THE MARCH BY NIGHT.
The next day the Sergeant was away in his gig to Wyvern, a long
journey, to report to the Squire, and obtain leave of absence from his
duties for a day or two. He was to spend that night at Hatherton, there
to make arrangements about the funeral.
It was a relief to all at Noulton Farm, I need hardly say, when the
master of the house was away.
A very sad day it was for the boy; a day whose gloom was every now and
then crossed by the thrill and fear of a great excitement.
As evening darkened he went out again to the garden in the hope of
seeing Tom Orange. He would have liked that cheer at the eve of his
great venture. But Tom was not there. Neither counsel nor
encouragement to be heard; nothing but the song of the small birds
among the leaves, and the late flowers, soon to close, peeping from
among the garden plants, and the long quiet shadows of the poplars
that stood so tall and still against the western sky.
The boy came in and had his lonely cup of tea in the “parlour,” and a
little talk with the somewhat sour and sad old servant. He was longing
for the night. Yearning to see Tom’s friendly face and to end his
suspense.
At last the twilight was gone. The night had indeed come, and the moon
shone serenely over the old gray roof and the solemn trees; over the
dead and the living.
The boy lay down in his bed at the accustomed early hour. The old
woman had taken away his candle and shut the door. He lay with his
eyes wide open listening with a palpitating heart for every sound.
The inflexible regularity which the absent master had established in
his household was in the boy’s favour. He heard the servant shut and
bar the outer door at the wonted hour. He saw the boy’s candle in his
window for a while and then put out. Tony was in his bed, and for
tired Tony to lie down was generally to be asleep.
Peeping stealthily from his lattice he saw the old servant’s candle
glimmering redly through the window on the juniper that stood near the
wall in the shadow; and soon that light also disappeared, and he knew
that the old woman had gone into her room. It was half-past ten. She
would be asleep in a quarter of an hour, and in another fifteen
minutes his critical adventure would have commenced.
Stealthily, breathlessly, he dressed. His window looked toward the
ozier trees, where Tom was to await him. It opened, lattice fashion,
with a hinge.
Happily the night was still, and the process of preparing to descend
perfectly noiseless. The piece of old rope that lay in the corner he
had early fixed on as his instrument of escape. He made it fast to
the bed-post, and began to let himself down the wall. The rope was too
short, and he dangled in air from the end of it for a second or two,
and then dropped to the ground. The distance of the fall, though not
much, was enough to throw him from his feet, and the dog in the
lock-up yard at the other side of the house began to bark angrily. For
a minute the boy gave himself up.
He lay, however, perfectly still, and the barking subsided. There was
no other alarm, and he stole very softly away under cover of the
trees, and then faster down the slope toward the appointed oziers.
There indeed was Tom Orange in that faint light, more solemn than he
ever remembered to have seen him before. Tom was thinking that the
stealing away this boy might possibly turn out the most serious
enterprise he had yet engaged in.
He had no notion, however, of receding, and merely telling the boy to
follow him, he got into a swinging trot that tried the little fellow’s
endurance rather severely. I think they ran full three miles before
Tom came to a halt.
Then, more like himself, he inquired how he was, and whether he
thought he could go on fifteen miles more that night.
“Oh, yes, he could do anything that night. Quite well.”
“Well, walk a bit that you may get breath, and then we’ll run again,”
said Tom, and so they set forward once more.
They had now accomplished about four miles more. The little fellow was
not so fresh as at starting. A drizzling rain, too, had commenced,
with a cold change of wind, and altogether the mere adventure of
running away was not quite so pleasant, nor even Tom’s society quite
so agreeable on the occasion, as he had fancied.
“You have done four out of the fifteen; you have only eleven of the
fifteen before you now. You have got over seven altogether up to this.
Not so bad. You’re not tired, youngster?”
“Not the least.”
“That’s right. You’re a good soldier. Now come, we’ll stand close
under this hedge and eat a bit.”
They supped very heartily on great slices of bread and corned beef,
which bore ample traces of the greens in which it had been served when
hot.
“And now, boy, you must get on to Hatherton by yourself, for I’m known
about here, and there’s a fair there in the morning, and there will be
people on the way before light. You must go a mile beyond the town, to
the George public. Mrs. Gumford keeps it, and there I’ll meet you.”
Then he detailed the route and the landmarks for the boy’s guidance.
“Take a drink of this,” said he, pulling a soda-water bottle full of
milk out of his coat pocket.
And when he had done--
“Take a mouthful of this, my hero, it will keep you warm.”
And he placed a flask of brandy to the boy’s lips, and made him
swallow a little.
“And here’s a bit more bread, if you should be hungry. Good-night,
and remember.”
After about an hour’s solitary walking, the boy began to grow alarmed.
Tom’s landmarks failed him, and he began to fear that he had lost his
way. In half an hour more he was sure that he was quite out of his
reckoning, and as his spirits sank he began to feel the cold wind and
drenching rain more and more.
And now he found himself entering a town not at all answering Tom’s
description of Hatherton.
The little town was silent, its doors and windows shut, and all except
a few old-fashioned oil-lamps dark.
After walking listlessly about--afraid to knock and ask anywhere for
shelter--worn out, he sat down on a door-step. He leaned back and soon
fell fast asleep.
A shake by the shoulder roused him. A policeman was stooping over him.
“I say, get up out o’ that,” said the imperious voice of the
policeman.
The boy was not half awake; he stared at him, his big face and
leather-bound chimney-pot looked like a dream.
“I say,” he continued, shaking him, but not violently, “you must get
up out o’ that. You’re not to be making yourself comfortable there all
night. Come, be lively.”
Comfortable! Lively!--all comparative--all a question of degrees.
The boy got up as quickly as the cold and stiffness of his joints
would let him.
Very dutifully he got up, and stood drenched, pale, and shivering in
the moonlight.
The policeman looked down not unkindly now, at the little wayfarer.
There was something piteous, I dare say. He looked a grave, thoughtful
man, of more than fifty, and he put his hand on the child’s shoulder.
“Ye see, boy, that was no place to sleep in.”
“No, sir, I’ll never do it again, sir, please.”
“You’re cold; you’d get pains in your bones.”
“I’ll not any more, sir, please.”
“Come with me, my boy, it’s only a step.”
He brought the boy into his house down the lane close by.
“There’s a fire. You warm yourself. There’s my little one in fever, so
you can’t stop long. Sit down, child, and warm yourself.”
He gave him a drink of hot milk and a piece of bread.
“You don’t get up, you know; there’s no need,” he added.
I think he was afraid of his pewter spoons. He kept the little fellow
nearly half an hour, and he lent him an old bottomless sack to wrap
about his shoulders, and charged him to bring it back in the morning.
I think the man thought he might be a thief. He was a kind man--there
was a balancing of great pity and suspicion.
The boy returned the sack with many thanks, in the first faint
twilight of morning, and set forth again for Hatherton. It was, the
fellow who directed him said, still five miles on.
At about a mile from Hatherton, cold and wet, and fearing to be too
early at the George Inn, the rendezvous agreed on, the tired little
fellow crept in, cold and wet, to a road-side pot-house.
At the fire of the ale-house three fellows were drinking beer. Says
one who had now and then had his eye on the boy--
“That boy there has run away from school.”
I cannot describe the terror with which the little fellow heard those
words. The other two looked at him. One was a fat fellow in breeches
and top boots, and a red cloth waistcoat, and a ruddy good-humoured
face; and after a look they returned to their talk; and in a little
while the lean man, who seemed to find it hard to take his eyes off
him, said, “That’s a runaway, that chap; we ought to tell the police
and send him back to school.”
“Well, that’s no business of ours; can’t you let him be?” said the red
waistcoat.
“Come here,” said the lean man, beckoning him over with his hard eye
on him.
He rose and slowly approached under that dreadful command.
I can’t say that there was anything malevolent in that man’s face.
Somewhat sharp and stern, with a lean inflexibility of duty. To the
boy at this moment no face could have been imagined more terrific; his
only hope was in his fat companion. He turned, I am sure, an
imploring look upon him.
“Come, Irons, let the boy alone, unless ye mean to quarrel wi’ me;
d---- me ye _shall_ let him alone! And get him his breakfast of
something hot, and be lively,” he called to the people; “and score it
up to me.”
So, thanks to the good Samaritan in top boots and red waistcoat, the
dejected little man pursued his way comforted.
As he walked through Hatherton he was looking into a shop window
listlessly, when he distinctly saw, reflected in the plate glass, that
which appalled him so that he thought he should have fainted.
It was the marble, blue-chinned face of the Sergeant-Major looking
over his shoulder, with his icy gray eyes, into the same window.
He was utterly powerless to move. His great eyes were fixed on that
dreadful shadow. He was actually touching his shoulder as he leaned
over. Happily the Sergeant did not examine the reflection, which he
would have been sure to recognise. The bird fascinated by the cold
eye of a snake, and expecting momentarily, with palpitating heart, the
spring of the reptile, may feel, when, withdrawing the spell, it
glides harmlessly away, as the boy did when he saw that dreaded man
turn away and walk with measured tread up the street. For a moment his
terror was renewed, for Bion, that yellow namesake of the philosopher,
recognising him, stood against the boy’s leg, and scratched
repeatedly, and gave him a shove with his nose, and whimpered. The boy
turned quickly, and walking away the dog left him, and ran after his
master, and took his place at his side.
CONCLUSION.
At the George Inn, a little way out of Hatherton, the boy, to his
inexpressible delight, at last found Tom Orange.
He told Tom at once of his adventure at the shop window, and the
occurrence darkened Tom’s countenance. He peeped out and took a long
look toward Hatherton.
“Put the horse to the fly and bring it round at once,” said Tom, who
put his hand in his pocket and drew forth a rather showy handful of
silver.
I don’t pretend to say, when Tom was out of regular employment, from
what pursuits exactly he drew his revenue. They had rather improved
than otherwise; but I dare say there were anxious compensations.
The boy had eaten his breakfast before he reached Hatherton. So much
the better; for the apparition of the Sergeant-Major would have left
him totally without appetite. As it was, he was in an agony to be
gone, every moment expecting to see him approach the little inn to
arrest him and Tom.
Tom Orange was uneasy, I am sure, and very fidgety till the fly came
round.
“You know Squire Fairfield of Wyvern?” said the hostess, while they
were waiting.
“Ay,” said Tom.
“Did you hear the news?”
“What is it?”
“Shot the night before last in a row with poachers. Gentlemen should
leave that sort o’ work to their keepers; but they was always a
fightin’ wild lot, them Fairfields; and he’s lyin’ now a dead man--all
the same--gave over by Doctor Willett and another--wi’ a whole charge
o’ duck-shot lodged under his shoulder.”
“And that’s the news?” said Tom, raising his eyes and looking through
the door. He had been looking down on the ground as Mrs. Gumford of
the George told her story.
“There’s sharp fellows poachers round there, I’m told,” he said, “next
time he’d a’ been out himself with the keepers to take ’em dead or
alive. I suppose that wouldn’t answer _them_.”
“’Tis a wicked world,” said the lady.
“D----d wicked,” said Tom. “Here’s the fly.”
In they got and drove off.
Tom was gloomy, and very silent.
“Tom, where are we going to?” asked the boy at last.
“All right,” said Tom. “All right, my young master. You’ll find it’s
to none but good friends. And, say now--Haven’t I been a good friend
to you, Master Harry, all your days, sir? Many a mile that you know
nothing about has Tom Orange walked on your business, and down to the
cottage and back again; and where would you or her have been if it
wasn’t for poor Tom Orange?”
“Yes, indeed, Tom, and I love you, Tom.”
“And now, I’ve took you away from that fellow, and I’m told I’m likely
to be hanged for it. Well, no matter.”
“Oh, Tom; poor Tom! Oh! no, no, no!” and he threw his arms round Tom’s
neck in a paroxysm of agonised affection, and, in spite of the
jolting, kissed Tom; sometimes on the cheek, on the eyebrow, on the
chin, and in a great jolt violently on the rim of his hat, and it
rolled over his shoulder under their feet.
“Well, that is gratifyin’,” said Tom, drying his eyes. “There is some
reward for _prenciple_ after all, and if you come to be a great man
some o’ these days, you’ll not forget poor Tom Orange, that would have
spent his last bob and spilt his heart’s blood, without fee or reward,
in your service.”
Another explosion of friendship from the boy assured Tom of his
eternal gratitude.
“Do you know this place, sir?” asked Tom, with a return of his old
manner, as making a sudden turn the little carriage drove through an
open gate, and up to a large old-fashioned house. A carriage was
waiting at the door.
There could be no mistake. How delightful! and who was that? Mammy! at
the hall door, and in an instant they were locked in one another’s
arms, and “Oh! the darlin’,” and “Mammy, mammy, mammy!” were the only
words audible, half stifled in sobs and kisses.
In a minute more there came into the hall--smiling, weeping, and with
hands extended toward him, the pretty lady dressed in black, and her
weeping grew into a wild cry, as coming quickly she caught him to her
heart. “My darling, my child, my blessed boy, you’re the image--Oh!
darling, I loved you the moment I saw you, and now I know it all.”
The boy was worn out. His march, including his divergence from his
intended route, had not been much less than thirty miles, and all in
chill and wet.
They got him to his bed and made him thoroughly comfortable, and with
mammy at his bedside, and her hand, to make quite sure of her, fast in
his, he fell into a deep sleep.
Alice had already heard enough to convince her of the boy’s identity,
but an urgent message from Harry, who was dying, determined her to go
at once to Wyvern to see him, as he desired. So, leaving the boy in
charge of “mammy,” she was soon on her way to the old seat of the
Fairfields.
If Harry had not known that he was dying, no power could ever have
made him confess the story he had to tell.
There were two points on which he greatly insisted.
The first was, that believing that his brother was really married to
Bertha Velderkaust, he was justified in holding that his nephew had no
legal right to succeed.
The second was, that he had resolved, although he might have wavered
lately a little, never to marry, and to educate the boy better than
ever he was educated himself, and finally to make him heir to Wyvern,
pretending him to be an illegitimate son of his own.
Whether the Sergeant-Major knew more than he was ordered or undertook
to know, he never gave the smallest ground to conjecture. He stated
exactly what had passed between him and Harry Fairfield. By him he was
told that the child which was conveyed to Marjory Trevellian’s care
was his own unacknowledged son.
On the very same evening, and when old Mildred Tarnley was in the
house at Twyford, was a child taken, with the seeds of consumption
already active in it, from a workhouse in another part of England and
placed there as the son of Charles Fairfield and Alice. It was when,
contrary to all assurances, this child appeared for a few days to
rally, and the situation consequent on its growing up the reputed heir
to Wyvern alarmed Harry, that he went over, in his panic, to the
Grange, and there opened his case, that the child at Twyford was a
changeling, and not his brother’s son.
When, however, the child began to sink, and its approaching death
could no longer be doubtful, he became, as we have seen, once more
quite clear that the baby was the same which he had taken away from
Carwell Grange.
Dr. Willett’s seeing the child so often at Twyford, also prevented
suspicion, though illogically enough, for had they reflected they
might easily have remembered that the doctor had hardly seen the child
twice after its birth while at the Grange, and that, like every one
else, he took its identity for granted when he saw it at Twyford.
Alice returned greatly agitated late that evening. No difficulty any
longer remained, and the boy, with ample proof to sustain his claim,
was accepted as the undoubted heir to Wyvern, and the representative
of the ancient family of Fairfield.
The boy, Henry Fairfield, was as happy as mortal can be, henceforward.
His little playmate, the pretty little girl whom Alice had adopted,
who called her “mamma,” and yet was the daughter of a distant cousin
only, has now grown up, and is as a girl even more beautiful than she
was as a child. Henry will be of age in a few months, and they are
then to be married. They now reside at Wyvern. The estate, which has
long been at nurse, is now clear, and has funded money beside.
Everything promises a happy and a prosperous reign for the young
Fairfield.
Mildred Tarnley, very old, is made comfortable at Carwell Grange.
Good old Dulcibella is still living, very happy, and very kind, but
grown a little huffy, being perhaps a little over petted. In all other
respects, the effect of years being allowed for, she is just what she
always was.
Tom Orange, with a very handsome sum presented by those whom he had
served, preferred Australia to the old country.
Harry Fairfield had asserted, in his vehement way, while lying in his
last hours at Wyvern, that the fellow with the handkerchief over his
face who shot him was, he could all but swear, his old friend Tom
Orange.
Tom swore that had he lived he would have prosecuted him for slander.
As it is, that eccentric genius has prospered as the proprietor of a
monster tavern at Melbourne, where there is comic and sentimental
singing, and some dramatic buffooneries, and excellent devilled
kidneys and brandy.
Marjory Trevellian lives with the family at Wyvern, and I think if
kind old Lady Wyndale were still living the consolations of Alice
would be nearly full.
[The End]
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES.
The three volume edition published by Tinsley Brothers (London, 1869)
was referenced for many of the fixes listed below.
Minor spelling inconsistencies (_e.g._ Alley/Allie/Ally, tea-things/tea
things, etc.) have been preserved.
Alterations to the text:
Assorted punctuation corrections.
Some images were relocated nearer the scene they depict.
[Chapter V]
Change “the old fellow with a _mulberry coloured_ face” to
_mulberry-coloured_.
[Chapter VI]
(which he still called the “_harpischord_.”) to _harpsichord_.
“I’ll gi’e ye the jewellery--_dy’e_ hear?” to _d’ye_.
[Chapter VIII]
“of a a saturnine and sulky sort” delete one _a_.
[Chapter IX]
“no use in parting at worse odds _that_ we need” to _than_.
[Chapter XIV]
(by-and-by,” he _laaghed_; “you shall) to _laughed_.
[Chapter XV]
“was supposed to cover a _gread_ deal of” to _great_.
“but _somtimes_ the thunder and flame” _sometimes_.
“let me see how long his stick his--his stick and his...” add an
m-dash after first instance of _stick_.
[Chapter XVI]
“A good house-wife, is she, that’s something,” delete first comma.
[Chapter XVII]
“nothin’ but old _’oman’stales_ and fribble-frabble” to _’oman’s
tales_.
[Chapter XXI]
“but that’s nothing to do _wi’it_” to _wi’ it_.
[Chapter XXIV]
“swear that he meant no _villany_” to _villainy_.
“_suprised_ lean, straight Mrs. Tarnley” to _surprised_.
[Chapter XXVI]
“Give it me. Ha, yes, my bibe” add _to_ after _it_.
[Chapter XXVIII]
“thought that _occured_ more than once” to _occurred_.
“was not _concilitated_, but disgusted” to _conciliated_.
[Chapter XXXV]
“I’m thinkin,’ as sound before if ye” attach the apostrophe to
_thinkin_ to form _thinkin’_.
“she heard the click-clack of Mildred’s _shoe_ grow fainter” to
_shoes_.
[Chapter XXXVIII]
“that nervous tremor which is so _pleasant_ to see” to _unpleasant_.
[Chapter XL]
“and there’s two stout _lad’s_ wi’ him” to _lads_.
[Chapter XLII]
“I am tired, _I but_ won’t mind the wine” to _but I_.
[Chapter XLVIII]
“Dead men, ’tis an old sayin,’ is kin” attach second appostrophe to
_sayin_ to form _sayin’_.
[Chapter XLIX]
“Mildred had made him--a promise write often” add _to_ after _promise_.
[Chapter L]
“mud--too _high: o_ put your foot on” to _high to_.
[Chapter LI]
“and if try to manage for him I’ll want the best...” add _I_ after
_if_.
“and _ye_ look out some decent poor body” to _ye’ll_.
“three stops, sir--diapason, principal, dulciana.” add _and_ to the
list.
[Chapter LIII]
(“That wouldn’t do nohow,” you know, said Harry) move the right
quotation mark to after _know_.
“but one and _’tother_, both together.” to _t’other_.
[Chapter LIV]
“_Doctor’s_ Willett says he’ll have it well” to _Doctor_.
[Chapter LV]
“What the de’il d’ye ye mean, Master Harry?” delete _ye_.
“in my mind when ask ye to come over” add _I_ after _when_.
[Chapter LVI]
“There’s bin changes since, and I don’t see why Wyvern should be
charged so heavy?” change question mark to a period.
[Chapter LVI]
“The _neighours_, great and small,” to _neighbours_.
[Chapter LIX]
“_Your_ something richer this week than you were” to _You’re_.
[Chapter LX]
“and spoke under his breath, _and_ he groped in this twilight.” to
_as_.
[Chapter LXIII]
“as the _Serjeant-Major_, hastily dressed” to _Sergeant-Major_.
[Conclusion]
“Many a mile that you nothing about has Tom...” add _know_ after
_you_.
[End of Text]