Part 5 (2/2)

His servants adored him, as did the dogs and all animals and children.

He was beautiful in his manner to women of high and low degree, with perhaps one exception. He was as simple as a child, and loved the popular applause which fell to him whenever he made any kind of public appearance, for he had been so long a Londoner that now the London crowd knew him and had a sense of possession in him. His rosy face would beam all over when the crowd shouted itself hoa.r.s.e for ”Old Blood and Thunder.” He did not at all object to the name, which had filtered from regimental into common use. The crowd was always ”Boys!” to him. He had a most amiable feeling towards it, were it ever so frowsy and undersized and sallow. But he loved a soldier-man, and could hardly bear to pa.s.s one in the street without stopping to speak to him.

One delightful thing about Sir Denis was the esteem in which he held his own calling of arms. It might be questioned whether he held the Church even in higher honour. He was no subscriber to the belief that the army must necessarily be a refuge of rapscallions. ”Straighten your shoulders, sir; hold your head high; for, remember that you are now a soldier!” he would say to the newest recruit who had just sc.r.a.ped through with a margin of chest. His thunderous wrath and sorrow when one of his ”boys” was guilty of conduct unbecoming a soldier were something which, in time, impressed even the least impressionable. His old regiment, which he delighted to talk about, he had left a model regiment.

”There's a deal of good in the soldier-man,” he would say to his daughter Nelly. ”The poor fellows, they're good boys, they're very good boys.”

Sir Denis had married, as he was approaching middle age, a very beautiful young girl, who had fallen in love at first with the soldier, and afterwards with the man.

His Nell had left him in his daughter Nelly a replica of herself. During the years of service that remained to him the child was always as near to him as might be. Fortunately, by this time the period of his foreign service was all but at an end. Wherever he had his command the child and her nurse were always within riding distance. He did not believe in barracks and towns for the rearing of anything so fresh and tender. His Nelly must have the fields and the woods and the waters. In later years her milkmaid freshness owed, perhaps, something to this upbringing.

Later, she went to school. Sir Gerald's widow, to whom Sir Denis always referred as the Dowager, who had taken an unasked-for interest in the motherless child from her birth, had found the ideal school for Nelly--a school where the daughters of the aristocracy were kept in a conventual seclusion while they learnt as little as might be of the simpler virtues, but a deal of the way to step in and out of a carriage, to comport themselves with dignity, to bear themselves in the presence of their sovereign, and so on.

Sir Denis, who had not been consulted, made a pretence of interviewing the Misses de Crespigny, by whom this aristocratic preserve was safeguarded.

He had listened to Miss Selina de Crespigny's eloquent exposition of the system adopted at De Crespigny House. Then he had torn it all to pieces as one might the delicate fabric of a spider's web, constructed at infinite cost.

”And, tell me now, do you teach them to be good daughters and wives and mothers?” he asked, with his air of convincing simplicity. ”Do you teach them their duties to their husbands and children, ma'am, may I ask?”

Miss de Crespigny positively gasped. There was an indelicacy about the General's speech, to her manner of thinking.

”We expect our young ladies' mothers to teach them all that,” she said, stiffly.

”And they don't. In nine cases out of ten they don't. They've too much to do otherwise. Whether it is philanthropy or politics, or just amusing themselves, they've all got too much to do,” Sir Denis said, with a simple air that made it doubtful if this criticism of Society's ways was adverse or not.

Nelly did not go to De Crespigny House. She went, instead, to a much less pretentious school, kept by a family of four sisters, for whom the dry bones of teaching had been clothed with life. The house was perched on a high, windy cliff. The sisters, Miss Stella and Miss Clara, Miss Lucy and Miss Marianne, did their own teaching, and did it in a perfectly unconventional way to the twenty or so girls who made up their school.

When Nelly came home to her father at seventeen years of age, it would not have been easy to find a fresher, franker specimen of young girlhood. In fact, to her father's eyes she was somewhat alarmingly bright and fair.

”The young fellows will be about her thick as bees,” he said to himself in a frightened way. ”I won't have any nonsense about Nelly. I want my girl to myself for a little while. Afterwards there is that arrangement of the Dowager's about Nelly and Robin. I don't care for the marriage of first cousins. And I'm not sure that I care for Robin; still, he is poor Gerald's son. There can be nothing against poor Gerald's son.”

He was so afraid of possible lovers for Nelly that he actually suggested to her that she should go to a smart finis.h.i.+ng school for the couple of years that separated him from the sixty-five limit.

”After that,” he said, faintheartedly, for there was a sparkle in Nelly's eye which discouraged him, ”we shall settle down in London, and you shall see all you want to see. There are quiet nooks and corners to be had, even in London. I think I know the one I shall choose. Be a good girl, Nelly, and go to Madame Celeste's. A garrison town is no place for you. Unless, indeed, you would like to go to the Dowager, as she wishes.”

”I shan't go to the Dowager, and I shan't go to Madame Celeste's,” said Nelly, dimpling and sparkling. ”I shall stay with my old Dad and take care of him.”

”What, Nell? 'Shan't'! You forget you're talking to your commanding officer. Rank insubordination--that is what I call it!”

”Call it what you like,” Miss Nelly replied. ”I'm going to stay. A finis.h.i.+ng school at seventeen! I never heard the like!”

With that she put her arms round the General's neck, and that was the final argument. Secretly, indeed, he was not altogether sorry to be worsted. He had done his best to ward off the things that might happen.

Now he was going to trust in Providence and keep his little girl with him. To be sure, he had known that she would never go to the Dowager's.

Nelly had never considered that possibility. After all, it was a relief that they were not going to be parted.

During the two years Nelly, indeed, had many admirers and lovers, but she was not attracted by any of them. She was kind and friendly and engaging; but she was unconscious with her lovers, or so it seemed to the jealous, fatherly eyes, to the verge of coldness.

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