the look-out. His and the other posts along the line of advance would probably be attacked in force, and the Ashantis must be driven back at all costs. This, with many additions, had gone forth among the handful of sailors and West Indians composing the garrison, and was being loudly discussed when Herbert appeared.

‘Where’s the commandant?’ Herbert asked. ‘Who is he?’

‘Don’t know his name; he’s one of your lot,’ said an A.B.

‘And a poor lot, too, I take it,’ said another, ‘to judge by his looks and his ways.’

Herbert was about to retort, when a black soldier in his picturesque Zouave[16] dress came up, and said, ‘Staff colonel one time come. Very much angry with buckra officer.’

It was the officer in general charge of the communications who had hastened back from Amoaful to look to the security of his posts. He was travelling almost alone in a hammock carried by bearers, and seemed to think nothing of the dangers he braved as he passed through the bush swarming with enemies.

He was apparently seeking to infuse some of his own spirit into the commandant of Yankowfum.

‘You’ll do it easily enough,’ Herbert heard him say as he approached them, meaning to offer his services. ‘This place is stockaded, you’ve got a garrison.’

‘But it’s so small,’ said the other, ‘not fifty men, and half of them blacks.’

[17]

That voice? Surely it was familiar, Herbert thought.

‘I can’t give you another man. There isn’t time. Besides, every other post is threatened. However, you’ve got your orders; you must hold out to the last, you understand?’ said the colonel, pretty sharply.

‘But, sir, it’s not fair upon us. I must really protest. We shall be cut to pieces. What can such a handful do? For God’s sake don’t leave us like this—’

The other turned on his heel, but stopped short to say,

‘Upon my word, Mr.—Mr.—Farrington—I cannot compliment you on your demeanour. If there was another officer within reach I’d relieve you of your command. I wish even there was a steady old sergeant or two—’

[18]

Then his eye fell upon Herbert, who had moved a little farther away during the foregoing colloquy, partly because he felt that he ought not to overhear the colonel’s strictures, and partly because he was greatly excited at this unexpected rencontre with Ernest Farrington.

‘Ah, a sergeant, a colour-sergeant too? You have heard, no doubt? The post is about to be attacked. I have been telling the commandant here he must draw in the line of defence. Be careful not to waste ammunition, and hold on like grim death. You understand?’

‘All right, sir,’ answered Herbert cheerily, and the colonel went off, probably a little happier in his mind.

‘Any further orders, sir?’ Herbert quietly asked of Ernest Farrington, who was ashen pale, and too much agitated[19] seemingly to recognise the man who spoke to him.

‘No, no; do the best you can, sergeant.’

Whereat Herbert saluted and walked off.

It would be time enough to settle their differences by and bye. Perhaps by nightfall neither of them would be alive.
CHAPTER II.  THE VICTORIA CROSS.
A stout and substantial stockade of bamboos, having loopholes and a shallow ditch, surrounded the village of Yankowfum, and seemed sufficient if it were only manned throughout to keep out any attacking force. But the little garrison was not strong enough to occupy more than a third of its length. It was a question, therefore, whether it would not be wisest to limit the defence, and, instead of holding the outer and too extended line, concentrate the whole force within the hospital building, which was certainly large, but still compact and reasonably strong. This is what our hero had to decide, for it was upon Herbert that[21] the responsibility seemed to fall. Ernest Farrington was almost helpless, whether from abject incapacity, or from the more despicable reason of total want of nerve. Besides, after what the staff colonel had said Herbert felt that he was bound to act and do the best he could.

He consulted with one or two of the others, particularly an old lance-sergeant who deferred to him as senior in rank, and a very smart young sailor, a petty officer, who, like every true blue jacket, was ready to put his hand to anything.

‘Best hold on to the front line at least for a bit,’ the lance-sergeant thought. ‘We can fall back upon the hospital if we’re hard pressed.’

‘Yes, I agree to that,’ replied Herbert. ‘But the hospital will be our real centre and chief defence. It must be strengthened,[22] barricaded, the walls pierced with loopholes, and the thatch taken off the roof for fear of fire. Who’ll see to all that? will you?’ he asked of the sailor.

‘Aye will I. Give me half a dozen hands, that’s all. Them blacks’ll do. I’m rated carpenter’s mate, and I can show them how to work. I’ll make everything taut and shipshape, or my name’s not Rechab Larkins.’

‘Rechab Lar—’ Herbert’s jaw dropped with amazement. ‘Son of the barrack sergeant, once at Triggertown and now at Gib?’

The other nodded.

‘Do you know who I am? Why—Hercules Albert, your half-brother.’

It was Rechab’s turn to show astonishment.

‘Avast there. None of your games. You little Herkles boy?’

[23]

‘Yes. You may take your oath, to that.’

‘Well; I am blowed.’

Then they shook hands warmly and looked at each other, and shook hands again and again.

‘Come, lads,’ interposed the lance-sergeant, ‘time’s up. Don’t get looking for the strawberry marks, or may be the niggers will drop on to you and save you all the trouble.’

‘You’re right,’ said Herbert promptly. ‘All this will keep. Now, Rechab, lad, to your post. There’s more to tell you, but that, too, will keep.’

Why tell him that Ernest Farrington was also there sharing their danger?

Herbert, following the lance-sergeant’s advice, resolved to hold the stockade, but at its angles and points only, whence a fairly good flanking fire across the front could be[24] maintained. At each of these he posted a small detachment under the command of a non-commissioned officer, to whom he gave explicit orders. They were to save ammunition, to ‘fire slow and fire low,’ as the general said, and hold on till they got the signal to retire. This would be passed from the centre the moment the stockade was forced at any point. The retreat was to be made with all speed upon the hospital under cover of its fire. At the hospital itself a small garrison was also posted from the first, composed of the convalescents; of all, in fact, who had spirit enough to rise from their beds. Even Dr. McCosh got out his revolver and promised to assist. None of the sick were strong enough to form part of the outer line, nor could they have retreated rapidly when that line was broken through, but they would be able to load and fire alternately[25] standing and sitting, and so contribute much to the general inner defence.

When these dispositions were in a fair way towards completion, Herbert went in search of his commanding officer to report progress.

‘Will you inspect the post, sir? Everything is as ready as we can make it. We only want the enemy now, and they can come on as soon as they please.’

Mr. Farrington winced slightly at the mention of the enemy, but he was now far more master of himself than when Herbert had seen him last. He had pulled himself together, and seemed about to take his proper position as commanding officer and chief. Like many other weak spirits, he made up for former shortcomings by assuming a blustering air.

‘I daresay you have done your best.[26] We shall see. Where are the men posted? At the stockade? Oh, this won’t do at all. We cannot hold the stockade; we are too few. The hospital is our only chance. Everyone must be concentrated there.’

‘But, sir, we cannot resign the stockade without a shot.’

‘Do you dispute my orders? I’ll put you under arrest, and have you tried for mutinous conduct. Who are you? What’s your name?’

‘I am Colour-Sergeant Larkins, of the Duke’s Own.’

‘Larkins? Larkins? What Larkins? Not Mi—Mi—Mimie’s brother?’

‘Her half-brother, Mr. Farrington, who told you not so long ago that if you injured her he would break every bone in your skin. Her own brother is here, too. What’s to hinder us from putting a bullet[27] through you now, you white-livered cur?’

‘How dare you address me like that? I’ll have you placed in irons. You shall be charged with mutiny, by George. I’ll get you shot.’

‘Perhaps the Ashantis will save you—and me—the trouble,’ said Herbert, significantly. ‘But if we get through this day all right, you and I have other differences to settle, remember that.’

‘Threats? This is insufferable. I’ll shove you in arrest; I’ll put a sentry over you.’

Farrington suddenly turned quite white; his teeth chattered, and he could hardly stand.

‘What in heaven’s name is that?’ he stammered out.

A roar of voices, harsh, discordant, and[28] loud enough to rouse the dead. It was the Ashanti song of battle, sung by thousands, as it seemed, uniting into one grand but savage chorus of defiance. Behind all was the hideous noise of screeching horns and the rattle of native drums. For some minutes the uproar continued, then ceased as suddenly as it had arisen. It was followed by a sound more familiar and far more impressive, at least in a soldier’s ears. This was the sharp and sustained crackling of musketry fire.

The ball had begun.

‘Our quarrel will keep, sir. There’s something else to be done now. Any orders, sir?’

‘No; at least, yes. Perhaps the men had better stay where they are just at first. You can withdraw them when you think you ought. I shall go myself to the hospital.[29] It is more central, and I can see all around from there.’

And Mr. Farrington, who was becoming more than uncomfortable as the slugs were falling rapidly around, went off with rather indecent haste.

The enemy were still in the bush surrounding the village, and the garrison had not yet returned the fire. Emboldened by this, the Ashantis came out from their cover, and showed themselves in increasing numbers all round the stockade. This was the opportunity for the defenders. At a signal from Herbert, a well-directed fire from the several flanks made considerable havoc, and the Ashantis fell back. They came on however again and again. Again and again they were repulsed. But they were maddened, not disheartened, by their losses; and once more attacking with determination,[30] at one point carried the stockade.

It was time now to retire upon the hospital. This was effected rapidly, but without disorder. The wounded—happily very few, so far—were carried within the walls, where all who were still sound also took up their posts. This inner citadel was perhaps not impregnable, but with resolution it might be held against very considerable odds.

‘I told you the stockade should not have been held,’ some one said to Herbert, and turning he saw Mr. Farrington, who had not before shown himself during the fight.

‘I beg your pardon, sir; if you had been with us in the front you would have thought otherwise,’ Herbert answered, rather intemperately; but it chafed him to[31] find his officer keeping out of harm’s way. ‘At any rate, we can’t fall back any more. If the enemy force their way in here, we are lost men.’

But this the Ashantis could not effect. They surged up against the walls like waves upon a rocky headland, only to fall back like breakers in a thousand drops. They sought to force the barricades, to escalade and enter by the roof. Once or twice their efforts seemed near success, but the obstinate opposition which they met sent them reeling back discomfited. At this juncture Herbert, with the intuitive judgment of the true general, felt that a counterstroke would probably give the defenders the day. He proposed a sally of the whole force, and a bayonet charge.

‘On no account—it would be madness,’ said Ernest Farrington, whom he discovered[32] with difficulty ensconced behind some cases of commissariat stores.

‘What do you say, boys? Shall we give ’em a touch of the cold steel?’ cried Herbert.

A hearty cheer was the ready response.

‘Won’t you lead us?’ Herbert said to Farrington, in a strong accent of scorn. ‘It’s your last chance to retrieve your character.’

‘I distinctly forbid you to sally. Not a man shall leave the hospital. Halt! halt! I say.’

The men were like bloodhounds tearing frantically at the leash.

‘It’s your last chance,’ Herbert repeated, as he went close up to Farrington, and whispered. ‘Your last chance, you cowardly cur. Come on, or be shamed for[33] ever; a disgrace to your cloth, your regiment, and a good old name.’

Stung to the quick by these taunts, Ernest hurriedly drew his sword, and placing himself at the head of his men, gave the order to port arms, and prepare to charge. With a loud ‘hurroosh’ the gallant garrison rushed out pell-mell, and fell upon their foe.

The enemy could not face the British bayonet. They broke even before their assailants reached them, and fled in disorder towards the stockade. The garrison pursued them, Mr. Farrington still leading. He was like a jibbing horse, which having long refused to move, at last bolts headlong. Herbert was also well to the front, but he saw the danger of pushing the success too far, and before reaching the stockade he paused and endeavoured to restrain the[34] men. Many halted at his voice and rallied round him, but a few more unmanageable continued to race ahead beyond the stockade as far as the bush. Mr. Farrington, half-mad with excitement, was one of these, and with them he fell into a trap. A number of Ashantis reinforced, probably from behind, had rallied just within the bush and opened a very destructive fire.

Ernest Farrington was the first to fall. Many others were struck down, and the too eager band of pursuers were suddenly effectually checked. But all who could retired in hot haste upon the main body, which under Herbert’s command had made a stand to cover their retreat.

Mr. Farrington was not killed outright. He was evidently badly wounded, but he was able to rise to his feet, and strove feebly to make his way back to the shelter[35] of the stockade, the enemy slowly ‘potting’ at him as he crawled along.

‘We must bring him in,’ cried Herbert, hotly. ‘Come on, Rechab; Farrington or no Farrington—’

‘Is yon Ernest Farrington? Mimie’s——? Yes? Let him be; let him die the death. I won’t stir a step to help the accursed hound.’

Herbert did not wait to hear all Rechab’s words, but rushed forward alone into the open. The fire increased in fury, but he passed through it and reached Ernest’s side, unscathed.

‘Come on, sir,’ he said; ‘lean on me; we’ll get back together.’ But almost as he spoke Ernest fell helplessly, struck by a second slug.

There was nothing for Herbert but to lift the inanimate body upon his shoulders[36] and stagger back as best he could. He was himself wounded more than once, but only slightly, before he regained the stockade, but still he regained it and laid his burden safely within.

‘Weel done, mon, weel done,’ said the surgeon. ‘Let’s see if ye were in time or no,’ and he proceeded to examine Ernest’s hurts.

The pain of probing the wounds brought the unfortunate officer to his senses, and opening his eyes, he looked wildly around.

‘Larkins, Larkins; is Larkins here?’ he gasped.

Both who bore that name knelt by his side, and hung breathlessly upon his words.

‘I loved her. I did, upon my soul. Tell her I said so with my last words; that I ask her forgiveness, as I do yours. I wronged her, but I—I—repaired it—’

[37]

The blood gushed in a torrent from his mouth, and in another second he was dead.

The enemy made no further demonstrations against Yankowfum, and by nightfall the post had almost regained its normal condition. It had been an eventful day for Herbert Larkins, and one likely to lay the foundation of his fortunes; for his gallant conduct did not pass unnoticed.

Early the next morning the staff colonel returned and heard a full account of the fight. Herbert was too modest to descant upon his own deeds, but Dr. McCosh and the others described in glowing terms the story of the defence and of Herbert’s brave attempt to save Farrington’s life.

‘You ought to have the Cross for this,’ said the colonel, a quiet self-contained man, rising for the moment into enthusiasm.[38] ‘You deserve the Victoria Cross, and a commission, too. I’ll do my best to help you to both.’

He was as good as his word. Before the Duke’s Own left the Coast the Gazette contained both announcements, and Herbert Larkins was now ‘an officer and a gentleman’ at last.
CHAPTER III.  MAKING THE AMENDE.
There was terrible grief at Farrington Hall when the news came home of the death of the son and heir. Poor silly Lady Farrington was quite broken-hearted. Had she had her way Ernest would never have gone to the wars. Moreover the circumstances under which he left made matters infinitely worse. He was at home, as we know, when the regiment got the route, and the orders he received from the Horse Guards were peremptory that he should rejoin without a moment’s delay. The young soldier was not over keen about obeying. Life, in spite of family jars, had just then a peculiar sweetness for him. He had established Mimie in a pretty little villa at[40] Wimbledon, where he spent most of his time. His visits to the Hall, and his stay when he came, were much curtailed, greatly to his mother’s sorrow. Her ladyship knew of his ‘entanglement,’ but quite as a secret, and she was discreetly silent on the subject. She only upbraided her boy for his constant absences.

‘I’th too bad, Ernetht. We thee tho little of you now. You mutht come and thettle down at home. Marry a nithe wife—’

Which was meant as a gentle womanly hint that she knew what occupied his thoughts and his time.

Sir Rupert’s line towards Ernest was more plainly marked, and possibly less judicious. He very soon gave his son to understand that he knew all about the Gibraltar escapade.

[41]

‘I thought it was only a passing act of folly. Young men cannot always be trusted to behave with judgment and decorum. It is very deplorable, of course, but no more, after all, than others have done. What I complain of, Ernest, is that there appears to be no end to your infatuation. I hear—no matter how—’

‘From Mr. Oozenam, I presume,’ said Ernest, bitterly. ‘I knew he was dogging my footsteps, but did not think he had been set on by my father. It’s a disgraceful shame!’

‘I hear,’ went on Sir Rupert, speaking still calmly, but the black look on his face showed that he was fast growing furious, ‘that you are continually at a house at Wimbledon, where, I suppose, this—this person—resides.’

‘Look here, father, you are going too[42] far,’ put in Ernest, hotly. ‘I am quite old enough to——.’

‘To make a fool of yourself? No doubt. You always were that. You’ve been a fool all your life. But you shall not make a fool of me.’

‘I won’t stay another minute in the house.’

‘If you leave it, you shall not return to it until you have begged my pardon.’ Sir Rupert was very angry, still he strove to be calm. ‘Be careful, Ernest, how you aggravate me. I am willing to make allowances for your youth, but you shall not disgrace your name. Promise me to give up this affair at once and for ever, or, or—’

‘I will do nothing of the kind. I will not be treated as a child,’ cried Ernest, in a loud voice.

‘Then take the consequences, sir,’[43] shouted Sir Rupert, still louder. ‘Leave my presence, sir; leave the room, sir; leave the house, sir; and do not dare to show yourself again, sir, till I ask you, which will be never, never, sir, so help me——’

Ernest, with a white and rather scared face, got up and quietly walked away.

His father and he never met again in the flesh.

There were many efforts at reconciliation, but all had fallen through. Ernest, before leaving the Hall, had gone to his mother to say good-bye, and there had been a very painful scene. The poor woman was torn by conflicting emotions. She was passionately fond of her boy, and desperately afraid of her fierce spouse. But her maternal instincts carried the day, and she braved her husband’s anger, seeking to win[44] forgiveness for her son. She failed utterly. The parties to the quarrel were equally determined, but in different ways. Ernest was weakly and foolishly obstinate; Sir Rupert, harsh, implacable, unrelenting. Father insisted upon submission unconditional and complete; son refused even to admit that he was wrong. Farrington Hall was a sad house while the dispute was in progress, and Lady Farrington was a very unhappy woman. Then, while matters were still unaccommodated, came the orders for active service, and she was in a paroxysm of despair. She made piteous appeals to Sir Rupert; she wrote imploring letters to her son, she besought the Horse Guards to delay embarkation, and pleaded all sorts of excuses to keep him at home. But fate and the authorities were inexorable, and Ernest, very much against[45] his own will too, was compelled to start for the Coast.

He had never revisited the Hall. His father would not ask him, and he would not offer himself. His mother begged to be allowed to go to Southampton to bid him a last farewell, but Sir Rupert positively forbade it; and Ernest left the country with no one—except broken-hearted Mimie—to bid him adieu.

This was why the news of his death fell so heavily upon them all at home. Lady Farrington broke down utterly. She was like Rachel, and refused to be comforted. Sir Rupert, although he was still outwardly calm and impassive, felt it more than he could say. But he showed his grief very differently. It was a sort of relief to him to burst forth into the loudest invectives—not against himself, although[46] his parental cruelty might well have caused him the keenest remorse, but against all who might, by the smallest implication, be deemed to be responsible for Ernest’s untimely end. Where was Diggle? Why had he allowed the young fellow out of his sight? And Sir Garnet, what excuse would the general make for leaving a young officer to be thus out-matched and massacred by the rascally foe? He even included Mimie Larkins in his reproaches, although she manifestly was but little to blame. He could not at first bring himself to think well of Herbert, whose brave act in trying to save his officer’s life was hailed with enthusiasm in this country as soon as it became known. What had this sergeant done? Only his duty. It was the duty of every sergeant or corporal in the service to lay down his life for a Farrington, of course. And[47] the young fellow had been amply rewarded—over rewarded, if anything—for his pains.

But deeper down in Sir Rupert’s heart there was anguish and sharp regret. As a father he was deeply grieved at the loss of an only son; but as the proud owner of an old title and wide estates, it cut him to the heart to think that he must be the last of his line. Was it for this that he had schemed and man?uvred? For this that he had caused Lady Farrington to be placed under restraint—had abandoned her protégé to starve? Then followed a wave of better feeling towards the gallant young fellow who had heaped coals of fire on his head. What a fine action it was! How splendidly the young man had behaved! He half wished that Herbert was really the heir to the family honours, now that there was no one else to inherit them.

[48]

Upon this point he would have met with some sharp opposition within his family, had he expressed his opinion. Much as poor Ernest was regretted by all, there were some who, after the first decorous mourning, found themselves quite able to reconcile themselves to his loss. To Mrs. Cavendish-Diggle, Ernest’s death meant a certain tangible gain. She could never succeed to the baronetcy, certainly, but there were the broad acres of Farrington which, faute de mieux, would now undoubtedly come to her. Possibly, if Diggle did but take his proper place in life, and could be persuaded to enter Parliament, a grateful Government might be brought to continue the baronetcy through the female branch. Mrs. Cavendish would have been only too pleased that her infant son should some day resume the name and arms of the Farrington family,[49] and that the Diggle-Farringtons should become celebrated as the proprietors of Farrington Hall. The son was forthcoming, indeed more than one; but poor Cavendish-Diggle was not himself quite equal to the task which the ambitious Letitia would have imposed upon him. The Gold Coast campaign, in fact, had nearly cost him his life, and had left him almost a wreck. Weeks of low fever upon a miserable sickbed in the malarious bush, had nearly finished him; and long before the end of the war he had returned to England more dead than alive. His life in the long run was spared, but the once smart dandy reappeared a broken, half-crippled man, one much more fitted to spend the remainder of his days in European health resorts, drinking the waters and taking the baths, than in any active struggle for parliamentary or[50] contested family honours. Before the return of the Duke’s Own to England he had retired upon half-pay, and took no further part in regimental affairs.

Herbert’s glorification, however, when he reached England duly came off, and this without any protest on the part of Mrs. Cavendish-Diggle. She did not know really that he was, or had ever been, a competitor for the family estates. Besides which, when he arrived she and her husband were at Aix; and however calmly she may have accepted the sad news of Ernest’s death, she could not openly be otherwise than pleased at the honour done to the man who had endeavoured to save her brother’s life. Herbert, whether or no, was invited at once to the Hall, whither he went, not from any love for Sir Rupert, but simply to see how the land lay, and whether[51] he could help the poor old dowager, who still languished in her asylum prison.

Yet it was with a certain strange excitement that he entered the house which might be, and which somehow he felt ought to be his. The baronet received him most courteously; poor Lady Farrington fell upon his neck and wept torrents of tears; he was shown into a gorgeous guest chamber, a room all blue satin and silver, such as he had never before seen in all his life; and he was treated with the most profound respect on every side.

Lady Farrington was not equal to appearing at table, and he dined with Sir Rupert tête-à-tête. His host questioned him closely upon the events of the campaign. Acutely painful as was one of its episodes to the baronet, he yet seemed to ignore this, and was only anxious to give his guest[52] an opportunity of describing what he had seen. Possibly he was anxious also to keep off dangerous ground, and to avoid inconvenient questions upon points on which Herbert was, if anything, far more closely concerned.

Here, however, he counted without his host. The young soldier was by nature, and still more by his recent rough and ready training, little disposed to beat about the bush. He had resolved upon coming to Farrington Hall to ascertain what could be done to release the old Lady Farrington from durance. He had had already one or two communications from ‘the Boy’ Hanlon, none of which, however, gave him much hope of effecting this without the assistance of the baronet himself. The ‘Boy’ had not seen much of the old lady. She was, of course, upon the female side of the asylum.[53] But Hanlon was not to be baulked by any restrictions of sex, and as the rules of the establishment forbade him from attending upon a female patient, he made it his business to secure the co-operation of a female attendant. The person who had especial charge of Lady Farrington was a middle-aged damsel, to whom the blandishments of ‘the Boy’ were by no means distasteful. Through this impressionable daughter of Eve, Hanlon had communicated frequently with the old lady. He had told her of Herbert’s progress; of the young man’s advancement in the lower walks of the military career; finally of the Ashanti war, and Herbert’s undoubted success. Had the doctor been within easy reach, he might have ordered Lady Farrington the usual cooling regimen, so excited did she become. But she escaped observation, and[54] under the advice of her attendant, and indeed through her own native intelligence she managed to preserve a calm exterior, feeling sure that her Herbert would soon appear to open wide her prison doors.

That he was most eager to do so was evident from his conversation with Sir Rupert that first night.

‘I shall be only too glad to meet your wishes in any way,’ the baronet had said. ‘At the Horse Guards, perhaps, or with Mr. Cardwell—’

‘I will not ask so much,’ Herbert replied. ‘I have been already treated most liberally by the authorities. All I want is—to pay a visit to Greystoke.’

‘To Greystoke?’ Sir Rupert turned rather pale.

‘Yes, and with you. You see I know everything. Why hesitate, Sir Rupert?[55] There need be no concealment between us. The last time we met I was a victim—one of your victims—but now I am above all that, but poor Lady Farrington still suffers.’

‘It would not be safe, I assure you, to set her at large. I have that on the best authority. She is still quite insane.’

‘I have it on better that she is now perfectly recovered.’

‘May I ask who is your informant?’ Sir Rupert blandly enquired.

‘One of the attendants at the asylum.’

‘A skilled practitioner? A medical man?’

‘Well, no; not exactly. He was, in fact, formerly in the Duke’s Own.’

‘As a surgeon?’

‘No, in the ranks.’

‘And you would set up his opinion—the opinion of an illiterate, untrained man—against[56] that of the highest medical authority in the country? Really, Mr. Larkins—’

‘He’s an honest, straightforward man, Sir Rupert, with plenty of common sense. His judgment may be at fault, but at any rate his opinion is certain to be unbiassed and unprejudiced; he assures me that Lady Farrington is perfectly fit to take care of herself, and ought to be immediately set at large.’

‘I cannot agree with your friend. I have seen her only within these last few days, and I think she is as bad as ever.’

‘I shall refer the matter, then, to one of the Lord Chancellor’s visitors,’ said Herbert, displaying an intimate acquaintance with procedure which rather surprised Sir Rupert.

‘That is not necessary, I assure you.[57] If the poor lady is capable of taking care of herself I do not wish to detain her. Far from it. If it is really your wish to visit Greystoke, Mr. Larkins, we will go there to-morrow.’

And thus Sir Rupert Farrington consented to a step which could not but have very serious consequences to himself and all who were dependent upon him.
CHAPTER IV.  VISITORS AT GREYSTOKE.
Greystoke had once been a manor-house and place of mark in the county of Hopshire. A long-fronted but compact mansion, with thick walls and a wide moat, it still looked capable of withstanding a siege. Not that there was any chance of one. Admission was not difficult to obtain, provided the usual formalities were observed. The thing was to get out again when you had once got in. The natural strength of the place made it nearly as secure as a prison. But no bolts or bars were needed; if the stout doors and numerous gates, deep moat, and broad haha had not sufficed, there was behind all the lynx-eyed watchfulness of the attendants.
 
Joe Hanlon was in high favour at Greystoke. In him—thanks to his long military training—prompt unhesitating obedience had come to be second nature. All orders he received he carried out implicitly, and to the letter. He was as plucky too as he was punctual; and he could always be relied on when there was an ugly job on hand. Hard, tough, and resolute, he was ready to tackle the most truculent patient, and brave his fiercest rage. ‘The Boy’s’ little weakness for refreshment might have done him harm at Greystoke, but his superiors at the asylum were not as keen in the detection of unsteadiness as the non-commissioned officers of the Duke’s Own; and when Joe was at all ‘on,’ he managed to keep the secret to himself. Perhaps, as a valuable servant, his masters were often conveniently blind.

[60]

As a person of some authority, Hanlon was at liberty to go where he pleased in the establishment. One morning he paid a visit to the female wing, and asked to see Miss Ponting.

‘Good morning, Mr. Hanlon.’

‘Morning, Miss. How is she to-day?’ he went on at once, and with no little excitement in his voice.

‘Her ladyship? Like a lamb. What’s amiss, Mr. Hanlon? You look peeked.’

Miss Ponting’s duties had lain for some years with the most aristocratic patients, and she cultivated a refinement of language and a fastidiousness of expression which imposed upon no one so much as herself. But for the firm lines of her mouth and steady eye—traits which proved her fitness for her present employment—she might have been set down as a fat foolish woman[61] of forty, with the airs and graces of girlhood, and the pretentiousness of one who sought to be considered superior to her station. She had a fine eye for the main chance, however, and this had led her to listen willingly enough to ‘the Boy’s’ blandishments. There was profit, perhaps, substantial and considerable, to be got out of the affair.

‘They’re coming over this very day,’ cried Hanlon. ‘Sir Rupert and the captain’—Joe had already given Herbert promotion, partly out of affection, and partly to impress Miss Ponting—‘and the whole kit of ’em.’

‘Well, what puts you in such a taking? We ain’t to be trampled upon like the sands of the seashore. We’re ready for anyone that chooses to come.’

‘But is she? The captain means to[62] have her out, and so I tell you; and it’ll all depend on how they find her. Is she fit to be seen?’

‘Never was better. Her appetite’s combsar, but her manner’s quite degagy, and her temper debonnair.’

‘Will it do to prepare her? Won’t it flurry her, as when you told her of the fight on the Coast?’

‘Best break it to her judgematically, and with—with—a composing draught. I’ll tell her too to hold her tongue—she is mindful of what I say, always—and answer only when she’s spoken to; and if I put her into a quiet dress, and keep my eye on her, she’ll come through all right, or call me Jenny Say Quoy.’

‘I’ll call you a brick, and a beauty, and Mrs. Hanlon, or anything you please,’ said ‘the Boy,’ in high glee. ‘You’re quite a[63] genius, Georgeyana, and I’ll fight the man who says you ain’t.’

The visitors arrived punctually at eleven. Dr. Fewster, the proprietor of the establishment, who had been briefly apprised by Sir Rupert, received them in state in his drawing-room. He was a man of a not uncommon type, but certain peculiar characteristics were very strongly developed in him. A superficial observer, after five minutes’ talk, would have thought him one of the pleasantest men in the world. The moment he met you, Dr. Fewster took possession of you, and began to dose you with oil—not that known in the profession as croton, cod-liver, or castor—but the metaphorical oil of compliment and flattery, very thinly disguised. If he had not taken to lunacy, he might have made a fortune in general practice, so honeyed were his accents, and reassuring his tone.

[64]

When Herbert was presented to him, Dr. Fewster put out his hand, and said with much feeling,

‘To shake hands with a hero is indeed an honour for us who never leave our armchairs at home. Let me tell you, Mr. Larkins, such deeds as yours send a thrill through the whole country, and we are proud—proud to call you one of ourselves.’

All this time he held Herbert’s hand, and was shaking it as though it was a bottle of his own medicine, very much to Herbert’s discomfort, who inwardly apostrophised him as an ass, a humbug, and a cad.

‘And you, Sir Rupert, how pained yet how pleased you must have been to welcome him home—to have thanked him for his devotion. Ah! would, would to Heaven it had been more successful—’

[65]

Dr. Fewster turned away, overcome with emotion, but Sir Rupert, who knew his man, said abruptly,

‘We have come on business, doctor.’

‘So I understood from your letter, although you did not exactly specify what. It is not then merely to visit my establishment, which by the bye I should be only too happy to show, but—’

‘To see Lady Farrington.’

‘Indeed! This gentleman is perhaps acquainted with, possibly interested in, the case?’

‘This Mr. Larkins,’ said Sir Rupert, not without bitterness, ‘is an old friend and protégé of her ladyship’s. He has not seen her for some years—in fact not since she has been here.’

‘To be sure, to be sure, I remember now,’ and the doctor looked at Herbert with a keen, cunning glance, wondering[66] whether there was anything to fear from that quarter.

‘I have not yet been my rounds,’ he said; ‘I cannot tell how her ladyship is this morning; but if she is presentable—there are times, you understand, when she is not quite, quite self-possessed, you know, and perhaps—’

‘Mr. Larkins thinks that there may be some mistake; that the poor lady is not what you, Dr. Fewster, and what we all imagine. He has heard that she is perfectly quiet and rational.’

‘May I ask from whom?’

Herbert did not reply. He was too much interested in the door, at which he was looking steadily. He was perhaps expecting some one.

‘Some one in the establishment,’ Sir Rupert answered for him.

[67]

‘In my establishment? Can it be possible that you would accept any evidence but my own? I forbear to ask who your informant may be’—in his own secret heart he was registering a vow to discover, and mentally promising the culprit a very short shrift—‘but I need hardly say that information surreptitiously obtained cannot always be quite relied upon. Nor, may I add, is any opinion of real value but that of those duly accredited; and I must maintain mine against all comers save and except the great lights and authorities of my own profession.’

At this moment a servant entered with a card, which Dr. Fewster took up carelessly, but as he looked at it his demeanour suddenly changed.

‘Where is he?’ he hurriedly inquired of the servant. ‘In my study? or has he[68] gone into the building? Gentlemen, pray forgive me, but this is a visitor whom I cannot neglect. It is Dr. Darlington Mayne, the eminent alienist, and as you, perhaps, are aware, the newly-appointed Chancellor’s visitor. You will follow me, I trust?’

Sir Rupert looked savagely interrogative at Herbert, as though to inquire whether it was by his agency that this great official had appeared so opportunely upon the scene.

‘I thought it would be more satisfactory to all parties,’ Herbert said, quite calmly. ‘A friend of mine is an intimate friend of his, and Dr. Mayne is already in full possession of all the facts of the case.’

‘The young fellow plays his game closely,’ thought the doctor, as he left the room.

‘The young villain has stolen a march upon me,’ thought Sir Rupert, and so Herbert evidently had.

[69]

Dr. Fewster was a little nervous when he met the great man, who, without waiting for the proprietor, had gone at once into Lady Farrington’s apartments, and was already in close conversation with her.

‘Dr. Fewster? Ah! I wished to see her ladyship,’ began Dr. Mayne, rather curtly.

‘Oh, of course. And how are you this morning, my dear lady?’ inquired the asylum doctor.

‘Very well; perfectly well, as I have been these five years past,’ replied Lady Farrington, with great coolness and self-possession.

The old lady had aged considerably since we last saw her. Her hair was snow white. There was a sort of rather mournful expression in her dark eyes, which one sees often in human beings and all who have been long in captivity, and have but little[70] hope of release. But these eyes had lost none of their brilliancy, and she sat up straight in her chair, with evident signs of strength and vitality still unimpaired. The great news which the attendant had communicated to her but an hour or two before, that Herbert was close by, and meant to get her out, somehow, had put new life into her.

‘Your ladyship slept well?’ went on Dr. Fewster, ‘no visions, no visitors—from Africa?’

Lady Farrington’s hands trembled, and a sudden gleam flashed from her eyes, but she saw Miss Ponting looking at her, and instantly she subsided into perfect calm.

The reference to Herbert was artfully made, but it failed.

‘I never see visions. You are talking nonsense, Dr. Fewster.’

[71]

‘No apparitions? No ghostly messages from missing and long-lost friends?’

Lady Farrington appeared a little agitated, but again a glance from Miss Ponting reassured her.

‘Of course not. I do not understand you in the least.’

‘Nothing from Herbert Larkins? He has given you no warning of his approaching return?’

This was a great trial to her ladyship, but she bore it wonderfully well. A greater test was in store for her.

‘What if I tell you he is close at hand, that within a week, within a day or two perhaps, you may see him again?’

The poor lady’s fortitude for a moment gave way:

‘You mean that he is here at this moment, actually here in the house. Oh, let[72] me see him! my sweet, sweet boy; now, now, at once, I implore you—’

Then she stopped suddenly, but with a manifest effort, and turning to Dr. Mayne, said piteously,

‘It is not fair; it is cruel to work upon my feelings thus. This is the subject nearest to my heart, and he knows it, hoping to excite me and make me appear other than I am. It is for this dear boy that I am imprisoned here—I will speak—’ (this was in answer to a warning gesture from Miss Ponting). ‘This gentleman is a Government visitor, he has said so, come here on purpose to do me justice. He shall hear the whole story from beginning to end, and he will know then that I have been the victim of the hardest usage and foul play.’

Dr. Fewster turned to Dr. Mayne with[73] a meaning look, which plainly implied that he would now see the form taken by Lady Farrington’s craze. This was her weak point—her monomania, and her madness would soon unmistakeably be betrayed.

‘You shall tell me the whole story, Lady Farrington, but privately, and in your own way. I wish to see her ladyship alone, quite alone.’

Dr. Mayne spoke very quietly; he was an undemonstrative man, of few words, but his manner and tone were one of much determination and authority.

Meanwhile Sir Rupert and Herbert, left to themselves, had exchanged but little conversation. The baronet was preoccupied, and there was a black scowl on his face, which boded ill for any whom his anger could touch. Herbert was silent too. He felt that he had thrown away the scabbard,[74] and was fighting Sir Rupert to the death.

The moments dragged themselves slowly on, till presently Dr. Fewster returned, with many apologies.

‘I am truly grieved to have kept you so long from the object of your visit. The fact is, Dr. Darlington Mayne also wished to see Lady Farrington, and he is at present closeted with her. Till he chooses to end the interview we cannot disturb him, of course.’

It was quite an hour later when Dr. Mayne joined them.

‘These are the poor lady’s friends,’ said the asylum doctor, with much formality. ‘Sir Rupert Farrington, Mr. Herbert Larkins, of the Duke’s Own.’

Dr. Mayne bowed very coldly to Sir Rupert, but put out his hand to Herbert.

[75]

‘Our mutual friend, Dr. McCosh, has often spoken to me of you. That was a noble deed of yours, and I am glad to know you, Mr. Larkins.’

‘But Lady Farrington?’ eagerly interposed Herbert, as soon as he civilly could.

‘It is a case of some little difficulty. I am really rather perplexed. Her ladyship is perfectly sane, I think, and rational, except on one point. If I could but obtain some independent testimony on that, I might see my way. She perseveres in asseverating, although she can adduce no proofs, that her son Herbert, whom she has not seen for upwards of five and twenty years, left a son, and that you, Mr. Larkins, are he.’

Herbert replied slowly and with an air of the deepest conviction,

[76]

‘She is perfectly right. I am.’

‘Great powers!’ cried Sir Rupert, starting to his feet and foaming with rage. ‘Was there ever such matchless effrontery?’

‘It can be fully substantiated,’ went on Herbert, still perfectly calm.

‘It is a gross and unfounded lie, from beginning to end—a conspiracy, an attempt to defraud.’

‘Of that the law can only judge,’ said Dr. Mayne; ‘but I must confess Mr. Larkins’ assertion so far satisfies my mind that I feel convinced Lady Farrington is not suffering from any hallucination, and I shall recommend her immediate discharge.’

‘You cannot, must not; my life would be in peril,’ expostulated Sir Rupert, still furious, but rather taken aback.

[77]

‘My mind is quite made up,’ said the Chancellor’s visitor, authoritatively.

‘And I give you notice,’ went on Herbert, ‘on behalf of Lady Farrington, that Mr. Bellhouse, her solicitor, will forthwith commence an action against you for illegal detention, and will require a full account of all moneys due to her during the time she has been under restraint.’

‘I care nothing for your actions,’ cried Sir Rupert, snapping his fingers, ‘and if I spend my last shilling she shall not go at large.’

But he was compelled to give way. The law was too strong for him, his opponents too full of fight. And that they meant business was clear from an advertisement which appeared everywhere directly after Lady Farrington was set free. It was as follows:—‘5,000l. Reward. To anyone[78] who will give authentic proofs of marriage about 184— between Herbert Farrington, alias Corporal Smith, of the 12th Lancers, and Ann, daughter of Josiah Orde, of Newark-on-Trent.’

CHAPTER V.  A MOMENTOUS QUESTION.
The Dowager Lady Farrington, after long years of grief and sorrow, had chanced at last upon happier days. Her cup of bliss seemed filled now to overflowing. To be free once more, released from the hateful asylum, with its painful associations and unbroken restraint, was in itself a great joy; that Herbert was restored to her was a yet greater delight, but greatest of all was the knowledge that her heart had not misled her, and that she had rightly recognised him as the offspring of her own ill-used and long-lost boy. Herbert had told her the story as he had had it from Mrs. Larkins, and the statement—although it[80] lacked formal legal proof—was more than sufficient to satisfy her ladyship’s mind. She was, indeed, only too eager to believe it. But had any doubt remained, it would have been more than removed, so she declared, by the living Herbert’s extraordinary resemblance to the one that was dead and gone.

‘As I look at you now, a full-grown man, I seem to see my own poor son once more,’ cried the old lady, with tears of joy in her eyes. ‘You have his face, his features, all his ways. Even the colour of your hair and of your eyes is the same. You are a Farrington, every inch; I know it, I feel it, and everybody else shall own it also, and at once.’

Nothing would please her but that he should assume, without loss of time, the Farrington name and arms.

[81]

‘No, not yet,’ he pleaded; ‘I am not entitled to them.’

‘Are you not my grandson? Who shall gainsay that?’

‘I know it, and I glory in it; but still the case is not satisfactorily proved. Besides, if I am to take the name of Farrington at all, it can only be as the head of the house.’

‘You are Sir Herbert Farrington, at this very moment.’

‘I ought to be, perhaps. But you will admit that to say so positively at present would be quite premature. It would not be in very good taste either, and I had much rather let things stay as they are.’

To this Lady Farrington eventually assented, but not with the best grace in the world.

‘At any rate, everyone shall know that[82] I recognise and adopt you,’ she said, with all a woman’s pertinacity. ‘You may be called Mr. Larkins, but you are the son of this house. All I have is yours, now if you wish it, and absolutely so after I am gone.’

And to prove her words she sought, in spite of his protestations, to load him with rich gifts. Her ladyship happily had ample funds at her disposal. Whatever sinister motives may have actuated Sir Rupert in locking her up, he had behaved with scrupulous honesty towards her effects. As the appointed administrator, he had full power over every penny of hers, but he never misappropriated one. No sooner was Lady Farrington at large, than he rendered an exact account of his stewardship to Mr. Bellhouse, and the balance he handed over was very satisfactory indeed. Out of this Lady Farrington wished to make large[83] settlements at once upon Herbert, contenting herself with her jointure, which would amply suffice for all her needs as before. But she attached a condition that he should retire forthwith from the profession in which he had first begun to climb, and reside with her, devoting himself also to the great emprise of fully establishing his claims.

It was a severe struggle for the young man: On the one side, gratitude to the kind benefactress who had done so much for him impelled him to accept the offer she so generously made; on the other, his affection for the service in which he had already begun to rise urged him as strongly to reject the conditions she wished to impose. At any rate, he begged for time. There was no need to decide in a hurry. He had still six months’ leave to run; something might turn up to support his case—some[84] answers to the advertisement, some news of the missing marriage lines. Lady Farrington consented gladly enough. All she asked was that he should remain always at her side. This time was spent in London, whither the pair had come immediately after Lady Farrington’s discharge. Farrington Court was hateful to her, she declared, and for obvious reasons; it was too near the Hall, too near the monster who had cast a cloud over the last half-dozen years of her life; too full of memories she desired now to shut out for ever. London, with its varied interests and amusements, its busy life, and stirring ways, was more calculated to suit Lady Farrington’s temper than a semi-conventual seclusion in a lonely and nearly empty country place. Mr. Bellhouse had therefore secured a snug house in a Mayfair street, a thoroughfare noisy[85] with carriages, gay and lively always with people passing continually to and fro. Here Miss Ponting had also been installed as lady’s-maid, a very wise precaution, which served to keep Lady Farrington always quiet. ‘The Boy’ was also one of the household. He had given himself his discharge the day after the great scene at the asylum, having done the business entrusted to him, and wishing to avoid any altercation with the angry and suspicious chief. Hanlon’s position in Vaughan-street was not at first quite clearly defined; but, beginning as hall-porter, he lapsed first into general factotum, and then into Herbert’s body-servant and own particular man. His appointment was rather a sinecure; beyond cleaning his master’s boots, to which he gave a lustre which was the envy of every shoeblack whom Herbert passed in the streets, and[86] pipeclaying his kid gloves, for want of anything better on which to try his hand, he had not the slightest idea of the duties of a valet; and Herbert had as little knowledge of what he should ask Hanlon to do. But the two talked constantly together of old times; they compared notes of past experiences, discussed old comrades, cross-questioned each other, and wound up by expressing their unbounded and unshaken opinion that there never was and never would be such a corps in any army in the civilised world as the Duke’s Own. When they came to this point Herbert’s heart grew heavy, and he sought to change the conversation. ‘The Boy,’ after a little, saw this.

‘Faith, sir’—he was most religiously respectful nowadays—‘you jib and shirk whenever we come to talk of the old corps. You’re as bad as the colonel when a Goojerat[87] day came twice in the same week. What’s up, sir? You’re not going to turn your back upon the old corps?’

‘That’s just where it is, Joe. Lady Farrington wants me to retire and live always with her.’

‘And you that’s only just got your commission, sir, and that’ll be adjutant when you please, and a staff officer, and a field officer, and a general officer, and all sorts of officers rolled into one, before you be got a grey hair. G’long with you, sir! It’s the wildest, maddest—well, no, that’s not a pleasant word to use in this house. But you mustn’t do it, sir; you mustn’t do it. Only this blessed day did I see the captain—Greathed—him that’s colonel now, you know; and he axes after you; and sez he, is he pretty stout? sez he; and sez I, he is that, sez I; and I’ll be coming to see him,[88] sez he; and I hope he will, this very day, sez I, for it’s a folly to talk to him, sez I; which it is, sez he; I mean, sez I—but I’m fairly bothered, like Johnny Raw at recruits’ drill.’

There was no doubt that Herbert, although he fought against it, was chafing much at his present life. If it was to be all like this he would willingly, in preference, return to ‘sentry-go.’ Lady Farrington’s kindness was great and unceasing of course. She never tired of expressing her affection, and this in something more substantial than mere words. He had carte blanche at the best tailor’s, a park hack, and as much money as he could spend. For a time all this was pleasant enough. It was his first experience of London; and no young man in funds is likely to find London dull. But it is possible to exhaust its amusements[89] after a time, especially when one has no special pursuits and no hankering after shady places and not too reputable ways. There was no vice in Herbert, although he was by no means a milksop or a prig. But he knew too well what was due to himself to lapse into the inanities which prove so often irresistible to other young men. It did not satisfy him to bet, and haunt the theatres, and loaf about the Burlington Arcade. Other and more rational ways of employing his time he certainly found in visiting exhibitions, seeing the sights, and more especially in frequenting the United Service Institution, where he devoted himself for several hours of every day to the continued study of the profession he was doomed probably, and unhappily for him, soon to leave. Often enough too he satisfied his military cravings by attending the[90] Guard mounting at St. James’s Palace; he was weak enough sometimes to accompany a volunteer regiment on its way to the park for drill, keeping step almost intuitively, and enjoying the whole thing far more than anyone in the crowd.

But all these did not half suffice to exhaust his native energy, developed and increased as it had been by his recent active life. He panted continually for more to do. He grew more and more hipped and out of joint. He was so lonely too. Under the peculiar circumstances of his early career it was little likely that he would have many acquaintances of his own age. He might perhaps hunt up a few of his old Deadham school friends, but school friends in after life do not run up against each other much, unless they have been at Eton, Harrow, or the like, and belong of right to the great[91] world. He had no club as yet; no military comrades even. He had so recently passed across the great gulf which divides the commissioned officer from the rank and file, that he had not been accepted by the one, although he had left the other altogether behind.

Nevertheless, he kept his own counsel, and would not for the world betray to Lady Farrington that he was not perfectly contented with his lot. It would have been but a poor requital for all her kindness, he said, and he must put the best face upon the matter. Even that greater and far keener trial, which was daily growing closer and closer, when he would have to cut himself finally adrift from his much-loved profession, he would have faced, as he had met other really greater trials, like a man.

But he was spared this, mainly through[92] Colonel Greathed, and indirectly, also, through ‘the Boy.’ The first came without delay to see Herbert, but it was the latter who had induced him to come. Naturally, he was introduced to Lady Farrington, who welcomed him very cordially as one of Herbert’s early patrons and friends.

‘It has been a rough experience for my grandson,’ said the old lady, who always spoke of Herbert openly as a relation, ‘but it will, no doubt, have been for his good. At any rate, it is over now, and Herbert will live like a gentleman for the rest of his life.’

‘An officer and a gentleman, I trust,’ said Colonel Greathed, laying some stress on the first word.

‘No, not exactly; he has promised me that he will leave the service at once.’

‘He will be taken up and shot as a deserter[93] the very next day,’ said the colonel with mock seriousness.

But the old lady took the statement au pied de la lettre.

‘You don’t really mean that?’ she asked, nervously.

‘Of course not,’ put in Herbert.

‘I mean that he is, and must always be, a soldier—at heart. It’s in him, part of his nature, and he can’t put it off like a slipper or a coat.’

Lady Farrington looked hard at the colonel, as if to grasp his meaning more thoroughly, then turned her eyes interrogatively upon Herbert.

‘You have never said a word of this, Herbert, my sweet boy. You have expressed no regrets, have offered no objections—?’

Herbert hung his head rather, and hesitated to speak.

[94]

‘Can it be possible that I have prayed you to take a step which is distasteful to you? Selfish old wretch that I am!’

‘No, no, grandmother, it is not so. I would do this and far more to gratify your slightest wish. I will leave the service gladly; I don’t care to remain in it, I don’t indeed.’

‘Herbert, I cannot quite trust to what you say. I shall ask Colonel Greathed to tell me the exact truth. Will you leave us alone together, and come back in half an hour?’

Her ladyship pressed the colonel very closely. She begged him to speak openly and without reserve. In order to invite confidence, she detailed the whole of the circumstances connected with Herbert’s birth and parentage. She enlarged upon his possible prospects, and the importance[95] of his always being at home to advance them. What she scarcely referred to, brave old soul! was the pleasure she would derive from his constant companionship.

‘If you ask my advice, Lady Farrington,’ said Colonel Greathed, ‘I should say leave him to follow his profession. It will be no hindrance to him in prosecuting his claims; and should these fail, as I apprehend is just possible, he may nevertheless achieve an excellent position for himself. His bent is so strongly marked; he is so promising a young soldier; he has already done so well; he is, I firmly believe, so keen and eager to continue in his career that I think it would be unfair to himself, to his friends, to the country he serves, to baulk him and turn him aside.’

Lady Farrington was much moved.[96] Her eyes were full of tears, and she could hardly speak.

‘It will pain you, I fear, to part with him. You will miss him greatly, I have no doubt. Still such partings are only short-lived, and when they are for a young man’s good—’

‘You are right, Colonel Greathed, and I am half ashamed of myself for my selfish weakness, but I can hold out no longer.’

She wiped her eyes and sent for Herbert.

‘It is settled, and in the way to please you best, I feel sure. You shall continue in the calling you have chosen, my brave boy. It must and shall be so. I have not many years to live, but I pray God will spare me until I see you righted I hope, but at any rate on the high road to fame.’

She kissed him tenderly on the forehead, as if to sign the agreement thus.

[97]

‘But you will not leave me just yet,’ she said, almost piteously. ‘He need not go back to the regiment directly, Colonel Greathed?’

‘Certainly not; not till October, when we embark for Gibraltar again. I shall want him to take the adjutancy then.’
CHAPTER VI.  BACK ON THE ROCK.
As October approached, and with it the time for rejoining his regiment, Herbert became more and more eager and excited. He was quite angry with himself for being so pleased. It seemed such base ingratitude to Lady Farrington to be so delighted to leave her. But he was not that in the least. He felt an increasing regard for her which promised to develop some day into deep affection. He was only overjoyed at the prospect of once more resuming his work. Those who have been long in regular harness can best realize how flat, stale, and unprofitable is life without a fixed object and employment, more or less constant, from morning till night. Neither by[99] inclination nor by his recent training was Herbert of the sort to eat the bread of idleness, or be satisfied with having nothing to do. Therefore it was, that when his adieux were made, and the poor old lady left to her solitary grief, Herbert returned to soldiering with all the vigour and elasticity of a steel spring, which has been set free. He could never forget all he owed his first patron and firm friend; he meant to spend a certain portion of his time with her still; he would go to her always gladly and with the utmost alacrity, when she expressed a wish to see him or desired to have him at her side. But in spite of all, he was like a schoolboy just released from school. The expiration of his leave and his return to duty, which is to some officers such an inexpressible bore, was to him a source of the most unfeigned delight.

[100]

Yet it was not without a certain trepidation that he prepared to take up his new position. How would his brother officers receive him? Would they accept him as one of themselves? He remembered, certainly, that when the news of his promotion first reached the Coast, all had congratulated him warmly, and made many cordial and civil speeches, declaring him to be an honour to the Duke’s Own. But these were days of abnormal excitement; a sharp campaign was barely ended, and active service does much to sweep away formality and level class distinctions. It would be different now, perhaps, at an expensive and brilliant mess in a gay garrison town, where social life was always bubbling up and boiling over in festive gatherings, race-meetings, days with the Calpe hounds, theatricals, and balls. Herbert had no particular[101] craving for these joys. But would he be freely admitted and readily welcomed everywhere? Might not some, unmindful of the fact that he had a gentleman’s education, and that possibly his birth, if he got his rights, was better than theirs, be disposed to look down upon him, and despise him as a man who had ‘risen from the ranks?’

Herbert was little acquainted with the tempers and idiosyncrasies of British officers. Although long associated with them, it had been only as an inferior separated from them by a wide gulf, and he saw only what was on the surface: brusquerie, often, an arrogant manner and a self-satisfied air. He did not know that at bottom they were honest and well-meaning fellows full of prejudices—not all Newtons perhaps, or John Stuart Mills—but straightforward honourable men, who were in the habit of taking[102] their comrades just as they found them, and just for what they were worth. There may be snobs who will kotow to a duke’s son, or revolve as satellites round a wealthy young parvenu; but the general verdict of a British mess upon the individuals who compose it, is based always upon their intrinsic qualities and personal claims.

The Duke’s Own were not long in finding out that Herbert Larkins was ‘a man of the right sort,’ ‘a thorough good chap all round.’ They saw, not without surprise, perhaps, that he took his place among them quite naturally, almost as though to the manner born.

He behaved quite properly at the dinner-table; he did not eat peas with a knife, or drink with his mouth full; he could take his share in the conversation—never very abstruse or wide in its range—and[103] that without dropping his h’s or miscalling his words. He could do most things, too; play cricket and racquets, shoot, ride or play a rubber of whist. Above all, he had a pleasant face and a genial manner, with a smile and a civil word for all who spoke to him, whether on duty or off.

This last was almost sufficient recommendation in itself, especially when found in the adjutant, as it was in Herbert’s case. Colonel Greathed was not a commanding officer to be led by the nose; he drove his own coach, and had his team always well in hand. But even under his régime the adjutant was as he must always be—a considerable personage. He really wields much power; he is the usual channel of communication with the colonel; through him officers apply for leave or other indulgences; he keeps the duty roster, and can, if he[104] pleases, do even the oldest a good turn, by carrying out exchanges, and substituting one name for another, even at the eleventh hour. Over the prisoners he exercises the sway of a task-master and pedagogue combined; he can prolong drill-instruction to a maddening length; and upon his good or evil report much of their happiness depends. With the non-commissioned officers, and rank and file, the adjutant is generally an irresponsible autocrat and king. He holds the sergeants in the hollow of his hand; the colonel nearly always relies upon him to recommend men for promotion, and it is he who brings forward deserving private soldiers and raises them out of the ruck. All this tends to make his position dangerously full of snares. He may easily become puffed up and conceited; worse still (and this is especially noticeable in adjutants[105] who have risen from the ranks), he may drift into favouritism; and, by reason of his intimate acquaintance with the ins and outs of military life, fall into the error of knowing too much and seeing too much. That Herbert steered clear of all the hidden rocks which threaten the adjutant’s course was the best testimony to his worth. Although he never swerved from his duty, no adjutant could have been more generally popular.

The days passed evenly and pleasantly enough. They were happy days for Herbert, which he remembered always in his after life. Busy days, beginning with the fresh morning hours, when he took the battalion out for early drill, and ending with the inspection of the non-commissioned officers at tattoo. Guard-mounting parade in a fortress bristling with sentries; orderly-room[106] in a place where liquor, unfortunately, is cheap; much correspondence and many intricate returns, in a garrison fully provided with the regulation number of staff officers, all these kept him close till it was long past mid-day. Then there was afternoon parade, more writing, the drill of young officers, and a few recruits, or awkward squads, and the day was well advanced before he could call himself really free; but there were few days when he did not find time for a smart canter along the beach of Gibraltar Bay, the Rotten Row of the Rock, or for a longer ramble upon the slopes below the Queen of Spain’s Chair, or on the San Roque road and towards the Cork Wood. Now and again, but rarely, and chiefly when the meet was near at hand, he gave himself a half-holiday, and spent many enjoyable hours with the Calpe hounds. It[107] was his first taste of hunting, and although not quite of the best, perhaps, it was a pleasant introduction to the mysteries of sport. There was always the fair landscape lying bright under the southern sky; the change and movement through the fresh, sweet-scented air, the cheerful companionship of a field of happily-disposed people, whom the day’s outing, with its short runs and rapid break-neck gallops, thoroughly amused.

Ladies, not many certainly, but all very ardent followers of the chase, invariably attend the meets of the Calpe hounds. Herbert saw them, each with her little band of devoted attendants, for ladies are scarce at Gibraltar, and all who have the smallest pretensions to please can always count upon a court of their own. Herbert owed allegiance to none of the reigning[108] queens; he had no leisure for flirting and philandering, nor did he much enjoy the garden-party, afternoon tea, or small and early dance. When he was out with the hounds, therefore, he ranged about alone or with some male companion of his own sort. He had hardly a bowing acquaintance with any one of the fair sex upon the Rock, and it was with no little surprise that he found himself one day greeted with a nod and a most friendly smile by one whom, for the moment, he did not seem to know.

It was Miss Prioleau.

The general, with his wife and daughter, had been away, on leave in England, when the Duke’s Own returned to Gibraltar. They had only been back a few days when Herbert thus again encountered his little friend Edith for the first time.

[109]

He raised his hat, and would have ridden on, but the general himself came up with outstretched hand:

‘Allow me, Mr. Larkins, to congratulate you. As one of the old regiment, I take a pride in any one who has contributed to its credit. You have done so, and right well. I am glad to think you have met with your deserts.’

‘Yes, indeed,’ put in the sweet voice of the daughter, and somehow the simple words were far more grateful to Herbert’s ears than the sonorous praises which fell from her father’s lips. ‘Yes, indeed, Mr. Larkins, it was a noble action, and we are all proud of it.’

The bright maiden had now grown into the fair and more staid and self-conscious, but winsome girl. Yet she was the same attractive little person, no less engaging,[110] and far more dangerous now in her budding womanly beauty than when he had seen her last, still almost a child in her white habit, patronising him at the general’s inspection, and, metaphorically, patting him on the back.

Herbert muttered a few words in acknowledgment of the general’s courteous approval. Edith he thanked by a grateful look, which had perhaps more meaning in it than he intended, or that she exactly liked.

‘I do believe they have found, father!’ she cried; and as she spoke there was a sudden stir and bustle at the far end of the field. Next moment came the whimper of a hound; then the cheering voice of the huntsman, then the twang of a horn, then a whole chorus of voices—for out here everyone acted as amateur whip and unprofessional[111] aid—swelling up into a grand volume of sound.

‘Yoicks! For’rad! Ga—wn a—way!’

It promised to be a capital burst. They had been drawing the White House covert, and the fox headed for the Majarambu woods. The country was rough; now and again you came to a precipice like the side of a house; next to a long slope studded, as it might be, with the great boulders of an old world glacier or moraine; then broad uplands clothed with broad tufts of the gum cistus, just high enough to oblige your horse to take them in a series of quick jumps not always very easy to sit. The pace was good, the going difficult, and, an unusual thing, the run was protracted for more than a quarter of an hour. Ere long the field began to tail off, and presently there were very few people in the first[112] flight. Bill Ackroyd, the huntsman, was one, so was the M.F.H., Herbert also, and Edith Prioleau, but without her papa. The general had got into difficulties at a wide drain, where, as some irreverent subalterns remarked, it was to be hoped he might stay, at least beyond the following Saturday, so that they might escape the usual weekly field-day upon the North Front.

In the exuberant enjoyment of galloping at top speed over a break-neck country, Edith had all but forgotten the existence of her father. No doubt he would turn up at the first check. Runs were not so plentiful, and this one was far too good to lose. She meant to see it out to the very last.

Not quite. There must be accidents sometimes, as the Spanish journals say when describing bull-fights; and all at once Edith’s horse, a not too surefooted barb,[113] put his foot in a hole, and he and his rider came down together.

Over and over they rolled, on the top and close to the margin of the steep cliff, a mixed-up mass, as it seemed to Herbert’s terrified eyes, of habit, light curls, black hoofs, gray mane, and tail. Quick as lightning he had dismounted and gone to the rescue. How he managed he never remembered; but by a great effort, and, as he thought, after the lapse of nearly an age of time, he succeeded in disengaging Miss Prioleau from her horse.

She had fainted. Her face was blanched quite white; a small stream of crimson was trickling from one temple as though she had received a mortal hurt. To bring water in his hunting-hat from a spring hard by, to sprinkle her brow and chafe her hands, was all that Herbert could do until[114] the arrival of a number of others, among whom were one or two eager but officious ladies, and the affrighted general. To them he resigned his charge, but he waited anxiously a little way off to hear how it fared with the poor girl.

Happily she soon came to. The shock of her fall had deprived her of consciousness; a small stone had hit her forehead; but these were the worst injuries she had endured. Very soon she was able to remount her horse and ride slowly home.

Herbert felt first a little neglected, although, as he told himself, he had really no reason to expect any extravagant thanks. Probably no one knew that it was he who had extricated Miss Prioleau from her perilous predicament, the general and his daughter least of all, and what did it matter if they did? The service was a very trifling[115] one, after all, and he had only done what any other man would have done in his place.

He was quite wrong, however, in supposing that those whom he had served were ungrateful. Next morning came a formal but most courteously-worded letter of thanks from the general, and with it a letter from Mrs. Prioleau, repeating her husband’s phrases, and winding up with a very friendly invitation to dine at an early day.

Herbert gladly accepted, full of joy at the prospect of meeting Miss Prioleau again. He hardly considered how far the acquaintance, if allowed to ripen, was likely to affect his peace of mind.
CHAPTER VII.  THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE.
To the young military officer in whom the reverential spirit is not entirely quenched, the British general is often a very awful person indeed. A halo of professional glory surrounds the great man; strange powers—particularly as to leave—are vested in him; his frequent frown is terrific, his occasional smile fails to reassure. To the officer whose early days were spent in the ranks, and who has never seen the general behind the scenes, so to speak, as an English gentleman no better than others of his class, the formidable effect is intensified, and a great gulf seems to separate the two.

It was with a shy feeling and rather a[117] sinking heart that Herbert presented himself at Line Wall House, the residence of the major-general commanding; but he found himself among friends even on the threshold. An orderly sergeant, one of the Duke’s Own, of course, and a former comrade, took his coat and forage cap; and the servant who ushered him into the drawing-room was also an old soldier of the regiment disguised in livery, who seemed to be the herald of a triumphal procession as he threw wide the doors and with stentorian lungs announced

‘Misther Larkins!’

The friendliness was not, however, confined to the attendants. The general’s manner was most frank and kindly as he came forward and shook hands. Mrs. Prioleau, a well-meaning, but very languid washed-out personage, also greeted him[118] quite warmly, for her: while Edith received him with such bright eyes and heightened colour, conveying thanks and welcome all in one, that, for the moment, he felt quite overcome.

It was a small party of eight, carefully chosen, probably with the idea of making Herbert thoroughly at home. Another subaltern like himself, but newly married, with a pretty girlish cipher of a wife, and a staff-surgeon, who proved to be Herbert’s Ashanti friend, M‘Cosh. The general’s aide-de-camp, Captain Mountcharles, a relation of the family, made up the number.

Edith fell to Herbert on going in to dinner. On her other side at the table was the aide-de-camp, who, according to custom, took the bottom, the general being at the other end, and Mrs. Prioleau in the centre on the right.

[119]

The talk at dinner was not particularly lively at first. Mrs. Prioleau never contributed much; the general was really a little shy himself, especially with people whom he did not know intimately; Edith was rather silent, and the rest of the company seemingly abashed, all but one. The exception was Captain Mountcharles, whose duty it was, no less than his inclination, to make himself agreeable, and he acquitted himself very well of his task.

He was a very self-satisfied young gentleman, rather disposed to be overdressed and with a somewhat supercilious air. The first showed itself in the splendour of his shirt-front, with its single stud as large as a cheese-plate, in his enormous shirt cuffs, which he ‘shot out’ with a little concerted cough just before he made a new remark, in the breadth of his black satin tie, and in[120] the size of his watch chain, which had it been long enough would have made a cable for a seventy-four. The latter was to be seen in his drawling accents and his tendency to depreciate everybody and everything.

Herbert hated him almost instinctively from the first, but his dislike was deepened by his seeming familiarity with Edith, whom he called by her Christian name. She was his cousin, so it was all right enough, but it jarred on Herbert all the same.

‘Very poor sport to-day,’ said the aide-de-camp to the general, ‘you did not miss much, sir. You weren’t out, M‘Cosh? Were you, Mr. Larkins—?’ punctiliously polite to Herbert, as to an inferior; another reason for hatred. ‘How anyone can hunt here after the shires!’

[121]

‘You never hunted in the shires, Gaston, so come,’ said downright Edith.

‘I beg your pardon, Miss Edith. I did, several seasons while you were still at school.’

‘Miss Prioleau never went to school, I think,’ put in Herbert, and she turned on him with a bright smile.

‘O, do you remember that day! I never was so bothered, I think. French is certainly the most difficult and detestable of tongues.’

‘So I always thought,’ Herbert said.

‘You speak French, Mr. Larkins?’ asked the aide-de-camp, rather impertinently.

‘After a fashion, that of Deadham school. Pray do you?’

‘Were you at Deadham?’ went on Captain Mountcharles, rather shirking the question,[122] and seeming to imply that a man who had been in the ranks had no right to any education at all.

‘Ye were at more schools than that, I take it, Larkins,’ said Dr. M‘Cosh; ‘I saw you in one, and a hot ’un, where you were the head and dux of the class.’

‘You were at school together, then?’ Mrs. Prioleau asked civilly, but she was evidently too apathetic to care about the reply.

‘We played together, Mrs. Prioleau, not with hoop or ball, or peg tops, but at the great game of war.’

‘Ashanti, I presume,’ the general said.

‘The idea of calling that a war, sir,’ interposed our bumptious A.D.C. ‘A picnic would be a better name.’

‘It was not a picnic under the usual[123] circumstances, at any rate,’ Herbert said quietly, as one entitled to speak.

‘No foiegras and hothouse grapes, perhaps,’ went on Mountcharles; ‘but you must admit that the whole thing was monstrously exaggerated.’

‘O, how can you say so?’ cried Edith, quite eagerly.

‘And the honours, too, look how they were overdone. Why there were more rewards than for Waterloo.’

‘Some of them were richly deserved; one in particular, which I could mention,’ replied Edith, with the air of a champion defending the right.

‘It isn’t everyone who gets the chance to deserve them,’ said Mountcharles, rather sulkily. He had never seen a shot fired himself, and bore malice in his heart to all who had had better luck.

[124]

‘Or who would make the most of it if they had,’ Edith retorted sharply, adding in a low voice, ‘Gaston, I quite hate you to-night: how disagreeable you can be.’

For the remainder of the evening she made him conscious of her high displeasure. Mountcharles and she had hitherto been the most excellent friends. An aide-de-camp may be, and Mountcharles certainly was, the very tamest of cats. He had other claims besides those of cousinship to be well received. With an only daughter, young, lively, and exceedingly attractive, both the general and Mrs. Prioleau had realised the inconvenience and possible danger of having a man continually about the house, unless he were in every way an eligible parti. Edith had plenty of time before her, no doubt, but at her age girls are[125] impressionable and very apt to succumb to the first comer if he has many opportunities of being at her side. Mountcharles had been specially selected as A.D.C. by Mrs. Prioleau, who, in spite of her languid airs, was a shrewd, far-seeing woman, and she felt that if anything were to happen, at least they were safe with Gaston Mountcharles. His father was dead, and he had an excellent competence of his own. He was a man of good birth, thoroughly presentable in every way. Edith, if she could only like him, might do very much worse.

But this night it was clear Edith did not like him at all. Not that Mountcharles much cared. He had probably far too good an opinion of himself to be cast down by the snubbings of a girl still in her teens. Whether or no he took her treatment of him very much to heart does not, however,[126] concern my readers so much as her behaviour to the hero of my story.

To Herbert Larkins that evening she was gracious and engaging in the extreme. She made him talk to her on subjects he would probably know best. She listened to him with that close attention which is in itself a subtle compliment, particularly when coming from an attractive girl, and she smiled her approval in that frank, straightforward way which might be interpreted one way, but which in her, perhaps, meant nothing at all.

The effect upon Herbert was marked and almost instantaneous. He was in truth little accustomed to the fascinations of the fair sex. He had never been brought up to flirt and philander, to roam from flower to flower, inhaling fragrance and passing gaily on, and he fell at once deeply and[127] desperately in love. His heart went out at once to the general’s daughter, without for a moment considering whether his passion was likely to be returned.

It was not, perhaps, exactly wise. A man more versed in the ways of the world would have been a little more cautious and circumspect. Edith Prioleau counted her swains by the score. Young ladies with the great gift of beauty, of good birth, and not without brains, pleasant talkers, good dancers, forward riders, are not too common in English society on the Rock. Among the few belles of the place, Edith Prioleau easily carried off the palm, and she had always a crowd of admirers about her. She did not resent or reject their attentions; on the contrary, she honoured them all with her favour in turn, and enjoyed it amazingly, feeling, no doubt, that they meant nothing[128] any more than she did, and that, therefore, she did no particular harm. Young soldiers are reputed susceptible; but it is also true that, if knocked over and quite hopeless one day, they are generally quite heart-whole the next.

Herbert Larkins was not a man of this sort. He was in sober serious earnest from the first. He was like a slave, grovelling at her feet. She might trample on him and spurn him if she pleased, but he was hers always, whether she would have him or no. The worst of it was that he could not hide his feelings. He was too honest—he had not enough of what the world calls savoir faire. What did he care who knew? He was not ashamed of his weakness. It was not a passing fancy, but a strong attachment; a deep-seated affection which would last as long as he lived. Everybody[129] saw it: his brother-officers, like good comrades, realising how much his heart was in it, forebore to chaff him and take him to task; the garrison generally, and all smiled, or winked knowingly when he was observed dancing attendance on Edith, looking the picture of misery unless she threw him a word. Captain Mountcharles saw it, so at last did the general and his wife. Edith herself, least of all, could not be blind to devotion which had in it much of the unswerving unquestioning attachment of the dog that follows at one’s heels. In all probability she would have been overcome by it. Already that pity which is proverbially akin to a much warmer sentiment, had taken possession of her, and she was in a fair way to be won had Herbert pricked up courage to speak.

Edith’s parents were growing a trifle[130] uneasy at Herbert’s attentions. The general did not take much notice, but—a woman is so much more worldly in these matters—Mrs. Prioleau did.

‘Do you see, Robert,’ she said at length, ‘what is going on right under our noses? Edith, I mean, and this Mr. Larkins?’

‘Well, I have had my suspicions. But what matter? Cannot things take their course?’

‘Agree to such a match for Edith? Robert, you must be demented.’

The general had seldom seen his wife so excited before.

‘He is a very rising young soldier.’

‘Who has already risen from the ranks. It will never do. I have no false pride about me, I think, but it is right to draw the line somewhere. But even if there were no other objections, that of means ought to[131] suffice. What are they to live upon? His pay? Ridiculous and absurd.’

‘He cannot be dependent on his pay. He lives well, keeps horses, and makes altogether too good a show. I have heard rumours of some rich old lady in the background, who has made him her protégé.’

‘That story might not quite bear investigation,’ said Mrs. Prioleau drily. ‘We know nothing about Mr. Larkins—where he comes from, or to whom he belongs.’

‘I had no idea you were so keen, Sophia, I confess I like the lad. However, speak to Edith if you feel that it is necessary. I leave it all to you.’

It was while Mrs. Prioleau waited her opportunity that chance gave Herbert an adverse rub.

Edith, with Captain Mountcharles as escort, was returning from the Moorish[132] Castle, when she came suddenly upon Herbert Larkins. He was leaving a small cottage, which was evidently a soldier’s quarter. It was, in fact, the home of old Sergeant Larkins and his wife.

‘Good bye, mother,’ Herbert was saying, as the pair passed by.

‘Good bye, my boy; come again soon. You are an honest lad not to forget us, although you’ve come to be so great a man.’

And with that the old woman kissed him tenderly on the brow, although they stood at the cottage door, almost in the open street.

‘Whose quarter is that?’ the aide-de-camp asked of a passing orderly, pointing back, after they had ridden a little way on.

‘Sergeant Larkins’, sir. Principal barrack sergeant, sir.’

[133]

At which Mountcharles looked hard at Edith, and with a comical face.

‘Well, what do I care? What is it to me? It is quite proper of him. It is his duty not to neglect his parents.’

‘Oh, of course. She’s a dear old thing, too, I can see that. How would you like her for a mother-in-law, Edith Prioleau, eh?’

‘How dare you suggest such a thing, Captain Mountcharles?’ cried Edith, blushing red.

But there was a cold chill on her heart, and Herbert’s chances seemed very small just then.
CHAPTER VIII.  HERBERT ON HIS METTLE.
Herbert was all unconscious that he had been observed leaving the cottage near the Moorish Castle; still more that he had been overheard addressing Mrs. Larkins, as of old, by the affectionate title of mother. Had he heard what passed between Edith and Captain Mountcharles upon that occasion it might have modified his plans very considerably. For now at length, after much hesitation and delay, he had made up his mind to speak to Edith on the first opportunity, and tell her of his love. Matters had long continued in this most unsatisfactory state with him. He had suffered[135] tortures; he had been continually in suspense, for ever torn by hopes and fears. One day he was in the seventh heaven, the next in the very depths of despair. He could do no work. Edith seemed to come between him and his duty. He thought of her always, everywhere. He was for ever sketching her face upon the official blotting pad in the orderly-room; he was all but giving Edith as the countersign when challenged by the sentries; he very nearly mixed up her name with the words of command upon parade.

Latterly, however, he had been in much better heart. She did not encourage him, perhaps, as much as he would have liked, but she favoured him more, he thought, than any of his fellows. Therefore it was that he had brought himself up to the terrible ordeal of staking his fate upon the throw;[136] and it was with this intention that he approached Miss Prioleau the very next time they met.

It was at a ball at the Convent, at the well known palace or residence of the Governor of the Rock. Edith was seated upon a fauteuil in the patio, or central courtyard, between the dances. Her companion was Captain Mountcharles.

‘May I have the pleasure of a dance, Miss Prioleau?’ Herbert asked.

‘I’m afraid I have none left.’

‘You promised me the second valse—quite a week ago.’

‘Miss Prioleau is engaged for that to me,’ put in Captain Mountcharles, rather rudely.

‘The next, then?’ went on Herbert to Edith, without taking any notice of the A.D.C.

[137]

‘And for that too,’ said Mountcharles, in much the same tone as before.

‘Pardon me, I was speaking to Miss Prioleau, and I trust she will give me the answer herself.’

‘It’s quite—’ true she was going to say, as the easiest way out of the thing. But she was far too honest to tell a lie, even about a dance, and besides there was a mute appealing look in Herbert’s face which went to her heart. ‘I mean that you are rather late in the day, Mr. Larkins.’

She had promised not to dance with him, that was the fact. There had been a scene at the general’s about this Mr. Larkins, as Mrs. Prioleau called him. Edith had been taken rather sharply to task for encouraging him, and both father and mother had begged her to be careful. The man wasn’t half good enough for her, they[138] said. They had no absurd scruples about birth and position, and all that, still she ought to do much better than take a soldier of fortune, about whom and his belongings nothing whatever was known. Edith, remembering the Moorish Castle adventure, thought she could have enlightened her parents as to Herbert’s belongings, but she had no wish to injure him or to blacken him in their eyes. She only hotly repudiated the charge of favouring him, and agreed readily to do anything they wished. She would cut him if they liked. Not necessary? Well, snub him then? Not necessary either. What then? General and Mrs. Prioleau declared they would be satisfied if she would promise not to dance with the objectionable pretender at the Governor’s ball, and Edith gave her word to that effect.

[139]

This was why she had received Herbert so coldly. The other adventure had weighed, perhaps, with her, but not much.

As for Herbert, he was utterly taken aback. What could be the matter with Edith? Why this extraordinary change? Was the girl capricious, a mere flirt, a garrison belle, to whom admiration was everything, and admirers or their feelings simply nothing at all? Herbert did not like to think so hardly of her all at once, and resolved to make another attempt.

‘Is it quite hopeless, Miss Prioleau? May I not have one dance, only one?’ again he pleaded, with such earnest eyes that Edith Prioleau was touched and on the point of giving way.

‘Why did you cut me the other day, Mr. Larkins?’ suddenly asked Captain[140] Mountcharles, with the idea of creating some diversion.

‘I never cut you’—although I probably shall, and the sooner the better—Herbert was disposed to add. ‘When and where was it?’

‘Near the Moorish Cottage; you were coming out of some soldiers’ quarters.’

‘Oh yes, Sergeant Larkins.’

‘Relations, perhaps,’ the other observed impertinently.

‘Very near and very dear,’ Herbert replied promptly. This was not an occasion on which he would deny his old friends.

‘At any rate you are honest, Mr. Larkins,’ Edith said, with a frank smile, but Herbert knew from the speech that Edith had been also present, and he seemed to understand now why she was so different to him.

[141]

‘Honesty is not the exclusive property of high birth, Miss Prioleau, and I can claim at least to have as much as my neighbours.’

‘Come, Edith, the music is playing,’ cried Captain Mountcharles, springing up; ‘we are losing half the dance.’

‘I’m not going to dance this,’ she replied coolly, adding, as he stared at her with indignant surprise, ‘I don’t care whether you’re cross or not. Go and find some other partners; there are plenty upstairs. I mean to stay here. Mr. Larkins will take care of me, I daresay.’

A quick flush of pleasure sprung to Herbert’s cheek. She was relenting; she did not mean to quarrel with him altogether. Perhaps after all she had been only trying him, and was ready to yield if he only took heart of grace to speak up and out to her like a man.

[142]

Mountcharles, with a sulky snort and a very savage look, had risen from his seat and walked off, leaving Herbert considerably elated, master of the field.

Our hero would have been less joyous, perhaps, had he known Edith’s reason for thus appearing to favour him. With the native quick wittedness of a daughter of Eve, she had guessed already what was the matter with Herbert. A man who seeks to disguise his feelings in the presence of the woman he loves may flatter himself that he plays his part to perfection, but it is generally the flimsiest attempt even to ordinary feminine eyes, most of all to those of the beloved object. Edith had seen through him from the first. She knew that he was on the brink of a declaration, that he needed but the slightest encouragement to fall, metaphorically, even practically, at her[143] feet. It was better that he and she should come to an understanding; that he should realise, even at some pain to himself, as well as to her, that they could only be friends to each other, nothing more.

There was a certain amount of coquetry in her fresh young voice and of archness in her bright eyes as she looked up to him and said,

‘Well, Mr. Larkins?’

He had been standing in front of her for some minutes, seeming rather gauche and stupid, and without uttering a word; courage seemed to come to him at once from her voice and look.

‘I was wondering whether you would listen to me, Miss Prioleau, while I told you a story—a long story—’

‘That depends. Is it interesting? Is it founded on fact? What is it about?’

[144]

‘It will be as interesting as I can make it. It is undoubtedly true, and it is all about myself.’

‘Your own history?’

‘Yes, so far as I know it.’

She made no answer, but just moved her skirts a little, with the gesture that implied she wished him to sit by her side.

There were other couples in the patio, patrolling or resting between the dances; there might be many interruptions; there certainly could be no privacy in this place, and Herbert did not wish his confidences published to all the world.

‘Shall we take a turn in the garden?’ Herbert asked, rather diffidently. ‘I shall be able to speak more unreservedly there.’

She nodded her head, and, getting up, took his arm without a word.

[145]

They passed out from the patio to the Convent garden—a perfect paradise that night for lovers. The moon was at its full—a southern moon—and flooded every place with warm white light; above was the deep purple sky, and high into it rose the steep crags of the great Rock. The soft and mellow air was loaded with fragrance; a wealth of southern flowers, all now in their full bloom, filled the beds about, and among them were great bushes like trees of syringa, and of the dama de noche, which only give forth their full perfume at night. The sweet strains of an excellent band, playing for the dancers in the great ball-room up-stairs, rose and fell like a distant echo, and added greatly to the enchantment of the scene.

Walking here with the girl of his heart, Herbert spoke eloquently and well. He[146] told everything that had happened to him from his earliest days. The poor home in Triggertown barracks; the sudden appearance of the great lady who had charged herself with his education; the fine prospects which seemed to open before him on approaching manhood, and how they had been suddenly ruined. He spoke feelingly of the treatment he had received at the hands of Sir Rupert Farrington.

‘Which you so nobly repaid,’ interjected Edith.

He narrated the circumstances of his birth and parentage, and expatiated upon the affectionate devotion of old Mrs. Larkins, who had been a second mother to him; he touched lightly upon the chances which were still his of obtaining a title to a large estate and a good old name. He finished, and waited to hear what she would say.

[147]

But she was silent, and for so long that he feared she was annoyed.

‘You are not vexed? I have not bored you, I hope?’ he said.

‘Oh, no, no; I was only thinking—thinking how hardly you had been used—how some of us, too, had misjudged you.’

She spoke in a low soft voice, which thrilled through him.

‘You were not one of those, surely? You, whose good opinion I value above all earthly things? Oh, Miss Prioleau, there is so much I have still to say to you that I hardly know how to begin. Can you not guess why I have told you my life? I wished only to interest you in myself, to explain why as yet I appear to be other than I really am. I felt it necessary, because I feared you despised me for my lowly birth—’

‘No, no, indeed, I never did that.’

[148]

‘I knew it, I knew it, but I wished to be perfectly sure. You are too good, Edith, too honest to be swayed by mere class distinctions—’

He was suddenly and rather rudely interrupted by the abrupt tones of General Prioleau’s voice—

‘But I am not, Mr. Larkins, and the sooner you know that the better. You probably despise them, as you do those conventional rules of propriety by which any one of the gentleman class would be bound.’

The general spoke with great warmth. There was no abatement in the angriness of his tone as he turned to his daughter and said,

‘Edith, your mother and I have been looking for you for some time past. I hardly thought to find you here and to see that you have not kept your promise.’

[149]

‘I gave no promise; I never said I would not speak to Mr. Larkins again,’ Edith said stoutly, although her eyes were brimming over with tears.

‘Gaston, give Edith your arm, and take her back to her mother. I have a word or two to say to this—gentleman.’

Herbert, however, had by this time found his voice. He was brave enough too and spoke up to the general, in spite of their disparity in rank, as one man would to another.

‘I am truly sorry, sir, to have acted in a manner which is distasteful to you, but I cannot admit that I deserve your harsh words. I have done nothing wrong, sir—’

‘Nothing wrong!’ repeated the general, bitterly, ‘not in seeking to entrap the affections of an inexperienced young girl? Nothing wrong in inveigling her to compromise[150] herself with you by this long and solitary tête-à-tête? Nothing wrong!’

‘I am deeply and sincerely attached to your daughter, sir, and I wished to ask her to become my wife.’

‘Was there ever such matchless effrontery? You? You to aspire to my daughter’s hand? What position could you give her? what would you live upon?’

‘I am not utterly penniless; I have good expectations; I have hopes indeed of succeeding to a title—’

‘That of chevalier d’industrie, I presume. But this is sheer waste of time. I know all about you—all I wish to hear—and I want nothing further. Our acquaintance must cease; I forbid you to enter my house, or ever again to address my daughter. I decline distinctly to hold any further communications with you. If your[151] own good taste does not prompt you to accede to my wishes, I must try to protect myself and my family by other means.’

‘I will win her in spite of you, general,’ said Herbert, firmly and very coolly, although his blood was up. ‘It is due to myself to say that neither by word or deed have I knowingly sought to entangle Miss Prioleau in any engagement. She is under no promise to me; I am not certain whether she cares for me, even as a friend. But if God but grants me strength and health to fight my way, she shall one day be my wife, and that in spite of you all.’

And he walked away, leaving General Prioleau aghast at his impudence.
CHAPTER IX.  ON THE TRAIL.
General Prioleau was not the pleasantest company the morning after the Convent ball. Although commonly counted an easy-going good-natured man, whom nothing seriously ruffled for long, he was this day evidently in the vilest of tempers. No one liked to face him. His wife was well aware of the cause of his anger, and in her own lymphatic way approved it, but the general had given her a very bad quarter of an hour over the whole affair, and had openly told her that if she had shown a little more energy, and had kept a more vigilant eye upon her daughter, any such contretemps as this could not have occurred. Edith was[153] of course in utter disgrace. Her father scowled at her at breakfast as though he thought her guilty of the most heinous court-martial offence, and should be immediately brought to trial. When the aide-de-camp came in he was taken to task for various acts of omission and commission; while the other members of the general’s staff, who brought him documents to discuss and papers to sign, found him utterly impracticable and impossible.

What chafed him most, probably, was that the chief offender was practically beyond the reach of his rage. A general is a great man within the limits of his own command, but his powers are professional merely, and scarcely extend to life and limb. General Prioleau was really able to inflict upon Herbert no stronger mark of his displeasure than to cut him, and snub[154] him, and refuse to grant him leave. He might report unfavourably upon him in the next confidential returns, but only by subordinating his sense of duty to personal pique, a line of conduct abhorrent to an officer and an English gentleman, such as General Prioleau undoubtedly was. What would have pleased him best would have been to order Herbert at once to leave the Rock. Could not Colonel Greathed be persuaded to send this pestilent young fellow to the depot, and keep him out of the way? Then the general remembered that Mr. Larkins was adjutant—and a right good adjutant—and that he could not be transferred to the depot unless he voluntarily resigned the appointment, which he was little likely to do.

‘There is only one way out of it,’ he said at last to his wife. ‘We must send[155] Edith away. She shall go to England, to her aunts, by the very next mail.’

‘You will be the chief sufferer by that. You know you cannot bear to part with the girl, even for an hour. But for that she would have gone to school. I always wished it. If she had, perhaps—’

‘You always wish things when it’s too late to get them,’ replied the general, testily. ‘However she shall go now. I am angry with her and can spare her.’

All arrangements were laid accordingly, and Edith was duly prepared for her journey home. She did not quite object to go away, but she consented with a very bad grace. If this did not tend to mollify the general, he was presently made far more angry by what appeared to be the most audacious pertinacity on the part of her lover.

Just within a day or two of Edith’s[156] departure, Herbert Larkins also applied for leave of absence to proceed to England on very urgent private affairs.

The application had come before the general in the usual way, presented to him as a matter of course with a number of other documents.

‘It’s the most exasperating piece of presumption I ever heard of in all my life. He shall not have it—not an hour!’

‘The commanding officer recommends it, sir; a substitute is named; I really don’t think—’ said the brigade-major, expostulating. It is so unusual a thing for a general officer to refuse leave which is properly backed up and all according to form.

‘What do I care about the colonel? Does he command the brigade, or do I?’

‘Oh, of course it rests with you, sir;[157] still, to refuse it peremptorily and without apparent reasons—’

‘Without reasons, man? Don’t you know that—?’ the general stopped short. His brigade-major probably did not know the family trouble, nor was there reason why he should.

‘Telegraph up for Colonel Greathed to come and see me, as soon as possible,’ the general said, abruptly. ‘I will speak to him personally on the subject.’

The general had cooled down a little by the time Colonel Greathed arrived. He was quite cautious and diplomatic too, speaking first of certain routine matters before he approached the matter he had really at heart.

‘I see your adjutant is asking for leave. Are you sure you can spare him?’

‘Oh, I think so, sir.’

[158]

‘I don’t quite like it, colonel. I have really some hesitation about granting this leave. I should be loth to find fault, but your men are at their spring drills, they want plenty of “setting-up;” they don’t stand to their arms quite as I should like altogether. I’m not finding fault, remember, nothing is further from my mind. Still, the adjutant’s eye is wanted just now, and I don’t feel that it ought to be withdrawn.’

‘He is most anxious to go, sir. Private affairs of some urgency require his personal attention.’

‘He rose from the ranks, I believe; what private affairs could he possibly have?’

‘Perhaps you are not aware, general, of Mr. Larkins’ history—that he is the adopted son of an old lady of rank—’

‘Surely there is no truth in that cock-and-bull story?’

[159]

‘Pardon me, sir, it is perfectly true. I have the pleasure of knowing the old lady—Lady Farrington. Diggle, you may remember, married a Farrington, but of another branch.’

‘But this Mr. Larkins has no claim, I suppose, to the name—nothing more than a left-handed claim, I mean?’

‘I am not so sure. It may be difficult to prove his case; but he has a case, and a good one. At any rate, the old lady is devotedly attached to him, and likes to see him now and again. She has now written pressing him most earnestly to pay her a visit, thinking, I believe, that something of importance is likely to turn up.’

‘Is this why he asks leave? Has he no other reasons?’

‘None that I am aware of, except that he thinks of competing at the next Staff[160] College final examination, and wishes to see what it is like, so as to prepare in good time.’

The general could not well withhold his consent any longer; but he was resolved now to keep Edith by his side. There was, of course, no reason why she should leave the Rock; on the contrary, the chances of meeting Mr. Larkins on board the steamer or in England must be as far as possible avoided. The man was a forward fellow, as reckless as he was presuming; who, it was quite likely, would make opportunities for prosecuting his suit. General Prioleau was little less bitter against Herbert, in spite of what Greathed had told him; he could not possibly bring himself to think of our hero as otherwise than an ineligible and unsatisfactory parti.

Herbert himself was also greatly excited[161] by what had occurred. He had only seen Edith twice since the ball. She was riding on the beach, closely guarded, the general on one side, his aide-de-camp on the other. Herbert had raised his hat, as in duty bound, to his official superior, who returned the salute formally. Captain Mountcharles looked straight to his front, and Edith bowed gravely and sadly, he thought, in the short glimpse he caught of her face. It was war, of course—to the knife. The general’s animosity was all the more plainly shown by his attitude about the leave, for Colonel Greathed had given Herbert an outline of his interview with the chief.

‘I have a very shrewd notion what is wrong with him,’ Greathed said; ‘I don’t want you to tell me more than you choose, Larkins, but I have eyes and ears, and I[162] know pretty well what has been going on.’

‘There is no secret in the matter, sir,’ and Herbert told his colonel exactly what had happened at the ball.

‘You are evidently in earnest, Larkins, and I wish you luck,’ said Greathed, laughing. ‘But I’m not surprised the general was a little put out. And now what do you mean to do?’

‘Stick to it to the last, sir. If I could be only sure that she would wait. But in a place like this, and with a man like Mountcharles always close by,—I shouldn’t be in the least afraid but for that.’

‘It’s a long lane that has no turning. You must make your way in the service; get upon the staff; lose no opportunity of employment. Everything comes to the man who is determined to win. Perhaps[163] that other affair may turn up trumps. Lady Farrington, you say, thinks that some important evidence will soon be forthcoming?’

‘The dear old lady is always thinking that, sir,’ said Herbert with a smile. ‘She’s a little like the boy that cried wolf. There have been so many false alarms that I shan’t believe the real thing if it ever comes to pass.’

‘Have you any idea what she is expecting now?’

‘Not in the least. She gives me only the vaguest hints. I half fancy it is only an affectionate ruse to get me back to England for a time.’

But it was something more than that, as the reader will now see.

Some eleven months had elapsed since the last advertisement had been published,[164] offering a large reward for information concerning the marriage of Herbert Farrington and Annie Orde, but no satisfactory answer had been received. Hope was already failing all but the sanguine old Lady Farrington, who kept on declaring persistently that the right would certainly prosper in the end. As she was the only person who stoutly maintained that proofs of the marriage must certainly be forthcoming, so she was the only one who was not surprised, when one morning a mysterious letter arrived from no one knew where, and sent by no one knew whom.

It was addressed to Mr. Bellhouse, who had long been the family’s solicitor, as well as Lady Farrington’s, and consisted of only a few lines scribbled, on the back of an old invoice for goods:—

‘Those who seek find. Search the[165] registers of the parish of Stickford-le-Clay, in the county of ——. He who was once Herbert Farrington sends this.’

A communication which drove Lady Farrington nearly frantic. It revived, and indeed supported, all her old fancies, that her injured son was still alive. She declared that she recognised his handwriting; she began once more, although a long interval had elapsed, to hear his voice and to see his beloved form in her dreams. She talked incessantly about him and his probable return. Had she not been carefully tended and watched by her own servants, she might have had a very serious relapse.
CHAPTER X.  A LAWYER’S LETTER.
Farrington Hall was an excellent specimen of our sixteenth century domestic architecture. It was a long low red-bricked building, with white stone mullions, and it stood on a gentle eminence, which dominated the far-reaching, low-lying fat lands of the Farrington estate. It had all the conventional surroundings which confer dignity on an old place; magnificent trees, in which lived a prosperous colony of rooks; a great park of velvety grass; a broad, slow stream at the foot of the slope on which stood the Hall.

There had been Farringtons of Farrington from time immemorial. The transmission[167] of the title and estates had long been direct from father to son; only at rare intervals, as in the case of the present baronet, Sir Rupert, did distant relatives succeed. But now at last the race was nearly run. There were no males left, not even a far-off cousin twenty times removed, and after Sir Rupert’s death the title would be extinct. There was an heir for the property certainly, but only through the female branch. Letitia Diggle would come into everything of course, and after her, her children; but although her eldest boy, under Sir Rupert’s will, would probably assume the Farrington name and arms, the baronetcy could not be his, and in consequence Mrs. Diggle was very much aggrieved.

The Cavendish-Diggles had by this time taken up their residence at the Hall. They came, in the first instance, by invitation,[168] but remained afterwards as a matter of course. The old people liked to hear the patter of their grandchildren’s feet and their merry shrill trebles as they played about the place. This had to some extent dispelled the fixed gloom which had settled on Lady Farrington after her son’s death. Even black Sir Rupert was softened, and seemed to take a pleasure in their prattle and merry ways. But then Letitia had always been an especial favourite of his. Her cast of character was in harmony with his. She reproduced many of his own peculiar traits; she was as unforgiving, as determined, and as hard. She showed pretty plainly what she would be if she lived to inherit the estates, and already exercised a kind of second-hand authority, such as heirs-apparent often usurp when allowed. She knew the estate by heart,[169] every inch, every tenant. She had her own views as to the rentals and the outgoings. She kept a sharp look-out on the bailiff, and gave him to understand that she was up to every move. Sir Rupert, to a great extent, let her have her own way. It pleased him to think that the property would fall into good hands, and Letitia’s ideas were so much in accord with his own that they seldom fell out or disagreed.

It was amusing to see how the great Diggle comported himself at Farrington Hall. He was a curious example of how low the once mighty may fall. From having been a tremendous personage he had sunk to the position of a mere hanger-on. He was not even prince consort to a reigning queen. His wife looked upon him as an appendage, a person useful in his way, but not entitled to have any voice in[170] the management of affairs, or, indeed, any opinions of his own. He might have resented this, and refused the rather ignominious r?le, but for two reasons. The first was that his health was very indifferent, and he had no spirit to battle for his rights; the second, that Mrs. Diggle had made certain discoveries as to his family and antecedents which left him very much in her power. The fact was that Cavendish really belonged to the great tea firm trading and largely advertising under the name of Diggle; and what was more, the firm was in a very bad way. To have married a Diggle at all was in itself a condescension, but to have become the wife of a pauper Diggle was something like a ‘sell.’ There had been settlements, of course, but not to a large amount, as Diggle declared he had but little ready cash, although his prospects[171] were excellent. Moreover, his hopes, undoubtedly well-grounded at the time, of professional advancement, which had been not the least potent inducement to the match, were now fading into nothingness, and there seemed every reason to fear that, owing to his wretched health, Colonel Diggle would continue a half-pay officer for the rest of his life. A parvenu who is poor and without any chances of obtaining social distinction has no raison d’être at all, and Diggle was fast degenerating into a mere cipher, a poor creature who had no other claims to respect but that of being father to the Diggle-Farrington who would some day be the master of Farrington Hall.

They were at breakfast at Farrington Hall one morning, when the post-bag arrived, and, as usual, was opened at the table. The letters were served out like[172] alms, grudgingly given, by Sir Rupert to each, but he still kept the lion’s share to himself. All were soon deep in their correspondence. Lady Farrington’s were gossipy letters, filling several sheets; Letitia’s the same, with a large sprinkling of tradesmen’s circulars and bills. The colonel heard only from old soldier friends, short but often pithy notes, having mostly the same refrain—the writer’s grievances or his forcibly expressed conviction that the service was going to the dogs. These last were the soonest read, and Diggle was therefore the only one free to notice what passed among the others at table.

It was quite clear that Sir Rupert was very much put out by his morning’s news. Although little given to betray what was passing in his mind, his demeanour after he had opened and read the first few lines[173] of one of his letters, was that of a man in whom indignation, excitement, and ill-concealed rage combined to considerably disturb. His black eyebrows contracted, his hard mouth was drawn down at the corners; he looked up and around with fierce bloodshot eyes, and as quickly looked down again when he saw that he was observed by Diggle. After that he ‘took a pull on himself,’ so to speak, and folding up the evidently offensive missive, put it with the others, then lapsed into moody, preoccupied silence until the breakfast was over.

‘I should like to speak to you, Letitia, in the justice room, as soon as you conveniently can come.’

He often consulted her, and there was nothing strange, therefore, in this request, except in the abrupt and peremptory tone in which it was made.

[174]

The justice room, in which Sir Rupert gave audience to constables and administered the law when urgently required, was also his library, study, and place of business. It was a cheerless, formal, barely-furnished room, which took, as rooms usually do, the colour and temper of its occupant, and was, like him, cold and uncompromising.

Sir Rupert seated himself at his official table, in his high magisterial chair, and sorting his letters carefully, selected that which had so evidently disturbed him, read and re-read it several times.

Then Letitia joined him—

‘Yes, father?’

‘Sit down please. What I have to say will take some time.’ He paused—

‘A letter has reached me this morning from Lady Farrington’s—the dowager’s—lawyer.[175] It may be all a hoax; let us hope that it is; but I confess I am greatly disturbed by what it says.’

Letitia looked at him, keenly interrogative, but said nothing.

‘You remember, no doubt, the circumstances of the old dowager’s craze? It was no secret in the family. She pretended that a grandchild of hers was in existence, who was the rightful heir to the title and estates; all that you knew, of course?’

‘I had heard the absurd story. Idiotic old woman! I cannot understand why you ever let her out,’ said Letitia, as though her father had full powers to commit to durance indefinite every individual likely to injure the Farrington family or whose brain was touched, the two being synonymous terms.

‘I did not wish to let her out, I assure[176] you. It was done in spite of me, and by the person who is, I believe, at the bottom of the newest attempt to defraud us of our rights.’

‘Are they threatened?—by whom?’ Letitia was like a lioness who, with her whelps, was about to be robbed of her prey.

‘The old lady, you must know, did not fabricate her story without something to go upon. There was some semblance of probability. She produced the rightful heir—not quite at the right time, perhaps, but there he was.’

‘Did you meet him?’

‘I did; so did you; you knew him, well.’

‘I, father? Preposterous; where, pray, did we meet?’

‘He served as a private in the Duke’s[177] Own. His name—the name he went by, at least—was Larkins.’

‘Larkins! the sergeant? Poor Ernest’s champion? Never!’

‘This Mr. Larkins whom I received here at your mother’s express desire, whom I treated with the utmost consideration, proved a snake in the grass. He first thwarted me with regard to old Lady Farrington’s release from confinement; then, with her, concocted a scheme of which I have only to-day learnt the real intent. This letter from the lawyers is nothing more or less than a notice to quit—a regular notice of ejectment, in favour of Herbert Farrington, son of Herbert of the same name, and grandson of the last baronet.’

‘It’s a swindle, of course, from beginning to end; a trumped-up story. You won’t[178] submit, father, I trust, to such a barefaced imposition?’

Letitia was in arms at once; for the threatened action struck at her more, perhaps, than any one else.

‘I shall defend myself and you, you may depend upon it. I shall not submit tamely to any attempt at extortion. It is really life and death to me.’

‘Is it not the same to me, and to my children—to my Rupert, who some day will be your heir? Are we to be robbed with impunity? Certainly not.’

‘They have not told me much of their case, of course; a mere outline, nothing more. But it is evidently a strong one. They have discovered, so they say, old Herbert Farrington’s marriage—if it’s a bona fide discovery we are bound to accept it, after due verification, at least.’

[179]

‘What do they pretend?’

‘That the real Herbert Farrington, when serving in the 12th Lancers as Corporal Smith, married Ann Orde, and had issue.’

‘This Larkins? Sergeant Larkins of the Duke’s Own? I’ll never believe it; not if I live to a hundred. But, father, what do you mean to do? You will resist, surely; for my sake—for that of my children, you will not give in?’

‘If we could effect a compromise—’

‘Never!’ cried Letitia. ‘Never, with my consent. I protest against any compromise at all.’

‘It might be wise.’

Was it possible that Sir Rupert had reasons for dreading a law-suit? No one knew more about the case than himself. Was he in possession of any information—damaging[180] facts—which he had so far kept secret, but which would be certain to come out on a trial?

‘But a long law-suit! It would eat up the whole estate. No doubt this pretender, this Mr. Larkins, would gladly come to terms. A few thousands paid on the nail would silence him for good.’

‘Don’t, father; don’t dream of making such concessions,’ Letitia almost shrieked. The idea of parting thus coolly with thousands out of the future heritage of her children! ‘No, no; better to fight it out, to resist to the bitter end.’

‘I think I must consult your mother and Conrad.’

‘What have they to say to it? I am the person principally concerned—I and mine—we shall be the greatest sufferers.’

‘Letitia,’ said her father very gravely[181] to her, ‘it was not only to speak to you concerning this letter that I asked you to come here; it was to break some worse news.’

‘Affecting us?’

‘Us all, but more particularly you.’

‘Go on; quick, father.’

‘Till very lately I had thought that after me there would be an end of the Farringtons. You would be sole heiress to the estates, to which your children would succeed, but the title would become extinct, and the name, unless specially assumed. Within the last month or two I have discovered that I have a lawful male heir, who must inevitably come between you in the entail. Ernest, poor Ernest, left a son.’

‘By that person, that woman? Father, how dare you mention her name in my presence?[182] What claims can such a creature as her offspring have upon you?’

‘Poor Ernest married her, Letitia. There is not a shadow of a doubt of it. The whole of the proofs are in my possession. The child I have not seen, and will not see. But your mother has; indeed, the whole thing has come out through her.’

‘Ernest was always her favourite,’ said Letitia bitterly. It was being borne into her gradually how much she was about to lose. ‘But I shall not surrender my rights except upon compulsion, father. We have lawyers too, you must remember; and where a large property is at stake, people must look out for themselves.’

‘I wish, for your sake, the case was not so clear.’

‘I am not at all satisfied as yet, father. There will be two law-suits, perhaps; and I[183] shall not accept any compromise, you may depend.’

There was now a prospect of much discord in the family at Farrington Hall.

CHAPTER XI.  TAKING ACTION.
There were great rejoicings in Vaughan-street upon Herbert’s return. The house was en fête. It was lighted up as for a grand entertainment; when the door was opened men in smart livery were seen ranged within the hall. Hanlon came out first, and received Herbert as he descended from his cab. He would have carried his old comrade and master in bodily on his shoulders; but as Herbert objected, ‘the Boy’ contented himself with the portmanteaus. At the foot of the stairs Miss Ponting, with new ribbons in her cap, met the traveller with a precisely-worded speech of welcome, and led him to the drawing-room,[185] where the dowager awaited him. She was dressed magnificently in dark velvet and costly lace, amidst which gleamed many diamonds of the finest water. This was all in Herbert’s honour and of the great occasion.

‘Hail, Sir Herbert Farrington! all hail!’ cried the old lady, using the language, but having little of the appearance of a witch in Macbeth.

‘My dearest grandmother,’ Herbert said, ‘I am so glad to see you again, and looking so well. Why, you are like a queen!’

‘I am a queen dowager receiving the young king,’ she replied, as she made him sit by her side. ‘Let me look at you well, my sweet boy; you are my own son’s son. I knew it; I felt it all along, and now there is no longer any doubt, and you will soon come into your own.’

[186]

‘Please, dear grandmother, be more explicit. Is there anything new? You threw out vague hints in your last letter; but I am still quite in the dark.’

‘Light will soon be let in on you, my sweet boy. At last, after all this dreary waiting and long suspense, information has reached Mr. Bellhouse—from the other side of the grave, I believe—’

Herbert looked keenly at the dowager. Was her mind again becoming unhinged?

‘I cannot account for it otherwise. The letter was from my Herbert, my long-lost Herbert. Of that I have no doubt; and is he not dead, dead these many many years? Mr. Bellhouse laughed at it, sneered at it and the information it gave. Yet he was wrong; his prejudices misled him. He could not deny that there was something in it all when we found that it put us on[187] the right track. Now we have the only evidence that was wanting to complete the case.’

‘Not evidence of the marriage, surely? Can it be possible that you have discovered that?’

‘Authentic evidence of the marriage.’

And she told him the whole story as it has been given in a previous chapter.

‘Now you understand, Herbert, why I give you your title. It is yours, clearly, by right. You must assume it at once.’

‘Not quite yet, I think,’ Herbert replied gently, fearing his refusal might vex her; ‘I would still rather wait. It would look so foolish to have to go back again. Suppose we do not gain our cause.’

‘But we must and shall win it; of that I have not the shadow of a doubt.’

‘I trust in Heaven we shall,’ Herbert[188] said, in a voice so earnest and yet so sad that his good old friend, with a woman’s unerring intuition, guessed that he was suffering and sore at heart.

‘Something has happened to grieve you, Herbert, dear? You have been ill-used; you are unhappy? Tell me, at once, every word.’

Herbert was willing enough. Young men crossed in love generally ask for nothing better than an appreciative and consolatory listener.

‘You love her, truly, deeply, with all your heart and soul?’ said the dowager, when she had heard all about Edith Prioleau from beginning to end.

‘Indeed I do, and have done so ever since I saw her first.’

‘And you think she returns it?’

‘I cannot be quite positive, of course.[189] But I should be hopeful were I certain I did not lose ground. But when one is miles away, and there are so many others close by her, encouraged and approved of by her parents, and with ever so many opportunities, I begin to be half-afraid. She may give way; she may change her mind. There is an old Spanish proverb, “The dead and those gone away have no friends.” She will soon forget me, perhaps; she may have done so already.’

‘Stuff and nonsense!’ cried the old lady, with great spirit. ‘“Faint heart”—you know the rest—is a better proverb than that. Win her! Of course, you shall win her, as you will the law-suit, the title, estates, and everything else.’

‘What does Mr. Bellhouse say? Is he sanguine?’

‘You know what lawyers are;’ and[190] from this Herbert gathered that doubts and difficulties still stood in the way, notwithstanding Lady Farrington’s confident hopefulness.

‘Mr. Bellhouse is very tiresome at times. He is a very self-opinionated man, almost too slow and cautious for me. It was only at my most earnest entreaty that he would take any action at all.’

‘You have commenced the suit then?’

‘Yes; and given Sir Rupert notice to quit,’ said the Dowager, rubbing her hands in high glee.

‘Has he replied?’

‘He came here in person, but I would not see him. Then he went to Mr. Bellhouse, who declined to discuss the matter with him. The last thing was a letter from him, imputing the basest motives to all of us, threatening a counter-action for conspiracy[191] or something—and that’s where it stands now. But with God’s help we shall beat him, dear; we shall beat him, and he will wish that he had given in.’

Next day Herbert paid an early visit to Mr. Bellhouse in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, and found the old lawyer, although in manner cordial and kind, somewhat disheartening in tone.

‘Do not expect too much, Mr.—shall I still say Larkins? Yes? I agree with you, it is so much better not to be premature. Do not be over-confident, Mr. Larkins, I beg of you; the disappointment would be so bitter if we failed after all.’

‘Failure is quite on the cards, I presume?’ Herbert asked, coolly enough.

‘Unhappily, yes. There are flaws, not many, but one or two serious ones, in the chain of evidence. I have no moral doubt[192] myself that the marriage we have discovered is truly that of your father and mother. But moral proofs are not enough in a court of justice. Our difficulty will be to establish identity between this Corporal William Smith and the missing Herbert Farrington.’

‘Mrs. Larkins will swear to him.’

‘She never knew him as Farrington. All she can do is to describe the person she knew as Smith, who ran off with her sister, and we must compare her description with that of Lady Farrington.’

‘But there was the letter addressed and sent to Lady Farrington after my mother’s death; surely that will go some way?’

‘It is a strong presumption, I don’t deny; but not necessarily sufficient, at least to a British jury, when titles and large possessions[193] are at stake. That was why I counselled compromise.’

‘Was it rejected?’

‘Indignantly. Threats, moreover, were used, as perhaps you have heard.’

‘Mrs. Cavendish-Diggle was at the bottom of that, I suppose? She, as heir apparent, would be a principal loser, supposing things remained as they are.’

‘Are you not aware of the change in her prospects? There is a lawful male heir, independent of you, I hear. Ernest Farrington left a son.’

‘A son? By Mimie? He married her, then? Thank heaven for that! If, indeed, it be true.’

‘There can be no question about it. Mrs. Ernest Farrington is accepted by the family, and the child Ernest is mentioned[194] by Sir Rupert as a party to the forthcoming suit.’

‘I wonder whether the old people, the Larkins’, are aware of this? It will gladden their hearts. I almost wish that we were going no further with the case. They have been such staunch friends to me always, that I should be loth to oust their grandson.’

‘That is pure sentimentalism,’ said the matter-of-fact lawyer. ‘There must be a limit to that sort of thing, or the world would come to an end.’

‘Well, perhaps so. When will the cause come on for trial?’

‘That will depend. We have gone through the preliminaries, but have asked for time. I am most anxious to find out more about the letter which gave us the great news. Lady Farrington insists that the writer was your father.’

[195]

‘My father? Still alive?’

‘It seems incredible. But I am making all possible inquiries. The letter, such as it was, was scrawled upon the back of an old invoice for goods. The invoice was for powder and two shot guns, and the goods were supplied by Messrs. Jan Steen, of Pietermaritzburg, in Natal.’

‘Have you followed up that clue?’

‘To the best of my ability. I sent a special messenger to the Cape of Good Hope. His instructions were to trace the invoice from Messrs. Jan Steen, if possible, to the person who eventually received the goods. It may take some little time to ferret out, but I can trust Jimlett implicitly in all such affairs. Of course, if we could only produce Herbert Farrington, alias Corporal Smith, in propria persona, the case would be won.’

[196]

‘Have you any news yet from Mr. Jimlett?’

‘Only short business communications reporting progress. In his last I was informed that he had arrived at Pietermaritzburg, and had easily come upon Messrs. Jan Steen. That was where the real difficulty began, of course.’

‘Did they help him in any way?’

‘They were not very cordial,’ he says; ‘they deal largely with the gun-runners, or persons employed in the contraband trade across the frontier of Natal. Their business is a large one—a lucrative one, and possibly dangerous. Hence Jimlett had to overcome considerable reticence on their part. They acknowledged their invoice—that, indeed, it was impossible to repudiate—but they decline to say to whom the arms were supplied; indeed, they declare[197] they cannot, as all such goods pass through many hands.’

‘And there the matter stands?’

‘For the present, yes. We must wait patiently. I confess I have confidence still in Jimlett, and feel sure he will unravel the mystery if any man can. Perhaps we shall hear more next mail.’

Nothing came, however—neither next mail nor the one after. Meanwhile the suit dragged itself slowly along, and went through the usual phases and formalities. At first it attracted but little notice from, and excited but little interest in, the public. The announcement in the daily papers that a suit was pending which promised to be as involved and interminable as the half-forgotten Tichborne trial was classed with the ‘big gooseberry’ paragraphs of the ‘silly season’ and treated with contempt. No[198] one read the short accounts which appeared in the law notices; and it was not until the spring term, when the case was duly opened, that general attention was aroused.

There was an element of romance in it. The young claimant—not in this case an overgrown ex-butcher, but a gallant soldier bearing the Queen’s commission and that envied decoration the Victoria Cross—was entitled to a certain respect, and soon won the suffrages of the crowd. Nor was society against him. Sir Rupert was not beloved in his own walk of life. The great world is generally indifferent, and often unjust, but it is seldom very wrong in its estimate of those who belong to it. Wicked people may prosper well enough, and long be fairly spoken of, but never if they are unpleasant and disagreeable to boot. Sir Rupert had all these bad traits, and was, in[199] consequence, universally unpopular. His character stood out all the blacker as the case proceeded, and his treatment of the Dowager Lady Farrington was set forth in its true light; nor was he absolved from harshness in his attitude towards Herbert Larkins as a lad.

The law, nevertheless, was, as it seemed, altogether on the side of the strong. The claimant’s case was good so far as it went, but, as was feared, there were several serious flaws in it. Lady Farrington’s peculiarities were brought out into somewhat unfavourable prominence in the witness-box, and elicited considerable merriment. The cross-examining counsel made the most of her craze, and turned her inside out, so to speak, on the subject of claimants in general and Herbert in particular. Mrs. Larkins was so very stout and positive that[200] her statements could not be shaken; but after all, although hers was the evidence most relevant, it was entirely uncorroborated and unsupported. Not even Herbert, with his undoubtedly honest bearing, could turn the scale; and the case day after day was going more and more in favour of Sir Rupert, when all at once came a report from Mr. Jimlett, which inspired the plaintiffs with fresh—almost exaggerated—hopes.

CHAPTER XII.  TURNING THE SCALE.
Late in the afternoon at Westminster. The court occupied, as it had been these months past, with the great Farrington trial. It had already lasted so long that the counsel’s opening address was almost forgotten; yet nothing definite had come out. The case for the claimant was approaching conclusion. Mr. Netherpoint, Q.C., held on bravely to the last. Like a true man he was prepared to die game; but it was quite clear that Mr. Quantlet, the leader on the opposite side, was only biding his time to smash Mr. Netherpoint and his case into little bits.

Interest had flagged since the commencement[202] of the trial. It was felt that the whole thing was rather a hollow affair, which must presently collapse utterly. Only the parties to the suit retained their anxiety. Lady Farrington, like the old lady in Jarndice v. Jarndice, sat near Herbert, and still strove, but in vain, to be calm. Sir Rupert Farrington was also in court, his dark face wearing an implacable frown, which deepened as his eyes rested upon the unscrupulous aggressors who sought to rob him of his rights and all he possessed. Herbert Larkins met his glance without quailing, but without any particular buoyancy of expression. He was, in truth, growing a little hopeless, and almost wished the case at an end. Everybody else seemed heartily sick of the thing. Even the presiding judge had yawned distinctly three times in as many minutes; after which he asked his[203] brother Netherpoint when he hoped to conclude.

‘Very shortly, m’lud; there are but two or three additional witnesses—’

‘Material witnesses, I trust? persons prepared to give evidence relative to the issue?’

‘Most decidedly, m’lud, most decidedly. There is Reuben Bosher, and—hey? what d’ye mean? I cannot hear what you say.’

This was to Mr. Bellhouse; who had come behind him, and was whispering rather excitedly, for him, in the counsel’s ear.

‘Delay? impossible. They wouldn’t give us an hour. Out of the question.’

Then a few more hurried words passed between the lawyers; but further conversation was rendered impossible by the impatience and irritability of the judge.

[204]

‘What is the meaning of this interruption? It is not to be tolerated. How much longer, may I ask, brother Netherpoint, do you propose to occupy the time of the court? If you have nothing further to bring forward I must beg of you to sit down.’

‘Very important intelligence, m’lud, has arrived; evidence which will probably change the whole complexion of the case. We have just heard of a witness whom I shall require to call—’

‘Is he in attendance?’

‘No, m’lud.’

‘Then he ought to be. We cannot have the time of the court wasted any more. You have had plenty of opportunities; if you lose them it is your own affair.’

‘This witness has only just been heard of, m’lud—’

[205]

‘Psha! I shall insist upon your proceeding with the case.’

‘We must move, then, m’lud, for a fresh trial.’

‘Who and what is this witness? and why is he not here?’

‘He is not here because there has not been time to bring him, m’lud. He has been at the Cape of Good Hope for nearly thirty years; far back in the wilds, or veldt, as it is called. I believe—’

‘What is his name?’

Mr. Netherpoint paused and looked round, so as to give everyone full opportunity of hearing what he said.

‘His name, m’lud, is Sir Herbert Farrington.’

There was a sensation in the court.

Lady Farrington, with a half-stifled shriek, seized Herbert convulsively by the[206] hands, and ejaculating ‘I knew it, I knew it,’ swooned away. Sir Rupert Farrington, as he still claimed to be called, half rose in his seat, as if determined to protest against this new and most audacious attempt at fraud; there was a flutter of excitement, a murmur of voices in the body of the court, the solicitors whispered and winked significantly to one another, and the bar generally woke up to give attention to what had long been a threadbare and uninteresting affair.

Meanwhile, the judge had been scanning his notes assiduously; Sir Rupert’s counsel and solicitors had been equally busy with brief and papers, while Mr. Netherpoint and Mr. Bellhouse had continued in close confabulation, and interchanging memoranda and ideas.

‘Sir Herbert Farrington?’ the judge[207] asked, at length, snappishly and garrulously. ‘There is no such person in existence that I am aware of, at present. The young gentleman, who is one of the plaintiffs, has no right to the title until he has proved his claim—’

‘I do not speak of him, m’lud, but of his father.’

‘The father is dead. He disappeared a generation ago,’ said Mr. Quantlet, rising.

‘Pardon me, that assumption is entirely unwarrantable,’ replied Mr. Netherpoint. ‘We undertake to prove the contrary, and will produce the man himself.’

Mr. Quantlet sat down, grumbling loudly. The words ‘personation,’ ‘conspiracy,’ ‘trumped-up witnesses,’ were heard audibly among his complaints.

‘Where is this person?’ asked his lordship. ‘Be good enough to inform the court[208] of all particulars, brother Netherpoint. If you spring a mine like this without giving warning, you owe it to the court to make the fullest explanation.’

‘I am quite ready, m’lud. You shall have the whole story.’

What is now to be told so closely concerns our hero, that it must be given at some length.

After much delay and many rebuffs, Mr. Jimlett’s inquiries had been crowned at length with success. Tracing the line which the gun-runners commonly took, he had been gradually drawn towards the frontier of Natal. While hesitating to pass beyond the boundary, rumours reached him of Englishmen settled among the native tribes; of one in particular, who had risen to some eminence among them, and was reputed rich in wives and cattle. This personage[209] he thought might give him some information; and, not without delay and difficulty, he made his way to his kraal. The object of Jimlett’s inquiries was stated with some caution to the English settler, who had been so long resident in his savage home, that he was almost denationalised. But if the chief had lost many of the customs of civilised life, just as he had discarded the dress, he had assumed in place of it much of that wily caution peculiar to the savage. Jimlett could get nothing out of him for a long time. The chief displayed as much, if not more circumspection than the lawyer’s clerk. It seemed impossible to draw a word out of him. He still spoke English fluently, and was perfectly calm and self-possessed.

‘I don’t see what you are driving at,’ he said, after long fencing. ‘Why not throw[210] your cards down, and be open with me? It’s the best way to deal with a wild man. Who are you looking for really, and why?’

‘I want some one to tell me whether Herbert Farrington, youngest son of the last baronet Farrington, is alive or dead.’

‘But why?’

‘To take up the title and the family property, and see that his son comes into it after him.’

‘His son? He had no son.’

‘How do you know?’

‘His mother died in childbirth; she—’

‘You seem very fully informed. What more do you know?’

‘Nothing—I wish I did.’

‘You have never sought to know, perhaps? Had no business to know?’

‘Perhaps not. Is Lady Farrington still alive?’

[211]

‘Certainly; but the title is held by Sir Rupert—’

‘The cousin? I don’t know how many times removed. What right had he to it?’

‘He was the heir-at-law.’

‘Why did Lady Farrington drive her son from home by ill-usage? Poor Herbert! No wonder he fled.’

‘She has regretted it bitterly. She is now doing her utmost to retrieve the wrong she has inflicted. She has welcomed, educated, and been a staunch friend to Herbert’s son. Now that the marriage between Herbert and Ann Orde is proved, another link or two is all we need to establish the younger Herbert as the rightful owner of the title and estates.’

‘He cannot be quite that—not just yet. His father, the long-lost Herbert Farrington, is still alive.’

[212]

‘Where is he to be found? Will you take me to him? You shall be liberally rewarded.’

‘I want no reward, and you need not go far. I am the man.’

This was the overwhelming evidence which Mr. Netherpoint proposed to bring, and for which he claimed time from the court. It was conceded, and the case was held over to the following term.

Meanwhile gossip busied itself once more with the case. The news of the missing son was freely discussed. Opinions differed very widely. Some held stoutly that he was the man himself; others that barefaced imposture was meant, and would in the long run be brought home to the parties concerned. It was a repetition of the great Tichborne case, although on a much smaller scale. Then the so-called Herbert[213] Farrington appeared, at first gaunt, wild, unkempt, from his long life in the bush, but unmistakably a gentleman still, and soon resuming the manners and tone proper to his birth and class. He was recognised at once by all survivors. Mr. Bellhouse knew him and could swear to him; so could Mrs. Larkins; the rector of Stickford-le-Clay had no doubt as to his identity. Last of all his mother, whose injustice had driven him forth, fell into his arms, imploring his forgiveness, and declared he was hardly at all changed.

He was in truth her own son. Like her impressionable, flighty, sometimes strange in his demeanour and ways. His whole life was indeed an evidence of these inherited traits. Another less sensitive nature would have given in sooner; but he so bitterly resented his mother’s harshness,[214] that he would never bring himself to hold out his hand to her first. Then in his loneliness and isolation after his wife’s death, of which he had been informed, he broke altogether with the world, and flew to the wilds, from which, as we have seen, he was brought back with extreme difficulty at the eleventh hour.

But he arrived in time to turn the scale, and secure victory for his son’s cause.

Within a month or two of the termination of the trial, Herbert Farrington, bearing now his proper name, returned to the Rock. He was something of a celebrity, as the hero of a great trial which had been decided in his favour, and altogether a different person from the unknown Larkins who had aspired so high. He was well received—with one exception—on every side. He[215] was fêted and made much of in his own regiment, and received cordial congratulation through the garrison and wherever he went. But General Prioleau was for a long time unforgiving. When an easy-natured man is embittered against any one, he is perhaps more persistent in his dislike than if his temper were more harsh. For a long time he held out against Herbert, and closed his doors to him. But continual dropping will wear a stone; and Mrs. Prioleau, who had now completely changed in her views with regard to Herbert, kept up a continuous flow of eulogistic words, before which the general gradually succumbed. How could he hope to hold his garrison when there were traitors within? He might refuse to see Herbert; but Mrs. Prioleau and Edith met him elsewhere, and the love-making went on in spite of him, under his[216] very nose. Edith, too, when taxed with her misconduct, so plainly gave her father to understand that she would marry Herbert Farrington, and no one else, that the general was compelled at length to give way.

The marriage took place the same year. Captain Mountcharles felt it as a personal affront, and resigned his appointment, so Herbert was presently made aide-de-camp in his place. By degrees the general has been entirely won over by his son-in-law’s devotion to his duties, and brought, although tardily, to acknowledge his worth. Nothing will induce Herbert to resign his profession. His regimental promotion is assured, and as he is keen to take active employment wherever it offers—a desire in which Edith, a true soldier’s wife, always encourages him—he is certain to rise in the service and[217] take high honours eventually as a thoroughly deserving ‘Son of Mars.’

Only a few words are needed to dispose of the remaining characters in this story.

It seemed as though old Lady Farrington felt, when the law-suit was won, that her mission was ended. She died happily, at peace with every one, in the following year. Her son, the new baronet, Sir Herbert Farrington, settled at the Hall for a time; but restlessness soon took possession of him, and he pined for the wilds which had so long been his home. When last heard of by his son Herbert he was at the head of an exploring party somewhere near Lake Tanganyika, and meant to be absent for some years.

As for Mr. Rupert Farrington, he retired into obscurity to eat out his heart with envy, hatred, and all uncharitableness. He[218] was not overburdened with cash; but through young Herbert’s good offices a moderate allowance was made him from the estate, which was to be continued to the little Ernest, Mimie’s son. The Diggles also sank in prestige, and had to be contented with the modest income of a half-pay lieut.-colonel, for the great Cavendish’s private means disappeared in the crash of the tea mart, and Letitia has led him a terrible life ever since.

Last of all, brave old Sergeant Larkins and his worthy wife found themselves established comfortably on a corner of the Farrington estate, where the former grows roses, and the latter points with pride to the boy she once befriended and who now returns her kindness a thousandfold.

THE END.