A Son of Mars. Griffiths Arthur
me? Why did you bring me here?’
‘I am Sir Rupert Farrington. It is I whom this mad old lady wishes to wrong. She has been seeking what she calls a rightful heir all these years—only that she may dispossess me. You are not the first pretender she has set up. But I think it is not unlikely you will be the last.’
Had he brought Herbert there to injure him? The thought suddenly flashed across the young man’s mind. But then there were other people at the inn; the landlady, ostlers, keepers, police not far off, none of these would knowingly suffer any foul play to be done.
‘I defy you and your threats,’ said Herbert. ‘If I am in a false position it was none of my seeking, but I prefer to believe Lady Farrington rather than you. There are others who know of my claims, and with their help I shall yet put them forward as you will see.’
Sir Rupert snapped his fingers at him. ‘How do you propose to live meanwhile? Remember you can get nothing from Lady Farrington now. You cannot go back to the school; I brought you all this way on purpose that you should not. Besides, I have written to Dr. Jiggs to put him on his guard.’
‘He would still help me if I asked him; but I do not need to do that.’
‘You cannot have money hoarded? That would be very unlike a school-boy. You must be nearly cleaned out by this time. I made you pay your own expenses on purpose; and there will be the bill here. You ought to be nearly penniless. You will have to remain here, and turn farm labourer or starve.’
‘I shall not do that, you may depend. I have been well educated, thanks to Lady Farrington. I am not afraid of work, and I am well able to take care of myself. At any rate I look to you for nothing, and all I wish now is to get away from you and this place.’
Herbert called for his bill, paid it with his last sovereign, asked the way to the nearest railway station—Newton Abbot—and started off on foot, determined to get back to London as soon as he could. Thence he would find his way to Triggertown. The Larkins were the only friends left in the world; and Mrs. Larkins, as Lady Farrington had said, was the person who possessed the only link wanting in the chain of proofs which was to establish his claims.
At Newton Abbot he sold his watch, and had money for his ticket to London and to spare. Parting with other articles of his apparel to supply his necessities upon the road, he found himself at Triggertown upon the third day. How familiar the place seemed! Six years since he left it—a child, and now returning as a man he found everything unchanged. He passed up the covered way, across the drawbridge under the arch, and stood at the door of the casemate, expecting next moment to see the sergeant and Mrs. Larkins, and the whole of the brood.
But it was a stranger who came to answer his knock; a small vixenish woman with a shrewish tongue. She gave him a very short answer.
‘Larkinses? They don’t stop here. Been gone these years. Where? How do I know? They got the route right enough; that’s all I can tell you.’
‘Was there no one in the barracks who could tell him?’ Herbert asked.
‘No,’ said the woman, abruptly, and shut the door in his face.
The sentry would not let him pass the inner gates. The gate sergeant, who came up, peremptory and consequential, was still more inhospitable. Whom did Herbert want? A barrack sergeant of the name of Larkins? There was no such name in the garrison.
‘Better write to the Secretary of State for War, my man,’ said the gate sergeant with gruff condescension, ‘or to the Archbishop of Canterbury. One’s as likely to tell you as another. But you must clear out of this. Can’t have no loiterers about here. Them’s my orders. May be the adjutant or the sergeant-major’ll come this way, and I don’t choose to be blamed for you.’
‘What regiment do you belong to?’ asked Herbert.
‘Can’t you see for yourself?’ Where could this young man have been raised not to recognise the uniform of the Duke’s Own Fusiliers?
‘Is it a good corps?’
The sergeant was aghast at the fellow’s impudence. Like every soldier of the old school, he had been brought up to believe that his regiment was not only a good one, but the very best in the service.
‘G’long; I want no more truck with you. Clear out, or you’ll be put out.’
‘What’s your colonel’s name? I want to see him.’
‘You can’t want to see him if you don’t know his name.’
‘I do, though, on business.’
‘Pretty business! A tramp like you can’t have no business here at all, much less with the colonel or any other officer of ours.’
‘Won’t you pass me in?’
‘I won’t, there, that’s flat.’
‘All right; I’ll wait till some one comes out.’
Herbert coolly seated himself a little way down upon the slope of the glacis. If the sergeant meant to dislodge him it could only be by force.
The fact was our hero was meditating a serious step. The disappointment of not finding his old friends where he had left them was great. He had perhaps overrated the assistance which Mrs. Larkins could give him in substantiating his claims, but he had looked for advice from them as to the disposal of his immediate future. How was he now, unknown and seemingly without a friend in the world, to find employment? That was the serious question he was called upon to solve, and that without unnecessary delay. His pockets were empty, his clothes—such as he had not pawned—had reached that stage of irretrievable seediness which clothes worn uninterruptedly for weeks will always assume. He might or might not be the heir of the Farringtons. What did it matter who he was or might be if he died of starvation before he could prove his case?
These wholesome reflections led him to accept the only means of livelihood which offered just then. He would enlist. Why not? He had been brought up within sound of the drum; his earliest recollections and associations were connected with the barrack. The life might be rough compared to the luxury of Deadham, but at least he would be fed, clothed and housed, and he need not stand still. The theory of the marshal’s baton, which every knapsack is said to contain, is not exactly supported by fact in the British Army, but times were not what they had been, and he might now hope to rise rapidly enough. Yes, he would take the shilling and join the Duke’s Own Fusiliers.
These were the words he addressed to the first officer who issued from the gates.
It happened to be the adjutant himself. Mr. Wheeler was the beau ideal of a smart young soldier, quick and energetic in movement, with an eagle eye to take in the ‘points’ of a possible recruit.
‘Want to enlist, do you? Hey, what, what, what? Where do you come from? Won’t say, I suppose? Where do you belong to? Don’t know, of course. What’s your age? You won’t tell the truth. Height? we can see to that. Health? are you sound in wind and limb? hey, what, what, what?’
All this time he had been appraising Herbert’s value, had noted his broad shoulders, thin flanks, his seventy-two inches, and his erect bearing, as keenly as though he were a slave merchant about to turn a penny on a deal. The scrutiny was satisfactory. The medical examination confirmed it, the nearest magistrate sanctioned the enlistment, and before sundown, Herbert Larkins had joined the Duke’s Own and had sworn to serve Her Majesty and her heirs for a term of years.
By a strange coincidence, within a week or two, Ernest Farrington, Sir Rupert’s only son, was gazetted to the same regiment, and the two young men presently found themselves in the same squad at recruit’s drill.
CHAPTER V.
A CRACK CORPS.
The Duke’s Own