OF THE INSUBORDINATION OF SERGEANT ZEBEDEE TRING
"Man Jack," sighed the Colonel, ogling the wine in his glass, "now mark
me, Jack, for pure Christian drink there's nought may compare with wine
of Oporto, 'tis a heart-warmer, a soul-expander, a sharpener o' th'
intellect, a loosener o' tongues. Moreover it doth beget good
fellowship and love o' mankind in general. Begad sir, wine of Oporto
is--is--I say Oporto wine is--is, well--wine. So give me Oporto----"
"And now and then a dish of tea, George!" added the Major solemnly. At
this Colonel Cleeve might have been observed to quail slightly.
"You have acquired the taste--very lately, I think, sir?" enquired the
Viscount.
"True, sir," answered the Colonel, rolling his eyes, "and on the whole
ha' managed it very well. Tea is none so bad--once 'tis disposed of,
I've drank worse stuff ere now--aye and so has Jack. Tea hath its
virtues, sir, first 'tis soon over--a dish or so may be swallowed
readily enough when cool by a determined effort----"
"Though," murmured the Viscount, "though 'tis better thrown out o' the
window, 'twould seem, sir."
Colonel Cleeve rolled his fierce eyes again, sprinkled himself with
snuff and finally laughed:
"Agad, Viscount, ya' ha' me there true enough. Look'ee now, one dish I
can manage creditably enough, two at a pinch with my lady's eye on me,
but three and with Belinda's eye off me--damme, no! So--out o' the
window it went, aha! But how came ya' to spy me do't--eh?"
"I came to bring you news, sir, but seeing you so--ah--particularly
engaged I let it wait."
"What news, lad--ha?"
"I am become a soldier, sir. I have secured a commission in His
Majesty's Third Regiment of Foot."
"Ha, the old regiment--dooce take me, Viscount, but I rejoice to hear
it!" exclaimed the Colonel and leapt to his feet with hand
outstretched. "The 'Third' is the one and only--eh, Jack? And hath
the noblest and highest traditions, yet--high and noble though they be,
I'm bold to say you'll do 'em credit and be worthy of 'em, Viscount
Tom--eh, man Jack?"
"Nay sir," answered the Viscount, clasping the proffered hand, "if I
can but emulate in some small way nunky's and your achievements I shall
be proud indeed."
"Whose company are ya' 'tached to--and when?"
"Ogilvie's sir--a fortnight hence."
"Begad, but Ogilvie's hath been cast for foreign service."
"'Tis why I chose it, sir."
"Aha!" exclaimed the Colonel, "Oho! Another case o' the heart, I
judge. There was young Denholm talking but yesterday about a red coat,
death and glory, or bleaching his dead bones on some foreign shore."
The Viscount smiled serenely:
"I do confess love hath something to do with it, sir," said he, "though
not altogether. I've had the project in mind for some time."
"Love--God bless it!" exclaimed the Colonel, "love hath made a many
fine soldiers ere now, sir, and begad there's nought can cure a
heartache like a brisk campaign. Come, a toast--and bumpers! Here's
health and long life, honour and fortune to Ensign Viscount Merivale!"
So my Lord Cleeve and the Major rose and drank the toast with hearty
goodwill while the Viscount, his smooth cheek a little rosier than
usual, bowed his acknowledgments.
"And now," quoth the Colonel, setting down his empty glass, "the
bottle's out, 'tis near twelve and I'm for bed. To-morrow, Viscount,
I'll give ya' certain advices may be of service to ya' in the regiment
and write ya' a letter to Ogilvie. And so good-night, sir!"
"Good-night, George!" said the Major and reaching out suddenly he
grasped Lord Cleeve's hand and wrung it hard.
"Why Jack!" said the Colonel, staring, "y'are dooced impressive, one
would think ya' were going out to-night on a forlorn hope. Talking o'
which, d'ya' remember the storming o' Douai, Jack? Aha, those were
times--stirring times--but past and done, since, like you, I mean to
quit the service for wedlock--'tis a great adventure that, Jack, belike
the greatest of all, may we front it with a like resolution."
With which the Colonel bowed and betook himself to bed.
"Tom," said the Major, staring wistfully into the fire, "I'm glad
you've chosen the old regiment--'ours'--very glad, because I know you
will be worthy of it and this England of ours and help to add to the
glory and honour of both. But Tom, as to your--your--er--love trouble,
dear lad, I--trust 'tis no mistaken idea of self-sacrifice, no idea
that--that she loveth--that she--I----"
"Nay sir, that you love her I do know right well, that she loveth you I
cannot doubt, aye, despite the--despite the wall, with a curse on't!
But that she loveth not me I am perfectly sure. So here is no
self-sacrifice, nunky, never fear. And sir," continued the Viscount,
taking out his snuff-box and tapping it with one delicate finger, "sir,
I have a feeling, a premonition that, so far as you and she are
concerned, matters will right themselves anon. For if--if she did sit
on that--that curst wall, she is always her pure, sweet self and
remember, sir, she kicked the damned fellow's hat off!" Here he opened
his snuff-box and gazed into it abstractedly as he went on: "Sir, when
love cometh to such as you and she, there are few things in earth may
thwart or stay such a love, 'tis a fire consumeth all obstacles and
pettiness. And indeed, in my mind I see her, in days to come, here
beside you, filling this great house with gladness and laughter and,
wherever I may be, you will know that in your happiness I am happy too.
And sir, as she is the only woman i' the world, I do think you are the
only man truly worthy of her and I--ha--I therefore--nunky--er----"
Here the Viscount inadvertently took a pinch of snuff and immediately
sneezed violently: "O Lard--O Lard!" he gasped. "'Tis the damndest
stuff! Always catches me--vilely! A--a curse--on't and--goo'-night,
sir!" And, turning abruptly away he sneezed himself out of the room.
For a long while the Major stood looking down into the dying fire, then
he stirred, sighed, shook his head and, extinguishing the candles,
tramped heavily upstairs, closing the door of his bedchamber a little
louder than was necessary. Then, seated at his writing-table he fell
to work and wrote so industriously that the clocks were striking the
hour of one when at last he rose and stood listening intently. The
house lay very still, not a sound reached him save the whisper of the
night-wind beyond his open lattice. Treading softly, he crossed to the
hearth, above which the Sergeant had hung his swords, half-a-dozen
light, richly-hilted walking-swords and his heavier service blade, the
colichemarde. This he reached down, drew it from shabby leathern
scabbard and found the steel bright and glittering with the Sergeant's
unremitting care; so he sheathed it, girded it to his side and, opening
a tall, carved press, took thence his old campaign cloak, stained by
much hard service, and a pair of long and heavy riding-boots. Kicking
off buckled shoes he proceeded to don this cumbrous footgear but
paused, and rising, took the spurred boots under his arm together with
the cloak and crossing the wide room in stockinged feet, softly opened
the door and stood again to listen; finally he took his candle, closed
the door with infinite care and crept softly down the great, wide
staircase. Reaching the foot he paused to look back up that noble
stair and to glance round the spacious hall with its tapestries, its
dim portraits, its gleaming arms and armour then, sighing, took his way
to the library. Here he paused to shift the candle from one hand to
the other; then he opened the door and fell back, staring.
The Sergeant advanced one pace and came to attention. Very upright he
stood in ancient, buff-lined, service coat, in cross-belts and
spatterdashes, his hat at its true regimental cock, his wig newly
ironed and powdered--a soldier from the crown of his head to the lowest
button of his long, white gaiters, a veteran grim and ineffably calm.
The scarlet of his coat was a little faded, perhaps, but the sheen of
broad white belts and the glitter of buckles and side-arms made up for
that. His chin, high-poised above leathern stock, looked squarer than
usual and his arm seemed a trifle stiffer as he saluted.
"Your honour," said he, "the horses are saddled and ready."
"Zeb--Zebedee!" exclaimed the Major, falling back another step. "A
Gad's name what does this mean?"
"Sir," answered the Sergeant, staring stonily before him, "same do mean
as I, like the horses, am ready and waiting to march so soon as you do
give the word."
"Then, damme Zeb, I'll not permit it! I ride--alone. D'ye hear?"
"I hear, sir."
"You understand, Zebedee, alone!"
"Aye, sir."
"Consequently you will go back--back to bed, at once, d'ye hear?"
"Aye sir, I hear."
"Then begone."
"Axing your grace, your honour, but same can't nowise be, orders
notwithstanding nevertheless--no!"
"Ha! D'ye mean you actually--refuse to obey?"
The Sergeant blinked, swallowed hard and saluted:
"Your honour--sir--I do!"
"God--bless--my--soul!" ejaculated the Major and stared wide-eyed at
cross-belts, buckles and spatterdashes as if he had never seen such
things in all his forty-one years. "Is it--insubordination, Sergeant
Zebedee?" he demanded, his cheeks flushing.
"Your honour--it be. Same I do admit though same regretting. But sir,
if you are for the wars it na't'rally do follow as I must be.
Wheresoever you go--speaking as soldiers sir, I must go as by natur' so
determined now and for ever, amen."
"And what o' the estate, ass? I ha' left you agent here in Mr.
Jennings' room."
"Same is an honour, sir, but dooty demands----"
"And what of Mrs. Agatha, dolt?"
The Sergeant's broad shoulders drooped quite perceptibly for a moment,
then grew rigid again:
"Dooty is--dooty, your honour!"
"And you are a damned obstinate fellow, Zebedee, d'ye hear?"
The Sergeant saluted.
"I say a dolt and a preposterous fool to boot--d'ye take me, Zeb?"
The Sergeant saluted.
"And you talk pure folly--curst folly, d'ye understand, Zebedee?"
"Folly as ever was sir, but--folly for you, folly for me, says I!"
Now at this the Major grew so angry that he dropped a riding-boot and,
stooping for it at the same instant as the Sergeant they knocked their
hats off and were groping for these when there came a soft rapping at
the door and, starting erect, they beheld Mrs. Agatha, smiling and
bright-eyed and across one arm she bore--the Ramillie coat.
"Your honour," said she, curtseying, "'tis very late, I know, but I'm
here to bring your old battle-coat as I found to-day in the garden,
knowing 'tis such a favourite with you. Good-night, sir!" So Mrs.
Agatha dimpled, curtseyed and sped softly away, surreptitiously
beckoning to the Sergeant.
Left alone, the Major let fall his boots and sinking into a chair sat
staring at the Ramillie coat, chin on breast; then he leaned forward to
take it up but paused suddenly arrested by a fragrance very faint and
elusive yet vaguely familiar; he sighed and sinking deeper into his
chair became lost awhile in reverie. At last he roused himself and
reaching the garment from where Mrs. Agatha had set it on the table,
drew it upon his knees, made as if to feel in the pockets and paused
again for now the fragrance seemed all about him, faint but ineffably
sweet, a sweetness breathing of--Her. And, inhaling this fragrance,
the glamour of her presence was about him, he had but to close his eyes
and she was there before him in all her warm and vivid beauty, now
smiling in bewitching allurement, now plaintive and tender, now
quick-breathing, blushing, trembling to his embrace--even as he was
trembling.
So the Major sat grasping his old coat and sighed and yearned amain for
the unattainable; imagination rioted and he saw visions and dreamed
dreams of happiness as far beyond expression as they were beyond hope
of realisation. Wherefore he groaned, cursed himself for a fool and
casting the Ramillie coat to the floor, set his foot upon it; and
frowning down at this worn-out garment, how should he guess of those
bitter tears that had bedewed its tarnished braid, of the soft cheek
that had pressed it, the white arms that had cradled it so recently?
How indeed should Major d'Arcy as he scowled down at it know aught of
this? Though to be sure there was that haunting fragrance, that
sweetness that breathed of--Her. Suddenly he stooped and picking it
up, raised it to his nostrils; yes it was here--particularly the right
sleeve and shoulder. He closed his eyes again, then opening them very
wide plunged a hand into the nearest pocket.
His pipe! His silver tobacco-box! In another pocket his purse and a
few odds and ends but nothing more. He ransacked the garment
feverishly but in place of will, torn paper and letter, he found only
one other letter, sealed and addressed thus,
"To Major d'Arcy."
Letting the coat slip to the floor he sank back in the chair, staring
long at superscription and seal; then he drew the candle nearer and
opening the letter read as follows:
"DEAR SIR,
If this sorry coat looketh a little more creased and rumpled than it is
wont to do, this is entirely my fault. And because I am as much a
woman as our common mother Eve I have read every document in every
pocket. And because every document was for me or of me I have kept
them. Yet because, after all, I am truly a very honest person, I do
return this your garment herewith together with all other articles
soever herein contained, as namely and to wit: Item, one clay pipe and
smells! Item, tobacco-box of silver, much scratched. Item, a
tobacco-stopper of silver-gilt. Item, a silver sixpence with a hole in
it. Item, one purse containing three guineas, one crown piece and a
shilling. Item, a small knife for making pens and very blunt. O John,
O Jack, great strong tender chivalrous man, and doth thy poor heart
break? Stay then, my love shall make it whole again. And wilt thou to
the cruel wars? Then will I after thee. And wilt thou die? Then will
I die with thee. But O John if thou wilt live, then will I live to
love thee better day by day for I am thine and thou art mine henceforth
and for ever. But now do I lie here sleepless and grieving for thee
and writing this do weep (see how my tears do blot the page) and none
to comfort me save thine old coat. O John, John, how couldst have writ
such things--to tear my heart and blind me with my tears--yet do I love
thee. And thou didst break thine oath to me and yet do I love thee.
And thou wouldst have left me--stolen away to give thy body unto cruel
death and slay me with despair but still--still do I love thee dearest
John. Shouldst thou steal away like a very coward I would be bold to
follow thee--aye even into battle itself--so fly not John. And since
thou didst break thine oath--thou shalt sue me an humble pardon. And
since I do lie sleepless here and weep by reason of thee--so shalt thou
make unto me a comfortable reparation. So dear John to-morrow night at
nine-thirty of the clock thou shalt meet me at our stile--where we did
watch the dawn--and there all thy doubts and fears shall be resolved
and vanish utterly away for ever and ever and thou (as I do think)
shalt learn to love me even a little better. So come my John at
nine-thirty of the clock but not an instant sooner and fail not for my
sake and thy sake and Love's sweet sake. O John my love 'tis nigh to
dawn, art thou waking or asleep I wonder? Since I am thine so utterly,
fain would I write that which I dare not write yet in these lines read
all thou fain wouldst read. God keep thee my love and waking or
sleeping thou hast the prayers and thoughts of thy Betty.
My poor eyes are all bleared with my weeping and my nose is woeful.
And John dear take care of this dear old coat it shall be my comforter
this night."
Having read to the end, the Major carefully re-folded the letter and
thrust it into an inner pocket; took it out again, unfolded it and
having re-read every word once more put it away. Then rising, he set
the Ramillie coat upon a chair-back and taking out his handkerchief
dusted it, touching its rumpled folds with hands grown almost reverent,
which done he sat down and propping square chin on fist gazed at it
with a new and wonderful interest. Then he took out the letter again,
read it through again and pressed it to his lips; thus he sat, his
attention divided between the letter and the coat, until the clock
struck two. He was reading the letter for perhaps the sixth time when
came a knock at the door and the Sergeant entered.
"Ax your pardon sir, but what o' the horses?" he enquired.
"Horses?" repeated the Major vacantly.
"Aye sir, they've been a-standing in their stalls saddled and bridled a
hour or more."
"Have they, Zeb?"
"Aye sir, a-waiting for your honour to give the word to march."
"Why then Zeb," said the Major rising and taking the Ramillie coat over
his arm, "you may unsaddle 'em, my honour has decided--not to march."
"Very good, sir!" The Sergeant blinked, saluted and wheeled about.
"Sergeant Zebedee!" The Sergeant wheeled back again.
"Sir?"
"I think--ha--I rather fancy I called you a damned obstinate fellow as
'twere and er--so forth."
"You did so, sir. Likewise 'ass' and 'dolt.'"
"Why if I said 'em, I meant 'em, Zebedee and----" The Major strode
forward impulsively and grasped Sergeant Zebedee's hand. "'Twas true
Zeb, 'twas true every word, so you are, but--God bless thee for't,
Zeb!" Saying which the Major went upstairs to his chamber bearing the
Ramillie coat much as if it had been some sacred relic rather than the
rumpled, unlovely thing it was.
Being alone the Sergeant stared at his right hand, smiled, took it in
his left and shook it heartily. "_Sapperment_!" he exclaimed, "All I
says is, O woman!"