Part 37 (1/2)

But it was characteristic of him, and we have clung to it for that reason, in a spirit perhaps _too_ piously conservative. Forty-two ladies! My good fellow”--he turned to the patient--”I really think-- if your leg is equal to it--a short stroll in the fresh air may be permitted. Pray do not think we desire to hurry your cure.

Even setting aside the dictates of charity, and our natural tenderness towards one who, as I understand, has bled for our common country, we owe you something”--the Major's fingers plucked nervously at the bed-clothes--”some reparation,” the Doctor went on, ”for the--er--character of your reception. In short, I hope, on your complete recovery, to find you some steady employment, such as too many of our returning heroes are at this moment seeking in vain.

In the meanwhile our town has some lions which may amuse your convalescence--a figurative term, meaning objects of interest.”

Once or twice, in the course of his first stroll, the Major's eyes came near to br.i.m.m.i.n.g with tears. The town itself had suffered surprisingly little change. The Collector--he seemed scarcely a day older--stood as of old at the head of the Custom House stairs, and surveyed the world benignly with his thumbs in the arm-holes of his waistcoat. Before the Major's own doorway the myrtles were in bloom, and a few China roses on the well-trimmed standards. By the Broad s.h.i.+p as of old his nostrils caught the odours of tar and hemp with a whiff of smoke from a schooner's galley (the _Ranting Blade_, with her figure-head repainted, but otherwise much the same as ever).

Miss Jex, the postmistress, still peered over her blind. She studied the Major's wooden leg with interest. He, on his part, seemed to detect that the down on her upper lip had sensibly lightened in colour. _En revanche_, from the corner of his eye, as he pa.s.sed the open door, he saw that the portrait over the counter (supposed of yore to represent the Prince Regent) wore a frame of black ribbon.

The black, alas! was rusty.

The manners of the children had not improved. Half a dozen urchins, running into him here by the corner of the post-office on their way from school, fell back in a ring and began to call ”Boney!”

derisively. He escaped from them into the churchyard, and pa.s.sing up between the graves, rested for a while, panting in the cool of the porch.

The door stood ajar. Pus.h.i.+ng it open, he stepped within and paused again, half terrified by the unfamiliar _tap-tap_ of his wooden leg on the pavement. The suns.h.i.+ne lay in soft panels of light across the floor, and ran in sharper lines along the tops of the pews, worn to a polish by generations of hands that had opened and shut their doors.

Aloft, where the rays filtered through the clerestory windows, their innumerable motes swam like gold-dust held in solution.

The Major found his own pew, dropped into the familiar seat, and strove to collect his thoughts. A week ago, on his way from Plymouth, it had seemed the easiest thing in the world to reveal himself and step back into his own. The only question had been how to select the most impressive moment.

His eyes, travelling along the wall on his right, encountered an unfamiliar monument among the many familiar ones; an oval slab of black marble enclosed in a gilt wreath and inscribed with gilt lettering. He leaned forward, peering closer, blinking against the sunlight that poured through the window.

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF SOLOMON HYMEN, ESQUIRE SEVEN TIMES MAYOR OF THIS BOROUGH AND MAJOR COMMANDING THE TROY VOLUNTEER ARTILLERY UNFORTUNATELY AND UNTIMELY SLAIN IN ACTION OFF THE COAST OF FRANCE NEAR BOULOGNE ON MAY 15TH, MDCCIV.

THIS TABLET WAS ERECTED BY SUBSCRIPTION AMONG HIS SORROWING FRIENDS AND FELLOW CITIZENS OF THE BOROUGH HE, LIVING, ADORNED WITH HIS WISDOM AND DYING, ENDOWED WITH HIS WEALTH AS WITH HIS EXAMPLE.

FORTIBUS ET COELUM PATRIA

He spelled out the inscription slowly, and, turning at the sound of a footstep in the porch, was aware of a tall figure in the doorway--his own faithful Scipio.

Least of all was Scipio changed. Ten years apparently had not even tarnished his livery. It shone in its accustomed scarlet and green and gold in the rays which, falling through the windows of the south aisle, lit up his white teeth and his habitual gentle grin.

”Mistah will be studyin' de board--berry fine board. Not so fine board in Cornwall, dey tell me.”

The Major turned his face, avoiding recognition.

”No, not dat; dat's modern trash,” went on Scipio, affably, following his gaze. ”Good man, all same, Ma.s.sa Hymen; lef plenty money.

One hundred fifty pound. Lef Cai Tamblyn fifty. Every person say remarkable difference. But doan' you look at _him_; he's modern trash. Ma.s.sa Hymen lef' me _one_ hundred fifty pound. Dat all go to board up yonder, you see; 'Scipio Johnson, Esquire, of this Parish'

in red letters an' gilt twirls. I doan' mind tellin' you. De hull parish an' Lawyer Chinn has it drafted--Vicar he promises me it shall go in--'Scipio Johnson, Esquire, _of_ this Parish,' an' twiddles round de capital letters. Man, I served Mas' Hymen han' an' foot, wet an' dry, an' look like he las' anudder twenty year.”

”You mean to say that I--that you, I mean--”

”Dat's so,” put in Scipio, nodding cheerfully, while the stained-gla.s.s windows flung flecks of red and blue on his honest ebony features. ”An' Cai Tamblyn all de while no better'n a fool.

'_Him_,' he'd sneer, not playin' up, but pullin' his cross face.

Dat's a lesson if ebber dere was one. Cai Tamblyn left with fifty, an' me with three time fifty. 'To my faithful servant, Scipio Johnson. . . .' And so Miss Marty, when it came to choose, took me on--Scipio Johnson, Esquire, of this Parish--and Cai Tamblyn no more than 'Mister,' nor ebber a hope of it.”

The Major found himself in the churchyard, staring at a headstone.

He did not remember the stone, yet it seemed by no means a new one.

Weather-stains ran down the lettering and lichen spotted it.

He read the name. It was the name of a man whom he had left hale and young--a promising corporal.