Odds and ends

It was a melancholy afternoon early in November, and a cold pitiless rain was streaming down the library windows of Clonallon, the Irish residence of Sir Domnick Donnelly, Bart., J.P., D.L.

At the other side of the wet panes, a pretty young face gazed out upon the falling dusk and fallen leaves, with an expression of hopeless boredom. Clonallon was one of those solid box-shaped mansions that arose in the country two centuries ago: spacious and comfortable, with fine lofty rooms for the family, and gloomy caverns for their retainers; it boasted a prolific garden, a fine demesne, and a long and imposing avenue. On the other hand, it was ten miles from a station, did not possess a bathroom, and could only count upon one post a day.

Sir Domnick and his wife (an elderly, childless couple) were entirely satisfied with their abode—and themselves; they maintained a certain amount of state and formality, and processed about the neighbourhood in an open carriage with two men-servants and a pair of steppers. Recently a powerful motor had displaced the landau, and the owners were so exuberantly proud of their new possession that one would almost suppose it was the very first car that had ever been landed in Ireland!

The disconsolate girl in the window was also a visitor from England; her mother, Mrs. de Lisle, a smart evergreen widow, had certain “expectations” from her relatives the Donnellys, and made a yearly pilgrimage to Clonallon, in order, as she told herself, “to keep the old people up to the mark.” She was handsome and popular, with a pair of beguiling eyes, and an insatiable appetite for society and excitement. The large fortune left by her husband was strictly tied up for the benefit of their daughter Vera. Vera, at eighteen, looked younger than her age: so very soft and simple, and was treated as a mere irresponsible flapper by her parent; nevertheless Vera had inherited a self-reliant enterprising character from the de Lisles (also a streak of daring and independence), but had not as yet found an opportunity of exhibiting herself in her true colours.

Life at Clonallon was desperately dull, and she sorely missed the society of her girl friends; here, everyone was so old—not merely Sir Domnick and Lady Donnelly, but even the servants and dogs—whilst the venerable green parrot was in his dotage. The days seemed endless, from family prayers to family prayers, the interim filled up with eating and drinking, driving abroad to pay calls, or receiving weird-looking visitors at home.

Once, oh great and happy occasion! they had all motored to a neighbouring Meet; that was, indeed, a delightful outing. On Sundays the family attended a funny old church that smelt of mushrooms, and had deep mysterious pews like rows of horse-boxes, as well as a very large gallery, and a very small congregation.

Alas, there were still ten days to put in before departure. Vera’s mother was thrifty in some ways, and declared that short visits, long journeys, and perpetual “tips” were too costly. Also, that after a strenuous season, and Scotland, Clonallon served her as an inexpensive “rest cure.”

Dusk was closing in over the pleasure-grounds, and Vera, yawning till tears stood in her eyes, withdrew from her post and sat down on a stiff-backed old sofa, which stood between the tall windows.

Around a fine turf and wood fire the three elders were assembled, Sir Domnick smoking a meerschaum pipe, Mrs. de Lisle a Turkish cigarette—all three discussing the neighbourhood, and Vera was completely forgotten.

“And so your nearest neighbours are the Meldons?” Mrs. de Lisle was saying.

“The nearest people we visit,” replied Lady Donnelly with significant emphasis.

“There is a big place in the trees, not more than two miles away, on what you call ‘the back road.’”

“Yes—Heganstown—the Hegans live there.”

“And don’t you know them?” persisted Mrs. de Lisle.

After quite a marked pause, Lady Donnelly replied: “Not now.”

“A feud—or a boycott?”

“Not exactly—although years ago there was a coolness about some shooting. To tell you the truth, we have dropped the Hegans—they are too impossible.”

“Short of murder or theft, it seems a pity to drop such very near neighbours; it would have been so nice to have them over to bridge!”

“Bridge!” repeated Sir Domnick, “I don’t suppose they have ever heard of it! Hegan and I were school-fellows, he was my fag too; he comes of a good county family, went into the service, married, and when his father departed, came back to Heganstown with a nice little wife and a baby. Then Mrs. Hegan died, and he seemed to go to pieces; took to gambling on the Stock Exchange, betting, and whisky, and married a blowzy fat creature, who was once his cook! I believe she drinks, leads him the devil of a life, and keeps the little money he has left. He is sunken in a sort of stupor, and sits in his chair all day long; they do say his brain is affected. I must confess I am sorry for that young fellow Dermot.”

“Yes; but why are you sorry?” enquired Mrs. de Lisle with an air of languid interest.

“The boy is out of his element; he went to Rugby, and did uncommonly well; was going into the Army, and had put in a couple of terms at Sandhurst, when the money ran out, and he was obliged to come home. He has been loafing about at Heganstown for the last three years.”

“Dear me, how perfectly dreadful!” ejaculated the lady.

“At first he tried his hand on the farm, and pulling the place together, but things were too far gone; his father owed money all over the country, and the land was let up to the hall door. A grazier has it, and his cattle have played Old Harry with the grounds and the plantations; there’s not a gate or a fence; the house is falling to ruin. Mrs. Hegan has made away with the good old furniture, and all the silver; last time I was in Dublin I saw Hegan’s grandfather in a shop ticketed ‘Four Pounds Ten’—of course I mean his portrait.”

“Why doesn’t the young man try to do something?”

“It’s difficult to stir without money. I don’t suppose the fellow has the price of a railway ticket, or a second coat to his back. In our soft relaxing climate it is so easy to let indolence grow on you—and to take things as they come.”

“Dermot is a wonderful horseman,” supplemented Lady Donnelly. “Men are only too glad to give him mounts in the hunting season; he rides and breaks the maddest-looking animals, and I believe he is a fine shot too, but these accomplishments don’t put a penny in his pocket. He has no companions of his own class—all the young men are out in the world.”

“And the young women?” suggested Mrs. de Lisle.

“Oh, none of the girls round here would look at Dermot, except perhaps farmers’ daughters. I’ve heard he has been seen about the lanes with Mitty Flood—such a bold, shameless minx.”

“Well, if young Hegan marries Mitty, he is done!” declared Sir Domnick. “I wish someone would give the poor boy a hand, and help him out of the quagmire; the longer he sticks at home, the deeper he sinks. I’m afraid he has no energy or push, and not a penny to his name—it’s just a wasted life!”

“Does young Hegan come to church?” enquired Mrs. de Lisle, “and does he sit in the second deep box from the front, along with a red-faced female?”

“Yes,” rejoined Lady Donnelly.

“Then he really looks quite presentable, and I believe I saw him at the Meet, riding a crazy chestnut.”

“No doubt,” assented Sir Domnick, “and if Dermot were to break his neck—under the circumstances, it would be the best thing that could happen to him!”

Vera, forgotten and in the background, had listened to this conversation with the closest interest and attention. She too recalled the good-looking young man she had seen in church and at the Meet; she had been struck by his masterly control of the frantic chestnut, and the delightful ease with which he kept his temper, and his seat.

The “automobile,” as Lady Donnelly grandiloquently called it, held four comfortably, but no more, and, at present, such was its novelty and fascination, that its owners went out in it daily and in all weathers, partly perhaps to exhibit their acquisition, and to excite the envy of their friends.

Mrs. de Lisle enjoyed motoring; the soft moist air was, she believed, good for her cure and complexion, and therefore Vera, like the little pig of our childhood, was left at home. However, as it happened, Vera preferred rambling about the garden, the demesne, the adjacent bog, and making friends with the country-folk. Hobbs, her mother’s maid, was supposed to be her escort, but Miss Hobbs, of London, disliked country walks, and frequently excused herself on the plea of a headache, or a corn; and Vera, with the two red setters, was suffered to depart alone, Hobbs assuring herself that with the best wish in the world, her young lady—a dear simple child—could not get into any mischief.

But Hobbs was too sanguine. As she sat in the housekeeper’s room with her feet on the fender, and a strong cup of “Ann Lynch’s” best in her hand, imparting society episodes to a gaping audience, her charge was setting her pretty face in the direction of an adventure.

The bog she was so fond of was not the traditional dark tract, diversified by deep black holes and turf clamps, but a wide expanse of short grass, studded with furze bushes, and populated by goats, geese, and rabbits. The air was delicious, the sensation of unattended freedom intoxicating, the dogs were happy, and so was Vera. She had a secret and sincere love of Nature, and enjoyed her wild, unusual surroundings, and the odd sights and sounds—such as the flight of a V-shaped wedge of wild geese, the sudden rise of a jack snipe; and felt completely independent, and at home, as she walked briskly over the springy turf. A line of dark woods beckoned her thoughts to Heganstown, and the tragic fate of young Hegan, caught in a quagmire of circumstance, and compelled to lead a wasted life, with none to help him. Surely Sir Domnick might hold out a hand; but he wouldn’t—no, he was a selfish old pig—yes, he was; he seized on all the new papers—even on the Queen; he took more than his share of cream and oysters, helped himself to the fowl’s liver, and most of the motor rug—Vera had made it her business to watch him! No, he would only exert himself to the extent of his personal comforts, and young Hegan might hang himself for all he cared!

Sir Domnick’s delinquencies, and the question of assisting Dermot Hegan, occupied her mind to the exclusion of everything else. She was wondering if she could forward him anonymously a five-pound note, her godfather’s tip, when she suddenly became aware of the rapid descent of a dense white mist, and could hardly see six yards ahead. For a moment she stood quite still, enveloped in a cloud of damp, impenetrable mist; then she started to retrace her steps, and after groping about for what seemed a long time, realised that she was lost! In some inexplicable manner she found herself upon an island apparently surrounded on all sides by trenches of unfathomable black water. This much she could discern. What she could not see, was any means of departure. Where was the wobbly stick that usually bridged such chasms? The fog now turned from white to grey, and she realised that her safest attitude was complete inactivity, and sat down on a mound all alone—having been basely abandoned by the two setters.

After a little reflection, she decided to call, to scream for help; her voice was a fine robust soprano, and carried fairly far.

Dermot Hegan, who had been shooting rabbits for the larder, and was, so to speak, feeling his way home, heard an unusual cry and halted. No, it was not a curlew or a trapped rabbit, or even an owl. There it was again, it came from a human throat, and said “Help! Help! Help!” Dermot knew every inch of the bog; the cry came from a part known as “the Puzzle,” and it was not long before he had crossed the ditch, and called out, “All right.” Then a shrill treble voice from the gloom announced, “I’ve lost my way; I don’t know where I am!”

The young man struck a match, held it aloft, and discovered a girl, who had risen to her feet, and by the faint illumination they gravely inspected one another. He beheld a pretty face, and a pair of startled dark eyes; and she was confronted by the object of her meditations—no less a person than Dermot Hegan. Then the match, after the manner of its kind, went out.

“You are the girl who is staying at Clonallon, are you not?”

“Yes,” she replied, “I wandered about, and got caught in the fog. Wherever I looked, I seemed to be surrounded by huge ditches full of black water. I was afraid to move—what am I to do?”

“Sit tight for the present: I hope you don’t mind waiting?”

“What do you call waiting?”

“Well, say an hour. The moon will be up then, and I will take you home.”

“Oh, thank you. I think you must be Mr. Hegan?”

“I wonder how you guessed? Yes, we live within a quarter of a mile. I’ve known the bog since I was a baby—but I dare not venture to steer you about in the dark.”

“No, it would not be safe, I am sure.”

“Lots of people have been lost on the bog from time to time. They drop into these deep black holes, and the peat holds and preserves them. I remember long ago seeing the body of a girl, found after twenty years. Her friends recognised her at once, though she looked a bit leathery and dried up. Let me find you a seat,” he added, striking another match.

Dermot Hegan had a nice well-bred voice, and by the flickering match Vera noticed his well-kept but rough hands, and frayed shirt-cuffs.

“How did you know I came from Clonallon?” she asked, as they sat in outer darkness.

“I saw the dogs on the bog a while ago—we are great friends.”

“You don’t know their owner?”

“No, I don’t,” came the answer from a little distance, where her companion had presumably found a seat.

Suddenly Vera, the lion-hearted and impulsive, made up her mind to take a bold step. With the supreme assurance of youth, she resolved to seize this priceless opportunity, and endeavour to open this young man’s eyes to the dangers of his situation.

“Is it not surprising,” she began, “that we two utter strangers should find ourselves imprisoned here in the dark?”

“Surprising things are said to happen on this particular spot,” was his unexpected answer. “They say it’s an old fairy rath, engulfed by the bog, and sometimes people can’t find their way off it. There is a way, of course—but it’s a bit of a puzzle. I expect your friends will be wondering what has become of you?”

“Oh no, they went for a long motor drive, and won’t be home before seven.”

“I think it’s a little after six, so we are stuck here for the best part of an hour. What shall we do—tell stories, or sing?—do you sing?”

“Yes, but I’d much rather talk.” As Vera could not see her listener, she felt surprisingly brave, and went on, “I have something to say to you.”

“To say to me?” His voice expressed bewilderment.

“Yes, Chance or the fairies have given me this opening, and I must speak—even if you are mortally offended, and feel inclined to drown me in a bog-hole.”

“I won’t be offended—so go ahead; line clear.”

“The other evening I heard Sir Domnick talking about—er—er—Heganstown; he said he and your father were school-fellows.”

“That’s right. Did he happen to tell you how we had come down in the world, and were beggars?” The tone of the question was hard and bitter.

“He did, and he said he was so sorry for you, who were just wasting your life.”

“That’s true—it’s a rotten life, I know. Did he suggest any alternative?”

“No; he said he was afraid you had acquired the loafing habit—and——”

“And what else?”

“And had an attraction in the neighbourhood.”

“I suppose he meant a girl?”

“He did; her name is Mitty Flood. Lady Donnelly said she was a bold, pushing minx—nothing to what I am myself, at this moment—and I would never dare to say what I have said, only that you cannot see me now, and after this evening will never meet me again.”

“No? I would not be so sure of that! So you are speaking out for what is called my good? Nameless young lady in the dark, it is most awfully kind of you, but I’m past help. How can I go out into the world without a sixpence? without decent clothes, without a single friend? I have no interest, and not much brains; all my pals at school and at Sandhurst are doing their job, and I’ve dropped them; never answered their letters, for I’d be ashamed to let them know I was just slacking about at home, shooting rabbits, breaking in young horses—and eating my heart out—a prisoner to poverty. There now! the dark has opened my lips too—I’ve never said as much to a living soul.”

“But you can easily free yourself,” said the girl with easy confidence. “You have been well educated; you are young, and strong.”

“Young and strong—yes—but I’ve no money to make even a humble start. I had thought of going to Dublin, and getting taken on as a tram conductor, at, say, eighteen shillings a week, but it would barely keep me, and I’m worth that at home, shooting wild duck and rabbits, an outlying Donnelly pheasant, or finding plovers’ eggs, and digging potatoes. As for Mitty Flood—what beastly gossip! I hardly know her, and I don’t want to know her. One day her bicycle broke down, and she asked me to help her, and when she meets me she stops to talk—that’s all.”

(Vera mentally decided that the bicycle was an excuse, that the meetings were not accidental, and that Mitty was a minx!)

“An attraction here,” he continued; “why, the very idea makes me laugh. If you only knew what my life is, you’d laugh, too.”

“I don’t think I would,” she protested. “I know a little about you; you know nothing of me, which is not fair, so I shall tell you who I am. My name is Vera de Lisle; my mother is related to the Donnellys; she is a widow, and I am her only child. We live in Charles Street, Mayfair, and are well off. I am eighteen—I left school last Easter. I have been presented, and to one or two balls—only mother thinks I am too young to racket about—and am to come out in earnest next season.”

“Yes—and what else?”

“I like tennis and dancing, and other girls who are jolly—and dogs—no, not the setters. I am furious with them. Also I enjoy reading, and being alone sometimes, and having a real good long think.”

“As we are being so extraordinarily outspoken, may I ask, do you think of anyone in particular—you know what I mean?”

“No one in the way you suggest—I am not a bit susceptible.”

“That is to say, not yet, but being young, pretty, and rich, a great match will come along some day.”

“If it does I shall blow it out!” she rejoined with a happy laugh.

“Are you not bored to death at Clonallon?”

“Not always. I like the old gardens, and the park, and I love this bog—somehow I find it curiously alluring; a sort of wild, out of the world, dreamy place.”

After a short silence, he said:

“It is awfully good of you to take an interest in me.”

“I do more,” she interrupted. “I am going to offer you an idea—an idea which has just flashed into my mind: why not enlist?”

“Enlist?” he repeated; “take the King’s Shilling?”

“Yes, if I were in your place I’d do it like a shot.”

“Then you don’t know much about the life of a private, do you?”

“Oh, well, if you are going to be fastidious, I say no more; but there are lots of gentlemen in the ranks, and many rankers become officers on their own merits. One of my girl friends has a brother—why”—and she paused—“there’s the moon!”

Unobserved by the pair, a gradual lightening of the clouds had been steadily taking place; now these had suddenly parted, and the moon with her lidless eye stared down upon the young people—who glanced at one another interrogatively.

“Well, you have given me a lead,” said Hegan, springing to his feet, “and, by Jove, I’ll take it, and the King’s Shilling, to-morrow.”

“Oh, Mr. Hegan, perhaps I may be wrong,” she protested, startled by her success. “Do not be led by me—after all, I’m little more than a school-girl. I have no real experience. Don’t do anything in a hurry.”

“Ah! I see your courage cannot stand the moonlight—but your misgivings come too late. I shall sell my old ticker, also my old gun, and start off and offer myself at a cavalry depôt. I’ll apply for a regiment in India.”

“I am really frightened at my presumption,” she murmured.

“You need not be, I just wanted the call to start me; no one has ever spoken the word ‘off’ till now. This for young people is a sleepy enervating part of the world; the big trees and the water suck up vitality, and make one disinclined to rise, and be doing, and to shake off sloth. With a fairly active body I have an indolent and fatalistic mind. Miss de Lisle, I am your debtor for life.”

“That remains to be seen!” she protested.

“Well”—now consulting an old silver turnip—“it is nearly seven, and I must take you home; but first of all you will have to come with me to Heganstown. I guarantee you’ll see no one, and I’ll get you back soon after seven, drive you over in the dogcart, deposit you at the back gate, and leave you to manage the rest.”

“Very well, I’ll do whatever you wish,” she replied.

“All right, then come on”—the usual British invitation—and Vera followed her new acquaintance off the rath, and in a short time found herself in an overgrown neglected avenue, leading to a great forlorn old house, that looked forbiddingly grim in the moonlight. Hegan turned the handle of the hall door, and ushered his companion into an immense vaulted hall, entirely bare of furniture.

“Just wait in here,” and he opened the door into what had once been a library—a large apartment flooded by moonlight, which revealed rows of bare bookshelves and square marks on the walls, where pictures had been, and were not. The room was empty, and apparently the house was in the same condition; there was not a sound to be heard.

Suddenly there was a shuffling of feet, and a loud voice in the hall calling for “Rabbits—rabbits—where’s them rabbits?”

Then the door burst open, and an unwieldy female figure appeared, staggering on the threshold.

“Where’s that lazy, good-for-nothing blaggard?” she demanded.

Catching sight of Vera, she paused, stared, and then, with one ear-splitting yell, turned and fled. A few minutes after this astonishing visitor had disappeared, Hegan entered, whip in hand.

“Sorry to have kept you—I had to borrow a horse. The ‘Yoke,’ as they call it, awaits you.”

There at the steps stood a high dogcart, with a shaggy cart-horse in the shafts, and in another moment Vera was bumping down the ill-kept drive. Either Hegan was a capital whip, or the cart-horse had a bit of pedigree, for once on the road they bowled along at a spanking pace.

“Who was the woman who came into the room?” inquired Vera.

“My step-mother; she took you for the family ghost—I believe she is screeching still.”

Two miles were soon devoured by the cart mare’s hairy legs, and as Hegan drew up at the back gate of Clonallon, he said:

“Good-bye, Miss de Lisle. We met an hour ago, and I feel as if we had known one another for years. You are my starter, and I hope I may do you credit.”

“I’m afraid you must think me frightfully audacious and interfering. My mother says I am impulsive and headlong, and do rash, unexpected things. Oh, I hope I have not been extra foolish and meddlesome. Do let me hear how you get on. Will you write?”

“If I may,” he answered, secretly amazed.

“2,000, Charles Street, Mayfair. Good-bye and good luck.” She held out her hand, then darted up the avenue, and was lost to sight.

Luckily the motor relayed by the fog had not yet returned, and Vera had time to don an evening frock, and sink into a chair, novel in hand, before the party arrived full of explanations and apologies.

Three days later Miss de Lisle received a note written on cheap paper, in a fine bold style:

Vera contrived to have a hole bored in the shilling, and wore it with other charms on her favourite bangle. The enterprise of Dermot Hegan was disclosed by Sir Domnick, always well posted in local news—no item too insignificant.

“So I hear that young Hegan has enlisted,” he announced, “and is going out to India. Best thing he can do—wonder he never thought of it before. Just the class of chap to make his way in the service.”

Dermot Hegan remained in India for four years, and made his way. His steady character, good education, and notable horsemanship helped him to a commission. He and Vera had corresponded at long and fitful intervals. When he was promoted sergeant she sent him her photograph; when he was gazetted to a regiment at home she invited him, if in London, to come and see her.

Vera was now twenty-two, her own mistress, and, as her mother bewailed, “absolutely hopeless” with respect to a suitable marriage. Not one of her many admirers seemed to make any serious impression, and yet she was a bright, amusing, popular girl with many men friends. More than one experienced chaperone had whispered to Mrs. de Lisle that “there must be someone in the background!” but this suggestion she denied with passionate emphasis, saying:

“Vera has no heart, in one sense. I have never seen her really interested, and she has not been out of my sight since she left her nurse’s arms.”

Mr. Hegan, 50th Hussars, duly made his appearance in Charles Street, a remarkably well-set-up, smart-looking young officer, and Mrs. de Lisle—believing him to be one of Vera’s partners—accorded him a gracious welcome. Presently he and her daughter retired into the back drawing-room, ostensibly to look at some photographs, and here, in a few hurried sentences, he informed Vera that his father and step-mother were both dead, that a distant relative had left him a legacy, which had enabled him to pay off some debts, and to repair the roof of Heganstown.

“I have an honest steward,” he added, “and I get enough money out of the place to pay my tailor, and mess bill. I’ve done all right so far—and been uncommonly lucky, thanks to you.”

“No thanks to me—thanks to this,” and she exhibited her bangle, and the dangling King’s shilling.

“I say, you can’t think the help your letters were,” he went on. “Somehow they seemed to keep me afloat; is it not funny that, until now, we have never seen one another by daylight?”

“Yes,” she assented; “but all the same,” and she coloured deeply, “it is not considered good manners to stare!”

“I beg your pardon, but my stare is excusable! I seem to know you better than anyone—and yet until now I’d only seen you by moonlight.”

“That excuse is moonshine,” she rejoined with a laugh.

Presently her mother came forward, and cruelly interrupted a confidential talk, saying:

“Darling, Lord Hubert has come and brought something he wants to show you.” (Lord Hubert was reported to be “making the running” with the little de Lisle girl.)

Mr. Hegan was duly bidden to dinner, also to a dance given by Mrs. de Lisle, and gratefully accepted both invitations; but he soon realised the awful chasm that lay between him and an heiress. How dared he compete with the son of a Duke? Hopeless and heartbroken he withdrew into obscurity—that is to say, his quarters in Canterbury Barracks. When war had been declared, and his regiment was under orders, Hegan snatched an hour’s leave to say good-bye to Vera—no harm in that!—and he had the good fortune to find her at home, and alone.

“So we are at war!” she exclaimed; “it seems incredible, a hideous nightmare, and I’ve led you into what may be battle, and sudden death.”

“I’m thankful that you did—anyway, of course I’d have joined now, but I’m a more useful unit as it is. Wish me luck.”

“I wish you good luck, honours, and a safe return.”

“I’m not sure that that matters. You see, I’ve no belongings, and no one to care, if I ever come back.”

“I care,” she announced unexpectedly.

“Do you really mean that, Miss de Lisle?”

“Yes, I do. Oh, here’s mother!” as that lady hurried into the room full of news, and excitement.

After Mons, and the battle of the Aisne, Mr. Hegan, who was badly wounded, was promoted, and got his troop. He made light of his injuries, and speedily returned to the Front. Later on, all through the dreary winter in the muddy trenches, he was cheered by Vera’s letters, and through all the rack and strain of war his unfailing spirits and infectious laugh proved an inestimable boon to his comrades. In action on the Somme he was in the thick of the hottest charges, distinguished himself amazingly; saved the life of a brother officer—but lost his own left arm.

As a certain Red Cross train reached Victoria Station, Miss de Lisle, a Red Cross nurse, was waiting to receive her friend. He had contrived to keep his injury a secret, and when she exclaimed at his empty sleeve, he said:

“It’s all right, Vera. I’ve brought you something in exchange—a bit of ribbon.”

“A bit of ribbon?” she repeated in a doubtful tone.

“Yes, I am proud to tell you that I have been recommended for the Victoria Cross—that is the interest on the King’s Shilling!”