IT was not to be expected, and Bootles did not expect it, that the story
of the mysterious little stranger could be confined to barracks. In
fact, in the course of a few hours it had flown all over the town,
gaining additions and alterations by the frequency of its repetition,
until at last Bootles himself could hardly recognize it. A baby had been
found in Captain Ferrers’s rooms; no one knew where it had come from nor
to whom it belonged. Then—Captain Ferrers had rescued a young baby from
a brutal father who was going to dash its brains out against the
door-post. Then—Captain Ferrers had picked up a new-born infant while
hunting with the duke’s hounds. Then—Captain Ferrers was suffering from
mental aberration, or, to speak plainly, was getting a bit cracked, and
had adopted a child a year old out of Idleminster workhouse. Then—It was
really most romantic, but Captain Ferrers had been engaged to and jilted
by a young lady long ago—which, of course, accounted for his being
impervious to the fascinations of the Idleminster girls—who had married,
been deserted by her husband, and now died—some versions of the story
said “committed suicide”—leaving him the charge of a baby, etc.
Some people told one version of the story and some people told another,
but nobody blamed Bootles very much. It might be because he was so rich
and so handsome and pleasant; it might be because Idleminster society was
free from that leaven of censoriousness which causes most people to look
at most things from the worst possible view.
But Bootles went on his serene way, telling the true state of the case to
every one who mentioned the affair to him, and always ending, “And hang
it, you know, it’s a pretty little beggar, and I _couldn’t_ send it to
the workhouse.”
He made no secret about it at all, and on the Saturday following the
advent of the child an advertisement appeared in the Idleminster
_Chronicle_ which made Idleminster tongues clack for a week:
“_Wanted_, _immediately_, _a highly respectable and thoroughly
experienced nurse of middle age_, _to __take the entire charge of a
child about a year old_. _Good wages to a suitable person_. _Apply
to Captain Ferrers_, _Scarlet Lancers_.”
In due time this advertisement produced the right sort of person, and a
staid and respectable widow of about fifty was soon installed in a room
next to Mr. Gray’s quarters, in charge of Miss Mignon, as the child had
already come to be called by everybody.
It was a charming child—strong and healthy, seemed to have no trouble
with temper or teeth, hardly ever cried, and might be seen morning and
afternoon being wheeled by its nurse in a baby-carriage about the barrack
square or along the road outside the Broad Arrow boundaries. And so, as
the weeks rolled by and wore into months, it began to toddle about, and
could say “Bootles” as plain as a pike-staff.
In April the Scarlet Lancers were moved from Idleminster to Blankhampton,
where Bootles had to undergo a new experience, for every one there took
him for a widower on account of the child.
Bootles would explain. “Take her about with me? Yes; she likes it.
Always wants to go when she sees the trap. A bother? Not a bit of it;
the jolliest little woman in creation, and as good as gold. What am I
going to do with her when she grows up? Well, Lacy says he is going to
marry her. If he don’t, somebody else will—no fear.”
Taking it all round, Miss Mignon had a remarkably good time of it, and
seemed thoroughly to appreciate the pleasant places in which her lines
had fallen. It was wonderful, too, what an immense favorite she was with
“the fellows.” At first she had been “Bootles’s brat,” but very soon
that was dropped, and by the time she could toddle, which she did in very
good time, no one thought of mentioning her or of speaking to her except
as “Miss Mignon.” Scarcely any of the officers dreamed for a moment of
returning after a few days’ leave without “taking along,” as the
Americans say, a box of sweets or a bundle of toys for Miss Mignon.
Indeed the young lady came to have such a collection that after a while
Mrs. Nurse’s patient soul arose, and with Captain Ferrers’s permission
all the discarded ones were distributed among the less fortunate children
of the regiment.
But Miss Mignon’s favorite plaything was Bootles himself—after Bootles,
Lacy. People said it was wonderful, the depth of the affection between
the big soldier of thirty-five and the little dot of a child, scarcely
two. Bootles she adored, and where Bootles was she would be, if by hook
or by crook she could convey her small person into his presence. Once
she spied him turn in at the gates on the right hand of the colonel, when
the regiment was returning from a field-day, and escaping from her
nurse’s hand, set off as hard as she could run in the direction of the
band, which immediately preceded the commanding officer. Mrs. Nurse gave
chase, but alas! Mrs. Nurse was stout, and had the ill luck, moreover, to
come a cropper over a drain tile lying conveniently in her way, while the
child, unconscious of danger, ran straight for Bootles. Neither Bootles
nor Lacy, who was on the colonel’s left, perceived her until she was
close upon them, waving her small hands, and shouting, in her shrill and
joyous child’s voice, “Bootles! Bootles!”
It seemed to Bootles, as be looked past the colonel, that the child was
almost under the hoofs of Lacy’s charger. “Lacy!” he called out—“Lacy!”
But Lacy was already on the ground, and caught Miss Mignon out of harm’s
way; but when he turned round he saw that his friend’s face was as white
as chalk.
[Picture: But Lacy was already on the ground, and caught Miss Mignon out
of harm’s way]
As for the colonel, when he saw Mrs. Nurse gathering herself up with
rueful looks at the drain tile, he simply roared, and Miss Mignon chimed
in as if it were the finest joke in the world.
“That was a smash,” she remarked, from her proud position on Lacy’s
shoulder, “just like Humpty Dumpty”—a comment which gave that estimable
person the name of Mrs. Humpty Dumpty as long as she remained with the
regiment.
A few weeks after this the annual inspection came off, and Miss Mignon,
resenting the lengthened absence of her Bootles, again managed to escape
from her nurse, and pattered boldly, as fast as her small feet would
carry her, right into the mess-room, where Bootles was sitting, just
opposite the general, at the late lunch. Miss Mignon not seeing him at
first, wandered coolly behind the row of scarlet-clad backs, until she
spied him at the other side of the table. Then, having no awe whatever
of inspecting officers, she wedged herself in between his chair and the
colonel’s with a triumphant and joyous laugh.
The general gave a great start, and the colonel laughed. Bootles, in
dismay, jumped up, and came quickly round the table to take her away.
“Well, you little rogue,” said the colonel, reaching a nectarine for her.
“What do you want?”
“I wanted Bootles, sir,” said Miss Mignon, confidentially. “And nurse
falled asleep, so I tooked French leave.” Almost the only peculiarity in
her speech was the habit of making all verbs regular.
“And who are you, my little maid?” the general asked, in extreme
amusement.
“Oh, I’m Miss Mignon,” with dignity.
The old general fairly chuckled with delight, and as he had put his arm
round the child, Bootles, who was standing behind, could not very well
take her away.
“Oh, Miss Mignon—hey? And whom do you belong to?”
“Why, to Bootles,” in surprise at his ignorance.
“To Bootles? And who is Bootles?”
“Bootles is Bootles, and I love him,” Miss Mignon replied, as if that
settled everything.
“Happy Bootles!” cried the old soldier.
“What a lot of medals you’ve got!” cried Miss Mignon, pressing closer.
“I’m afraid, sir, she is troubling you,” Bootles interposed at this
point, but secretly delighted with the turn affairs had taken.
[Picture: “What a lot of medals you’ve got!”]
“No, no; let her see my medals,” replied the general, who was as proud of
his medals as Bootles of Miss Mignon.
“Are you a ‘sir’ too?” Miss Mignon asked, gazing at the handsome old man
with more respect.
“What does she mean?” he cried.
Bootles laughed.
“Well, sir, she hears us speak to the colonel so, that is all.”
“Dear me! What a remarkably intelligent and attractive child!” exclaimed
the general, quietly. “How old is she?”
“About two, sir.”
Now it happened that the old general had a craze for absolute accuracy,
and he caught Bootles up with pleasant sharpness.
“Oh! Does that mean more or less?”
“I can’t say, sir. She is about two. I do not know the date of her
birth.”
“Then she is not yours?”
“I am not her father, sir, but at present she belongs to me,” Bootles
said, smiling. “I’m afraid—”
“Not at all, but perhaps she had better go. What a charming child!”
This last was perhaps because Miss Mignon, finding her time had come—and
she never made a fuss on such occasions—put two soft arms round his neck,
and gave him such a genuine hug of friendship that the old man’s heart
was quite taken by storm.
So Miss Mignon was carried off, looking back to the last over Bootles’s
shoulder, and waving her adieu to the handsome old man, who had such a
fascinating array of clasps and medals.
“I didn’t quite understand—what relation is the child to him?” he asked
of the colonel.
“None whatever. Ferrers found her late one night in his bed, with her
wardrobe, and a letter from the mother, written as if Ferrers was the
father. He, however, gave me his word of honor that he knew nothing
about it, and some of us think the whole affair was simply a plant, as he
is known to be a very kind-hearted fellow. Others, however, Ferrers
among them, think that note and child were intended for one of the
others. Nobody, however, would own to it, and Ferrers has kept the child
ever since—I don’t suppose he would part with her now for anything. I
wanted him to send her to the workhouse, but ’tis a jolly bright little
soul, and I am glad he did not.”
“Then he is not married?”
“Oh dear no. He pays a woman fifty pounds a year to look after her, and
all her meals go from the mess. In fact, he is bringing her up as if she
were his own; and the child adores him—simply adores him.”
“I respect that man,” said the general, warmly. “It is an awful thing
for a child to be reared in a workhouse—awful.”
“Yes; Bootles feels very strongly on the subject,” replied the colonel,
absently.
By the time Bootles returned, the officers had risen from the table, and
he met the guests and the seniors just entering the anteroom.
“I’ll shake hands with you, Captain Ferrers, if you please,” said the
general, cordially. “I agree with you that it is an awful thing for a
child to be brought up in a workhouse. It is a subject upon which I feel
very strongly—very strongly. A child reared as a pauper does not start
the world with a fair chance. I have met so often, in the course of my
military experience, with recruits bred in the Unions—I never knew one do
well. No; pauperism is ground into them, and they are never able to
shake it off.”
“Well, sir, that is my opinion,” said Bootles, modestly. “I hope,
though, you won’t think my little maid is often so obtrusive as to-day.
She is really always very good.”
“A charming little child,” replied the general, as if he meant it too,
and then he shook hands with Bootles again.