Cracis was deep in thought, seated by the open window, with the double
roll of a volume in his hands, reading slowly line by line of the old
papyrus Romano-Grecian writings of one of the philosophers, and, as he
came to each line's end, it slowly disappeared beneath the upper roll,
while the nether was opened out to leave the next line visible to the
reader's eye.
Marcus dashed in loudly, but stopped short as he saw how his father was
occupied, and waited for him to speak; but Cracis was deep in his
studies and heard him not, so, bubbling over with impatience, the boy
advanced and laid his hand upon the student's arm.
Cracis looked up, wonderingly, and seemed to be obliged to drag his
attention from the book, smiling pleasantly in the flushed face of his
son, and with every trace of anger missing from his own.
"Well, boy," he said, gently, "what is it? Something you can't make
out?"
"Yes, father--old Serge."
"Ah, Serge!" said Cracis, with his brow clouding over. "I am sorry all
that happened, but it was your fault, my boy. You regularly led the
brave, old, honest fellow astray."
"Yes, father, I did," cried Marcus, eagerly, "and now he has taken all
your angry words to heart."
"Oh, tut, tut, tut! Nonsense! I have forgiven it all, my boy; but he
has not yet brought in the chest."
"No, father, I have left him packing it all now, and I have told him
that all that is over, and that when we have time we must amuse
ourselves in some other way than playing at soldiers and talking of
war."
Cracis laid his hand upon his son's shoulder and, with his face growing
sterner, looked proudly in the young, frank face.
"Thank you, my boy," he said. "That is very brave and right of you. It
shows great respect for me. Well, there! The past is all forgiven and
forgotten--nay, I will not say forgotten; that can never be. Let it
always stand in your memory as a stone of warning. Well, that is all
over now."
"But it isn't all over, father," cried the boy. "Old Serge says what
you said has cut him to the heart, and that you didn't forgive him
properly, and that he is dishonoured and disgraced as a soldier."
"Poor brave old Serge!" said Cracis, warmly.
"Hah!" cried Marcus, excitedly. "I wish he were here to hear you speak
like that."
"Oh, nonsense, boy. Time is too valuable to waste by thinking over such
troubles as that. He must understand that I have reproved him for a
fault and forgiven him."
"But he won't understand, father. He's as obstinate as a bull."
"He is, and always was, Marcus," said Cracis, smiling; "but no man is
perfect, and Serge's good qualities more than balance all his bad. But
there, boy, what does he want me to do?"
"I don't know, father. He thinks what you have said can never be
undone, that he can never be the same here again as he was, that he has
lost your confidence and you won't trust him again, and--"
"Well, and what?" said Cracis, smiling tolerantly.
"Oh, it's too stupid to tell you, father."
"One has to hear stupid things in life, my boy, as well as wise, so tell
me all the same. You see, poor Serge, with all his noble qualities, has
never been a man to read and learn wisdom from the works of the great.
Simple, matter-of-fact and straightforward, he is not one who reflects
and balances his acts before he makes them live. I don't think Serge
ever said to himself: `shall I? Shall I not?' before he did a thing,
and I suppose he has not been reflecting now. I am sorry I hurt his
feelings, but I am the master. He is my servant, just as in old days I
was his officer, he my legionary. It was his duty to obey. Now then,
what is he doing?"
"Putting the armour together to go in the chest."
"Well, quite right."
"But it's what he's going to do next, father."
"And what is he going to do next?"
"Pack up his bundle, and then tramp up into the mountains to lie down
and die, for the wolves to pick his bones."
It is impossible to put in words the young speaker's tones, mingled, as
they were, of sadness, ridicule and mirth, while Cracis drew a deep,
long breath and said, softly:
"Brave as a lion, strong beyond the limits of ordinary men; and yet,
poor faithful Serge, what a child he is at heart! Don't tell him what I
said, boy. That is a piece of confidence between ourselves."
"But it's all so real, father. If you are angry with me you scold me,
and it's soon all over. I forget it all."
"Yes, too soon, my boy, sometimes."
"Oh, but I do try to go on right, father. But, you see, with poor old
Serge it all sticks. He's regularly wounded."
"Yes, my boy, I know, and it's the sort of wound that will not heal.
Well, of course, that's all absurd. He mustn't go."
"He will, father, if something isn't done."
"Yes, I am afraid he would; so something must be done. Who is in the
wrong, boy--I or he?"
"It's this--_I_, father."
"Of course," said Cracis, laughing; "but I think I am in the right. The
master, if right, cannot humble himself to his man if he is in this
position, Marcus. If he is in the wrong it is noble and brave to give
way. Tell Serge to come to me at once. I will try to set him at one
with me; the sooner this is set aside the better for us all."
"Thank you, father," cried the boy, excitedly; and hurrying out he made
for the back of the villa, where he found Serge in his own particular
den, hard at work packing the various accoutrements, but evidently
finding it difficult to make them fit.
"Well, I've been and talked to father, Serge," cried Marcus, quickly.
"That's right, boy," said the old soldier, without turning his head.
"I told him you were packing up the armour."
"Yes? Hard work. The things don't lie easy one with another, and we
mustn't have the helmets bruised. The shields don't lie so flat as I
could wish, but--"
"Father wants you, Serge."
"What for, boy? What for?"
"To talk to you about you know what."
"Then you've told him I'm going away?"
"Of course."
"Then it's of no use for me to go and see him."
"But that's what he wishes to speak about."
"Yes, and I know how he can talk and get round a man. Why, if I went to
his place yonder he'd talk me into stopping, and I'm not going to do
that now."
"Nonsense! Father only wants to say a few words more. He has forgiven
you--I mean, us--and, after he has spoken, everything will be as it was
before. He says it's all nonsense about your going away."
Serge nodded.
"Yes, I knew he'd say that, my boy. Of course he would."
"Well," said Marcus, impatiently, "isn't that what you want?"
"No, not now, boy. Things can never be the same again."
"Why not?" cried Marcus.
"Because they can't, boy."
"Oh, Serge, don't be so obstinate!"
"No, my lad, not obstinate; only doing what's right. I can't help
what's done, nor what's said."
"But don't stop talking, Serge. Father wants to see you at once."
The old soldier shook his head and went on packing with increased
vigour.
"Well, why don't you go?" cried Marcus, impatiently.
"I daren't," said the man, frowning.
"Then that's because you feel you're in the wrong, Serge."
"Yes, boy, that's it; I'm in the wrong, and the master knows it, so it's
of no use for me to go."
"Oh, Serge," cried Marcus, "you do make me so angry when you will keep
on like this. Look here, Serge."
"No," said the man, sourly, "and it's of no use for you to talk, boy,
because my mind's made up. You want to talk me round, same as your
father, the master, would. I've done wrong, and I told him so. It's
all because I tried to make a good soldier of you, as is what Nature
meant you to be, and he can't forgive me for that. He couldn't even if
he tried. There, that's better--you lie there, and that'll make more
room for the boy's helmet. Yes, that'll do. Swords lie on each side
under the shields and keep them steady," he continued, apostrophising
the different portions of the military equipment, as he worked very
rapidly now in spite of Marcus' words, till the whole of the war-like
pieces were to his liking and the chest quite full, when he closed the
lid and sat upon it as if to think, with his eyes fixed upon one corner
of the place.
"There, now are you satisfied?" cried Marcus. "Fortunately, father is
reading, and he will not notice how long you have been. You've made me
horribly impatient. Now go in to him at once and get it over."
"I shall only want a little bundle and my staff," said Serge, as if to
himself. "That is mine, for I cut it in the forest and shaped and
trimmed it myself. Yes, that's all."
"Aren't you going to take the chest into father's room?" said Marcus,
quietly.
"Eh? No, my lad."
"But he told you to."
"Yes, boy, but it was after all was over, and I can't face him again."
"Then you are going off without saying good-bye to him?"
The old soldier nodded.
"And you are not going in to see him after he has sent for you to come?"
"No, boy," said the old soldier, with a sigh. "It's the only way. I'm
just going to take my bundle and my stick, and then I'm going off at
once--_alone_," he added, meaningly.
"No, you're not, Serge, for someone else can be stubborn too."
"What do you mean?" cried the man, sharply.
"What I told you. I'm coming too."
"Nay, boy, you're not; your father would stop that, and you must obey
him," cried Serge, angrily.
"No, I mustn't," said Marcus.
"What! Sons must obey their fathers."
"And soldiers must obey their officers."
"But he's not my officer now."
"Yes, he is," cried Marcus, angrily; "your officer as well as my father.
If you go, Serge, I shall go, and I don't care where it is."
"He'd never forgive you," cried the old soldier, angrily.
"Well, I should take my chance of that. You know me, Serge. When I say
I'll do a thing I do it; and I shall do this, for I don't mean to let
you go away from here alone. Now what have you got to say?"
The old soldier got up from the shut-down lid of the chest, walked to
the corner of the room, and took his crook-like staff, to which a rough
bundle was already tied, and then he stepped back to where Marcus was
seated upon the edge of the table which had so lately borne the armour
carefully spread out.
"Good-bye, Marcus, boy," he said, holding out his hand.
The lad sprang from the table and made for the door.
"Won't you say good-bye, Marcus?" cried Serge, pitifully.
"No," was the short, sharp reply. "What's the good? But stop a moment.
I'd better go and shut up Lupus, or he'll come bounding after us and we
shan't get rid of him again."
"Oh!" roared the old soldier, angrily, and he dashed his bundle and
staff across the room to the corner from which they had been taken.
"You're both of you too much for me."
"Come on, Serge, old fellow," said Marcus, softly, as he took his old
companion by the arm. "Shall I come in to father with you?"
"No!" growled Serge. "I'm going to be beat, and I'll go alone."
The next minute his steps were heard plodding heavily towards his
master's study, and, as he listened Marcus burst out into a merry,
silent laugh.
"Poor old Serge!" he said. "How father hurt his feelings! He'll never
leave us while he lives, but I believe if he had gone away it would have
broken his heart. Well, that's all over, and things will be all right
again."
The boy stood thinking for a few minutes, and then he sighed.
"My poor old sword and shield," he said, half aloud; "and the helmet and
armour too! Oh, how grand it was! When I had them on I used to feel as
if I was marching with a successful army coming from the wars, and now
it's all over and I must sit and read and write, and the days will seem
so dull with nothing exciting, nothing bright, no war in the future--
Yes, there will be," he cried; "there'll be those boys. They'll be
coming on again as the grapes turn black. Yes," he went on, with a
merry laugh, "and if they come I'll make some of them turn black. No
war! I'll make war with them, with old Serge and Lupus for allies. And
then the winter will come again, and there'll be the wolves. Why,
there'll be plenty to think of, after all."