THERE was only one blot in the sweetness and light of Miss Mignon’s baby
character, so far as the officers of the Scarlet Lancers were concerned.
Among them all there was only one whom she did not like. She had degrees
of love—Bootles ranked first, then Lacy, then two or three groups of
friends whom she liked best, better, and well; but she had no degrees of
dislike where she did not love. She hated, hated fiercely and furiously,
hated with all her baby heart and soul. There were several persons in
her small world whom she detested thus, absolutely declining to hold
communication or to accept overtures from them, however sweetly made; but
there was only one of the officers who came under this head, and he was
Gilchrist, the man who had dubbed her at first _workhouse brat_. Miss
Mignon could not endure him. When old enough to understand that a
certain box of sweeties had come from Mr. Gilchrist, she would drop it as
if it burned her fingers, draw down the corners of her mouth, and remark,
“Miss Mignon is very much obliged;” an observation which invariably sent
Bootles and Lacy off into fits of laughter, at which the little maid
would fly open-armed to him, and cry, “But Mignon _loves_ Bootles.” But
the fact remained the same, that Miss Mignon detested Gilchrist, who,
indeed, was not a favorite in the regiment. Nor, indeed, did Gilchrist
seem to like Miss Mignon any better, though he now and then brought his
offerings of toys and bonbons like the rest. In the face of Bootles’s
severe snub about the two odious words he had applied to her, he was
hardly such a simpleton as to further rouse or annoy the most popular man
in the regiment; yet if he could possibly cast a slur on Bootles or on
the child he did it. Never from his lips came the pet name “Miss
Mignon,” never did his black eyes rest on her without a sneer or a jibe;
if he could by any chance twist Bootles’s words into an admission that
the child was really his, he took care never to lose the opportunity.
“Oh, come, now,” Preston cried one day, when he had been sneering at
Bootles and Lacy, who had just driven away with the child between them,
“Bootles is a right good sort—no mistake on that point. No sneaking
hypocrisy about him. It would be well for you and me if we were half as
fine chaps; but we are not, Gilchrist, and, what is more, we never shall
be.”
“Oh no; but where is the mother of that brat?”
“How should I know? or Bootles? I shouldn’t mind laying my life that
Bootles never did and never will cause her or any other woman to write
such a letter as came with the child that night. Jolly good thing for
this one if she was Bootles’s wife, instead of being tied up to the hound
who bound her to secrecy and deserted her. Perhaps she’s dead, poor
soul! Who knows?”
“Perhaps she isn’t,” Gilchrist sneered. “Some people never die.”
Good-natured and not very wise Preston stared at him, and Hartog looked
from behind his newspaper, aghast at the bitterness of his tone.
“Good heavens, Gilchrist!” Preston cried, “are you _wanting_ somebody to
die?”
Gilchrist tried to laugh, and succeeded very badly. He rose from his
chair, knocking a few scattered cigar ashes carefully off his braided
cuff.
“Well, I confess I should not be sorry to see that prating brat of
Bootles’s out of the road. We should perhaps get at the truth then.”
And having delivered himself of this feeling speech, he went out, banging
the door after him.
“Well, upon my soul!” exclaimed Preston.
“Oh, the man’s got a tile loose in his upper story,” said Hartog,
decidedly. “No man in his senses would talk such miserable rot as that.
Always thought Gilchrist a crazy fool myself, but I’m sure of it now.”
“And how he sticks to it Miss Mignon is Bootles’s own child—as if it
could be any good for him to say she isn’t if she is.”
“No. I shall tell Bootles to keep an eye on Gilchrist. I say, what a
comfort it would be if he would only exchange! I suppose we can’t manage
to dazzle him with the delights of India, eh?”
“Not very well. Besides, he lost ever so much seniority by coming to
us.”
“No such luck. It’s queer, though, he should be so persistent about
Bootles and Miss Mignon. I suppose he wants to daub Bootles with some of
his own mud. Thinks if he only throws enough, some of it’s sure to
stick; and so it would with most men. Happily, however, it don’t in the
least matter what a little cad like Gilchrist chooses to say about a man
like Bootles—a jealous little beast.”
Neither of them said any more about the matter, but Hartog took the
earliest opportunity of repeating to Bootles what “that ass Gilchrist”
had said about seeing that prating brat of Bootles’s out of the road, and
in consequence a kind of watch was set upon the child. Not that Bootles,
though he had a very poor opinion of Gilchrist and Gilchrist’s brains,
was afraid for a moment that he would give Miss Mignon poisoned bonbons,
or run off with her and drop her in the river; yet he did think it not
improbable that he might encourage an already dangerous spirit of
adventure, and of course be absolutely blameless if she could get
trampled by a horse’s cruel hoofs, or crushed by one of the many traps
going in and out of barracks.
When Bootles had taken his first long leave after Miss Mignon’s coming,
he had left her at Idleminster in charge of her nurse; but when long
leave came round again, and she must have been about two and a half, he
decided to take her with him. One reason for this was certainly a fear
of any pranks Gilchrist might choose to play, another that Lacy was
taking his leave at the same time, and Bootles was afraid, in the absence
of both, Miss Mignon might fret herself into a fever. And, besides, he
had missed the child during a fortnight’s deer-stalking in Scotland that
autumn more than he would have liked to own.
From Blankhampton, therefore, they went to his place, Ferrers Court,
where he was to entertain a rather large party for Christmas, with a
sister of his mother’s, and his only near relative, to do the honors for
him, and among his guests a Mrs. Smith, a widow, and sister to that dead
girl to whom he fancied a resemblance in Miss Mignon. However, at the
last moment, Mrs. Smith wrote to excuse herself.
“I am very, very sorry,” she said, “but a very dear friend of mine, with
whom I spent two winters in Italy, has suddenly appeared, with a
travelling companion and two maids, to pay me a long-promised visit of at
least two months. She is a Russian countess—a widow like myself, and
wishes, I fancy, to improve her English, which she already speaks very
well. Of course I am dreadfully disappointed, but cannot help it.”
Now it happened that Bootles had a very deep and great respect and liking
for Mrs. Smith, and not for all the widowed countesses in Russia was he
willing to upset his plans; therefore he wrote off at once to Mrs. Smith,
after a five minutes’ consultation with Lady Marion, to beg her to carry
out her original intentions, and bring Madame and her retinue “along.”
Would she telegraph her reply?
Mrs. Smith did so, the reply being, Yes. Moreover, she supplemented the
telegram by a letter, in which she mentioned among other things that
Madame Gourbolska’s travelling companion must be treated in all ways as
an ordinary guest.
So, at the time originally appointed for Mrs. Smith’s coming, the party
of six—three ladies and three maids—arrived. Bootles himself went to the
station to meet them. He found that Madame Gourbolska was young, not
more than thirty, of the plump and fair Russian type, quite fair enough
to hold her own beside Mrs. Smith, whom he regarded as the most beautiful
woman of his acquaintance. The third lady, Miss Grace, was fair also,
perhaps not so positively beautiful as either the English or the Russian
lady, but fair-haired, fair-skinned, with soft blue-gray eyes, intensely
blue in some lights, as Bootles noticed directly. Graceful she was to a
degree, and as he watched her move across the little station he thought
how wonderfully her name suited her.
Mrs. Smith smiled at him as he helped her to mount to the top of the
omnibus. “Is not the likeness wonderful?” she said, with one of those
quick sighs with which we speak of our dead; and then she said, “Poor
Rosy.”
Bootles turned and looked at Miss Grace again, his mind going back to
those dark days, past and gone now, when he and his best friend had been
estranged for honor’s sake; when he and this imperially beautiful woman
had stood side by side watching a young life die out; had together seen
the sacrifice of a heart, the martyr of love to man.
“Yes, it is very great,” he said, briefly.
That dead sister of Mrs. Smith had always been and would always be a
not-to-be-broken bond of union between them, for the widow knew how
gladly “that grand Bootles,” as she always called him, would have tried
to make up for the love she had lost, while to Bootles Mrs. Smith stood
out from the rest of womankind as the sister of the only woman he had
ever wished or asked to marry him.
He helped Miss Grace up to the seat beside Mrs. Smith, and took his own
place beside the Russian lady, who entertained him very well during the
three miles’ drive between Eagles Station and Ferrers Court.
[Picture: In another moment they had drawn up at the great gothic
door-way]
“Oh, but what a paradise!” she cried, as the carriage turned into the
court-yard.
“I am delighted that it pleases you,” he answered, glancing round to see
what effect his ancestral home had upon Miss Grace.
“Lovely!” she murmured to Mrs. Smith.
In another moment they had drawn up at the great Gothic door-way, and
immediately the figure of a little child dressed in white appeared on the
top of the broad steps, kissing her small hands in token of welcome.
“Go in directly; you’ll get cold. Go in, I say,” Bootles called out. It
was, indeed, bitterly cold, and a few flakes of snow were falling. But
Miss Mignon had a budget of news for her Bootles, and was not to be done
out of telling it.
“Lal has had a letter from home,” she piped out in her shrill voice. Lal
was her name for Lacy, and home meant Blankhampton Barracks. “And the
St. Bernard has gotted two puppies—beauties—and I’m to have one. Lal
says so. And Terry has broked his leg.” Terry was one of Bootles’s
grooms. “And Major Ally’s going to be married.”
Bootles was so surprised that he forgot the cold and his order that Miss
Mignon should go in.
“_What_!” he exclaimed, incredulously.
Just then Lacy himself came to the top of the steps with open arms, so to
speak, and carried off Mrs. Smith into the house. Miss Mignon took
advantage of the opportunity to run down the steps just as Bootles helped
Madame Gourbolska to the ground.
“I welcome you with much pleasure,” he said, cordially—“Miss Grace also,”
as he gave her his hand to jump the last step. “I am afraid you are
tired. You are very white.”
“I am tired,” she said, in a low voice, not looking at him, but at the
child.
“It is so bitterly cold. Don’t stand a moment. Mignon, _will_ you go
in?”
Miss Mignon skipped up the steps, and the Russian lady caught her in her
arms.
“Oh, you little angel! and what is your name?”
“I’m Miss Mignon. You’re a very pretty lady,” returned Mignon,
critically. “I wanted to go to the station, but Bootles said it was too
cold, and Lal—”
“Madame does not know what Bootles and Lal mean,” interrupted Bootles.
“This is Bootles, and that’s Lal,” Miss Mignon informed her. “I’m Miss
Mignon, and I belong to Bootles.”
“Oh, you belong to Bootles. I am sure he must be very proud of you,”
Madame answered.
“I believe I’m a great bother to him,” Miss Mignon announced, in a
matter-of-fact tone.
Bootles laughed. “Come to the fire, Madame,” he said. Then turning to
Miss Grace, “I’m sure you are very cold—you are as white as a ghost. I’m
sure,” addressing Lady Marion, “Aunt Marion, wine would be much better
than this tea.”
“No, no; tea,” they cried—at least the two elder ladies, for Miss Grace
seemed to have no ears for any one but the child.
“Won’t you speak to me?” she asked, presently, as Miss Mignon gravely
regarded her with her big blue eyes.
Miss Mignon went close to her immediately. “Did Bootles let you drive?”
she asked, with interest.
Miss Grace shook her head, and lifted Miss Mignon onto her knee. “I did
not ask him,” she said.
“Oh!” Then, after a pause, “I al—ways do.”
“But not a pair?” in surprise.
Miss Mignon nodded. “When they’re not too fresh. Bootles would have
letted you, if you’d asked him.”
“I will another time.”
“Lacy,” said Bootles, suddenly, “is it true about Allardyce?”
“Hartog says so. They say she—er—dwrinks like a duck.”
“Pooh!” But Bootles laughed as if it was a great joke, and Mrs. Smith
begged to be enlightened.
“Oh! don’t you remember Allardyce? He’s the great military teetotal
light.”
“And—er—he wreally is an AWFUL duf-fah,” remarked Miss Mignon, in so
exact and so unconscious an imitation of Lacy’s drawl that her hearers
went off into fits of laughter, and Miss Grace, clasping her close to her
breast, bent, and kissed the luxuriant golden curls.
“You’re crying,” said Miss Mignon, promptly, scanning Miss Grace’s face
with her big eyes.
“No; but you made me laugh,” she said, hastily.
“Some people do cry when they laugh,” Miss Mignon informed her. “Our
colonel does. Now Major Garnet always chokes, and then Bootles thumps
him. I don’t know what he’ll do,” she added, in a tone of deep concern,
“if he chokes while we are away.”
“I never saw such an original little piece of mischief in my life,” cried
Mrs. Smith. “And how charmingly dressed—is she not, Madame? So sensible
of you to cover her up with that warm serge up to her throat and down to
her wrists. Who put you up to it?”
“I fancy we evolved the idea among us. You see she runs in and out of my
rooms, her own, and Mrs. Gray’s, the adjutant’s wife, that is,” Bootles
answered. “And barrack corridors are not exactly hot-houses. Besides,
our doctor keeps his eye on her, and he blames the wrapping-up for her
never having a day’s illness.”
“I believe in it,” asserted Mrs. Smith.
“And I—oh! our married ladies tell me I am quite an authority on the
subject. I can tell you we get fearfully chaffed about her, Lacy and I.”
“Why?” Miss Grace asked.
“Well, because she goes about with us a good deal, and people seem to
find the situation difficult to understand.” He took it for granted that
she knew all about Miss Mignon, and she did not press the question
further. But half an hour later, when Mrs. Smith was thinking of
dressing, Miss Grace tapped at her door and entered.
“Could you lend me a few black pins?” she asked. “Madame and I have both
forgotten them.”
“Certainly, my dear—take the box.”
But Miss Grace only took a few in the pink palm of her hand.
“What a pretty child that is!” she said, carelessly. “Did the mother die
when it was born?”
“Oh, my dear!” cried Mrs. Smith, “she is not Captain Ferrers’s child. No
relation whatever.”
“No? Whose, then?”
“Ah! That is a question.” Then she briefly told Miss Mignon’s history,
ending: “But he will never part with her now. He is so fond of her, and
she adores him.”
“He is a fine fellow,” said Miss Grace, toying with the pins in her hand.
“A fine fellow! He is a splendid character,” Mrs. Smith cried, warmly.
“I assure you I have studied that man—and I have known him for years—and
I _cannot_ find a fault in him. Years ago, when we were in great
trouble, my mother and I, at the time my sister died, oh, he _was_ so
good, so—well,” with a quick sigh, “I cannot explain it all, but he was
such a comfort to us, and she died, poor darling, under very painful
circumstances, especially for me. Oh, there are very few in the world
like him—not one in ten thousand. Take his action as regarded that dear
little child, for instance. His brother officers wanted him to send her
to the workhouse, but as he wrote to me, ‘Some day I may meet the mother,
and how should I face her?’”
“Ah!” murmured Miss Grace, and Mrs. Smith went on.
“It was no small undertaking for a man in his position, for he has not
left her to the entire care of servants—she is continually with him and
Mr. Lacy, who is also very fond of her. Do you know, he pays her nurse
fifty pounds a year. In fact, she is just as if she were really his own
child. But it is just like him.”
“And they would have sent her to the workhouse?”
“One or two of them—not Mr. Lacy, of course.”
Miss Grace was silent for a few moments. Then she roused herself as from
a brown-study.
“Well, I am detaining you, Mrs. Smith, and shall be late myself. Thank
you very much.” Then she went away, passing softly down the corridor,
and entered her room, locking the door behind her. But once in that safe
shelter she flung the pins on the table and dropped upon her knees,
burying her face in her hands, while the scalding tears forced their way
between her fingers, and the great sobs shook her frame. “‘Some day he
might meet the mother,’ she sobbed, ‘and how should he face her?’ Oh, my
child, my little child, how shall I face him? How shall I bear it? How
shall I live in the same house with him without falling on my knees and
blessing him for saving my little child from—God knows what?”
[Picture: Lacy was occupied in making desperate love to the Russian lady]