CHAPTER VII. THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE.

To the young military officer in whom the reverential spirit is not entirely quenched, the British general is often a very awful person indeed. A halo of professional glory surrounds the great man; strange powers—particularly as to leave—are vested in him; his frequent frown is terrific, his occasional smile fails to reassure. To the officer whose early days were spent in the ranks, and who has never seen the general behind the scenes, so to speak, as an English gentleman no better than others of his class, the formidable effect is intensified, and a great gulf seems to separate the two.

It was with a shy feeling and rather a[117] sinking heart that Herbert presented himself at Line Wall House, the residence of the major-general commanding; but he found himself among friends even on the threshold. An orderly sergeant, one of the Duke’s Own, of course, and a former comrade, took his coat and forage cap; and the servant who ushered him into the drawing-room was also an old soldier of the regiment disguised in livery, who seemed to be the herald of a triumphal procession as he threw wide the doors and with stentorian lungs announced

‘Misther Larkins!’

The friendliness was not, however, confined to the attendants. The general’s manner was most frank and kindly as he came forward and shook hands. Mrs. Prioleau, a well-meaning, but very languid washed-out personage, also greeted him[118] quite warmly, for her: while Edith received him with such bright eyes and heightened colour, conveying thanks and welcome all in one, that, for the moment, he felt quite overcome.

It was a small party of eight, carefully chosen, probably with the idea of making Herbert thoroughly at home. Another subaltern like himself, but newly married, with a pretty girlish cipher of a wife, and a staff-surgeon, who proved to be Herbert’s Ashanti friend, M‘Cosh. The general’s aide-de-camp, Captain Mountcharles, a relation of the family, made up the number.

Edith fell to Herbert on going in to dinner. On her other side at the table was the aide-de-camp, who, according to custom, took the bottom, the general being at the other end, and Mrs. Prioleau in the centre on the right.

[119]

The talk at dinner was not particularly lively at first. Mrs. Prioleau never contributed much; the general was really a little shy himself, especially with people whom he did not know intimately; Edith was rather silent, and the rest of the company seemingly abashed, all but one. The exception was Captain Mountcharles, whose duty it was, no less than his inclination, to make himself agreeable, and he acquitted himself very well of his task.

He was a very self-satisfied young gentleman, rather disposed to be overdressed and with a somewhat supercilious air. The first showed itself in the splendour of his shirt-front, with its single stud as large as a cheese-plate, in his enormous shirt cuffs, which he ‘shot out’ with a little concerted cough just before he made a new remark, in the breadth of his black satin tie, and in[120] the size of his watch chain, which had it been long enough would have made a cable for a seventy-four. The latter was to be seen in his drawling accents and his tendency to depreciate everybody and everything.

Herbert hated him almost instinctively from the first, but his dislike was deepened by his seeming familiarity with Edith, whom he called by her Christian name. She was his cousin, so it was all right enough, but it jarred on Herbert all the same.

‘Very poor sport to-day,’ said the aide-de-camp to the general, ‘you did not miss much, sir. You weren’t out, M‘Cosh? Were you, Mr. Larkins—?’ punctiliously polite to Herbert, as to an inferior; another reason for hatred. ‘How anyone can hunt here after the shires!’

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‘You never hunted in the shires, Gaston, so come,’ said downright Edith.

‘I beg your pardon, Miss Edith. I did, several seasons while you were still at school.’

‘Miss Prioleau never went to school, I think,’ put in Herbert, and she turned on him with a bright smile.

‘O, do you remember that day! I never was so bothered, I think. French is certainly the most difficult and detestable of tongues.’

‘So I always thought,’ Herbert said.

‘You speak French, Mr. Larkins?’ asked the aide-de-camp, rather impertinently.

‘After a fashion, that of Deadham school. Pray do you?’

‘Were you at Deadham?’ went on Captain Mountcharles, rather shirking the question,[122] and seeming to imply that a man who had been in the ranks had no right to any education at all.

‘Ye were at more schools than that, I take it, Larkins,’ said Dr. M‘Cosh; ‘I saw you in one, and a hot ’un, where you were the head and dux of the class.’

‘You were at school together, then?’ Mrs. Prioleau asked civilly, but she was evidently too apathetic to care about the reply.

‘We played together, Mrs. Prioleau, not with hoop or ball, or peg tops, but at the great game of war.’

‘Ashanti, I presume,’ the general said.

‘The idea of calling that a war, sir,’ interposed our bumptious A.D.C. ‘A picnic would be a better name.’

‘It was not a picnic under the usual[123] circumstances, at any rate,’ Herbert said quietly, as one entitled to speak.

‘No foiegras and hothouse grapes, perhaps,’ went on Mountcharles; ‘but you must admit that the whole thing was monstrously exaggerated.’

‘O, how can you say so?’ cried Edith, quite eagerly.

‘And the honours, too, look how they were overdone. Why there were more rewards than for Waterloo.’

‘Some of them were richly deserved; one in particular, which I could mention,’ replied Edith, with the air of a champion defending the right.

‘It isn’t everyone who gets the chance to deserve them,’ said Mountcharles, rather sulkily. He had never seen a shot fired himself, and bore malice in his heart to all who had had better luck.

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‘Or who would make the most of it if they had,’ Edith retorted sharply, adding in a low voice, ‘Gaston, I quite hate you to-night: how disagreeable you can be.’

For the remainder of the evening she made him conscious of her high displeasure. Mountcharles and she had hitherto been the most excellent friends. An aide-de-camp may be, and Mountcharles certainly was, the very tamest of cats. He had other claims besides those of cousinship to be well received. With an only daughter, young, lively, and exceedingly attractive, both the general and Mrs. Prioleau had realised the inconvenience and possible danger of having a man continually about the house, unless he were in every way an eligible parti. Edith had plenty of time before her, no doubt, but at her age girls are[125] impressionable and very apt to succumb to the first comer if he has many opportunities of being at her side. Mountcharles had been specially selected as A.D.C. by Mrs. Prioleau, who, in spite of her languid airs, was a shrewd, far-seeing woman, and she felt that if anything were to happen, at least they were safe with Gaston Mountcharles. His father was dead, and he had an excellent competence of his own. He was a man of good birth, thoroughly presentable in every way. Edith, if she could only like him, might do very much worse.

But this night it was clear Edith did not like him at all. Not that Mountcharles much cared. He had probably far too good an opinion of himself to be cast down by the snubbings of a girl still in her teens. Whether or no he took her treatment of him very much to heart does not, however,[126] concern my readers so much as her behaviour to the hero of my story.

To Herbert Larkins that evening she was gracious and engaging in the extreme. She made him talk to her on subjects he would probably know best. She listened to him with that close attention which is in itself a subtle compliment, particularly when coming from an attractive girl, and she smiled her approval in that frank, straightforward way which might be interpreted one way, but which in her, perhaps, meant nothing at all.

The effect upon Herbert was marked and almost instantaneous. He was in truth little accustomed to the fascinations of the fair sex. He had never been brought up to flirt and philander, to roam from flower to flower, inhaling fragrance and passing gaily on, and he fell at once deeply and[127] desperately in love. His heart went out at once to the general’s daughter, without for a moment considering whether his passion was likely to be returned.

It was not, perhaps, exactly wise. A man more versed in the ways of the world would have been a little more cautious and circumspect. Edith Prioleau counted her swains by the score. Young ladies with the great gift of beauty, of good birth, and not without brains, pleasant talkers, good dancers, forward riders, are not too common in English society on the Rock. Among the few belles of the place, Edith Prioleau easily carried off the palm, and she had always a crowd of admirers about her. She did not resent or reject their attentions; on the contrary, she honoured them all with her favour in turn, and enjoyed it amazingly, feeling, no doubt, that they meant nothing[128] any more than she did, and that, therefore, she did no particular harm. Young soldiers are reputed susceptible; but it is also true that, if knocked over and quite hopeless one day, they are generally quite heart-whole the next.

Herbert Larkins was not a man of this sort. He was in sober serious earnest from the first. He was like a slave, grovelling at her feet. She might trample on him and spurn him if she pleased, but he was hers always, whether she would have him or no. The worst of it was that he could not hide his feelings. He was too honest—he had not enough of what the world calls savoir faire. What did he care who knew? He was not ashamed of his weakness. It was not a passing fancy, but a strong attachment; a deep-seated affection which would last as long as he lived. Everybody[129] saw it: his brother-officers, like good comrades, realising how much his heart was in it, forebore to chaff him and take him to task; the garrison generally, and all smiled, or winked knowingly when he was observed dancing attendance on Edith, looking the picture of misery unless she threw him a word. Captain Mountcharles saw it, so at last did the general and his wife. Edith herself, least of all, could not be blind to devotion which had in it much of the unswerving unquestioning attachment of the dog that follows at one’s heels. In all probability she would have been overcome by it. Already that pity which is proverbially akin to a much warmer sentiment, had taken possession of her, and she was in a fair way to be won had Herbert pricked up courage to speak.

Edith’s parents were growing a trifle[130] uneasy at Herbert’s attentions. The general did not take much notice, but—a woman is so much more worldly in these matters—Mrs. Prioleau did.

‘Do you see, Robert,’ she said at length, ‘what is going on right under our noses? Edith, I mean, and this Mr. Larkins?’

‘Well, I have had my suspicions. But what matter? Cannot things take their course?’

‘Agree to such a match for Edith? Robert, you must be demented.’

The general had seldom seen his wife so excited before.

‘He is a very rising young soldier.’

‘Who has already risen from the ranks. It will never do. I have no false pride about me, I think, but it is right to draw the line somewhere. But even if there were no other objections, that of means ought to[131] suffice. What are they to live upon? His pay? Ridiculous and absurd.’

‘He cannot be dependent on his pay. He lives well, keeps horses, and makes altogether too good a show. I have heard rumours of some rich old lady in the background, who has made him her protégé.’

‘That story might not quite bear investigation,’ said Mrs. Prioleau drily. ‘We know nothing about Mr. Larkins—where he comes from, or to whom he belongs.’

‘I had no idea you were so keen, Sophia, I confess I like the lad. However, speak to Edith if you feel that it is necessary. I leave it all to you.’

It was while Mrs. Prioleau waited her opportunity that chance gave Herbert an adverse rub.

Edith, with Captain Mountcharles as escort, was returning from the Moorish[132] Castle, when she came suddenly upon Herbert Larkins. He was leaving a small cottage, which was evidently a soldier’s quarter. It was, in fact, the home of old Sergeant Larkins and his wife.

‘Good bye, mother,’ Herbert was saying, as the pair passed by.

‘Good bye, my boy; come again soon. You are an honest lad not to forget us, although you’ve come to be so great a man.’

And with that the old woman kissed him tenderly on the brow, although they stood at the cottage door, almost in the open street.

‘Whose quarter is that?’ the aide-de-camp asked of a passing orderly, pointing back, after they had ridden a little way on.

‘Sergeant Larkins’, sir. Principal barrack sergeant, sir.’

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At which Mountcharles looked hard at Edith, and with a comical face.

‘Well, what do I care? What is it to me? It is quite proper of him. It is his duty not to neglect his parents.’

‘Oh, of course. She’s a dear old thing, too, I can see that. How would you like her for a mother-in-law, Edith Prioleau, eh?’

‘How dare you suggest such a thing, Captain Mountcharles?’ cried Edith, blushing red.

But there was a cold chill on her heart, and Herbert’s chances seemed very small just then.