Major Mahon is a soldier of the rollicking Irish type--good company as
ever drank wine at a regimental mess-table, or whisky-and-water under
the canvas of a tent. Brave in war, too, as evinced by sundry scars of
wounds given by the sabres of rebellious sowars, and an empty sleeve
dangling down by his side. This same token almost proclaims that he is
no longer in the army. For he is not--having left it disabled at the
close of the Indian Mutiny: after the relief of Lucknow, where he also
parted with his arm.
He is not rich; one reason for his being in Boulogne--convenient place
for men of moderate means. There he has rented a house, in which for
nearly a twelvemonth he has been residing: a small domicile, _meuble_.
Still, large enough for his needs: for the Major, though nigh forty
years of age, has never thought of getting married; or, if so, has not
carried out the intention. As a bachelor in the French watering-place,
his income of five hundred per annum supplies all his wants--far better
than if it were in an English one.
But economy is not his only reason for sojourning in Boulogne. There is
another alike creditable to him, or more. He has a sister, much younger
than himself, receiving education there; an only sister, for whom he
feels the strongest affection, and likes to be beside her.
For all he sees her only at stated times, and with no great frequency.
Her school is attached to a convent, and she is in it as a
_pensionnaire_.
All these matters are made known to Captain Ryecroft on the day after
his arrival at Boulogne. Not in the morning. It has been spent in
promenading through the streets of the lower town and along the _jetee_,
with a visit to the grand lion of the place, _l'Establissement de
Bains_, ending in an hour or two passed at the "cercle" of which the
Major is a member, and where his old campaigning comrade, against all
protestations, is introduced to the half-dozen "good fellows as ever
stretched legs under mahogany."
It is not till a later hour, however, after a quiet dinner in the
Major's own house, and during a stroll upon the ramparts of the _Haute
Ville_, that these confidences are given to his guest, with all the
exuberant frankness of the Hibernian heart.
Ryecroft, though Irish himself, is of less communicative nature. A
native of Dublin, he has Saxon in his blood, with some of its
secretiveness; and the Major finds a difficulty in drawing him in
reference to the particular reason of his interrupted journey to Paris.
He essays, however, with as much skill as he can command, making
approach as follows:
"What a time it seems, Ryecroft, since you and I have been together--an
age! And yet, if I'm not wrong in my reckoning, it was but a year ago.
Yes; just twelve months, or thereabout. You remember, we met at the
`Bag,' and dined there, with Russel, of the Artillery."
"Of course I remember it."
"I've seen Russel since; about three months ago, when I was over in
England. And by the way, 'twas from him I last heard of yourself."
"What had he to say about me?"
"Only that you were somewhere down west--on the Wye I think--salmon
fishing. I know you were always good at casting a fly."
"That all he said?"
"Well, no;" admits the Major, with a sly, inquisitive glance at the
other's face. "There was a trifle of a codicil added to the information
about your whereabouts and occupation."
"What, may I ask?"
"That you'd been wonderfully successful in your angling; had hooked a
very fine fish--a big one, besides--and sold out of the army; so that
you might be free to play it on your line; in fine, that you'd captured,
safe landed, and intended staying by it for the rest of your days.
Come, old boy! Don't be blushing about the thing; you know you can
trust Charley Mahon. Is it true?"
"Is what true?" asks the other, with an air of assumed innocence.
"That you've caught the richest heiress in Herefordshire, or she you, or
each the other, as Russel had it, and which is best for both of you.
Down on your knees, Ryecroft! Confess!"
"Major Mahon! If you wish me to remain your guest for another night--
another hour--you'll not ask me aught about that affair nor even name
it. In time I may tell you all; but now to speak of it gives me a pain
which even you, one of my oldest, and I believe, truest friends cannot
fully understand."
"I can at least understand that it's something serious." The inference
is drawn less from Ryecroft's words than their tone and the look of
utter desolation which accompanies them. "But," continues the Major,
greatly moved, "you'll forgive me, old fellow, for being so inquisitive?
I promise not to press you any more. So let's drop the subject, and
speak of something else."
"What then?" asks Ryecroft, scarce conscious of questioning.
"My little sister, if you like. I call her little because she was so
when I went out to India. She's now a grown girl, tall as that, and, as
flattering friends say, a great beauty. What's better, she's good. You
see that building below?"
They are on the outer edge of the rampart, looking upon the ground
adjacent to the _enceinte_ of the ancient _cite_. A slope in warlike
days serving as the _glacis_, now occupied by dwellings, some of them
pretentious, with gardens attached. That which the Major points to is
one of the grandest, its enclosure large, with walls that only a man
upon stilts of the Landes country could look over.
"I see--what of it!" asks the ex-Hussar.
"It's the convent where Kate is at school--the prison in which she's
confined, I might better say," he adds, with a laugh, but in tone more
serious than jocular.
It need scarce be said that Major Mahon is a Roman Catholic. His sister
being in such a seminary is evidence of that. But he is not bigoted, as
Ryecroft knows, without drawing the deduction from his last remark.
His old friend and fellow-campaigner does not even ask explanation of
it, only observing--
"A very fine mansion it appears--walks, shade trees, arbours, fountains.
I had no idea the nuns were so well bestowed. They ought to live
happily in such a pretty place. But then, shut up, domineered over,
coerced, as I've heard they are--ah, liberty! It's the only thing that
makes the world worth living in."
"Ditto, say I. I echo your sentiment, old fellow, and feel it. If I
didn't I might have been long ago a Benedict, with a millstone around my
neck in the shape of a wife, and half a score of smaller ones of the
grindstone pattern--in piccaninnies. Instead, I'm free as the breezes,
and by the Moll Kelly, intend remaining so!"
The Major winds up the ungallant declaration with a laugh. But this is
not echoed by his companion, to whom the subject touched upon is a
tender one.
Perceiving it so, Mahon makes a fresh start in the conversation,
remarking--
"It's beginning to feel a bit chilly up here. Suppose we saunter down
to the Cercle, and have a game of billiards!"
"If it be all the same to you, Mahon, I'd rather not go there to night."
"Oh! it's all the same to me. Let us home, then, and warm up with a
tumbler of whisky toddy. There were orders left for the kettle to be
kept on the boil. I see you still want cheering, and there's nothing
will do that like a drop of the _crather_. _Allons_!" Without
resisting, Ryecroft follows his friend down the stairs of the rampart.
From the point where they descended the shortest way to the Rue
Tintelleries is through a narrow lane not much used, upon which abut
only the back walls of gardens, with their gates or doors. One of
these, a gaol-like affair, is the entrance to the convent in which Miss
Mahon is at school. As they approach it a _fiacre_ is standing in
front, as if but lately drawn up to deliver its fare--a traveller.
There is a lamp, and by its light, dim nevertheless, they see that
luggage is being taken inside. Some one on a visit to the Convent, or
returning after absence. Nothing strange in all that; and neither of
the two men make remark upon it, but keep on.
Just however, as they are passing the back, about to drive off again,
Captain Ryecroft, looking towards the door still ajar, sees a face
inside it which causes him to start.
"What is it?" asks the Major, who feels the spasmodic movement--the two
walking arm-in-arm.
"Well! if it wasn't that I am in Boulogne instead of on the banks of the
river Wye, I'd swear that I saw a man inside that doorway whom I met not
many days ago in the shire of Hereford."
"What sort of a man?"
"A priest!"
"Oh! black's no mark among sheep. The _pretres_ are all alike, as peas
or policemen. I'm often puzzled myself to tell one from t'other."
Satisfied with this explanation, the ex-Hussar says nothing further on
the subject, and they continue on to the Rue Tintelleries.
Entering his house, the Major calls for "matayrials," and they sit down
to the steaming punch. But before their glasses are half emptied, there
is a ring at the door bell, and soon after a voice inquiring for
"Captain Ryecroft." The entrance-hall being contiguous to the
dining-room where they are seated, they hear all this.
"Who can be asking for me?" queries Ryecroft, looking towards his host.
The Major cannot tell--cannot think--who. But the answer is given by
his Irish manservant entering with a card, which he presents to Captain
Ryecroft, saying:--
"It's for you, yer honner." The name on the card is--
"Mr George Shenstone."
Volume Two, Chapter XXII.