The two gentlemen returned next day to Dover, to make inquiries after
the fate of Sir John's telegraphic despatch, which, it appeared, had
been delivered without doing any good. Roger had enlisted in a regiment
of rifles: he was a famous shot, young, strong, and active--by no means
such a recruit as a commanding officer concerned for the credit of his
regiment would relinquish readily; and, so far as the travellers could
ascertain, no notice had been taken of their communication. Then they
went back to London, where Sir John, feeling himself considerably
discomfited, hurried to the Horse Guards, to see what could be done at
last for his unfortunate _protegé_. Having ascertained, with
difficulty, the regiment in which Roger had enlisted, he discovered,
with no difficulty at all, that this regiment was quite complete in its
number, and that at present there were no vacancies among the officers.
At present! The chances were that a few months of a Caffre war might
show some difference in those full lists; but a man could not purchase a
prospective commission on this grim possibility. The only thing Sir John
could do in the circumstances he did. There was no lack of kindness at
the bottom of his heart: he wrote a kind letter to Roger, enclosing a
bank-bill for a considerable amount, confessing his mortification at the
consequences of his own delay, and ordering the young man, with an
imperative cordiality which he felt quite justified in using, and which
Roger was not likely to resist, to use the money and come home
directly--at least, whether he came home or not, he was not to serve the
campaign in the ranks. "If he comes home, he's not the boy I took him
for," said Sir John; but he dispatched his letter, and with it a note to
the major who led the detachment, and with whom he had some slight
acquaintance. Having done this, the baronet's conscience was clear: he
did what he could to persuade Colonel Sutherland to remain for some time
in town; he himself, after what had happened, having no particular
inclination to return to Milnehill. When he found the Colonel was not to
be persuaded, Sir John remained by himself, finding refuge, alike from
Armitage Park and the grave looks of his friend, in the London season.
He had been long out of the gay world. After a week or two in town, he
gradually warmed to its fascinations, and forgot all about his failure
very speedily, in a modest amount of fashionable dissipation and the
comforts of his club.
The Colonel stayed only to spend a day with Ned, and hastened home; and
as everything there went fair and softly, and nothing else within the
limits of this history requires immediate attention, let us spare a
moment to glance after poor Roger, forlorn and alone among his comrades
upon the monotonous sea.
Among his comrades, and yet alone--more alone than the young man had
been during all his life. He had never supposed--he had no means of
imagining--the humiliations of this new life. He could gulp the inferior
rank, the mortifications of his humble position--he could manage to
salute as superiors, totally above him and out of his sphere, the young
officers who a year ago would have been too happy to accompany him into
the preserves of the Grange, or sit by his side at his godfather's
hospitable table. These things he could bear; what Roger could not bear
was the perpetual society from which he could not free himself--the
constant presence of his "mates," and entire lack of anything like
privacy in this existence, of which he had not conceived half the pangs.
If he had been able to seek the meanest possible retirement of his own,
he could have borne all other grievances cheerfully--but this was
impossible; and the life of which every hour sleeping or waking was
spent in the rude companionship of men of a class much inferior and a
breeding totally different from his own, grew bitter to the young man.
He became unnaturally grave and self-absorbed. He attended to the
minutest details of his duty with the most scrupulous and rigid care:
but the sunshine and the glow of youth died away from him--life spread
around him full of vulgar circumstances, unceasing noise, unceasing
mirth, a perpetual accompaniment which made his heart sick. He did
everything he could to recall his courage--he tried to flatter his
imagination with pictures of future distinction; but Roger had not the
imagination of a poet; his fancy was not strong enough to carry him out
of the midst of the reality which vexed his soul; the pictures grew
languid, the hopes feeble. His whole nature retreated within itself, and
had to summon its uttermost forces to bear the trial. An experience
which he had never looked for deepened his thoughts, and gave a painful
development to his mind. His nearest approach to solitude was when he
leaned over the side of the ship, and lost the talk of his comrades in
the sweep of the waves. Then many a melancholy fancy possessed poor
Roger: sometimes he could fancy he saw the face of his godfather gazing
at him with a melancholy compunction; and the loyal heart rose, and his
own looks did their best to brighten, as if even the departed spirit
should not blame itself while he had power to say No. Sometimes it was
the good Colonel who looked out of Roger's imagination, with a kind and
grieved reproach, "Why did you not wait a little?--could you not trust
_me_?"
Sometimes for an instant the face he had seen upon that moorland road
beside Marchmain--the young face troubled and blushing, which knew and
recognized him, in spite of itself, flashed for a moment before Roger's
dreaming eyes; and then he turned away from the water and the heavens
with a quick sigh, and turned back to the little world which made its
passage over that sea--the noisy world between those wooden bulwarks,
lounging here and there, playing cards, sleeping in the sun, jesting,
quarrelling, talking unprofitable talk, and laughing loud laughter. This
was _his_ world, where Roger had to live.
At the same time an incident occurred to trouble him. A detachment of a
regiment of infantry shared the comforts of the same transport; and one
day, shortly after they sailed, Roger was startled to meet Sam Gilsland,
who for his part came to an amazed stand before him, and sheepishly put
up his hand to his forehead in respectful salutation. Nothing could
persuade Sam that "th' young Squire" was, like himself, in the ranks. A
hurried conversation ensued, in which Roger made strenuous endeavours to
knock the fact into the thick head of his countryman; and Sam went away
with a confused idea that he was not to touch his cap any more to this
unexpected shipmate, or to address the rifleman as Mr. Roger, or to
speak of him as the young Squire. This incident at once grieved Roger
and comforted him. Somehow there was a certain consolation in the idea
that one individual, at least, in that little community knew what and
who he really was. But the annoyance overbalanced the comfort. Sam after
this could not come in contact with his former patron but with a
ludicrous and embarrassing consciousness, which would have made Roger
laugh if it had not pained him; the simple lout felt himself alarmingly
on his good behaviour whenever he suspected Roger's neighbourhood, and
made a hundred furtive errands and clumsy attempts to do something for
him, which at once disturbed his mind and touched his heart. He was by
no means a bad fellow, this Sam--a certain gleam of chivalrous sentiment
warmed his opaque spirit at sight of the sad equality with himself to
which, in appearance, never in reality, the young Squire was reduced.
The honest clown felt a certain mortification and downfall in his own
person to think that Roger in his crowded cabin was cleaning his own
accoutrements like "a common man!" Sam made stealthy private expeditions
into the rifleman's quarters to do it for him, moved by an indescribable
mixture of compassion and respect, and those tender home-associations
which never had been so warm in the simple fellow's heart as now, and
could not comprehend the burst of mortified gratification--the mixture
of pain and pleasure, wrath and gratitude, with which Roger sent him
away. After that he had to content himself with touching his cap
stealthily when he could have a chance unseen, to the young Squire, and
confiding, when he had the opportunity, his own private troubles to him,
not without a secret conviction that Mr. Roger, by-and-bye, if not
immediately, would be able to right and avenge his humble follower.
Sometimes Roger was disposed to think Sam's presence an augmentation of
his own downfall, but in reality there was a certain solace in it
unawares.
All this time, however, a third person, totally unsuspected by the
unfortunate youth, observed him narrowly and closely, losing nothing,
not even the clownish services which Sam would fain have rendered to the
young rifleman. The Major was one of the most unsentimental of men.
Abstract benevolence would never have suggested to him any special
interest whatever in a recruit of superior rank. "His own fault, of
course--best thing the fellow could do," would have been the only
comment likely to fall from the lips of the Major; and no indulgence had
any chance to drop from his hands upon the head of the unhappy volunteer
who had been "wild," or "gay," or "unsteady," and who had lost himself
in the ranks.
But from the day of their embarkation the face of Roger had caught his
eye. A puzzling consciousness of knowing these ingenuous features
troubled him; he felt certain that he had seen them, and seen them under
very different circumstances, somewhere. Then came the telegraphic
message of Sir John Armitage, which, abrupt and unauthorized as it was,
made the Major wroth. He tore it through and sent the fragments
overboard in the first flush of his indignation. After a while, however,
he repented of his wrath. He had scarcely noted the name in his hurried
glance upon the paper--he forgot it in the flush of passion with which
he tossed the presumptuous missive overboard; but as soon as he came to
himself an uneasy idea that it concerned the young man whom he began to
note, troubled the Major. The thought riveted his attention more and
more upon the melancholy and grave young rifleman, who seemed to spend
all his leisure time leaning over the bulwark watching the waves sweep
by the vessel's side. Gradually, and unawares to himself, the Major
grew more and more interested in this solitary soldier; his interest
grew into a pursuit; he could no longer help observing him, and so
strongly had the idea entered his mind, that to find it mistaken would
have been a personal mortification and disparagement of his own wisdom.
Then the Major, in his quick, quarter-deck promenade, was witness to the
amazed recognition of Sam Gilsland, and of various other private
encounters between the two young men, in which Sam's furtive salutation
of respect spoke more than words to the sharp eye of the old soldier.
How to act upon his suspicions was, however, a more difficult matter
than how to pursue them; and if he was right, what then? Sons of
gentlemen before now had dropped clandestinely into the green coats of
the Rifle Brigade, about whom the Major had given himself no manner of
trouble; and he scarcely liked to acknowledge to himself how much that
unregarded message lay on his conscience, or how glad he would have been
now to have paid a little more attention to it.
However, the time slipped on, and the voyage progressed, while the
commanding officer busied himself with these fancies, finding himself
strangely unable to dissociate the melancholy young private soldier in
his green coat from a certain radiant young huntsman "in pink," whom his
fancy perpetually conjured up before him as the hero of some
north-country field, but whom he could not identify by name. The Major
even tried the unjustifiable expedient of discovering Roger in some
neglect of duty, that he might have a plausible motive for calling him
into his judicial presence. But not the most sudden and unlooked-for
appearance of his commanding officer could betray the young rifleman
into forgetfulness of the necessary salute, and in every other
particular his duty was done rigidly and minutely, beyond the chance of
censure. This circumstance itself piqued the Major's curiosity further.
Then his interest was aided by the interest of others. Somebody
discovered the "superior education" (poor fellow! he himself, in sincere
humility, was ready to protest he had none) of the young man, and
suggested his employment apart in those regimental matters which
required clerking. Strange occupation for the old Squire's Nimrod!
Recognizing that he was not what he seemed, the first impulse of
assistance thrust the young huntsman--the child of moor, and fell, and
open country--into a little office, and put a pen into the fingers which
were much better acquainted with gun and bridle. This odd conclusion of
modern philosophy contented the projectors of it mightily, and by no
means discontented Roger, who, sick at the heart of his humiliated life,
was glad of anything which separated him from his comrades, and gave him
at least his own society, if not that of anybody higher; though he knew
very well, if no one else did, that his _rôle_ of rifleman was much more
natural and congenial to him than the _rôle_ of clerk, of which he knew
nothing whatever.
The fact, however, which everybody knows perfectly well, yet few people
acknowledge, that all the nameless somethings which distinguish between
the lower and the higher--and build most real and palpable, though
indescribable, barriers between class and class, do by no means
necessarily include education, was not a fact taken into account by the
good-natured subaltern who interested himself in Roger's behalf, while
the Major only watched him. So the young man, whose penmanship was not
perfection, sat by himself over the regimental business, puzzling his
honest brains with accounts which were sometimes overmuch for his
arithmetic, yet encouraged by the consciousness that even this irksome
business, totally unsuitable for him as it was, was a step of progress.
And the Major now and then appearing across his orbit, tempted him with
wily questions, to which Roger was impenetrable; and Sam Gilsland, with
a grin of satisfaction, tugged his forelock and whispered his conviction
that Master Roger would ne'er stand in the ranks when they came to
land--which conclusion, however, and the hopes of his subaltern patron
to get permanent employment for him of this same description when they
reached the end of the journey, were anything but satisfactory to Roger.
It began to be rather hard for the young man to keep on the proper
respectful terms with this honest subaltern, whom yet he did not choose
to confide in. "No!" exclaimed Roger, "I am fit for a soldier, not for a
clerk;" and a flush of his old sanguine conviction, that on the field
and in actual warfare there must still be paths to distinction, swept
across his face and spirit for the moment. The next minute he was once
more puzzling over his papers, with his head bent low and his frame
thrilling, his emotion and enthusiasm all suppressed; though they would
have made a wonderful impression on the young officer who patronized and
took care of him, and who was convinced that Musgrave was not a common
fellow, and had a story if he would tell it. This, however, was the very
last thing in the world which Roger, totally hopeless now of any
deliverance, and too proud to accept the pity of men who were no more
than his equals, had any mind to do.
Their arrival at the Cape, however, made a wonderful difference in the
prospects of the young rifleman. Sir John Armitage's letter, put into
his hands before they landed (for the baronet was correct in his
supposition that the "Prince Regent" was of course the slowest sailer
on the seas), threw him into a sudden agitation of pride, gratitude,
shame, consolation, and perplexity, which it is impossible to describe;
in the midst of which paroxysm of mingled emotions he was summoned to
the presence of the Major. The Major received him with outstretched
hand. "Thought I knew you all along," said that unagitated functionary;
"could not for the life of me recollect where--made up my mind it was a
peculiar case--eh?--Sit down and let me hear at once what you mean to
do."
"What I mean to do?" asked Roger, in amazement.
"To be sure--you've had your letters, I suppose? This here is a
delusion," said the Major, tapping upon the coarse sleeve of the young
man's uniform; "found it out, haven't you?--knew it myself all along;
meant to interfere when we came to land, whether or no, and inquire
about your friends. Here's old Armitage spared me the trouble; recollect
as well as possible the meet with the Tillington hounds--your uncle's,
eh?--and the old boy was extravagant, and left you unprovided for?
Never mind! a young fellow of pluck like you can always make his way.
Now, here is the question--Are you going home? What are you going to
do?"
These questions were easy to ask, but impossible to answer. Roger had
scarcely read with comprehension Sir John's letter, and his mind was in
the utmost agitation, divided between his old ideas of entire
independence and the uneasy consciousness, of all that his experience
had taught him. He scarcely knew how he excused himself from immediate
answer, and managed to conclude his audience with the Major. The rest of
the day he spent in the most troubled and unsatisfactory deliberations;
but a little later, delayed by some accident, a letter from Colonel
Sutherland came into his hands. That letter persuaded and soothed the
young man like an actual presence; he yielded to its fatherly
representations. That voice of honour, simple and absolute, which could
not advise any man against his honour--Roger could scarcely explain to
himself how it was that his agitation calmed, his heart healed, his
hopes rose with all the rebound and elastic force of youth; he no longer
felt it necessary to reject the kindness offered him, or to thrust off
from himself, as bitter bonds, those kindly ties of obligation to which
it was impossible to attach any mean or sordid condition. Why should he
be too proud to be aided? But he had no mind to go home and lose that
chance of distinction and good service which would be his best thanks to
his friends. A few days after, Roger Musgrave had rejoined his regiment
as a volunteer, money in his purse, a light heart in his breast, and
everybody's favour and goodwill attending him. He who was the best shot
within twenty miles of Tillington was not far behind at Cape Town; and
there we leave him for his first enterprise of arms.