The Revellers

These things accomplished, he seized an opportunity to tell Lord Heronsdale that business of the utmost importance would take him away by the first train next morning.

Of course, his host was voluble in protestations, so the soldier explained matters.

“You asked me to-day,” he said, “why I turned my back on town thirteen years ago. I meant telling you at a more convenient season. Will it suffice now to say that a kindred reason tears me away from your moor?”

“Gad, I hope there is nothing wrong. Can I help?”

“Yes; by letting me go. You will be here until October. May I return?”

“My dear Grant – ”

So they settled it that way.

About three o’clock on the second day after the colonel’s departure from Cairn-corrie he and an elderly man of unmistakably legal appearance walked from Elmsdale station to the village. The station master, forewarned, had procured a dogcart from the “Black Lion,” but the visitors preferred dispatching their portmanteaux in the vehicle, and they followed on foot.

Thus it happened – as odd things do happen in life – that the two men met a boy walking rapidly from the village, and some trick of expression in his face caused the colonel to halt him with a question:

“Can you tell me where the ‘Black Lion’ inn is?”

“Yes, sir. On the left, just beyond the bend in the road.”

“And the White House Farm?”

The village youth looked at the speaker with interest.

“On the right, sir; after you cross the green.”

“Ah!”

The two men stood and stared at Martin, who was dressed in a neat blue serge suit, obtained by post from York, the wildcat having ruined its predecessor. The older man, who reminded the boy of Mr. Stockwell, owing to the searching clearness of his gaze, said not a word; but the tall, sparsely-built soldier continued – for Martin civilly awaited his pleasure —

“Is your name, by any chance, Martin Court Bolland?”

The boy smiled.

“It is, sir,” he said.

“Are you – can you – that is, if you are not busy, you might show us the inn – and the farm?”

The gentleman seemed to have a slight difficulty in speaking, and his eyes dwelt on Martin with a queer look in them: but the answer came instantly:

“I’m sorry, sir; but I am going to the vicarage to tea, and you cannot possibly miss either place. The inn has a signpost by the side of the road, and the White House stands by itself on a small bank about a hundred and fifty yards farther down the village.”

The older gentleman broke in:

“That will be our best course, Colonel. We can easily find our way – alone.”

The hint in the words was intended for the ears that understood. Colonel Grant nodded, yet was loath to go.

“Is the vicar a friend of yours?” he said to Martin.

“Yes, sir. I like him very much.”

“Does a Mrs. Saumarez live here?”

“Oh, yes. She is at the vicarage now, I expect.”

“Indeed. You might tell her you met a Colonel Grant, who knew her husband in South Africa. You will not forget the name, eh – Grant?”

“Of course not, sir.”

Martin surveyed the stranger with redoubled attention. A live colonel is a rare sight in a secluded village. The man, seizing any pretext to prolong the conversation, drew out a pocketbook.

“Here is my card,” he said. “You need not give it to Mrs. Saumarez. She will probably recognize my name.”

The boy glanced at the pasteboard. It read:

Lieut. – Col. Reginald Grant,

“Indian Staff Corps.”

Now, it chanced that among Martin’s most valued belongings was a certain monthly publication entitled “Recent British Battles,” and he had read that identical name in the July number. As was his way, he remembered exactly the heroic deeds with which a gallant officer was credited, so he asked somewhat shyly:

“Are you Colonel Grant of Aliwal, sir?”

He pronounced the Indian word wrongly, with a short “a” instead of a long one, but never did misplaced accent convey sweeter sound to man’s ears. The soldier was positively startled.

“My dear boy,” he cried, “how can you possibly know me?”

“Everyone knows your name, sir. No fear of me forgetting it now.”

The honest admiration in those brown eyes was a new form of flattery; for the first time in his life Colonel Grant hungered for more.

“You have astonished me more than I can tell,” he said. “What have you read of the Aliwal campaign? All right, Dobson. We are in no hurry.” This to his companion, who ventured on a mild remonstrance.

“I have a book, sir, which tells you all about Aliwal” – this time Martin pronounced the word correctly; no wonder the newspaper commented on his intelligence – “and it has pictures, too. There is a grand picture of you, riding through the gate of the fort, sword in hand. Do you mind me saying, sir, that I am very pleased to have met you?”

The man averted his eyes. He dared not look at Martin. He made pretense to bite the end off a cigar. He was compelled to do something to keep his lips from trembling.

“I hope we shall meet often again, Martin,” he said slowly. “I’ll tell you more than the book does, though I have not read it. Run off to your friends at the vicarage. Good-by!”

He held out his hand, which the boy shook diffidently. There was no doubt whatever in Martin’s mind that Colonel Grant was an extraordinarily nice gentleman.

“My God, Dobson!” cried the soldier, turning again to look after the alert figure of the boy; “I have seen him, spoken to him – my own son! I would know him among a million.”

“He certainly bears a marked resemblance to your own photograph at the same age,” admitted the cautious solicitor.

“And what a fine youngster! By Jove, did you twig the way he caught on to the pronunciation of Aliwal? Bless that book! It shall be bound in the rarest leather, though I never rode through that gate – I ran, for dear life! I – I tell you what, Dobson, I’d sooner do it now than face these people, the Bollands, and explain my errand. I suppose they worship him.”