There was still none of the pageant and display of a military life
visible to Richard as he re-entered the great gateway, before which a
sentry in white flannel jacket and forage cap was marching to and fro
with a bayonet in his hand, ready to give a glance at the lad and then
turn upon his heels and march away.
The lad walked forward as if he had business there, and went on,
wondering what the stout sergeant's name was, but not liking to stop and
ask. Then on straight across the great dreary barrack yard, surrounded
on all sides by bare-looking buildings, full of open windows, at one of
which he saw a pair of folded arms and the top of a closely-cropped
head, the owner thereof being evidently asleep. At another window there
was a pair of boot-soles, and at another a man, in shirt and trousers,
seated sidewise upon the sill, with his knees drawn up so as to form a
reading-desk, upon which a paper was spread, which the man, with his
hands behind his head, was perusing.
A little farther on there was a cat asleep, and just above it a canary
in a cage twittering away as if in friendly discourse with the animal
below. But for the most part the windows of the great barracks were
unoccupied, and the place looked deserted and desolate in the extreme.
Richard walked on, thinking of what he was not long before, and of his
present position through one turn of fortune's wheel. What was to
happen next, now that he had been disappointed and his project had come
to naught?
Right on before him there was another gateway, across which, in the soft
summer evening light, a second sentry in white flannel jacket passed,
with the light gleaming upon his triangular bayonet.
One moment he thought of turning back; the next he had rejected this,
and advanced. He had taken his course, and he must go on.
The second sentry looked harder at him as he passed an open doorway from
out of which came a puff of hot bad tobacco smoke; but the man seemed to
pay no further heed as he went on and now found himself at what was
evidently the front of the barracks, and directly afterward a burst of
music fell upon his ears.
It sounded very welcome, and, walking in the direction, he passed a
couple of large open windows, from whence came the clatter of silver
upon china and the buzz of voices accompanied by sundry odours of an
agreeable nature, which reminded him of the fact that he had eaten
nothing since his hurried breakfast.
"The mess-room," he said to himself.
The officers were dining; and the band was playing selections during
that function.
Richard passed on, thinking, and with his spirits going down like the
mercury in a weather-glass before a storm.
In a short time he, in all probability, would have been an officer
attached to some regiment, while now he was a fugitive and a vagabond on
the face of the earth.
"Not even fit to be a private," he said to himself; and then, attracted
by the music, he turned and walked back, to stop between the two
windows, listening, and with the smell of the dinner making him forget
his troubles in baser thoughts as his mouth began to water.
Then the chink of glasses began to mingle with the buzz of voices.
"Taking wine," muttered the listener; and he wondered whether it was
Hock.
_Pop_!
"Champagne or Moselle," he muttered; and the report of a second cork
taking flight from the bottle followed, and then a third, while the
music went on.
There was a row of iron railings in front of the windows, and Richard
turned his back and rested it against them; for he was tired, and it was
pleasant to listen to the music and feel himself close to a party of
gentlemen just for a few minutes before he went back into the town to
find out some place where he could get a meal and bed.
All at once, after a loud passage, the band wound up with a series of
chords, leaving the principal flute-player sustaining one long note and
then dropping to the octave below, from which he started upon a series
of runs, paused, and commenced a solo full of florid passages
introductory to a delicious melody--one of those plaintive airs which,
once heard, cling evermore to the memory.
Dick was weary, faint, and in low spirits. The events of the past days
seemed to fit themselves to the strain, till his brow wrinkled up, then
grew full of knots, and he angrily muttered the word "Muff!" A few
moments later he ejaculated "Duffer!" and then twisted himself suddenly
round to look up at the open window from which, mingled with the loud
conversation and rattle of plates, the music came.
"Oh, it's murder!" muttered the lad. "The fellow ought to be kicked!"
and, as he listened, his hand went involuntarily into his breast-pocket,
pressed the button in the side of the morocco flute-case, and extracted
the little silver-keyed piccolo from where it reposed in purple velvet
beside the two pieces of his flute.
And all the while the solo was continued, the player slurring over
passages, omitting a whole bar, and seeming to be increasing his pace so
as to take the final roulades at a break-neck gallop, and get through,
somehow, without further accident.
But he did not; for, as he reached the beginning of a brilliant
arpeggio, at the top of which there was a trill and a leap down of an
octave and a half, the wind in the bellows of this human organ suddenly
gave out, a few wildly chaotic notes elicited a roar of laughter from
the table accompanied by derisive applause. This stopped as if by
magic; for, suddenly, from out there by the railing, a few long
thrilling shakes were heard, deliciously sweet and pure, followed by the
arpeggio. The effect was as if liquid music was falling from the summer
sky; and then the player ran back to the earlier part of the air, and,
amidst perfect silence from within, on and on it ran, thrilling its
hearers with appealing, impassioned tones, breathed by one who had
forgotten where he was--everything but the fact that the glorious theme
he loved had been cruelly murdered, and that he was bringing it back to
life; for it was one of his favourite airs.
In the utter silence a window was softly opened somewhere higher up,
then another and another, towards which the liquid, bird-like notes rose
in plaintive, long-drawn appeals, to come trickling down again in runs--
rising, falling, rising, falling, with a purity and strength which
seemed impossible as coming from that tiny instrument. Finally this
softened, grew lower and lower, till the last notes regularly died away
in the distance. And then, and then only, in the midst of a roar of
applause, Dick stood, piccolo in hand, as if he had been just woke up
from a musical dream by a flannel-jacketed private, bearing a drawn
bayonet, who said, savagely--
"Come out! You've no business here!"
"No, no, sentry; leave him alone!" said a loud voice; and Richard looked
up, to see that the windows were full of officers, whose scarlet
mess-vests, with their rows of tiny buttons, shone in the evening light.
Higher up there were ladies looking down; and then the musician glanced
sharply round and began to thrust his piccolo back into his
breast-pocket.
"Hold hard, there!" cried the same voice, and Richard looked quickly up,
to meet the dark eyes of a big, handsome, youngish man, who, napkin in
hand, towered above the others, but turned sharply round, and Richard
heard him say--
"May we have him in, sir?"
"Oh, yes!" came back in a quick, commanding voice, and the officer
looked out again.
"Here!" he cried, "we want you to come in and play."
"I--I beg your pardon--I--I--"
Dick got no further, for an officer's servant was at his elbow, looking
at him rather superciliously as he said--
"This way!"