Chapter Twenty Two.Dick Smithson sees a Ghost.A bright, brisk, early spring morning, with bugles sounding, the tramp of feet, an occasional hoarse shout, and, out in the sunshine, gleams of light flashing in all directions from well-burnished brass ornament or rifle-stock; while the generally dismal-looking barrack yard was gay as a garden-bed newly planted with scarlet geraniums in full bloom.But there was this difference: the floral effects in front of the dingy buildings surrounding the yard were all in motion, for the men were collecting fast, and in obedience to the sharp “Fall in!” roughly formed line after line, each man making for his company.The bandsmen, too, were collecting, like the men of the regiment, in full review order; for that day there was to be a march out to meet the 310th, now on its way to take up quarters in the High Barracks, and the band of the 205th were to play them in through the town to their new quarters.Quite an unnecessary proceeding, but one of those forms which, provided the weather is good, proves satisfactory to the British soldier; for it means show, excitement, a pleasant tramp, and something to relieve the deadly monotony of barrack-life, with its eternal drill and routine.No morning could have been more genial for the purpose, and the prospect of a few miles’ march, with the people of town and villageen fête, was a welcome one to all but the men in the infirmary, who were looking gloomily from the windows at their comrades, all spick and span, eager for the change.Then, with the sun flashing from the brass instruments, the band formed up, all the officers began to drop down from their quarters, best uniforms being the order of the day, as there were no signs of rain; and, at last, after a few sharp orders from the sergeants, the companies were formed, the preliminary examinations made, and the usual adjurations delivered respecting buttons, belts, and suspicious spots. But there was not much cause for complaint, and the men were well in place when the trampling of horses was heard. The men stood to their arms, and the mounted colonel and major came slowly up to the front; while a group of officers passed to and fro along the line of well-drilled young fellows, who made up one of the smartest corps in the service.A few movements, performed with wonderful accuracy, giving the regiment the aspect of some peculiar piece of mechanism, and then the order was given, “Band to the front!” A brief pause, a sharp command or two, and thenboom—boom—boom—boom, so many beats of the big drum, a crash from the brass instruments, which came echoing strangely back from the barrack walls, and away they went toward the gates, where half the boys and idlers of the neighbourhood were waiting, ready to give a cheer as the drum-and-fife band passed out first in solemn silence, followed by little Wilkins, looking very important at the head of the brass instruments, but in dangerous proximity to the trombone-players, cutting and slashing with their long tubes, behind him.Some people are hard to impress, but they are few who do not feel a thrill of excitement on the passing-by of a well-drilled regiment whose band is playing some lively march, to which, and the heavy beat of the drum, the tramp, tramp of six or eight hundred men is heard, like the pulsation of Old England’s warlike heart. The thrill is felt by the bystanders and the men themselves; and the sight of the eager, interested faces the soldiers pass hasgiven renewed spirit to many a man, hot, weary, and faint from some long march, and seemed to tighten muscle and nerve for the work yet to come.That special morning Dick Smithson felt that, after all, his was a very bright and happy life. The past was dead; he had friends about him, and there was a delirious feeling of satisfaction to be there, at the head of the long line of men, whose glittering bayonets flashed and undulated in the sun as they passed down the main street, at the end of which, where the people formed a crowd, hurrying along on either side, the brass band ended its strains, and after a preliminary flourish on the kettle-drums these and the fifes rattled and shrilled in their well-marked music.Turn and turn, with an occasional change, when the kettle-drums had it all to themselves—trr—trr—trr—trr—a light, sharp tap, to mark the step as the towns were left behind, and the course led between the Kentish hedgerows and the bare fields, which seemed to be growing crops of poles, for the young hops themselves were only just showing their bronze-hued points above the ground.Then, on and on, in open order, till, far away on the slope of a hill, where the white chalky road could be traced for miles, a cloud of dust could be seen. Soon after there was a flicker, as if the cloud were not dust, but smoke, and the flickering light was that of the fire within. Then there was another flicker, and more and more, till it was plain enough that the sun was being reflected from burnished brass or steel, and the sinuous cloud was hovering over the regiment they had come to meet.Half an hour later the two regiments had met, there had been a halt called, and at its end the march back to town was commenced, the men going over the hard road with a light, springy step.It was all very simple and unadventurous, but everyone seemed to enjoy it—the men whose march had only been from Ratcham and those whose dusty clothes told of the many long miles they had tramped since early morn.The crowd was greater than ever when the town was reached again, the 205th’s band leading them and making the streets echo to the strains of “The British Grenadiers.” There were loud bursts of cheering, too, now, and the traffic was stopped as the band was halted near the gates of the High Barracks to play the 310th in.As everyone does not know, perhaps, so as to keep up a sustained military march, the brass band is divided into two parts, one of which will play through certain portions of the melody, which is then taken up by the second part, while the first regains breath, ready to take its turn again and to join in unison with the other in somefortepassage.Close up to the High Barrack gates, then, the bandsmen stood upon the pavement, while the companies of the 310th marched up the road. Dick Smithson was resting with the men of his side, while the others were concluding their part. The next minute Dick was in the act of raising his piccolo to his lips to shower out a burst of its bright bird-like music, whiletramp, tramp, tramp, tramp, the men marched by, when his nerves suddenly seemed to be paralysed, his muscles refused to act, and he stood holding the tiny bright-keyed flute level with his chin, staring hard at a young officer, weary, covered with chalky dust, and with a set supercilious smile upon his lips, as he turned his eyes left to stare contemptuously at the young bandsman he passed.It was almost momentary, just taking as long as a man walking at a steady pace would occupy. Then he was by, leaving Dick staring after him as if in a cataleptic fit, his face full of terror and despair.
A bright, brisk, early spring morning, with bugles sounding, the tramp of feet, an occasional hoarse shout, and, out in the sunshine, gleams of light flashing in all directions from well-burnished brass ornament or rifle-stock; while the generally dismal-looking barrack yard was gay as a garden-bed newly planted with scarlet geraniums in full bloom.
But there was this difference: the floral effects in front of the dingy buildings surrounding the yard were all in motion, for the men were collecting fast, and in obedience to the sharp “Fall in!” roughly formed line after line, each man making for his company.
The bandsmen, too, were collecting, like the men of the regiment, in full review order; for that day there was to be a march out to meet the 310th, now on its way to take up quarters in the High Barracks, and the band of the 205th were to play them in through the town to their new quarters.
Quite an unnecessary proceeding, but one of those forms which, provided the weather is good, proves satisfactory to the British soldier; for it means show, excitement, a pleasant tramp, and something to relieve the deadly monotony of barrack-life, with its eternal drill and routine.
No morning could have been more genial for the purpose, and the prospect of a few miles’ march, with the people of town and villageen fête, was a welcome one to all but the men in the infirmary, who were looking gloomily from the windows at their comrades, all spick and span, eager for the change.
Then, with the sun flashing from the brass instruments, the band formed up, all the officers began to drop down from their quarters, best uniforms being the order of the day, as there were no signs of rain; and, at last, after a few sharp orders from the sergeants, the companies were formed, the preliminary examinations made, and the usual adjurations delivered respecting buttons, belts, and suspicious spots. But there was not much cause for complaint, and the men were well in place when the trampling of horses was heard. The men stood to their arms, and the mounted colonel and major came slowly up to the front; while a group of officers passed to and fro along the line of well-drilled young fellows, who made up one of the smartest corps in the service.
A few movements, performed with wonderful accuracy, giving the regiment the aspect of some peculiar piece of mechanism, and then the order was given, “Band to the front!” A brief pause, a sharp command or two, and thenboom—boom—boom—boom, so many beats of the big drum, a crash from the brass instruments, which came echoing strangely back from the barrack walls, and away they went toward the gates, where half the boys and idlers of the neighbourhood were waiting, ready to give a cheer as the drum-and-fife band passed out first in solemn silence, followed by little Wilkins, looking very important at the head of the brass instruments, but in dangerous proximity to the trombone-players, cutting and slashing with their long tubes, behind him.
Some people are hard to impress, but they are few who do not feel a thrill of excitement on the passing-by of a well-drilled regiment whose band is playing some lively march, to which, and the heavy beat of the drum, the tramp, tramp of six or eight hundred men is heard, like the pulsation of Old England’s warlike heart. The thrill is felt by the bystanders and the men themselves; and the sight of the eager, interested faces the soldiers pass hasgiven renewed spirit to many a man, hot, weary, and faint from some long march, and seemed to tighten muscle and nerve for the work yet to come.
That special morning Dick Smithson felt that, after all, his was a very bright and happy life. The past was dead; he had friends about him, and there was a delirious feeling of satisfaction to be there, at the head of the long line of men, whose glittering bayonets flashed and undulated in the sun as they passed down the main street, at the end of which, where the people formed a crowd, hurrying along on either side, the brass band ended its strains, and after a preliminary flourish on the kettle-drums these and the fifes rattled and shrilled in their well-marked music.
Turn and turn, with an occasional change, when the kettle-drums had it all to themselves—trr—trr—trr—trr—a light, sharp tap, to mark the step as the towns were left behind, and the course led between the Kentish hedgerows and the bare fields, which seemed to be growing crops of poles, for the young hops themselves were only just showing their bronze-hued points above the ground.
Then, on and on, in open order, till, far away on the slope of a hill, where the white chalky road could be traced for miles, a cloud of dust could be seen. Soon after there was a flicker, as if the cloud were not dust, but smoke, and the flickering light was that of the fire within. Then there was another flicker, and more and more, till it was plain enough that the sun was being reflected from burnished brass or steel, and the sinuous cloud was hovering over the regiment they had come to meet.
Half an hour later the two regiments had met, there had been a halt called, and at its end the march back to town was commenced, the men going over the hard road with a light, springy step.
It was all very simple and unadventurous, but everyone seemed to enjoy it—the men whose march had only been from Ratcham and those whose dusty clothes told of the many long miles they had tramped since early morn.
The crowd was greater than ever when the town was reached again, the 205th’s band leading them and making the streets echo to the strains of “The British Grenadiers.” There were loud bursts of cheering, too, now, and the traffic was stopped as the band was halted near the gates of the High Barracks to play the 310th in.
As everyone does not know, perhaps, so as to keep up a sustained military march, the brass band is divided into two parts, one of which will play through certain portions of the melody, which is then taken up by the second part, while the first regains breath, ready to take its turn again and to join in unison with the other in somefortepassage.
Close up to the High Barrack gates, then, the bandsmen stood upon the pavement, while the companies of the 310th marched up the road. Dick Smithson was resting with the men of his side, while the others were concluding their part. The next minute Dick was in the act of raising his piccolo to his lips to shower out a burst of its bright bird-like music, whiletramp, tramp, tramp, tramp, the men marched by, when his nerves suddenly seemed to be paralysed, his muscles refused to act, and he stood holding the tiny bright-keyed flute level with his chin, staring hard at a young officer, weary, covered with chalky dust, and with a set supercilious smile upon his lips, as he turned his eyes left to stare contemptuously at the young bandsman he passed.
It was almost momentary, just taking as long as a man walking at a steady pace would occupy. Then he was by, leaving Dick staring after him as if in a cataleptic fit, his face full of terror and despair.
Chapter Twenty Three.Haunted.For nearly a minute Dick did not stir, but stood staring, with eyes wide open, lips apart, and the piccolo held still on a level with his chin.Then, as the figure of the officer was hidden by the marching men, the young musician uttered a low, hoarse sound—the pent-up breath escaping from his lungs. The while the buildings opposite, the crowd of people in doorways and at windows, even the marching men steadily tramping by, seemed to undulate, rise, and then slowly glide round and round, till he gave a violent start; for a hand had grasped his arm, and he turned to gaze at the clarionet-player who was supporting him.“What is it? A bit faint?”“I—I don’t know,” faltered Dick.“I do. That’s it. You’ve been blowing a bit too hard. Don’t play any more. We’ve just done.”A minute or two gave the lad time to try and recover himself.“Yes, that’s it,” said the clarionet-player; “you got excited, and played too hard. I remember being once like that; I shivered just as you are shivering now. Doctor said it was only nerves.”“Only nerves!” said Dick, in a low tone, involuntarily repeating the man’s words.“Yes, that’s it. Keep cool, and you’ll soon come right. Feel faint now?”“No, the giddiness has gone off.”“That’s right.”The bandsman ceased speaking, for he had to take his part again, as the rear of the new regiment marched past with the mounted officers. Then followed an ambulance waggon, the water-tub, two or three baggage waggons, and half a dozen men who had fallen out on the march, all of whom Dick saw as if it were part of a dream, which lasted, in a confused way, as he and his companion joined their own regiment, took their place at the head, and returned to their own quarters.“Getting all right, again?” said the clarionet-player, as they stood together in the barrack yard waiting to be dismissed.“What is it? What’s the matter?” asked Wilkins, sourly.“Smithson sick, sir,” was the reply.The bandmaster looked at his principal flute curiously, but said nothing.The next minute they were dismissed, and Dick longed in vain for a place where he could be alone, the only approach to it being the open window, where, after the customary change of uniform and wash and clean, he sat gazing out at the sky, but seeing no bright silvery clouds—nothing but the face of that young officer and the old ruins down by the flooded river; for it seemed to Dick Smithson that—in spite of what had been written about midnight and the witching hour—he had seen a ghost, and in the broad daylight, too.He tried to cast the idea from him again and again, but that face would return, wonderful in its resemblance, and at last a painful, feverish fit came on; for the countenance he had that day gazed upon, and which had impressed him so painfully, brought up all the old life which he had tried so hard and successfully to forget.“It’s like a punishment to me, for trying to forget that which I ought always to bear in mind,” he said at last, with a sigh. “How horrible! and how strange that two people could be so much alike!”Dick played with the band in the mess-room that evening, and one or two of his comrades told him he looked ill; but he laughed it off, and tried to make them believe that the little fit of weariness was a mere nothing. But his face told a different tale, and that night, when he went to his bed, sleep refused to come; and to the accompaniment of his comrades’ heavy breathing—that being the most charitable term that can be applied to it—he once more went over his old life at Mr Draycott’s, from his first entering the great coach’s establishment up to the morning he had left.At last sleep came—a miserable, feverish slumber, from which he was aroused by thereveille.“There,” he said to himself. “I shall be all right now,” as he took his dripping head out of the bowl of cold water, and felt refreshed by the scrub he gave himself; but somehow he did not feel right. His head burned, and he was glad to get out in the open air, in the hope that a little exercise would clear his brain and drive away the cobweb-like fancies which seemed to interfere with its working.Vain hope! The thoughts only came the faster, and at last he began to ask himself whether he was going to be ill.“Mark’s dead!” he found himself saying mentally; “and there are no such things as ghosts—education killed the last of them years ago. But it does seem horrible to come suddenly face to face with a fellow so like poor Mark that I should have felt ready to declare it was he. Nature does make people different; and yet that officer is as like him as can be. Of course, he would have grown set and more manly. And—oh! but it’s impossible! He’s dead! he’s dead!”He had gone back into the band-room, where, as of old, some twenty men were blowing hard, each working up the parts of new pieces, and utterly regardless, as well as unconscious, of his neighbour—use having given the bandsmen the ability to practice away deaf to the noise produced by others. Here he sat down in his own corner, and began to look over his music, expecting that before long Wilkins would be there to try over a few pieces in proper harmony instead of discord. But the crotchets and quavers became people, and the staves the roads along which they passed; and, the more he tried, the more excited he grew.For a few minutes he enjoyed a rest, for his eyes suddenly rested upon Brumpton, who, looking wonderfully fat, shiny, and happy, sat back, with his jacket unbuttoned, pumping away at the huge brass instrument, whose coils he nursed at his breast while he boomed and burred and brought forth bass notes of the deepest and richest quality.Then Brumpton’s smooth, round face grew dim, and in its place there was the haughty, self-satisfied young officer, proud of his regimentals and scornfully gazing at the young bandsman as he passed.Dick could bear it no longer; he felt that he must get back into the open air, and to some place where he could be in peace while he made up his mind what to do.The next minute his mind did not want making up. He had come to a determination; for, feeling that he would never be able to rest until he had got rid of the idea of the officer he had met being his cousin Mark, he set off with the intention of questioning some of the men of the incoming regiment about their officers.He started, and had just got outside the door of the band-room, when he ran against Wilkins, who turned upon him sharply—“Now, sir! don’t run away; I am going to try over that grand march.”“Back directly, sir!” cried Dick; and, to the bandmaster’s indignation, he was off as hard as he could go towards the barrack gates.
For nearly a minute Dick did not stir, but stood staring, with eyes wide open, lips apart, and the piccolo held still on a level with his chin.
Then, as the figure of the officer was hidden by the marching men, the young musician uttered a low, hoarse sound—the pent-up breath escaping from his lungs. The while the buildings opposite, the crowd of people in doorways and at windows, even the marching men steadily tramping by, seemed to undulate, rise, and then slowly glide round and round, till he gave a violent start; for a hand had grasped his arm, and he turned to gaze at the clarionet-player who was supporting him.
“What is it? A bit faint?”
“I—I don’t know,” faltered Dick.
“I do. That’s it. You’ve been blowing a bit too hard. Don’t play any more. We’ve just done.”
A minute or two gave the lad time to try and recover himself.
“Yes, that’s it,” said the clarionet-player; “you got excited, and played too hard. I remember being once like that; I shivered just as you are shivering now. Doctor said it was only nerves.”
“Only nerves!” said Dick, in a low tone, involuntarily repeating the man’s words.
“Yes, that’s it. Keep cool, and you’ll soon come right. Feel faint now?”
“No, the giddiness has gone off.”
“That’s right.”
The bandsman ceased speaking, for he had to take his part again, as the rear of the new regiment marched past with the mounted officers. Then followed an ambulance waggon, the water-tub, two or three baggage waggons, and half a dozen men who had fallen out on the march, all of whom Dick saw as if it were part of a dream, which lasted, in a confused way, as he and his companion joined their own regiment, took their place at the head, and returned to their own quarters.
“Getting all right, again?” said the clarionet-player, as they stood together in the barrack yard waiting to be dismissed.
“What is it? What’s the matter?” asked Wilkins, sourly.
“Smithson sick, sir,” was the reply.
The bandmaster looked at his principal flute curiously, but said nothing.
The next minute they were dismissed, and Dick longed in vain for a place where he could be alone, the only approach to it being the open window, where, after the customary change of uniform and wash and clean, he sat gazing out at the sky, but seeing no bright silvery clouds—nothing but the face of that young officer and the old ruins down by the flooded river; for it seemed to Dick Smithson that—in spite of what had been written about midnight and the witching hour—he had seen a ghost, and in the broad daylight, too.
He tried to cast the idea from him again and again, but that face would return, wonderful in its resemblance, and at last a painful, feverish fit came on; for the countenance he had that day gazed upon, and which had impressed him so painfully, brought up all the old life which he had tried so hard and successfully to forget.
“It’s like a punishment to me, for trying to forget that which I ought always to bear in mind,” he said at last, with a sigh. “How horrible! and how strange that two people could be so much alike!”
Dick played with the band in the mess-room that evening, and one or two of his comrades told him he looked ill; but he laughed it off, and tried to make them believe that the little fit of weariness was a mere nothing. But his face told a different tale, and that night, when he went to his bed, sleep refused to come; and to the accompaniment of his comrades’ heavy breathing—that being the most charitable term that can be applied to it—he once more went over his old life at Mr Draycott’s, from his first entering the great coach’s establishment up to the morning he had left.
At last sleep came—a miserable, feverish slumber, from which he was aroused by thereveille.
“There,” he said to himself. “I shall be all right now,” as he took his dripping head out of the bowl of cold water, and felt refreshed by the scrub he gave himself; but somehow he did not feel right. His head burned, and he was glad to get out in the open air, in the hope that a little exercise would clear his brain and drive away the cobweb-like fancies which seemed to interfere with its working.
Vain hope! The thoughts only came the faster, and at last he began to ask himself whether he was going to be ill.
“Mark’s dead!” he found himself saying mentally; “and there are no such things as ghosts—education killed the last of them years ago. But it does seem horrible to come suddenly face to face with a fellow so like poor Mark that I should have felt ready to declare it was he. Nature does make people different; and yet that officer is as like him as can be. Of course, he would have grown set and more manly. And—oh! but it’s impossible! He’s dead! he’s dead!”
He had gone back into the band-room, where, as of old, some twenty men were blowing hard, each working up the parts of new pieces, and utterly regardless, as well as unconscious, of his neighbour—use having given the bandsmen the ability to practice away deaf to the noise produced by others. Here he sat down in his own corner, and began to look over his music, expecting that before long Wilkins would be there to try over a few pieces in proper harmony instead of discord. But the crotchets and quavers became people, and the staves the roads along which they passed; and, the more he tried, the more excited he grew.
For a few minutes he enjoyed a rest, for his eyes suddenly rested upon Brumpton, who, looking wonderfully fat, shiny, and happy, sat back, with his jacket unbuttoned, pumping away at the huge brass instrument, whose coils he nursed at his breast while he boomed and burred and brought forth bass notes of the deepest and richest quality.
Then Brumpton’s smooth, round face grew dim, and in its place there was the haughty, self-satisfied young officer, proud of his regimentals and scornfully gazing at the young bandsman as he passed.
Dick could bear it no longer; he felt that he must get back into the open air, and to some place where he could be in peace while he made up his mind what to do.
The next minute his mind did not want making up. He had come to a determination; for, feeling that he would never be able to rest until he had got rid of the idea of the officer he had met being his cousin Mark, he set off with the intention of questioning some of the men of the incoming regiment about their officers.
He started, and had just got outside the door of the band-room, when he ran against Wilkins, who turned upon him sharply—
“Now, sir! don’t run away; I am going to try over that grand march.”
“Back directly, sir!” cried Dick; and, to the bandmaster’s indignation, he was off as hard as he could go towards the barrack gates.
Chapter Twenty Four.The Strange Complication.“I shall be in trouble again,” thought Dick; “but I can’t help it! I feel as if that old bit of excitement was coming over me.”The next minute he was out in the street, and making his way toward the High Barracks, trying to calm down his excitement and come to some decision as to how he would find out. It seemed simple enough, for what would Mark be? A lieutenant; and any corporal or sergeant would tell him whether there was a Lieutenant Frayne in the regiment.But long before Dick reached the barracks he had another shock; for, all at once, in turning a corner, he saw a well-built private sauntering along on the other side whose face was unmistakable, though how he had become a soldier was more than Dick could grasp.The man did not see him, and Dick passed on for a few yards, feeling his forehead, then his pulse, to find the latter a little accelerated, the former perfectly cool.“I’m not going mad!” he muttered, excitedly. “I may be dreaming, but—”He said no more, but turned sharply and followed the private, who was evidently taking his first walk through the town, and had become a little interested in the place.Dick did not hesitate, but followed the private till he was close behind him, and then uttered one word sharply, which brought him round on the instant, to stare hard at the speaker, but without any change of countenance.“Yes; what is it? I’ve got my pass.”Dick could not speak again for the peculiar feeling of emotion which troubled him, and the man began to frown.“Was it me you meant when you called ‘Jerry’?” he said.“Yes; you are Jerry Brigley.”“I’m Jeremiah Brigley,” was the snappish reply, “and I tell you I’ve got my pass. There you are.”But Dick did not even glance at it, for this was a new shock. Some day he meant to go back and claim his position—some day—but here was a man with whom he had been on most intimate terms staring at him blankly without a sign of recognition!“Mornin’!” said Jerry, shortly; and he faced round and walked on. But Dick was after him directly, recovering somewhat from the shock he had sustained, and ready to treat the position with something like forced mirth in his delight at meeting one old link with the past.“Jerry!” he cried, and the man faced round sharply.“Well, what do you want with him?”“Don’t you know me, Jerry?” cried Dick.“No, and don’t want to; and, if this is a try-on to get me to stand beer, it’s a dead failure!”“Not quite!” said Dick, smiling, though his heart ached.“Look here, do you want a tanner?” cried Jerry, snappishly.“Well, I am short of money,” said Dick, as a sudden thought came to mind; “but not a tanner. Pay me the sovereign you borrowed of me!”“What?”“I did not mean ever to ask you for it, but it would be useful now.”“Well, I’m blest!” cried Jerry. “Talk about cheek! When did I borrow a sovereign of you, my whippersnapper?”“Two years ago, when you wanted to bet on some horse for the Derby.”Jerry’s jaw dropped.“Who—who—who—who—says?” he stuttered. “How did—? When did—? Here—who are you?—How did—? I say: who are you?”“Dick Smithson, 205th Band,” replied the young man, unable to keep from enjoying the state of puzzledom in which his ex-servant was plunged.“But I don’t know no Dick Smithson; and how you—you—you! Oh, lor’!”Jerry had suddenly turned ghastly, reeled, and caught at the lamp-post close at hand.“Hush! Quiet!” cried Dick, in an excited whisper. “Don’t make a scene!”“S’Richard!” gasped Jerry.“Silence, man! Here, come down the next street,” whispered Dick, thrusting his arm beneath the other’s to lead him into a less crowded thoroughfare; but Jerry started from him violently.“Don’t—don’t touch me!” he gasped.“Quiet, man!” said Dick, gripping him tightly. “That doesn’t feel like a ghost?”“Oh, lor’!” groaned Jerry, with the great drops of cold perspiration crowding upon his brow. “But—but I see you drownd yourself before my very eyes!”“No, you did not, or I shouldn’t be standing here now!”“But—but—oh, lor’!” groaned Jerry, with his voice growing faint and piteous, “is—is it really you S’Rich—?”“Silence! I’m Dick Smithson, now!” cried the young man fiercely.“But you was S’Richard,” groaned Jerry, “before you come to life again!”“What nonsense are you talking now?”“Only the truth, sir. Why—why—oh, dear! can we get a drop o’ brandy?”“Come in here,” said Dick, seeing how bad the man looked, and he led him into a tavern which, oddly enough, it being a garrison town, stood near.The next minute they were seated alone in the parlour, and Jerry guardedly stretched out his hand to touch Dick’s knee.“Well!” said the young man, “does it feel real?”“Yes; but I see you drownd yourself before my very eyes, S’Rich—”“Silence, man!”“But I did,” said Jerry, plaintively; “and we sat upon you at the inquest.”“What!”“Didn’t I see you, my poor, dear lad, all stripped and torn by beating about in the river-bed with stones and old trees; and didn’t I go and drop a tear or two on your coffin?”“Jerry!”“I did the day as you was buried, though things was that bad I had to sell my watch to pay my fare.”“Here, quick! Tell me,” cried Dick, whose turn it was to be staggered now, “you—you—they—they did all this?”“To be sure they did; and you’re as dead as a door-nail, sir. I see it all myself. Oh, my lad! how could you—how could you go and drownd yourself like that?”“I—go to drown myself! Nonsense!” cried Dick. Then, as the truth flashed upon him: “Why, Jerry, it was that poor boy with the sheep—the boy I tried to save.”“No; it was you, sir—I followed you, and got there just too late.”“You did!”“Yes, sir, I did.”“But you don’t understand, Jerry.”“No. I don’t; and that’s the worst of it, sir,” cried Jerry, piteously. “You was buried, for I followed yer; so how can you be here now a-talking to me?”“But don’t you see?”“Yes, I do now. You got to know all about it, and you’re an impostor; that’s what you are!”“Oh, Jerry, you always were a fool!” cried Dick, angrily. “Don’t you see that it was the poor fellow they found—the drowning boy I tried to save?”“Then you didn’t try to drown yourself, sir?”“Drown myself! Was I likely to do such a thing? Wasn’t it enough that I ran away, like the cowardly fool I was?”“Then you ain’t never been dead at all, then, sir?”“Absurd!”“And they buried the wrong man?”“Good Heavens! what a position, Jerry! Yes,” cried Dick, startled now by the complications rising before his eyes.“And you really are alive and hearty, and—how you’ve growed, and—and—why, of course, it is! Pay you back the money—S’Richard, why I’d—oh, my lad, my lad—I—I—I—oh, what a fool I am!”Fool or no, Jerry Brigley broke down, and sat holding on by his companion’s hands sobbing for some moments before he uttered a loud gulp, and then seemed relieved.Meanwhile Dick sat staring straight before him, almost unconscious of poor Jerry’s acts. The revelation he had heard was paralysing. It was horrible to think of; and, moment by moment, he began to realise how difficult it would be to convince people of his identity when he went back to claim his own.He had just come to the conclusion that there must be an end to his masquerading now, when Jerry recovered himself sufficiently to demand a full account of how he had escaped from the flood.This had to be given, and then Dick cried bitterly—“Then my cousin did not die, after all?”“Him? Die? Not, he, sir. He wouldn’t, die a bit. He allus was a base deceiver of a fellow—beggin’ your pardon, sir.”“And I frightened myself into that folly for nothing!”“Well, he was bad, sir, certainly; and the doctors thought so, too. But he allus falls on his feet, sir. I don’t. Nice mess I made of it, sir!”“Ah! How came you to enlist, Jerry?” said Dick, forcing himself to take some interest in his old servant.“How came I to ’list, sir? Why, all along o’ him. I got in such a mess I had to leave Mr Draycott’s.”“How, Jerry? Why?”“Got wild, sir. I’d been idgit enough to think as I could make a lot o’ money with my savings by putting ’em on hosses, and so soon as I did, sir, they wouldn’t win a bit; and, from going to the hosses, I went next to the dogs; and then I was in such a state that there was no chance for me at all; and I wrote to him at last, for I see his name in the paper as being gazetted to the 310th. And what d’yer think he said?”“I don’t know, Jerry,” said Dick, dreamily, for he was again thinking of his own troubles.“He said I’d better enlist, and then he could have me as his servant again.”“Yes, exactly.”“Well, sir, it’s ’bout the last thing I should ever ha’ thought o’ doing, but it seemed all right. Officer’s servant wouldn’t be bad, and there’d sure to be some perks.”“Some what?”“Perks, sir—perkisites: old boots and shoes and things. So I ’listed six months ago, and here have I, Jeremiah Brigley, been barked at and drilled till I could stand on my head stiff and go through it all.”“Yes, you would have to be drilled,” said Dick, thoughtfully; “and how do you get on as his servant?”“Get on, sir? As his servant, sir? Why, he on’y laughed at me, and told me he’d got somebody else; and when I turned rusty, and told him he was no gent, he reported me and had me punished. But I wasn’t done, then; for, as soon as I was out, I waits my chance, and then I says to him, ‘You look out,’ I says, ‘and mind I don’t make it warm for you.’”“What do you mean?”“Why, go and tell his colonel, sir, all about his borrowing of old Simpson, the tailor, and throwing the credit about that there cheque on to you. For it was a reg’lar swindle, sir; you didn’t get none of that money, as I know. Ah, you should have seen how small he was then! Why, he was quite humble to me, and said it was all a mistake, and, as soon as he could, he’d get me for his servant. But he won’t, and a good job for him and me, too, S’Richard, sir.”“Silence, man!”“I beg pardon, sir. O’ course, that’s wrong now; but I tell you this, sir: he’s made me that wild again with myself, and now about you, sir, that, if I had to cut his hair or strop a razor to shave him, I should chuck the tools out o’ window. I daren’t go nigh him with such a weppun in my hand.”“Rubbish, Jerry! You’re absurd!” cried Dick, shaking off the thoughts which troubled him as he determined to go to the colonel or Mr Lacey and explain all.“No, sir, it ain’t absurd. Flesh and blood ’ll stand a deal, but there comes a time when it won’t stand no more. Sir Mark Frayne’s one o’ they—Here! hold up, sir; it’s your turn now.”For Dick had started to his feet.“What?” he cried, huskily. “Say that again.”“What—about Sir Mark, sir?”“Sir Mark?”“Oh, yes, sir; you was dead and buried, his father died, and he became Sir Mark. Yes, sir, he’s a barrownet now, and got all your tin; and, my word, he does make it fly!”
“I shall be in trouble again,” thought Dick; “but I can’t help it! I feel as if that old bit of excitement was coming over me.”
The next minute he was out in the street, and making his way toward the High Barracks, trying to calm down his excitement and come to some decision as to how he would find out. It seemed simple enough, for what would Mark be? A lieutenant; and any corporal or sergeant would tell him whether there was a Lieutenant Frayne in the regiment.
But long before Dick reached the barracks he had another shock; for, all at once, in turning a corner, he saw a well-built private sauntering along on the other side whose face was unmistakable, though how he had become a soldier was more than Dick could grasp.
The man did not see him, and Dick passed on for a few yards, feeling his forehead, then his pulse, to find the latter a little accelerated, the former perfectly cool.
“I’m not going mad!” he muttered, excitedly. “I may be dreaming, but—”
He said no more, but turned sharply and followed the private, who was evidently taking his first walk through the town, and had become a little interested in the place.
Dick did not hesitate, but followed the private till he was close behind him, and then uttered one word sharply, which brought him round on the instant, to stare hard at the speaker, but without any change of countenance.
“Yes; what is it? I’ve got my pass.”
Dick could not speak again for the peculiar feeling of emotion which troubled him, and the man began to frown.
“Was it me you meant when you called ‘Jerry’?” he said.
“Yes; you are Jerry Brigley.”
“I’m Jeremiah Brigley,” was the snappish reply, “and I tell you I’ve got my pass. There you are.”
But Dick did not even glance at it, for this was a new shock. Some day he meant to go back and claim his position—some day—but here was a man with whom he had been on most intimate terms staring at him blankly without a sign of recognition!
“Mornin’!” said Jerry, shortly; and he faced round and walked on. But Dick was after him directly, recovering somewhat from the shock he had sustained, and ready to treat the position with something like forced mirth in his delight at meeting one old link with the past.
“Jerry!” he cried, and the man faced round sharply.
“Well, what do you want with him?”
“Don’t you know me, Jerry?” cried Dick.
“No, and don’t want to; and, if this is a try-on to get me to stand beer, it’s a dead failure!”
“Not quite!” said Dick, smiling, though his heart ached.
“Look here, do you want a tanner?” cried Jerry, snappishly.
“Well, I am short of money,” said Dick, as a sudden thought came to mind; “but not a tanner. Pay me the sovereign you borrowed of me!”
“What?”
“I did not mean ever to ask you for it, but it would be useful now.”
“Well, I’m blest!” cried Jerry. “Talk about cheek! When did I borrow a sovereign of you, my whippersnapper?”
“Two years ago, when you wanted to bet on some horse for the Derby.”
Jerry’s jaw dropped.
“Who—who—who—who—says?” he stuttered. “How did—? When did—? Here—who are you?—How did—? I say: who are you?”
“Dick Smithson, 205th Band,” replied the young man, unable to keep from enjoying the state of puzzledom in which his ex-servant was plunged.
“But I don’t know no Dick Smithson; and how you—you—you! Oh, lor’!”
Jerry had suddenly turned ghastly, reeled, and caught at the lamp-post close at hand.
“Hush! Quiet!” cried Dick, in an excited whisper. “Don’t make a scene!”
“S’Richard!” gasped Jerry.
“Silence, man! Here, come down the next street,” whispered Dick, thrusting his arm beneath the other’s to lead him into a less crowded thoroughfare; but Jerry started from him violently.
“Don’t—don’t touch me!” he gasped.
“Quiet, man!” said Dick, gripping him tightly. “That doesn’t feel like a ghost?”
“Oh, lor’!” groaned Jerry, with the great drops of cold perspiration crowding upon his brow. “But—but I see you drownd yourself before my very eyes!”
“No, you did not, or I shouldn’t be standing here now!”
“But—but—oh, lor’!” groaned Jerry, with his voice growing faint and piteous, “is—is it really you S’Rich—?”
“Silence! I’m Dick Smithson, now!” cried the young man fiercely.
“But you was S’Richard,” groaned Jerry, “before you come to life again!”
“What nonsense are you talking now?”
“Only the truth, sir. Why—why—oh, dear! can we get a drop o’ brandy?”
“Come in here,” said Dick, seeing how bad the man looked, and he led him into a tavern which, oddly enough, it being a garrison town, stood near.
The next minute they were seated alone in the parlour, and Jerry guardedly stretched out his hand to touch Dick’s knee.
“Well!” said the young man, “does it feel real?”
“Yes; but I see you drownd yourself before my very eyes, S’Rich—”
“Silence, man!”
“But I did,” said Jerry, plaintively; “and we sat upon you at the inquest.”
“What!”
“Didn’t I see you, my poor, dear lad, all stripped and torn by beating about in the river-bed with stones and old trees; and didn’t I go and drop a tear or two on your coffin?”
“Jerry!”
“I did the day as you was buried, though things was that bad I had to sell my watch to pay my fare.”
“Here, quick! Tell me,” cried Dick, whose turn it was to be staggered now, “you—you—they—they did all this?”
“To be sure they did; and you’re as dead as a door-nail, sir. I see it all myself. Oh, my lad! how could you—how could you go and drownd yourself like that?”
“I—go to drown myself! Nonsense!” cried Dick. Then, as the truth flashed upon him: “Why, Jerry, it was that poor boy with the sheep—the boy I tried to save.”
“No; it was you, sir—I followed you, and got there just too late.”
“You did!”
“Yes, sir, I did.”
“But you don’t understand, Jerry.”
“No. I don’t; and that’s the worst of it, sir,” cried Jerry, piteously. “You was buried, for I followed yer; so how can you be here now a-talking to me?”
“But don’t you see?”
“Yes, I do now. You got to know all about it, and you’re an impostor; that’s what you are!”
“Oh, Jerry, you always were a fool!” cried Dick, angrily. “Don’t you see that it was the poor fellow they found—the drowning boy I tried to save?”
“Then you didn’t try to drown yourself, sir?”
“Drown myself! Was I likely to do such a thing? Wasn’t it enough that I ran away, like the cowardly fool I was?”
“Then you ain’t never been dead at all, then, sir?”
“Absurd!”
“And they buried the wrong man?”
“Good Heavens! what a position, Jerry! Yes,” cried Dick, startled now by the complications rising before his eyes.
“And you really are alive and hearty, and—how you’ve growed, and—and—why, of course, it is! Pay you back the money—S’Richard, why I’d—oh, my lad, my lad—I—I—I—oh, what a fool I am!”
Fool or no, Jerry Brigley broke down, and sat holding on by his companion’s hands sobbing for some moments before he uttered a loud gulp, and then seemed relieved.
Meanwhile Dick sat staring straight before him, almost unconscious of poor Jerry’s acts. The revelation he had heard was paralysing. It was horrible to think of; and, moment by moment, he began to realise how difficult it would be to convince people of his identity when he went back to claim his own.
He had just come to the conclusion that there must be an end to his masquerading now, when Jerry recovered himself sufficiently to demand a full account of how he had escaped from the flood.
This had to be given, and then Dick cried bitterly—
“Then my cousin did not die, after all?”
“Him? Die? Not, he, sir. He wouldn’t, die a bit. He allus was a base deceiver of a fellow—beggin’ your pardon, sir.”
“And I frightened myself into that folly for nothing!”
“Well, he was bad, sir, certainly; and the doctors thought so, too. But he allus falls on his feet, sir. I don’t. Nice mess I made of it, sir!”
“Ah! How came you to enlist, Jerry?” said Dick, forcing himself to take some interest in his old servant.
“How came I to ’list, sir? Why, all along o’ him. I got in such a mess I had to leave Mr Draycott’s.”
“How, Jerry? Why?”
“Got wild, sir. I’d been idgit enough to think as I could make a lot o’ money with my savings by putting ’em on hosses, and so soon as I did, sir, they wouldn’t win a bit; and, from going to the hosses, I went next to the dogs; and then I was in such a state that there was no chance for me at all; and I wrote to him at last, for I see his name in the paper as being gazetted to the 310th. And what d’yer think he said?”
“I don’t know, Jerry,” said Dick, dreamily, for he was again thinking of his own troubles.
“He said I’d better enlist, and then he could have me as his servant again.”
“Yes, exactly.”
“Well, sir, it’s ’bout the last thing I should ever ha’ thought o’ doing, but it seemed all right. Officer’s servant wouldn’t be bad, and there’d sure to be some perks.”
“Some what?”
“Perks, sir—perkisites: old boots and shoes and things. So I ’listed six months ago, and here have I, Jeremiah Brigley, been barked at and drilled till I could stand on my head stiff and go through it all.”
“Yes, you would have to be drilled,” said Dick, thoughtfully; “and how do you get on as his servant?”
“Get on, sir? As his servant, sir? Why, he on’y laughed at me, and told me he’d got somebody else; and when I turned rusty, and told him he was no gent, he reported me and had me punished. But I wasn’t done, then; for, as soon as I was out, I waits my chance, and then I says to him, ‘You look out,’ I says, ‘and mind I don’t make it warm for you.’”
“What do you mean?”
“Why, go and tell his colonel, sir, all about his borrowing of old Simpson, the tailor, and throwing the credit about that there cheque on to you. For it was a reg’lar swindle, sir; you didn’t get none of that money, as I know. Ah, you should have seen how small he was then! Why, he was quite humble to me, and said it was all a mistake, and, as soon as he could, he’d get me for his servant. But he won’t, and a good job for him and me, too, S’Richard, sir.”
“Silence, man!”
“I beg pardon, sir. O’ course, that’s wrong now; but I tell you this, sir: he’s made me that wild again with myself, and now about you, sir, that, if I had to cut his hair or strop a razor to shave him, I should chuck the tools out o’ window. I daren’t go nigh him with such a weppun in my hand.”
“Rubbish, Jerry! You’re absurd!” cried Dick, shaking off the thoughts which troubled him as he determined to go to the colonel or Mr Lacey and explain all.
“No, sir, it ain’t absurd. Flesh and blood ’ll stand a deal, but there comes a time when it won’t stand no more. Sir Mark Frayne’s one o’ they—Here! hold up, sir; it’s your turn now.”
For Dick had started to his feet.
“What?” he cried, huskily. “Say that again.”
“What—about Sir Mark, sir?”
“Sir Mark?”
“Oh, yes, sir; you was dead and buried, his father died, and he became Sir Mark. Yes, sir, he’s a barrownet now, and got all your tin; and, my word, he does make it fly!”
Chapter Twenty Five.Jerry to the Front.Dick Smithson found himself face to face with a problem that grew harder to solve the more he tried, and, as he lay awake at night, the words of the old, old ballad used to come to him:—“And for as you have made your bed, so on it you must lie.”A barrack bed, too—a very hard, thin, single Glo’ster-cheese sort of bed! And yet it seemed at the first sight so easy to jump out of it, go and see the colonel—no; he could talk to Lieutenant Lacey, who was always so friendly, and that gentleman would tell the colonel.Oh, it would be simple enough! So long as it meant his voluntary exile, it was not of so much consequence; and he had always kept in reserve the time when he could go back to his old position in society. But now he found that when he leaped down it was from a high perpendicular rock, and the base of that rock stood in. Around, too, it was smooth; and, now jumping back was out of the question, climbing appeared impossible.What was to be done? He could not sit still and let Mark hold his title and position without a struggle; but how to begin?Naturally enough, the old state of calm passed away, and Dick’s brain was in a state of effervescence as he waited three days for an opportunity to meet and consult with Jerry Brigley. For this had been planned at parting, after Jerry had sworn to be silent until some plan of action had been decided upon.At last Jerry and he met again, and this time went off for a walk towards the country, accidentally taking the road which Dick had followed when he first entered the town.For some time the great subject they had met to discuss was avoided, and they talked about the country round, with its hills and hop-gardens, till Jerry drifted from a remark on the beauty of a sheep-cropped, velvet-green field, with its lawn-like grass, into a lesson on one of the follies of the day.“Yes, sir,” he said; “feel how soft it is under your feet! Turf’s a lovely thing when it’s lawns; but when it’s horse-racing, and gets hold on yer tight, it’s a sort o’ Bedlam-Hanwelly business. Don’t you never bet, sir. If I hadn’t never betted, I should ha’ been a rich man now, with two hundred pound in the savings bank, instead of being a private soldier—me, too, as knows more about valetting a gent than half the chaps as goes into service.”“Ah, well, Jerry, don’t fret about it; things may get better.”“Ay, sir, they may; but then, you see, they might get wuss.”“Or half-way between. Let’s sit down under this tree; I want to talk.”“Not a bad place, sir—fine view o’ the Kentish hills. What money a man might make out of chalk, if he had it in some place ready to sell, and people would buy it! Mind my lighting a pipe, sir?”“Mind? No; I’ve got pretty well hardened to people smoking about me now. Sorry I can’t offer you a cigar, Jerry.”“Pipe’s good enough for such as me, sir. There,” continued the man, as he filled his briar-root, “aren’t I keeping my tongue well in hand? Haven’t called you S’Richard once.”“And you must not, whatever you do.”“Well, sir,” said Jerry, lighting up, and half-shutting his eyes as he leaned back meditatively, “sometimes I don’t see why not; sometimes it’s all t’other. One day I says to myself, ‘What’s he got to mind? He’s livin’, and it’s all nonsense about his being dead and buried; and, as to that business over the bill and the signature, why, he could fight that down like a gentleman.’”“Yes, Jerry,” said Dick, dismally; “but I ran away like a coward, and that was like a tacit confession of guilt.”“Like a what confession o’ guilt?”“Silent.”“No, sir: you said something else.”“Tacit, man—tacit.”“Oh, was it, sir. Well, if you say it was tacit, I ’spose it was. Never heered o’ that sort o’ confession before; it was always open confession. But, as I was a-saying, one day I thinks as I just said; next day it’s all the other way. I don’t want to put you out o’ heart, sir; but, as you very well know, being quite a scholar, and having read o’ these things lots o’ times, there’s an old saying about possession being nine points of the law. He’s got possession tight, and, if you go and tell him he must give it up now, he’ll say—”“Well, what, Jerry?”“Don’t like to tell you, sir, for fear of giving offence.”“Speak out, man; speak out, and don’t say ‘sir’ to me again while we are equals here in the army.”“Ekals, sir? Bein’ both in the ranks don’t make us ekal.”“But it must not be known at present, and if you keep calling me ‘sir’ you may ruin my prospects.”“All right, then; I won’t say it—I’ll think it, and that’ll make it easier, because I can think the other the same time.”“What other?”“The Richard. I shall allus say ‘S’Richard’ to myself.”“Very well, do. But, mind—I trust you.”“And you may, sir. It seems to me—as I was going to say—if you won’t be offended—”“Go on, man,” cried Richard; “nothing will offend me now.”“Oh! won’t it? You’re as big a honourable gent now as ever you was; but, if you was to go to your cousin, sir, he’d call you a impostor.”“I’m afraid so, Jerry.”“And, if you turn nasty with him, he’ll tell you to go down in the country there, and look at your grave.”Dick was silent.“But don’t you be downhearted, sir. You shall have your rights. What d’ye say to sending a petition to the Queen? I’m told that she’s a very nice old lady, when you know her.”Dick laughed.“Why should she believe me?”“Because you’re a gent, sir. Anybody could see that with half a heye. But, look here, sir, there—”“Will you leave off saying ‘sir’? I am Dick Smithson.”“Oh, very well, Dick Smithson. There must be a way out of the wood. What do you say to me killing him—by accident?”“I say, talk sense, man!”“Right; I will. I wish I was in your regiment, though. One could see you oft’ner like, and settle things with you. I s’pose if I was to desert and ’list in yours, they’d make a row about it?”“No doubt about that, Jerry.”“There wouldn’t be no harm. I should only have changed from one regiment to another.”“You know enough about a soldier’s duties to the colours, man. But I wish you were in the 205th with all my heart.”“And in your company? I could valet you just as I used to.”“Nonsense! I’m not in any company; and for me to have a servant would be impossible as well as absurd.”“Well, I can’t see as it would be absurd, because you, being a gent, ought to have your servant. But, to come back to my being in your regiment—ain’t there no way of managing it?”“I don’t know, Jerry. Officers exchange.”“There you are: allus a way out of a difficulty, if you can find it. Officers exchange; why shouldn’t privates? I could be no end o’ use to you, Dick Smithson. S’pose we try?”Dick laughed, and shook his head.“Impossible, Jerry! We must be content as we are for the present, and meet now and then, and talk matters over till I see my way to get out of this position.”And it was in this way that they parted.About a week later Dick was summoned to the lieutenant’s rooms; and, upon reaching them, it was quite plain that something was wrong. For Lacey looked black as thunder as he walked up and down.“What have I done to offend him?” thought Dick, as he waited for the young officer to speak.“Sit down!” growled Lacey; and Dick obeyed.“It’s beyond bearing!” exclaimed the lieutenant. “I’ll clean my own boots, and brush my own clothes. I’m sick of it!”“Nothing to do with me,” thought Dick; and he ventured a remark.“Can I help you in any way, sir?”“No—yes; play something soothing to me. I’m put out. No, don’t. It’s like making a fool of myself.”Dick thought so, too, but he did not say anything; while the lieutenant went on pacing the room for a few minutes, and then faced round.“What do you think he has done now?”“Who, sir—the colonel?”“Bah! no: that idiot servant of mine?”“Broke something, sir?”“No!” roared the lieutenant; “I wish he had—his neck! Can I trust you, Smithson?”Dick bowed.“Yes; one can confide in you, Smithson. You remember—er—er—a little adventure of ours—the serenade?”“Oh, yes, sir!”“I hardly care to refer to it, Smithson; but, as I think I said before, I always feel as if I can trust you.”Dick bowed again, and felt disposed to laugh; but his face was extra-serious as the lieutenant went on—“The fact is, we made a great mistake, Smithson, and that duet was played under the wrong window. There is an aunt there—and—and—she is not young.”“I presumed so, sir, from the voice,” said Dick, for the young officer waited.“There is no presumption about it, Smithson; you were quite right. She is still single. Miss—well—er—since then—er—we have met.”“You and the aunt, sir?”“Smithson, this is no matter for ribald jest,” said the lieutenant, sharply.“I beg pardon, sir; I meant to be quite serious.”“I thank you, Smithson. You will grasp what I mean when you grow older. You may come to feel as I have felt for months past.”“I hope not!” thought Dick.“I will continue, Smithson. We have met since, more than once; and yesterday I sent that idiot with a note.”“And he gave it to the wrong person, sir?”“What! You have heard?”“Oh, no, sir; but it is what I should have expected him to do.”“You are quite right; and I ought to have known better. He took the letter, and delivered it to the aunt. Smithson, I am in agony! She has responded to me, thinking my words were meant for her. I walked by there an hour ago and saw her, and—oh, Smithson!—she smiled. What is to be done?”Dick was silent for a minute, not knowing how to answer the question; then a way out of the difficulty came.“I’ll tell you, sir! You must discharge that fellow.”“I did, Smithson—at once. I was in such a rage that I kicked him; and I fear that there will be some trouble about that, if he reports it to his superior officer.”“Pooh! Give him half a sovereign, sir, and you’ll hear no more about it.”“That’s very good advice, Smithson. I wish I had your head.”“You want a good, clever, smart servant, sir,” said Dick, who was breathless with excitement consequent upon his new idea.“Yes, Smithson; but such a treasure seems to be unobtainable.”“I don’t know—I think I could find you such a man, sir.”“You could! Oh, no; I want a regular valet, Smithson. I have grown sadly indolent, and I often wish a war would break out to rouse me up.”“This is a regular valet, sir.”“But—really, Smithson, I’m afraid I’m very lazy—can he shave?”“Oh, yes, sir, and cut hair admirably.”“Indeed? A friend of yours?”“Well, sir, not exactly; I used to know him.”“Whose company is he in?”“Unfortunately, sir, he is not in this regiment.”“Smithson! how can you?” cried the lieutenant in lachrymose tones. “What is the use of raising my hopes to dash them down? Is he a man of bad character who wants to join?”“No, sir; he is a soldier already; but he is in the 310th, sir—the regiment we ‘played in’ the other day.”“In the 310th?” said the lieutenant, thoughtfully.“And, of course, not available, sir.”“Is he anyone else’s servant?”“He is simply a private, sir.”“Then— I don’t know, though. Perhaps I might—or I could—I—how tiresome!”For at that moment Dick sprang from his seat, as he heard steps outside.“You at home, Lacey?” cried a voice.“Yes: come in.”As the door opened, the lieutenant said excitedly—“What is this man’s name?”“Jeremiah Brigley, sir;” and the young officer carefully put down the name before Dick retreated and took his leave, the new arrival saying:“Here, Smithson, I shall want you to give me some lessons, too.”The next minute Dick was crossing the barrack yard to reach his quarters, wondering whether it would be possible for Jerry to be exchanged, and meeting the bandmaster, who said rather gruffly—“Where have you been, sir?”“To Mr Lacey’s, sir.”“Ha! I hope I shall find out that this is the truth.”Dick flushed.“There is too much lesson-giving, and the band practice is neglected. Be good enough to recollect, sir, that I have reported your conduct.”“I don’t understand you, sir,” replied Dick.“I allude to that episode, sir, when you absented yourself from the practice without leave. Your conduct is not what it should be, sir. And recollect this: that a man picked up, as you were, in the street ought to be doubly careful when he has got a lift in life; so have a care, sir—have a care.”“I am sorry I absented myself, sir,” began Dick, but Wilkins raised himself on tiptoe, and interrupted him.“Say ‘stopped away,’ sir. Leave ‘absented’ to your officers. There’s too much favouritism in this regiment; but I warn you, sir: have a care—have a care.”He strutted away, arranging the few thin bits of hair about his ears, leaving Dick looking after him.“Oh, you stupid little man!” muttered Dick, who then went to his quarters to think out what he had better do. But, try hard as he would, he could not think it out; for the more he thought, the more it seemed to him that he had completely obliterated himself by his foolish act—that Sir Richard Frayne was dead to the world and Dick Smithson reigned in his stead.
Dick Smithson found himself face to face with a problem that grew harder to solve the more he tried, and, as he lay awake at night, the words of the old, old ballad used to come to him:—
“And for as you have made your bed, so on it you must lie.”
“And for as you have made your bed, so on it you must lie.”
A barrack bed, too—a very hard, thin, single Glo’ster-cheese sort of bed! And yet it seemed at the first sight so easy to jump out of it, go and see the colonel—no; he could talk to Lieutenant Lacey, who was always so friendly, and that gentleman would tell the colonel.
Oh, it would be simple enough! So long as it meant his voluntary exile, it was not of so much consequence; and he had always kept in reserve the time when he could go back to his old position in society. But now he found that when he leaped down it was from a high perpendicular rock, and the base of that rock stood in. Around, too, it was smooth; and, now jumping back was out of the question, climbing appeared impossible.
What was to be done? He could not sit still and let Mark hold his title and position without a struggle; but how to begin?
Naturally enough, the old state of calm passed away, and Dick’s brain was in a state of effervescence as he waited three days for an opportunity to meet and consult with Jerry Brigley. For this had been planned at parting, after Jerry had sworn to be silent until some plan of action had been decided upon.
At last Jerry and he met again, and this time went off for a walk towards the country, accidentally taking the road which Dick had followed when he first entered the town.
For some time the great subject they had met to discuss was avoided, and they talked about the country round, with its hills and hop-gardens, till Jerry drifted from a remark on the beauty of a sheep-cropped, velvet-green field, with its lawn-like grass, into a lesson on one of the follies of the day.
“Yes, sir,” he said; “feel how soft it is under your feet! Turf’s a lovely thing when it’s lawns; but when it’s horse-racing, and gets hold on yer tight, it’s a sort o’ Bedlam-Hanwelly business. Don’t you never bet, sir. If I hadn’t never betted, I should ha’ been a rich man now, with two hundred pound in the savings bank, instead of being a private soldier—me, too, as knows more about valetting a gent than half the chaps as goes into service.”
“Ah, well, Jerry, don’t fret about it; things may get better.”
“Ay, sir, they may; but then, you see, they might get wuss.”
“Or half-way between. Let’s sit down under this tree; I want to talk.”
“Not a bad place, sir—fine view o’ the Kentish hills. What money a man might make out of chalk, if he had it in some place ready to sell, and people would buy it! Mind my lighting a pipe, sir?”
“Mind? No; I’ve got pretty well hardened to people smoking about me now. Sorry I can’t offer you a cigar, Jerry.”
“Pipe’s good enough for such as me, sir. There,” continued the man, as he filled his briar-root, “aren’t I keeping my tongue well in hand? Haven’t called you S’Richard once.”
“And you must not, whatever you do.”
“Well, sir,” said Jerry, lighting up, and half-shutting his eyes as he leaned back meditatively, “sometimes I don’t see why not; sometimes it’s all t’other. One day I says to myself, ‘What’s he got to mind? He’s livin’, and it’s all nonsense about his being dead and buried; and, as to that business over the bill and the signature, why, he could fight that down like a gentleman.’”
“Yes, Jerry,” said Dick, dismally; “but I ran away like a coward, and that was like a tacit confession of guilt.”
“Like a what confession o’ guilt?”
“Silent.”
“No, sir: you said something else.”
“Tacit, man—tacit.”
“Oh, was it, sir. Well, if you say it was tacit, I ’spose it was. Never heered o’ that sort o’ confession before; it was always open confession. But, as I was a-saying, one day I thinks as I just said; next day it’s all the other way. I don’t want to put you out o’ heart, sir; but, as you very well know, being quite a scholar, and having read o’ these things lots o’ times, there’s an old saying about possession being nine points of the law. He’s got possession tight, and, if you go and tell him he must give it up now, he’ll say—”
“Well, what, Jerry?”
“Don’t like to tell you, sir, for fear of giving offence.”
“Speak out, man; speak out, and don’t say ‘sir’ to me again while we are equals here in the army.”
“Ekals, sir? Bein’ both in the ranks don’t make us ekal.”
“But it must not be known at present, and if you keep calling me ‘sir’ you may ruin my prospects.”
“All right, then; I won’t say it—I’ll think it, and that’ll make it easier, because I can think the other the same time.”
“What other?”
“The Richard. I shall allus say ‘S’Richard’ to myself.”
“Very well, do. But, mind—I trust you.”
“And you may, sir. It seems to me—as I was going to say—if you won’t be offended—”
“Go on, man,” cried Richard; “nothing will offend me now.”
“Oh! won’t it? You’re as big a honourable gent now as ever you was; but, if you was to go to your cousin, sir, he’d call you a impostor.”
“I’m afraid so, Jerry.”
“And, if you turn nasty with him, he’ll tell you to go down in the country there, and look at your grave.”
Dick was silent.
“But don’t you be downhearted, sir. You shall have your rights. What d’ye say to sending a petition to the Queen? I’m told that she’s a very nice old lady, when you know her.”
Dick laughed.
“Why should she believe me?”
“Because you’re a gent, sir. Anybody could see that with half a heye. But, look here, sir, there—”
“Will you leave off saying ‘sir’? I am Dick Smithson.”
“Oh, very well, Dick Smithson. There must be a way out of the wood. What do you say to me killing him—by accident?”
“I say, talk sense, man!”
“Right; I will. I wish I was in your regiment, though. One could see you oft’ner like, and settle things with you. I s’pose if I was to desert and ’list in yours, they’d make a row about it?”
“No doubt about that, Jerry.”
“There wouldn’t be no harm. I should only have changed from one regiment to another.”
“You know enough about a soldier’s duties to the colours, man. But I wish you were in the 205th with all my heart.”
“And in your company? I could valet you just as I used to.”
“Nonsense! I’m not in any company; and for me to have a servant would be impossible as well as absurd.”
“Well, I can’t see as it would be absurd, because you, being a gent, ought to have your servant. But, to come back to my being in your regiment—ain’t there no way of managing it?”
“I don’t know, Jerry. Officers exchange.”
“There you are: allus a way out of a difficulty, if you can find it. Officers exchange; why shouldn’t privates? I could be no end o’ use to you, Dick Smithson. S’pose we try?”
Dick laughed, and shook his head.
“Impossible, Jerry! We must be content as we are for the present, and meet now and then, and talk matters over till I see my way to get out of this position.”
And it was in this way that they parted.
About a week later Dick was summoned to the lieutenant’s rooms; and, upon reaching them, it was quite plain that something was wrong. For Lacey looked black as thunder as he walked up and down.
“What have I done to offend him?” thought Dick, as he waited for the young officer to speak.
“Sit down!” growled Lacey; and Dick obeyed.
“It’s beyond bearing!” exclaimed the lieutenant. “I’ll clean my own boots, and brush my own clothes. I’m sick of it!”
“Nothing to do with me,” thought Dick; and he ventured a remark.
“Can I help you in any way, sir?”
“No—yes; play something soothing to me. I’m put out. No, don’t. It’s like making a fool of myself.”
Dick thought so, too, but he did not say anything; while the lieutenant went on pacing the room for a few minutes, and then faced round.
“What do you think he has done now?”
“Who, sir—the colonel?”
“Bah! no: that idiot servant of mine?”
“Broke something, sir?”
“No!” roared the lieutenant; “I wish he had—his neck! Can I trust you, Smithson?”
Dick bowed.
“Yes; one can confide in you, Smithson. You remember—er—er—a little adventure of ours—the serenade?”
“Oh, yes, sir!”
“I hardly care to refer to it, Smithson; but, as I think I said before, I always feel as if I can trust you.”
Dick bowed again, and felt disposed to laugh; but his face was extra-serious as the lieutenant went on—
“The fact is, we made a great mistake, Smithson, and that duet was played under the wrong window. There is an aunt there—and—and—she is not young.”
“I presumed so, sir, from the voice,” said Dick, for the young officer waited.
“There is no presumption about it, Smithson; you were quite right. She is still single. Miss—well—er—since then—er—we have met.”
“You and the aunt, sir?”
“Smithson, this is no matter for ribald jest,” said the lieutenant, sharply.
“I beg pardon, sir; I meant to be quite serious.”
“I thank you, Smithson. You will grasp what I mean when you grow older. You may come to feel as I have felt for months past.”
“I hope not!” thought Dick.
“I will continue, Smithson. We have met since, more than once; and yesterday I sent that idiot with a note.”
“And he gave it to the wrong person, sir?”
“What! You have heard?”
“Oh, no, sir; but it is what I should have expected him to do.”
“You are quite right; and I ought to have known better. He took the letter, and delivered it to the aunt. Smithson, I am in agony! She has responded to me, thinking my words were meant for her. I walked by there an hour ago and saw her, and—oh, Smithson!—she smiled. What is to be done?”
Dick was silent for a minute, not knowing how to answer the question; then a way out of the difficulty came.
“I’ll tell you, sir! You must discharge that fellow.”
“I did, Smithson—at once. I was in such a rage that I kicked him; and I fear that there will be some trouble about that, if he reports it to his superior officer.”
“Pooh! Give him half a sovereign, sir, and you’ll hear no more about it.”
“That’s very good advice, Smithson. I wish I had your head.”
“You want a good, clever, smart servant, sir,” said Dick, who was breathless with excitement consequent upon his new idea.
“Yes, Smithson; but such a treasure seems to be unobtainable.”
“I don’t know—I think I could find you such a man, sir.”
“You could! Oh, no; I want a regular valet, Smithson. I have grown sadly indolent, and I often wish a war would break out to rouse me up.”
“This is a regular valet, sir.”
“But—really, Smithson, I’m afraid I’m very lazy—can he shave?”
“Oh, yes, sir, and cut hair admirably.”
“Indeed? A friend of yours?”
“Well, sir, not exactly; I used to know him.”
“Whose company is he in?”
“Unfortunately, sir, he is not in this regiment.”
“Smithson! how can you?” cried the lieutenant in lachrymose tones. “What is the use of raising my hopes to dash them down? Is he a man of bad character who wants to join?”
“No, sir; he is a soldier already; but he is in the 310th, sir—the regiment we ‘played in’ the other day.”
“In the 310th?” said the lieutenant, thoughtfully.
“And, of course, not available, sir.”
“Is he anyone else’s servant?”
“He is simply a private, sir.”
“Then— I don’t know, though. Perhaps I might—or I could—I—how tiresome!”
For at that moment Dick sprang from his seat, as he heard steps outside.
“You at home, Lacey?” cried a voice.
“Yes: come in.”
As the door opened, the lieutenant said excitedly—
“What is this man’s name?”
“Jeremiah Brigley, sir;” and the young officer carefully put down the name before Dick retreated and took his leave, the new arrival saying:
“Here, Smithson, I shall want you to give me some lessons, too.”
The next minute Dick was crossing the barrack yard to reach his quarters, wondering whether it would be possible for Jerry to be exchanged, and meeting the bandmaster, who said rather gruffly—
“Where have you been, sir?”
“To Mr Lacey’s, sir.”
“Ha! I hope I shall find out that this is the truth.”
Dick flushed.
“There is too much lesson-giving, and the band practice is neglected. Be good enough to recollect, sir, that I have reported your conduct.”
“I don’t understand you, sir,” replied Dick.
“I allude to that episode, sir, when you absented yourself from the practice without leave. Your conduct is not what it should be, sir. And recollect this: that a man picked up, as you were, in the street ought to be doubly careful when he has got a lift in life; so have a care, sir—have a care.”
“I am sorry I absented myself, sir,” began Dick, but Wilkins raised himself on tiptoe, and interrupted him.
“Say ‘stopped away,’ sir. Leave ‘absented’ to your officers. There’s too much favouritism in this regiment; but I warn you, sir: have a care—have a care.”
He strutted away, arranging the few thin bits of hair about his ears, leaving Dick looking after him.
“Oh, you stupid little man!” muttered Dick, who then went to his quarters to think out what he had better do. But, try hard as he would, he could not think it out; for the more he thought, the more it seemed to him that he had completely obliterated himself by his foolish act—that Sir Richard Frayne was dead to the world and Dick Smithson reigned in his stead.
Chapter Twenty Six.Finding a Leech.Dick Smithson was busy, a few mornings later, working with his hands as well as his brain. The latter could not succeed in its task; for, the more he thought, the more desperate grew the confusion in his mind; and, by way of relief, he tried hard to dismiss the whole business, but only to find that it would not go.His hands were more successful; for he had polished his sword, pipe-clayed his belt, gloves, and the little leather pouch which held his music-cards, and now, with a brush ready, he was performing a task which looked like a puzzle, for he was passing the gilt buttons of his uniform through a hole in a flat stick, and then running them one after another along a slit.He had heard someone enter the room; but he was too intent upon his work to look up, and he had just picked up the brush to begin polishing the buttons, now in a neat row, when a couple of hands were passed round him—one taking his jacket and button-stick, the other the brush, which was briskly applied, accompanied by a loud, hissing noise, such as an ostler makes, to blow away the dust, when grooming a horse.“Jerry!” exclaimed Dick, wonderingly.“Me it is, S’Rich—Dick Smithson,” cried the man, cheerily.“For goodness’ sake, mind what you are saying.”“I will, sir—I will, Dick—but it is so hard to break off your old habits.”“And give me that brush. You must not go on like this.”“Why not?” cried Jerry; “I often do jobs for my mates. There’s no rules again’ that. Why, I could clean up, polish, and pipe-clay twice as fast as some of ’em.”“But what brings you here, Jerry?”“Ah! that’s it, S’Dick Smithson!” cried the man, with a smile of triumph. “It’s all right; I’m taken in exchange.”“What!”“They’ve swopped me, somehow. I don’t know; but I don’t belong to the Three-tenth no longer. I’m a Two-fifth, and, what’s more, I’m Lieutenant Lacey’s servant. I’ve been with him two days.”“And are you satisfied? Can you get on?”“Satisfied ain’t the word for it. I was never meant to go shouldering arms and making two legs of a long centipede, and crawling about. It’s like getting back into real happiness. Waited table last night for the fust time. Didn’t you see me?”“I? No.”“I see you tootling away there on your floot, ’eavenly, but I couldn’t catch your eye. ’Sides, I was strange there, and had to mind what I was about, ’tending to my master. It was a real treat!”“And so you think you’ll get on with him?”“Get on with him! Why, I can do anything I like with him already! My word! they call red herrings sogers, and sogers red herrings, and he is a soft-roed un, and no mistake.”“Lieutenant Lacey is a thorough gentleman, Jerry,” cried Dick, warmly.“Every inch of him, Dick Smithson—mind, I’m a calling you that, Dick, but it’s meant respectful—a thorough gent, every inch of him, and there’s a good lot on him, too; but he is a bit slack-baked, you know. Why, if I liked, I could a’most gammon him into anything.”“I trust you will prove as good a servant to him as you were to—”“Me,” Dick was going to say, but he checked himself.“You trust me for that, Dick Smithson, I will. But, really, it’s shameful the way he’s been neglected. He come and ketched me last night sitting on the floor cross-legged, fine-drawing a hole in his dress-vest, and he burst out a-laughing, good-humoured like.“‘Why, Brigley,’ he says, ‘I didn’t know you were a tailor.’“‘More I am, sir,’ I says; ‘but a man as pretends to valet a gent, and can’t draw up a tear, or put on a button, ain’t worth calling a servant, sir,’ I says.“‘I’m afraid my things have been very much neglected,’ he says, and then he asked, ‘What boots are those in a row?’“‘Some as I found in the closet, sir, all over mould.’“‘But they’re not fit to wear, are they?’“‘Why not, sir?’ I says. ‘Look here, sir, that chap as you’ve had here ought to be flogged; I never see a gent’s fit-out and accoutrements in such a state.’“‘They have been terribly neglected, my man,’ he says, ‘and I hope you’ll put ’em right.’“‘You trust me, sir,’ I says, ‘and they shall be done proper, but it’ll take me weeks yet. Your linen’s shameful.’“‘Then I must get some new things.’“‘What for, sir?’ I says. ‘They’re right enough. Leastwise, they will be. You leave ’em to me, sir.’“‘I will, my man,’ he says.“And then he sits down and sighs. Ever heard him sigh, sir?”“Yes, often, Jerry.”“An’ he can sigh! ‘Tired, sir?’ I says.“‘Yes, and low-spirited,’ he says.“I didn’t say no more, but puts away the vest as I’d finished, all but pressing it. Then I takes out my cloth, gets his pair of ivory-back brushes, just takes off his dress-jacket, and puts the cloth round his neck, sets him up a bit, and then I brushed his head for about ten minutes—you know my way, sir?”“Yes, Jerry; I recollect.”“And there he sat, with the wrinkles going out of his forrid, and a sort o’ baby-like smile coming all over his face.“‘Find it fresh’ning, sir?’ I says.“‘Heavenly,’ he says.“‘You want a good shampoo, sir,’ I says. ‘There’s a deal o’ dandruff in your head.’“‘That’s what the hairdresser said,’ says he, an’ he sighs again.“‘Oh, yes; I know,’ says I; ‘they allus do, and wants you to buy bottles o’ their tintry-cum-fuldicus. You leave it to me, sir. Little white o’ egg and borax, and a finish off with some good scented soap; and then if anyone sees some o’ that stuff in your head, sir, just you tell me.’“He’s a very nice gent, sir—I mean Dick; but the way he’s been neglected and preyed on by barbers and sich is shameful. Why, he’s got stuff enough in his quarters to stock a shop.”“Then you think you’ll get on with him, Jerry?”“Think? Not me! You ask him if he’ll let me go, and you’ll see. I sent him out this morning pretty tidy to parade, quite early—and don’t he like you to dress him—and when he come back, looking done-up, I was ready for him with a pick-me-up. You see there’s a lot of him, and he want nootriment.”“‘What’s this?’ he says.“‘Your lotion, sir,’ I says, and he tasted it, and tasted it again, sipping, then mouthfulling, and sets the glass down, with a sigh.“‘What is it, Brigley?’ he says.“‘Noo-lade egg, sir, noo milk, lump o’ sugar, and half a glass o’ sherry, well lathered up with a swizzle-stick.’“‘Hah!’ he says, ‘is there any more?’“‘No, sir,’ I says; ‘not this morning. Now then, sir,’ I says; ‘if you please?’ And then I takes off his belts and his regimentals, gets him on the couch, and I rubs him and cracks him.”“You did what?” cried Dick.“Massages him, sir; and him a-staring at me all the time. After that I shampoos and washes him, trims the pyntes off his hair, waxes his starshers, gives him a cigarette, and then I rejoices his heart.”“How?” said Dick, laughing.“By telling on him the truth, sir.”“What truth?”“I stood back and looked at him, and I says to him: ‘There, sir; don’t you feel like a new man?’“Ah, yes! he says, with one o’ those big mellingcholly sighs of his’n, which makes me think he’s got something on his mind.“‘And now, sir,’ I says, ‘you look puffect.’“‘Oh, nonsense, man!’ he says, sharply.“‘Begging your pardon, sir!’ I says, ‘you do!’ and he says, sadly—“‘Well, Brigley, have it your own way; ’tis no fault of mine.’“I see then as I oughtn’t to say no more, for fear of his thinking I flattered him. But, really, he is as handsome and big a chap as ever I did see.”“Yes, he is good-looking, Jerry; but if you talk much like that you’ll disgust him.”“An’ I shan’t talk to him like that again, Dick Smithson; and I shouldn’t, then, only it was the honest truth. It’s a pleasure to do up a gent like that! Why, I could win a prize with him at a show! But he is a soft one, really!—milk’s nothing to him!”“Never mind that, Jerry. You’ll find him an excellent master.”“I know I shall, and thankful I am; for it’s been a rough time with me lately, and it’s refreshing to have to do for such a gent. He really is, though, the handsomest chap I ever see out of a picture, though he do make me laugh to find him such a hinfant. Think he could fight?”“I think he’s brave as a lion, Jerry; and that it would be awkward for anyone who roused him up.”“That’s yer sort for me, sir. I call that real English.”“And he’d be clever enough, if put to the test. But he’s well-off, and takes life easily. You’ve got a good master, Jerry; and you know it.”“I do, Dick Smithson; and I want him to know he’s got a good servant.”“Oh, he’ll find that out, Jerry. Yes! you were going to say something?”“I were, sir—I mean Dick Smithson. Did you know as he was friends with your cousin?”“No, surely not!”“Fact, sir. He come to Mr Lacey’s quarters this morning. I was sewing on buttons in the next room, and couldn’t help hearing something about odds; and that set me up sharp, for I knows what odds mean—no one better.”“But you shouldn’t have listened.”“I didn’t, Dick Smithson; but I heered enough to show as S’Mark—I—I beg your pardon.”Dick started; but he said nothing, and Jerry went on.“As your cousin’s feeling his way with Mr Lacey—and, if he is, it means betting and play, and bleeding of him orful. Couldn’t you give him a hint, as someone we knows ain’t to be trusted?”Dick was silent for a few moments, and then said between his teeth—“No, Jerry. Mr Lacey—if my cousin is a scoundrel—must find it out for himself.”“But that seems hard,” said Jerry.“It will be hard for Mark Frayne if there’s anything wrong. Mr Lacey is not such a—”“Fool as he looks? that was what you was going to say. Well, I’m glad o’ that.”And Jerry soon after took his leave, telling Dick not to be downhearted, for things would come right.“Yes,” muttered Jerry, “and the guv’nor jolly soon will find out about Mr Mark. If I was him, I’d lock up my money—and my young lady, too.”
Dick Smithson was busy, a few mornings later, working with his hands as well as his brain. The latter could not succeed in its task; for, the more he thought, the more desperate grew the confusion in his mind; and, by way of relief, he tried hard to dismiss the whole business, but only to find that it would not go.
His hands were more successful; for he had polished his sword, pipe-clayed his belt, gloves, and the little leather pouch which held his music-cards, and now, with a brush ready, he was performing a task which looked like a puzzle, for he was passing the gilt buttons of his uniform through a hole in a flat stick, and then running them one after another along a slit.
He had heard someone enter the room; but he was too intent upon his work to look up, and he had just picked up the brush to begin polishing the buttons, now in a neat row, when a couple of hands were passed round him—one taking his jacket and button-stick, the other the brush, which was briskly applied, accompanied by a loud, hissing noise, such as an ostler makes, to blow away the dust, when grooming a horse.
“Jerry!” exclaimed Dick, wonderingly.
“Me it is, S’Rich—Dick Smithson,” cried the man, cheerily.
“For goodness’ sake, mind what you are saying.”
“I will, sir—I will, Dick—but it is so hard to break off your old habits.”
“And give me that brush. You must not go on like this.”
“Why not?” cried Jerry; “I often do jobs for my mates. There’s no rules again’ that. Why, I could clean up, polish, and pipe-clay twice as fast as some of ’em.”
“But what brings you here, Jerry?”
“Ah! that’s it, S’Dick Smithson!” cried the man, with a smile of triumph. “It’s all right; I’m taken in exchange.”
“What!”
“They’ve swopped me, somehow. I don’t know; but I don’t belong to the Three-tenth no longer. I’m a Two-fifth, and, what’s more, I’m Lieutenant Lacey’s servant. I’ve been with him two days.”
“And are you satisfied? Can you get on?”
“Satisfied ain’t the word for it. I was never meant to go shouldering arms and making two legs of a long centipede, and crawling about. It’s like getting back into real happiness. Waited table last night for the fust time. Didn’t you see me?”
“I? No.”
“I see you tootling away there on your floot, ’eavenly, but I couldn’t catch your eye. ’Sides, I was strange there, and had to mind what I was about, ’tending to my master. It was a real treat!”
“And so you think you’ll get on with him?”
“Get on with him! Why, I can do anything I like with him already! My word! they call red herrings sogers, and sogers red herrings, and he is a soft-roed un, and no mistake.”
“Lieutenant Lacey is a thorough gentleman, Jerry,” cried Dick, warmly.
“Every inch of him, Dick Smithson—mind, I’m a calling you that, Dick, but it’s meant respectful—a thorough gent, every inch of him, and there’s a good lot on him, too; but he is a bit slack-baked, you know. Why, if I liked, I could a’most gammon him into anything.”
“I trust you will prove as good a servant to him as you were to—”
“Me,” Dick was going to say, but he checked himself.
“You trust me for that, Dick Smithson, I will. But, really, it’s shameful the way he’s been neglected. He come and ketched me last night sitting on the floor cross-legged, fine-drawing a hole in his dress-vest, and he burst out a-laughing, good-humoured like.
“‘Why, Brigley,’ he says, ‘I didn’t know you were a tailor.’
“‘More I am, sir,’ I says; ‘but a man as pretends to valet a gent, and can’t draw up a tear, or put on a button, ain’t worth calling a servant, sir,’ I says.
“‘I’m afraid my things have been very much neglected,’ he says, and then he asked, ‘What boots are those in a row?’
“‘Some as I found in the closet, sir, all over mould.’
“‘But they’re not fit to wear, are they?’
“‘Why not, sir?’ I says. ‘Look here, sir, that chap as you’ve had here ought to be flogged; I never see a gent’s fit-out and accoutrements in such a state.’
“‘They have been terribly neglected, my man,’ he says, ‘and I hope you’ll put ’em right.’
“‘You trust me, sir,’ I says, ‘and they shall be done proper, but it’ll take me weeks yet. Your linen’s shameful.’
“‘Then I must get some new things.’
“‘What for, sir?’ I says. ‘They’re right enough. Leastwise, they will be. You leave ’em to me, sir.’
“‘I will, my man,’ he says.
“And then he sits down and sighs. Ever heard him sigh, sir?”
“Yes, often, Jerry.”
“An’ he can sigh! ‘Tired, sir?’ I says.
“‘Yes, and low-spirited,’ he says.
“I didn’t say no more, but puts away the vest as I’d finished, all but pressing it. Then I takes out my cloth, gets his pair of ivory-back brushes, just takes off his dress-jacket, and puts the cloth round his neck, sets him up a bit, and then I brushed his head for about ten minutes—you know my way, sir?”
“Yes, Jerry; I recollect.”
“And there he sat, with the wrinkles going out of his forrid, and a sort o’ baby-like smile coming all over his face.
“‘Find it fresh’ning, sir?’ I says.
“‘Heavenly,’ he says.
“‘You want a good shampoo, sir,’ I says. ‘There’s a deal o’ dandruff in your head.’
“‘That’s what the hairdresser said,’ says he, an’ he sighs again.
“‘Oh, yes; I know,’ says I; ‘they allus do, and wants you to buy bottles o’ their tintry-cum-fuldicus. You leave it to me, sir. Little white o’ egg and borax, and a finish off with some good scented soap; and then if anyone sees some o’ that stuff in your head, sir, just you tell me.’
“He’s a very nice gent, sir—I mean Dick; but the way he’s been neglected and preyed on by barbers and sich is shameful. Why, he’s got stuff enough in his quarters to stock a shop.”
“Then you think you’ll get on with him, Jerry?”
“Think? Not me! You ask him if he’ll let me go, and you’ll see. I sent him out this morning pretty tidy to parade, quite early—and don’t he like you to dress him—and when he come back, looking done-up, I was ready for him with a pick-me-up. You see there’s a lot of him, and he want nootriment.”
“‘What’s this?’ he says.
“‘Your lotion, sir,’ I says, and he tasted it, and tasted it again, sipping, then mouthfulling, and sets the glass down, with a sigh.
“‘What is it, Brigley?’ he says.
“‘Noo-lade egg, sir, noo milk, lump o’ sugar, and half a glass o’ sherry, well lathered up with a swizzle-stick.’
“‘Hah!’ he says, ‘is there any more?’
“‘No, sir,’ I says; ‘not this morning. Now then, sir,’ I says; ‘if you please?’ And then I takes off his belts and his regimentals, gets him on the couch, and I rubs him and cracks him.”
“You did what?” cried Dick.
“Massages him, sir; and him a-staring at me all the time. After that I shampoos and washes him, trims the pyntes off his hair, waxes his starshers, gives him a cigarette, and then I rejoices his heart.”
“How?” said Dick, laughing.
“By telling on him the truth, sir.”
“What truth?”
“I stood back and looked at him, and I says to him: ‘There, sir; don’t you feel like a new man?’
“Ah, yes! he says, with one o’ those big mellingcholly sighs of his’n, which makes me think he’s got something on his mind.
“‘And now, sir,’ I says, ‘you look puffect.’
“‘Oh, nonsense, man!’ he says, sharply.
“‘Begging your pardon, sir!’ I says, ‘you do!’ and he says, sadly—
“‘Well, Brigley, have it your own way; ’tis no fault of mine.’
“I see then as I oughtn’t to say no more, for fear of his thinking I flattered him. But, really, he is as handsome and big a chap as ever I did see.”
“Yes, he is good-looking, Jerry; but if you talk much like that you’ll disgust him.”
“An’ I shan’t talk to him like that again, Dick Smithson; and I shouldn’t, then, only it was the honest truth. It’s a pleasure to do up a gent like that! Why, I could win a prize with him at a show! But he is a soft one, really!—milk’s nothing to him!”
“Never mind that, Jerry. You’ll find him an excellent master.”
“I know I shall, and thankful I am; for it’s been a rough time with me lately, and it’s refreshing to have to do for such a gent. He really is, though, the handsomest chap I ever see out of a picture, though he do make me laugh to find him such a hinfant. Think he could fight?”
“I think he’s brave as a lion, Jerry; and that it would be awkward for anyone who roused him up.”
“That’s yer sort for me, sir. I call that real English.”
“And he’d be clever enough, if put to the test. But he’s well-off, and takes life easily. You’ve got a good master, Jerry; and you know it.”
“I do, Dick Smithson; and I want him to know he’s got a good servant.”
“Oh, he’ll find that out, Jerry. Yes! you were going to say something?”
“I were, sir—I mean Dick Smithson. Did you know as he was friends with your cousin?”
“No, surely not!”
“Fact, sir. He come to Mr Lacey’s quarters this morning. I was sewing on buttons in the next room, and couldn’t help hearing something about odds; and that set me up sharp, for I knows what odds mean—no one better.”
“But you shouldn’t have listened.”
“I didn’t, Dick Smithson; but I heered enough to show as S’Mark—I—I beg your pardon.”
Dick started; but he said nothing, and Jerry went on.
“As your cousin’s feeling his way with Mr Lacey—and, if he is, it means betting and play, and bleeding of him orful. Couldn’t you give him a hint, as someone we knows ain’t to be trusted?”
Dick was silent for a few moments, and then said between his teeth—
“No, Jerry. Mr Lacey—if my cousin is a scoundrel—must find it out for himself.”
“But that seems hard,” said Jerry.
“It will be hard for Mark Frayne if there’s anything wrong. Mr Lacey is not such a—”
“Fool as he looks? that was what you was going to say. Well, I’m glad o’ that.”
And Jerry soon after took his leave, telling Dick not to be downhearted, for things would come right.
“Yes,” muttered Jerry, “and the guv’nor jolly soon will find out about Mr Mark. If I was him, I’d lock up my money—and my young lady, too.”