"WHEN JOHNNY COMES MARCHING HOME AGAIN!"
"It touched the tin soldier so much to see her that he almost wept tin
tears, but he kept them back. He looked at her, and they both remained
silent."--_The Brave Tin Soldier_.
It was a hot, still afternoon in August. The birds were silent, hardly
a leaf stirred, and everything seemed to have dozed off to sleep in the
quiet sunshine. Old Ned Brown, the cobbler, and general "handy-man" of
the village, who, in days gone by, had often bound bats and done other
odd jobs for "Miss Fenleigh's young nevies," laid down his awl, and
gazed out of the window of his dingy little shop.
A soldier was walking slowly down the road. His boots were covered
with dust, and on the breast of his red coat glittered the Egyptian
medal and the Khedive's Cross.
"That must be Widow Crouch's son," said Ned to himself. "I heard he
was back from the war. Maybe he'll know summat about the young
gen'leman who used to come and stay up at the house yonder, and who,
they say, was killed. Ah, yes! I remember him well--a nice,
pleasant-spoken young chap! Dear me, dear me! sad work, sad work!"
With a shake of his head, the old man once more picked up the shoe he
was mending, still muttering to himself, "Yes, I remember him--sad
work, sad work!"
The soldier strode on. His thoughts also were busy with memories of
the past. In one sense he was not alone; for before him, in fancy,
walked a boy--a rather surly, uncared-for looking young dog, with hands
in his pockets, coat thrown open, and Cricket cap perched on the back
of his head, as though in open defiance of the rain that was falling.
The road had been damp and dismal then; to-day it was dry and dusty;
but the heart of the man who trod it was no lighter than it had been
that evening ten years ago.
The old cobbler had been mistaken. It was not Joe Crouch, but Jack
Fenleigh, who had just passed the window of the little shop. He was
thinking of the first time he had come to Brenlands at the commencement
of the summer holidays, after having been kept back on the breaking-up
day as a punishment for sending a pillow through the glass ventilator
of the Long Dormitory.
"I didn't want to face her then," he said to himself, switching the
dust off his trousers with his cane. "And yet, how kind she was!
Never mind! she won't know me now. Valentine promised he wouldn't
write, and he never broke his word."
Jack had walked from Melchester. More than once in the course of the
journey he had hesitated, and thought of turning back; but the
sacredness of the promise made to a dying man had compelled him to go
forward.
He turned the corner, and slackened his pace as he saw before him the
old house nestling among the trees. There was no board with TO LET
printed on it, such as usually, in story-books, greets the eye of the
returning wanderer. The place was just the same as it always had been;
and the very fact of its being unchanged appealed to his feelings in a
manner which it would be impossible to describe. The white front gate,
whose hinges had been so often tried by its being transformed into a
sort of merry-go-round; the clumps of laurel bushes which had afforded
such good hiding-places in games of "I spy;" even the long-suffering
little brass weathercock above the stable roof, which had served as a
mark for catapult shooting,--these, and a hundred other objects on
which his eyes rested, recalled memories which softened his heart, and
brought back more vividly than ever the recollection of that faithful
friend, whose last request he was about to fulfil.
"I must do it," he muttered, feeling in his pocket for the ring; "I
promised him I would."
He pushed open the gate, and walked almost on tiptoe down the path,
casting anxious glances at the windows. To his great relief it was not
Jane who opened the door, but a new servant.
"Is Miss Fenleigh in?" he stammered. "Will you tell her a--a private
soldier has brought her something from an officer who died in Egypt?"
The girl showed him into the old, quiet parlour (as if he could not
have found the way thither himself), and there left him. It was very
still. Nothing broke the silence but the sleepy tick of the clock, and
the sound of some one (Jakes, perhaps) raking gravel on the garden
path. Everything was unaltered. There was the little bust of Minerva
that Barbara had once adorned with a paper bonnet; the fretsaw bookcase
that the two boys had made at school; and the quaint little
glass-fronted cupboard, let into the panelling, from which the watch
had been stolen. In the years that had passed, only one thing in the
room had changed, and that was the tall figure in uniform standing on
the hearthrug.
He turned to look at himself in the glass. The dark moustache, bronzed
skin, red tunic with its white collar and badges of the "royal tiger;"
all these things had never been reflected there before, and for the
twentieth time during the last half-hour he sought to reassure himself
with the thought that his disguise was complete. "She'll never
recognize me!" he muttered. "It's all right." Then the door opened,
and for an instant his heart seemed to stop beating.
The same easy dignity and graciousness of manner, the same sweet
womanly face, and the same depths of love and ready sympathy in her
clear, calm eyes. She was dressed in mourning, and at her throat was
the brooch containing the locks of the children's hair. Jack noticed
it at once, and saw, too, that the little silver locket still had its
place among the gold trinkets on her watch chain; and the sight of it
very nearly brought him down upon his knees at her feet.
She seemed smaller than ever, and now, standing in front of him, her
upturned face was about on a level with the medals on his breast.
What was it made his chest heave and his lips tremble as he encountered
her gaze? However foolish and headstrong he might have been in the
past, he knew he had only to declare himself and it would all be
forgotten and forgiven. "You may doubt us," Valentine had said, "but
we have never lost faith in you." Yes, that was it; she loved her ugly
duckling, believing even now that, in spite of outward appearances, it
would one day turn into a swan. But the years had slipped away, and
the change had never taken place. She might hope that it had, and it
was best that she should never know the truth.
With a set face he began to speak.
"I've lately returned from Egypt, and saw there your nephew, Lieutenant
Fenleigh, of the ----sex Regiment."
He tried to say "ma'am," but even at that moment it seemed too great a
mockery, and the word choked him.
"I was with him when he died on the banks of the Nile. He asked me to
bring you this, and to give it to you with my own hands."
She took the ring, but without moving her eyes from the speaker's face.
"He asked me to tell you that he remembered you always."
The voice grew husky, and the lady drew a little closer, perhaps to
hear more plainly what was said.
"And to say that he carried his--his love for you with him down into
the grave."
With a great effort Jack finished the message. The words had brought
back a flood of vivid recollections of that dreadful night, and his
eyes were filled with blinding tears. He turned to brush them away,
and as he did so he felt Queen Mab's arms meet round his neck.
"You dear old boy! don't you think I know you? Don't you think I knew
you as soon as you came inside the gate?"
He made some attempt to reply, uttered a broken word or two, and then
turned away his head; but she, standing on tiptoe, drew it down lower
and lower, until at length it rested on her shoulder.
And so the ugly duckling ended his wanderings.
* * * * *
No autumn frosts or winter snows could ever have fallen on that garden,
for here were the same flowers, and fruit, and ferns as had bloomed and
ripened that last August holiday seven years ago. So, at least,
thought Jack, as he and his aunt walked together along the paths.
"Did he write from Egypt to tell you about me?"
"No; but I've always been expecting you. I knew you'd come back some
time."
"I didn't think you'd recognize me."
"Valentine knew I should. Don't you see it was you he sent home to me,
and not the ring?"
Jack was silent. Everything that his eye rested upon reminded him of
that faithful, boyish friendship, and his lip quivered.
Queen Mab noticed it, and changed the subject.
"I wonder what Jakes will think to see me walking about arm-in-arm with
a soldier," she said gaily. "Never mind, I must make the most of it
while it lasts. I'm afraid I shan't have many more opportunities of
'keeping company' with a red-coat."
"How d'you mean?" he asked, with an uneasy, downward glance at his
uniform. "My time isn't up for nearly three years; and I know I ought
not to come here in this rig-out."
"Don't talk nonsense," she answered. "You're a pretty soldier to be
ashamed of your cloth. Isn't it possible for a man to do his duty
unless he has a pair of epaulettes on his shoulders? Can't he do it
under any kind of coat? Come now," she added, shaking his arm, and
looking up into his face with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes, "don't
you think, for the matter of that, a man could be a hero in his shirt
sleeves?"
"Yes," answered Jack, laughing.
"Oh, you do! I'm glad you've come to that conclusion at last."
"Why?"
"Why? because I think you'll soon have to give us a practical
illustration of how a man can distinguish himself by being capable and
trustworthy, even in plain clothes. That opens up a subject that I
have a lot to tell you about. Have you heard that your father and your
Uncle John are friends again?"
"Yes; Val said something about it."
"You haven't heard," she continued quietly, "that before the second
battle Valentine made a will, and gave it to a friend to be sent home
in case he was killed. It was more in the form of a long letter,
roughly written on the leaves of a pocket-book. A great deal of it was
about you. He did not break his promise to you, and say actually that
he had seen you, and where you were; but he assured us that he knew you
had not gone to the bad, but were living an honest life, and that
before long we should see you again. Then he begged his father, as a
last request, to do something for you, and to treat you as his own son.
Your uncle was over the other day. He is very anxious to carry out
Valentine's wishes, and would like to take you into his own business,
with a view to an ultimate partnership."
"It's awfully good of him," murmured Jack huskily.
"Well, that's what he intends to do. But come, it's time I put in the
tea."
"It's time I went," he murmured.
"Time you went? What nonsense! You say you've got a week's furlough,
and that you left your things at the Black Horse. Well, I'm just going
to send Jakes to fetch them. Why, I quite forgot to tell you that
little Bar was staying here."
The person who had just stepped out from the open French window on to
the lawn was certainly no longer little, but a tall, graceful young
lady. There was, however, still some trace in her roguish mouth and
dancing eyes of the smaller Barbara who had wrought such havoc among
her enemies by firing six peas at a time instead of two.
Jack had never before been frightened at Bar, of all people in the
world; but now, if Queen Mab had not still retained her hold of his
arm, he might very likely have bolted into the shrubbery.
The girl advanced slowly across the lawn, casting inquiring glances,
first at the red coat and medals, and then at the bronzed face of the
stranger. Then suddenly her mouth opened, and she quickened her pace
to a run.
"Oh, you rascal!" she cried. "It's Jack!"
That was all the speech-making Barbara thought necessary in welcoming
the returning prodigal; and not caring a straw for bars and ribbons,
pipeclay, and "royal tigers," she embraced him in the same hearty
manner as she had always done when they met at the commencement of
bygone summer holidays.
The dainty tea-table was a great change after the barrack-room. The
pretty china cups seemed wonderfully small and fragile compared with
the familiar basin; and once Jack found himself absent-mindedly
stuffing his serviette into his sleeve, under the impression that it
was his handkerchief.
"Why, when was the last time you had tea here?" asked Barbara. "It
must have been that summer when Raymond--" She stopped short, but the
last word instantly brought to Jack's mind the recollection of that
evening when Fosberton had charged him with being a thief.
"By-the-bye," he exclaimed, "I forgot to tell you--I've found the
watch."
"Yes, I know," answered Queen Mab quietly. "Valentine gave a full
account of it in his letter."
Jack was just going to launch out into a long and forcible tirade on
the subject of the theft, but his cousin signed to him across the table
to let the matter drop.
"Aunt has been in such a dreadful way about it," she explained
afterwards. "Only she and ourselves know about it. She doesn't like
even to have Raymond's name mentioned. He has turned out a thorough
scamp, and has given Uncle Fosberton no end of trouble. Father
happened to know the friends of that officer who was killed, and when
his things were sent home the watch was returned; so it's back again
now in the same old place. Aunt has never told any one, not even
Raymond himself, as she doesn't want to bring fresh trouble on his
parents."
Later on in the evening, as they sat together in the old, panelled
parlour in the soft light of the shaded lamp, the talk turned naturally
and sweetly on Valentine--on all that he used to say and do; and Jack
told as best he could the story of the desert march, and of that last
sad parting on the river's brink. After he had finished, there was a
silence; then Barbara picked up the piece of work she had laid down.
"So you didn't find war quite such a jolly thing as you used to think
it would be?" she said, looking across at him with a tearful smile.
"No," he answered thoughtfully. "I suppose things that you have long
set your mind on seldom turn out exactly what you want and expect them
to be. I'm glad I saw active service, and I'd go through it all again
a hundred times for the sake of having been with Valentine when he
died; though it was little I could do for him, more than to say
good-bye."
Queen Mab rose from her chair, and stooped over the speaker to wish him
good-night.
"Never mind," she said softly. "I'm glad to think of both my boys that
their warfare is accomplished!"