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 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.
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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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.
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, 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 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 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, 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 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 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.
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 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 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.
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 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!’
‘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, 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 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.
‘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 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, 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 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 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 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 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 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 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.’
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.
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 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; 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.
‘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 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.
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 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.
‘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.
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 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?’
‘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.
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 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.
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.’
‘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.’
‘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 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 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.
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 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 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 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 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; 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.’
‘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?’
‘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 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 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 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 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, 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 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.
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 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, 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, 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 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 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 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 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.
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. 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 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 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 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.’
‘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 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 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? 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 shall not accept any compromise, you may depend.’
There was now a prospect of much discord in the family at Farrington Hall.
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, 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.’
‘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 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 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. 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 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 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 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 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 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.’
‘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.’
‘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 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 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 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 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.