A Chronicle of Castle Barfield and Of the Crimea, by David Christie Murray

        Wake! Wake! Wake!
     And wake in a hurry—a hurry—a hurry—a hurry,
        And Wake! Wake! Wake!

There began to be a faint stir about the place, like the humming in a hive the inmates of which have been disturbed, and a little while later the bugle rang out again, in notes that were destined to become familiar to his ears.

        All you that are able
        Come down to the stable,
     And water your horses and give ‘em some corn.
        And if you don’t do it
        The Colonel shall know it,
     And you shall be punished the very next morn.

Soon afterwards the gates were opened, and a man in uniform appeared with a carbine tucked beneath his arm and began to pace up and down, just within the great bare barrack square. Polson marched up to him.

‘Better see the Sergeant in the guardroom,’ the sentry told him. ‘Go through that door and you will find him there.’

People who read their Dickens, as all men who are privileged to speak the English language ought to do, will remember a striking little passage in ‘Oliver Twist,’ in which the author moralises upon the first dressing of a new-born pauper baby. Until the faded yellow garments which have done service for many predecessors are wrapped about it, the baby might be anybody’s child—a Duke’s, or a ploughman’s. But the livery of its unfortunate estate marks and stamps it at once and gives it the social caste and cachet it is doomed to wear. But it is not so when time has developed character, and a change of garb does not work an actual transformation in the grown man. Polson had purposely chosen the shabbiest outfit he could find in his whole kit; but he was recognisably a gentleman at a glance, and as he strode into the guard-room the Sergeant in charge, who was sitting on the edge of a sloping wooden bedstead, stood up and saluted him, a fact for which the recruit had to pay later on.

‘You want recruits here?’ said Polson, and the Sergeant, finding that he had been betrayed into a sign of respect for one who was willing to become his own inferior, answered him with a scowling ill-temper.

The young man was too full of his own concerns to take offence at a tone. He sat down quietly and waited. Uniformed men came and went, and nobody took heed of him until some two hours had gone by, when the Sergeant awoke him from his reverie.

He followed the Sergeant across the square, and through an open doorway on the far side of it. The Sergeant turned on him. ‘Take your cap off, and walk into that room.’ Polson obeyed again, and found himself in the presence of a young officer who was bending over a sheaf of papers on a rough table, pen in hand.

‘Why, what’s become of the commission?’ the other asked. ‘Go outside, Sergeant. I want to have some talk in private with this gentleman.’

Now, chance had played a queer trick here, for it had led the intending recruit straight to his oldest and closest chum, his old schoolfellow, and old Oxford comrade. It had not occurred to him to think what regiment was quartered in Birmingham at that time, and he had walked straight towards his purpose without a thought of the possibility of such an encounter as this.

‘Sit down,’ said Volnay. ‘Of course you’ll tell me just as much and just as little as you want to. But before you take a step that you can’t retreat from, you’d better think things over.’

‘No,’ said Polson, ‘I’ve done all the thinking I have need for, and I’ve made up my mind. You’ll take me, of course?’

‘Look here,’ said Volnay, ‘you won’t like it, and I take the liberty to tell you so. It’s an infernally disagreeable life—it’s a beast of a life for a gentleman to live. It’s all very well, of course, if you’re amongst your own set; but a gentleman ranker is certain to have a hell of a time. He has all the non-coms on to him out of jealousy; and he’s bullied and browbeaten beyond endurance. As for the mere rough side of the living, nobody minds that. But if you do what you intend, you’ll find before the week’s over that you’ve stepped into a whole tubful of scalding hot water, and you’ll wish yourself well out of it again.’

‘That’s all right, old chap,’ said Polson. ‘I shan’t be the first to try it, and I dare say I shall pull through as well as another.’

‘Now, here’s a sample,’ said Volnay with a laugh to take the edge from his words. ‘Here’s a sample of the sort of thing you’re walking into. It’ll be a piece of rank impertinence on your part to call me “old chap” in half an hour’s time, and you mustn’t do it. When you catch sight of me, it’ll be your business to stand up as stiff as a ramrod and salute me; and you’ll have to say “sir” when you talk to me. And you won’t like that. And I shan’t like it. And look here, old chap, you think twice about it.’

‘I’ve told you already,’ Polson answered, ‘I’ve done all my thinking.’

‘Well,’ said Volnay, ‘wilful must if wilful will. You haven’t been getting into any sort of mischief, have you?’

‘No,’ said Polson. ‘I’ve done nothing that I have a right to be ashamed of.’

‘Go home and make it up again, Jervase. A private soldier’s life is a dog’s life for a man of your breeding, and you’ll find it so.’

‘That’s as may be,’ Polson answered. ‘But I’ve quite made up my mind, and all the talking in the world will make no difference.’

Within reach of his hand there lay upon the table a loose bunch of ribbons, red, white, and blue, such as recruiting sergeants were wont to pin in the hats of their recruits. And Polson, toying with this, found that the bunch was held together at one end by a pin. He affixed it to his own cap.

‘Now,’ he said, putting on the cap and rising to his feet, ‘the trick’s done.’

‘Oh, dear no!’ said Volnay. ‘The trick isn’t done yet, old fellow. You’ve got to be formally enlisted, and to answer a rigmarole of questions, and be examined by the regimental doctor, and to take the oath. The trick isn’t done yet, by a long chalk.’

‘Well,’ said Polson, ‘I shall take it as a favour if you’ll put me through with as little waste of time as possible, for, to tell you the truth, I want that shilling, and the sooner I get it the nearer I shall be to bread and cheese.’

‘Oh!’ said Volnay, ‘I ain’t curious, old chap. I’m not a bit curious; but if you can do it, I should like you to take me into your confidence, because I might be of some use. I’m stinking rich, you know—disgracefully rich. And if that fact’s any good to you, why you’ve only to say so, and I’m your man.’

‘Oh, no, it isn’t money, Volnay. If it had been, I shouldn’t have made any scruple about saying so. I can’t talk about it. It’s likely enough that you may hear everything in time.’

‘There’s no changing you?’ Volnay asked. ‘There’s no getting you to wait for a week?’

‘There’s no changing me,’ Polson answered, ‘and no getting me to wait.’

‘Oh, very well,’ said Volnay. ‘Just take that and cut across to the canteen and get some breakfast. Come back here in a quarter of an hour’s time, and I’ll put you through. You needn’t scruple about taking it: you can pay me back, for there’s a five-pound bounty, ready money, declared yesterday, and you’ll have it handed over to you on enlisting.’

Polson took up the proffered sovereign, with something of a lump in his throat, and turned to go. He had scarce made a step towards the door when it opened suddenly. This was destined to be a day of strange encounters, for who should walk almost into his arms but that Major de Blacquaire who was the present owner of the Droitwich salt mine from which his father and his uncle had drawn an illicit fortune. There are men who are born to hate each other at sight; and this Major de Blacquaire and Polson, though they had but a slight knowledge of each other, had found time to develop a savage dislike on either side. De Blacquaire was a man with an exasperatingly cold and supercilious fashion of speech. He was a band-box dandy, and went scented like a lady. Polson had once threatened him with a horse-whip, and the Major had withdrawn from the conflict not because he had any want of physical courage, but solely because he was too much of a fine gentleman to brawl. He had never forgotten or forgiven the insult, and Polson had learned to hate him all the more because he mistook him for a coward. The two recoiled from each other just in time to avoid collision, for De Blacquaire had entered hastily. They regarded each other for an instant, and De Blacquaire’s cynical and contemptuous gaze took in the other from head to foot, obviously taking note of the mean attire and the signs of the night march Polson had made. His glance fastened on the bunch of ribbons floating from the cap, and at that he smiled.

‘Oh!’ he said, with a finicking drawl. ‘You’ve made a bolt of it, have you?’

‘Say that again,’ said Polson, ‘and I’ll ram it down your throat, and send a tooth or two along with it.’

‘Indeed,’ said De Blacquaire. ‘I think you’ll find that it won’t pay you to use such language in your present position, Private Jervase.’ He turned away and, with the whip he carried in his hand, struck a resounding blow upon the open door. ‘Sergeant!’ he called, ‘bring up a file of men, and take this man to the guardroom.’

‘You mistake your authority, friend Popinjay,’ said Polson. ‘I am not in your service yet.’

‘No,’ said Volnay, ‘he hasn’t. He means to. And now I see what terms you’re on, I shall advise him very strongly, as an old friend of mine, to choose another regiment.’

‘Yes,’ said Polson. ‘I think I’ll choose another regiment. I’m not hungry for the cat-o’-nine tails, and I should earn it if I were under this brute’s command five minutes. You’d be a handsome chap in your own way, Major, if it were not for that silly sneer you’re pleased to carry about with you. But I warn you that, under any circumstances whatsoever, if you should presume upon any difference in our rank to insult me by a word, a gesture, or a look I’ll spoil your beauty for you.’

‘This man’s a friend of yours, is he, Volnay?’ said De Blacquaire, ignoring his antagonist.

‘Well, you can keep him with you. I’ve just got my appointment on the Staff. I’m off for Varna to-morrow, and I don’t suppose that I shall meet the gentleman again. I want a private word with you. If Mr. Jervase will be so kind as to relieve us of his presence.’

‘All right, old chap,’ Volnay answered, and made haste to add, before his old chum had left the room, ‘I’m devilish glad you’re going, De Blacquaire, and the whole regiment will share my sentiments. The mess will be a devilish sight happier without you.’

At this, the Major’s pale face flushed for an instant, and Polson grinned sardonically as he strode away. He found his way into the canteen, made a rough breakfast there, and then returning found Volnay ready to put him through all the necessary formalities. An old Sergeant put the regulation questions as to name, age, and employment. Was he married? No. Was he an apprentice? No. Had he ever at any time offered himself for Her Majesty’s service, and been refused? No. Had he ever been tried for any criminal offence? No. Then here was the Queen’s shilling, and he was enlisted to serve Her Majesty for the term of twenty years, and was now to report himself to the doctor, and after passing his examination, would be required to present himself at noon to be sworn in before the Colonel, and failing so to present himself, he would be liable to arrest and imprisonment as a rogue and vagabond.

‘So now the trick is done,’ said Volnay, ‘and you can’t undo it. At another time you could have bought out for thirty pounds; but we shall be off to Varna in a week or two, and the Queen won’t spare a man she has once laid hands on for love or money until we have got through the little brush that’s coming with old Nick and his merry men.’

CHAPTER VI

There was no sleep in the grey-stone house on the Beacon Hill, on that eventful night on which Polson Jervase left his home, for anybody except the domestics, who were ignorant of the blow which had fallen on the household. Jervase made no pretence of courting sleep at all: but having banked up the fire he went down into the cellar, brought up a couple of bottles of brandy, and prepared himself to make a night of it. It had not been his habit for years to drink to excess, but in his earlier days at any time of trouble he had gone to that false solace, and now the instinct came back to him. James kept him company awhile in his potations, but by and by crept off to bed, and Jervase sat alone drinking fiercely, at first without apparent effect.

General Boswell rose before dawn without having closed an eye, and waited for the daylight. At its first dawning he walked softly to the room in which Irene lay and tapped quietly at the door.

‘It is I, dear. I wish to speak to you for a moment.’ The girl unlocked the door and left it partly open. He waited for a moment and then half entered the room. ‘I am just starting for home,’ he said. ‘And in an hour the carriage will be here to bring you away. Pray be ready for it.’

She answered ‘Yes,’ and her father walked downstairs and into the hall. He was searching for his hat and overcoat when Jervase lurched out of the parlour. His bloodshot eyes and staggering gait showed in what fashion he had passed the night.

‘Look here,’ said Jervase, ‘I shall put this all right. I’ve had the night to think it over, and I shall effect a compromise. D’ye see? I shall effect a compromise. It won’t cost you a penny, and it won’t break me. I shall have a sleep by and by, and then I shall go and see Stubbs, and effect a compromise. I hope you don’t bear malice, General? You’ll shake hands before you go, won’t you?’

‘But I say,’ Jervase proceeded, with a drunken tenacity, ‘you ain’t going to bear malice, are you, General?’

‘Stand out of my way, you drunken beast!’ the General responded, ‘or I’ll do you a mischief.’

‘Oh, if that’s the way you’re going to take it, all right,’ said Jervase. ‘James and me are going to stand the racket—it won’t hurt you either in credit or in pocket, and I don’t see what you’ve got to be shirty about. It wasn’t exactly what you might call a legirrimate transaction, but there are lots of things in business that are not legirrimate. See ‘em done every day—see ‘em done by respec’able people.’

Boswell by this time had found his hat and overcoat, and was prepared to go. He turned his back upon his host and re-ascended the stairs and knocked a second time at Irene’s door.

‘I shall return for you. Keep your door locked until I come. Jervase has been drinking and he may annoy you.’ With that, he walked back to the hall, where Jervase, holding on by the handle of the door, was solemnly swaying to and fro. ‘I shall regret,’ said Boswell, ‘to be forced to use violence: but if you do not instantly free me of your very disagreeable presence I shall be compelled to do you damage. Stand on one side, I tell you. Go!’

There was that in the ring of his voice which pierced to Jervase’s intelligence, bemused as he was, and he staggered back into the parlour. The General undid the fastenings of the door and walked out into the keen, bright morning air. When he returned an hour later, Jervase had drunk himself to sleep, and there was no further trouble with him. Irene was ready and came from her bedroom at the General’s call. His heart ached as he looked at her, for the passage of that one night of sleepless grief had blighted all her fresh young beauty as a year of sickness might have done. He took her to his arms and held her there until she drew gently away from him.

‘I know, dear,’ she said in a voice she bravely tried to control, but with no great success. ‘I know, dear.’

They exchanged no further words until they reached home, but her father placed an arm about her shoulders and drew her to his breast, where she nestled quietly. She had wept all her tears away, but a dry sob shook her frame from time to time, and with every repetition of the sound the father’s face twitched as if a rough hand had been laid upon a wound. He parted from her tenderly when they reached home, and they met again at the breakfast table.

‘You understand everything that has happened, dear?’ he asked. ‘I think so.’

‘The owner of the salt mine which my partners have for years been robbing is a Major de Blacquaire, whose regiment is just now quartered at Birmingham. They will have the route in a day or two, and I must see him before he goes. I shall drive into the town at once; and then I must run up to London. I do not know as yet what my partners’ rascality may have cost me, but I am not a wealthy man, and the business may spell ruin. I cannot afford to be idle, and I must get back into harness. Lord Raglan knows my record. I was with him when he lost his right arm at Waterloo. He has more than once,’ the old soldier went on with a certain stateliness, ‘expressed a certain regard for me. I have every reason to believe myself highly honoured by his esteem. At a time like this men of experience will be in demand, and I feel hopeful of finding an appointment. I am not yet too old to serve my Queen and country. Lord Raglan will see service again, of course, and he is six years my senior, so that he is scarcely likely to make my years a ground of objection.’

‘Take me with you, dear,’ said Irene, ‘I shall not be very happy if I am left alone.’

‘Run away and dress then,’ said the General, ‘for I have ordered the carriage already, and it will be round in a quarter of an hour. That is short notice for a lady’s toilet.’ he went on, trying to smile, ‘but you must learn military despatch.’

And thus it came about that Polson and Irene met once more before the final parting, for at the moment at which the carriage swept into the barrack square the newly-enlisted recruit was walking towards the orderly room under the guidance of a corporal. The youngster still wore the fluttering ribbons in the shabby old sealskin cap, and that fact and his presence in the barracks told the whole story instantly.

‘By Heaven!’ cried the General, ‘I like that. The lad has grit in him!’ He cried aloud in the ringing clarion voice which advancing years had left in all its rounded sweetness, ‘Hi, you there—halt!’ and the corporal at the voice straightened himself and stood to attention. Polson knew the voice, but he walked on until the command was repeated. The General stopped the carriage and alighted. ‘Can you bear to speak to him?’ he whispered.

The General walked briskly to the recruit, and stretched out his hand towards him. ‘You have done well, my lad. You could have done nothing better. You have an old soldier’s respect, Polson. You have joined us?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Polson, ‘I have joined you. Volnay is here, sir—you remember Volnay?’

‘His father and I charged together at Waterloo,’ said the General. ‘He is a good lad. You and he are great friends, I hear?’

‘We have been,’ Polson answered. ‘Major de Blacquaire is here as well; but he has a Staff appointment, and I understand he leaves the corps to-morrow.’

‘He is the man I am here to see,’ said Boswell. ‘Irene is with me, and I believe she wishes to speak to you.’

The young man glanced deprecatingly at his old array, and the General read the glance. ‘She will understand all that,’ he said, ‘just as well as I do. You have seen De Blacquaire?’

‘Corporal! ‘called the General, ‘find Major de Blacquaire, give him General Boswell’s compliments, and ask him to receive me.’

The corporal saluted and went his way, a bewildered man, for it had never before fallen to his lot to find a raw recruit in the enjoyment of a General’s friendship. There was a mystery here, and it kept the regiment in talk for a little while until the interest in it died out; but it made Polson a man of mark from the first. The corporal was back in a minute with a salute to say that Major de Blacquaire was in his own apartment, and would be proud to see General Boswell at once, so the General sent off Polson to Irene and made his way to De Blacquaire’s quarters, piloted by the corporal. De Blaequaire received General Boswell with a show of profound respect.

‘I am here,’ began the General, plunging into business at once after his own soldierly fashion, ‘I am here on an uncommonly unpleasant business. You are the proprietor of a salt mine. You may not be aware that I have invested the greater part of my fortune in the hands of your neighbours, Messrs. Jervase & Jervoyce.’

‘I was not aware of that, sir,’ said De Blaequaire, ‘and I am very sorry to hear it. The men, to my certain knowledge, are a brace of thieves.’

‘I heard a very startling piece of news last night,’ the General continued. ‘I heard that your solicitor, Mr. Stubbs I believe, has made a charge against my partners of having robbed you and the former proprietor of the mine, my lamented old friend General Airey, through a whole course of years.’

‘That is undoubtedly true,’ De Blacquaire answered. ‘I have evidence that a passage exists between their mine and my own, and all the evidence points to the belief that it was purposely made. Their property, I learn, was a miserable failure for many years, and it has now for years yielded them a large income.’

‘My share of that income,’ said the General, ‘has amounted to something like fifteen hundred pounds a year for seven years past, and I need not tell you that it will be my immediate business, so soon as I can realise the money, to repay you—on distinct proof, of course, of the felonious action of my partners.’

‘I really do not see, General Boswell,’ said De Blacquaire, ‘that there is any call upon you to sacrifice yourself for their benefit. The men are wealthy, and I have no doubt that I can force them to disgorge.’

‘It will be my own hope and aim to do that also,’ the General answered. ‘But I have no wish for money which has been dishonourably acquired, and I am very much afraid that I have been living at your cost. It is my obvious duty to return to you whatever has come into my possession, provided always that the facts are assured. I have my remedy against my partners in the law courts, and if necessary I must seek it there.’

‘I shall not venture,’ said De Blacquaire, ‘to dispute a point of personal honour with General Boswell; but I venture to suggest that the better course would be for us, as the injured parties, to join forces against Messrs. Jervase & Jervoyce, and discuss the partition of the spoils when we have secured them. They are thoroughly solvent; I know that, for I have made inquiries; and they are well worth powder and shot. Until the case is heard, or until they themselves come to heel of their own free will, I cannot in honesty receive anything from you.

Their confession or, failing that, their conviction must absolutely precede any such action as you contemplate. I am taking a business point of view, sir, and I think that on reflection you will find that there is no escape from it.’

The General sat frowning and perplexed. He was in haste to be rid of the sense that he was handling tainted money, and he was eager even to beggar himself to secure freedom from the load which lay upon his mind. ‘I wish you to understand, Major de Blacquaire,’ he said, ‘that I am pressing this matter for reasons personal to myself. I am placed in a most abominable and unbearable position. I have unwittingly been made a partner in a very shameful transaction, and I may tell you that I have not the faintest doubt in my own mind as to the justice of your cause. I do not feel that as a man of honour I am justified in retaining for a day money which has been actually stolen from another. I think I may say that it is your duty to relieve me from this burden. I must fight for my own hand afterwards; but I cannot consent to hold these gains a moment longer than is necessary for me to repay them.’

‘Suppose, sir,’ said De Blacquaire, ‘that we submit this matter to an independent and high-minded arbiter. You know Colonel Stacey? He is in quarters at this moment, I believe, and I am sure he would give his judgment between us willingly, I feel so confident of his verdict that perhaps it’s hardly fair on my part to suggest the appeal to him.’

‘I know Stacey well,’ said the General, ‘Colonel Stacey is a man of honour. I have a great respect for Stacey, and I will abide by his opinion. I feel assured that he will be on my side. Will you kindly take me to him?’

‘Certainly, sir.’ The Major took up his forage cap, opened the door for his guest, and marshalled him into the open, where he saw the hated Polson standing at the side of the General’s carriage in conversation with a lady. His gorge rose within him at the spectacle, and it came into his mind that General Boswell might be as little pleased as he himself was. He asked a question by way of calling his companion’s attention. ‘That is your carriage, sir?’

‘Ah, by the way,’ the General answered, ‘that reminds me. That is young Jervase standing there. His commission is probably in his agent’s hands to-day. He has learned the facts about this salt mine business, and he has thrown up what I know to have been the dearest hope of his life. He has joined as a recruit. He is a very fine and worthy fellow, Major de Blacquaire. I don’t know a better lad in the world, and I desire to bespeak your good will for him. A gentleman’s position in the ranks is not very tolerable; but a friend at court may make things easier for him.’

Now Major de Blacquaire had made a very excellent impression on the elder warrior, who thought that he had behaved honourably and with delicacy in respect to the unfortunate business which had brought them together; but he undid that impression most conclusively.

‘Should you call,’ he asked in his most deliberate and supercilious drawl, ‘should you call Mr. Polson a gentleman, sir?’

‘Most decidedly, sir!’ the General answered, with sudden heat. ‘He has the instincts of a gentleman, and the sense of honour of a gentleman. He has had the education of a gentleman, and has lived among gentlemen. If these are not the facts to warrant the use of the word, I have no judgment in the matter.’

‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ said De Blac-quaire, ‘I am possibly prejudiced; but I thought the fellow a sort of unlicked cub.’

The General said no more, but his shoulders straightened, and both hands went up to the big grey moustache. It was in his mind to offer a retort, but he remembered his own dignity in time, and contented himself by saying, ‘I shall recommend him most strongly to Colonel Stacey’s best consideration. And you, Major de Blacquaire, I understand, are leaving the regiment?’

‘I have received a Staff appointment, sir, and I leave to-morrow. These are the Colonel’s quarters.’

Both men had grown extremely frigid, but Colonel Stacey’s welcome to his old campaigning comrade smoothed the General’s ruffled mind. He was a bluff, grizzled man of sixty, with a scarlet countenance and a white head so closely cropped that it looked like a bottle-brush. He had seen service in every quarter of the world, and his manly chest was covered with well-won medals. He listened to the General’s story sympathetically, but he gave his judgment with a twinkle of the eye.

‘The same old Quixote, eh, George? De Blacquaire’s right, of course—absolutely right. And as for you, my boy, you haven’t got a leg to stand on. Of course you’re going to join forces with your fellow sufferer, and it’s quite monstrous to suggest that the money should come out of the pocket of an innocent man. If the case were anybody’s but your own you’d look at it like a sensible man. And if you were advising me, you would tell me precisely what I’m telling you. Here, where’s that rascal of mine?’ He opened the door and shouted, and in came a bronzed dragoon in civilian costume. ‘Get a bottle of champagne and bring glasses. I’ve been longing for an excuse for self-indulgence all the morning, and I’m much obliged to you for giving it.’

‘Oh, by gad,’ said the Colonel, ‘but you must and you shall. I’m expecting to get my marching orders any hour, and those chaps mean to fight, mind you, and it’s an open problem as to whether old Bob Stacey will come back again. Come on, George! You’re not going to shirk a last liquor with a comrade of forty years’ standing!’

The General yielded, the wine was served, De Blacquaire at the Colonel’s command emptied his glass and withdrew, leaving the old friends together. The General seized the moment to speak a word for Polson. He told the lad’s story, and the Colonel nodded his white head with curt approval.

‘Highly intelligent,’ the General answered. ‘Took his B.A. at Oxford, first-rate man across country, excellent shot. Would have had his commission this week if his father hadn’t turned out a rascal. Throws up everything like a lad of honour as he is, and takes the Queen’s shilling.’

‘That’s all right,’ said the Colonel. ‘Leave him to me. I’ll shepherd him.’

CHAPTER VII

General Boswell’s coachman was a Scot; a grim, taciturn, brickdust-coloured fellow, who had been in his present service for a quarter of a century. He had been bred amongst horses from his boyhood, for his father had been a horsebreaker, and when he had run away from home and enlisted, he had satisfied ambition by becoming a driver of artillery. Then he had been wounded, and had turned batman for awhile. He had gone to the General as valet, but his stable love had broken out again, and he had gravitated by force of nature to the place of coachman. Polson’s mind did not go back to a time when he did not remember Duncan, and to Irene he was like a fixed part of the scheme of nature. He had one defect which at this instant made him invaluable. He resented any imputation of the fact angrily, but he had been deaf as an adder for years.

There was no great privacy in a barrack square, to be sure, but it was as safe to talk within arm’s length of Duncan as if he had been a stone Sphinx. Duncan was a man of rare discretion, and, though it must have been like an upheaval of the world to him to see the most constant of visitors at the General’s modest little mansion, walking in shabby raiment in a barrack square with a recruit’s ribbons fluttering from his cap, he saluted imperturbably as the young man came up, and then sat motionless.

‘Your father told me I might speak to you,’ he said wistfully. ‘I hope I am not wrong in coming to you.’

‘You have enlisted?’ she asked him. ‘You are going to the war?’ Her self-possession cost her an effort, but she maintained it She had a soldier’s daughter’s pride, and though she had met this first great trouble so brief a time ago she had already taught herself to face it. Her father was a man conspicuously brave among the brave, and he had told her of his very first experience of war—a period of prolonged inaction under fire. ‘A trying thing at first,’ he had said, ‘but duty will reconcile one to anything.’ This memory had been present with her all the morning, and though the unexpected sight of her lost lover almost broke her down, the thought had had power to nerve her.

‘Yes,’ he answered simply. ‘I have enlisted. I shall have to go through a certain amount of drill, but that will soon be over, and then, I suppose, I shall get my marching orders.’

‘He has told me so,’ he responded. ‘I am very glad of it. God is good to me,’ he went on, turning half away from her and gazing across the square. ‘I had not hoped to see you again for years, if ever, and there is just one thing I wanted very much to say. It is of no use to have reserves and disguises at a time like this. I shan’t distress you? Can you let me speak?’

The touch of womanly solicitude, small as it was, moved him. He obeyed her, and stood, still looking across the square, until he had mastered a suspicious clicking in the throat.

‘You need have no fear of me, Polson,’ Irene said. ‘Speak out all your mind.’

‘Well, dear, it’s this. We’ve been comrades ever since I helped you to learn to ride your first pony. We’ve always been the very best of friends, and only last night I was going to ask for something more. You don’t mind hearing me out, Irene?’

‘Well, you see, everything went last night with a clean sweep by the board. I thought I was safe for a commission. I’d been brought up to expect a handsome fortune.’ He spoke in a level tone, as if he had been reading uninteresting matter from a book. ‘All that is changed and everything is changed with it. I’m a penniless private of dragoons, and our ways in the world are wide apart. For old time’s sake I should be very sorry to believe that you’d ever forgot me altogether, but if you’ll try to bring yourself to think of me as trying to be cheerful in a humble station, as remembering you always in my heart of hearts, and never forgetting the distance that divides us—if you’ll try to think of me as always honouring myself because I was once your friend’—He was forced to pause, but he went on again, level-voiced and monotonous as before—‘If you’ll try to think of me as learning to be cheerful for your sake, not as a moaning, broken-hearted chap—which I don’t mean to be at all—but just doing my work, you know, and thinking about you like an affectionate poor relation might—why, then, in—in time you’ll get to feel the parting less.’

‘Have you finished, Polson?’ ‘Yes, dear. That’s about all, I think. You see, I know you, Irene. You’ll grizzle if you think I’m grizzling. That’s your nature. You can’t bear to think of a canary bird in pain.’

‘I shall never forget you, dear. I shall never forget you, and I shall never change. If you had asked me to be your wife before these things happened I should have said “Yes,” and I should have been proud and happy. But, Polson, this is why I thank God for having brought us together just this once. I want you to remember that in this war names will be heard of that never were known before. Yours may be one of them.’

‘You mustn’t waste your life thinking of me, Irene. I shall remember every word you have spoken. I shall treasure every word. I hope I shall do my duty.’

‘I am sure of that,’ she answered. And then for a long time not a word was spoken, and when at length they broke silence, they spoke of things which were indifferent by comparison. They discussed the probable hour of the arrival of the route, the probable destination of the regiment, the time at which Polson might expect to escape his drill.

At last the General appeared walking side by side with Colonel Stacey. Irene was facing that way, and was naturally the first to see him.

‘God bless you, too,’ said Irene. She held out her little gloved hand to him, and he took it in his own. She looked bravely into his eyes, and they spoke their last farewell without a sign of tremor.

‘This,’ said the General, advancing as Polson turned away, ‘is the young fellow of whom I have been speaking. Polson, this is your commanding officer, Colonel Stacey.’ Polson raised his cap and bowed civilian fashion.

‘Ah!’ said the jolly colonel, turning his red face and twinkling eyes on the recruit.

‘You are Polson Jervase? Joined this morning, eh? I hear an excellent account of you. Try to deserve it. I shall remember you. Good morning.’

But as Polson saluted again, and turned to go, the General seized him by the hand and shook it warmly.

‘We must all face the fortune of war, my lad,’ he said. ‘The best of good luck go with you. If you hear of me out yonder, as you may, don’t forget to report yourself. Good-bye.’

There were a good many eyes at the barrack windows, and the minds of many dragoons were inspired with wonder. For a General and a Waterloo veteran was a personage, and the daughter of the same was a personage, and it was out of the common for a newly-joined recruity to engage in intimate talk with the like of them for half an hour together, and to be shaken hands with by the veteran, and saluted as if he were an officer by the veteran’s coachman, and personally introduced to ‘Old Stayce’ into the bargain.

And amazement sat on many foreheads when the carriage rolled away, and the General stood up to wave his hat to the recruity, and the lady stood up to wave her hand, and the recruity, unconscious of the interest he excited, waved the shabby old sealskin cap in answer until the equipage was ringingly saluted at the gate, and swung swiftly out of sight.

And then, it was over. Oh, it was all over, and one manly heart was sore and cold. The new recruity stood there planted in the barrack square, as innocent of his surroundings as if he had been asleep, and mechanically filled and lit his pipe, and stood on with his chin sunk upon his breast, scarcely aware of his own thoughts, and as yet realising little but solitude and an ache in the doleful middle of it. But a warmth stole into the cold. When everything was said and done, there was one thing left. Irene loved him. Loved him! How sweet and sacred a wonder. Yet her own dear lips had told him that she would have been proud and happy to be his wife, and that nothing should change her. And she had given him an ambition. The lofty and inspiring words were not yet written, but their purport thrilled him, as it thrilled many who went out to fight and bleed for a cause which may not have been wholly worthy of their devotion, and yet in a sense was worthy because they believed in it with all their hearts and souls. For, after all, what is it but the purpose which ennobles action? If the greatest Englishman since Shakespeare had not yet given Polson Jervase the words in which to speak his thought, it lightened his breast all the same.