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.
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 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 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, 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, 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 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 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, 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 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.
‘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.
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 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!
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.
‘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 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.’
‘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 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.
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 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 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.’
‘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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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.’
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—’
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 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.
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 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, 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?’
‘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 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 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. 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 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 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. 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, 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 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 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 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 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 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 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—’
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. ‘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.
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 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.
‘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 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,’ 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 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 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 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 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.
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, 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 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 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 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. 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 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? 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 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. 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.
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.
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 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 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 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.
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—’
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 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.
‘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 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.
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 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.’
‘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 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 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, 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.
‘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,
‘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.
‘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 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.’
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 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.
‘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 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 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 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 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 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 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, 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 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 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 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 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 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.
‘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 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. 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.
‘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.’