Conyers sat alone in his barrack-room, very sad and dispirited.
Hunter had left that same morning, and the young soldier felt utterly
friendless. He had obtained some weeks' leave of absence, and already
two days of the leave had gone over, and he had not energy to set out
if he had even a thought as to the whither. A variety of plans passed
vaguely through his head. He would go down to Portsmouth and see Hunter
off; or he would nestle down in the little village of Inistioge and
dream away the days in quiet forgetfulness; or he would go over to
Paris, which he had never seen, and try whether the gay dissipations
of that brilliant city might not distract and amuse him. The mail from
India had arrived and brought no letter from his father, and this,
too, rendered him irritable and unhappy. Not that his father was a good
correspondent; he wrote but rarely, and always like one who snatched a
hurried moment to catch a post. Still, if this were a case of emergency,
any great or critical event in his life, he was sure his father would
have informed him; and thus was it that he sat balancing doubt against
doubt, and setting probability against probability, till his very head
grew addled with the labor of speculation.
It was already late; all the usual sounds of barrack life had subsided,
and although on the opposite side of the square the brilliant lights of
the mess-room windows showed where the convivial spirits of the regiment
were assembled, all around was silent and still. Suddenly there came a
dull heavy knock to the door, quickly followed by two or three others.
Not caring to admit a visitor, whom, of course, he surmised would be
some young brother-officer full of the plans and projects of the mess,
he made no reply to the summons, nor gave any token of his presence. The
sounds, however, were redoubled, and with an energy that seemed to vouch
for perseverance; and Conyers, partly in anger, and partly in curiosity,
went to the door and opened it. It was not till after a minute or two
that he was able to recognize the figure before him. It was Tom
Dill, but without a hat or neckcloth, his hair dishevelled, his face
colorless, and his clothes torn, while from a recent wound in one hand
the blood flowed fast, and dropped on the floor. The whole air and
appearance of the young fellow so resembled drunkenness that Conyers
turned a stern stare upon him as he stood in the centre of the room, and
in a voice of severity said, “By what presumption, sir, do you dare to
present yourself in this state before me?”
“You think I'm drunk, sir, but I am not,” said he, with a faltering
accent and a look of almost imploring misery.
“What is the meaning of this state, then? What disgraceful row have you
been in?”
“None, sir. I have cut my hand with the glass on the barrack-wall, and
torn my trousers too; but it's no matter, I 'll not want them long.”
“What do you mean by all this? Explain yourself.”
“May I sit down, sir, for I feel very weak?” but before the permission
could be granted, his knees tottered, and he fell in a faint on the
floor. Conyers knelt down beside him, bathed his temples with water, and
as soon as signs of animation returned, took him up in his arms and laid
him at full length on a sofa.
In the vacant, meaningless glance of the poor fellow as he looked first
around him, Conyers could mark how he was struggling to find out where
he was.
“You are with me, Tom,--with your friend Conyers,” said he, holding the
cold clammy hand between his own.
“Thank you, sir. It is very good of you. I do not deserve it,” said he,
in a faint whisper.
“My poor boy, you mustn't say that; I am your friend. I told you already
I would be so.”
“But you 'll not be my friend when I tell you--when I tell you--all;”
and as the last word dropped, he covered his face with both his hands,
and burst into a heavy passion of tears.
“Come, come, Tom, this is not manly; bear up bravely, bear up with
courage, man. You used to say you had plenty of pluck if it were to be
tried.”
“So I thought I had, sir, but it has all left me;” and he sobbed as if
his heart was breaking. “But I believe I could bear anything but
this,” said he, in a voice shaken by convulsive throes. “It is the
disgrace,--that 's what unmans me.”
“Take a glass of wine, collect yourself, and tell me all about it.”
“No, sir. No wine, thank you; give me a glass of water. There, I
am better now; my brain is not so hot. You are very good to me, Mr.
Conyers, but it 's the last time I'll ever ask it,--the very last time,
sir; but I 'll remember it all my life.”
“If you give way in this fashion, Tom, I 'll not think you the
stout-hearted fellow I once did.”
“No, sir, nor am I. I 'll never be the same again. I feel it here. I
feel as if something gave, something broke.” And he laid his hand over
his heart and sighed heavily.
“Well, take your own time about it, Tom, and let me hear if I cannot be
of use to you.”
“No, sir, not now. Neither you nor any one else can help me now. It's
all over, Mr. Conyers,--it's all finished.”
“What is over,--what is finished?”
“And so, as I thought it would n't do for one like me to be seen
speaking to you before people, I stole away and climbed over the
barrack-wall. I cut my hand on the glass, too, but it's nothing. And
here I am, and here's the money you gave me; I've no need of it now.”
And as he laid some crumpled bank-notes on the table, his overcharged
heart again betrayed him, and he burst into tears. “Yes, sir, that's
what you gave me for the College, but I was rejected.”
“Rejected, Tom! How was that? Be calm, my poor fellow, and tell me all
about it quietly.”
“I'll try, sir, I will, indeed; and I'll tell you nothing but the truth,
that you may depend upon.” He took a great drink of water, and went
on. “If there was one man I was afraid of in the world, it was Surgeon
Asken, of Mercer's Hospital. I used to be a dresser there, and he
was always angry with me, exposing me before the other students, and
ridiculing me, so that if anything was done badly in the wards, he 'd
say, 'This is some of Master Dill's work, is n't it?' Well, sir, would
you believe it, on the morning I went up for my examination, Dr. Coles
takes ill, and Surgeon Asken is called on to replace him. I did n't know
it till I was sent for to go in, and my head went round, and I could n't
see, and a cold sweat came over me, and I was so confused that when I
got into the room I went and sat down beside the examiners, and never
knew what they were laughing at.
“'I have no doubt, Mr. Dill, you 'll occupy one of these places at some
future day,' says Dr. Willes, 'but for the present your seat is yonder.'
I don't remember much more after that, till Mr. Porter said, 'Don't be
so nervous, Mr. Dill; collect yourself; I am persuaded you know what I
am asking you, if you will not be flurried.' And all I could say was,
'God bless you for that speech, no matter how it goes with me' and they
all laughed out.
“It was Asken's turn now, and he began. 'You are destined for the navy,
I understand, sir?'
“'No, sir; for the army,' said I.
“'From what we have seen to-day, you 'll prove an ornament to either
service. Meanwhile, sir, it will be satisfactory to the court to have
your opinion on gun-shot wounds. Describe to us the case of a man
laboring under the worst form of concussion of the brain, and by what
indications you would distinguish it from fracture of the base of the
skull, and what circumstances might occur to render the distinction more
difficult, and what impossible?' That was his question, and if I was to
live a hundred years I 'll never forget a word in it,--it's written on
my heart, I believe, for life.
“'Go on, sir,' said he, 'the court is waiting for you.'
“'Take the case of concussion first,' said Dr. Willes.
“'I hope I may be permitted to conduct my own examination in my own
manner,' said Asken.
“That finished me, and I gave a groan that set them all laughing again.
“'Well, sir, I 'm waiting,' said Asken. 'You can have no difficulty to
describe concussion, if you only give us your present sensations.'
“'That's as true as if you swore it,' said I. 'I 'm just as if I had a
fall on the crown of my head. There's a haze over my eyes, and a ringing
of bells in my ears, and a feeling as if my brain was too big.'
“'Take my word for it, Mr. Dill,' said he, sneeringly, 'the latter is
a purely deceptive sensation; the fault lies in the opposite direction.
Let us, however, take something more simple;' and with that he described
a splinter wound of the scalp, with the whole integuments torn in
fragments, and gunpowder and sticks and sand all mixed up with the
flap that hung down over the patient's face. 'Now,' said he, after ten
minutes' detail of this,--'now,' said he, 'when you found the man in
this case, you 'd take out your scalpel, perhaps, and neatly cut away
all these bruised and torn integuments?'
“'I would, sir,' cried I, eagerly.
“'I knew it,' said he, with a cry of triumph,--'I knew it. I 've no more
to ask you. You may retire.'
“I got up to leave the room, but a sudden flash went through me, and I
said out boldly,--
“'Am I passed? Tell me at once. Put me out of pain, for I can't bear any
more!'
“'If you'll retire for a few minutes,' said the President--
“'My heart will break, sir,' said I, 'if I 'm to be in suspense any
more. Tell me the worst at once.'
“And I suppose they did tell me, for I knew no more till I found myself
in the housekeeper's room, with wet cloths on my head, and the money you
see there in the palm of my hand. _That_ told everything. Many were very
kind to me, telling how it happened to this and to that man, the first
time; and that Asken was thought very unfair, and so on; but I just
washed my face with cold water, and put on my hat and went away home,
that is, to where I lodged, and I wrote to Polly just this one line:
'Rejected; I 'm not coming back.' And then I shut the shutters and went
to bed in my clothes as I was, and I slept sixteen hours without ever
waking. When I awoke, I was all right. I could n't remember everything
that happened for some time, but I knew it all at last, and so I went
off straight to the Royal Barracks and 'listed.”
“Enlisted?--enlisted?”
“Yes, sir, in the Forty-ninth Regiment of Foot, now in India, and
sending off drafts from Cork to join them on Tuesday. It was out of the
dépôt at the bridge I made my escape to-night to come and see you once
more, and to give you this with my hearty blessing, for you were the
only one ever stood to me in the world,--the only one that let me think
for a moment I _could_ be a gentleman!”
“Come, come, this is all wrong and hasty and passionate, Tom. You have
no right to repay your family in this sort; this is not the way to treat
that fine-hearted girl who has done so much for you; this is but an
outbreak of angry selfishness.”
“These are hard words, sir, very hard words, and I wish you had not said
them.”
“Hard or not, you deserve them; and it is their justice that wounds
you.”
“I won't say that it is _not_, sir. But it isn't justice I 'm asking
for, but forgiveness. Just one word out of your mouth to say, 'I 'm
sorry for you, Tom;' or, 'I wish you well.'”
“So I do, my poor fellow, with all my heart,” cried Con-yers, grasping
his hand and pressing it cordially, “and I 'll get you out of this
scrape, cost what it may.”
“If you mean, sir, that I am to get my discharge, it's better to tell
the truth at once. I would n't take it. No, sir, I 'll stand by what I
've done. I see I never could be a doctor, and I have my doubts, too, if
I ever could be a gentleman; but there's something tells me I could be a
soldier, and I'll try.”
Conyers turned from him with an impatient gesture, and walked the room
in moody silence.
“I know well enough, sir,” continued Tom, “what every one will say;
perhaps you yourself are thinking it this very minute: 'It 's all out of
his love of low company he 's gone and done this; he's more at home with
those poor ignorant boys there than he would be with men of education
and good manners.' Perhaps it's true, perhaps it is 'n't! But there 's
one thing certain, which is, that I 'll never try again to be anything
that I feel is clean above me, and I 'll not ask the world to give me
credit for what I have not the least pretension to.”
“Have you reflected,” said Conyers, slowly, “that if you reject my
assistance now, it will be too late to ask for it a few weeks, or even a
few days hence?”
“I _have_ thought of all that, sir. I 'll never trouble you about myself
again.”
“My dear Tom,” said Conyers, as he laid his arm on the other's shoulder,
“just think for one moment of all the misery this step will cause your
sister,--that kind, true-hearted sister, who has behaved so nobly by
you.”
“I have thought of that, too, sir; and in my heart I believe, though she
'll fret herself at first greatly, it will all turn out best in the end.
What could I ever be but a disgrace to her? Who 'd ever think the same
of Polly after seeing _me?_ Don't I bring her down in spite of herself;
and is n't it a hard trial for her to be a lady when I am in the same
room with her? No, sir, I'll not go back; and though I haven't much hope
in me, I feel I'm doing right.”
“I know well,” said Conyers, pettishly, “that your sister will throw
the whole blame on me. She 'll say, naturally enough, _You_ could have
obtained his discharge,--_you_ should have insisted on his leaving.”
“That's what you could not, sir,” said Tom, sturdily. “It's a poor heart
hasn't some pride in it; and I would not go back and meet my father,
after my disgrace, if it was to cost me my right hand,--so don't say
another word about it. Good-bye, sir, and my blessing go with you
wherever you are. I 'll never forget how you stood to me.”
“That money there is yours, Dill,” said Conyers, half haughtily. “You
may refuse my advice and reject my counsel, but I scarcely suppose you
'll ask me to take back what I once have given.”
Tom tried to speak, but he faltered and moved from one foot to the
other, in an embarrassed and hesitating way. He wanted to say how the
sum originally intended for one object could not honestly be claimed for
another; he wanted to say, also, that he had no longer the need of
so much money, and that the only obligation he liked to submit to was
gratitude for the past; but a consciousness that in attempting to
say these things some unhappy word, some ill-advised or ungracious
expression might escape him, stopped him, and he was silent.
“You do not wish that we should part coldly, Tom?”
“No, sir,--oh, no!” cried he, eagerly.
“Then let not that paltry gift stand in the way of our esteem. Now,
another thing. Will you write to me? Will you tell me how the world
fares with you, and honestly declare whether the step you have taken
to-day brings with it regret or satisfaction?”
“I'm not over-much of a letter-writer,” said he, falter-ingly, “but I'll
try. I must be going, Mr. Conyers,” said he, after a moment's silence;
“I must get back before I'm missed.”
“Not as you came, Tom, however. I'll pass you out of the barrack-gate.”
As they walked along side by side, neither spoke till they came close to
the gate; then Conyers halted and said, “Can you think of nothing I can
do for you, or is there nothing you would leave to my charge after you
have gone?”
“No, sir, nothing.” He paused, and then, as if with a struggle, said,
“Except you 'd write one line to my sister Polly, to tell her that I
went away in good heart, that I did n't give in one bit, and that if it
was n't for thinking that maybe I 'd never see her again--” He faltered,
his voice grew thick, he tried to cough down the rising emotion, but
the feeling overcame him, and he burst out into tears. Ashamed at the
weakness he was endeavoring to deny, he sprang through the gate and
disappeared.
Conyers slowly returned to his quarters, very thoughtful and very sad.