Part 100 (2/2)

The new comer was walking slowly up the room, and there began to arise a little breeze of applause, and then some one called out, ”Three cheers for the Inkerman pet,” and then there was a stamping of feet, and a little laughter, and cheering in various parts of the room, but the new comer made one bow and walked on.

”Pray, sir,” said I, bending over to one of those who had spoken before, ”who is that gentleman?”

He had no need to tell me. The man we spoke of reached the orchestra and turned round. It was Jim Brentwood!

There was a great white seam down his face, and he wore a pair of light curling moustachios, but I knew him in a moment; and, when he faced round to the company, I noticed that his person seemed known to the public, for there was not a little applause with the bottoms of tumblers, not unlike what one remembers at certain banquets I have been at, with certain brethren, Sons of Apollo.

In one moment we were standing face to face, shaking one another by both hands; in another, we were arm in arm, walking through the quiet streets towards Jim's lodgings. He had been in Ireland with his regiment, as I knew, which accounted for my not having seen him. And that night, Major Brentwood recounted to me all his part in the last great campaign, from the first fierce rush up the hill at the Alma, down to the time when our Lady pinned a certain bit of gun metal on to his coat in St. James's Park.

A few days after this, Jim and I were standing together on the platform of the Wildmoor station, on the South-Western Railway, and a couple of porters were carrying our portmanteaus towards a pair-horse phaeton, in which stood Sam Buckley, shouting to us to come on, for the horses wouldn't stand. So, in a moment, I was alongside of Sam in the front seat, with Jim standing up behind, between the grooms, and leaning over between us, to see after Sam's driving; and away we went along a splendid road, across a heath, at what seemed to me a rather dangerous pace.

”Let them go, my child,” said Jim to Sam, ”you've got a fair mile before. You sit at your work in capital style. Give me time and I'll teach you to drive, Sam. How do you like this, Uncle Jeff?”

I said, ”That's more than I can tell you, Master Jim. I know so little of your wheeled vehicles that I am rather alarmed.”

”Ah!” said Jim, ”you should have been in Calcutta when the O'Rourke and little Charley Badminton tried to drive a pair of fresh imported Australians tandem through the town. Red Maclean and I looked out of the billiard-room, and we saw the two horses go by with a bit of a shaft banging about the wheeler's hocks. So we ran down and found Charley, with his head broke, standing in the middle of the street, mopping the blood off his forehead. 'Charley,' says I, 'how the deuce did this happen?' 'We met an elephant,' says he, in a faint voice.”

”Have you heard anything of the Mayfords lately?” said Jim.

”You know Ellen is married?” said Sam.

”No! Is she?” I said. ”And pray to whom?”

”The Squire of Monkspool,” he answered. ”A very fine young fellow, and clever withal.”

”Did old Mrs. Mayford,” asked Jim, ”ever recover her reason before she died?”

”Never, poor soul,” said Sam. ”To the last, she refused to see my mother, believing that the rivalry between Cecil and myself in some way led to his death. She was never sane after that dreadful morning.”

And so with much pleasant talk we beguiled the way, till I saw, across a deep valley on our right, a line of n.o.ble heights, well timbered, but broken into open gra.s.sy glades, and smooth sheets of bright green lawn.

Between us and these hills flowed a gleaming river, from which a broad avenue led up to the eye of the picture, a n.o.ble grey stone mansion, a ma.s.s of turrets, gables, and chimneys, which the afternoon sun was lighting up right pleasantly.

”That is the finest seat I have seen yet, Sam,” I said. ”Whose is that?”

”That,” said Sam, ”is Clere. My house and your home, old friend.”

Swiftly up under the shadow of the elm avenue, past the herds of dappled deer, up to the broad graveled terrace which ran along in front of the brave old house. And there, beneath the dark wild porch, above the group of servants that stood upon the steps to receive their master, was Alice, with her son and daughter beside her, waiting to welcome us, with the happy sunlight on her face.

I bought a sweet cottage, barely a mile from Clere, with forty acres of gra.s.s-land round it, and every convenience suited for an old bachelor of my moderate though comfortable means.

I took to fis.h.i.+ng and to the breeding of horses on a small scale, and finding that I could make myself enormously busy with these occupations, and as much hunting as I wanted, I became very comfortable, and considered myself settled.

I had plenty of society, the best in the land. Above all men I was the honoured guest at Clere, and as the county had rallied round Sam with acclamation, I saw and enjoyed to the fullest extent that charming English country-life, the like of which, I take it, no other country can show.

I was a great favourite, too, with old Miss Gertrude Talbot at the castle. Her admiration and love for Sam and his wife was almost equal to mine. So we never bored one another, and so, by degrees, gaining the old lady's entire confidence, I got entrusted with a special mission of a somewhat peculiar character.

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