Chapter Eleven.A Good Servant and Bad Master.It was a good thirty yards from where Richard Frayne dived in, and when a strange bewildering sense of suffocation was beginning to make itself his master. He had tried again and again to rise, but the water pressed him down and forced him to the bottom. At last, with one desperate kick, he drove himself upward and saw the daylight once again as he struck out vigorously, following the natural instinct to reach the bank.But as the water cleared from his eyes, his mental vision cleared as well, and, looking sharply over his shoulder, he caught sight of the white face once more, glistening on a level with the water not five yards away, and a hand rose above the surface and fell with a splash.Recollecting now why he had plunged in, Richard made a quick stroke or two, turned on his side, and swam with all his strength after the drowning boy, about whom the water was swirling round in giddy whirlpools, each of which seemed to be animated by the desire to drag him beneath.The mill was already far behind, and they were gliding rapidly downward and round one of the curves of the winding river, the stream bearing them so closely in towards the left that Richard had but to raise a hand to snatch at the boughs of a submerged tree and drag himself out to temporary safety; and as in a misty way he realised this, but made no effort to catch the bough, he saw the sheep whirled round and then shot off almost at right angles from the tree towards the opposite bank, while the boy’s face had disappeared.The next moment the fierce current caused by the flood striking upon the clump of trees firmly rooted in the bank caught Richard Frayne in turn, and he felt himself swept right off in the same direction, and so swiftly that it was as if in a few minutes he would be swept high and dry up among the bushes visible on the other side.Nerved by this, he swam on vigorously in pursuit of the carcase of the sheep, in the faint hope that the boy might be still retaining his hold; but though he kept himself in the right direction and was gliding rapidly on, he did not lessen the distance between him and the patch of wool in the slightest degree. Once he fancied that he saw the surface stir between them, as if a struggle was going on; but he could not be sure, and then the distance increased, but only for a few moments. Then, to his surprise, that distance was lessened; for the fierce stream swirled round again as if rebounding from the riverside, and the current set back to that from which he had come.Not four yards between them now; and, making a few frantic efforts, the lad forced himself through the water in his effort to lessen the distance and grasp the sheep, when suddenly the surface was parted; a bare arm and hand appeared clutching at the air, then another just level with the surface, and before he could avoid it, he was clutched in the death-grip of the drowning boy and borne under, the current seeming to roll them over, down into the darkness of the thick water which roared and thundered in his ears.Richard’s first impulse was to struggle free, his next to force himself to the surface; but both efforts were in vain. He was as firmly bound as if he had been chained, and a horrible feeling of despair attacked him as he felt that he was losing consciousness fast, that all was over, and the end at hand. Then, as his senses were leaving him, there was a gleam of daylight for an instant as he and his companion were rolled over by the current. The darkness deepened, and there was a violent shock, the tearing and rending of boughs, and light once more.For a few minutes Richard could do nothing but cling instinctively to the twiggy bough up which he had struggled till his face was a little above the surface, his hands a few inches higher still, and his body dragged out level with the water; while it seemed to him that the unfortunate boy he had tried to save was tugging violently at his waist to drag him from his hold, bending and shaking the bough till it swayed to and fro like a spring.For some little time his clinging was instinctive, every fibre in his body naturally resisting the savage jerks to tear him from his hold; but by degrees he recovered sufficiently to realise his position, and his heart gave a great leap as he found for certain that, though something which felt like a ragged garment was wound about his legs, he was once more free, and that his drowning companion’s grasp had been torn away when the furious current swept them into the tree.Of its force he kept on gaining fresh consciousness as the tugging continued and the tree yielded and sprung back, and with this consciousness something of the horror of his position passed away. It was the strong current he had to deal with alone.And now, as he drew his breath freely, but one thought filled him—the natural desire of self-preservation. What could he do? for it would be impossible to hang on long like that.He looked up stream, but he could see naught but water, and the flood was out widely on both sides. But the regular bank of the river must be beneath him, and the only chance seemed to be to climb up into the ragged top of the willow to whose pendent boughs he clung: a poor kind of refuge, but safety till the water sank.The bough was of no great size, but about a couple of yards away there was one far larger, and, waiting for a few minutes longer, till the heavy beating of his heart subsided and he could breathe more easily, he gradually lowered himself toward the greater bough by relinquishing his hold upon its fellow to which he clung.It was a horrible sensation, though, for it seemed to give the water greater power to drag and snatch at him, and for some little time he dared not quit his hold. But at last he ventured with one hand, got a firm grip of a moderate bough, and before he could loosen his grasp with the other he felt a violent shock: it was torn away, and he was swept over the submerged twigs, having hard work to get a fresh hold.Then the water passed over him, for quite a wave had descended the river at that moment, whose impetus, and the jerk given to the tree, was too much for its stability. Already undermined by the furious rush of the flood, that new leverage at the end of the longest bough was enough, and its top came slowly down overhead, while the bough to which the lad clung slowly sank.Once more the instinct of self-preservation helped, and, quitting his hold, he allowed himself to be carried downward by the current as the top boughs splashed up the water not a yard behind.How long his new struggle lasted he could not tell; all he knew was that he was being borne along the furious river at racing speed, having hard work to keep his head above water and avoid the various objects which cumbered the stream. But he swam bravely from time to time, gazing wildly at the trees he passed standing deeply in the tide as he was borne from side to side, till at last, with his senses beginning to fail, and the water rising higher and higher above his chin, a dim sensation of its being time to relax his efforts dawned upon him, in company with a strange drowsiness, just as he felt a heavy, sickening shock, which had the effect of making coruscations of light flash before his eyes; then he flung out his arms wildly, roused to renewed action for a few moments by the blow, and lastly all was blank.
It was a good thirty yards from where Richard Frayne dived in, and when a strange bewildering sense of suffocation was beginning to make itself his master. He had tried again and again to rise, but the water pressed him down and forced him to the bottom. At last, with one desperate kick, he drove himself upward and saw the daylight once again as he struck out vigorously, following the natural instinct to reach the bank.
But as the water cleared from his eyes, his mental vision cleared as well, and, looking sharply over his shoulder, he caught sight of the white face once more, glistening on a level with the water not five yards away, and a hand rose above the surface and fell with a splash.
Recollecting now why he had plunged in, Richard made a quick stroke or two, turned on his side, and swam with all his strength after the drowning boy, about whom the water was swirling round in giddy whirlpools, each of which seemed to be animated by the desire to drag him beneath.
The mill was already far behind, and they were gliding rapidly downward and round one of the curves of the winding river, the stream bearing them so closely in towards the left that Richard had but to raise a hand to snatch at the boughs of a submerged tree and drag himself out to temporary safety; and as in a misty way he realised this, but made no effort to catch the bough, he saw the sheep whirled round and then shot off almost at right angles from the tree towards the opposite bank, while the boy’s face had disappeared.
The next moment the fierce current caused by the flood striking upon the clump of trees firmly rooted in the bank caught Richard Frayne in turn, and he felt himself swept right off in the same direction, and so swiftly that it was as if in a few minutes he would be swept high and dry up among the bushes visible on the other side.
Nerved by this, he swam on vigorously in pursuit of the carcase of the sheep, in the faint hope that the boy might be still retaining his hold; but though he kept himself in the right direction and was gliding rapidly on, he did not lessen the distance between him and the patch of wool in the slightest degree. Once he fancied that he saw the surface stir between them, as if a struggle was going on; but he could not be sure, and then the distance increased, but only for a few moments. Then, to his surprise, that distance was lessened; for the fierce stream swirled round again as if rebounding from the riverside, and the current set back to that from which he had come.
Not four yards between them now; and, making a few frantic efforts, the lad forced himself through the water in his effort to lessen the distance and grasp the sheep, when suddenly the surface was parted; a bare arm and hand appeared clutching at the air, then another just level with the surface, and before he could avoid it, he was clutched in the death-grip of the drowning boy and borne under, the current seeming to roll them over, down into the darkness of the thick water which roared and thundered in his ears.
Richard’s first impulse was to struggle free, his next to force himself to the surface; but both efforts were in vain. He was as firmly bound as if he had been chained, and a horrible feeling of despair attacked him as he felt that he was losing consciousness fast, that all was over, and the end at hand. Then, as his senses were leaving him, there was a gleam of daylight for an instant as he and his companion were rolled over by the current. The darkness deepened, and there was a violent shock, the tearing and rending of boughs, and light once more.
For a few minutes Richard could do nothing but cling instinctively to the twiggy bough up which he had struggled till his face was a little above the surface, his hands a few inches higher still, and his body dragged out level with the water; while it seemed to him that the unfortunate boy he had tried to save was tugging violently at his waist to drag him from his hold, bending and shaking the bough till it swayed to and fro like a spring.
For some little time his clinging was instinctive, every fibre in his body naturally resisting the savage jerks to tear him from his hold; but by degrees he recovered sufficiently to realise his position, and his heart gave a great leap as he found for certain that, though something which felt like a ragged garment was wound about his legs, he was once more free, and that his drowning companion’s grasp had been torn away when the furious current swept them into the tree.
Of its force he kept on gaining fresh consciousness as the tugging continued and the tree yielded and sprung back, and with this consciousness something of the horror of his position passed away. It was the strong current he had to deal with alone.
And now, as he drew his breath freely, but one thought filled him—the natural desire of self-preservation. What could he do? for it would be impossible to hang on long like that.
He looked up stream, but he could see naught but water, and the flood was out widely on both sides. But the regular bank of the river must be beneath him, and the only chance seemed to be to climb up into the ragged top of the willow to whose pendent boughs he clung: a poor kind of refuge, but safety till the water sank.
The bough was of no great size, but about a couple of yards away there was one far larger, and, waiting for a few minutes longer, till the heavy beating of his heart subsided and he could breathe more easily, he gradually lowered himself toward the greater bough by relinquishing his hold upon its fellow to which he clung.
It was a horrible sensation, though, for it seemed to give the water greater power to drag and snatch at him, and for some little time he dared not quit his hold. But at last he ventured with one hand, got a firm grip of a moderate bough, and before he could loosen his grasp with the other he felt a violent shock: it was torn away, and he was swept over the submerged twigs, having hard work to get a fresh hold.
Then the water passed over him, for quite a wave had descended the river at that moment, whose impetus, and the jerk given to the tree, was too much for its stability. Already undermined by the furious rush of the flood, that new leverage at the end of the longest bough was enough, and its top came slowly down overhead, while the bough to which the lad clung slowly sank.
Once more the instinct of self-preservation helped, and, quitting his hold, he allowed himself to be carried downward by the current as the top boughs splashed up the water not a yard behind.
How long his new struggle lasted he could not tell; all he knew was that he was being borne along the furious river at racing speed, having hard work to keep his head above water and avoid the various objects which cumbered the stream. But he swam bravely from time to time, gazing wildly at the trees he passed standing deeply in the tide as he was borne from side to side, till at last, with his senses beginning to fail, and the water rising higher and higher above his chin, a dim sensation of its being time to relax his efforts dawned upon him, in company with a strange drowsiness, just as he felt a heavy, sickening shock, which had the effect of making coruscations of light flash before his eyes; then he flung out his arms wildly, roused to renewed action for a few moments by the blow, and lastly all was blank.
Chapter Twelve.A Hard Fight.Richard Frayne opened his eyes, to gaze about him dreamily for some little time before he could grasp what had happened and where he was. Then a throbbing in his head and a sensation of smarting assailed him, but he did not stir, for his legs were cramped; andwash, wash, wash, the waters were sweeping along nearly to his chest.At last, with a bound, full consciousness returned, and he realised that he was lying wedged in amongst a pile of broken woodwork, evidently a great shed or barn which had been swept down the river till its progress had been checked by a clump of elm-trees, and the force of the water had rent it up and piled the broken posts and rafters, driving them, and pressing them by its weight into a chaotic mass, over and through which the torrent rushed.The drowning lad had been driven heavily by the force of the stream right upon this wreck, head and shoulders above the surface, and, though the water had torn and dragged at him afterwards, it was only to wedge him in more firmly, so that it was some time before he could free his legs from where they were, fast between two beams, the heavy pressure of the water forcing them ever down toward where it rushed furiously through the timbers. But at last he managed to climb higher and rest, panting, upon the sloping mass of woodwork, with the water streaming from him and the hot sunshine beginning to send a glow into his benumbed limbs.He was so far down the river now that the country round beyond the flooded meadows looked strange; but he soon grasped the fact that he was on the far side of the river at the edge of a wood, among whose trees the stream was hissing as it ran, and that about a hundred yards away the land rose in a sunny coppice, edged by tall timber trees, whose continuity was suggestive of a road.It was pleasant and warm there, and he lay for some time without feeling the slightest disposition to stir, till a creaking and cracking sound startled him into action, suggestive as it was of the breaking up of the pile of timber. And now, in an agony of fear, Richard rose to his knees and looked wildly round for a way of escape.On three sides there was the rushing flood; on the fourth the water, broken into hundreds of little torrents, tearing among the trees.What should he do?His brain was active enough now, and, to a great extent, his strength had returned; but he hesitated to move, till another sharp crack told him that the wreck was really breaking up; and, with the wood quivering beneath his feet, he sprang from rafter to beam till he reached one of the trees which held the barn anchored, and was beginning to climb up, when the wood before him tempted him to try if he could not pass from tree to tree, clinging to them in turn till he could reach the slope, where he would be safe.The risk was terrible, for, as he held on to a tree-trunk and lowered himself down into the water, it bore him off his feet; and, had he not clung with all his might, he would have been whirled away and dashed against the one beyond.But, working himself round, he stood, with his breath catching, pressed hard against the tree, and tried to think of what to do next and whether he had not better climb back upon the pile of wood.That question was soon decided, for a loud crackling sound came from the place he had so lately left, and, to his horror, he saw the wreck crumble away and begin to sink steadily beneath the surface, long rafters raising their ends in the air and then diving down out of sight, while several shot by him, one of which he seized and held on to, in spite of the heavy drag of the water seeming to try and snatch it away.The brain acts rapidly sometimes in moments of emergency, and Richard Frayne had seen in that rafter which he seized the life-rail which would help him to safety; for to have attempted to wade from place to place he found would be madness, and his only chance would have been to let himself go with the current—driven from tree to tree—while he strove to move diagonally, getting farther towards dry land and safety at each attempt. But he had no faith in this; and, feeling that a third battle with the river must be fatal, he clung to the great rafter which was to be his narrow road to safety.He glanced once at the spot where the pile of wood had been, and shuddered; then, calling up all the energy which remained—feeling, as he did, that at any time the tree against which he was held might give way—he wound his legs round it, gripping hard, and tried to pass the rafter along till its end rested against the next stem, about nine feet away.But every time he tried the piece was dragged down by the rushing water foaming between the trunks, and twice over he nearly lost it, while once he was within an ace of going with it through the wood.He saved it, though, and held on, panting, beaten as he was by the enormous power of the water, which acted on the end as if it were the lever with which the poor puny human being was to be dislodged.For a few minutes he was in despair, for he felt that it was impossible to get the square piece of quartering resting from tree to tree, and that he might as well give it up and try to climb.Then the way to succeed came like a flash, and he wondered that he had not thought of it before. It was to hold the rafter as firmly as he could, and, instead of thrusting it sideways across the stream, to push it straight upwards, guiding it so that the water only pressed upon its end.This he tried, and passed it backwards—holding it tightly beneath his arm—farther and farther, till there was only another yard. Then, he felt the long end begin to move: the stream had caught it, and in a few seconds it was swept down, he forcing it outward the while and feeling it checked by the tree he wished to reach. Then there was a short struggle, and he had fixed his end between his chest and the tree to which his legs clung, and there was a rail for him to cling to as he tried to pass on.He did not pause now. The rafter was pressed tightly against the trees, but it looked terribly unsafe, bending ominously in the middle. But it seemed to be his only chance, and, seizing it firmly, he began to work himself along, his legs being swept away directly, and the force of the current so great that he could hardly stir.He succeeded, though, for the distance was short, and in a couple of minutes was pressed against the second tree, holding on again with his legs, and working the other end of the rafter free for it to be swept downward, and once more nearly snatched from his grasp.This time he managed better, working it under his left arm, end to the current, keeping it as straight as possible, and guiding it so that he had less difficulty when the point began to sway round and, in turn, was swept against the next tree, while he passed the near end over his head and dropped it between him and the trunk.The passing along it, too, he managed more easily, though he shuddered as he felt how it bent when he reached the middle, and hurried so as to get to the next tree to rest.The third stage was easier still, and he crept on in this way from tree to tree, six, eight, and ten feet at a time, till, to his great delight, he found the water waist instead of breast-high. Ten minutes later it was not more than half-way up this height, and in another five he left the rafter still pressed against two trunks, and waded through the rushing stream, holding on by bough after bough, till he stood triumphantly upon dry land. Then after walking a few yards to an open patch by a pit where the sun shone warmly, he dropped upon his knees in hot, loose, yellow sand, and crouched there till his breath came regularly and he could look more calmly round.The place was in the wood, shut in by a few trees and great patches of golden-blossomed furze. The sun came down warmly, birds twittered in the boughs, and a couple of rabbits showed their white cottony tails for a moment or two as they plunged down into their burrows, while above all, in a low, deep, roaring bass, there was the heavy thunder of the river as it swept sand, gravel, trees, and everything it could tear from its flooded banks, toward the sea.Richard Frayne felt that he must be miles away from Primchilsea, and that he was in as lonely a country place as he could have selected; and now for the first time the discomforts of his personal condition began to make themselves felt, as there was no more serious call upon his brain.His hat had gone when he first plunged into the river, but he did not seem to have lost anything else, for his jacket was buttoned tightly over the little case; but the hot sunshine now, paradoxical as it may sound, began to make him feel chilly—of course, from the great evaporation going on.Taking off his garments, then, one by one, he wrung and spread them on the hot sand, emptying his boots and serving them the same, when, after wringing out his socks and placing them to dry, a good idea occurred to him, and he filled his boots with the hottest, dryest sand he could find.His next course was to roll in the same, which felt grateful indeed to his benumbed and chilled limbs, the skin being blue with the cold; and the next minute he was lying down in a sunny hollow and dragging the sand over him till he was covered to the neck, a little loosening of the dry fluent stuff making it trickle down over his free arm. There he was, luxuriating in the sunny warmth, with a feeling of drowsiness gradually creeping over him, till all was blank once more, exhausted nature bearing him into a pleasant, restful oblivion, from which he did not awaken till all overhead was starlight. The consequence was that he dropped asleep again—a heavy, dreamless rest of so reposeful a nature that the troubles of the last forty-eight hours died away, and he did nothing but sleep—sleep on with all his might.
Richard Frayne opened his eyes, to gaze about him dreamily for some little time before he could grasp what had happened and where he was. Then a throbbing in his head and a sensation of smarting assailed him, but he did not stir, for his legs were cramped; andwash, wash, wash, the waters were sweeping along nearly to his chest.
At last, with a bound, full consciousness returned, and he realised that he was lying wedged in amongst a pile of broken woodwork, evidently a great shed or barn which had been swept down the river till its progress had been checked by a clump of elm-trees, and the force of the water had rent it up and piled the broken posts and rafters, driving them, and pressing them by its weight into a chaotic mass, over and through which the torrent rushed.
The drowning lad had been driven heavily by the force of the stream right upon this wreck, head and shoulders above the surface, and, though the water had torn and dragged at him afterwards, it was only to wedge him in more firmly, so that it was some time before he could free his legs from where they were, fast between two beams, the heavy pressure of the water forcing them ever down toward where it rushed furiously through the timbers. But at last he managed to climb higher and rest, panting, upon the sloping mass of woodwork, with the water streaming from him and the hot sunshine beginning to send a glow into his benumbed limbs.
He was so far down the river now that the country round beyond the flooded meadows looked strange; but he soon grasped the fact that he was on the far side of the river at the edge of a wood, among whose trees the stream was hissing as it ran, and that about a hundred yards away the land rose in a sunny coppice, edged by tall timber trees, whose continuity was suggestive of a road.
It was pleasant and warm there, and he lay for some time without feeling the slightest disposition to stir, till a creaking and cracking sound startled him into action, suggestive as it was of the breaking up of the pile of timber. And now, in an agony of fear, Richard rose to his knees and looked wildly round for a way of escape.
On three sides there was the rushing flood; on the fourth the water, broken into hundreds of little torrents, tearing among the trees.
What should he do?
His brain was active enough now, and, to a great extent, his strength had returned; but he hesitated to move, till another sharp crack told him that the wreck was really breaking up; and, with the wood quivering beneath his feet, he sprang from rafter to beam till he reached one of the trees which held the barn anchored, and was beginning to climb up, when the wood before him tempted him to try if he could not pass from tree to tree, clinging to them in turn till he could reach the slope, where he would be safe.
The risk was terrible, for, as he held on to a tree-trunk and lowered himself down into the water, it bore him off his feet; and, had he not clung with all his might, he would have been whirled away and dashed against the one beyond.
But, working himself round, he stood, with his breath catching, pressed hard against the tree, and tried to think of what to do next and whether he had not better climb back upon the pile of wood.
That question was soon decided, for a loud crackling sound came from the place he had so lately left, and, to his horror, he saw the wreck crumble away and begin to sink steadily beneath the surface, long rafters raising their ends in the air and then diving down out of sight, while several shot by him, one of which he seized and held on to, in spite of the heavy drag of the water seeming to try and snatch it away.
The brain acts rapidly sometimes in moments of emergency, and Richard Frayne had seen in that rafter which he seized the life-rail which would help him to safety; for to have attempted to wade from place to place he found would be madness, and his only chance would have been to let himself go with the current—driven from tree to tree—while he strove to move diagonally, getting farther towards dry land and safety at each attempt. But he had no faith in this; and, feeling that a third battle with the river must be fatal, he clung to the great rafter which was to be his narrow road to safety.
He glanced once at the spot where the pile of wood had been, and shuddered; then, calling up all the energy which remained—feeling, as he did, that at any time the tree against which he was held might give way—he wound his legs round it, gripping hard, and tried to pass the rafter along till its end rested against the next stem, about nine feet away.
But every time he tried the piece was dragged down by the rushing water foaming between the trunks, and twice over he nearly lost it, while once he was within an ace of going with it through the wood.
He saved it, though, and held on, panting, beaten as he was by the enormous power of the water, which acted on the end as if it were the lever with which the poor puny human being was to be dislodged.
For a few minutes he was in despair, for he felt that it was impossible to get the square piece of quartering resting from tree to tree, and that he might as well give it up and try to climb.
Then the way to succeed came like a flash, and he wondered that he had not thought of it before. It was to hold the rafter as firmly as he could, and, instead of thrusting it sideways across the stream, to push it straight upwards, guiding it so that the water only pressed upon its end.
This he tried, and passed it backwards—holding it tightly beneath his arm—farther and farther, till there was only another yard. Then, he felt the long end begin to move: the stream had caught it, and in a few seconds it was swept down, he forcing it outward the while and feeling it checked by the tree he wished to reach. Then there was a short struggle, and he had fixed his end between his chest and the tree to which his legs clung, and there was a rail for him to cling to as he tried to pass on.
He did not pause now. The rafter was pressed tightly against the trees, but it looked terribly unsafe, bending ominously in the middle. But it seemed to be his only chance, and, seizing it firmly, he began to work himself along, his legs being swept away directly, and the force of the current so great that he could hardly stir.
He succeeded, though, for the distance was short, and in a couple of minutes was pressed against the second tree, holding on again with his legs, and working the other end of the rafter free for it to be swept downward, and once more nearly snatched from his grasp.
This time he managed better, working it under his left arm, end to the current, keeping it as straight as possible, and guiding it so that he had less difficulty when the point began to sway round and, in turn, was swept against the next tree, while he passed the near end over his head and dropped it between him and the trunk.
The passing along it, too, he managed more easily, though he shuddered as he felt how it bent when he reached the middle, and hurried so as to get to the next tree to rest.
The third stage was easier still, and he crept on in this way from tree to tree, six, eight, and ten feet at a time, till, to his great delight, he found the water waist instead of breast-high. Ten minutes later it was not more than half-way up this height, and in another five he left the rafter still pressed against two trunks, and waded through the rushing stream, holding on by bough after bough, till he stood triumphantly upon dry land. Then after walking a few yards to an open patch by a pit where the sun shone warmly, he dropped upon his knees in hot, loose, yellow sand, and crouched there till his breath came regularly and he could look more calmly round.
The place was in the wood, shut in by a few trees and great patches of golden-blossomed furze. The sun came down warmly, birds twittered in the boughs, and a couple of rabbits showed their white cottony tails for a moment or two as they plunged down into their burrows, while above all, in a low, deep, roaring bass, there was the heavy thunder of the river as it swept sand, gravel, trees, and everything it could tear from its flooded banks, toward the sea.
Richard Frayne felt that he must be miles away from Primchilsea, and that he was in as lonely a country place as he could have selected; and now for the first time the discomforts of his personal condition began to make themselves felt, as there was no more serious call upon his brain.
His hat had gone when he first plunged into the river, but he did not seem to have lost anything else, for his jacket was buttoned tightly over the little case; but the hot sunshine now, paradoxical as it may sound, began to make him feel chilly—of course, from the great evaporation going on.
Taking off his garments, then, one by one, he wrung and spread them on the hot sand, emptying his boots and serving them the same, when, after wringing out his socks and placing them to dry, a good idea occurred to him, and he filled his boots with the hottest, dryest sand he could find.
His next course was to roll in the same, which felt grateful indeed to his benumbed and chilled limbs, the skin being blue with the cold; and the next minute he was lying down in a sunny hollow and dragging the sand over him till he was covered to the neck, a little loosening of the dry fluent stuff making it trickle down over his free arm. There he was, luxuriating in the sunny warmth, with a feeling of drowsiness gradually creeping over him, till all was blank once more, exhausted nature bearing him into a pleasant, restful oblivion, from which he did not awaken till all overhead was starlight. The consequence was that he dropped asleep again—a heavy, dreamless rest of so reposeful a nature that the troubles of the last forty-eight hours died away, and he did nothing but sleep—sleep on with all his might.
Chapter Thirteen.The Goal.“Chare! chare! chare!”A harsh, ear-piercing note, sounding as if a scythe-blade were being held against a rapidly-revolving grindstone, and then the sound died away.Then, again, from a distance, then from farther off, and once more from close at hand.The next minute there was a fluttering amongst the dense clumps of hazel, a glint of velvety black, and another of pure white, and directly after a goodsized bird hopped into sight, showing a big, closely-feathered warm grey, speckly head, a pair of keen, inquiring blue eyes, below which were two boldly-marked jetty moustaches.There was a repetition of the harsh cries, as if the bird-scout were shouting to companions what he had found. These cries were answered from different directions, and another bird flew out of the wood and clung to a stout, upright hazel: one leg full-stretch, the other doubled close, and the claws hidden in the warm grey fluffy breast feathers; and as it closed its pinions and hung peering about there, it revealed, in addition to its beautiful patches of white and black, the turquoise barred blue markings upon its wings.Then another came, and another; all noisy, and eager to investigate the novel phenomenon newly discovered by the sand-pit in the wood.The sun shone brightly upon millions of glittering gems, most of which adorned the leaves of the hazels, the ferns, and the spines and blossoms of the gold and tawny furze; but others had formed upon certain peculiar patches of cloth, a singularly-shaped piece of checked flannel, and a square of something white. But these passed as nothing to the lively party of jays, seeing that there were two wonderful objects standing alone, side by side, full of sand, while an oval whitish something lay half-buried close by.Then one of the jays uttered a shriek of terror, for the oval whitish something was suddenly lit up by the opening of a couple of lids which lay bare a pair of dazzled eyes, and these winked, and the lids quivered before they were closed again.“Chare! chare! chare!” in a wild chorus of scare dying rapidly away made Richard Frayne spring up, realise his position, and, after shaking off the sand, rapidly scramble on his things, which—save a little dewy moisture still left unimbibed by the sun—were dry and warm.As he dressed he felt his pockets, where everything was right, even to his pocket comb, and in a few minutes he was dressed all but his boots, which, after they had been emptied of the sand, were as dry as the rest; and there he stood, all but his hat, ready for a fresh start.Not quite; for he thought of the absent bath, and then shuddered and listened for the roar of the river, now softened down into a murmur.The idea of going to some muddy pool to wash was too repellent, and, making his way, rested and refreshed, out of the sand-pit, he stood thinking, not hesitating, for his mind had been made up before he left Mr Draycott’s.And as he stood there in the glorious morning sunshine, anyone who knew him would have noted that a change had come during these last days. His face looked old and thin, and there was an air of determination about his compressed lips which had not been there before.The next minute, after marking the direction of the sun, he was tramping through the wood in search of the first lane. This would, sooner or later, lead him into others, and they, perhaps, into the main road, the one which he could follow east to the goal he sought.How far he was from Primchilsea he could not tell, and he did not feel as if he wished to know. All that belonged to the past: his life now was in the future—a future which he meant to carve out for himself, forgetful of Burns’s aphorism about the best-laid plans of mice and men. He forced himself now, with more or less success, as he tramped on, to forget the past and think only of the present; but another shudder ran through him as there rose before him the face of the drowning lad, with its wild, appealing stare, and his brow wrinkled as he asked himself whether he had really done everything possible to save another’s life.There could be only one answer to this, and he walked on, feeling saddened, as he knew only too well that the poor fellow, in his helpless state, must have sunk to rise no more.Then, in spite of his efforts, the thoughts of the past would obtrude themselves—of his cousin, of the scene at Mr Draycott’s when it was found that he was missing. Lastly he thought of Jerry, and a faint, saddened kind of smile crossed his face as he knew how troubled the man would be; for he felt that Jerry liked him, and he was sad as he told himself that he would never see him more.By this time he had tramped a couple of miles, having reached a shady lane, and now a gleam of sunshine on ahead showed him that for which he was looking—a little stream.This crossed the road, but the water was muddy and foul, for it communicated with the river, and the flood had ascended it like a tide; but a quarter of a mile farther on he came across the stream again, trickling now among watercress by the side of the road, and here it was bright, pure, and sparkling, offering him, in one spot, a splendid basin in which to bathe face and hands, from which task he rose up refreshed, and trudged on, thinking of trying at the first village he reached for a hat or cap.An hour had passed before the opportunity offered, and then, next door to a little inn, he found a regular village shop, where pretty well everything could be purchased.A woman served him, and looked at him curiously; for it did not happen every morning for a good-looking, quiet youth in tweeds to enter, as soon as she was down, to buy himself a flannel cricketing cap, because he had lost his own, and then, upon paying for it and reaching the doorway, turn round and buy a small yesterday’s cottage loaf and a piece of cheese, which he tied up in his handkerchief, said “Good-morning,” and walked off, well watched by the inquisitive shopkeeper till he was out of sight.“Now I never made a bet in my life,” she said, as she turned away to prepare her breakfast, “and I don’t know how it’s done; but I’d lay a penny that that young man met robbers on the road who stole his hat, and that he is going to seek his fortune just as we read about in books.”She never knew how nearly she was right, and Richard did not give her a second thought as he walked steadily on till well out of sight of the village, when he began to relieve the painful gnawing sensation of hunger, from which he suffered, by breaking off pieces of his loaf.Then came a little bit of satisfaction; for, passing a farmhouse in a lonely spot, he saw a big heavy-looking woman carrying a couple of pails full of frothy new milk to the door, and, following her, he soon had his desire for a pint of the warm sweet fluid satisfied.Nerved now for his task, he started off afresh, walking vigorously and well, keeping as near as he could due east, and passing village after village, and then a town, and at last seating himself among the ferns upon a shady bank to dine on bread and cheese and a draught of water from a trickling spring.There was no pleasure in the eating; it was from stern necessity, and he ate with a determination to carry out the plan he had in view—to give himself support for the task which lay ahead and kept him with rugged brow, dreamy and thoughtful, as he tramped along till night, when he entered a large village, and, after a search, found a tiny inn, where he was accommodated with supper and a bed.The next day passed in much the same way, with the past seeming to belong to a far-off time, and the future looming up cold and cheerless, but more and more real as the hours went by. He had calculated that he would reach his destination that evening; but, journeying as he did, asking guidance of none, he missed his way, and walked back many miles along a lower lane which ran parallel to the one by which he had come. Consequently, he had to sleep another night upon the road.“It does not matter,” he said to himself in a stern, hopeless way; and, with the past farther back than ever, he started early the next morning, tramping through the chalky dust slowly now, for he did not want to get to his destination yet; and, as he walked, he noted the farms and cherry orchards he passed upon the road, but in a dull, uninterested manner, and, bending his head low, he tramped on again.The fear of being followed and taken back had quite gone. No one knew him, and his aspect was not one which would take the notice of the police whom he met from time to time.“They don’t know that I killed my cousin,” he said bitterly; but he pulled himself up short— That belonged to the past!It was early in the afternoon that he crossed the stone bridge and went steadily on through the streets of the dingy town, with signs here and there of the maritime character of the place, and others which interested him more, though in a saddened way. From time to time he caught sight of specks of the Queen’s scarlet, which resolved themselves into military jackets, cut across by pipe-clayed belts. Then there was the blue of an artilleryman, with its yellow braid; more scarlet, that of an engineer; and soon after the blackish-green of a rifleman.For Richard Frayne, son of a distinguished officer, was tramping through a garrison town towards the great dingy barracks, and his future was rapidly taking form and shape.
“Chare! chare! chare!”
A harsh, ear-piercing note, sounding as if a scythe-blade were being held against a rapidly-revolving grindstone, and then the sound died away.
Then, again, from a distance, then from farther off, and once more from close at hand.
The next minute there was a fluttering amongst the dense clumps of hazel, a glint of velvety black, and another of pure white, and directly after a goodsized bird hopped into sight, showing a big, closely-feathered warm grey, speckly head, a pair of keen, inquiring blue eyes, below which were two boldly-marked jetty moustaches.
There was a repetition of the harsh cries, as if the bird-scout were shouting to companions what he had found. These cries were answered from different directions, and another bird flew out of the wood and clung to a stout, upright hazel: one leg full-stretch, the other doubled close, and the claws hidden in the warm grey fluffy breast feathers; and as it closed its pinions and hung peering about there, it revealed, in addition to its beautiful patches of white and black, the turquoise barred blue markings upon its wings.
Then another came, and another; all noisy, and eager to investigate the novel phenomenon newly discovered by the sand-pit in the wood.
The sun shone brightly upon millions of glittering gems, most of which adorned the leaves of the hazels, the ferns, and the spines and blossoms of the gold and tawny furze; but others had formed upon certain peculiar patches of cloth, a singularly-shaped piece of checked flannel, and a square of something white. But these passed as nothing to the lively party of jays, seeing that there were two wonderful objects standing alone, side by side, full of sand, while an oval whitish something lay half-buried close by.
Then one of the jays uttered a shriek of terror, for the oval whitish something was suddenly lit up by the opening of a couple of lids which lay bare a pair of dazzled eyes, and these winked, and the lids quivered before they were closed again.
“Chare! chare! chare!” in a wild chorus of scare dying rapidly away made Richard Frayne spring up, realise his position, and, after shaking off the sand, rapidly scramble on his things, which—save a little dewy moisture still left unimbibed by the sun—were dry and warm.
As he dressed he felt his pockets, where everything was right, even to his pocket comb, and in a few minutes he was dressed all but his boots, which, after they had been emptied of the sand, were as dry as the rest; and there he stood, all but his hat, ready for a fresh start.
Not quite; for he thought of the absent bath, and then shuddered and listened for the roar of the river, now softened down into a murmur.
The idea of going to some muddy pool to wash was too repellent, and, making his way, rested and refreshed, out of the sand-pit, he stood thinking, not hesitating, for his mind had been made up before he left Mr Draycott’s.
And as he stood there in the glorious morning sunshine, anyone who knew him would have noted that a change had come during these last days. His face looked old and thin, and there was an air of determination about his compressed lips which had not been there before.
The next minute, after marking the direction of the sun, he was tramping through the wood in search of the first lane. This would, sooner or later, lead him into others, and they, perhaps, into the main road, the one which he could follow east to the goal he sought.
How far he was from Primchilsea he could not tell, and he did not feel as if he wished to know. All that belonged to the past: his life now was in the future—a future which he meant to carve out for himself, forgetful of Burns’s aphorism about the best-laid plans of mice and men. He forced himself now, with more or less success, as he tramped on, to forget the past and think only of the present; but another shudder ran through him as there rose before him the face of the drowning lad, with its wild, appealing stare, and his brow wrinkled as he asked himself whether he had really done everything possible to save another’s life.
There could be only one answer to this, and he walked on, feeling saddened, as he knew only too well that the poor fellow, in his helpless state, must have sunk to rise no more.
Then, in spite of his efforts, the thoughts of the past would obtrude themselves—of his cousin, of the scene at Mr Draycott’s when it was found that he was missing. Lastly he thought of Jerry, and a faint, saddened kind of smile crossed his face as he knew how troubled the man would be; for he felt that Jerry liked him, and he was sad as he told himself that he would never see him more.
By this time he had tramped a couple of miles, having reached a shady lane, and now a gleam of sunshine on ahead showed him that for which he was looking—a little stream.
This crossed the road, but the water was muddy and foul, for it communicated with the river, and the flood had ascended it like a tide; but a quarter of a mile farther on he came across the stream again, trickling now among watercress by the side of the road, and here it was bright, pure, and sparkling, offering him, in one spot, a splendid basin in which to bathe face and hands, from which task he rose up refreshed, and trudged on, thinking of trying at the first village he reached for a hat or cap.
An hour had passed before the opportunity offered, and then, next door to a little inn, he found a regular village shop, where pretty well everything could be purchased.
A woman served him, and looked at him curiously; for it did not happen every morning for a good-looking, quiet youth in tweeds to enter, as soon as she was down, to buy himself a flannel cricketing cap, because he had lost his own, and then, upon paying for it and reaching the doorway, turn round and buy a small yesterday’s cottage loaf and a piece of cheese, which he tied up in his handkerchief, said “Good-morning,” and walked off, well watched by the inquisitive shopkeeper till he was out of sight.
“Now I never made a bet in my life,” she said, as she turned away to prepare her breakfast, “and I don’t know how it’s done; but I’d lay a penny that that young man met robbers on the road who stole his hat, and that he is going to seek his fortune just as we read about in books.”
She never knew how nearly she was right, and Richard did not give her a second thought as he walked steadily on till well out of sight of the village, when he began to relieve the painful gnawing sensation of hunger, from which he suffered, by breaking off pieces of his loaf.
Then came a little bit of satisfaction; for, passing a farmhouse in a lonely spot, he saw a big heavy-looking woman carrying a couple of pails full of frothy new milk to the door, and, following her, he soon had his desire for a pint of the warm sweet fluid satisfied.
Nerved now for his task, he started off afresh, walking vigorously and well, keeping as near as he could due east, and passing village after village, and then a town, and at last seating himself among the ferns upon a shady bank to dine on bread and cheese and a draught of water from a trickling spring.
There was no pleasure in the eating; it was from stern necessity, and he ate with a determination to carry out the plan he had in view—to give himself support for the task which lay ahead and kept him with rugged brow, dreamy and thoughtful, as he tramped along till night, when he entered a large village, and, after a search, found a tiny inn, where he was accommodated with supper and a bed.
The next day passed in much the same way, with the past seeming to belong to a far-off time, and the future looming up cold and cheerless, but more and more real as the hours went by. He had calculated that he would reach his destination that evening; but, journeying as he did, asking guidance of none, he missed his way, and walked back many miles along a lower lane which ran parallel to the one by which he had come. Consequently, he had to sleep another night upon the road.
“It does not matter,” he said to himself in a stern, hopeless way; and, with the past farther back than ever, he started early the next morning, tramping through the chalky dust slowly now, for he did not want to get to his destination yet; and, as he walked, he noted the farms and cherry orchards he passed upon the road, but in a dull, uninterested manner, and, bending his head low, he tramped on again.
The fear of being followed and taken back had quite gone. No one knew him, and his aspect was not one which would take the notice of the police whom he met from time to time.
“They don’t know that I killed my cousin,” he said bitterly; but he pulled himself up short— That belonged to the past!
It was early in the afternoon that he crossed the stone bridge and went steadily on through the streets of the dingy town, with signs here and there of the maritime character of the place, and others which interested him more, though in a saddened way. From time to time he caught sight of specks of the Queen’s scarlet, which resolved themselves into military jackets, cut across by pipe-clayed belts. Then there was the blue of an artilleryman, with its yellow braid; more scarlet, that of an engineer; and soon after the blackish-green of a rifleman.
For Richard Frayne, son of a distinguished officer, was tramping through a garrison town towards the great dingy barracks, and his future was rapidly taking form and shape.
Chapter Fourteen.The Lads in Red.If Richard Frayne had stopped to look back, his career would have been very different; but he had fully and stubbornly made up his mind, and he looked forward as he walked on and on through the apparently endless streets of what he found to be a trio of towns; and as he approached the great barracks he was conscious of the shrieking of fifes and the roll of drums, which suddenly ceased as a crowd of rough-looking boys and people came along a side-lane, down which, and rapidly approaching, was the shining and glittering of a long line of bayonets, while in front came the gleam of brass instruments.As the head of the regiment marching into the town reached the main street,boom—boom—boom—came the heavy thunder of the big drum; and then, in full burst of the brass instruments, the first bars of the grand March fromTannhäuser, sending the first thrill of pleasure he had felt for days through Richard’s breast, as he naturally fell into step and marched along side by side with the men.But the thrill soon passed off, and as he tramped on he could not help thinking, in a low-spirited way, that the men looked dusty and fagged. The chalky white powder clung to their blue trousers and scarlet coatees; their shakoes, too, were whitened, and their hot faces were grimed and coated with perspiration and dust.In spite of the music, there was something wanting; and in a few minutes Richard Frayne slackened his pace, so that the regiment went on past him, and he followed more slowly, for there was nothing attractive about the men.But he had not come down there spurred on by any boyish admiration for the army. His was a set purpose, and, after letting the marching regiment disappear, with a peculiar sensation of sadness affecting him as he stole a glance—he could hardly bear to look—at the officers, he turned off along one of the side-streets and passed through the great gates of one of the barracks. Here he could see a round-faced, fat man, whose clothes looked ridiculously tight, hurrying to and fro before a double line of men in flannel jackets, and at whom he seemed to be barking loudly.He was a peculiar-looking man for a soldier, suggesting, as he did at a distance, an animated pincushion, one huge pin being apparently stuck right through his chest, though a second glance revealed the fact that it was only a cane with a gilt head passed, skewer fashion, in front of his elbows and behind his back.Then a few evolutions were gone through, and Richard Frayne thought the men looked a melancholy set of dummies, more like plasterers than soldiers, till at the loudly-shouted word “Dis—miss!” they trotted off readily enough.Just then a couple of sergeants marched a squad of twelve or fourteen shabby-looking young fellows into the barrack yard, the whole party wearing the ribbons of the recruit, and toward this group, as it they were an attraction, the fat drill-sergeant and some half-dozen more from different parts of the yard walked slowly up.Richard’s pulses beat fast as he stood looking on, conscious the while that a tall, keen-looking non-commissioned officer who passed him was watching him curiously.Then followed a little loud talking and laughing, and the party of recruits were marched across the yard and disappeared, leaving the group of sergeants chatting together, till one of them seemed to have said something to his companions, who, as if by one consent, turned to stare at Richard Frayne.“Now for it,” muttered the lad, and, drawing a deep breath, he pulled himself together, feeling as if he were going to execution, and walked straight toward them, feeling the blood come and go from his cheeks.The men stood fast, looking at him in a half-amused, good-tempered way, as if he was not the first by many a one who had approached them in that fashion, and the keen-faced man said in quick, decisive tones the words which ended one of the boy’s difficulties—“Well, my lad, want to ’list?”Only those few hours ago and people touched their hats to him and said, “Sir Richard;” now it was, “Well, my lad, want to ’list?” But he answered promptly—“Yes; I want to enlist.”“Hah!” ejaculated the sergeant, looking him over keenly, and grasping him by the arm as if he were a horse for sale. “How old are you?”“Turned seventeen.”“Hah! Yes,” said the sergeant, with a keen look; “old story, eh? Run away from home?”Richard’s face turned scarlet.“That’ll do, my lad; don’t tell any crackers about it. See these chaps just brought in?”“Yes.”“Well, there isn’t one who doesn’t stand two or three inches higher than you, and is as many more round the chest. Men are plentiful now of the right sort. Why, you’d look as thin as a rake in our clothes.”“But I’m young, and I shall grow,” said Richard, hurriedly.“Then go home and grow bigger and wiser, my lad; and if you still want to join the service, come and ask for me, Sergeant Price, 205th Fusiliers, and I’ll talk to you.”“Only he might be at the Cape,” said another of the sergeants, smiling.“Or in India,” said another; and there was a general laugh, which irritated the would-be recruit, and, feeling completely stunned by his reception, after taking it for granted that all he had to do was to hold out his hand when a shilling would be placed therein: after that he was a soldier.Giving a sharp, comprehensive glance round, he turned upon his heels and walked away towards the entrance, feeling ready to go back indignantly, for there was a roar of laughter apparently at his expense.“Am I such a contemptible-looking boy?” he thought; and then he felt better: for there was evidently someone following him, and the laughter was not at his expense, but at that of the man coming in his direction, for someone cried—“Wait a bit, Lambert!”“Yes; steady there, Dan’l!”“Hi! you sir, don’t you stand anything. He eats and drinks more than is good for him already.”“I say, Brummy, take him to the King’s Head, and we’ll join you.”“Dan’l and Lambert,” thought Richard. “Why, it’s the fat sergeant coming after me; they’re laughing at him!”But he did not turn his head to see, only went steadily on towards the gate, with his pulses beating rapidly once more, for the hope rose now that this man had repented and was, perhaps, going to enlist him, after all. Telling himself that it would be better to seem careless and independent, he kept on to the gate, passed out, and heard the steps still behind him, but so close now that he noticed a rather thick breathing. Then he started as if thrilled by an electric touch, for there came in sharp tones—“Hold hard, my lad!” and then, in military fashion, “Halt! Right about face!”Richard obeyed the order on the instant, and in such thorough soldierly style that the fat sergeant stared.“Humph! Volunteers!” he muttered: and then, coming close up, he looked pleasantly in the lad’s face, and clapped him on the shoulder. “So you wanted to ’list, did you?” he said.“Yes. Will you have me?”“No, my lad,” said the sergeant, smiling. “I only wanted a word with you before you go into the town. I don’t want to pump you. We can see plain enough. We often get young customers like you.”“I didn’t know I was too young,” said Richard, hoarsely.“Nobody said you were, my lad; but you’re not our sort. We want a rougher breed than you.”“Very well,” said Richard.“No, it isn’t, my lad. You take a bit of good advice: be off back home—sharp! Don’t stop in the town here, or you’ll get picked up. There’s a lot outside ready to be down upon you, and they’ll humbug and promise everything till they’ve sucked every shilling you’ve got out of you and made you sell your watch.”Richard’s hand went sharply to his chain, and the sergeant laughed.“I know what it is: bit of a row at home, and you’ve cut off to ’list; and, if you could have had your way, you’d have done what you’d have given anything to undo in a month.”There was something so frank and honest in the plump, good-humoured face before him that Richard’s hand went out directly.“Shake hands? Of course,” said the sergeant, grasping the lad’s. “White hand!—Ring on it!” he cried, laughing, “There! go back home.”Richard snatched his hand back, colouring deeply, like a girl.“Thank you!” he said. “You mean well, sergeant; but you don’t know all.”“And don’t want to. There, don’t stop in the town; get off at once.”“I’m going to have some dinner,” said Richard. “Come and have something with me.”“Had mine, my lad,” said the sergeant, laughing. “What’s the use of me giving you good advice if you don’t take it. There, good-bye, my lad. Banks was quite right.”He nodded, faced round, and marched away, leaving Richard Frayne gazing at the black future before him as he muttered—“Beaten! Why did I fight my way out of the flood?”His next thought made him shudder: for a river was below there in the town, and he had crossed a bridge, beneath which the deep water flowed fast to where there was oblivion and rest.He spoke mentally once more:“Why not?”As Richard Frayne gazed after the fat sergeant he failed to see the ridiculously fat back in the tight jacket for somehow he was looking inside at the man’s heart.“But he does not know—he does not know,” muttered the lad, as he turned now and walked back toward the town street, down which he hurried with the intention of finding a quiet place where he could have a meal, and turned at last into a coffee-house, where he ordered tea and bread-and-butter, drinking the former with avidity, for he was feverishly thirsty, but the first mouthful of food seemed as if it would choke him, and he took no more.Half an hour later he had another cup of tea, for his thirst seemed greater, and after that he went and wandered about the town, finding most rest in the shade of the great ruined Castle Keep, where the jackdaws sailed round, and cawed at him as if they were old friends from Primchilsea who recognised him and called out to their companions that he was below.“What should he do,” he thought; “what should he do?” For his plan had been completely checked, and in the most unexpected way.He was sick at heart and faint in body, but his spirit was not crushed. He had laid his hand to the plough, and if a hundred good-tempered well-meaning fat sergeants came or gave their advice he could not look back. No; he must sleep at Ratcham that night, and make for Quitnesbury in the morning. There was a cavalry depôt there; and if he failed again, he could go on to Ranstone.“There must be regiments where they would take me,” he muttered, as he walked back toward the town in the pleasant sunny evening; and, as if attracted by the place, he made his way again towards the barracks, thinking of the fat sergeant, and in his utter loneliness feeling a yearning to meet him again for a friendly chat, if it were possible.“What did they call him—Lambert?” thought Richard. “Absurd! That was only banter on the part of his companions. I wonder whether I shall ever see him again!”
If Richard Frayne had stopped to look back, his career would have been very different; but he had fully and stubbornly made up his mind, and he looked forward as he walked on and on through the apparently endless streets of what he found to be a trio of towns; and as he approached the great barracks he was conscious of the shrieking of fifes and the roll of drums, which suddenly ceased as a crowd of rough-looking boys and people came along a side-lane, down which, and rapidly approaching, was the shining and glittering of a long line of bayonets, while in front came the gleam of brass instruments.
As the head of the regiment marching into the town reached the main street,boom—boom—boom—came the heavy thunder of the big drum; and then, in full burst of the brass instruments, the first bars of the grand March fromTannhäuser, sending the first thrill of pleasure he had felt for days through Richard’s breast, as he naturally fell into step and marched along side by side with the men.
But the thrill soon passed off, and as he tramped on he could not help thinking, in a low-spirited way, that the men looked dusty and fagged. The chalky white powder clung to their blue trousers and scarlet coatees; their shakoes, too, were whitened, and their hot faces were grimed and coated with perspiration and dust.
In spite of the music, there was something wanting; and in a few minutes Richard Frayne slackened his pace, so that the regiment went on past him, and he followed more slowly, for there was nothing attractive about the men.
But he had not come down there spurred on by any boyish admiration for the army. His was a set purpose, and, after letting the marching regiment disappear, with a peculiar sensation of sadness affecting him as he stole a glance—he could hardly bear to look—at the officers, he turned off along one of the side-streets and passed through the great gates of one of the barracks. Here he could see a round-faced, fat man, whose clothes looked ridiculously tight, hurrying to and fro before a double line of men in flannel jackets, and at whom he seemed to be barking loudly.
He was a peculiar-looking man for a soldier, suggesting, as he did at a distance, an animated pincushion, one huge pin being apparently stuck right through his chest, though a second glance revealed the fact that it was only a cane with a gilt head passed, skewer fashion, in front of his elbows and behind his back.
Then a few evolutions were gone through, and Richard Frayne thought the men looked a melancholy set of dummies, more like plasterers than soldiers, till at the loudly-shouted word “Dis—miss!” they trotted off readily enough.
Just then a couple of sergeants marched a squad of twelve or fourteen shabby-looking young fellows into the barrack yard, the whole party wearing the ribbons of the recruit, and toward this group, as it they were an attraction, the fat drill-sergeant and some half-dozen more from different parts of the yard walked slowly up.
Richard’s pulses beat fast as he stood looking on, conscious the while that a tall, keen-looking non-commissioned officer who passed him was watching him curiously.
Then followed a little loud talking and laughing, and the party of recruits were marched across the yard and disappeared, leaving the group of sergeants chatting together, till one of them seemed to have said something to his companions, who, as if by one consent, turned to stare at Richard Frayne.
“Now for it,” muttered the lad, and, drawing a deep breath, he pulled himself together, feeling as if he were going to execution, and walked straight toward them, feeling the blood come and go from his cheeks.
The men stood fast, looking at him in a half-amused, good-tempered way, as if he was not the first by many a one who had approached them in that fashion, and the keen-faced man said in quick, decisive tones the words which ended one of the boy’s difficulties—
“Well, my lad, want to ’list?”
Only those few hours ago and people touched their hats to him and said, “Sir Richard;” now it was, “Well, my lad, want to ’list?” But he answered promptly—
“Yes; I want to enlist.”
“Hah!” ejaculated the sergeant, looking him over keenly, and grasping him by the arm as if he were a horse for sale. “How old are you?”
“Turned seventeen.”
“Hah! Yes,” said the sergeant, with a keen look; “old story, eh? Run away from home?”
Richard’s face turned scarlet.
“That’ll do, my lad; don’t tell any crackers about it. See these chaps just brought in?”
“Yes.”
“Well, there isn’t one who doesn’t stand two or three inches higher than you, and is as many more round the chest. Men are plentiful now of the right sort. Why, you’d look as thin as a rake in our clothes.”
“But I’m young, and I shall grow,” said Richard, hurriedly.
“Then go home and grow bigger and wiser, my lad; and if you still want to join the service, come and ask for me, Sergeant Price, 205th Fusiliers, and I’ll talk to you.”
“Only he might be at the Cape,” said another of the sergeants, smiling.
“Or in India,” said another; and there was a general laugh, which irritated the would-be recruit, and, feeling completely stunned by his reception, after taking it for granted that all he had to do was to hold out his hand when a shilling would be placed therein: after that he was a soldier.
Giving a sharp, comprehensive glance round, he turned upon his heels and walked away towards the entrance, feeling ready to go back indignantly, for there was a roar of laughter apparently at his expense.
“Am I such a contemptible-looking boy?” he thought; and then he felt better: for there was evidently someone following him, and the laughter was not at his expense, but at that of the man coming in his direction, for someone cried—
“Wait a bit, Lambert!”
“Yes; steady there, Dan’l!”
“Hi! you sir, don’t you stand anything. He eats and drinks more than is good for him already.”
“I say, Brummy, take him to the King’s Head, and we’ll join you.”
“Dan’l and Lambert,” thought Richard. “Why, it’s the fat sergeant coming after me; they’re laughing at him!”
But he did not turn his head to see, only went steadily on towards the gate, with his pulses beating rapidly once more, for the hope rose now that this man had repented and was, perhaps, going to enlist him, after all. Telling himself that it would be better to seem careless and independent, he kept on to the gate, passed out, and heard the steps still behind him, but so close now that he noticed a rather thick breathing. Then he started as if thrilled by an electric touch, for there came in sharp tones—
“Hold hard, my lad!” and then, in military fashion, “Halt! Right about face!”
Richard obeyed the order on the instant, and in such thorough soldierly style that the fat sergeant stared.
“Humph! Volunteers!” he muttered: and then, coming close up, he looked pleasantly in the lad’s face, and clapped him on the shoulder. “So you wanted to ’list, did you?” he said.
“Yes. Will you have me?”
“No, my lad,” said the sergeant, smiling. “I only wanted a word with you before you go into the town. I don’t want to pump you. We can see plain enough. We often get young customers like you.”
“I didn’t know I was too young,” said Richard, hoarsely.
“Nobody said you were, my lad; but you’re not our sort. We want a rougher breed than you.”
“Very well,” said Richard.
“No, it isn’t, my lad. You take a bit of good advice: be off back home—sharp! Don’t stop in the town here, or you’ll get picked up. There’s a lot outside ready to be down upon you, and they’ll humbug and promise everything till they’ve sucked every shilling you’ve got out of you and made you sell your watch.”
Richard’s hand went sharply to his chain, and the sergeant laughed.
“I know what it is: bit of a row at home, and you’ve cut off to ’list; and, if you could have had your way, you’d have done what you’d have given anything to undo in a month.”
There was something so frank and honest in the plump, good-humoured face before him that Richard’s hand went out directly.
“Shake hands? Of course,” said the sergeant, grasping the lad’s. “White hand!—Ring on it!” he cried, laughing, “There! go back home.”
Richard snatched his hand back, colouring deeply, like a girl.
“Thank you!” he said. “You mean well, sergeant; but you don’t know all.”
“And don’t want to. There, don’t stop in the town; get off at once.”
“I’m going to have some dinner,” said Richard. “Come and have something with me.”
“Had mine, my lad,” said the sergeant, laughing. “What’s the use of me giving you good advice if you don’t take it. There, good-bye, my lad. Banks was quite right.”
He nodded, faced round, and marched away, leaving Richard Frayne gazing at the black future before him as he muttered—
“Beaten! Why did I fight my way out of the flood?”
His next thought made him shudder: for a river was below there in the town, and he had crossed a bridge, beneath which the deep water flowed fast to where there was oblivion and rest.
He spoke mentally once more:
“Why not?”
As Richard Frayne gazed after the fat sergeant he failed to see the ridiculously fat back in the tight jacket for somehow he was looking inside at the man’s heart.
“But he does not know—he does not know,” muttered the lad, as he turned now and walked back toward the town street, down which he hurried with the intention of finding a quiet place where he could have a meal, and turned at last into a coffee-house, where he ordered tea and bread-and-butter, drinking the former with avidity, for he was feverishly thirsty, but the first mouthful of food seemed as if it would choke him, and he took no more.
Half an hour later he had another cup of tea, for his thirst seemed greater, and after that he went and wandered about the town, finding most rest in the shade of the great ruined Castle Keep, where the jackdaws sailed round, and cawed at him as if they were old friends from Primchilsea who recognised him and called out to their companions that he was below.
“What should he do,” he thought; “what should he do?” For his plan had been completely checked, and in the most unexpected way.
He was sick at heart and faint in body, but his spirit was not crushed. He had laid his hand to the plough, and if a hundred good-tempered well-meaning fat sergeants came or gave their advice he could not look back. No; he must sleep at Ratcham that night, and make for Quitnesbury in the morning. There was a cavalry depôt there; and if he failed again, he could go on to Ranstone.
“There must be regiments where they would take me,” he muttered, as he walked back toward the town in the pleasant sunny evening; and, as if attracted by the place, he made his way again towards the barracks, thinking of the fat sergeant, and in his utter loneliness feeling a yearning to meet him again for a friendly chat, if it were possible.
“What did they call him—Lambert?” thought Richard. “Absurd! That was only banter on the part of his companions. I wonder whether I shall ever see him again!”
Chapter Fifteen.In Pipe-Claydom.There was still none of the pageant and display of a military life visible to Richard as he re-entered the great gateway, before which a sentry in white flannel jacket and forage cap was marching to and fro with a bayonet in his hand, ready to give a glance at the lad and then turn upon his heels and march away.The lad walked forward as if he had business there, and went on, wondering what the stout sergeant’s name was, but not liking to stop and ask. Then on straight across the great dreary barrack yard, surrounded on all sides by bare-looking buildings, full of open windows, at one of which he saw a pair of folded arms and the top of a closely-cropped head, the owner thereof being evidently asleep. At another window there was a pair of boot-soles, and at another a man, in shirt and trousers, seated sidewise upon the sill, with his knees drawn up so as to form a reading-desk, upon which a paper was spread, which the man, with his hands behind his head, was perusing.A little farther on there was a cat asleep, and just above it a canary in a cage twittering away as if in friendly discourse with the animal below. But for the most part the windows of the great barracks were unoccupied, and the place looked deserted and desolate in the extreme.Richard walked on, thinking of what he was not long before, and of his present position through one turn of fortune’s wheel. What was to happen next, now that he had been disappointed and his project had come to naught?Right on before him there was another gateway, across which, in the soft summer evening light, a second sentry in white flannel jacket passed, with the light gleaming upon his triangular bayonet.One moment he thought of turning back; the next he had rejected this, and advanced. He had taken his course, and he must go on.The second sentry looked harder at him as he passed an open doorway from out of which came a puff of hot bad tobacco smoke; but the man seemed to pay no further heed as he went on and now found himself at what was evidently the front of the barracks, and directly afterward a burst of music fell upon his ears.It sounded very welcome, and, walking in the direction, he passed a couple of large open windows, from whence came the clatter of silver upon china and the buzz of voices accompanied by sundry odours of an agreeable nature, which reminded him of the fact that he had eaten nothing since his hurried breakfast.“The mess-room,” he said to himself.The officers were dining; and the band was playing selections during that function.Richard passed on, thinking, and with his spirits going down like the mercury in a weather-glass before a storm.In a short time he, in all probability, would have been an officer attached to some regiment, while now he was a fugitive and a vagabond on the face of the earth.“Not even fit to be a private,” he said to himself; and then, attracted by the music, he turned and walked back, to stop between the two windows, listening, and with the smell of the dinner making him forget his troubles in baser thoughts as his mouth began to water.Then the chink of glasses began to mingle with the buzz of voices.“Taking wine,” muttered the listener; and he wondered whether it was Hock.Pop!“Champagne or Moselle,” he muttered; and the report of a second cork taking flight from the bottle followed, and then a third, while the music went on.There was a row of iron railings in front of the windows, and Richard turned his back and rested it against them; for he was tired, and it was pleasant to listen to the music and feel himself close to a party of gentlemen just for a few minutes before he went back into the town to find out some place where he could get a meal and bed.All at once, after a loud passage, the band wound up with a series of chords, leaving the principal flute-player sustaining one long note and then dropping to the octave below, from which he started upon a series of runs, paused, and commenced a solo full of florid passages introductory to a delicious melody—one of those plaintive airs which, once heard, cling evermore to the memory.Dick was weary, faint, and in low spirits. The events of the past days seemed to fit themselves to the strain, till his brow wrinkled up, then grew full of knots, and he angrily muttered the word “Muff!” A few moments later he ejaculated “Duffer!” and then twisted himself suddenly round to look up at the open window from which, mingled with the loud conversation and rattle of plates, the music came.“Oh, it’s murder!” muttered the lad. “The fellow ought to be kicked!” and, as he listened, his hand went involuntarily into his breast-pocket, pressed the button in the side of the morocco flute-case, and extracted the little silver-keyed piccolo from where it reposed in purple velvet beside the two pieces of his flute.And all the while the solo was continued, the player slurring over passages, omitting a whole bar, and seeming to be increasing his pace so as to take the final roulades at a break-neck gallop, and get through, somehow, without further accident.But he did not; for, as he reached the beginning of a brilliant arpeggio, at the top of which there was a trill and a leap down of an octave and a half, the wind in the bellows of this human organ suddenly gave out, a few wildly chaotic notes elicited a roar of laughter from the table accompanied by derisive applause. This stopped as if by magic; for, suddenly, from out there by the railing, a few long thrilling shakes were heard, deliciously sweet and pure, followed by the arpeggio. The effect was as if liquid music was falling from the summer sky; and then the player ran back to the earlier part of the air, and, amidst perfect silence from within, on and on it ran, thrilling its hearers with appealing, impassioned tones, breathed by one who had forgotten where he was—everything but the fact that the glorious theme he loved had been cruelly murdered, and that he was bringing it back to life; for it was one of his favourite airs.In the utter silence a window was softly opened somewhere higher up, then another and another, towards which the liquid, bird-like notes rose in plaintive, long-drawn appeals, to come trickling down again in runs—rising, falling, rising, falling, with a purity and strength which seemed impossible as coming from that tiny instrument. Finally this softened, grew lower and lower, till the last notes regularly died away in the distance. And then, and then only, in the midst of a roar of applause, Dick stood, piccolo in hand, as if he had been just woke up from a musical dream by a flannel-jacketed private, bearing a drawn bayonet, who said, savagely—“Come out! You’ve no business here!”“No, no, sentry; leave him alone!” said a loud voice; and Richard looked up, to see that the windows were full of officers, whose scarlet mess-vests, with their rows of tiny buttons, shone in the evening light. Higher up there were ladies looking down; and then the musician glanced sharply round and began to thrust his piccolo back into his breast-pocket.“Hold hard, there!” cried the same voice, and Richard looked quickly up, to meet the dark eyes of a big, handsome, youngish man, who, napkin in hand, towered above the others, but turned sharply round, and Richard heard him say—“May we have him in, sir?”“Oh, yes!” came back in a quick, commanding voice, and the officer looked out again.“Here!” he cried, “we want you to come in and play.”“I—I beg your pardon—I—I—”Dick got no further, for an officer’s servant was at his elbow, looking at him rather superciliously as he said—“This way!”
There was still none of the pageant and display of a military life visible to Richard as he re-entered the great gateway, before which a sentry in white flannel jacket and forage cap was marching to and fro with a bayonet in his hand, ready to give a glance at the lad and then turn upon his heels and march away.
The lad walked forward as if he had business there, and went on, wondering what the stout sergeant’s name was, but not liking to stop and ask. Then on straight across the great dreary barrack yard, surrounded on all sides by bare-looking buildings, full of open windows, at one of which he saw a pair of folded arms and the top of a closely-cropped head, the owner thereof being evidently asleep. At another window there was a pair of boot-soles, and at another a man, in shirt and trousers, seated sidewise upon the sill, with his knees drawn up so as to form a reading-desk, upon which a paper was spread, which the man, with his hands behind his head, was perusing.
A little farther on there was a cat asleep, and just above it a canary in a cage twittering away as if in friendly discourse with the animal below. But for the most part the windows of the great barracks were unoccupied, and the place looked deserted and desolate in the extreme.
Richard walked on, thinking of what he was not long before, and of his present position through one turn of fortune’s wheel. What was to happen next, now that he had been disappointed and his project had come to naught?
Right on before him there was another gateway, across which, in the soft summer evening light, a second sentry in white flannel jacket passed, with the light gleaming upon his triangular bayonet.
One moment he thought of turning back; the next he had rejected this, and advanced. He had taken his course, and he must go on.
The second sentry looked harder at him as he passed an open doorway from out of which came a puff of hot bad tobacco smoke; but the man seemed to pay no further heed as he went on and now found himself at what was evidently the front of the barracks, and directly afterward a burst of music fell upon his ears.
It sounded very welcome, and, walking in the direction, he passed a couple of large open windows, from whence came the clatter of silver upon china and the buzz of voices accompanied by sundry odours of an agreeable nature, which reminded him of the fact that he had eaten nothing since his hurried breakfast.
“The mess-room,” he said to himself.
The officers were dining; and the band was playing selections during that function.
Richard passed on, thinking, and with his spirits going down like the mercury in a weather-glass before a storm.
In a short time he, in all probability, would have been an officer attached to some regiment, while now he was a fugitive and a vagabond on the face of the earth.
“Not even fit to be a private,” he said to himself; and then, attracted by the music, he turned and walked back, to stop between the two windows, listening, and with the smell of the dinner making him forget his troubles in baser thoughts as his mouth began to water.
Then the chink of glasses began to mingle with the buzz of voices.
“Taking wine,” muttered the listener; and he wondered whether it was Hock.
Pop!
“Champagne or Moselle,” he muttered; and the report of a second cork taking flight from the bottle followed, and then a third, while the music went on.
There was a row of iron railings in front of the windows, and Richard turned his back and rested it against them; for he was tired, and it was pleasant to listen to the music and feel himself close to a party of gentlemen just for a few minutes before he went back into the town to find out some place where he could get a meal and bed.
All at once, after a loud passage, the band wound up with a series of chords, leaving the principal flute-player sustaining one long note and then dropping to the octave below, from which he started upon a series of runs, paused, and commenced a solo full of florid passages introductory to a delicious melody—one of those plaintive airs which, once heard, cling evermore to the memory.
Dick was weary, faint, and in low spirits. The events of the past days seemed to fit themselves to the strain, till his brow wrinkled up, then grew full of knots, and he angrily muttered the word “Muff!” A few moments later he ejaculated “Duffer!” and then twisted himself suddenly round to look up at the open window from which, mingled with the loud conversation and rattle of plates, the music came.
“Oh, it’s murder!” muttered the lad. “The fellow ought to be kicked!” and, as he listened, his hand went involuntarily into his breast-pocket, pressed the button in the side of the morocco flute-case, and extracted the little silver-keyed piccolo from where it reposed in purple velvet beside the two pieces of his flute.
And all the while the solo was continued, the player slurring over passages, omitting a whole bar, and seeming to be increasing his pace so as to take the final roulades at a break-neck gallop, and get through, somehow, without further accident.
But he did not; for, as he reached the beginning of a brilliant arpeggio, at the top of which there was a trill and a leap down of an octave and a half, the wind in the bellows of this human organ suddenly gave out, a few wildly chaotic notes elicited a roar of laughter from the table accompanied by derisive applause. This stopped as if by magic; for, suddenly, from out there by the railing, a few long thrilling shakes were heard, deliciously sweet and pure, followed by the arpeggio. The effect was as if liquid music was falling from the summer sky; and then the player ran back to the earlier part of the air, and, amidst perfect silence from within, on and on it ran, thrilling its hearers with appealing, impassioned tones, breathed by one who had forgotten where he was—everything but the fact that the glorious theme he loved had been cruelly murdered, and that he was bringing it back to life; for it was one of his favourite airs.
In the utter silence a window was softly opened somewhere higher up, then another and another, towards which the liquid, bird-like notes rose in plaintive, long-drawn appeals, to come trickling down again in runs—rising, falling, rising, falling, with a purity and strength which seemed impossible as coming from that tiny instrument. Finally this softened, grew lower and lower, till the last notes regularly died away in the distance. And then, and then only, in the midst of a roar of applause, Dick stood, piccolo in hand, as if he had been just woke up from a musical dream by a flannel-jacketed private, bearing a drawn bayonet, who said, savagely—
“Come out! You’ve no business here!”
“No, no, sentry; leave him alone!” said a loud voice; and Richard looked up, to see that the windows were full of officers, whose scarlet mess-vests, with their rows of tiny buttons, shone in the evening light. Higher up there were ladies looking down; and then the musician glanced sharply round and began to thrust his piccolo back into his breast-pocket.
“Hold hard, there!” cried the same voice, and Richard looked quickly up, to meet the dark eyes of a big, handsome, youngish man, who, napkin in hand, towered above the others, but turned sharply round, and Richard heard him say—
“May we have him in, sir?”
“Oh, yes!” came back in a quick, commanding voice, and the officer looked out again.
“Here!” he cried, “we want you to come in and play.”
“I—I beg your pardon—I—I—”
Dick got no further, for an officer’s servant was at his elbow, looking at him rather superciliously as he said—
“This way!”
Chapter Sixteen.“You meant it, then?”For one moment Richard flinched, and thought of making a run for it; the next he was following the man.“Why not?” he muttered. “I may as well, if they want me to. Why not play for my living now?”The next minute, with the feeling of shrinking gone, he was standing in the mess-room, in one corner of which, partially hidden by a screen and some palms, was the band, while close to him, leaning back in his chair, was a fine, florid-looking, grey officer, evidently the colonel or major of the regiment, while the rest of the officers had resumed their places, and the dinner was going on.“Well, sir,” said the elderly, florid officer, with assumed sternness, as he fixed the lad with his keen grey eyes, “what have you to say for yourself? How are you come here and interrupt the most brilliant player in my band?”There was a roar of laughter from all present, and Richard was conscious of a sharp face belonging to a bandsman peering between the palm-leaves.“I beg your pardon, sir,” said the lad, frankly, “but I stopped to hear the music; the air was very familiar, and I had my instrument in my pocket, and—well, sir, that’s all.”“Oh!” said the old officer, scanning him sharply; “then you are not a street musician?”“I, sir? Oh, no,” cried Richard—“that is, I don’t know; I suppose I shall be.”“Humph! Well, you played that piece from theTrovatorecapitally. The gentlemen here would like to hear something else—er—I should, too. Know any other airs?”“A few, sir.”“Mind playing?”“Not to so appreciative an audience,” came to the lad’s lips; but he only said, “Oh, no, sir.”“Go on, then. Here, Johnson, give the musician a glass of wine. By the way, Lacey, you were going to tell us a story about something.”The big, good-looking officer smiled, shook his head, and wrinkled up his forehead in a perplexed way as he looked up at the ceiling.“The flute-player blew it all out of his head, sir,” said a rather fierce-looking man who took the foot of the table, and there was another laugh.At that moment the band at the end of the great mess-room recommenced playing, but there were cries of “No! no!” headed by the officer at the head.But the band heard nothing but their own instruments, and Richard stood looking on, feeling faint and more weary than ever, and paying no heed to the glass of champagne the servant had placed upon a side-table near him, for he had been busy fitting together his flute.“Go and tell them to leave off,” said the old officer, and one of the servants hurried to the corner and checked the players, who could now be seen whispering together.“Now, Mr Wandering Minstrel,” said the officer at the foot, “we are all attention.”Dick’s brow knit a little. “Mr Wandering Minstrel,” in such a tone, jarred upon him, and a peculiar trembling came over him as he felt that he had forgotten everything. The table, with its plate and glass, looked misty, too, and there was a singing in his ears as his fingers played nervously with the keys of the instrument.“Now, sir, if you please,” said the old officer, and Richard gave a start, raised the flute to his lips, and blew a few feeble notes as he vainly tried to collect himself—conscious, too, now that the bandsmen were craning forward to listen.Then he dimly saw that bent heads were being turned at the table, and that he was being eyed curiously, till, in a fit of desperation, he pressed the flute to his lips and blew again, if anything, more feebly; but the sound of the notes seemed to send a thrill through his nerves, and the next came deep, rich-toned, and pure, as he ran through a prelude, from which he imperceptibly glided into a sweet old Irish melody. He played it with such earnestness and feeling that his hearers were electrified, and the applause came again loudly, amidst which he dashed off into a series of variations, bright, sad, martial, and wailing, till, as he played, the room swam round him, the terrible scene in the river rose, followed by that with his cousin, and then he seemed to be hearing the thundering of the water once more in his ears—He was on the floor, gazing up in the face of a stranger, who was upon his knee, while other faces kept on appearing, as it were, out of a mist.“Faintness, I should say,” said the officer who knelt by him. “Give me that glass of wine. Here, my lad, try and drink some of this.”As if in a dream, the lad involuntarily swallowed the wine, and then, in a sharp, snatchy way, cried—“What is it? What is the matter? What are you doing?”“Have you been ill?” said the gentleman by him.“Ill? No!” said Richard, huskily. “I don’t understand.”“What have you eaten to-day?”“Nothing—yes: a bit of bread.”“And yesterday?”Richard was silent for a few moments, trying to collect himself. Then he recalled the past. “I don’t know,” he said.“Well, Doctor?”“Faint from excitement and want of food, sir,” said the doctor. “Shall I prescribe here?”“Do I ever fight against your wishes?” said the old officer.“Then come and sit down over here, my lad,” said the doctor, quietly; and he helped his wondering patient to a table close to where the bandsmen were seated.“Here, one of you,” he said, sharply, “fetch a plate of that soup, and some bread;” and, as the dinner went on, the doctor stayed and saw that the patient took the medicine, which he followed with half a glass more wine.“You will not feel it now,” he said, kindly. “Here, Wilkins, keep an eye upon him, will you, while I go back to the table? He is not to leave until I have seen him again.”“Very good, sir,” said a pale little man in spectacles, who was evidently the leader of the band; and when the doctor went to his place, leaving his patient seated at the side-table, feeling as if he were in a dream, Wilkins carried out his orders with military precision; for, every time a piece was played, he conducted in regular musical fashion, flourishing a little ebony baton, and turning over the leaves of the book before him on the stand, but never once glancing at the notes, his eyes, glimmering through his glasses, being fixed upon the lad, to whom the scene appeared more dreamlike than ever, and his head grew confused, with familiar airs buzzing in one ear and the loud conversation in the other.And this went on till the last piece upon the band programme of the evening had been finished amid thin clouds of smoke. Then the men began to place their instruments in their cases and green baize bags, after the different brass crooks had been drained and blown through, while a boy gathered together the music; and Richard started out of his dream, feeling better, and knowing that he must go.At that moment he became conscious that the bandmaster was standing stiffly close by, still keeping an eye upon him, and removing his military cap, revealing a shiny billiard-ball-like head, which he began to polish softly with a silk handkerchief.Richard, in his nervous state, felt worried and annoyed by this persistent gaze; but he bore it till he could bear it no longer, for the man stared as if he were some street beggar he had to watch for fear of his meddling with the plate.“I beg your pardon—” began the lad; but he was interrupted by steps behind him, and the doctor cried—“Well, sir—better?”Richard started up and faced round, to find that the keen eyes of the colonel were also fixed upon him, looking as if their owner was waiting to hear what he said.“Yes, sir; I’m better now,” said the lad, hurriedly. “I am sorry to have been so much trouble.”“Who are you?—what’s your name?” said the colonel, sharply.“Smithson—Dick Smithson, sir,” said the lad, feeling the blood come hotly into his cheeks as he spoke; and his face grew hotter, for he could see at a glance that he was not believed.“What brought you here?” continued the colonel.“I came to enlist, sir,” said Dick, quickly.“And the sergeant would not have you because you were too boyish, eh?”“Yes, sir.”“Quite right, too! Where do you come from?”There was no reply, and the colonel frowned.“Where are you going to-night?”Dick shook his head, and the colonel frowned again.“Well, I have no right to inquire, I suppose, but you are not fit to go on tramp again to-night, my lad,” continued the colonel, kindly; “and you had better mind where you go to sleep. Those instruments of yours are good, are they not?”“Oh, yes,” said Dick, eagerly; “they are both of the best make.”“And you have practised a great deal?”“Oh, yes, sir—a great deal.”“Doesn’t it seem strange to you, then, that a decentish-looking young fellow, who can play well, should be regularly on tramp and coming to enlist?”“Yes, sir, very.”“Well, he had better stay here to-night—eh, Doctor?”“Most advisable,” said the keen-looking surgeon.“Wilkins, you had better take charge of your fellow-musician,” said the colonel.“Yes, sir,” came in rather an offended tone, which the colonel noticed.“He had better go with the bandsmen, perhaps; he would be more comfortable.—Look here, sir, I shall make inquiries about you. Come to enlist, eh? Wouldn’t care to join our band, I suppose?”“Yes, sir!” cried Dick, eagerly.“Beg pardon, sir, we are quite full,” said the bandmaster, importantly.“Of what, Mr Wilkins?” said the colonel, sternly. “Incompetents? I am not much of a judge, sir, but I know enough music to be able to say that ours is one of the worst bands in the army. I shall have inquiries made about this Richard or Dick Smithson, and, if the results are favourable, he had better stay. See that he is looked after for the night!”The colonel sauntered off; followed by the doctor, and Dick stood gazing after him, wondering whether they would find out who he was and whence he came, when the bandmaster said in an ill-used tone of voice—“Here, you had better come with me!” and he led the way to the portion of the barracks which formed the bandsmen’s quarters, where Dick passed the night.“Eh? No! Why, it is! Well, I’m blessed!”The fat sergeant’s ejaculations when, one morning, Dick Smithson, the new recruit to the band, hurried up to take his place with the awkward squad and learn a sufficiency of the drill to carry himself correctly and march with the men.“How in the world did you manage it, my lad? Here, I know: you were the chap who played in the mess. Well, how are you? There, fall in!” cried the sergeant, suddenly altering his tone and manner. “We’ll have a talk by-and-by.”For the next hour or two Dick was going through the customary instruction, and being barked at with the rest, ordered here and there, made to perform the balance-step, and put through his facings generally. The sergeant bullied him in the time-worn style, and stared at him as if he had never seen him before, till the recruits were drawn up in line, hot, weary and worried; for, though the stout sergeant was not very active, he did not spare himself, much less the fresh, raw lads he was drilling into shape.Then, after some exceedingly severe strictures, he turned suddenly to Dick.“Here you, Number Fourteen; you’ve been through all this?”“Yes, sir.”“Hah! Taught by some clumsy worn-out duffer who belonged to the old school! You’ve a lot to learn, my lad, but you needn’t stop with this rough lot; you can drill with one of the regular squads.”Some of the men turned to look sourly at the new recruit, and were yelled at by the sergeant.“Eyes front!” he roared. “Keep your heads up there! I’m speaking to Number Four from the left, not to you! Steady there! Right face! Dis—miss!”The rank was broken, and, as the tired squad hurried off to the barrack-room, the sergeant drew his cane from under his arm, and called to Dick, the stern, rigid look giving place to a pleasant, cheery smile as he shook hands.“You meant it, then?” he said.“Yes, I meant it,” replied Dick, smiling back.“Well, I’m glad to see you, my lad. Don’t you take no notice of what I said before those louts. You’re all right; you’ll have to go through the course, but I can soon report you as being pretty perfect. You could hold your own now with most of the fellows in the band.”“I think I can soon get on,” said Dick, who felt glad of a friendly word.“Of course you can. You well-educated chaps know your right leg from your left; lots of these fellows never seem to. You’ll be all right there in the band.”He nodded and walked away, while Dick was soon after obeying the dinner call, and forcing himself to bear his grievance, as he sat down to partake of the roughly-cooked coarse beef and potatoes which formed the day’s rations, and wondered how long it would be before he grew hardened to his new life and able to forget the many little refinements and luxuries to which he had been accustomed.
For one moment Richard flinched, and thought of making a run for it; the next he was following the man.
“Why not?” he muttered. “I may as well, if they want me to. Why not play for my living now?”
The next minute, with the feeling of shrinking gone, he was standing in the mess-room, in one corner of which, partially hidden by a screen and some palms, was the band, while close to him, leaning back in his chair, was a fine, florid-looking, grey officer, evidently the colonel or major of the regiment, while the rest of the officers had resumed their places, and the dinner was going on.
“Well, sir,” said the elderly, florid officer, with assumed sternness, as he fixed the lad with his keen grey eyes, “what have you to say for yourself? How are you come here and interrupt the most brilliant player in my band?”
There was a roar of laughter from all present, and Richard was conscious of a sharp face belonging to a bandsman peering between the palm-leaves.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” said the lad, frankly, “but I stopped to hear the music; the air was very familiar, and I had my instrument in my pocket, and—well, sir, that’s all.”
“Oh!” said the old officer, scanning him sharply; “then you are not a street musician?”
“I, sir? Oh, no,” cried Richard—“that is, I don’t know; I suppose I shall be.”
“Humph! Well, you played that piece from theTrovatorecapitally. The gentlemen here would like to hear something else—er—I should, too. Know any other airs?”
“A few, sir.”
“Mind playing?”
“Not to so appreciative an audience,” came to the lad’s lips; but he only said, “Oh, no, sir.”
“Go on, then. Here, Johnson, give the musician a glass of wine. By the way, Lacey, you were going to tell us a story about something.”
The big, good-looking officer smiled, shook his head, and wrinkled up his forehead in a perplexed way as he looked up at the ceiling.
“The flute-player blew it all out of his head, sir,” said a rather fierce-looking man who took the foot of the table, and there was another laugh.
At that moment the band at the end of the great mess-room recommenced playing, but there were cries of “No! no!” headed by the officer at the head.
But the band heard nothing but their own instruments, and Richard stood looking on, feeling faint and more weary than ever, and paying no heed to the glass of champagne the servant had placed upon a side-table near him, for he had been busy fitting together his flute.
“Go and tell them to leave off,” said the old officer, and one of the servants hurried to the corner and checked the players, who could now be seen whispering together.
“Now, Mr Wandering Minstrel,” said the officer at the foot, “we are all attention.”
Dick’s brow knit a little. “Mr Wandering Minstrel,” in such a tone, jarred upon him, and a peculiar trembling came over him as he felt that he had forgotten everything. The table, with its plate and glass, looked misty, too, and there was a singing in his ears as his fingers played nervously with the keys of the instrument.
“Now, sir, if you please,” said the old officer, and Richard gave a start, raised the flute to his lips, and blew a few feeble notes as he vainly tried to collect himself—conscious, too, now that the bandsmen were craning forward to listen.
Then he dimly saw that bent heads were being turned at the table, and that he was being eyed curiously, till, in a fit of desperation, he pressed the flute to his lips and blew again, if anything, more feebly; but the sound of the notes seemed to send a thrill through his nerves, and the next came deep, rich-toned, and pure, as he ran through a prelude, from which he imperceptibly glided into a sweet old Irish melody. He played it with such earnestness and feeling that his hearers were electrified, and the applause came again loudly, amidst which he dashed off into a series of variations, bright, sad, martial, and wailing, till, as he played, the room swam round him, the terrible scene in the river rose, followed by that with his cousin, and then he seemed to be hearing the thundering of the water once more in his ears—
He was on the floor, gazing up in the face of a stranger, who was upon his knee, while other faces kept on appearing, as it were, out of a mist.
“Faintness, I should say,” said the officer who knelt by him. “Give me that glass of wine. Here, my lad, try and drink some of this.”
As if in a dream, the lad involuntarily swallowed the wine, and then, in a sharp, snatchy way, cried—
“What is it? What is the matter? What are you doing?”
“Have you been ill?” said the gentleman by him.
“Ill? No!” said Richard, huskily. “I don’t understand.”
“What have you eaten to-day?”
“Nothing—yes: a bit of bread.”
“And yesterday?”
Richard was silent for a few moments, trying to collect himself. Then he recalled the past. “I don’t know,” he said.
“Well, Doctor?”
“Faint from excitement and want of food, sir,” said the doctor. “Shall I prescribe here?”
“Do I ever fight against your wishes?” said the old officer.
“Then come and sit down over here, my lad,” said the doctor, quietly; and he helped his wondering patient to a table close to where the bandsmen were seated.
“Here, one of you,” he said, sharply, “fetch a plate of that soup, and some bread;” and, as the dinner went on, the doctor stayed and saw that the patient took the medicine, which he followed with half a glass more wine.
“You will not feel it now,” he said, kindly. “Here, Wilkins, keep an eye upon him, will you, while I go back to the table? He is not to leave until I have seen him again.”
“Very good, sir,” said a pale little man in spectacles, who was evidently the leader of the band; and when the doctor went to his place, leaving his patient seated at the side-table, feeling as if he were in a dream, Wilkins carried out his orders with military precision; for, every time a piece was played, he conducted in regular musical fashion, flourishing a little ebony baton, and turning over the leaves of the book before him on the stand, but never once glancing at the notes, his eyes, glimmering through his glasses, being fixed upon the lad, to whom the scene appeared more dreamlike than ever, and his head grew confused, with familiar airs buzzing in one ear and the loud conversation in the other.
And this went on till the last piece upon the band programme of the evening had been finished amid thin clouds of smoke. Then the men began to place their instruments in their cases and green baize bags, after the different brass crooks had been drained and blown through, while a boy gathered together the music; and Richard started out of his dream, feeling better, and knowing that he must go.
At that moment he became conscious that the bandmaster was standing stiffly close by, still keeping an eye upon him, and removing his military cap, revealing a shiny billiard-ball-like head, which he began to polish softly with a silk handkerchief.
Richard, in his nervous state, felt worried and annoyed by this persistent gaze; but he bore it till he could bear it no longer, for the man stared as if he were some street beggar he had to watch for fear of his meddling with the plate.
“I beg your pardon—” began the lad; but he was interrupted by steps behind him, and the doctor cried—
“Well, sir—better?”
Richard started up and faced round, to find that the keen eyes of the colonel were also fixed upon him, looking as if their owner was waiting to hear what he said.
“Yes, sir; I’m better now,” said the lad, hurriedly. “I am sorry to have been so much trouble.”
“Who are you?—what’s your name?” said the colonel, sharply.
“Smithson—Dick Smithson, sir,” said the lad, feeling the blood come hotly into his cheeks as he spoke; and his face grew hotter, for he could see at a glance that he was not believed.
“What brought you here?” continued the colonel.
“I came to enlist, sir,” said Dick, quickly.
“And the sergeant would not have you because you were too boyish, eh?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Quite right, too! Where do you come from?”
There was no reply, and the colonel frowned.
“Where are you going to-night?”
Dick shook his head, and the colonel frowned again.
“Well, I have no right to inquire, I suppose, but you are not fit to go on tramp again to-night, my lad,” continued the colonel, kindly; “and you had better mind where you go to sleep. Those instruments of yours are good, are they not?”
“Oh, yes,” said Dick, eagerly; “they are both of the best make.”
“And you have practised a great deal?”
“Oh, yes, sir—a great deal.”
“Doesn’t it seem strange to you, then, that a decentish-looking young fellow, who can play well, should be regularly on tramp and coming to enlist?”
“Yes, sir, very.”
“Well, he had better stay here to-night—eh, Doctor?”
“Most advisable,” said the keen-looking surgeon.
“Wilkins, you had better take charge of your fellow-musician,” said the colonel.
“Yes, sir,” came in rather an offended tone, which the colonel noticed.
“He had better go with the bandsmen, perhaps; he would be more comfortable.—Look here, sir, I shall make inquiries about you. Come to enlist, eh? Wouldn’t care to join our band, I suppose?”
“Yes, sir!” cried Dick, eagerly.
“Beg pardon, sir, we are quite full,” said the bandmaster, importantly.
“Of what, Mr Wilkins?” said the colonel, sternly. “Incompetents? I am not much of a judge, sir, but I know enough music to be able to say that ours is one of the worst bands in the army. I shall have inquiries made about this Richard or Dick Smithson, and, if the results are favourable, he had better stay. See that he is looked after for the night!”
The colonel sauntered off; followed by the doctor, and Dick stood gazing after him, wondering whether they would find out who he was and whence he came, when the bandmaster said in an ill-used tone of voice—
“Here, you had better come with me!” and he led the way to the portion of the barracks which formed the bandsmen’s quarters, where Dick passed the night.
“Eh? No! Why, it is! Well, I’m blessed!”
The fat sergeant’s ejaculations when, one morning, Dick Smithson, the new recruit to the band, hurried up to take his place with the awkward squad and learn a sufficiency of the drill to carry himself correctly and march with the men.
“How in the world did you manage it, my lad? Here, I know: you were the chap who played in the mess. Well, how are you? There, fall in!” cried the sergeant, suddenly altering his tone and manner. “We’ll have a talk by-and-by.”
For the next hour or two Dick was going through the customary instruction, and being barked at with the rest, ordered here and there, made to perform the balance-step, and put through his facings generally. The sergeant bullied him in the time-worn style, and stared at him as if he had never seen him before, till the recruits were drawn up in line, hot, weary and worried; for, though the stout sergeant was not very active, he did not spare himself, much less the fresh, raw lads he was drilling into shape.
Then, after some exceedingly severe strictures, he turned suddenly to Dick.
“Here you, Number Fourteen; you’ve been through all this?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Hah! Taught by some clumsy worn-out duffer who belonged to the old school! You’ve a lot to learn, my lad, but you needn’t stop with this rough lot; you can drill with one of the regular squads.”
Some of the men turned to look sourly at the new recruit, and were yelled at by the sergeant.
“Eyes front!” he roared. “Keep your heads up there! I’m speaking to Number Four from the left, not to you! Steady there! Right face! Dis—miss!”
The rank was broken, and, as the tired squad hurried off to the barrack-room, the sergeant drew his cane from under his arm, and called to Dick, the stern, rigid look giving place to a pleasant, cheery smile as he shook hands.
“You meant it, then?” he said.
“Yes, I meant it,” replied Dick, smiling back.
“Well, I’m glad to see you, my lad. Don’t you take no notice of what I said before those louts. You’re all right; you’ll have to go through the course, but I can soon report you as being pretty perfect. You could hold your own now with most of the fellows in the band.”
“I think I can soon get on,” said Dick, who felt glad of a friendly word.
“Of course you can. You well-educated chaps know your right leg from your left; lots of these fellows never seem to. You’ll be all right there in the band.”
He nodded and walked away, while Dick was soon after obeying the dinner call, and forcing himself to bear his grievance, as he sat down to partake of the roughly-cooked coarse beef and potatoes which formed the day’s rations, and wondered how long it would be before he grew hardened to his new life and able to forget the many little refinements and luxuries to which he had been accustomed.