THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE.
To the young military officer in whom the reverential spirit is
not entirely quenched, the British general is often a very awful
person indeed. A halo of professional glory surrounds the great
man; strange powers--particularly as to leave--are vested in
him; his frequent frown is terrific, his occasional smile fails
to reassure. To the officer whose early days were spent in the
ranks, and who has never seen the general behind the scenes, so to
speak, as an English gentleman no better than others of his class,
the formidable effect is intensified, and a great gulf seems to
separate the two.
It was with a shy feeling and rather a sinking heart that Herbert
presented himself at Line Wall House, the residence of the
major-general commanding; but he found himself among friends even
on the threshold. An orderly sergeant, one of the Duke’s Own, of
course, and a former comrade, took his coat and forage cap; and
the servant who ushered him into the drawing-room was also an old
soldier of the regiment disguised in livery, who seemed to be the
herald of a triumphal procession as he threw wide the doors and
with stentorian lungs announced
‘_Misther Larkins!_’
The friendliness was not, however, confined to the attendants.
The general’s manner was most frank and kindly as he came forward
and shook hands. Mrs. Prioleau, a well-meaning, but very languid
washed-out personage, also greeted him quite warmly, for her:
while Edith received him with such bright eyes and heightened
colour, conveying thanks and welcome all in one, that, for the
moment, he felt quite overcome.
It was a small party of eight, carefully chosen, probably with
the idea of making Herbert thoroughly at home. Another subaltern
like himself, but newly married, with a pretty girlish cipher of
a wife, and a staff-surgeon, who proved to be Herbert’s Ashanti
friend, M‘Cosh. The general’s aide-de-camp, Captain Mountcharles, a
relation of the family, made up the number.
Edith fell to Herbert on going in to dinner. On her other side at
the table was the aide-de-camp, who, according to custom, took the
bottom, the general being at the other end, and Mrs. Prioleau in
the centre on the right.
The talk at dinner was not particularly lively at first. Mrs.
Prioleau never contributed much; the general was really a
little shy himself, especially with people whom he did not
know intimately; Edith was rather silent, and the rest of the
company seemingly abashed, all but one. The exception was Captain
Mountcharles, whose duty it was, no less than his inclination, to
make himself agreeable, and he acquitted himself very well of his
task.
He was a very self-satisfied young gentleman, rather disposed to be
overdressed and with a somewhat supercilious air. The first showed
itself in the splendour of his shirt-front, with its single stud
as large as a cheese-plate, in his enormous shirt cuffs, which he
‘shot out’ with a little concerted cough just before he made a new
remark, in the breadth of his black satin tie, and in the size of
his watch chain, which had it been long enough would have made a
cable for a seventy-four. The latter was to be seen in his drawling
accents and his tendency to depreciate everybody and everything.
Herbert hated him almost instinctively from the first, but his
dislike was deepened by his seeming familiarity with Edith, whom
he called by her Christian name. She was his cousin, so it was all
right enough, but it jarred on Herbert all the same.
‘Very poor sport to-day,’ said the aide-de-camp to the general,
‘you did not miss much, sir. You weren’t out, M‘Cosh? Were you, Mr.
Larkins--?’ punctiliously polite to Herbert, as to an inferior;
another reason for hatred. ‘How anyone can hunt here after the
shires!’
‘_You_ never hunted in the shires, Gaston, so come,’ said downright
Edith.
‘I beg your pardon, _Miss_ Edith. I did, several seasons while you
were still at school.’
‘Miss Prioleau never went to school, I think,’ put in Herbert, and
she turned on him with a bright smile.
‘O, _do_ you remember that day! I never was so bothered, I think.
French is certainly the most difficult and detestable of tongues.’
‘So I always thought,’ Herbert said.
‘You speak French, Mr. Larkins?’ asked the aide-de-camp, rather
impertinently.
‘After a fashion, that of Deadham school. Pray do you?’
‘Were _you_ at Deadham?’ went on Captain Mountcharles, rather
shirking the question, and seeming to imply that a man who had
been in the ranks had no right to any education at all.
‘Ye were at more schools than that, I take it, Larkins,’ said Dr.
M‘Cosh; ‘I saw you in one, and a hot ’un, where you were the head
and dux of the class.’
‘You were at school together, then?’ Mrs. Prioleau asked civilly,
but she was evidently too apathetic to care about the reply.
‘We played together, Mrs. Prioleau, not with hoop or ball, or peg
tops, but at the great game of war.’
‘Ashanti, I presume,’ the general said.
‘The idea of calling that a war, sir,’ interposed our bumptious
A.D.C. ‘A picnic would be a better name.’
‘It was not a picnic under the usual circumstances, at any rate,’
Herbert said quietly, as one entitled to speak.
‘No foiegras and hothouse grapes, perhaps,’ went on Mountcharles;
‘but you must admit that the whole thing was monstrously
exaggerated.’
‘O, how _can_ you say so?’ cried Edith, quite eagerly.
‘And the honours, too, look how they were overdone. Why there were
more rewards than for Waterloo.’
‘Some of them were richly deserved; one in particular, which I
could mention,’ replied Edith, with the air of a champion defending
the right.
‘It isn’t everyone who gets the chance to deserve them,’ said
Mountcharles, rather sulkily. He had never seen a shot fired
himself, and bore malice in his heart to all who had had better
luck.
‘Or who would make the most of it if they had,’ Edith retorted
sharply, adding in a low voice, ‘Gaston, I quite hate you to-night:
how disagreeable you _can_ be.’
For the remainder of the evening she made him conscious of her
high displeasure. Mountcharles and she had hitherto been the
most excellent friends. An aide-de-camp may be, and Mountcharles
certainly was, the very tamest of cats. He had other claims besides
those of cousinship to be well received. With an only daughter,
young, lively, and exceedingly attractive, both the general and
Mrs. Prioleau had realised the inconvenience and possible danger of
having a man continually about the house, unless he were in every
way an eligible _parti_. Edith had plenty of time before her, no
doubt, but at her age girls are impressionable and very apt to
succumb to the first comer if he has many opportunities of being
at her side. Mountcharles had been specially selected as A.D.C. by
Mrs. Prioleau, who, in spite of her languid airs, was a shrewd,
far-seeing woman, and she felt that if anything were to happen, at
least they were safe with Gaston Mountcharles. His father was dead,
and he had an excellent competence of his own. He was a man of good
birth, thoroughly presentable in every way. Edith, if she could
only like him, might do very much worse.
But this night it was clear Edith did not like him at all. Not that
Mountcharles much cared. He had probably far too good an opinion
of himself to be cast down by the snubbings of a girl still in
her teens. Whether or no he took her treatment of him very much
to heart does not, however, concern my readers so much as her
behaviour to the hero of my story.
To Herbert Larkins that evening she was gracious and engaging in
the extreme. She made him talk to her on subjects he would probably
know best. She listened to him with that close attention which
is in itself a subtle compliment, particularly when coming from
an attractive girl, and she smiled her approval in that frank,
straightforward way which might be interpreted one way, but which
in her, perhaps, meant nothing at all.
The effect upon Herbert was marked and almost instantaneous. He was
in truth little accustomed to the fascinations of the fair sex.
He had never been brought up to flirt and philander, to roam from
flower to flower, inhaling fragrance and passing gaily on, and he
fell at once deeply and desperately in love. His heart went out at
once to the general’s daughter, without for a moment considering
whether his passion was likely to be returned.
It was not, perhaps, exactly wise. A man more versed in the ways of
the world would have been a little more cautious and circumspect.
Edith Prioleau counted her swains by the score. Young ladies with
the great gift of beauty, of good birth, and not without brains,
pleasant talkers, good dancers, forward riders, are not too common
in English society on the Rock. Among the few belles of the place,
Edith Prioleau easily carried off the palm, and she had always a
crowd of admirers about her. She did not resent or reject their
attentions; on the contrary, she honoured them all with her favour
in turn, and enjoyed it amazingly, feeling, no doubt, that they
meant nothing any more than she did, and that, therefore, she did
no particular harm. Young soldiers are reputed susceptible; but it
is also true that, if knocked over and quite hopeless one day, they
are generally quite heart-whole the next.
Herbert Larkins was not a man of this sort. He was in sober serious
earnest from the first. He was like a slave, grovelling at her
feet. She might trample on him and spurn him if she pleased, but
he was hers always, whether she would have him or no. The worst of
it was that he could not hide his feelings. He was too honest--he
had not enough of what the world calls _savoir faire_. What did
he care who knew? He was not ashamed of his weakness. It was not
a passing fancy, but a strong attachment; a deep-seated affection
which would last as long as he lived. Everybody saw it: his
brother-officers, like good comrades, realising how much his heart
was in it, forebore to chaff him and take him to task; the garrison
generally, and all smiled, or winked knowingly when he was observed
dancing attendance on Edith, looking the picture of misery unless
she threw him a word. Captain Mountcharles saw it, so at last
did the general and his wife. Edith herself, least of all, could
not be blind to devotion which had in it much of the unswerving
unquestioning attachment of the dog that follows at one’s heels. In
all probability she would have been overcome by it. Already that
pity which is proverbially akin to a much warmer sentiment, had
taken possession of her, and she was in a fair way to be won had
Herbert pricked up courage to speak.
Edith’s parents were growing a trifle uneasy at Herbert’s
attentions. The general did not take much notice, but--a woman is
so much more worldly in these matters--Mrs. Prioleau did.
‘Do you see, Robert,’ she said at length, ‘what is going on right
under our noses? Edith, I mean, and this Mr. Larkins?’
‘Well, I have had my suspicions. But what matter? Cannot things
take their course?’
‘Agree to such a match for Edith? Robert, you must be demented.’
The general had seldom seen his wife so excited before.
‘He is a very rising young soldier.’
‘Who has already risen from the ranks. It will never do. I have
no false pride about me, I think, but it is right to draw the
line somewhere. But even if there were no other objections, that
of means ought to suffice. What are they to live upon? His pay?
Ridiculous and absurd.’
‘He cannot be dependent on his pay. He lives well, keeps horses,
and makes altogether too good a show. I have heard rumours of some
rich old lady in the background, who has made him her _protégé_.’
‘That story might not quite bear investigation,’ said Mrs. Prioleau
drily. ‘We know nothing about Mr. Larkins--where he comes from, or
to whom he belongs.’
‘I had no idea you were so keen, Sophia, I confess I like the lad.
However, speak to Edith if you feel that it is necessary. I leave
it all to you.’
It was while Mrs. Prioleau waited her opportunity that chance gave
Herbert an adverse rub.
Edith, with Captain Mountcharles as escort, was returning from
the Moorish Castle, when she came suddenly upon Herbert Larkins.
He was leaving a small cottage, which was evidently a soldier’s
quarter. It was, in fact, the home of old Sergeant Larkins and his
wife.
‘Good bye, mother,’ Herbert was saying, as the pair passed by.
‘Good bye, my boy; come again soon. You are an honest lad not to
forget us, although you’ve come to be so great a man.’
And with that the old woman kissed him tenderly on the brow,
although they stood at the cottage door, almost in the open street.
‘Whose quarter is that?’ the aide-de-camp asked of a passing
orderly, pointing back, after they had ridden a little way on.
‘Sergeant Larkins’, sir. Principal barrack sergeant, sir.’
At which Mountcharles looked hard at Edith, and with a comical face.
‘Well, what do I care? What is it to me? It is quite proper of him.
It is his duty not to neglect his parents.’
‘Oh, of course. She’s a dear old thing, too, I can see that. How
would you like her for a mother-in-law, Edith Prioleau, eh?’
‘How dare you suggest such a thing, Captain Mountcharles?’ cried
Edith, blushing red.
But there was a cold chill on her heart, and Herbert’s chances
seemed very small just then.