MIGNON
OR, BOOTLES’ BABY
A Novelette
BY J. S. Winter
AUTHOR OF “CAVALRY LIFE” AND “REGIMENTAL LEGENDS”
* * * * *
ILLUSTRATED
* * * * *
_Books you may hold readily in your hand are the most useful_, _after
all_
DR. JOHNSON
* * * * *
NEW YORK
HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS
1885
ILLUSTRATIONS
“Let’s go and have a look at it.” 17
Bootles, proud of his new accomplishment, lifted the child awkwardly 21
in his arms.
“I can’t condemn that helpless thing to the workhouse.” 33
Mignon’s own–illustration. 37
Mrs. Gray rose and went close to him, laying her hand upon his arm. 43
But Lacy was already on the ground, and caught Miss Mignon out of 55
harm’s way.
“What a lot of medals you’ve got!” 59
In another moment they had drawn up at the great gothic doorway. 73
Lacy was occupied in making desperate love to the Russian lady. 83
Then with one imploring backward look she went away and left him 89
alone.
He dropped into a chair and took her in his arms. 93
The swarming crowd round the other was watching a more exciting race 103
than that which they had just witnessed.
A race between life and death. 107
Bootles watched them—the two things he loved best on earth. 117
CHAPTER I.
IT was considerably after midnight when one of three officers seated at a
whist-table in the mess-room of the Cavalry Barracks at Idleminster,
where the Scarlet Lancers were quartered, called out, “Bootles, come and
take a hand—there’s a good chap.”
Captain Algernon Ferrers, more commonly known as “Bootles,” looked up.
“I don’t mind if I do,” he said, rising and moving towards them. “What
do you want me to do? Who’s my partner?”
The three other men stared at one another in surprise, for Bootles was
one of the best whist-players in the regiment, and in an ordinary way
would as soon have thought of counting honors as of settling the
questions of partners other than by cutting, except in the case of a
revenge.
“Why, take a card, of course, my friend,” laughed Lacy, in a ridiculously
soft voice. Lacy was a recent importation from the White Dragoons, and
had taken possession of the place left vacant in Bootles’s every-day life
by Scott Laurie’s marriage.
“Ah, yes; to be sure—cut, of course. I believe,” said Bootles, looking
at the three faces before him in an uncertain way—“I believe I’ve got a
headache.”
“Oh, nothing like whist for a headache,” answered Hartog, turning up the
last card. “Ace of diamonds.” However, after stumbling through one
game—after twice trumping his partner’s trick, a revoke, and several such
like blunders—he rose to his feet.
“It’s no use, you fellows; I’m no good to-night—I can’t even see the
cards. Get some one to take my place and make a fresh start.”
“Why, you’re ill, Bootles,” cried Preston. “What is it?”
“It’s a devil of a headache,” answered Bootles, promptly. “Here’s
Miles—the very man. Goodnight.”
“Good-night,” called the fellows after him. Then they settled down to
their game, and Preston dealt.
“Never saw Bootles seedy before,” said Lacy.
“Oh yes; he gets these headaches sometimes,” answered Hartog. “Not
often, though. Miles, your lead.”
Meantime Bootles went wearily away, almost feeling his road under the
veranda of the mess-rooms, along the broad _pavé_ in front of the
officers’ quarters, and up the wide flight of stone steps to his rooms
facing the green of the barrack square. Being the senior captain, with
only one bachelor field-officer in the regiment, he had two large and
pleasant rooms, not very grandly furnished, for, though a rich man, he
was not an extravagant one, and saw no fun in having costly goods and
chattels to be at the tender mercies of soldier servants; but they were
neat, clean, and comfortable, with a sufficiency of great easy
travelling-chairs, plenty of fur rugs, and lots of pretty little pictures
and knickknacks.
The fire in his sitting-room was fast dying out, but a bright and
cheerful blaze illumined his sleeping-room, shining on the brass knobs of
his cot, on the silver ornamentations at the corners of his
dressing-case, on three or four scent bottles on the tall
cretonne-petticoated toilette table, and on the tired but resplendent
figure of Bootles himself.
He dragged the big chair pretty near to the fire, and dropped into it
with a sigh of relief, absolutely too sick and weary to think about
getting into bed just then. As Hartog had said, sometimes these
headaches seized him, but it did not happen often; in fact, he had not
had one for more than a year—quite often enough, he said.
Well, he had been lying in the big and easy chair, his eyes shut and his
hands hanging idly over the broad straps which served for arms, for
perhaps half an hour, when to his surprise he heard a soft rustling
movement behind him. His first and not unnatural thought was that the
fellows had come to draw him, so, without moving, he called out, “Oh!
confound it all, don’t come boring a poor devil with a headache. By
Jove, it’s cruelty to animals, neither more nor less.”
The soft rustling ceased, and Bootles closed his eyes again, with a
devout prayer that they would, in response to this appeal, take
themselves off. But presently it began again, accompanied by a sound
which made his heart jump almost into his mouth, and beat so furiously as
to be simply suffocating. It stopped—was repeated—“_The_—DEVIL,”
muttered Bootles.
But it was not the devil at all—more like a little angel, in truth; for
after a moment’s irresolution he sprang from his chair and faced the
horror behind him. It really was a horror to him, for there, sitting up
among the pillows of the cot, with the clothes pushed back, was a baby, a
baby whose short golden curls shone in the fire-light—a little child
dressed in white, with a pair of wide-open, wondering eyes, as bright as
stars and as blue as sapphires.
Bootles stood in dismay staring at it.
“Where, in the name of all that’s wonderful, did _you_ come from?” he
asked aloud, keeping at a safe distance lest it should suddenly start
howling.
But the little stranger did not howl; on the contrary, as its bewildered
eyes fell upon Bootles’s resplendent figure, his gold-laced scarlet
jacket and gold-embroidered waistcoat of white velvet, his gold-laced
overalls and jingling spurs, it stretched out its little arms and cried,
“Boo, boo, boo—!”
Bootles took a step back in his surprise, and his headache vanished as if
by magic.
“By—Jove!” he exclaimed.
“Boo—boo—boo!” crowed the usurper of the cot, cheerily.
Bootles went a step nearer. “Why, you’re a queer little beggar,” he
remarked. “Where did you come from, eh?”
The “queer little beggar” suddenly changed its tone, and started another
system of crowing more triumphant and cheery than the first.
“Chucka—chucka—chucka—chuck!” it went.
Bootles began to laugh. “Can’t talk, hey? Well, what do you want?” as
it struggled fiercely to rise, and stretched out its small arms more
impatiently than before. “Want to be lifted up, hey? Oh, but dash it,”
scratching his head perplexedly, “I can’t lift you up, you know; it’s out
of the question—impossible. By Jove, I might let you drop and smash
you!”
“Chucka—chucka—chucka! Boo—oo—oo!” gobbled the baby, as if it were the
best joke in the world.
Bootles positively roared.
“You don’t mind? Well, come along, then,” approaching very gingerly, and
wondering where he should begin to get hold of it, so to speak.
The baby soon settled that question, holding out its arms towards his
neck. Then somehow he gathered it up and carried it in doubt and
trepidation to the big chair by the fire, where the creature sat
contentedly upon his knee, the curly golden head resting against his
scarlet jacket, the soft fingers of one baby hand tight twined round one
of his, the other picking and wandering aimlessly about the scrolls and
curves of the gold embroidery on his waistcoat.
“By Jove! you’re a jolly little chap,” said Bootles, just as if it could
understand him. “But the question is, where did you come from, and
what’s to be done with you? You can’t stop here, you know.”
The babe’s big blue eyes raised themselves to his, and the fingers which
had been twined round his made a grab at his watch-chain.
“Gar—gar—garr—rah!” it remarked, in such evident delight that Bootles
laughed again.
“Oh, you like it, do you? Well, you’re a queer little beggar; no mistake
about that. I wonder whom you belong to, and where you live when you are
at home? Can’t be a barrack child—too dainty-looking and not slobbery
enough. And this dress”—taking hold of the richly embroidered white
skirt—“this must have cost a lot; and it’s all lace too.”
He knew what embroidery cost by his own mess waistcoats and his tunics.
Then not only was the dress of the child of a very costly description,
but its sleeves were tied up with Cambridge blue ribbons that were
evidently new, and its waist was encircled by a broad sash of the same
material and tint. Altogether it was just such a child as he was
occasionally called upon to admire in the houses of his married brother
officers; yet that any lady in the regiment would lend her baby for a
whole night to a set of harum-scarum young fellows for the purpose of
playing a trick on a brother officer was manifestly absurd. And besides
that, Bootles was so good-natured and such a favorite with the ladies of
the regiment that he thought he knew all their babies by sight, and he
became afraid that this one was indeed a little stranger in the land,
welcome or unwelcome.
Yet if it was the fellows’ doing, where had they got it? And if it was
not the fellows’ doing, why should any one leave a baby asleep in his
cot? The whole thing was inexplicable.
Just then the child, in playing with his chain, slipped a little on the
smooth cloth of his overalls, and Bootles, with a “Whoa! whoa, my lad!”
hauled it up again. In doing so he felt a piece of paper rustle
somewhere about the embroidered skirt.
“A note. This grows melodramatic,” said Bootles, craning his head to
find it. “Oh, here we are! Now we shall see.”
The note was written in a firm, large, yet thoroughly feminine hand, and
ran thus:
“You will not absolve me from my oath of secrecy respecting our
marriage, though now that I have offended you, I may starve or go to
the work-house. I cannot break my oath, though you have broken _all_
yours, but I am determined that you _shall_ acknowledge your child.
I am going to leave her to-night in your rooms with her clothes. By
midnight I shall be out of the country. I do this because I have
obtained a good situation, and because when I reach my destination I
shall have spent my last shilling. I give you fair warning, however,
that if you desert the child, or fail to acknowledge her, I will
break my oath and proclaim our marriage. If you engage a nurse she
will not be much trouble. She is a good and sweet-tempered child,
and I have called her Mary, after your dear mother. Oh, how she
would pity me if she could see me now! Farewell.”
From that moment Bootles absolved “the fellows” from any share in the
affair; but what to do with the child he had not the least idea.
“It is the very devil,” he said aloud, watching the busy fingers still
playing with his chain.
He gathered it awkwardly in his arms, and rose to look for the clothing
spoken of in the letter. Yes, there it was, a parcel of goodly size,
wrapped in a stout brown paper cover, and on the chair beside his cot lay
the out-door garments of a young child—a white coat bordered with fur, a
fur-trimmed cap, and some other things, which Bootles did not quite
understand the use of; white wool fingerless gloves (at least he did not
know what else they could be), and some longer things of the same class,
like stockings without feet.
Bootles shook his head bewilderingly. “Mother means it to stop; _I_
don’t know what to do,” he said, helplessly.
It occurred to him then that perhaps some of the fellows might be able to
make a suggestion. He did not know what to do with the child for the
night, nor, for the matter of that, what to do with it for the moment.
He had the sense not to take it out into the chill midnight air, and when
he attempted to put it back into the cot it rebelled, clinging to his
watch-chain with might and main.
“Well, have it then,” he said, slipping it off.
The baby, pleased with the glittering toy, set up a cry of delight, and
Bootles took the opportunity of slipping out. He entered the anteroom
with a very rueful face, finding it pretty much as he had left it. Lacy
was the first to catch sight of him.
“Halloo, Bootles, what’s the mat-tah?” he asked. “Is your head worse?”
“My head? Oh, I forgot all about it,” Bootles replied. “But, I say, I’m
in a mess. There’s a baby in my room.”
“A WHAT?” they cried, with one voice.
“A baby,” repeated Bootles, dismally.
“Al—ive?” asked Lacy, with his head on one side.
“Alive! Oh, very, very much so, and means to stop, for it has brought
its entire wardrobe and a letter of introduction with it,” holding the
letter for any one to take who chose. It was Lacy who did so, and he
asked if he should read it up.
“Yes, do,” said Bootles, dropping into a chair with a groan. “Perhaps
some one else will own to it.”
So Lacy read the letter in his ridiculous drawl of a voice, and ceased
amid profound silence—“Fa-ah-well!”
“Well?” said Bootles, finding no one seemed inclined to speak. “Well?”
“Well,” said Preston, solemnly, “if you want my opinion, Bootles, I think
you ought to be ashamed of yourself.”
A general laugh followed, but Bootles protested.
“Oh, don’t imagine it’s me. I’ve nothing to do with it. I shouldn’t
have come to you fellows if I had.”
“No, no, of course not,” returned Miles, promptly, but with an air which
raised another shout.
“Then it’s a plant,” announced Preston, in a tone of conviction.
“Of course it’s a plant,” cried Bootles; “but why in the wide world
should it be planted on me?”
“Why, indeed?” echoed Miles, feelingly.
“Besides,” Bootles continued, “some of you know my mother, and that her
name was not Mary but Margaret.”
Now as several of those present had known Lady Margaret Ferrers very
well, that was a strong point in favor of Preston’s assertion that the
affair was a plant. The chief question, however, was what could be done
with the little stranger for that night. Some woman, of course, must
look after it, but who? It was then after two o’clock, and the lights
had been out hours ago in the married people’s quarters. Bootles did not
know what to do, and said so.
“Is it in your room now?” Preston asked.
“Yes.”
“Where did you find it?”
“In my cot.”
“The devil you did! I wonder you weren’t frightened out of your very
wits.”
“I nearly was,” Bootles admitted.
“Did you see it at once? Was it howling?”
“Howling? Not a bit of it. Never saw a jollier little beggar in all my
life.”
“Oh!” ejaculated Miles, blankly. “I say, you fellows, don’t that sound
to you very much like the proud pap—ah?”
“You fellows” all laughed at this, even perplexed Bootles, and Hartog
asked a question.
“Did you see it directly, Bootles?”
“Oh no; not for half an hour or more.”
“What on earth did you do?”
“Why, I looked at it of course. What would you have done?”
“Did you _touch_ it?”
Bootles laughed. “Yes, by Jove, the little beggar came to me like a
bird.”
“Great gods!” uttered Miles, “and you can doubt the fatherliness of
_that_!”
“Oh, what an ass you are!” returned Hartog; then, as if by a bright
inspiration, suggested, “I say, let’s go and have a look at it.”
Thereupon the assembled officers, five of them, trooped along the way
Bootles had stumbled over alone in the blindness of his now forgotten
headache. The baby was still in the cot, contentedly playing with the
watch and chain, and at the sight of the five resplendent figures it set
up a loud “Boo—boo—boo—ing,” followed by a “Chucka—chucka—chucka—ing.”
Evidently it considered this was the land of Goshen.
“Seems to take after its mother in its love for a scarlet jacket,”
remarked Miles, sententiously. “I’ve heard that the child is father of
the man—seems of the woman too.”
“Bootles,” said Lacy, gravely, “isn’t it very pwretty?”
“Yes, poor little beggar.”
“Let’s see you nurse it,” cried Hartog.
So Bootles, proud of this new accomplishment, lifted the child awkwardly
in his arms, pretty much as he might have done if it had been a sackful
of eggs, and he had made a wager he wouldn’t break one of them. He
carried it to the fire.
[Picture: Let’s go and have a look at it]
“Just light the candles, one of you,” he said.
“It’s the image of Bootles,” persisted Miles.
“Well, it isn’t mine, except by deed of gift,” returned Bootles, with a
laugh.
“Bootles,” said Lacy, “look back over your past life—” Here he made a
pause.
“Well?” said Bootles, expectantly.
“Twry to think if you can twrace any likeness to some early love, who may
have marwried—or, for that matter, _not_ have marwried—some one else,
and—er—wremembering your kind heart—for you have a dashed kind heart,
Bootles, there’s no denying it—may have found herself hard up or too much
encumbered—for—er—you know, a babay is sometimes an awkward addition to a
lady’s belongings—and may have twrusted to your—er—general—well, shall we
say softness of chawracter to see it well pwrovided for—er—see?”
“No, I don’t. Of course I see what you mean, but I can’t—”
“Well—er—” Lacy broke in, “I—er—pewraps was not thinking so much of
_your_ case as of my own. You see,” appealing to the other three, “the
advent of this—er—babay cwreates a precedent, and—er—if it should chance
to occur to my first love—it would be awkward—for me, very awkward. Her
name,” plunging headlong into a story they all knew, “was Naomi,
and—er—she—er—in fact, jilted me for an elephantine parson, whose
reverend name was—er—Fligg, Solomon Fligg. Now, if Mrs.—er—Solomon Fligg
was to take it into her head to pack up the—er—eleven little Fliggs and
send ’em to me—it would be what I should call awkward—devilish awkward.”
Lacy’s four hearers positively roared, and the baby on Bootles’s knee
chuckled and crowed with delight.
“I believe it understands,” Preston laughed.
“No. But it seems a jolly little chap,” answered Bootles. “Oh, I
forgot, ’tis a girl. I say, I do wish you fellows would advise me what
to do. How can I get any one to attend to it?”
“Oh, roll it up in the bedclothes and sleep on the sofa. It will go to
sleep when it’s tired,” said one.
“With its clothes on?” said Bootles, doubtfully. “I rather fancy they
undress babies when they put ’em to bed.”
“I don’t advise you to try. Oh, it won’t hurt for to-night.”
[Picture: Bootles, proud of his new accomplishment, lifted the child
awkwardly in his arms]
“There’s a cab just driven up. I believe it’s the Grays. I saw them go
out dressed before dinner,” said Hartog. The Grays were the adjutant and
his wife, who lived in barracks. “She would help you in a minute.”
“Oh, go and see; there’s a good chap,” Bootles cried, eagerly.
Hartog therefore went out. He found that it was the adjutant with his
wife returning from a party, and to the lady he addressed himself. “Oh,
Mrs. Gray, Bootles is in such trouble—” he began.
“In trouble?—Bootles?—Captain Ferrers?” she said. “What is the matter?”
“Well, he’s got a baby,” Hartog answered.
“Got WHAT?” Mrs. Gray cried.
“A baby. It’s been left in his rooms, clothes and all, and Bootles don’t
know what the de—, what in the world, I mean, to do with it.”
“Shall I go in and see it?” Mrs. Gray asked.
“I wish you would. Some of the others are there.”
Well, eventually Mrs. Gray carried off the little stranger to her own
quarters, and put it to bed. As for Bootles, he too went to bed, but
during the whole of that blessed night he never slept a wink.