BACK ON THE ROCK.
As October approached, and with it the time for rejoining his
regiment, Herbert became more and more eager and excited. He was
quite angry with himself for being so pleased. It seemed such base
ingratitude to Lady Farrington to be so delighted to leave her. But
he was not that in the least. He felt an increasing regard for her
which promised to develop some day into deep affection. He was only
overjoyed at the prospect of once more resuming his work. Those who
have been long in regular harness can best realize how flat, stale,
and unprofitable is life without a fixed object and employment,
more or less constant, from morning till night. Neither by
inclination nor by his recent training was Herbert of the sort to
eat the bread of idleness, or be satisfied with having nothing to
do. Therefore it was, that when his adieux were made, and the poor
old lady left to her solitary grief, Herbert returned to soldiering
with all the vigour and elasticity of a steel spring, which has
been set free. He could never forget all he owed his first patron
and firm friend; he meant to spend a certain portion of his time
with her still; he would go to her always gladly and with the
utmost alacrity, when she expressed a wish to see him or desired to
have him at her side. But in spite of all, he was like a schoolboy
just released from school. The expiration of his leave and his
return to duty, which is to some officers such an inexpressible
bore, was to him a source of the most unfeigned delight.
Yet it was not without a certain trepidation that he prepared to
take up his new position. How would his brother officers receive
him? Would they accept him as one of themselves? He remembered,
certainly, that when the news of his promotion first reached the
Coast, all had congratulated him warmly, and made many cordial and
civil speeches, declaring him to be an honour to the Duke’s Own.
But these were days of abnormal excitement; a sharp campaign was
barely ended, and active service does much to sweep away formality
and level class distinctions. It would be different now, perhaps,
at an expensive and brilliant mess in a gay garrison town, where
social life was always bubbling up and boiling over in festive
gatherings, race-meetings, days with the Calpe hounds, theatricals,
and balls. Herbert had no particular craving for these joys.
But would he be freely admitted and readily welcomed everywhere?
Might not some, unmindful of the fact that he had a gentleman’s
education, and that possibly his birth, if he got his rights, was
better than theirs, be disposed to look down upon him, and despise
him as a man who had ‘risen from the ranks?’
Herbert was little acquainted with the tempers and idiosyncrasies
of British officers. Although long associated with them, it had
been only as an inferior separated from them by a wide gulf, and he
saw only what was on the surface: _brusquerie_, often, an arrogant
manner and a self-satisfied air. He did not know that at bottom
they were honest and well-meaning fellows full of prejudices--not
all Newtons perhaps, or John Stuart Mills--but straightforward
honourable men, who were in the habit of taking their comrades
just as they found them, and just for what they were worth.
There may be snobs who will kotow to a duke’s son, or revolve as
satellites round a wealthy young _parvenu_; but the general verdict
of a British mess upon the individuals who compose it, is based
always upon their intrinsic qualities and personal claims.
The Duke’s Own were not long in finding out that Herbert Larkins
was ‘a man of the right sort,’ ‘a thorough good chap all round.’
They saw, not without surprise, perhaps, that he took his place
among them quite naturally, almost as though to the manner born.
He behaved quite properly at the dinner-table; he did not eat peas
with a knife, or drink with his mouth full; he could take his share
in the conversation--never very abstruse or wide in its range--and
that without dropping his h’s or miscalling his words. He could do
most things, too; play cricket and racquets, shoot, ride or play
a rubber of whist. Above all, he had a pleasant face and a genial
manner, with a smile and a civil word for all who spoke to him,
whether on duty or off.
This last was almost sufficient recommendation in itself,
especially when found in the adjutant, as it was in Herbert’s
case. Colonel Greathed was not a commanding officer to be led by
the nose; he drove his own coach, and had his team always well
in hand. But even under his _régime_ the adjutant was as he must
always be--a considerable personage. He really wields much power;
he is the usual channel of communication with the colonel; through
him officers apply for leave or other indulgences; he keeps the
duty roster, and can, if he pleases, do even the oldest a good
turn, by carrying out exchanges, and substituting one name for
another, even at the eleventh hour. Over the prisoners he exercises
the sway of a task-master and pedagogue combined; he can prolong
drill-instruction to a maddening length; and upon his good or evil
report much of their happiness depends. With the non-commissioned
officers, and rank and file, the adjutant is generally an
irresponsible autocrat and king. He holds the sergeants in the
hollow of his hand; the colonel nearly always relies upon him
to recommend men for promotion, and it is he who brings forward
deserving private soldiers and raises them out of the ruck. All
this tends to make his position dangerously full of snares. He may
easily become puffed up and conceited; worse still (and this is
especially noticeable in adjutants who have risen from the ranks),
he may drift into favouritism; and, by reason of his intimate
acquaintance with the ins and outs of military life, fall into the
error of knowing too much and seeing too much. That Herbert steered
clear of all the hidden rocks which threaten the adjutant’s course
was the best testimony to his worth. Although he never swerved from
his duty, no adjutant could have been more generally popular.
The days passed evenly and pleasantly enough. They were happy days
for Herbert, which he remembered always in his after life. Busy
days, beginning with the fresh morning hours, when he took the
battalion out for early drill, and ending with the inspection of
the non-commissioned officers at tattoo. Guard-mounting parade
in a fortress bristling with sentries; orderly-room in a place
where liquor, unfortunately, is cheap; much correspondence and
many intricate returns, in a garrison fully provided with the
regulation number of staff officers, all these kept him close
till it was long past mid-day. Then there was afternoon parade,
more writing, the drill of young officers, and a few recruits,
or awkward squads, and the day was well advanced before he could
call himself really free; but there were few days when he did not
find time for a smart canter along the beach of Gibraltar Bay, the
Rotten Row of the Rock, or for a longer ramble upon the slopes
below the Queen of Spain’s Chair, or on the San Roque road and
towards the Cork Wood. Now and again, but rarely, and chiefly when
the meet was near at hand, he gave himself a half-holiday, and
spent many enjoyable hours with the Calpe hounds. It was his first
taste of hunting, and although not quite of the best, perhaps, it
was a pleasant introduction to the mysteries of sport. There was
always the fair landscape lying bright under the southern sky;
the change and movement through the fresh, sweet-scented air, the
cheerful companionship of a field of happily-disposed people, whom
the day’s outing, with its short runs and rapid break-neck gallops,
thoroughly amused.
Ladies, not many certainly, but all very ardent followers of the
chase, invariably attend the meets of the Calpe hounds. Herbert saw
them, each with her little band of devoted attendants, for ladies
are scarce at Gibraltar, and all who have the smallest pretensions
to please can always count upon a court of their own. Herbert owed
allegiance to none of the reigning queens; he had no leisure for
flirting and philandering, nor did he much enjoy the garden-party,
afternoon tea, or small and early dance. When he was out with
the hounds, therefore, he ranged about alone or with some male
companion of his own sort. He had hardly a bowing acquaintance with
any one of the fair sex upon the Rock, and it was with no little
surprise that he found himself one day greeted with a nod and a
most friendly smile by one whom, for the moment, he did not seem to
know.
It was Miss Prioleau.
The general, with his wife and daughter, had been away, on leave in
England, when the Duke’s Own returned to Gibraltar. They had only
been back a few days when Herbert thus again encountered his little
friend Edith for the first time.
He raised his hat, and would have ridden on, but the general
himself came up with outstretched hand:
‘Allow me, Mr. Larkins, to congratulate you. As one of the old
regiment, I take a pride in any one who has contributed to its
credit. You have done so, and right well. I am glad to think you
have met with your deserts.’
‘Yes, indeed,’ put in the sweet voice of the daughter, and somehow
the simple words were far more grateful to Herbert’s ears than the
sonorous praises which fell from her father’s lips. ‘Yes, indeed,
Mr. Larkins, it was a noble action, and we are all proud of it.’
The bright maiden had now grown into the fair and more staid and
self-conscious, but winsome girl. Yet she was the same attractive
little person, no less engaging, and far more dangerous now in
her budding womanly beauty than when he had seen her last, still
almost a child in her white habit, patronising him at the general’s
inspection, and, metaphorically, patting him on the back.
Herbert muttered a few words in acknowledgment of the general’s
courteous approval. Edith he thanked by a grateful look, which had
perhaps more meaning in it than he intended, or that she exactly
liked.
‘I do believe they have found, father!’ she cried; and as she
spoke there was a sudden stir and bustle at the far end of the
field. Next moment came the whimper of a hound; then the cheering
voice of the huntsman, then the twang of a horn, then a whole
chorus of voices--for out here everyone acted as amateur whip and
unprofessional aid--swelling up into a grand volume of sound.
‘Yoicks! For’rad! Ga--wn a--way!’
It promised to be a capital burst. They had been drawing the White
House covert, and the fox headed for the Majarambu woods. The
country was rough; now and again you came to a precipice like the
side of a house; next to a long slope studded, as it might be,
with the great boulders of an old world glacier or moraine; then
broad uplands clothed with broad tufts of the gum cistus, just
high enough to oblige your horse to take them in a series of quick
jumps not always very easy to sit. The pace was good, the going
difficult, and, an unusual thing, the run was protracted for more
than a quarter of an hour. Ere long the field began to tail off,
and presently there were very few people in the first flight. Bill
Ackroyd, the huntsman, was one, so was the M.F.H., Herbert also,
and Edith Prioleau, but without her papa. The general had got into
difficulties at a wide drain, where, as some irreverent subalterns
remarked, it was to be hoped he might stay, at least beyond the
following Saturday, so that they might escape the usual weekly
field-day upon the North Front.
In the exuberant enjoyment of galloping at top speed over a
break-neck country, Edith had all but forgotten the existence of
her father. No doubt he would turn up at the first check. Runs were
not so plentiful, and this one was far too good to lose. She meant
to see it out to the very last.
Not quite. There must be accidents sometimes, as the Spanish
journals say when describing bull-fights; and all at once Edith’s
horse, a not too surefooted barb, put his foot in a hole, and he
and his rider came down together.
Over and over they rolled, on the top and close to the margin
of the steep cliff, a mixed-up mass, as it seemed to Herbert’s
terrified eyes, of habit, light curls, black hoofs, gray mane, and
tail. Quick as lightning he had dismounted and gone to the rescue.
How he managed he never remembered; but by a great effort, and, as
he thought, after the lapse of nearly an age of time, he succeeded
in disengaging Miss Prioleau from her horse.
She had fainted. Her face was blanched quite white; a small stream
of crimson was trickling from one temple as though she had received
a mortal hurt. To bring water in his hunting-hat from a spring hard
by, to sprinkle her brow and chafe her hands, was all that Herbert
could do until the arrival of a number of others, among whom were
one or two eager but officious ladies, and the affrighted general.
To them he resigned his charge, but he waited anxiously a little
way off to hear how it fared with the poor girl.
Happily she soon came to. The shock of her fall had deprived her
of consciousness; a small stone had hit her forehead; but these
were the worst injuries she had endured. Very soon she was able to
remount her horse and ride slowly home.
Herbert felt first a little neglected, although, as he told
himself, he had really no reason to expect any extravagant
thanks. Probably no one knew that it was he who had extricated
Miss Prioleau from her perilous predicament, the general and his
daughter least of all, and what did it matter if they did? The
service was a very trifling one, after all, and he had only done
what any other man would have done in his place.
He was quite wrong, however, in supposing that those whom he
had served were ungrateful. Next morning came a formal but most
courteously-worded letter of thanks from the general, and with it
a letter from Mrs. Prioleau, repeating her husband’s phrases, and
winding up with a very friendly invitation to dine at an early day.
Herbert gladly accepted, full of joy at the prospect of meeting
Miss Prioleau again. He hardly considered how far the acquaintance,
if allowed to ripen, was likely to affect his peace of mind.