"My father has a gold watch that was given to him when he retired from business," said Raymond; "it's bigger than that, and has got our crest on the back. By-the-bye," he continued, "aren't you afraid of having it stolen? I shouldn't keep it in that cupboard, it I were you. You are certain to get it stolen some day."
"Oh, we don't have any thieves at Brenlands," answered his aunt, smiling.
"I've a jolly good mind to steal it myself," said Jack; "or it you like, aunt, I'll exchange."
Jack's watch was always a standing joke against him, and, as he drew it out, the bystanders laughed. It was something like the timepiece by which, when the hands were at 9.30 and the bell struck three, one might know it was twelve o'clock. The silver case was dented and scratched; the long hand was twisted; the works, from having been taken to pieces and hurriedly put together again in class, were decidedly out of order; in fact, Jack was not quite certain if, when cleaning it on one occasion, he had not lost one of the wheels.
Queen Mab laughed and shook her head. "No, thank you," she said. "I think I should prefer to keep mine for the present, though one of you shall have it some day."
Raymond always came down to breakfast long after the others had finished. The next morning there was a letter waiting for him which had been readdressed on from Melchester. He was still in a sulk, and the contents of the epistle did not seem to improve his temper. He devoured his food in silence, and then went off by himself to smoke at the bottom of the garden.
"He is a surly animal," said Valentine. "I wish he had never come."
"Well, he's going to-morrow evening," answered Helen, "and I suppose we must make the best of him till then."
During the remainder of the day Raymond kept to himself, and though, after tea, he condescended to take part in some of the usual indoor games, he did it in so ungracious a manner as to spoil the pleasure of the other players.
Somehow the last day or so did not seem at all like the usual happy times at Brenlands. There was a screw loose somewhere, and every one was not quite so merry and good-tempered as usual.
"Bother it! wet again!" said Barbara, pushing back her chair from the breakfast-table with a frown and a pout.
"Never mind," answered her aunt. "Rain before seven, fine before eleven."
Barbara did not believe in proverbs. She wandered restlessly round the room, inquiring what was the good of rain in August, and expressing her discontent with things in general.
"Oh, I say," she exclaimed suddenly, halting in front of the little glass door of the cupboard, "what do you think has happened? That dear little china man with the guitar has tumbled over and broken his head off!"
Helen and the boys crowded round to look. It was certainly the case—the little china figure lay over on its side, broken in the manner already described.
"Who can have done it?"
"I expect I must have upset it the other evening when I was showing you the things," answered Miss Fenleigh. "Never mind, I think I can mend it. Go and fetch my keys, Bar, and we'll see just what's the matter with the little gentleman."
"This is funny," she continued, a few minutes later, "the key won't turn. Dear me! what a silly I am! why, the door isn't locked after all."
The little image was taken out, and while it was being examined Barbara picked up the little leather case on which it usually stood. In another moment she gave vent to an ejaculation of surprise which startled the remainder of the company, and made them immediately forget all about the china troubadour.
"Why, aunt, where's the watch?"
Every one looked. It was true enough—the case was empty, and the watch gone. For a moment there was a dead silence, the company being too much astonished to speak.
"Stolen!" exclaimed Raymond. "I said it would be some day."
"But when was it taken?—Who could have done it?—Where did they get in?—How did they know about it?"
These and other questions followed each other in rapid succession. A robbery at Brenlands! The thing seemed impossible; and yet here was the empty case to prove it. The watch had disappeared, and no one had the slightest notion what could have become of it.
"There's something in this lock," said Valentine, who had been peering into the keyhole. "Lend me your crochet needle, Helen, and I'll get it out."
With some little difficulty the obstacle was removed, and on examination proved to be a fragment of a broken key.
"Hallo!" said Raymond, "here's a clue at any rate. Don't lose it; put it in that little jar on the mantelpiece."
The remainder of the morning was passed in an excited discussion regarding the mysterious disappearance of the gold timepiece.
"I can't think any one can have stolen it," said Queen Mab. "How should they have known about it? and, besides, if any one broke into the house last night, how is it they didn't take anything else—that little silver box, for instance?"
"It's stolen, right enough," said Raymond. "It couldn't have been Joe Crouch, could it?"
"Not a bit of it," answered Jack decisively. "He wouldn't do a thing like that. He stole some fruit once, but he's honest enough now."
"Could the servant have taken it?"
"Oh, no!" answered Queen Mab. "I could trust Jane with anything."
During the afternoon the weather cleared, but no one seemed inclined to do anything; a feeling of gloom and uneasiness lay upon the whole company.
Jack was sitting in a quiet corner reading, when his aunt called him.
"Oh, there you are! I wanted to speak to you alone just for a minute. Helen told me about your quarrel with Raymond, and I want you to make it up. He's going away to-night, and I shouldn't like you to part, except as friends."
The boy frowned. "I don't want to be friends," he answered impatiently. "He's played me some very shabby tricks, and I think the less we see of him the better."
"Perhaps so; but I'm so sorry that you should have actually come to blows, and that while you were staying here with me at Brenlands."
"I'm not sorry! I wish I'd hit him harder!"
"Oh, you 'ugly duckling!'" answered the lady, smiling, and running her fingers through his crumpled hair. "You'll find out some day that 'punching heads,' as you call it, isn't the most satisfactory kind of revenge. However, I don't expect you to believe it now, but I think you'll do what I ask you. Go to Raymond, and say you're sorry you forgot yourself so far as to strike him, and ask his pardon. There, I don't think there is anything in that which need go against your conscience, or that it is a request that any gentleman need be ashamed to make."
Jack complied, but with a very bad grace. If the suggestion had come from any one but Queen Mab, he would have scouted the idea from the first.
He found Raymond swinging in a hammock under the trees.
"I say," he began awkwardly, "I'm sorry I hit you when we had that row. Aunt Mabel wished me to tell you so."
"Hum! You'll be sorrier still before long. I suppose now you want to 'kiss and be friends'?"
"No, I don't."
"Then if you don't want to be forgiven," returned the other with a sneer, "why d'you come and say you're sorry?"
Jack turned away in a rage, feeling that he had at all events got the worst of this encounter, and that it was entirely his own fault for having laid himself open to the rebuff.
He felt vexed with Helen for telling his aunt what had taken place, and with the latter for influencing him to offer Raymond an apology. Altogether the atmosphere around him seemed charged with discomfort and annoyance, and even the merry tinkle of the tea-bell was not so welcome as usual.
"Where's Raymond?" asked Queen Mab.
"I think he's putting his things in his bag," answered Valentine. "Shall I go and call him?"
At that moment the subject of their conversation entered the room. He walked round to his place in silence, pausing for a moment to take something down from the mantelpiece.
"Who owns a key with a scrap of steel chain tied on to it?"
"I do," answered Jack. "It belongs to my play-box."
"Well, here it is," returned the other. "I picked it up among the bushes. Do you notice anything peculiar about it?"
"No."
"You don't? Well, here's something belonging to it," and so saying, the speaker flipped across the table the little metal fragment which had been taken from the lock in the cupboard door.
"Confound it!" said Jack. "The thief must have used my key!"
"Faugh!" ejaculated Raymond, bitterly.
Jack looked up quickly with an expression of anger and astonishment.
"What's the matter?" he cried. "D'you mean to say I took the watch?"
"I've said nothing of the kind," answered the other coldly; "though I remember you did say you'd a good mind to steal it. I've simply given you back your key."
If a thunderbolt had fallen in the middle of the pretty tea-table, it could not have caused more astonishment and dismay than this last speech of Raymond's. Every one for the moment was too much taken aback to speak.
The smouldering fire of Jack's wrath had only needed this breeze to set it into a flame. His undisciplined spirit immediately showed itself in an outburst of ungovernable anger.
"You are a cad and a liar!" he said. "Wait till I get you outside."
"Hush! hush!" interrupted Miss Fenleigh, fearing a repetition of the previous encounter. "I can't have such words used here. Perhaps Raymond may be mistaken."
The last words were spoken thoughtlessly, in the heat of the moment. Jack in his anger resented that "may" and "perhaps," as implying doubt as to his honesty, and regarded the silence of the others as a sign that they also considered him guilty. In his wild, reckless manner he dashed his knife down upon the table, and with a parting glare at his accuser, marched straight out of the room.
Valentine rose to follow him.
"No, Val," said Miss Fenleigh, in an agitated voice. "Leave him to himself for a little while. He'll be calmer directly."
Ten minutes later the front door closed with a bang.
"He's going out to get cool, I suppose," said Raymond scornfully. "He didn't seem to relish my finding his play-box key. However, perhaps he'll explain matters when he comes back."
But Jack did not come back. The blind fury of the moment gave place to a dogged, unreasoning sense of wrong and injustice. He had been accused of robbing the person he loved best on earth, and she believed him to be guilty. The old, wayward spirit once more took full possession of his heart, and in a moment he was ready to throw overboard all that he prized most dearly.
He had some money in his pocket, enough to carry him home if he walked to Melchester, and his luggage could come on another time. The plan was formed, and he did not hesitate to put it into immediate execution.
It was not until nearly an hour after his departure that Queen Mab realized what had become of him, and then her distress was great.
"Why didn't he wait to speak to us!" she cried. "We must all write him a letter by to-night's post, to tell him that, of course, we don't think he's the thief, and to beg him to come back."
"If you like to do it at once," said Raymond, "I'll post them at Grenford. They'll reach him then the first thing in the morning."
The letters were written; even Barbara, who never could be got to handle a pen except under strong compulsion, scribbled nearly four pages, and filled up the blank space at the end with innumerable kisses.
About two hours later the scapegoat tramped, footsore and weary, into the Melchester railway station; and at nearly the same moment, Raymond Fosberton, on his way home, took from his pocket the letters which had been entrusted to his care, tore them to fragments, and dropped them over the low wall of a bridge into the canal.
"Now we're about quits!" he said.
"'I believe I must go out into the world again,' said the duckling."—The Ugly Duckling.
The summers came and went, but Jack Fenleigh remained a rebel, refusing to join the annual gathering at Brenlands, and to pay his homage at the court of Queen Mab.
One bright September morning, about four years after the holidays described in the previous chapter, he was sitting at an untidy breakfast-table, evidently eating against time, and endeavouring to divide his attention between swallowing down the meal and reading a letter which lay open in front of him. The teapot, bread, butter, and other provisions had been gathered round him in a disorderly group, so as to be near his hand; the loaf was lying on the tablecloth, the bacon was cold, and the milk-jug was minus a handle. It was, on the whole, a very different display from the breakfast-table at Brenlands; and perhaps it was this very thought that crossed the young man's mind as he turned and dug viciously at the salt, which had caked nearly into a solid block.
In outward appearance, to a casual observer, Jack had altered very little since the day when he knocked Master Raymond Fosberton into the laurel bush; yet there was a change. He had broadened, and grown to look older, and more of a man, though the old impatient look seemed to have deepened in his face like the lines between his eyebrows.
The party at Brenlands had waited in vain for a reply to their letters. Within a week, Miss Fenleigh had written again, assuring the runaway that neither she nor his cousins for one moment suspected him of having stolen the watch; but in the meantime the mischief had been done.
"They think I did it," muttered Jack to himself, "or they'd have written at once. Aunt Mabel wants to forgive me, and smooth it over; but they know I'm a scamp, and now they believe I'm a thief!"
Again he hardened his heart, and though his feelings towards Queen Mab and his cousins never changed, yet his mind was made up to cut himself adrift from the benefit of their society. He left Valentine's letter unanswered, and refused all his aunt's pressing invitations to visit her again.
Every year these were renewed with the same warmth and regularity, and it was one which now lay open beside his plate.
"I suppose," ran the letter, "that you have heard how well Val passed out of Sandhurst. He is coming down to see me before joining his regiment, and will bring Helen and Barbara with him. I want you to come too, and then we shall all be together once more, and have the same dear old times over again. I shan't put up with any excuses, as I know you take your holiday about this time, so just write and say when you are coming."
Jack lifted his eyes from the letter, and made a grab at the loaf.
"I should like to go," he muttered; "how jolly the place must look!—but no, I've left it too long. I ought to have gone back at once, or never to have run away like that. Of course, now they must think that I stole the watch. Yet, perhaps, if I gave them my word of honour, they'd believe me; I know Aunt Mabel would."
At this moment the door opened, and a gentleman entered the room. He was wearing a shabby-looking dressing-gown, a couple of ragged quill pens were stuck in his mouth, and he carried in his hand a bundle of closely-written sheets of foolscap. Mr. Basil Fenleigh, to tell the truth, was about to issue an invitation to a "few friends" to join him in starting an advertisement and bill-posting agency business; to be conducted, so said the rough copy of the circular, on entirely novel lines, which could not fail to ensure success, and the drafting out of which had occupied most of his leisure time during the past twelve months.
"Humph!" he exclaimed sourly. "Down at your usual time, eh? You'll be late again at your office."
"No, I shan't," answered the son, glancing up at the clock. "I can get there in ten minutes."
"You can't. You know very well Mr. Caston complained only the other day of your coming behind your time. The next thing will be that you'll lose your situation."
"I don't care if I do; I'm heartily sick of the place."
"You're heartily sick of any kind of work, and you always have been."
Jack threw down his knife and fork and rose from the table, leaving part of his breakfast unfinished on his plate.
"All right," he said sulkily; "I'll go at once."
He strode out of the room, crushing Queen Mab's letter into a crumpled ball of paper in his clenched fist. After what had just passed, he would certainly not broach the subject of a holiday.
The morning's work seemed, if possible, more distasteful than ever. Casting up sheets of analysis, he got wrong in his additions, and had to go over them again. He watched the workmen moving about in the yard outside, and wished he had been trained to some manual trade like theirs. Then he thought of Valentine, and for the first time his affection for his old friend gave place to a feeling of bitterness and envy.
"Confound the fellow! he's always done just as he liked. I wish he was here in my shoes for a bit. It isn't fair one chap should have such luck, and another none at all. Little he cares what becomes of me. I may rot here all my life, and no one troubles the toss of a button whether I'm happy or miserable."
He was in the same ill-humour when he returned home to dinner. Mr. Fenleigh was also out of temper, and seemed inclined to give vent to his feelings by renewing the dispute which had commenced at the breakfast-table. Father and son seldom met except at meals; and unfortunately, on these occasions, the conversation frequently took the form of bickering and complaint. Jack, as a rule, appeared sullenly indifferent to what passed; this time, however, his smouldering discontent burst out into a name of anger.
"I suppose youwerelate this morning?"
"No, I wasn't."
"Humph! You said before you started that you were sick of the place, and didn't care whether you lost it. If you do, I hope you won't expect me to find you another berth."
"No, I'll find one myself."
"What d'you think you're good for? You're more likely to idle about here doing nothing than find any other employment."
"I work harder than you do," said the son angrily.
"Hold your tongue, sir! If you can't treat me with some amount of respect, you'd better leave the house."
"So I will. I'll go and enlist."
"You may go where you please. I've done the best I could for you, and all the return I get is ingratitude and abuse. Now you can act for yourself."
It was not the first time that remarks of this character had been fired across the table. Jack made no reply, but at that moment his mind was seized with a desperate resolve. Once for all he would settle this question, and change the present weary existence for something more congenial to his taste. All that afternoon he turned the plan over in his thoughts, and his determination to follow it up grew stronger as the time approached for putting it into execution. What if the move were a false one? a person already in the frying-pan could but jump into the fire; and any style of life seemed preferable to the one he was now living. His father had told him to please himself, and, as he had only himself to consider, he would do so, and follow the drum, as had always been his inclination from childhood.
The big bell clanged out the signal for giving over work; but Jack, instead of returning home, picked up a small handbag he had brought with him, and walked off in the direction of the railway station. On his way thither, he counted the money in his pocket. He had some idea of going to London, but the expense of the journey would be too heavy for his resources. It mattered little where the plunge was taken; he would go to the barracks at Melchester.
He lingered for a moment at the window of the booking-office, hardly knowing why he hesitated.
Why not? He had only himself to please.
The clerk grew impatient. "Well?" he said.
Jack threw down his money. "Third, Melchester!" he said, and so crossed the Rubicon.
Very few changes had taken place in the little city during the four years which had elapsed since he last visited it. Here and there a house had been modernized, or a new shop-front erected, but in the neighbourhood of the school no alterations seemed to have been made. He strolled past it in the dusk, and paused to look in through the gates: the boys had not yet returned, and the quadrangle was dark and deserted. He thought of the night when he and Rosher had climbed in by way of the headmaster's garden, and forced an entry into the house through the bathroom window. It seemed a hardship then to be obliged to be in by a certain time, yet it was preferable to having no resting-place to claim as one's own.
A few minutes later he halted again, this time outside the well-remembered cookshop. "Duster's" was exactly the same as it always had been, except for the fact that, it being holiday time, the display of delicacies in the window was not quite so large as usual. Jack smiled as there flashed across his mind the memory of the literary society's supper; the faces of the sprightly Tinkleby, Preston the bowler, "Guzzling Jimmy," and a host of others, rose before him in the deepening twilight. They had been good comrades together once; most of them had probably made a fair start by this time in various walks of life. He wondered if they remembered him, and what they would say if they knew what he was doing, and whether any of them would care what became of him. No, he had only himself to please now, and if he preferred soldiering to office-work, what was there to hinder him from taking the shilling?
There was no particular hurry. He passed the night at a small temperance hotel, and next morning, after a plain breakfast, started out for a stroll into the country. He had written a note to his father before leaving Padbury merely stating his intention, and giving no address. There was nothing more to be done but to enjoy himself as a free man before making application to the nearest recruiting sergeant.
He passed the barracks where the 1st Battalion of the Royal Blankshire Regiment was quartered, and thought how often he and Valentine had lingered there, listening to the bugle-calls, and watching the drill instructors at work in the square with their awkward squads. Just inside the gate the guard were falling in, preparatory to the arrival of the relief, and something in their smart appearance, and in the very clank of their rifle-butts upon the flagstones, stirred his heart; yes, that was the calling he meant to follow.
He strode off along the Hornalby road, whistling a lively tune, and conjuring up bright mental pictures of the life before him. He might not have Valentine's luck, but he would make up for it in other ways. The path was steep and rough, no doubt, but in treading it scores of brave men had won honour and renown; and with courage and determination, there was no reason why he should not do the same. It was a man's life, and here there was certainly more chance of distinguishing oneself than in a manufacturer's office.
With these and other thoughts of a similar nature occupying his mind, Jack tramped on gaily enough in the bright sunshine. Suddenly, however, he stopped dead in the middle of the road. He had come in sight of a wayside inn, the Black Horse, and the thought struck him that he was within two miles of Brenlands.
All unbidden, a host of recollections came rushing upon him. The last time he had walked from Melchester along this road was the afternoon on which he brought back the silver locket for Queen Mab. What if the pony-carriage should suddenly turn the corner? and yet, why should he be afraid to meet her? He was doing nothing to be ashamed of, and the recollection of the stolen watch never entered his head. He would have given anything to have gone on and seen her again—to have had one more kind smile and loving word. "My own boy Jack!" Would he ever hear her say that again?
He turned on his heel, and began the return journey with a gloomy look of discontent upon his face. His castles in the air had vanished: what was there that made a soldier's life attractive but the right to go about in a red coat like a barrel-organ monkey? For two pins he would abandon the project, and go back to Padbury.
This impression, however, was not destined to last very long. As he approached the barracks he noticed a small crowd of idlers collecting near a gateway, and at the same instant the silence was broken by the sound of a drum. He knew what it was—the regiment had been out drilling on the neighbouring common, and was on its way home.
He hurried forward to watch the soldiers as they passed.
Boom! boom! boom!—boom! boom! boom! With a glorious crash the brass instruments burst out with the tune. Jack knew it well, and his heart danced to it as the band marched out into the road.
"'Twas in the merry month of May,When bees from flower to flower did hum,Soldiers through the town marched gay,The village flew to the sound of the drum!"
Jack drew back into the hedge to watch as the regiment went by.
"March at ease!" The sunlight flashed as the arms were sloped, and glittered on bright blades as the officers returned their swords. Not a detail escaped his eager observation; the swing of the rifle-barrels, the crisp tramp of the marching feet, even the chink of the chain bridles as the horses of the mounted officers shook their heads, all seemed to touch answering chords in his inmost heart, and awaken there the old love and longing for a soldier's life.
"The tailor he got off his knees,And to the ranks did boldly come:He said he ne'er would sit at ease,But go with the rest, and follow the drum!"
Jack hesitated no longer, but hurried back to pick up the few belongings he had left at the hotel, determined to put his project into execution without further delay.
"If he had called out, 'Here I am,' it would have been all right; but he was too proud to cry out for help while he wore a uniform."—The Brave Tin Soldier.
There was no more hesitation or uncertainty about his movements now, and before he knew it, Jack found himself once more back at the barracks. The corporal on "gate duty," who, for want of something better to do, had been chastising his own leg with a "swagger cane," ceased in the performance of this self-imposed penance, and shot a significant glance at the stranger.
"Looking out for any one?" he inquired, by way of opening up a conversation.
"No," answered Jack; "the fact is, I've come to enlist. D'you think you could make a soldier of me?"
"Well, at any rate, I should say you were big enough," answered the corporal briskly. "Why, we ought to make a general of a smart young fellow like you, in less than no time!"
This seemed a promising commencement; but the adjutant, in front of whom Jack was conducted after undergoing a preliminary examination as to his height, chest measurement, and strength of eyesight, did not appear to be of quite so sanguine a temperament as the non-commissioned officer.
He eyed the would-be recruit with no very favourable expression on his face, as he prepared to take down the answers to the questions on the attestation paper.
"Name?"
"John Fenleigh."
"Is that anom de guerre?"
"No, sir, it's my real name."
"Humph! So you speak French?"
Jack coloured slightly.
"No, sir—that is, I learned some at school."
The officer looked up, and laid his quill pen down on the table.
"Look here, my good fellow," he said, "it's not my business to ask what brings you here, but one thing I should like to know: how long do you expect you are going to remain in the army—a week, or six months?"
"The full time, I hope, sir."
"Are your parents living? And do they know of the step you're taking?"
"My father is living. I told him what I meant to do before I left home."
"Well," returned the officer, once more dipping his quill in the ink, "if you change your mind before to-morrow, you'll have to pay a sovereign; after that, it'll cost you ten pounds!"
The paper was filled up, and our hero received the historical shilling, which he slipped into his waistcoat pocket, having previously determined never to part with that particular coin, unless he were obliged. He was then conducted to the hospital, and there examined by the medical officer; his eyesight being once more tested by his having to count a number of white dots on a piece of black paper displayed on the opposite side of the room, each eye being covered alternately.
Having passed satisfactorily through this ordeal, he was informed that he could not be sworn in before the following day, when he must present himself at the orderly room at eleven o'clock. Until that time he was free to do as he pleased; and being still in the possession of the greater portion of his previous week's salary, he chose to sleep another night at the hotel, and so spent the remainder of the day wandering about the streets of Melchester.
On the following morning, at the appointed hour, he returned to the barracks, and after some little delay, was brought into the presence of the commanding officer, where he was duly "sworn in," and signed his name to the declaration of allegiance.
"You'll join C Company," said the sergeant-major. "Just take him across, orderly, and show him the room."
With feelings very much akin to those of the "new boy" arriving for the first time at a big boarding-school, our hero followed his guide across the square, up a flight of stairs, and down a long corridor, amid a good deal of noise and bustle. The bugle had not long since sounded "Come to the cook-house door," and the dinner orderlies were hurrying back with the supply of rations for their respective rooms.
At length a door was reached, in front of which the orderly paused with, "Here you are!" Jack entered, and made his first acquaintance with his future home—the barrack-room.
It was large and lofty, with whitewashed walls and a floor of bare boards. A row of wooden tables and forms ran down the centre, above which was a hanging shelf for the men's plates and basins. Around the room were sixteen small iron bedsteads, each made in such a fashion that one half closed up under the other, the mattress when not in use being rolled up and secured by a strap, with the blankets and sheets folded on the top; the remaining portion of the couch, on which the rug was laid, serving for a seat. Above the bed were shelves and hooks for accoutrements, and other possessions. Above some of the cots small pictures or photographs were hung, which served to relieve the monotony of the whitewash; but these, like the rest of Tommy Atkins's property, were arranged with that scrupulous care and neatness which is so characteristic of all that concerns the service from baton to button-stick.
At the moment Jack entered, his future room-mates were busy round one end of the tables, assisting the orderly man in the task of pouring soup from a large can into the small basins, and making a similar equal division of the meat and potatoes. The new-comer's arrival, therefore, was scarcely noticed, except by the sergeant, who told him to sit down, and saw that he received a share of the rations. The fare was certainly rough, and seemed in keeping with the table manners of the rank and file of the Royal Blankshire; they forbore to "trouble" each other for things out of reach, but secured them with a dive and a grab. "Here, chuck us the rooty!" was the request when one needed bread; while though substantial mustard and pepper pots adorned the board, the salt was in the primitive form of a lump, which was pushed about from man to man, and scraped down with the dinner knives.
But Jack had not come to barracks expecting atable d'hôtedinner of eight or nine courses, served by waiters in evening dress, and he set to work with a good grace on what was set before him. The remarks addressed to him, if a trifle blunt, were good-natured enough, and he replied to them in the same spirit. His comrades evidently remarked from the first that he was a cut above the ordinary recruit; but he was wise enough to avoid showing any airs, and soon saw that this line of conduct was appreciated.
The meal was in progress when there was a sharp rap, and the door was opened.
"'Tenshun!" The men laid down their knives and forks, and rose to their feet.
"Dinners all right here?"
"Yes, sir."
"All present?"
"All present, sir." The orderly officer glanced round the room, and then turned and walked out.
"'E's a gentleman, is Mr. Lawson," murmured one of the men; "'e always shuts the door behind 'im." Jack's eye followed the figure of the lieutenant as he rejoined the orderly sergeant in the passage. It was not so much the sash and sword, and neat, blue patrol jacket, as the cheery voice and pleasant sunburnt face, which had attracted our hero's attention; somehow these reminded him of Valentine, and turned his thoughts back to his old friend. He wondered how his cousin looked in the same uniform. Well, well, however wide and deep the gulf might be which the doings of the last two days had placed between them, they were, in a way, reunited; for the service was the same, whatever difference there might be in shoulder-straps.
Dinner over, some of the men made down their beds for a nap, while others announced their intention "to do some soldiering," a term which implied the cleaning and polishing of accoutrements.
Sergeant Sparks, the non-commissioned officer in charge of the room, had a few friendly words with Jack, told him what he would have to do on the following day, and advised him in the meantime to make himself as comfortable as he could. "Here," he added, turning to a private, "just show this man his cot, and explain to him how to keep his bedding; you may want a good turn yourself some time."
The soldier obeyed readily enough. Jack had already caught his eye several times during dinner, and now followed him into a corner of the room, resolved if possible to patch up a friendship. In the carrying out of this intention he was destined to experience a startling surprise.
The man paused before one of the end beds, and began to unfasten the strap of the mattress.
"I didn't think of meeting you here, Mr. Fenleigh."
Jack started and stared at the speaker in silent astonishment.
"You remember me, sir?—Joe Crouch."
"What! Joe Crouch, who used to work at Brenlands?"
"Yes, sir; Joe Crouch as stole the pears," answered the soldier, smiling. "I never expected to find you 'listin' in the army, sir. I suppose Miss Fenleigh ain't aware of what you're doin'?"
"Oh, no!" exclaimed the other eagerly. "Promise me you'll never tell any one at Brenlands where I am—swear you won't."
"Very well, sir," replied Joe Crouch, calmly proceeding to unroll the mattress and make down the bed.
"For goodness' sake, drop thatsir. Look here, Joe: I'm a lame dog, down on my luck, and no good to anybody; but we were friendly years ago, and if you'll have me for a comrade now, I'll do my best to be a good one."
Joe flung down the bedding, and held out his big, brown hand.
"That I will!" he answered. "You did the square thing by me once, and now I'll see you through; don't you fret."
Tea in barracks was evidently a very informal meal, of which no great account was taken. As Jack sat down to his bowl and chunk of bread, Joe Crouch pushed a screw of paper in front of him, which on examination proved to contain a small pat of butter.
"What's this?" asked Jack.
"Fat," answered Joe, shortly. "From the canteen," he added.
"Then you've paid for it, and—look here—you've got none yourself."
"Don't want any," answered Joe, breaking up a crust and dropping it into his tea. "There you are. That's what's called a 'floatin' battery.'"
In the evening most of the men went out. Jack, however, preferred to remain where he was, and passed the time reading a paper he had brought with him, at one of the tables. Sergeant Sparks came up to him and chatted pleasantly for half an hour. He wore a ribbon at his breast, and had stirring stories to tell of the Afghan war, and Roberts' march to Candahar. About half-past eight the men began to return from their walks and various amusements, and the barrack-room grew more noisy. At half-past nine the roll was called, and the orders read out for the following day, and Jack was not sorry when the time came to turn in. Crouch came over to see if he understood the preparation of his cot.
"The feathers in these 'ere beds grew on rather a large bird," remarked Joe, referring to the straw mattress, "but they're soft enough when you come off a spell of guard duty or a day's manoeuvrin'."
The bugle sounded the long, melancholy G, and the orderly man turned off the gas. Our hero lay awake for some time listening to the heavy breathing of his new comrades, and then turned over and fell asleep.
The bright morning sunshine was streaming in through the big windows when the clear, ringing notes of reveille and the cheery strains of "Old Daddy Longlegs" roused him to consciousness of where he was.
"Now then, my lads, show a leg there!" cried the sergeant.
Jack stretched and yawned. Yes, it was certainly a rough path, but his mind was made up to tread it with a good heart, and this being the case, he was not likely to turn back.
"A voice cried out, 'I declare here is the tin soldier!'"—The Brave Tin Soldier.
A brilliant, clear sky overhead, and such a scorching sun that the air danced with the heat, as though from the blast of a furnace; surely this could not be the twenty-fifth of December!
But Christmas Day it was—Christmas Day in the camp at Korti.
"It was Christmas Day in the camp at Korti.""It was Christmas Day in the camp at Korti."
"It was Christmas Day in the camp at Korti.""It was Christmas Day in the camp at Korti."
Among the pleasant groves of trees which bordered the steep banks of the Nile glistened the white tents of the Camel Corps. Still farther back from the river lay fields of grass and patches of green dhurra; and behind these again an undulating waste of sand and gravel, dotted here and there with scrub and rock, and stretching away to the faintly-discerned hills of the desert. The shade of the trees tempered the heat, making a pleasant change after the roasting, toilsome journey up country.
Here, though hardly to be recognized with their ragged clothing and unshaven faces, was gathered a body of men who might be regarded as representing the flower of England's army—Life Guards, Lancers, Dragoons, Grenadiers, Highlanders, and linesmen from many a famous foot regiment; all were there, ready to march and fight shoulder to shoulder in order to rescue Gordon from his perilous position in Khartoum.
Every day the numbers in camp had been gradually growing larger, fresh batches of troops arriving either on camels or in boats. A whole fleet of these "whalers" lay moored along the bank of the Nile; the usual quiet of the river being continually broken by the dog-like panting of steam launches hurrying up and down the stream.
Friendly natives, clad in loose shirts and skull-caps, wandered through the lines, gazing wonderingly at all they saw; while in strange contrast to their unintelligible jabberings, rose the familiarpatoisof the barrack-room, or snatches of some popular music-hall song hummed or whistled by every urchin in the streets of London.
The concentration of the expedition had now been almost completed, and the chief topic of conversation was the immediate prospect of a desert march to Shendy.
But to return to our commencement, Christmas Day it was; and however difficult it might have been to realize this as far as the weather was concerned, the fact had, to a certain extent, been impressed upon the minds of the men by the supplementing of their ordinary dinner rations with a gallant attempt at plum-pudding, manufactured for the most part out of boiled dates.
Two men, who had just partaken of this delicacy, were lying stretched out full length under a shady tree, their pith helmets brought well forward over their eyes, their grey serge jumpers thrown open, and pipes in their mouths. To see them now, with their tattered nether garments, stubbly chins, and sunburnt faces, from which the skin was peeling off in patches, one could hardly have recognized in them the same smart soldiers who paraded a few months ago on the barrack square at Melchester. Yet such they were, as the reader will soon discover by the opening remarks of their conversation.
"This weather don't seem very seasonable. I wonder whether it's frost and snow away home at Brenlands."
"Yes; I wonder if the reservoir at Hornalby is frozen. We used to go skating there when I was at school. It seems a jolly long time ago now!"
"It don't seem three years ago to me since you enlisted. I never thought you'd have stayed so long."
"Didn't you? When my mind's made up, it's apt to stick to it, Joe, my boy. Besides, I had no prospect of anything better."
There was a pause, during which the two comrades (who, from the foregoing, will have been recognized as our hero and Joe Crouch) continued to puff away at their pipes in silence, listening to the remarks of three men who were playing a drowsy game with a tattered pack of cards.
"These cards are gettin' precious ragged; you'd better get 'em clipped."—"Why don't you play the king?"—"'Cause there ain't one! he's one of 'em as is lost."
"You used to have fine times, I reckon, when you and Mr. Valentine and the young ladies came to stay at Miss Fenleigh's," said Crouch. "I wonder what she'd say if she knew you was out here in Egypt."
"I took precious good care she shouldn't know. I suppose she heard from the guv'nor that I went off and enlisted, but I didn't send word what regiment I joined. I never mean to see her again—no fear!"
"She was a kind lady," murmured Joe reflectively; "very good to me once upon a time."
"Yes, that she was—the best and kindest woman in the world; and that's just the reason why I'm glad to think she doesn't know what's become of me.— Hallo, Swabs, what are you after?"
The person thus addressed was a gaunt, lanky-looking warrior, clad simply in helmet, shirt, and trousers; the sleeves of his "greyback" were rolled up above his elbows; and he was armed with a roughly-made catapult, evidently intended for the destruction of some of the small, brightly-coloured birds that were flitting about among the branches of the palms. "Swabs," who answered at roll-call to the name of Smith H., in addition to holding the badge as best shot in the regiment, was a popular character in C Company.
"Shist!" he answered; "when there ain't nothink better to shoot at, I'm goin' to try me 'and on some of these dickies."
"Swabs" was evidently more skilful with the rifle than with his present weapon. He discharged his pebble, but with no result.
"Miss; high right," said Jack. "Where did you get your elastic from?"
"The tube of me filter. I'll take a finer sight next time," and "Swabs" went stalking off in search of further sport.
"It seems hard to imagine that we're on the real business at last," said Jack, clasping his hands behind his head and stretching out his legs. "After so many sham fights, it seems rum to think of one in real earnest. The strange thing to me," he continued, "is to think how often my cousin and I used to talk about war, and wonder what it was like; and we thought he was the one more likely to see it. I used to be always grumbling about his luck, and now I expect he'd envy me mine."
"I suppose he hasn't come out?"
"No, I don't think so. I forget just where he's stationed. Look at Tom Briggs over there, he using his towel to put a patch on the seat of his breeches. Hey, Tommy! how are you going to dry yourself when you wash?"
"Wash!" answered the man, looking up from his work with a grin, "you'll be glad enough afore long to lap up every spot of water you come across; there won't be much talk of washin' in this 'ere desert, I'm thinkin'."
The answer was lost on Jack; something else had suddenly attracted his attention. He sat up and made a movement as though he would rise to his feet. An officer had just strolled past, wearing a fatigue cap and the usual serge jumper. His face was tanned a deep brown, and showed up in strong contrast to his fair hair and small, light-coloured moustache. Our hero's first impulse was to run after and accost the stranger, but he checked himself, and sank back into his former position.
"I say, Briggs," he called, "what men were those who came up in the boats yesterday?"
"Some of the ——sex Regiment," answered the other, stooping forward to bite off his cotton with his teeth.
Jack's heart thumped heavily, and he caught his breath; his eyes had not deceived him, and the subaltern who had just walked by was Valentine.
He was roused from his reverie by the warning call to "stables," it being the time for feeding and grooming the camels. They were queer steeds, these "ships of the desert," and for those who had never ridden them before even mounting and dismounting was no easy task. In the case of the former, unless the animals' heads were brought round to their shoulders, and held there by means of the rope which served as a rein, they were apt to rise up suddenly before the rider had got properly into the saddle, a proceeding usually followed by disastrous results; while, on the other hand, the sudden plunge forward as they dropped on their knees, followed by the lurch in the opposite direction when their hind-quarters went down, made it an extremely easy matter to come a cropper in either direction. Their necks seemed to be made of indiarubber, and their hind legs, with which they could scratch the top of their heads, or, if so inclined, kick out behind, even when lying down, appeared to be furnished with double joints. Jack had christened his mount "Lamentations," from the continual complaints which it uttered; but in this the animal was no worse than the remainder of its fellows, who bellowed and roared whatever was happening, whether they were being unsaddled, groomed, mounted, or fed.
With thoughts centred on his recent discovery, our hero made his way to the spot where the camels of his detachment were picketed, and there went mechanically through the work of cleaning up the lines, and the still more unsavoury task of attending to "Lam's" toilet. Should he speak to Valentine, or not? That was the question which occupied his mind. Unless he did so, it was hardly likely that after seven years, and with a moustache and sprouting beard, his cousin would recognize him among the seventeen hundred men destined to form the expedition.
The men marched back to their lines, and were then dismissed for tea. Jack sat silently sipping at his pannikin and munching his allowance of biscuit.
Should he speak to Valentine, or not? The vague day-dream of their school-boy days was realized—they were soldiers together, and on active service; but everything was altered now. The great difference of rank was, of itself, sufficient to place an impassable barrier between them; and then the recollection of their last parting, his refusals to meet his cousins again at Brenlands, and the fact of his having left so many of his old chum's letters unanswered, all seemed to lead up to one conclusion. Valentine would long ago have come to regard it as a clear proof that the runaway had really stolen the watch, and not have been surprised to hear that he had gone to the dogs. Nor was he likely now to be very well pleased if the black sheep suddenly walked up and claimed relationship. No. Jack felt he had long ago severed all ties with what had once been dear to him; it was the better plan to let things remain as they were, and make no attempt to renew associations with a past which could not be recalled.
Sunset was rapidly followed by darkness. In honour of its being Christmas Day, an impromptu concert had been announced; and the men began to gather round a rough stage which had been erected under the trees, and which was lit up with lamps and the glare of two huge bonfires.
The programme was of the free-and-easy character: volunteers were called for, and responded with songs, step-dances, and the like; while the audience, lying and sitting round on the sand, greeted their efforts with hearty applause, and joined in every chorus with unwonted vigour.
Jack had always possessed a good voice, a fact which had long ago been discovered by his comrades, and now, for the honour of the Royal Blankshire, those standing near him insisted that he should sing. Before he knew it, he was pushed forward, and hoisted on to the platform. There was no chance of retreat. He glanced round the sea of faces glowing brightly in the firelight, and after a moment's thought as to what would be likely to go down best, he struck up his old song, "The Mermaid."
"Oh! 'twas in the broad Atlantic, 'mid the equinoctial gales,That a gay young tar fell overboard, among the sharks and whales."
The great crowd of listeners burst out into the "Rule, Britannia!" chorus with a mighty roar. But our hero heeded them not; his thoughts had suddenly gone back to the little parlour at the back of "Duster's" shop; his eyes wandered anxiously over the faces of the officers who were grouped together in front of the stage, but Valentine did not appear to be among them.
An uproarious repetition of the last "Rule, Britannia!" was still in progress as Jack rejoined the Blankshire contingent, and submitted his back to a number of congratulatory slaps.
These signs of approval were still being showered down upon him, when Sergeant Sparks touched his elbow.
"Here's an officer wants to speak to you, Fenleigh. There he is, standing over by that tree."
With his heart in his mouth, the singer stepped out of the crush, and approached the figure standing by itself under the heavy shadow of the palm.
"Jack!"
The private soldier made no reply, but raised his hand in the customary salute. The action was simple enough, and yet full of meaning, showing the altered relationship between the two old friends.
"Why, man, didn't you tell us where you were? and what had become of you?"
"There was no need; and, besides, I didn't wish you to know, sir?"
"Surely you are not still offended over what happened that summer at Brenlands? You must have known that we, none of us, suspected you for a moment of having stolen that watch. It was only a cad like Raymond Fosberton would ever have thought of suggesting such a thing."
"Appearances were very much against me, sir—and—well, it's all past and done with now."
Valentine was silent. That "sir," so familiar to his ear, and yet seemingly so incongruous in the present instance, baffled him completely. In the first moment of his discovery he had intended, figuratively speaking, to fall upon the prodigal's neck, and converse with him in the old, familiar style; but now, between Valentine Fenleigh, Esq., of the ——sex, and Private Fenleigh, of the Royal Blankshire, there was a great gulf fixed, and the latter, especially, seemed determined to recognize that the former conditions of their friendship could now no longer exist. After a moment's pause, Jack spoke.
"Could you tell me, sir, if they are all well?"
"Who? my people? They're all right, thanks. Helen's just gone and got married; and little Bar's just the same as ever, only a bit older. She was twenty-one last month."
Jack smiled. "And Aunt Mabel, have you seen her lately?"
"Oh, yes! she's very well, and doesn't seem to alter at all. She often talks of you, and is always sad because you never write. Why have you never been to see her?"
"I have seen her once. I passed her in the street in Melchester; but I was in uniform, and she didn't notice me."
"But why didn't you go over to Brenlands?"
"Oh, I couldn't do that! I struck out a path for myself. It may be a bit rough, like the way of transgressors always is; but it suits me well enough. I've been in it now for three years, and mean to stick to it; but it'll never bring me to Brenlands again."
"Oh, yes, it will," answered the other cheerily, "At the end of the long lane comes the turning."
There was another pause; the conversation had been running more freely, but now Jack fell back again into his former manner.
"I beg pardon, sir, but I should like to ask if you'll be good enough not to mention my name in any of your letters home."
"Why not?"
"I should be glad, sir, if you wouldn't. I've managed hitherto to keep my secret."
"Well, if it's your wish, for the present I won't," answered Valentine; "but if we both live through this business, then I shall have something to say to you on the subject."
"Good-night, sir."
"Good-night, old chap, and good luck to us both!"