Citation
The story of a short life

Material Information

Title:
The story of a short life
Creator:
Ewing, Juliana Horatia Gatty, 1841-1885
Thomas Y. Crowell & Co ( Publisher )
Norwood Press ( Printer )
J.S. Cushing & Co ( Printer )
Berwick & Smith ( Printer )
Place of Publication:
New York ;
Boston
Publisher:
Thomas Y. Crowell & Co.
Manufacturer:
Norwood Press ; J.S. Cushing & Co. ; Berwick & Smith
Publication Date:
Language:
English
Physical Description:
201 p., [6] leaves of plates : ill. (some col.) ; 22 cm.

Subjects

Subjects / Keywords:
Children -- Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction ( lcsh )
Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction ( lcsh )
Soldiers -- Juvenile fiction ( lcsh )
Parent and child -- Juvenile fiction ( lcsh )
Sisters -- Juvenile fiction ( lcsh )
Dogs -- Juvenile fiction ( lcsh )
Blind children -- Juvenile fiction ( lcsh )
Children -- Death -- Juvenile fiction ( lcsh )
Families of military personnel -- Juvenile fiction ( lcsh )
Imagination -- Juvenile fiction ( lcsh )
Bldn -- 1893
Genre:
novel ( marcgt )
Spatial Coverage:
United States -- New York -- New York
United States -- Massachusetts -- Boston
Target Audience:
juvenile ( marctarget )

Notes

General Note:
Frontispiece printed in colors and text in a wide, gilt floral border.
Statement of Responsibility:
by Juliana Horatia Ewing.

Record Information

Source Institution:
University of Florida
Holding Location:
University of Florida
Rights Management:
This item is presumed to be in the public domain. The University of Florida George A. Smathers Libraries respect the intellectual property rights of others and do not claim any copyright interest in this item. Users of this work have responsibility for determining copyright status prior to reusing, publishing or reproducing this item for purposes other than what is allowed by fair use or other copyright exemptions. Any reuse of this item in excess of fair use or other copyright exemptions may require permission of the copyright holder. The Smathers Libraries would like to learn more about this item and invite individuals or organizations to contact The Department of Special and Area Studies Collections (special@uflib.ufl.edu) with any additional information they can provide.
Resource Identifier:
026684446 ( ALEPH )
ALG6242 ( NOTIS )
213481651 ( OCLC )

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Full Text










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THE

STORY OF A SHORT LIRR

BY

JULIANA HORATIA EWING

AUTHOR OF “ JACKANAPES,” “ Dappy DarWwIN’s Dovecot,” ETC,



NEW YORK: 46 East rgTH STREET
THOMAS Y. CROWELL & Co.

BOSTON: 100 PURCHASE STREET



CopyRIGHT, 1893,

By THOMAS Y. CROWELL & CO,

Norwood Yress :
Jj. S. Cushing & Co, — Berwick & Smith.
Bostan, Mass., U.S.A.





“ But the fair guerdon when we hope to find,
And think to burst out into sudden blaze,
Comes the blind Fury with the abhorréd shears
And slits the thin spun life, —‘ But not the praise.’ ”







Mitton.




“Tt is a calumny on men to say that they are roused to heroic
action by ease, hope of pleasure, recompense, — sugar-plums of
any kind in this world or the next! In the meanest mortal
there lies something nobler. ... Difficulty, abnegation, mar-
tyrdom, death are the @//uements that act on the heart of man.
Kindle the inner genial life of him, you have a flame that burns
up all lower considerations. ... Not by flattering our appe-
tites; no, by awakening the Heroic that slumbers in every

ear tema











CARLYLE.





aie oe ete






THES STORY OFX SHOOK ABE:

—00 £€0-0——_

CHAPTER I.

“Arma virumque cano.” —_ne7d.

‘‘Man—and the horseradish—are most biting when
grated.” — Fean Paul Richter.

“Most annoying!” said the Master of the
House. His thick eyebrows were puckered
just then with the vexation of his thoughts;
but the lines of annoyance on his forehead were
to some extent fixed lines. They helped to
make him look older than his age—he was not
forty —and they gathered into a fierce frown
as his elbow was softly touched by his little
son. s

The child was defiantly like his father, even

to a knitted brow, for his whole face was








THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

crumpled with the vigor of some resolve which



















he found it hard to keep, and which was sym-
bolized by his holding the little red tip of his
tongue betwixt finger and thumb.

“Put your hands down, Leonard! Put your
tongue in, sir! What are you after? What do
you want? What are you doing here? Be off
to the nursery, and tell Jemima to keep you
there. Your mother and I are busy.”

Far behind the boy, on the wall, hung the
portrait of one of his ancestors—a youth of
sixteen. The painting was by Vandyck, and it
was the most valuable of the many valuable
things that strewed and decorated the room.
A very perfect example of the great master’s
work, and uninjured by Time. The young
Cavalier’s face was more interesting than hand-
some, but so eager and refined that, set off as
it was by pale-hued satin and falling hair, he
might have been called effeminate, if his brief
life, which ended on the field of Naseby, had

not done more than common to prove his man-


























‘ Me :
Bee OSE or ate Melon, Bee.
a ( is
ra

oe
34





DULCE ET DECORUM EST PRO PATRIA MORI. 7




hood. A coat-of-arms, blazoned in the corner
of the painting, had some appearance of having
been added later. Below this was rudely in-
scribed, in yellow paint, the motto which also
decorated the elaborate stone mantelpiece
opposite — Letus sorte mea.

Leonard was very fond of that picture. It
was known to his childish affections as “Uncle
Rupert.” He constantly wished that he could
get into the frame and play with the dog — the
dog with the upturned face and melancholy
eyes, and odd resemblance to a longhaired
Cavalier —on whose faithful head Uncle
Rupert’s slender fingers perpetually reposed.

Though not able to play with the dog,.
Leonard did play with Uncle Rupert — the
game of trying to get out of the reach of his
eyes.

“I play ‘Puss-in-the-corner’ with him,” the
child was wont to explain; “but whichever
corner I get into, his eyes come after me. The

dog looks at Uncle Rupert always, and Uncle



ate
oe




















THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.



Rupert always looks at me.” ... “To see
if you are growing up a good boy and a gal-
lant young gentleman, such as he was.” So
Leonard’s parents and guardians explained the
matter to him, and he devoutedly believed them.

Many an older and less credulous spectator
stood in the light of those painted eyes, and
acknowledged their spell. Very marvellous was
the cunning which, by dabs and streaks of
color, had kept the spirit of this long-dead
youth to gaze at his descendants from a sheet
of canvas and stir the sympathy of strangers,
parted by more than two centuries from his
sorrows, with the mock melancholy of painted
tears. For whether the painter had just over-
done some trick of representing their liquidness,
or whether the boy’s eyes had brimmed over as
he was standing for his portrait (his father and

elder brother had died in the civil war before
him), there remains no tradition to tell, But

Vandyck nnever painted a portrait fuller of sad



dignity,even in those troubled times.
py NSE



Ok . > D SCP
Saw: Uk aa
Ze GZ Sany
\

PH ZS)

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EX



BS PcOae ts BE"
og



WORD AND HONOR.

Happily for his elders, Leonard invented for

himself a reason for the obvious tears.

“I believe Uncle Rupert knew that they
were going to chop the poor king’s head off,
and that’s why he looks as if he were going to
cry.”

Tt was partly because the child himself looked
as if he were going to cry —and that not frac-
tiously, but despite a struggle with himself —
that, as he stood before the Master of the
House, he might have been that other master
of the same house come to life again at six years
of age. His long, fair hair, the pliable, nervous
fingers, which he had put down as he was bid,
the strenuous tension of his little figure under a
sense of injustice, and, above all, his beautiful
eyes, in which the tears now brimmed over the
eyelashes as the waters of a lake well up
through the reeds that fringe its banks. He
was very, very like Uncle Rupert when he

turned those eyes on his mother in mute

reproach. SPs



hs
Sw, OB



























THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE,

Lady Jane came to his defence.

“T think Leonard meant to be good. I made
him promise me to try and cure himself of the
habit of speaking to you when you are speaking
to someone else. But, dear Leonard” (and she
took the hand that had touched his father’s
elbow), “I don’t think you were quite on honor
when you interrupted Father with this hand,
though you were holding your tongue’with the
other. That is what we call keeping a promise
to the ear and breaking it to the sense.”

All the Cavalier dignity came unstarched in
Leonard’s figure. With a red face, he answered
bluntly, “I’m very sorry. I meant to keep my

promise.”

“Next time keep it we//, as a gentleman
should. Now, what do you want?”

“Pencil and paper, please.”

“There they are. Take them to the nursery,
as Father told you.”

Leonard looked at his father. He had not
been spoilt for six years by an irritable and






























ARTS OF DIPLOMACY. Il




indulgent parent without learning those arts
of diplomacy in which children quickly become
experts. :

““Oh, he can stay,” said the Master of the
House, “and he may say a word now and then,
if he doesn’t talk too much. Boys can’t sit
mumchance always—can they, Len? There,
kiss your poor old father, and get away, and
keep quiet.”

Lady Jane made one of many fruitless efforts
on behalf of discipline.

“I think, dear, as you told him to go, he had
better go now.”

“He well go, pretty sharp, if he isn’t good.
Now, for pity’s sake, let’s talk out this affair,
and let me get back to my work.”

“ Have you been writing poetry this morning,
father dear?” Leonard inquired, urbanely.

He was now lolling against a writing-table of
the first empire, where sheets of paper lay like
fallen leaves among Japanese bronzes, old and

elaborate candlesticks, grotesque letter-clips









12



THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

and paper-weights, quaint pottery, big seals,
and spring flowers in slender Venetian glasses
of many colors.

“T wrote three lines, and was interrupted
four times,” replied his sire, with bitter

brevity.














“T think 74 write some poetry. I don’t
mind being interrupted. May I have your
ink?”

‘““No, you may zot/” roared the Master of
the House and of the inkpot of priceless china
which Leonard had seized. “Now, be off to
the nursery!”

“IT won’t touch anything. I am going to

)

draw out of the window,” said Leonard, calmly.

He had practised the art of being trouble-
some to the verge of expulsion ever since he
had had a whim of his own, and as skilfully as
he played other games. He was seated among
the cushions of the oriel window-seat (colored
rays from coats-of-arms in the upper panes

falling on his fair hair with a fanciful effect of



i
i
ti

i







Mase

“He was seated among the cushions of the oriel

window-seat.”




















14 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.




canonizing him for his sudden goodness) almost
before his father could reply.

“T advise you to stay there, and to keep
quiet.” Lady Jane took up the broken thread
of conversation in despair.

“ Have you ever seen him?”

fies 5 years ago.’

“You know I never saw either. Your sister
was much older than you; wasn’t she?”

“The shadows move so on the grass, and
the elms have so many branches, L think T shall
turn round and draw the fire-place,’ murmured
Leonard. . c

“Ten years. You may be sure, if I had
been grown up I should never have allowed
the marriage. I cannot think what possessed
my father —”

“Lam doing the inscription! T can print Old
English. What does L. aiphthong 42.7. U.S.
mean?” said Leonard.

“It means joyful, contented, happy. —1 was at
Eton at the time. Disastrous ill-luck !”





CROSS-QUESTIONS.

“ Are there any children oa

“One son. And to crown all, “zs regiment
is at Asholt. Nice family party!”

“A young man! Has he been well brought
up?”

“ What does —”

« Will you hold your tongue, Leonard ?—Is he
likely to have been well brought up? How-
ever, he’s ‘in the Service,’ as they say. I wish
it didn’t make one think of flunkeys, what with
the word service, and the liveries (I mean
uniforms), and the legs, and shoulders, and
swagger, and tag-rags, and epaulettes, and the
fatiguing alertness and attentiveness of ‘men in _
the iS eivicelia:

The Master of the House spoke with the
pettish accent of one who says what he does
‘not mean, partly for lack of something better
to do, and partly to avenge some inward vexa-
tion upon his hearers. He lounged languidly
on acouch, but Lady Jane sat upright, and her

eyes gave an unwonted flash. She came of an





16 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

ancient Scottish race, that had shed its blood
like water on many a battle-field, generations
before the family of her English husband had
become favorites at the Court of the Tudors.

“T have so many military belongings, both in
the past and the present, that I have a respect
for the Service —”

He got up and patted her head, and smiled.

“T beg your pardon, my child. Et ego” —
and he looked at Uncle Rupert, who looked
sadly back again: “but you must make allow-
ances for me. Asholt Camp has been a thorn
in my side from the first: And now to have
the barrack-master, and the youngest subaltern
of a marching regiment —”’

“He’s our nephew, Rupert!”

“Mine—not yours. You've nothing to do

with him, thank goodness.”

“Your people are my people. Now do not
worry yourself. Of course I shall call on your
sister at once. Will they be here for some





CROOKED ANSWERS. i

“Five years, you may depend. He’s just
the sort of man to wedge himself into a snug
berth at Asholt. You're an angel, Jane; you
‘always are. But fighting ancestors are one thing;
a barrack-master brother-in-law is another.”

“Has he done any fighting ?”

“Oh dear, yes! Bemedalled like that Guy
Fawkes General in the pawnbroker’s window,
that Len was so charmed by. But, my dear, I
assure you —”

“T only just want to know what S. O. R. T.
E. M. FE. A. means,” Leonard hastily broke in.
“Lve done tt all now, and shan’t want to know
anything more.”

“Sorte mea is Latin for My fate, or My lot

an life. Letus sorte mea means Happy 'in my

lot. It is our Jamily motto. Now, if you ask

another question, off you go !— After all, Jane,
you must allow it’s about as hard lines as could
be, to have a few ancestral acres and a nice old
place in one of the quietest, quaintest corners

of Old England; and for Government to come






















18 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

and plant a Camp of Instruction, as they call it,
and pour in tribes of savages in war-paint to
build wigwams within a couple of miles of your
lodge-gates |”

She laughed heartily.

“Dear Rupert! You ave a born poet! You
do magnify your woes so grandly. What was
the brother-in-law like when you saw him ?”’

“Oh; the regular type. Hair cut like a
pauper, or a convict” (the Master of the House
tossed his own locks as he spoke), “ big, swag-
gering sort of fellow, swallowed the poker and
not digested it, rather good features, accli-
matized complexion, tight fit of hot-red cloth,
and general pipeclay.”

“Then he must be the Sapper!” Leonard
announced, as he advanced with a firm step and.
kindling eyes from the window. “Jemima’s
other brother isa Gunner. Ye dresses in blue.
But they both pipeclay their gloves, and I pipe-
clayed mine this morning, when she did the

hearth. You've no idea how nasty they look





THEN WOULD HE SING.

while it’s wet, but they dry as white as snow,
only mine fell among the cinders. The Sapper
is very kind, both to her and to me. He gave
her a brooch, and he is making me a wooden
fort to put my cannon in. But the Gunner is
such a funny man! I said to him, ‘Gunner!
why do you wear white gloves?’ and he said,
‘Young gentleman, why does a miller wear a
white hat?’ He’s very funny. But I think
I like the tidy one best of all. He is so very
beautiful, and I should think he must be very
brave.”

That Leonard was permitted to deliver him-
self of this speech without a check can only
have been due to the paralyzing nature of the
shock which it inflicted on his parents, and of
which he himself was pleasantly unconscious.
His whole soul was in the subject, and he spoke
with a certain grace and directness of address,

and with a clear and facile enunciation, which

were among the child’s most conspicuous marks

of good breeding.





20 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.












“This is nice!” said the Master of the House
between his teeth with a deepened scowl.
The air felt stormy, and Leonard began to

coax. He laid his curls against his father’s



arm, and asked, “Did you ever see a tidy

BP LEA yoy

\e es ATS ENG i

SLX i Coe
oer SN ea LLS Ee

one, Father dear? He zs a very splendid sort

of man.”

f

““ What nonsense are you talking? What
do you mean by a tidy one?”

There was no mistake about the storm now;
and Leonard began to feel helpless, and, as
usual in such circumstances, turned to Lady
Jane.

“Mother told me!” he gasped.

The Master of the House also turned to Lady
Jane.

“Do you mean you have heard of this be-
HOLE ie

She shook her head, and he seized his son
by the shoulder.

“Tf that woman has taught you to tell un-
truths —”



< SL
nity

ints



























“Be we a
is Sw Ro Be Ne S S
SBOE BS a ee re oxy ee <

Us
aw

ACHIEVEMENTS HIGH. 21

Lady Jane firmly interposed.

“Leonard never tells untruths, Rupert.
Please don’t frighten him into doing so. Now,
Leonard, don’t be foolish and cowardly. Tell
Mother quite bravely all about it. Perhaps she
has forgotten.”

The child was naturally brave; but the ele-
ments of excitement and uncertainty in his up-
bringing were producing their natural results
in a nervous and unequable temperament. It
is not the least serious of the evils of being
“spoilt,” though, perhaps, the most seldom
recognized. Many a fond parent justly fears
to overdo “lessons,” who is surprisingly blind
to the brain-fag that comes from the strain to
lives at grown-up people’s level; and to the
nervous exhaustion produced in children, no
less than in their elders, by indulged restless-
ness, discontent, and craving for fresh excite-
ment, and for want of that sense of power and
repose which comes with habitual obedience

to righteous rules and regulations. Laws that





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“e3 A WEG a Oy
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22 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

can be set at nought are among the most

demoralizing of influences which can curse a
nation; and their effects are hardly less dis-
astrous in the nursery. Moreover, an uncertain
discipline is apt to take even the spoilt by sur-
prise ; and, as Leonard seldom fully understood
the checks he did receive, they unnerved him.
He was unnerved now; and, even with his
hand in that of his mother, he stammered over
his story with illrepressed sobs and much
mental confusion.

“W—we met him out walking, I m—
mean we were’ out walking. He was out rid-
ing. He looked like a picture in my t—t—
tales from Froissart. He had a very curious
kind of a helmet —n—not quite a helmet, and
a beautiful green feather—at least, n—not
exactly a feather, and a beautiful red waistcoat,
only n—not a real waistcoat, b—but —”’

“Send him to. bed!” roared the Master of
the House. “Don’t let him prevaricate any

more!”







“He does poke with his spear in battle, I do believe ;
but he didn’t poke us.”’







Se
sy




Sa 133 Ses TO
su =

AND CIRCUMSTANCE OF CHIVALRY. 23




“No, Rupert, please! I wish him to try
and give a straight account. Now, Leonard,
don’t be a baby; but go on and tell the truth,
like a brave boy.”






Leonard desperately proceeded, sniffing as
he did so.

“He c—carried a spear, like an old warrior.
He truthfully did. On my honor! One end
was on the tip of his foot, and there was a flag
at the other end—a real fluttering pennon —
there truthfully was! He does poke with his
spear in battle, I do believe ; but he didn’t poke
us. He was b—b—beautiful to. b—b—be—
hold! I asked Jemima, ‘Is he another brother,
for you do have such very nice brothers?’ and
she said, ‘No, he’s —’”







“fang Jemima!” said the Master of the

House. “Now listen to me. You said your



mother told you. Wat did she tell you?”
“‘Je—Je—Jemima said, ‘No, he’s a Orderly’;

and asked the way-—I qu—quite forget where




to—TI truthfully do. And next morning I















ae Ge Be Ld ‘ea Bae e Bk,

























THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.























asked Mother what does Orderly mean? And
she said #zdy. So I call him the tidy one. Dear
Mother, you truthfully did—at least,’ added
Leonard chivalrously, as Lady Jane’s face gave
no response, “‘at least, if you’ve forgotten, never
mind: it’s my fault.”

But Lady Jane’s face was blank because
she was trying not to laugh. The Master
of the House did not try long. He bit his
lip, and then burst into a peal.

“Better say no more to him,” murmured
Lady Jane. “I'll see Jemima now, if he may
stay with you.”

He nodded, and throwing himself back on
the couch, held out his arms to the child.
“Well, that'll do. Put these men out of
your head, and let me see your drawing.”
Leonard stretched his faculties, and _per-
ceived that the storm was overpast. He
clambered on to his father’s knee, and their
heads were soon bent lovingly together over

the much-smudged sheet of paper, on which




ie OREN as YR ry WU 2
wy a
eee Gay $







PRS. Sa ian y na

LAETUS SORTE MEA.






the motto from the chimney-piece was irregu-



larly traced.




““YVou should have copied it from Uncle




Rupert’s picture. It is in plain letters there.”




Leonard made no reply. His head now lay




back on his father’s shoulder, and his eyes



were fixed on the ceiling, which was of Eliza-




bethan date, with fantastic flowers in raised




plaster-work. But Leonard did not see them



at that moment. His vision was really turned



inwards.. Presently he said, “I am trying to



think. Don’t interrupt me, Father, if you




please.”
The Master of the House smiled, and gazed





complacently at the face beside him. No paint-



ing, no china in his possession, was more



beautiful. Suddenly the boy jumped down and
stood alone, with his hands behind his back,




and his eyes tightly shut.



“Tam thinking very hard, Father. Please




tell me again what our motto means.”



“<«Tetus sorte mea,—Happy in my lot.’































x

GUE OE ALORS BE

26 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

What ave you puzzling your little brains
about ?”

“Because I know I know something so like
it, and I can’t think what! Yes—no! Wait
aminute! I’ve just got it! Yes, I remember
now: it was my Wednesday text!” .

He opened wide shining eyes, and clapped
his hands, and his clear voice rang with the
added note of triumph, as he cried, “ ‘The /oz is
fallen unto me in a fair ground. Yea, I havea
goodly heritage.’ ”

The Master of the House held out his arms
without speaking; but when Leonard had
climbed back into them, he stroked the child’s
hair slowly, and said, “Is that your Wednesday
texte:

“Last Wednesday’s. I learn a text every
day. Jemima sets them. She says her grand-
mother made her learn texts when she was a
little girl. Now, Father dear, I'll tell you what
I wish you would do: and I want you to do it

at once —this very minute.”



seas







THE LOT IS FALLEN UNTO ME.

27



















“That is generally the date of your desires.
What is it?”

“T don’t know what you are talking about,
but I know what I want. Now you and I are
all alone to our very selves, I want you to come
to the organ, and put that text to music like
the anthem you made out of those texts Mother
chose for you, for the harvest festival. TI’ll tell
you the words, for fear you don’t quite re-
member them, and I’ll blow the bellows. You
may play on all-fours with both your feet and
hands; you may pull out trumpet handle; you
may make as much noise as ever you like —

you'll see how I’ll blow!”

Satisfied by the sounds of music that the
_two were happy, Lady Jane was in no haste to
go back to the library; but, when she did re-
turn, Leonard greeted her warmly.

He was pumping at the bellows handle of the

chamber organ, before which sat the Master of




Ki







28 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

the House, not a ruffle on his brow, playing

with “all-fours,” and singing as he played.

Leonard’s cheeks were flushed, and he cried
impatiently, — -

“Mother! Mother dear! I’ve been wanting
you ever so long! Father has set my text to
music, and I want you to hear it; but I want
to sit by him and sing too. So you must come
and blow.”

‘“Nonsense, Leonard! Your mother must do
nothing of the sort. Jane! Listen to this! —
In a fa—air grou—nd. Bit of pure melody,
that, eh? The land flowing with milk and
honey seems to stretch before one’s eyes —”

“No! father, that zs unfair. You are not to
tell her bits in the middle. Begin at the be-
ginning, and — Mother dear, will you blow, and
let me sing?”

“Certainly. Yes, Rupert, please. I’ve done
it before ; and my back isn’t aching to-day. Do
let me!”

“Yes, do let her,” said Leonard, conclusively ;





pee og, La ee : ag ey)

RN

























IN A FAIR GROUND.

and he swung himself up into the seat beside
his father without more ado.

“Now, Father, begin! Mother, listen! And
when it comes to ‘ Yea, and I pull trumpet
handle out, blow as hard as ever you can. This
first bit — when he only plays —is very Bene
and quite easy to blow.”

Deep breathing of the organ filled a brief
silence, then a prelude stole about the room.
Leonard’s eyes devoured his father’s face, and
the Master of the House looking down on him,
with the double complacency of father and
composer, began to sing:

‘The lot —the lot is fallen un-to me’; and,
his mouth wide-parted with smiles, Leonard
sang also: ‘The lot —the lot is fallen — fallen
un-to me.’

‘In a fa—air grou—nd.’

‘Yea! (Now, Mother dear, blow! and fancy
you hear trumpets !)

‘Yea! YEA! I have a good-ly Her—i—

ae













THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

And after Lady Jane had ceased to blow, and
the musician to make music, Leonard still
danced and sang wildly about the room.

“Tsn’t it splendid, Mother? Father and I
made it together out of my Wednesday text.
Uncle Rupert, can you hear it? I don’t think
you can. I believe you are dead and deaf,
though you seem to see.”

And standing face to face with the young
Cavalier, Leonard sang his Wednesday text all
through :

“The lot is fallen unto me in a fair ground;
yea, I have a goodly heritage.”

But Uncle Rupert spoke no word to his
young kinsman, though he still “seemed to

see’’ through eyes drowned in tears.
























CHAPTER II.

—*“an acre of barren ground; ling, heath, broom,
furse, anything.” — Zempest, Act i. Scene 1.

“Sound, sound the clarion, fill the fife !
To all the sensual world proclaim,
One crowded hour of glorious life
Is worth an age without a name.”

Scott.

Take a Highwayman’s Heath.

Destroy every vestige of life with fire and
axe, from the pine that has longest been a land-
mark, to the smallest beetle smothered in
smoking moss.

Burn acres of purple and pink heather, and
pare away the young bracken that springs
verdant from its ashes.

Let flame consume the perfumed gorse in all
its glory, and not spare the broom, whose more

exquisite yellow atones for its lack of fragrance.
G31)



























32 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFR.

In this common ruin be every lesser flower
involved: blue beds of speedwell by the
wayfarer’s path—the daintier milkwort, and
rougher red rattle —down to the very dodder
that clasps the heather, let them perish, and
the face of Dame Nature be utterly blackened!
Then:

Shave the heath as bare as the back of your
hand, and if you have felled every tree, and
left not so much as a tussock of grass or a
scarlet toadstool to break the force of the
winds; then shall the winds come, from the
east and from the west, from the north and
from the south, and shall raise on your shaven
heath clouds of sand that would not discredit
a desert in the heart of Africa.

By some such recipe the ground was pre-
pared for that Camp of Instruction at Asholt
which was, as we have seen, a thorn in the side
of at least one of its neighbors. Then a due
portion of this sandy oasis in a wilderness of

beauty was mapped out into lines, with military



| ae
TRS onl! 2 Sr PO le MRL ap “AR ME Te Ve iy ny,

ay
-! 4
oe : wg)

































































































34 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.





















‘precision, and on these were built rows of little
wooden huts, which were painted a neat and
useful black.

The huts for married men and officers were
of varying degrees of comfort and homeliness,
but those for single men were like toy-boxes of
wooden soldiers ; it was only by doing it very
tidily that you could (so to speak) put your
pretty soldiers away at night when you had
done playing with them, and get the lid to shut
down.

‘But then tidiness is a virtue which —like
Patience —is its own reward. And nineteen
men who keep themselves clean and_ their
belongings cleaner; who have made their
nineteen beds into easy chairs before most
‘people have got out of bed at all; whose tin -
pails are kept as bright as average teaspoons
(to the envy of housewives and the shame of
housemaids !); who establish a common and a
holiday side to the reversible top of their one

long table, and scrupulously scrub both; who







CAMP AND COMRADES.

Â¥
have a place for everything and a discipline

which obliges everybody to put everything in
its place;—nineteen men, I say, with such
habits, find more comfort and elbow-room in a
hut than an outsider might believe possible, and
hang up a photograph or two into the bargain.

But -it may be at once conceded to the credit
of the camp, that those who lived there thought
better of it than those who did not, and that
those who lived there longest were apt to like
it best of all.

It was, however, regarded by different people
from very opposite points of view, in each of
which was some truth.

There were those to whom the place and the
life were alike hateful.

They said that, from a soldier’s stand-point,
the life was one of exceptionally hard work, and
uncertain stay, with no small proportion of the
hardships and even risks of active service, and
none of the more glorious chances of war.

That you might die of sunstroke’ on the





Sh Qs
NA Ve sus SGP 1 Ae 2 OM 2 AE
























36 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

o

march, or contract rheumatism, fever, or dysen-
tery, under canvas, without drawing Indian pay
and allowances; and that you. might ruin your
uniform as rapidly as in a campaign, and never
hope to pin a ribbon over its inglorious stains.

That the military society was too large to
find friends quickly in the neighborhood, and
that as to your neighbors in Camp, they were
sure to get marching orders just when you had
learnt to like them. And if you did xof like
them—! (But for that matter, quarrelsome
neighbors are much the same everywhere.
And a boundary road between two estates will
furnish as pretty a feud as the pump of a com-
mon back-yard.)

The haters of the Camp said that it had every
characteristic to disqualify it for a home; that
it was ugly and crowded without the appliances
of civilization; that it was neither town nor
country, and had the disadvantages of each
without the merits of either.

That it was unshaded and unsheltered, that







Beene oe

as ate HL op, ene Tas eran



























HARD LINES. 37.

the lines were monotonous and yet confusing,
and every road and parade-g ground : more a
than another.

That the huts let in the frost in winter and
the heat in summer, and were at once stuffy
and draughty.

That the low roofs were like a weight upon
your head, and that the torture was invariably
brought to a climax on the hottest of the dog-
days, when they were tarred and sanded in
spite of your teeth; a process which did not
insure their being water-tight or snow-proof
when the weather changed.

That the rooms had no cupboards, but an
unusual number of doors, through which no tall
man could pass without stooping.

That only the publicity and squalor of the
back-premises of the “Lines” —their drying
clothes, and crumbling mud walls, their coal-
boxes and slop-pails —could exceed the depress-
ing effects of the gardens in front, where such

plants as were not uprooted by the winds





38 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.



perished of frost or drought, and where, if some
gallant creeper had stood fast and covered the
nakedness of your wooden hovel, the Royal
‘Engineers would arrive one morning, with as
little announcement as the tar and sand men,
and tear down the growth of years before you
had finished shaving, for the purpose of repaint-
ing your outer walls.

On the other hand, there were those who had
a great affection for Asholt, and affection never
lacks arguments.

Admitting some hardships and blunders, the
defenders of the Camp fell back successfully
upon statistics for a witness to the general good
health.

They said that if the Camp was windy the
breezes were exquisitely bracing, and the cli-
mate of that particular part of England such as

would qualify it for a health-resort for invalids,

fos
aus
7

‘were it only situated in a comparatively inac-



cessible part of the Pyrenees, instead of being

Sot ae

within an hour or two of London. RB, ,

gL
REE





























y

& ET CONSTRUCTA SUAS HABITANS.



That this fact of being within easy reach of

town made the Camp practically at the head-
quarters of civilization and refinement, whilst
the simple and sociable ways of living, neces-
sitated by hut-life in common, emancipated. its
select society from rival extravagance and cum-
t bersome formalities.
; That the Camp stood on the borders of the
two counties of England which rank highest on
the books of estate and house-agents, and that
if you did not think the country lovely and the
neighborhood agreeable you must be hard to
please.

That, as regards the Royal Engineers, it was
one of your privileges to be hard to please,
since you were entitled to their good offices ;
and if, after all, they sometimes failed to cure
your disordered drains and smoky chimneys,
you, at any rate, did not pay as well as suffer,
which is the case in civil life.

That low doors to military quarters might be ©

regarded as ,a practical joke on the part of



4O THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

authorities, who demand that soldiers shall be
both tall and upright, but that man, whether
military or not, is an adaptable animal and can
get used to anything; and indeed it was only
those officers whose thoughts were more active
than their instincts who invariably crushed their
best hats before starting for town.

That huts (if only they were a little higher !)
had a great many advantages over small houses,
which were best appreciated by those who had
tried drawing lodging allowance and living in
villas, and which would be fully known if ever
the Lines were rebuilt in brick.

That on moonlit nights the airs that fanned
the silent Camp were as dry and wholesome as
by day; that the song of the distant nightingale
could be heard there ; and finally, that from end
to end of this dwelling-place of ten thousand
to (on occasion) twenty thousand men, a woman
might pass at midnight with greater safety than

in the country lanes of a rural village or a police

protected thoroughfare of the metropolis.





oe ge Bogor cat loo, Bue Te
ON

AUF WIEDER SEHN!

























4l

But, in truth, the Camp’s best defence in the
hearts of its defenders was that it was a camp,
—nilitary life in epitome, with all its defects
and all its charm; not the least of which, to
some whimsical minds, is, that it represents, ae
no other phase of society represents, the human
pilgrimage in brief.

Here be sudden partings, but frequent
re-unions ; the charities and courtesies of an
uncertain life lived largely in common; the
hospitality of passing hosts to guests who tarry
but a day.

Here, surely, should be the home of the sage
as well as the soldier, where every hut might
fitly carry the ancient motto, “ Dwell as if about
to Depart,” where work bears the nobler name
of duty, and where the living, hastening on his
business amid “the hurryings of this life,” 1

must pause and stand to salute the dead as he



j is carried by.
.
ay f Bare and dusty are the Parade Grounds, but

SOSH ‘1 Bunyan’s Pilgrim's Progress.
















THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.



they are thick with memories. Here were
blessed the colors that became a young man’s
shroud that they might not be a nation’s shame.
Here march and music welcome the coming and
speed the parting regiments. On this parade
the rising sun is greeted with gun-fire and
trumpet clarions shriller than the cock, and
there he sets to a like salute with tuck of drum.
Here the young recruit drills, the warrior puts
on his medal, the old pensioner steals back to
watch them, and the soldiers’ children play —
sometimes at fighting or flag-wagging,! but
oftener at funerals !



1“ Flag-wagging,” a name among soldiers’ children for

“ signalling.”















Jer abetase aloo, & ee 2 ees .

CHAPTER Ii

“* Uf muigraturus habita” (Dwell as if about to Depart ).
— Old House Motto. .

Tue Barrack Master's wife was standing in
the porch of her hut, the sides of which were
of the simplest trellis-work of crossed fir-poles,
through which she couid watch the proceedings
of the gardener without baking herself in the
sun. Suddenly she snatched up a green-lined

white umbrella, that had seen service in India,









and ran out.

“O'Reilly! what zs that baby doing?
There! that white-headed child crossing the
parade with a basket in its little arms! It’s
got nothing on its head. Please go and take
it to its mother before it gets sunstroke.”

The gardener was an Irish soldier —an old



44 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

soldier, as the handkerchief depending from his
cap, to protect the nape of his neck from the
sun, bore witness. He was a tall man, and
stepped without ceremony over the garden
paling to get a nearer view of the parade.
But he stepped back again at once, and
resumed his place in the garden.

“He’s Corporal Macdonald’s child, madam.
The Blind Baby, they call him. Not a bit of
harm will he get. They’re as hard as nails the
whole lot of them. If I was to take him in
now, he’d be out before my back was turned.

His brothers and sisters are at the school, and

Blind Baby’s just as happy as the day is long,

playing at funerals:all the time.”

“Blind! Is he blind? Poor little soul!
But he’s got a great round potato-basket
in his arms. Surely they don’t make that
afflicted infant fetch and carry?”

O’Reilly laughed so heartily, that he scan-
dalized his own sense of propriety.

“T ask your pardon, madam. But there's







1
i







OAYY
ea





.,

4
WA
} | Ay HA \
(













46 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

no fear that Blind Baby’ll fetch and carry.

Every man in the Lines is his nurse.”

“But what’s he doing with that round
hamper as big as himself?”

“Tt’s just a make-believe for the Big Drum,
madam. The ‘Dead March’ is his whole de-
light. °’Twas only yesterday I said to his
father, ‘Corporal,’ I says, ‘we'll live to see
Blind Baby a band-master yet,’ I says; ‘it’s a
pure pleasure to see him beat out a tune with
his closed fist.’”

“Will I go and borrow a barrow now,
madam?” added O’Reilly, returning to his
duties. He was always willing and never
idle, but he liked change of occupation.

“No, no. Don’t go away. We shan’t want
_a wheelbarrow till we've finished trenching this
border, and picking out the stones. Then you
can take them away and fetch the new soil.”

“You're at a deal of pains, madam, and it’s
a poor patch when all’s done to it.”

“T can’t live without flowers, O'Reilly, and





GARDENING.

the Colonel says I may do what I like with
this bare strip.”

“Ah! Don’t touch the dirty stones with
your fingers, ma’am. I'll have the lot picked
in no time at all.”

“Vou see, O'Reilly, you can’t grow flowers
in sand unless you can command water, and
the Colonel tells me that when it’s hot here
the water supply runs short, and we mayn’t
water the garden from the pumps.”

O'Reilly smiled superior.

“The Colonel will get what water he wants,
ma’am. Never fear him! There's ways and
means. Look at the gardens of the Royal
Engineers’ Lines. In the hottest of summer
weather they’re as green as Old Ireland; and
it’s not to be supposed that the Royal Engi-
neers can requisition showers from the skies

~ when they need them, more than the rest of

Her Majesty’s forces.”

“Perhaps the Royal Engineers do what I

mean to do —take more pains than usual; and





BRI SY 8B AOS on NH “ae fe BS ft, 5%





















\
48 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

put in soil that will retain some moisture. One
can’t make poor land yield anything without
pains, O’Reilly, and this is like the dry bed of a
stream —all sand and pebbles.”

“That’s as true a word as ever ye spoke,
madam, and if it were not that ’twould be tak-
ing a liberty, I’d give ye some advice about
gardening in Camp. It’s not the first time
I’m quartered in Asholt, and I know the ways
Ohne

“T shall be very glad of advice. You know
I have never been stationed here before.”

“°Tis an old soldier’s advice, madam.”

“So much the better,” said the lady, warmly.

O’Reilly was kneeling to his work. He now
sat back on his heels, and not without a cer-
tain dignity that bade defiance to his surround-
ings he commenced his oration.

“Please Gop to spare you and the Colonel,
madam, to put in his time as Barrack Master
at this station, ye’ll see many a regiment come

and go, and be making themselves at home all





PQ Wh ag Mp Uae,
iG Sa Sey A s

7°



























EXPERIENCE KEEPS A DEAR SCHOOL. 49

along. And anny one that knows this place,
and the nature of the soil, tear-rs would over-
flow his eyes to see the regiments come for
drill, and betake themselves to gardening.
Maybe the boys have marched in footsore
and fasting, in the hottest of weather, to cold
comfort in empty quarters, and they'll not let
many hours flit over their heads before some of
‘em ’Il get possession of a load of green turf,
and be laying it down for borders around their
huts. It’s the young ones I’m speaking of;
and there ye'll see them, in the blazing sun,
with their shirts open, and not a thing on their
heads, squaring and fitting the turfs for bare
life, watering them out of old pie-dishes and
stable-buckets-and whatnot, singing and whis-
tling, and fetching and carrying between the
pump and their quarters, just as cheerful as so
many birds building their nests in the spring.”

EA RVeLy; pretty picture, O'Reilly. Why
should it bring tears to your eyes? An old

soldier like you must know that one would

Gs A Net
eee 7 Ne

‘ S
ear





50 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

























never haye a home in quarters at all if one did
not begin to make it at once.”

“True for you, madam. Not a doubt of it.
But it goes to your heart to see labor thrown
away; and it’s not once in a hundred times
that grass planted like that will get hold of a
soil like this, and the boys themselves at drill all

along, or gone out under canvas in Bottomless

g
Bog before the week’s over, as likely as not.”

“That would be unlucky. But one must
take one’s luck as it comes. And you've not
told me, now, what you do advise for Camp
Gardens.”

“That’s just what I’m coming to, ma'am.
See the old soldier! What does Ze do? Turns
the bucket upside down outside his hut, and
sits on it, with a cap on his head, and a hand-
kerchief down his back, and some tin tacks, and
a ball of string—trust a soldier's eye to get
the lines straight every one of them begin-
ning on the ground and going nearly up to the

roof.”





Peps : ope Sah Bs

FAO) a¥ é

























SOW BEANS IN THE MUD. 51

“For creepers, I suppose? What does the

old soldier plant?”
- «Beans, madam — scarlet runners. These
are the things for Asholt. A few beans are
nothing in your baggage. They like a warm
place, and when they're on the sunny side of
a hut they’ve got it, and no mistake. They're
growing while you're on duty. The flowers are
the right soldier's color; and when it comes to
the beans, ye may put your hand out of the
window and gather them, and no trouble at all.”

“The old soldier is very wise; but I think I
must have more flowers than that. So I plant,
and if they die 1 am very sorry; and if they
live, and other people have them, I try to be
glad. One ought to learn to be unselfish,
O'Reilly, and think of one’s successors.”

«And that’s true, madam; barring that I
never knew any one’s successor to have the
same fancies as himself: one plants trees to
give shelter, and the next cuts them down to

let in the air.”





THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

‘“Well, I suppose the only way is to be pre-
pared for the worst. The rose we planted
yesterday by the porch is a great favorite of
mine; but the Colonel calls it ‘Marching
Orders.’ It used to grow over my window in
my old home, and I have planted it by every
home I have had since; but the Colonel says

whenever it settled and began to flower the

regiment got the route.”

“The Colonel must name it again, madam,”
said O'Reilly, gallantly, as he hitched up the
knees of his trousers, and returned to the
border. ‘It shall be ‘Standing Orders’ now,
if soap and water can make it blossom, and I’m
spared to attend to it all the time. Many a
hundred roses may you and the Colonel pluck
from it, and never one with a thorn!”

“Thank you, O’Reilly; thank you very
much. Soapy water is very good for roses, I
believe?”

“Tt is so, madam. I put in a good deal of

my time as officer’s servant after I was in the





















AND THEY'LL GROW LIKE WOOD. 53

Connaught Rangers, and the Captain I was
with one time was as fond of flowers as your-
self. There was a mighty fine rose-bush by his
quarters, and every morning I had to carry out
his bath to it. He used more soap than most
gentlemen, and when he sent me to the town
for it— ‘It’s not for myself, O’Reilly,’ he’d
say, ‘so much as for the Rose. Bring large
tablets,’ he’d say, ‘and the best scented ye
can get. The roses’]l be the sweeter for it.”
That was his way of joking, and never a smile
on his face. He was odd in many of his ways,
was the Captain, but he was a grand soldier
entirely; a good officer, and a good friend to
his men, and to the wives and children no less.
The regiment was in India when he died of
cholera, in twenty-four hours, do what I would.

“Oh, the cramp in my legs, O’Reilly!’ he says.



‘Gop bless ye, Captain,’ says I, ‘never mind
your legs; I’d manage the cramp, sir,’ I says,
‘if I could but keep up your heart.’ ‘Ye’ll not

do that, O'Reilly,’ he says, ‘for all your good-


























54 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

ness ; I lost it too long ago.’ That was his way
of joking, and never a smile on his face. ’Twas
a pestilential hole we were in, and that’s the
truth ; and cost Her Majesty more in lives than
would have built healthy quarters, and given us
every comfort ; but the flowers throve there if
we didn’t, and the Captain’s grave was filled till
ye couldn’t get the sight of him for roses. He
was a good officer, and beloved of his men; and
better master never a man had!”

As he ceased speaking, O’Reilly drew his
sleeve sharply across his eyes, and then bent
again to his work, which was why he failed to
see what the Barrack Master’s wife saw, and
did not for some moments discover that she
was no longer in the garden. The matter was
this :

The Barrack Master’s quarters were close to
the Iron Church, and the straight road that ran
past both was crossed, just beyond the church,
by another straight road, which finally led out

to and joined a country highway. From this



Z 38 x ao We ss rer NE
ELE BN ae ES



_ THE SOLDIER'S FUNERAL. 55

highway an open carriage and pair were being

driven into the Camp as a soldier’s funeral was
marching to church. The band frightened the
horses, who were got past with some difficulty,
and having turned the sharp corner, were
coming rapidly towards the Barrack Master’s
hut, when Blind Baby, excited by the band,
strayed from his parade-ground, tumbled, basket
and all, into the ditch that divided it from the
road, picked up himself and his basket, and was
sturdily setting forth across the road just as the
frightened horses came plunging to the spot.
The Barrack Master’s wife was not very
young, and not very slender. Rapid move-
ments were not easy to her. She was nervous
also, and could never afterwards remember what
she did with herself in those brief moments
before she became conscious that the footman
had got to the horses’ heads, and that she her-
self was almost under their feet, with Blind
Baby in her arms. Blind Baby himself recalled

her to consciousness by the ungrateful fashion





Rey hy ee SUS ee 20deBS we ao Ge peasy, AY
Lge) PKS Ss SN gS AS Sh oe aad








56 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.





in which he pummelled his deliverer with his
fists and howled for his basket, which had

rolled under the carriage to add to the con-






fusion. Nor was he to be pacified till O'Reilly
took him from her arms.
By this time men had rushed from every hut

and kitchen, wash-place and shop, and were






swarming tothe rescue; and through the whole
disturbance, like minute-guns, came the short

barks of a black puppy, which Leonard had




insisted upon taking with him to show to his




aunt despite the protestations of his mother:




for it was Lady Jane’s carriage, and this was




how the sisters met.





They had been sitting together for some




time, so absorbed by the strangeness and the




pleasure of their new relations, that Leonard




and his puppy had slipped away unobserved,




when Lady Jane, who was near the window,




called to her sister-in-law : — “ Adelaide, tell me,




my dear, is this Colonel Jones?’ She spoke






























\ Ye <=

a ta eo SON Me 2 é

: ae, .
(Be OBESE
DEY
D)



Vy BLOOD IS THICKER THAN WATER. 57

with some trepidation. It is so easy for those
unacquainted with uniforms to make strange
blunders. Moreover, the Barrack Master,
though soldierly looking, was so, despite a very
unsoldierly defect. He was exceedingly stout,
and as he approached the miniature garden
gate, Lady Jane found herself gazing with some
anxiety to see if he could possibly get through.

But O’Reilly did not make an empty boast
when he said that a soldier’s eye was true.
The Colonel came quite neatly through the toy
entrance, knocked nothing down in the porch,
bent and bared his head with one gesture as he
passed under the drawing-room doorway, and
bowing again to Lady Jane, moved straight to
the side of his wife.

Something in the action—a mixture of
dignity and devotion, with just a touch of
defiance—went to Lady Jane’s heart. She
went up to him and held out both her hands : —
“Please shake hands with me, Colonel Jones.

I am so very happy to have found a sister!”



58 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

In a moment more she turned round, saying:
— “J must show you your nephew. Leonard !”
But Leonard was not there.

“JT fancy I have seen him already,” said the

Colonel. “If he is a very beautiful boy, very

beautifully dressed in velvet, he’s with O'Reilly,

watching the funeral.”

Lady Jane looked horrified, and Mrs. Jones
looked much relieved.

“He's quite safe if he’s with O’Reilly. But
give me my sunshade, Henry, please; I dare say
Lady Jane would like to see the funeral too.”

It is an Asholt amenity to take care that you
miss no opportunity of seeing a funeral. It
would not have occurred to Lady Jane to wish
to go, but as her only child had gone she went
willingly to look for him. As they turned the
corner of the hut they came straight upon it,
and at that moment the ‘‘ Dead March”’ broke
forth afresh.

The drum beat out those familiar notes which

strike upon the heart rather than the ear, the




























No Peo ez Sin AUN

TOLL FOR THE BRAVE! 59

brass screamed, the ground trembled to the tramp
of feet and the lumbering of the gun-carriage,
and Lady Jane’s eyes filled suddenly with tears
at the sight of the dead man’s accoutrements
lying on the Union Jack that serves a soldier
for a pall. As she dried them she saw Leonard.

Drawn up in accurate line with the edge of
the road, O’Reilly was standing to salute; and
as near to the Irish private as he could squeeze
himself stood the boy, his whole body stretched
to the closest possible imitation of his new and
deeply-revered friend, his left arm elued to his
side, and the back of his little right hand laid

against his brow, gazing at the pathetic pageant



as it passed him with devouring eyes. And
sey behind them stood Blind Baby, beating upon
his basket.

aE For the basket had been recovered, and Blind
eo Baby’s equanimity also; and he wandered up
v and down the parade again in the sun, long
a after the soldier’s funeral had wailed its way to

the graveyard, over the heather-covered hill.





CHAPTER IV.

“My mind is in the anomalous condition of hating
war, and loving its discipline, which has been an incal-
culable contribution to the sentiment of duty .. . the
devotion of the common soldier to his leader (the sign
for him of hard duty), is the type of all higher devotedness,
and is full of promise to other and better generations.”

; George Eliot.

“Your sister is as nice as nice can be,
Rupert; and I like the Barrack Master very

much, too. He zs stout! But he is very active

and upright, and his manners to his wife are

wonderfully pretty. Do you know, there is
something to me most touching in the way
these two have knocked about the world to-
gether, and seem so happy with so little. Cot-
tagers could hardly live more simply, and yet
their ideas, or at any rate their experiences,

seem so much larger than one’s own.”









Ces ee
5 aS

BIRTHS GUDE, BUT BREEDING’S BETTER. 61

“My dear Jane! if you’ve taken them up
from the romantic point of view all is, indeed,
accomplished. I know the wealth of your
imagination, and the riches of its charity. If,
in such a mood, you will admit that Jones is

stout, he must be fat indeed! Never again



_ upbraid me with the price that I paid for that
Chippendale arm-chair. It will hold the Bar-
rack Master.”

“Rupert!—I cannot help saying it—it



ought to have held him long ago. It makes
me miserable to think that they have never
been under our roof.”

“Jane! Be miserable if you must; but, at



least, be accurate. The Barrack Master was
in India when I bought that paragon of all
Chips, and he has only come home this year.
Nay, my dear! Don’t be vexed! I give you
my word, I’m a good deal more ashamed than
I like to own to think how Adelaide has been
treated by the family—with me as its head.

Did you make my apologies to-day, and tell

wy



T

sy
A

wwe,

Ua

~ r -

hy,

Je


















62 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

her that I shall ride out to-morrow and pay my
respects to her and Jones?”

“Of course. I told her you were obliged
to go to town, and I would not delay to call
and ask if I could be of use to them. I begged
them to come here till their quarters are quite
finished; but they won’t. They say they are
settled. I could not say much, because we
ought to have asked them sooner. He is
rather on his dignity with us, I think, and no
wonder.”

“He’s disgustingly on his dignity! They

‘both are. Because the family resented the

match at first, they have refused every kind of
help that one would have been glad to give him
as Adelaide’s husband, if only to secure their
being in a decent position. Neither interest
nor money would he accept, and Adelaide
has followed his lead. She has very little of
her own, unfortunately; and she knows how
my father left things as well as I do, and never

would accept a farthing more than her bare





ON HIS DIGNITY.

rights. I tried some dodges, through Quills;
but it was of no use. The vexation is that he
has taken this post of Barrack Master as a sort
of pension, which need never have been. I
suppose they have to make that son an allow- |
ance. It’s not likely he lives on his pay. I
can’t conceive how they scrub along.”

And as the Master of the House threw him-
self into the paragon of all Chips, he ran his
fingers through hair, the length and disorder
of which would have made the Barrack Master
feel positively ill, with a gesture of truly dra-
matic despair.

‘Your sister has made her room look wonder-
fully pretty. One would never imagine those
huts could look as nice as they do inside. But
it’s like playing with a doll’s house. One feels
inclined to examine everything, and to be quite

pleased that the windows: have glass in them

and will really open and shut.”

The Master of the House raised his eyebrows

funnily.





THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

“Vou did take rose-colored spectacles with

you to the Camp!”

Lady Jane laughed.

“T did not see the Camp itself through them.
What an incomparably dreary place it is! It
makes me think of little woodcuts in missionary
reports —‘ Sketch of a Native Settlement ’—
rows of little black huts that look, at a distance,
as if one must creep into them on all-fours;
nobody about, and an iron church on the hill.”

“Most accurately described! And you won-
der that I regret that a native settlement should
have been removed from the enchanting dis-
tance of missionary reports to become my per-
manent neighbor?”

“Well, I must confess the effect it produces
on me is to make me feel quite ashamed of
the peace and pleasure of this dear old place,
the shade and greenery outside, the space above
my head, and the lovely things before my eyes
inside (for you know, Rupert, how I appreciate

your decorative tastes, though I have so few





NON EADEM MIRAMUR. 65

myself. I only scolded about the Chip because
I think you might have got him for less) —
when so many men bred to similar comforts,
and who have served their country so well, with
wives I dare say quite as delicate as I am, have
to be cooped up in those ugly little kennels in
that dreary place —”’

“What an uncomfortable thing a Scotch
conscience is!” interrupted the Master of the
House. “ By-the-by, those religious instincts,
which are also characteristic of your race, must
have found one redeeming feature in the Camp,
the ‘iron church on the hill’; especially as I
imagine that it is puritanically ugly!”

“There was a funeral going into it as we
drove into Camp, and I wanted to tell you the
horses were very much frightened.”

“Richards fidgets those horses ; they’re quiet
enough with me.”

“They did not like the military band.”

“They must get used to the band and to

other military nuisances. It is written in the





66 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

stars, as I too clearly foresee, that we shall be
driving in and out of that Camp three days
a-week. I can’t go to my club without meeting
men I was at school with who are stationed at
Asholt, and expect me to look them up. As
to the women, I met a man yesterday who is
living in a hut, and expects a Dowager Coun-
tess and her two daughters for the ball. He
has given up his dressing-room to the Dowager,
and put two barrack-beds into the coal-hole
for the young ladies, he says. It’s an insanity!”

“Adelaide told me about the ball. The
Camp seems very gay just now. They have
had theatricals; and there is to be a grand
Field Day this week.”

“So our visitors have already informed me.
They expect to go. Louisa Mainwaring is look-
ing handsomer than ever, and I have always
regarded her as a girl with a mind. I took her
to see the peep I have cut opposite to the

island, and I could not imagine why those fine

eyes of hers looked so blank. Presently she





SOD ca eer aa, SS S Q Xa

v







FIELD DAYS. 67

said, ‘I suppose you can see the Camp from
the little pine-wood?’ And to the little pine-
wood we had to go. Both the girls have got
stiff necks with craning out of the carriage
window to catch sight of the white tents among
the heather as they came along in the train.”

“T suppose we must take them to the Field
Day; but I am very nervous about those horses,
Rupert.”

“The horses will be taken out before any firing
begins. As to bands, the poor creatures must
learn, like their master, to endure the brazen
liveliness of military music. It’s no fault of
mine that our nerves are scarified by any
sounds less soothing than the crooning of the
wood-pigeons among the pines!”

No one looked forward to the big Field Day
with keener interest than Leonard; and only a
few privileged persons knew more about the
arrangements for the day than he had contrived
to learn.

O'Reilly was sent over with a note from Mrs.
















































68 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

Jones to decline the offer of a seat in Lady
Jane’s carriage for the occasion. Leonard
waylaid the messenger (whom he hardly rec-
ognized as a tidy one!), and O'Reilly gladly im-
parted all that he knew about the Field Day:
and this was a good deal. He had it from a °
" friend —a corporal in the Head Quarters Office.

As a rule, Leonard only enjoyed a limited
popularity with his mother’s visitors. He was
very pretty and very amusing, and had better
qualities even than these; but he was restless
and troublesome. On this occasion, however,
the young ladies suffered him to trample their
dresses and interrupt their conversation without
remonstrance. He knew more about the Field
Day than any one in the house, and, standing
among their pretty furbelows and fancywork in
stiff military attitudes, he imparted his news
with an unsuccessful imitation of an Irish ac-
cent.

‘“‘O’Reilly says the March Past’ll be at eleven



o'clock on the Sandy Slopes.”

“hs ay Oe 5g = os Te
AP Sey Ci et UES } 2,
a * he ae of
rn 1)





















OLD SOLDIERS. 69

“Louisa, is that Major O’Reilly of the
Rifles?”

“J don’t know, dear. Is your friend O’ Reilly
in the Rifles, Leonard ?”’

“JT don’t know. I know he’s an owld soldier
— he told me so.”

“Old, Leonard; not owld. You mustn't talk
like that.”

“TJ shall if I like. He does, and I mean to.”

“T dare say he did, Louisa. He’s always
joking.”

“No he isn’t. He didn’t joke when the
funeral went past. He looked quite grave, as
if he was saying his prayers, and stood so.”

“ How touching !”












“ How like him!”

“ How graceful and tender hearted Irishmen
are!”

“T stood so, too. I mean to do as like him
as ever I can. I do love him so very very
much!’

“Dear boy!”

= a
6% t
fore Ow
Suir f' Oo
ce :






a

Ss a
fe

























THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

“Vou good, affectionate little soul!”

“ Give me a kiss, Leonard dear.”

“No, thank you. I’m too old for kissing.
He’s going to march past, and he’s going tc
look out for me with the tail of his eye, and
I’m going to look out for him.”

“Do, Leonard; and mind you tell us when
you see him coming.”

“JT can’t promise. I might forget. But per-
haps you can know him by the good-conduct
stripe on his arm. He used to have two;
but he lost one all along of St. Patrick’s

”

Day.

“That can’t be your partner, Louisa!”

« Officers never have good-conduct stripes.”

“ Leonard, you ought not to talk to common
soldiers. You've gota regular Irish brogue, and
you're learning all sorts of ugly words. You'll

S wr grow up quite a vulgar little boy, if you don’t
si ‘we ae take care.”

ww 2A DSS “JT don’t want to take care. I like being

Irish, and I shall be a vulgar little boy too, if







“T really cannot go if my Sweep has to be left behind.”



























Q

THE BLACK PUPPY. 71



I choose. But when I do grow up, I am going
to grow into an owld, owld, Owld Soldier!”

Leonard made this statement of his inten-
tions in his clearest manner. After which,
having learned that the favor of the fair is
fickleness, he left the ladies, and went to look
for his Black Puppy.

The Master of the House, in arranging for
his visitors to go to the Field Day, had said
that Leonard was not to be of the party. He
had no wish to encourage the child’s fancy for
soldiers: and as Leonard was invariably rest-
less out driving, and had a trick of kicking
people's shins in his changes of mood and posi-
tion, he was a most uncomfortable element in
a carriage full of ladies. But it is needless to
say that he stoutly resisted his father’s decree ;
and the child’s disappointment was so bitter,
and he howled and wept himself into such a
‘) deplorable condition that the young ladies sac-
rificed their own comfort and the crispness of

their new dresses to his grief, and petitioned





LS ie Is SE Sra Se





THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.






















72

the Master of the House that he might be
allowed to go. :

The Master of the House gave in. He was
accustomed to yield where Leonard was con-
cerned. But the concession proved only a
prelude to another struggle. Leonard wanted
the Black Puppy to go too.

On this point the young ladies presented no
petition. Leonard’s boots they had resolved to
endure, but not the dog’s paws. Lady Jane,
too, protested against the puppy, and the mat-
ter seemed settled; but at the last moment,
when all but Leonard were in the carriage, and
the horses chafing to be off, the child made his
appearance, and stood on the entrance-steps —
with his puppy in his arms, and announced, in
dignified sorrow, “I really cannot go if my
Sweep has to be left behind.”

With one consent the grown-up people turned
to look at him.

Even the intoxicating delight that color gives

can hardly exceed the satisfying pleasure in











































































74 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

which beautiful proportions steep the sense of

sight ; and one is often at fault to find the law

that has been so exquisitely fulfilled, when the
| eye has no doubt of its own satisfaction.

The shallow stone steps, on the top of which
Leonard stood, and the old doorway that framed
him, had this mysterious grace, and, truth to

“say, the boy’s beauty was a jewel not unworthy
of its setting.

A holiday dress of crimson velvet, with collar
and ruffles of old lace, became him very quaintly ;
and as he laid a cheek like a rose-leaf against
the sooty head of his pet, and they both gazed
piteously at the carriage, even Lady Jane’s con-
science was stifled by motherly pride. He was
her only child, but as he had said of the Or-
derly, “a very splendid sort of one.”

The Master of the House stamped his foot
with an impatience that was partly real and
partly, perhaps, affected.

“Well, get in somehow, if youmean to. The

horses can’t wait all day for you.”



“Whe 2) oy

ENS Ny te Galop pee oe wt
By to 4 ee Aah
bi
Bay Ss



Se
we, “RY ap “ARM Fe We My HUEY
a5 Sole. Be oe = Ag

TS



















LOVE ME, LOVE MY DOG. 75

No ruby-throated humming bird could have
darted more swiftly from one point to another
than Leonard from the old gray steps into the
carriage. Little boys can be very careful when
they choose, and he trode on no toes and crum-
pled no finery in his flitting.

To those who know dogs, it is needless to say
that the puppy showed an even superior discre-
tion. It bore throttling without a struggle,
Instinctively conscious of the alternative of
being shut up in a stable for the day, and left
there to bark its heart out, it shrank patiently
into Leonard’s grasp, and betrayed no sign of
life except in the strained and pleading anxiety
which a puppy’s eyes so often wear.

“Your dog is a very good dog, Leonard, I
must say," said Louisa Mainwaring ; “but he’s
very ugly. I never saw such legs!”

Leonard tucked the lank black legs under his
velvet and ruffles. “Oh, he’s all right,” he said.
“He'll be very handsome soon. It’s his ugly
mouth.”








THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

“JT wonder you didn’t insist on our bringing
Uncle Rupert and zs dog to complete the
party,” said the Master of the House.

The notion tickled Leonard, and he laughed
so heartily that the puppy’s legs got loose, and
required to be tucked in afresh. Then both






















remained quiet for several seconds, during
which the puppy looked as anxious as ever ;
but Leonard’s face wore a smile of dreamy
content that doubled its loveliness.

But as the carriage passed the windows of
the library a sudden thought struck him, and
dispersed his repose.

Gripping his puppy firmly under his arm,
he sprang to his feet—regardless of other
people’s —and waving his, cap and feather
above his head he cried aloud, ‘Good-bye,
Uncle Rupert! Can you hear me? Uncle
Rupert, I say! I am — /etus —sorte—mea!”

* co co * #
All the Camp was astir.
Men and bugles awoke with the dawn and



wv axle




oh th al np 3 ae Sy




FAIR LAUGHS THE MORN. 77




the birds, and now the women and children of



all ranks were on the alert. (Nowhere does

so large and enthusiastic a crowd collect ‘to




see the pretty soldiers go by,’ as in those




places where pretty soldiers live.)




Soon after gun-fire O'Reilly made his way




from his own quarters to those of the Barrack




Master, opened the back door by some process




best known to himself, and had been busy for




half an hour in the drawing-room before his




proceedings woke the Colonel. They had been



as noiseless as possible; but the Colonel’s




dressing-room opened into the drawing-room,




his bedroom opened into that, and all the



doors and windows were opened to court the





air.
“Who's there?” said the Colonel from his
pillow.




‘Tis O'Reilly, Sir. I ask your pardon, Sir;




but I heard that the Mistress was not well.




She'll be apt to want the reclining-chair, Sir;

and ‘twas damaged in the unpacking. I got







Se cS
See ee A ee Bs ig










































: Bo
u S26 “aie, Gee y PS
tT, A ROE 9

S&

78 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

the screws last night, but I was busy soldier-
ing! till too late; so I come in this morning,
for Smith’s no good at a job of the kind at all.
He’s a butcher to his trade.”

“Mrs. Jones is much obliged to you for
thinking of it, O'Reilly.”

‘°’Tis an honor to oblige her, Sir. I done it
sound and secure. ’Tis as safe as arock; but
I'd like to nail a bit of canvas on from the
porch to the other side of the hut, for shelter,
in case she’d be sitting out to taste the air and
see the troops go by. ‘Twill not take me five
minutes, if the hammering wouldn’t be too

much for the Mistress. ’Tis a hot day, Sir,



for certain, till the guns bring the rain



down.”

“Put it up, if you’ve time.”

“JT will, Sir. I left your sword and gloves
on the kitchen-table, Sir; and I told Smith to

water the rose before the sun’s on to it.”





1 “Soldiering”?—a barrack term for the furbishing up of

accoutrements, &c.












AND SOFT THE ZEPHYR BLOWS. 79



With which O’Reilly adjusted the cushions
of the invalid-chair, and having nailed up the
bit of canvas outside, so as to form an im-
promptu veranda, he ran back to his quarters
to put himself into marching order for the

- Field Day.

The Field Day broke into smiles of sunshine
too early to be lasting. By breakfast-time the
rain came down without waiting for the guns;
but those most concerned took the changes of
weather cheerfully, as soldiers should. Rain
damages uniforms, but it lays dust; and the
dust of the Sandy Slopes was dust indeed!

After a pelting shower the sun broke forth
again, and from that time onwards the weather
was ‘“Queen’s Weather,” and Asholt was at its
best. The sandy Camp lay girdled by a zone
of the verdure of early summer, which passed
by miles of distance, through exquisite grada-
tions of many blues, to meet the soft threaten-
ings of the changeable sky. Those lowering

and yet tender rain-clouds which hover over the
























80 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

British Isles, guardian spirits of that scantly
recognized blessing—a temperate climate;
Naiads of the waters over the earth, whose .
caprices betwixt storm and sunshine fling such
beauty upon a landscape as has no parallel
except in the common simile of a fair face
quivering between tears and smiles,

Smiles were in the ascendant as the regi-
ments began to leave their parade-grounds, and
the surface of the Camp (usually quiet, even
to dulness) sparkled with movement. Along

every principal road the color and glitter of

marching troops rippled lke streams, and as
the band of one regiment died away another
broke upon the excited ear.

At the outlets of the Camp eager crowds
waited patiently in the dusty hedges to greet
favorite regiments, or watch for personal friends
amongst the troops; and on the ways to the
Sandy Slopes every kind of vehicle, from a drag
to a donkey-cart, and every variety of pedes-

trian, from an energetic tourist carrying a field-





ae Roe



























MARCHING TROOPS.

glass to a more admirably energetic mother
carrying a baby, disputed the highway with
cavalry in brazen breastplates, and horse-artil-
lery whose gallant show was drowned in its
own dust.

Lady Jane’s visitors had expressed them-
selves as anxious not to miss anything, and
troops were still pouring out of the Camp when
the Master of the House brought his skittish
horses to where a “block” had just occurred
at the turn to the Sandy Slopes.

What the shins and toes of the visitors
endured whilst that knot of troops of all arms
disentangled itself and streamed away in gay
and glittering lines, could only have been con-
cealed by the supreme powers of endurance
latent in the weaker sex; for with the sight of
every fresh regiment Leonard changed his plans
for his own future career, and with every change
he forgot a fresh promise to keep quiet, and
took by storm that corner of the carriage which

for the moment offered the best point of view.





82 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

Suddenly, through the noise and dust, and

above the dying away of conflicting bands into
the distance, tkaere came another sound —
a sound unlike any other —the skirling of the
pipes; and Lady Jane sprang up and put her
arms about her son, and bade him watch for the
Highlanders, and if Cousin Alan looked up as
he went past to cry “Hurrah for Bonnie
Scotland!”

For this sound and this sight — the bagpipes
and the Highlanders—a sandy-faced Scotch
lad on the tramp to Southampton had waited
for an hour past, frowning and freckling his
face in the sun, and exasperating a naturally
dour temper by reflecting on the probable pride
and heartlessness of folks who wore such soft
complexions and pretty clothes as the ladies
and the little boy in the carriage on the other
side of the road.

But when the skirling of the pipes cleft the
air his cold eyes softened as he caught sight of

Leonard’s face, and the echo that he made to





f\ 7, > NS se 3 2 N “ = “( x < lic \ /
Si ‘ Poe.

Se VEO Kt

aN ve LEAS. Bes = vy.
- Mr, t¢ f Ss ts x N ‘3 Sy ay mG, NS eee fa es
AS oan Ra 3 wale ne eel ah eee :
ae i = Se SS ae So OL,
‘















((

anders.



]
3)



gh



(8

ey.
ne Hi



Tl



















DY fl, Ae
& x 1% S

Bu
BAL |<

84 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

Leonard’s cheer was caught up by the good-
humored crowd, who gave the Scotch regiment
a willing ovation as it swung proudly by. After
which the carriage moved on, and for a time
Leonard sat very still. He was thinking of
Cousin Alan and his comrades; of the tossing
plumes that shade their fierce eyes; of the
swing of kilt and sporran with their unfettered
limbs ; of the rhythmic tread of their white feet
and the fluttering ribbons on the bagpipes; and
of Alan’s handsome face looking out of his
most becoming bravery.

The result of his meditations Leonard
announced with his usual lucidity:

“I am Scotch, not Irish, though O'Reilly és
the nicest man I ever knew. But I must tell
him that I really cannot grow up into an Owld
Soldier, because I mean to bea young Highland
officer, and look at ladies with my eyes like

thts —and carry my sword so/”

























By wu ¢
Ly) X& a

Me ata

CHAPTER V.

“Oh that a man might know the end of this day’s
business ere it comes! "— Fudius Cesar.

YEARS of living amongst soldiers had in-
creased, rather than diminished, Mrs. Jones’s
relish for the sights and sounds of military
life.

The charm of novelty is proverbially great,
but it is not so powerful as that peculiar spell
which drew the retired tallow-chandler back to
“shop” on melting-days, and which guided the
choice of the sexton of a cemetery who only
took one holiday trip in the course of seven
years, and then he went to a cemetery at some
distance to see how they managed matters
there. And, indeed, poor humanity may be
very thankful for the infatuation, since it goes

far to make life pleasant in the living to plain
(85)



























=





86 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

folk who do not make a point of being dis
contented.

In obedience to this law of nature, th a
Barrack Master’s wife did ‘exactly what O’Reill

had expected her to do. As she could nop
ee

i

We?

Sle =

drive to the Field Day, she strolled out to se

the troops go by. Then the vigor derived fromt ey















breakfast and the freshness of the morning ai
began to fail, the day grew hotter, the Camy
looked dreary and deserted, and, either fro
physical weakness or from some untold cause}

a nameless anxiety, a sense of trouble in the air

ld
ei

9

began to oppress her.

A

Me
i

wy

Wandering out again to try and shake it off
it was almost a relief, like the solving of
riddle, to find Blind Baby sitting upon his Big Vy,
Drum, too low-spirited to play the Dead March
and crying because all the bands had “gon
right away.” Mrs. Jones made friends with
him, and led him off to her hut for consolation,
and he was soon as happy as ever, standing b

the piano and beating upon his basket in time








Ve aes
ty
Woe i) h,

ANA




-
ut The Sexton’s Holiday Trip.
oh. (87)
uy ea
ae ‘ Es
©
a 6





7
al

2 VB LY sn a ia ‘4 Hp5 YL,
GE PE

&










88



THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

to the tunes she played for him. But the day




and the hut grew hotter, and her back ached,




and the nameless anxiety re-asserted itself, and




was not relieved by Blind Baby’s preference for




the Dead March over every other tune with




which she tried to beguile him.




And when he had gone back to his own




Parade, with a large piece of cake and many




assurances that the bands would undoubtedly




return, and the day wore on, and the hut




became like an oven (in the absence of any




appliances to mitigate the heat), the Barrack




Master’s wife came to the hasty conclusion




that Asholt was hotter than India, whatever




thermometers might say; and, too weary to




seek for breezes outside, or to find a restful




angle of the reclining chair inside, she folded




her hands in her lap and abandoned herself




to the most universal remedy for most ills —






patience. And patience was its own reward,

See
Saat







for she fell asleep.







pry

Her last thoughts as she dozed off were of her



SS ~
o GOVE - ° oh
2 co : Oy



THERE'S TROUBLE IN THE AIR. 89

husband and her son, wishing that they were safe
home again, that she might assure herself that it
was not on their account that there was trouble
in the air. Then she dreamed of being roused
by the Colonel’s voice saying, ‘I have bad

”

news to tell you—” and was really awakened
by straining in her dream to discover what hin-
dered him from completing his sentence.

She had slept some time —it was now after-
noon, and the air was full of sounds of the
returning bands. She went out into the road
and saw the Barrack Master (he was easy to dis-
tinguish at some distance !) pause on his home-
ward way, and then she saw her son running to
join his father, with his sword under his arm ;
and they came on together, talking as they
came,

And as soon as they got within earshot she
said, “ Have you bad news to tell me?”

The Colonel ran up and drew her hand

within his arm.

“Come indoors, dear Love.”





THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

“You are both well?”

“Both of us. Brutally so.”

“Quite well, dear Mother.”

Her son was taking her other hand into
caressing care; there could be no doubt about
the bad news.

“Please tell me what it is.”

“There has been an accident —”

“To whom?” :

“To your brother’s child; that jolly little

4! chap —”’

“Oh, Henry! how?”
“He was standing up in the carriage, IT

believe, with a dog in his arms. George saw

ian him when he went past —didn’t you?”

“Yes. I wonder he didn’t fall thén. I

; fancy some one had told him it was our regi-

ment. The dog was struggling, but he would

Ae take off his hat to us —”’

The young soldier choked, and added with

§ difficulty, “I think I never saw so lovely a face.

Poor little cousin!”






















ROOSE THE FAIR DAY AT EEN. g!I

“ And he overbalanced himself ?”

““Not when George saw him. I believe it was
when the Horse Artillery were going by at the
gallop. They say he got so much excited, and
the dog barked, and they both fell. Some say
there were people moving a drag, and some
that he fell under the horse of a patrol. Any-
; how, I’m afraid he’s very much hurt. They
; took him straight home in an ambulance-wagon
to save time. Erskine went with him. I sent
off a telegram for them for a swell surgeon
‘from town, and Lady Jane promised a line if I
send over this evening. O'Reilly must go after
dinner and wait for the news.”

O’Reilly, sitting stiffly amid the coming and
going of the servants at the Hall, was too
deeply devoured by anxiety to trouble himself
je as to whether the footman’s survey of his uni-

) form bespoke more interest or contempt. But



! when — just after gun-fire ‘had sounded from
} the distant Camp —Jemima brought him the

wis long-waited-for note, he caught the girl’s hand,








92 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.




and held it for some moments before he was
able to say, “Just tell me, miss; is it good




news or bad that I'll be carrying back in this




bit of paper?” And as Jemima only answered

by sobs, he added, almost impatiently, “ Will he




live, dear? Nod your head if ye can do no




more.” ~



Jemima nodded, and the soldier dropped her




hand, drew a long breath, and gave himself one




of those shakes with “which an Irishman so




often throws off care.




“Ah, then, dry your eyes, darlin’; while



there’s life there’s hope.”



But Jemima sobbed still.




“The doctor — from London — says he may




live a good while, but —but—he’s to be a-




cripple all his days!”




“Now wouldn’t I rather be meeting a tiger




this evening than see the mistress’s face when




she gets that news!” ,
And O'Reilly strode back to Camp.

Going along through a shady part of the road










SUA RCO nei a ee 5 QWs Uy
BS OLE GEOR BOBS





PORCELAIN OR BRICK —YET BOTH CLAY. 93



in the dusk, seeing nothing but the red glow




of the pipe with which he was consoling himself,




the soldier stumbled against a lad sleeping on




the grass by the roadside. It was the tramping




Scotchman, and as he sprang to his feet the two




Kelts broke into a fiery dialogue that seemed as




if it could only come to blows.




It did not. It came to the good-natured




soldier’s filling the wayfarer’s pipe for him.




“Much good may it do ye! And maybe the




next time a decent man that’s hastening home




on the wings of misfortune stumbles against ye,




ye'll not be so apt to take offence.”




“Task your pardon, man; I was barely




wakened, and I took ye for one of these gay




red-coats blustering hame after a bloodless
battle on the Field Day, as they ca’ it.”
“Bad luck to the Field Day! A darker

never dawned ; and wouldn’t a bloodier battle






have spared a child?”



“Your child? What’s happened to the



bairn?”’





W294. THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

















“My child indeed! And his mother a lady
- 4 of title, no less.”
“What's got him?”

“Fell out of the carriage, and was trampled



S “3 into a cripple for all the days of his life. He
“Wothat had set as fine a heart as ever beat on
De being a soldier; and a grand one he’d have
% made. ‘Sure ’tis a nobleman ye’ll be,’ says I.
‘Tis an owld soldier I mean to be, O’Reilly,’
oe says he. And—”

“Fond of the soldiers — his mother a leddy?
‘ed & Man! Had he a braw new velvet coat and the
t face of an angel on him?”

} “He had so.”

; “And I that thocht they'd all this warld
Aad gi could offer them!—A cripple? Ech sirs!”



Full Text







DN Oe Sa nearer
i Sar





The Baldwin Library
University
of
Florida

|RmB







Pere

saad f seeded





ee es




mitered A Gen

“h bYVL Une

Ronello



THE

STORY OF A SHORT LIRR

BY

JULIANA HORATIA EWING

AUTHOR OF “ JACKANAPES,” “ Dappy DarWwIN’s Dovecot,” ETC,



NEW YORK: 46 East rgTH STREET
THOMAS Y. CROWELL & Co.

BOSTON: 100 PURCHASE STREET
CopyRIGHT, 1893,

By THOMAS Y. CROWELL & CO,

Norwood Yress :
Jj. S. Cushing & Co, — Berwick & Smith.
Bostan, Mass., U.S.A.


“ But the fair guerdon when we hope to find,
And think to burst out into sudden blaze,
Comes the blind Fury with the abhorréd shears
And slits the thin spun life, —‘ But not the praise.’ ”







Mitton.




“Tt is a calumny on men to say that they are roused to heroic
action by ease, hope of pleasure, recompense, — sugar-plums of
any kind in this world or the next! In the meanest mortal
there lies something nobler. ... Difficulty, abnegation, mar-
tyrdom, death are the @//uements that act on the heart of man.
Kindle the inner genial life of him, you have a flame that burns
up all lower considerations. ... Not by flattering our appe-
tites; no, by awakening the Heroic that slumbers in every

ear tema











CARLYLE.


aie oe ete



THES STORY OFX SHOOK ABE:

—00 £€0-0——_

CHAPTER I.

“Arma virumque cano.” —_ne7d.

‘‘Man—and the horseradish—are most biting when
grated.” — Fean Paul Richter.

“Most annoying!” said the Master of the
House. His thick eyebrows were puckered
just then with the vexation of his thoughts;
but the lines of annoyance on his forehead were
to some extent fixed lines. They helped to
make him look older than his age—he was not
forty —and they gathered into a fierce frown
as his elbow was softly touched by his little
son. s

The child was defiantly like his father, even

to a knitted brow, for his whole face was





THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

crumpled with the vigor of some resolve which



















he found it hard to keep, and which was sym-
bolized by his holding the little red tip of his
tongue betwixt finger and thumb.

“Put your hands down, Leonard! Put your
tongue in, sir! What are you after? What do
you want? What are you doing here? Be off
to the nursery, and tell Jemima to keep you
there. Your mother and I are busy.”

Far behind the boy, on the wall, hung the
portrait of one of his ancestors—a youth of
sixteen. The painting was by Vandyck, and it
was the most valuable of the many valuable
things that strewed and decorated the room.
A very perfect example of the great master’s
work, and uninjured by Time. The young
Cavalier’s face was more interesting than hand-
some, but so eager and refined that, set off as
it was by pale-hued satin and falling hair, he
might have been called effeminate, if his brief
life, which ended on the field of Naseby, had

not done more than common to prove his man-























‘ Me :
Bee OSE or ate Melon, Bee.
a ( is
ra

oe
34





DULCE ET DECORUM EST PRO PATRIA MORI. 7




hood. A coat-of-arms, blazoned in the corner
of the painting, had some appearance of having
been added later. Below this was rudely in-
scribed, in yellow paint, the motto which also
decorated the elaborate stone mantelpiece
opposite — Letus sorte mea.

Leonard was very fond of that picture. It
was known to his childish affections as “Uncle
Rupert.” He constantly wished that he could
get into the frame and play with the dog — the
dog with the upturned face and melancholy
eyes, and odd resemblance to a longhaired
Cavalier —on whose faithful head Uncle
Rupert’s slender fingers perpetually reposed.

Though not able to play with the dog,.
Leonard did play with Uncle Rupert — the
game of trying to get out of the reach of his
eyes.

“I play ‘Puss-in-the-corner’ with him,” the
child was wont to explain; “but whichever
corner I get into, his eyes come after me. The

dog looks at Uncle Rupert always, and Uncle
ate
oe




















THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.



Rupert always looks at me.” ... “To see
if you are growing up a good boy and a gal-
lant young gentleman, such as he was.” So
Leonard’s parents and guardians explained the
matter to him, and he devoutedly believed them.

Many an older and less credulous spectator
stood in the light of those painted eyes, and
acknowledged their spell. Very marvellous was
the cunning which, by dabs and streaks of
color, had kept the spirit of this long-dead
youth to gaze at his descendants from a sheet
of canvas and stir the sympathy of strangers,
parted by more than two centuries from his
sorrows, with the mock melancholy of painted
tears. For whether the painter had just over-
done some trick of representing their liquidness,
or whether the boy’s eyes had brimmed over as
he was standing for his portrait (his father and

elder brother had died in the civil war before
him), there remains no tradition to tell, But

Vandyck nnever painted a portrait fuller of sad



dignity,even in those troubled times.
py NSE



Ok . > D SCP
Saw: Uk aa
Ze GZ Sany
\

PH ZS)

\

EX
BS PcOae ts BE"
og



WORD AND HONOR.

Happily for his elders, Leonard invented for

himself a reason for the obvious tears.

“I believe Uncle Rupert knew that they
were going to chop the poor king’s head off,
and that’s why he looks as if he were going to
cry.”

Tt was partly because the child himself looked
as if he were going to cry —and that not frac-
tiously, but despite a struggle with himself —
that, as he stood before the Master of the
House, he might have been that other master
of the same house come to life again at six years
of age. His long, fair hair, the pliable, nervous
fingers, which he had put down as he was bid,
the strenuous tension of his little figure under a
sense of injustice, and, above all, his beautiful
eyes, in which the tears now brimmed over the
eyelashes as the waters of a lake well up
through the reeds that fringe its banks. He
was very, very like Uncle Rupert when he

turned those eyes on his mother in mute

reproach. SPs



hs
Sw, OB
























THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE,

Lady Jane came to his defence.

“T think Leonard meant to be good. I made
him promise me to try and cure himself of the
habit of speaking to you when you are speaking
to someone else. But, dear Leonard” (and she
took the hand that had touched his father’s
elbow), “I don’t think you were quite on honor
when you interrupted Father with this hand,
though you were holding your tongue’with the
other. That is what we call keeping a promise
to the ear and breaking it to the sense.”

All the Cavalier dignity came unstarched in
Leonard’s figure. With a red face, he answered
bluntly, “I’m very sorry. I meant to keep my

promise.”

“Next time keep it we//, as a gentleman
should. Now, what do you want?”

“Pencil and paper, please.”

“There they are. Take them to the nursery,
as Father told you.”

Leonard looked at his father. He had not
been spoilt for six years by an irritable and



























ARTS OF DIPLOMACY. Il




indulgent parent without learning those arts
of diplomacy in which children quickly become
experts. :

““Oh, he can stay,” said the Master of the
House, “and he may say a word now and then,
if he doesn’t talk too much. Boys can’t sit
mumchance always—can they, Len? There,
kiss your poor old father, and get away, and
keep quiet.”

Lady Jane made one of many fruitless efforts
on behalf of discipline.

“I think, dear, as you told him to go, he had
better go now.”

“He well go, pretty sharp, if he isn’t good.
Now, for pity’s sake, let’s talk out this affair,
and let me get back to my work.”

“ Have you been writing poetry this morning,
father dear?” Leonard inquired, urbanely.

He was now lolling against a writing-table of
the first empire, where sheets of paper lay like
fallen leaves among Japanese bronzes, old and

elaborate candlesticks, grotesque letter-clips






12



THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

and paper-weights, quaint pottery, big seals,
and spring flowers in slender Venetian glasses
of many colors.

“T wrote three lines, and was interrupted
four times,” replied his sire, with bitter

brevity.














“T think 74 write some poetry. I don’t
mind being interrupted. May I have your
ink?”

‘““No, you may zot/” roared the Master of
the House and of the inkpot of priceless china
which Leonard had seized. “Now, be off to
the nursery!”

“IT won’t touch anything. I am going to

)

draw out of the window,” said Leonard, calmly.

He had practised the art of being trouble-
some to the verge of expulsion ever since he
had had a whim of his own, and as skilfully as
he played other games. He was seated among
the cushions of the oriel window-seat (colored
rays from coats-of-arms in the upper panes

falling on his fair hair with a fanciful effect of
i
i
ti

i







Mase

“He was seated among the cushions of the oriel

window-seat.”

















14 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.




canonizing him for his sudden goodness) almost
before his father could reply.

“T advise you to stay there, and to keep
quiet.” Lady Jane took up the broken thread
of conversation in despair.

“ Have you ever seen him?”

fies 5 years ago.’

“You know I never saw either. Your sister
was much older than you; wasn’t she?”

“The shadows move so on the grass, and
the elms have so many branches, L think T shall
turn round and draw the fire-place,’ murmured
Leonard. . c

“Ten years. You may be sure, if I had
been grown up I should never have allowed
the marriage. I cannot think what possessed
my father —”

“Lam doing the inscription! T can print Old
English. What does L. aiphthong 42.7. U.S.
mean?” said Leonard.

“It means joyful, contented, happy. —1 was at
Eton at the time. Disastrous ill-luck !”


CROSS-QUESTIONS.

“ Are there any children oa

“One son. And to crown all, “zs regiment
is at Asholt. Nice family party!”

“A young man! Has he been well brought
up?”

“ What does —”

« Will you hold your tongue, Leonard ?—Is he
likely to have been well brought up? How-
ever, he’s ‘in the Service,’ as they say. I wish
it didn’t make one think of flunkeys, what with
the word service, and the liveries (I mean
uniforms), and the legs, and shoulders, and
swagger, and tag-rags, and epaulettes, and the
fatiguing alertness and attentiveness of ‘men in _
the iS eivicelia:

The Master of the House spoke with the
pettish accent of one who says what he does
‘not mean, partly for lack of something better
to do, and partly to avenge some inward vexa-
tion upon his hearers. He lounged languidly
on acouch, but Lady Jane sat upright, and her

eyes gave an unwonted flash. She came of an


16 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

ancient Scottish race, that had shed its blood
like water on many a battle-field, generations
before the family of her English husband had
become favorites at the Court of the Tudors.

“T have so many military belongings, both in
the past and the present, that I have a respect
for the Service —”

He got up and patted her head, and smiled.

“T beg your pardon, my child. Et ego” —
and he looked at Uncle Rupert, who looked
sadly back again: “but you must make allow-
ances for me. Asholt Camp has been a thorn
in my side from the first: And now to have
the barrack-master, and the youngest subaltern
of a marching regiment —”’

“He’s our nephew, Rupert!”

“Mine—not yours. You've nothing to do

with him, thank goodness.”

“Your people are my people. Now do not
worry yourself. Of course I shall call on your
sister at once. Will they be here for some


CROOKED ANSWERS. i

“Five years, you may depend. He’s just
the sort of man to wedge himself into a snug
berth at Asholt. You're an angel, Jane; you
‘always are. But fighting ancestors are one thing;
a barrack-master brother-in-law is another.”

“Has he done any fighting ?”

“Oh dear, yes! Bemedalled like that Guy
Fawkes General in the pawnbroker’s window,
that Len was so charmed by. But, my dear, I
assure you —”

“T only just want to know what S. O. R. T.
E. M. FE. A. means,” Leonard hastily broke in.
“Lve done tt all now, and shan’t want to know
anything more.”

“Sorte mea is Latin for My fate, or My lot

an life. Letus sorte mea means Happy 'in my

lot. It is our Jamily motto. Now, if you ask

another question, off you go !— After all, Jane,
you must allow it’s about as hard lines as could
be, to have a few ancestral acres and a nice old
place in one of the quietest, quaintest corners

of Old England; and for Government to come



















18 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

and plant a Camp of Instruction, as they call it,
and pour in tribes of savages in war-paint to
build wigwams within a couple of miles of your
lodge-gates |”

She laughed heartily.

“Dear Rupert! You ave a born poet! You
do magnify your woes so grandly. What was
the brother-in-law like when you saw him ?”’

“Oh; the regular type. Hair cut like a
pauper, or a convict” (the Master of the House
tossed his own locks as he spoke), “ big, swag-
gering sort of fellow, swallowed the poker and
not digested it, rather good features, accli-
matized complexion, tight fit of hot-red cloth,
and general pipeclay.”

“Then he must be the Sapper!” Leonard
announced, as he advanced with a firm step and.
kindling eyes from the window. “Jemima’s
other brother isa Gunner. Ye dresses in blue.
But they both pipeclay their gloves, and I pipe-
clayed mine this morning, when she did the

hearth. You've no idea how nasty they look


THEN WOULD HE SING.

while it’s wet, but they dry as white as snow,
only mine fell among the cinders. The Sapper
is very kind, both to her and to me. He gave
her a brooch, and he is making me a wooden
fort to put my cannon in. But the Gunner is
such a funny man! I said to him, ‘Gunner!
why do you wear white gloves?’ and he said,
‘Young gentleman, why does a miller wear a
white hat?’ He’s very funny. But I think
I like the tidy one best of all. He is so very
beautiful, and I should think he must be very
brave.”

That Leonard was permitted to deliver him-
self of this speech without a check can only
have been due to the paralyzing nature of the
shock which it inflicted on his parents, and of
which he himself was pleasantly unconscious.
His whole soul was in the subject, and he spoke
with a certain grace and directness of address,

and with a clear and facile enunciation, which

were among the child’s most conspicuous marks

of good breeding.


20 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.












“This is nice!” said the Master of the House
between his teeth with a deepened scowl.
The air felt stormy, and Leonard began to

coax. He laid his curls against his father’s



arm, and asked, “Did you ever see a tidy

BP LEA yoy

\e es ATS ENG i

SLX i Coe
oer SN ea LLS Ee

one, Father dear? He zs a very splendid sort

of man.”

f

““ What nonsense are you talking? What
do you mean by a tidy one?”

There was no mistake about the storm now;
and Leonard began to feel helpless, and, as
usual in such circumstances, turned to Lady
Jane.

“Mother told me!” he gasped.

The Master of the House also turned to Lady
Jane.

“Do you mean you have heard of this be-
HOLE ie

She shook her head, and he seized his son
by the shoulder.

“Tf that woman has taught you to tell un-
truths —”



< SL
nity

ints
























“Be we a
is Sw Ro Be Ne S S
SBOE BS a ee re oxy ee <

Us
aw

ACHIEVEMENTS HIGH. 21

Lady Jane firmly interposed.

“Leonard never tells untruths, Rupert.
Please don’t frighten him into doing so. Now,
Leonard, don’t be foolish and cowardly. Tell
Mother quite bravely all about it. Perhaps she
has forgotten.”

The child was naturally brave; but the ele-
ments of excitement and uncertainty in his up-
bringing were producing their natural results
in a nervous and unequable temperament. It
is not the least serious of the evils of being
“spoilt,” though, perhaps, the most seldom
recognized. Many a fond parent justly fears
to overdo “lessons,” who is surprisingly blind
to the brain-fag that comes from the strain to
lives at grown-up people’s level; and to the
nervous exhaustion produced in children, no
less than in their elders, by indulged restless-
ness, discontent, and craving for fresh excite-
ment, and for want of that sense of power and
repose which comes with habitual obedience

to righteous rules and regulations. Laws that





fist hia

ie we a =e. os fs
een, fe OG
a ee ? i aS
“e3 A WEG a Oy
Al
EBs


22 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

can be set at nought are among the most

demoralizing of influences which can curse a
nation; and their effects are hardly less dis-
astrous in the nursery. Moreover, an uncertain
discipline is apt to take even the spoilt by sur-
prise ; and, as Leonard seldom fully understood
the checks he did receive, they unnerved him.
He was unnerved now; and, even with his
hand in that of his mother, he stammered over
his story with illrepressed sobs and much
mental confusion.

“W—we met him out walking, I m—
mean we were’ out walking. He was out rid-
ing. He looked like a picture in my t—t—
tales from Froissart. He had a very curious
kind of a helmet —n—not quite a helmet, and
a beautiful green feather—at least, n—not
exactly a feather, and a beautiful red waistcoat,
only n—not a real waistcoat, b—but —”’

“Send him to. bed!” roared the Master of
the House. “Don’t let him prevaricate any

more!”




“He does poke with his spear in battle, I do believe ;
but he didn’t poke us.”’




Se
sy




Sa 133 Ses TO
su =

AND CIRCUMSTANCE OF CHIVALRY. 23




“No, Rupert, please! I wish him to try
and give a straight account. Now, Leonard,
don’t be a baby; but go on and tell the truth,
like a brave boy.”






Leonard desperately proceeded, sniffing as
he did so.

“He c—carried a spear, like an old warrior.
He truthfully did. On my honor! One end
was on the tip of his foot, and there was a flag
at the other end—a real fluttering pennon —
there truthfully was! He does poke with his
spear in battle, I do believe ; but he didn’t poke
us. He was b—b—beautiful to. b—b—be—
hold! I asked Jemima, ‘Is he another brother,
for you do have such very nice brothers?’ and
she said, ‘No, he’s —’”







“fang Jemima!” said the Master of the

House. “Now listen to me. You said your



mother told you. Wat did she tell you?”
“‘Je—Je—Jemima said, ‘No, he’s a Orderly’;

and asked the way-—I qu—quite forget where




to—TI truthfully do. And next morning I












ae Ge Be Ld ‘ea Bae e Bk,

























THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.























asked Mother what does Orderly mean? And
she said #zdy. So I call him the tidy one. Dear
Mother, you truthfully did—at least,’ added
Leonard chivalrously, as Lady Jane’s face gave
no response, “‘at least, if you’ve forgotten, never
mind: it’s my fault.”

But Lady Jane’s face was blank because
she was trying not to laugh. The Master
of the House did not try long. He bit his
lip, and then burst into a peal.

“Better say no more to him,” murmured
Lady Jane. “I'll see Jemima now, if he may
stay with you.”

He nodded, and throwing himself back on
the couch, held out his arms to the child.
“Well, that'll do. Put these men out of
your head, and let me see your drawing.”
Leonard stretched his faculties, and _per-
ceived that the storm was overpast. He
clambered on to his father’s knee, and their
heads were soon bent lovingly together over

the much-smudged sheet of paper, on which




ie OREN as YR ry WU 2
wy a
eee Gay $




PRS. Sa ian y na

LAETUS SORTE MEA.






the motto from the chimney-piece was irregu-



larly traced.




““YVou should have copied it from Uncle




Rupert’s picture. It is in plain letters there.”




Leonard made no reply. His head now lay




back on his father’s shoulder, and his eyes



were fixed on the ceiling, which was of Eliza-




bethan date, with fantastic flowers in raised




plaster-work. But Leonard did not see them



at that moment. His vision was really turned



inwards.. Presently he said, “I am trying to



think. Don’t interrupt me, Father, if you




please.”
The Master of the House smiled, and gazed





complacently at the face beside him. No paint-



ing, no china in his possession, was more



beautiful. Suddenly the boy jumped down and
stood alone, with his hands behind his back,




and his eyes tightly shut.



“Tam thinking very hard, Father. Please




tell me again what our motto means.”



“<«Tetus sorte mea,—Happy in my lot.’




























x

GUE OE ALORS BE

26 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

What ave you puzzling your little brains
about ?”

“Because I know I know something so like
it, and I can’t think what! Yes—no! Wait
aminute! I’ve just got it! Yes, I remember
now: it was my Wednesday text!” .

He opened wide shining eyes, and clapped
his hands, and his clear voice rang with the
added note of triumph, as he cried, “ ‘The /oz is
fallen unto me in a fair ground. Yea, I havea
goodly heritage.’ ”

The Master of the House held out his arms
without speaking; but when Leonard had
climbed back into them, he stroked the child’s
hair slowly, and said, “Is that your Wednesday
texte:

“Last Wednesday’s. I learn a text every
day. Jemima sets them. She says her grand-
mother made her learn texts when she was a
little girl. Now, Father dear, I'll tell you what
I wish you would do: and I want you to do it

at once —this very minute.”



seas




THE LOT IS FALLEN UNTO ME.

27



















“That is generally the date of your desires.
What is it?”

“T don’t know what you are talking about,
but I know what I want. Now you and I are
all alone to our very selves, I want you to come
to the organ, and put that text to music like
the anthem you made out of those texts Mother
chose for you, for the harvest festival. TI’ll tell
you the words, for fear you don’t quite re-
member them, and I’ll blow the bellows. You
may play on all-fours with both your feet and
hands; you may pull out trumpet handle; you
may make as much noise as ever you like —

you'll see how I’ll blow!”

Satisfied by the sounds of music that the
_two were happy, Lady Jane was in no haste to
go back to the library; but, when she did re-
turn, Leonard greeted her warmly.

He was pumping at the bellows handle of the

chamber organ, before which sat the Master of




Ki




28 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

the House, not a ruffle on his brow, playing

with “all-fours,” and singing as he played.

Leonard’s cheeks were flushed, and he cried
impatiently, — -

“Mother! Mother dear! I’ve been wanting
you ever so long! Father has set my text to
music, and I want you to hear it; but I want
to sit by him and sing too. So you must come
and blow.”

‘“Nonsense, Leonard! Your mother must do
nothing of the sort. Jane! Listen to this! —
In a fa—air grou—nd. Bit of pure melody,
that, eh? The land flowing with milk and
honey seems to stretch before one’s eyes —”

“No! father, that zs unfair. You are not to
tell her bits in the middle. Begin at the be-
ginning, and — Mother dear, will you blow, and
let me sing?”

“Certainly. Yes, Rupert, please. I’ve done
it before ; and my back isn’t aching to-day. Do
let me!”

“Yes, do let her,” said Leonard, conclusively ;


pee og, La ee : ag ey)

RN

























IN A FAIR GROUND.

and he swung himself up into the seat beside
his father without more ado.

“Now, Father, begin! Mother, listen! And
when it comes to ‘ Yea, and I pull trumpet
handle out, blow as hard as ever you can. This
first bit — when he only plays —is very Bene
and quite easy to blow.”

Deep breathing of the organ filled a brief
silence, then a prelude stole about the room.
Leonard’s eyes devoured his father’s face, and
the Master of the House looking down on him,
with the double complacency of father and
composer, began to sing:

‘The lot —the lot is fallen un-to me’; and,
his mouth wide-parted with smiles, Leonard
sang also: ‘The lot —the lot is fallen — fallen
un-to me.’

‘In a fa—air grou—nd.’

‘Yea! (Now, Mother dear, blow! and fancy
you hear trumpets !)

‘Yea! YEA! I have a good-ly Her—i—

ae










THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

And after Lady Jane had ceased to blow, and
the musician to make music, Leonard still
danced and sang wildly about the room.

“Tsn’t it splendid, Mother? Father and I
made it together out of my Wednesday text.
Uncle Rupert, can you hear it? I don’t think
you can. I believe you are dead and deaf,
though you seem to see.”

And standing face to face with the young
Cavalier, Leonard sang his Wednesday text all
through :

“The lot is fallen unto me in a fair ground;
yea, I have a goodly heritage.”

But Uncle Rupert spoke no word to his
young kinsman, though he still “seemed to

see’’ through eyes drowned in tears.





















CHAPTER II.

—*“an acre of barren ground; ling, heath, broom,
furse, anything.” — Zempest, Act i. Scene 1.

“Sound, sound the clarion, fill the fife !
To all the sensual world proclaim,
One crowded hour of glorious life
Is worth an age without a name.”

Scott.

Take a Highwayman’s Heath.

Destroy every vestige of life with fire and
axe, from the pine that has longest been a land-
mark, to the smallest beetle smothered in
smoking moss.

Burn acres of purple and pink heather, and
pare away the young bracken that springs
verdant from its ashes.

Let flame consume the perfumed gorse in all
its glory, and not spare the broom, whose more

exquisite yellow atones for its lack of fragrance.
G31)
























32 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFR.

In this common ruin be every lesser flower
involved: blue beds of speedwell by the
wayfarer’s path—the daintier milkwort, and
rougher red rattle —down to the very dodder
that clasps the heather, let them perish, and
the face of Dame Nature be utterly blackened!
Then:

Shave the heath as bare as the back of your
hand, and if you have felled every tree, and
left not so much as a tussock of grass or a
scarlet toadstool to break the force of the
winds; then shall the winds come, from the
east and from the west, from the north and
from the south, and shall raise on your shaven
heath clouds of sand that would not discredit
a desert in the heart of Africa.

By some such recipe the ground was pre-
pared for that Camp of Instruction at Asholt
which was, as we have seen, a thorn in the side
of at least one of its neighbors. Then a due
portion of this sandy oasis in a wilderness of

beauty was mapped out into lines, with military
| ae
TRS onl! 2 Sr PO le MRL ap “AR ME Te Ve iy ny,

ay
-! 4
oe : wg)






























































































34 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.





















‘precision, and on these were built rows of little
wooden huts, which were painted a neat and
useful black.

The huts for married men and officers were
of varying degrees of comfort and homeliness,
but those for single men were like toy-boxes of
wooden soldiers ; it was only by doing it very
tidily that you could (so to speak) put your
pretty soldiers away at night when you had
done playing with them, and get the lid to shut
down.

‘But then tidiness is a virtue which —like
Patience —is its own reward. And nineteen
men who keep themselves clean and_ their
belongings cleaner; who have made their
nineteen beds into easy chairs before most
‘people have got out of bed at all; whose tin -
pails are kept as bright as average teaspoons
(to the envy of housewives and the shame of
housemaids !); who establish a common and a
holiday side to the reversible top of their one

long table, and scrupulously scrub both; who




CAMP AND COMRADES.

Â¥
have a place for everything and a discipline

which obliges everybody to put everything in
its place;—nineteen men, I say, with such
habits, find more comfort and elbow-room in a
hut than an outsider might believe possible, and
hang up a photograph or two into the bargain.

But -it may be at once conceded to the credit
of the camp, that those who lived there thought
better of it than those who did not, and that
those who lived there longest were apt to like
it best of all.

It was, however, regarded by different people
from very opposite points of view, in each of
which was some truth.

There were those to whom the place and the
life were alike hateful.

They said that, from a soldier’s stand-point,
the life was one of exceptionally hard work, and
uncertain stay, with no small proportion of the
hardships and even risks of active service, and
none of the more glorious chances of war.

That you might die of sunstroke’ on the


Sh Qs
NA Ve sus SGP 1 Ae 2 OM 2 AE
























36 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

o

march, or contract rheumatism, fever, or dysen-
tery, under canvas, without drawing Indian pay
and allowances; and that you. might ruin your
uniform as rapidly as in a campaign, and never
hope to pin a ribbon over its inglorious stains.

That the military society was too large to
find friends quickly in the neighborhood, and
that as to your neighbors in Camp, they were
sure to get marching orders just when you had
learnt to like them. And if you did xof like
them—! (But for that matter, quarrelsome
neighbors are much the same everywhere.
And a boundary road between two estates will
furnish as pretty a feud as the pump of a com-
mon back-yard.)

The haters of the Camp said that it had every
characteristic to disqualify it for a home; that
it was ugly and crowded without the appliances
of civilization; that it was neither town nor
country, and had the disadvantages of each
without the merits of either.

That it was unshaded and unsheltered, that




Beene oe

as ate HL op, ene Tas eran



























HARD LINES. 37.

the lines were monotonous and yet confusing,
and every road and parade-g ground : more a
than another.

That the huts let in the frost in winter and
the heat in summer, and were at once stuffy
and draughty.

That the low roofs were like a weight upon
your head, and that the torture was invariably
brought to a climax on the hottest of the dog-
days, when they were tarred and sanded in
spite of your teeth; a process which did not
insure their being water-tight or snow-proof
when the weather changed.

That the rooms had no cupboards, but an
unusual number of doors, through which no tall
man could pass without stooping.

That only the publicity and squalor of the
back-premises of the “Lines” —their drying
clothes, and crumbling mud walls, their coal-
boxes and slop-pails —could exceed the depress-
ing effects of the gardens in front, where such

plants as were not uprooted by the winds


38 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.



perished of frost or drought, and where, if some
gallant creeper had stood fast and covered the
nakedness of your wooden hovel, the Royal
‘Engineers would arrive one morning, with as
little announcement as the tar and sand men,
and tear down the growth of years before you
had finished shaving, for the purpose of repaint-
ing your outer walls.

On the other hand, there were those who had
a great affection for Asholt, and affection never
lacks arguments.

Admitting some hardships and blunders, the
defenders of the Camp fell back successfully
upon statistics for a witness to the general good
health.

They said that if the Camp was windy the
breezes were exquisitely bracing, and the cli-
mate of that particular part of England such as

would qualify it for a health-resort for invalids,

fos
aus
7

‘were it only situated in a comparatively inac-



cessible part of the Pyrenees, instead of being

Sot ae

within an hour or two of London. RB, ,

gL
REE


























y

& ET CONSTRUCTA SUAS HABITANS.



That this fact of being within easy reach of

town made the Camp practically at the head-
quarters of civilization and refinement, whilst
the simple and sociable ways of living, neces-
sitated by hut-life in common, emancipated. its
select society from rival extravagance and cum-
t bersome formalities.
; That the Camp stood on the borders of the
two counties of England which rank highest on
the books of estate and house-agents, and that
if you did not think the country lovely and the
neighborhood agreeable you must be hard to
please.

That, as regards the Royal Engineers, it was
one of your privileges to be hard to please,
since you were entitled to their good offices ;
and if, after all, they sometimes failed to cure
your disordered drains and smoky chimneys,
you, at any rate, did not pay as well as suffer,
which is the case in civil life.

That low doors to military quarters might be ©

regarded as ,a practical joke on the part of
4O THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

authorities, who demand that soldiers shall be
both tall and upright, but that man, whether
military or not, is an adaptable animal and can
get used to anything; and indeed it was only
those officers whose thoughts were more active
than their instincts who invariably crushed their
best hats before starting for town.

That huts (if only they were a little higher !)
had a great many advantages over small houses,
which were best appreciated by those who had
tried drawing lodging allowance and living in
villas, and which would be fully known if ever
the Lines were rebuilt in brick.

That on moonlit nights the airs that fanned
the silent Camp were as dry and wholesome as
by day; that the song of the distant nightingale
could be heard there ; and finally, that from end
to end of this dwelling-place of ten thousand
to (on occasion) twenty thousand men, a woman
might pass at midnight with greater safety than

in the country lanes of a rural village or a police

protected thoroughfare of the metropolis.


oe ge Bogor cat loo, Bue Te
ON

AUF WIEDER SEHN!

























4l

But, in truth, the Camp’s best defence in the
hearts of its defenders was that it was a camp,
—nilitary life in epitome, with all its defects
and all its charm; not the least of which, to
some whimsical minds, is, that it represents, ae
no other phase of society represents, the human
pilgrimage in brief.

Here be sudden partings, but frequent
re-unions ; the charities and courtesies of an
uncertain life lived largely in common; the
hospitality of passing hosts to guests who tarry
but a day.

Here, surely, should be the home of the sage
as well as the soldier, where every hut might
fitly carry the ancient motto, “ Dwell as if about
to Depart,” where work bears the nobler name
of duty, and where the living, hastening on his
business amid “the hurryings of this life,” 1

must pause and stand to salute the dead as he



j is carried by.
.
ay f Bare and dusty are the Parade Grounds, but

SOSH ‘1 Bunyan’s Pilgrim's Progress.













THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.



they are thick with memories. Here were
blessed the colors that became a young man’s
shroud that they might not be a nation’s shame.
Here march and music welcome the coming and
speed the parting regiments. On this parade
the rising sun is greeted with gun-fire and
trumpet clarions shriller than the cock, and
there he sets to a like salute with tuck of drum.
Here the young recruit drills, the warrior puts
on his medal, the old pensioner steals back to
watch them, and the soldiers’ children play —
sometimes at fighting or flag-wagging,! but
oftener at funerals !



1“ Flag-wagging,” a name among soldiers’ children for

“ signalling.”












Jer abetase aloo, & ee 2 ees .

CHAPTER Ii

“* Uf muigraturus habita” (Dwell as if about to Depart ).
— Old House Motto. .

Tue Barrack Master's wife was standing in
the porch of her hut, the sides of which were
of the simplest trellis-work of crossed fir-poles,
through which she couid watch the proceedings
of the gardener without baking herself in the
sun. Suddenly she snatched up a green-lined

white umbrella, that had seen service in India,









and ran out.

“O'Reilly! what zs that baby doing?
There! that white-headed child crossing the
parade with a basket in its little arms! It’s
got nothing on its head. Please go and take
it to its mother before it gets sunstroke.”

The gardener was an Irish soldier —an old
44 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

soldier, as the handkerchief depending from his
cap, to protect the nape of his neck from the
sun, bore witness. He was a tall man, and
stepped without ceremony over the garden
paling to get a nearer view of the parade.
But he stepped back again at once, and
resumed his place in the garden.

“He’s Corporal Macdonald’s child, madam.
The Blind Baby, they call him. Not a bit of
harm will he get. They’re as hard as nails the
whole lot of them. If I was to take him in
now, he’d be out before my back was turned.

His brothers and sisters are at the school, and

Blind Baby’s just as happy as the day is long,

playing at funerals:all the time.”

“Blind! Is he blind? Poor little soul!
But he’s got a great round potato-basket
in his arms. Surely they don’t make that
afflicted infant fetch and carry?”

O’Reilly laughed so heartily, that he scan-
dalized his own sense of propriety.

“T ask your pardon, madam. But there's




1
i







OAYY
ea





.,

4
WA
} | Ay HA \
(










46 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

no fear that Blind Baby’ll fetch and carry.

Every man in the Lines is his nurse.”

“But what’s he doing with that round
hamper as big as himself?”

“Tt’s just a make-believe for the Big Drum,
madam. The ‘Dead March’ is his whole de-
light. °’Twas only yesterday I said to his
father, ‘Corporal,’ I says, ‘we'll live to see
Blind Baby a band-master yet,’ I says; ‘it’s a
pure pleasure to see him beat out a tune with
his closed fist.’”

“Will I go and borrow a barrow now,
madam?” added O’Reilly, returning to his
duties. He was always willing and never
idle, but he liked change of occupation.

“No, no. Don’t go away. We shan’t want
_a wheelbarrow till we've finished trenching this
border, and picking out the stones. Then you
can take them away and fetch the new soil.”

“You're at a deal of pains, madam, and it’s
a poor patch when all’s done to it.”

“T can’t live without flowers, O'Reilly, and


GARDENING.

the Colonel says I may do what I like with
this bare strip.”

“Ah! Don’t touch the dirty stones with
your fingers, ma’am. I'll have the lot picked
in no time at all.”

“Vou see, O'Reilly, you can’t grow flowers
in sand unless you can command water, and
the Colonel tells me that when it’s hot here
the water supply runs short, and we mayn’t
water the garden from the pumps.”

O'Reilly smiled superior.

“The Colonel will get what water he wants,
ma’am. Never fear him! There's ways and
means. Look at the gardens of the Royal
Engineers’ Lines. In the hottest of summer
weather they’re as green as Old Ireland; and
it’s not to be supposed that the Royal Engi-
neers can requisition showers from the skies

~ when they need them, more than the rest of

Her Majesty’s forces.”

“Perhaps the Royal Engineers do what I

mean to do —take more pains than usual; and


BRI SY 8B AOS on NH “ae fe BS ft, 5%





















\
48 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

put in soil that will retain some moisture. One
can’t make poor land yield anything without
pains, O’Reilly, and this is like the dry bed of a
stream —all sand and pebbles.”

“That’s as true a word as ever ye spoke,
madam, and if it were not that ’twould be tak-
ing a liberty, I’d give ye some advice about
gardening in Camp. It’s not the first time
I’m quartered in Asholt, and I know the ways
Ohne

“T shall be very glad of advice. You know
I have never been stationed here before.”

“°Tis an old soldier’s advice, madam.”

“So much the better,” said the lady, warmly.

O’Reilly was kneeling to his work. He now
sat back on his heels, and not without a cer-
tain dignity that bade defiance to his surround-
ings he commenced his oration.

“Please Gop to spare you and the Colonel,
madam, to put in his time as Barrack Master
at this station, ye’ll see many a regiment come

and go, and be making themselves at home all


PQ Wh ag Mp Uae,
iG Sa Sey A s

7°



























EXPERIENCE KEEPS A DEAR SCHOOL. 49

along. And anny one that knows this place,
and the nature of the soil, tear-rs would over-
flow his eyes to see the regiments come for
drill, and betake themselves to gardening.
Maybe the boys have marched in footsore
and fasting, in the hottest of weather, to cold
comfort in empty quarters, and they'll not let
many hours flit over their heads before some of
‘em ’Il get possession of a load of green turf,
and be laying it down for borders around their
huts. It’s the young ones I’m speaking of;
and there ye'll see them, in the blazing sun,
with their shirts open, and not a thing on their
heads, squaring and fitting the turfs for bare
life, watering them out of old pie-dishes and
stable-buckets-and whatnot, singing and whis-
tling, and fetching and carrying between the
pump and their quarters, just as cheerful as so
many birds building their nests in the spring.”

EA RVeLy; pretty picture, O'Reilly. Why
should it bring tears to your eyes? An old

soldier like you must know that one would

Gs A Net
eee 7 Ne

‘ S
ear


50 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

























never haye a home in quarters at all if one did
not begin to make it at once.”

“True for you, madam. Not a doubt of it.
But it goes to your heart to see labor thrown
away; and it’s not once in a hundred times
that grass planted like that will get hold of a
soil like this, and the boys themselves at drill all

along, or gone out under canvas in Bottomless

g
Bog before the week’s over, as likely as not.”

“That would be unlucky. But one must
take one’s luck as it comes. And you've not
told me, now, what you do advise for Camp
Gardens.”

“That’s just what I’m coming to, ma'am.
See the old soldier! What does Ze do? Turns
the bucket upside down outside his hut, and
sits on it, with a cap on his head, and a hand-
kerchief down his back, and some tin tacks, and
a ball of string—trust a soldier's eye to get
the lines straight every one of them begin-
ning on the ground and going nearly up to the

roof.”


Peps : ope Sah Bs

FAO) a¥ é

























SOW BEANS IN THE MUD. 51

“For creepers, I suppose? What does the

old soldier plant?”
- «Beans, madam — scarlet runners. These
are the things for Asholt. A few beans are
nothing in your baggage. They like a warm
place, and when they're on the sunny side of
a hut they’ve got it, and no mistake. They're
growing while you're on duty. The flowers are
the right soldier's color; and when it comes to
the beans, ye may put your hand out of the
window and gather them, and no trouble at all.”

“The old soldier is very wise; but I think I
must have more flowers than that. So I plant,
and if they die 1 am very sorry; and if they
live, and other people have them, I try to be
glad. One ought to learn to be unselfish,
O'Reilly, and think of one’s successors.”

«And that’s true, madam; barring that I
never knew any one’s successor to have the
same fancies as himself: one plants trees to
give shelter, and the next cuts them down to

let in the air.”


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

‘“Well, I suppose the only way is to be pre-
pared for the worst. The rose we planted
yesterday by the porch is a great favorite of
mine; but the Colonel calls it ‘Marching
Orders.’ It used to grow over my window in
my old home, and I have planted it by every
home I have had since; but the Colonel says

whenever it settled and began to flower the

regiment got the route.”

“The Colonel must name it again, madam,”
said O'Reilly, gallantly, as he hitched up the
knees of his trousers, and returned to the
border. ‘It shall be ‘Standing Orders’ now,
if soap and water can make it blossom, and I’m
spared to attend to it all the time. Many a
hundred roses may you and the Colonel pluck
from it, and never one with a thorn!”

“Thank you, O’Reilly; thank you very
much. Soapy water is very good for roses, I
believe?”

“Tt is so, madam. I put in a good deal of

my time as officer’s servant after I was in the


















AND THEY'LL GROW LIKE WOOD. 53

Connaught Rangers, and the Captain I was
with one time was as fond of flowers as your-
self. There was a mighty fine rose-bush by his
quarters, and every morning I had to carry out
his bath to it. He used more soap than most
gentlemen, and when he sent me to the town
for it— ‘It’s not for myself, O’Reilly,’ he’d
say, ‘so much as for the Rose. Bring large
tablets,’ he’d say, ‘and the best scented ye
can get. The roses’]l be the sweeter for it.”
That was his way of joking, and never a smile
on his face. He was odd in many of his ways,
was the Captain, but he was a grand soldier
entirely; a good officer, and a good friend to
his men, and to the wives and children no less.
The regiment was in India when he died of
cholera, in twenty-four hours, do what I would.

“Oh, the cramp in my legs, O’Reilly!’ he says.



‘Gop bless ye, Captain,’ says I, ‘never mind
your legs; I’d manage the cramp, sir,’ I says,
‘if I could but keep up your heart.’ ‘Ye’ll not

do that, O'Reilly,’ he says, ‘for all your good-























54 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

ness ; I lost it too long ago.’ That was his way
of joking, and never a smile on his face. ’Twas
a pestilential hole we were in, and that’s the
truth ; and cost Her Majesty more in lives than
would have built healthy quarters, and given us
every comfort ; but the flowers throve there if
we didn’t, and the Captain’s grave was filled till
ye couldn’t get the sight of him for roses. He
was a good officer, and beloved of his men; and
better master never a man had!”

As he ceased speaking, O’Reilly drew his
sleeve sharply across his eyes, and then bent
again to his work, which was why he failed to
see what the Barrack Master’s wife saw, and
did not for some moments discover that she
was no longer in the garden. The matter was
this :

The Barrack Master’s quarters were close to
the Iron Church, and the straight road that ran
past both was crossed, just beyond the church,
by another straight road, which finally led out

to and joined a country highway. From this



Z 38 x ao We ss rer NE
ELE BN ae ES
_ THE SOLDIER'S FUNERAL. 55

highway an open carriage and pair were being

driven into the Camp as a soldier’s funeral was
marching to church. The band frightened the
horses, who were got past with some difficulty,
and having turned the sharp corner, were
coming rapidly towards the Barrack Master’s
hut, when Blind Baby, excited by the band,
strayed from his parade-ground, tumbled, basket
and all, into the ditch that divided it from the
road, picked up himself and his basket, and was
sturdily setting forth across the road just as the
frightened horses came plunging to the spot.
The Barrack Master’s wife was not very
young, and not very slender. Rapid move-
ments were not easy to her. She was nervous
also, and could never afterwards remember what
she did with herself in those brief moments
before she became conscious that the footman
had got to the horses’ heads, and that she her-
self was almost under their feet, with Blind
Baby in her arms. Blind Baby himself recalled

her to consciousness by the ungrateful fashion


Rey hy ee SUS ee 20deBS we ao Ge peasy, AY
Lge) PKS Ss SN gS AS Sh oe aad








56 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.





in which he pummelled his deliverer with his
fists and howled for his basket, which had

rolled under the carriage to add to the con-






fusion. Nor was he to be pacified till O'Reilly
took him from her arms.
By this time men had rushed from every hut

and kitchen, wash-place and shop, and were






swarming tothe rescue; and through the whole
disturbance, like minute-guns, came the short

barks of a black puppy, which Leonard had




insisted upon taking with him to show to his




aunt despite the protestations of his mother:




for it was Lady Jane’s carriage, and this was




how the sisters met.





They had been sitting together for some




time, so absorbed by the strangeness and the




pleasure of their new relations, that Leonard




and his puppy had slipped away unobserved,




when Lady Jane, who was near the window,




called to her sister-in-law : — “ Adelaide, tell me,




my dear, is this Colonel Jones?’ She spoke



























\ Ye <=

a ta eo SON Me 2 é

: ae, .
(Be OBESE
DEY
D)



Vy BLOOD IS THICKER THAN WATER. 57

with some trepidation. It is so easy for those
unacquainted with uniforms to make strange
blunders. Moreover, the Barrack Master,
though soldierly looking, was so, despite a very
unsoldierly defect. He was exceedingly stout,
and as he approached the miniature garden
gate, Lady Jane found herself gazing with some
anxiety to see if he could possibly get through.

But O’Reilly did not make an empty boast
when he said that a soldier’s eye was true.
The Colonel came quite neatly through the toy
entrance, knocked nothing down in the porch,
bent and bared his head with one gesture as he
passed under the drawing-room doorway, and
bowing again to Lady Jane, moved straight to
the side of his wife.

Something in the action—a mixture of
dignity and devotion, with just a touch of
defiance—went to Lady Jane’s heart. She
went up to him and held out both her hands : —
“Please shake hands with me, Colonel Jones.

I am so very happy to have found a sister!”
58 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

In a moment more she turned round, saying:
— “J must show you your nephew. Leonard !”
But Leonard was not there.

“JT fancy I have seen him already,” said the

Colonel. “If he is a very beautiful boy, very

beautifully dressed in velvet, he’s with O'Reilly,

watching the funeral.”

Lady Jane looked horrified, and Mrs. Jones
looked much relieved.

“He's quite safe if he’s with O’Reilly. But
give me my sunshade, Henry, please; I dare say
Lady Jane would like to see the funeral too.”

It is an Asholt amenity to take care that you
miss no opportunity of seeing a funeral. It
would not have occurred to Lady Jane to wish
to go, but as her only child had gone she went
willingly to look for him. As they turned the
corner of the hut they came straight upon it,
and at that moment the ‘‘ Dead March”’ broke
forth afresh.

The drum beat out those familiar notes which

strike upon the heart rather than the ear, the

























No Peo ez Sin AUN

TOLL FOR THE BRAVE! 59

brass screamed, the ground trembled to the tramp
of feet and the lumbering of the gun-carriage,
and Lady Jane’s eyes filled suddenly with tears
at the sight of the dead man’s accoutrements
lying on the Union Jack that serves a soldier
for a pall. As she dried them she saw Leonard.

Drawn up in accurate line with the edge of
the road, O’Reilly was standing to salute; and
as near to the Irish private as he could squeeze
himself stood the boy, his whole body stretched
to the closest possible imitation of his new and
deeply-revered friend, his left arm elued to his
side, and the back of his little right hand laid

against his brow, gazing at the pathetic pageant



as it passed him with devouring eyes. And
sey behind them stood Blind Baby, beating upon
his basket.

aE For the basket had been recovered, and Blind
eo Baby’s equanimity also; and he wandered up
v and down the parade again in the sun, long
a after the soldier’s funeral had wailed its way to

the graveyard, over the heather-covered hill.


CHAPTER IV.

“My mind is in the anomalous condition of hating
war, and loving its discipline, which has been an incal-
culable contribution to the sentiment of duty .. . the
devotion of the common soldier to his leader (the sign
for him of hard duty), is the type of all higher devotedness,
and is full of promise to other and better generations.”

; George Eliot.

“Your sister is as nice as nice can be,
Rupert; and I like the Barrack Master very

much, too. He zs stout! But he is very active

and upright, and his manners to his wife are

wonderfully pretty. Do you know, there is
something to me most touching in the way
these two have knocked about the world to-
gether, and seem so happy with so little. Cot-
tagers could hardly live more simply, and yet
their ideas, or at any rate their experiences,

seem so much larger than one’s own.”






Ces ee
5 aS

BIRTHS GUDE, BUT BREEDING’S BETTER. 61

“My dear Jane! if you’ve taken them up
from the romantic point of view all is, indeed,
accomplished. I know the wealth of your
imagination, and the riches of its charity. If,
in such a mood, you will admit that Jones is

stout, he must be fat indeed! Never again



_ upbraid me with the price that I paid for that
Chippendale arm-chair. It will hold the Bar-
rack Master.”

“Rupert!—I cannot help saying it—it



ought to have held him long ago. It makes
me miserable to think that they have never
been under our roof.”

“Jane! Be miserable if you must; but, at



least, be accurate. The Barrack Master was
in India when I bought that paragon of all
Chips, and he has only come home this year.
Nay, my dear! Don’t be vexed! I give you
my word, I’m a good deal more ashamed than
I like to own to think how Adelaide has been
treated by the family—with me as its head.

Did you make my apologies to-day, and tell

wy



T

sy
A

wwe,

Ua

~ r -

hy,

Je















62 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

her that I shall ride out to-morrow and pay my
respects to her and Jones?”

“Of course. I told her you were obliged
to go to town, and I would not delay to call
and ask if I could be of use to them. I begged
them to come here till their quarters are quite
finished; but they won’t. They say they are
settled. I could not say much, because we
ought to have asked them sooner. He is
rather on his dignity with us, I think, and no
wonder.”

“He’s disgustingly on his dignity! They

‘both are. Because the family resented the

match at first, they have refused every kind of
help that one would have been glad to give him
as Adelaide’s husband, if only to secure their
being in a decent position. Neither interest
nor money would he accept, and Adelaide
has followed his lead. She has very little of
her own, unfortunately; and she knows how
my father left things as well as I do, and never

would accept a farthing more than her bare


ON HIS DIGNITY.

rights. I tried some dodges, through Quills;
but it was of no use. The vexation is that he
has taken this post of Barrack Master as a sort
of pension, which need never have been. I
suppose they have to make that son an allow- |
ance. It’s not likely he lives on his pay. I
can’t conceive how they scrub along.”

And as the Master of the House threw him-
self into the paragon of all Chips, he ran his
fingers through hair, the length and disorder
of which would have made the Barrack Master
feel positively ill, with a gesture of truly dra-
matic despair.

‘Your sister has made her room look wonder-
fully pretty. One would never imagine those
huts could look as nice as they do inside. But
it’s like playing with a doll’s house. One feels
inclined to examine everything, and to be quite

pleased that the windows: have glass in them

and will really open and shut.”

The Master of the House raised his eyebrows

funnily.


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

“Vou did take rose-colored spectacles with

you to the Camp!”

Lady Jane laughed.

“T did not see the Camp itself through them.
What an incomparably dreary place it is! It
makes me think of little woodcuts in missionary
reports —‘ Sketch of a Native Settlement ’—
rows of little black huts that look, at a distance,
as if one must creep into them on all-fours;
nobody about, and an iron church on the hill.”

“Most accurately described! And you won-
der that I regret that a native settlement should
have been removed from the enchanting dis-
tance of missionary reports to become my per-
manent neighbor?”

“Well, I must confess the effect it produces
on me is to make me feel quite ashamed of
the peace and pleasure of this dear old place,
the shade and greenery outside, the space above
my head, and the lovely things before my eyes
inside (for you know, Rupert, how I appreciate

your decorative tastes, though I have so few


NON EADEM MIRAMUR. 65

myself. I only scolded about the Chip because
I think you might have got him for less) —
when so many men bred to similar comforts,
and who have served their country so well, with
wives I dare say quite as delicate as I am, have
to be cooped up in those ugly little kennels in
that dreary place —”’

“What an uncomfortable thing a Scotch
conscience is!” interrupted the Master of the
House. “ By-the-by, those religious instincts,
which are also characteristic of your race, must
have found one redeeming feature in the Camp,
the ‘iron church on the hill’; especially as I
imagine that it is puritanically ugly!”

“There was a funeral going into it as we
drove into Camp, and I wanted to tell you the
horses were very much frightened.”

“Richards fidgets those horses ; they’re quiet
enough with me.”

“They did not like the military band.”

“They must get used to the band and to

other military nuisances. It is written in the


66 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

stars, as I too clearly foresee, that we shall be
driving in and out of that Camp three days
a-week. I can’t go to my club without meeting
men I was at school with who are stationed at
Asholt, and expect me to look them up. As
to the women, I met a man yesterday who is
living in a hut, and expects a Dowager Coun-
tess and her two daughters for the ball. He
has given up his dressing-room to the Dowager,
and put two barrack-beds into the coal-hole
for the young ladies, he says. It’s an insanity!”

“Adelaide told me about the ball. The
Camp seems very gay just now. They have
had theatricals; and there is to be a grand
Field Day this week.”

“So our visitors have already informed me.
They expect to go. Louisa Mainwaring is look-
ing handsomer than ever, and I have always
regarded her as a girl with a mind. I took her
to see the peep I have cut opposite to the

island, and I could not imagine why those fine

eyes of hers looked so blank. Presently she


SOD ca eer aa, SS S Q Xa

v







FIELD DAYS. 67

said, ‘I suppose you can see the Camp from
the little pine-wood?’ And to the little pine-
wood we had to go. Both the girls have got
stiff necks with craning out of the carriage
window to catch sight of the white tents among
the heather as they came along in the train.”

“T suppose we must take them to the Field
Day; but I am very nervous about those horses,
Rupert.”

“The horses will be taken out before any firing
begins. As to bands, the poor creatures must
learn, like their master, to endure the brazen
liveliness of military music. It’s no fault of
mine that our nerves are scarified by any
sounds less soothing than the crooning of the
wood-pigeons among the pines!”

No one looked forward to the big Field Day
with keener interest than Leonard; and only a
few privileged persons knew more about the
arrangements for the day than he had contrived
to learn.

O'Reilly was sent over with a note from Mrs.













































68 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

Jones to decline the offer of a seat in Lady
Jane’s carriage for the occasion. Leonard
waylaid the messenger (whom he hardly rec-
ognized as a tidy one!), and O'Reilly gladly im-
parted all that he knew about the Field Day:
and this was a good deal. He had it from a °
" friend —a corporal in the Head Quarters Office.

As a rule, Leonard only enjoyed a limited
popularity with his mother’s visitors. He was
very pretty and very amusing, and had better
qualities even than these; but he was restless
and troublesome. On this occasion, however,
the young ladies suffered him to trample their
dresses and interrupt their conversation without
remonstrance. He knew more about the Field
Day than any one in the house, and, standing
among their pretty furbelows and fancywork in
stiff military attitudes, he imparted his news
with an unsuccessful imitation of an Irish ac-
cent.

‘“‘O’Reilly says the March Past’ll be at eleven



o'clock on the Sandy Slopes.”

“hs ay Oe 5g = os Te
AP Sey Ci et UES } 2,
a * he ae of
rn 1)


















OLD SOLDIERS. 69

“Louisa, is that Major O’Reilly of the
Rifles?”

“J don’t know, dear. Is your friend O’ Reilly
in the Rifles, Leonard ?”’

“JT don’t know. I know he’s an owld soldier
— he told me so.”

“Old, Leonard; not owld. You mustn't talk
like that.”

“TJ shall if I like. He does, and I mean to.”

“T dare say he did, Louisa. He’s always
joking.”

“No he isn’t. He didn’t joke when the
funeral went past. He looked quite grave, as
if he was saying his prayers, and stood so.”

“ How touching !”












“ How like him!”

“ How graceful and tender hearted Irishmen
are!”

“T stood so, too. I mean to do as like him
as ever I can. I do love him so very very
much!’

“Dear boy!”

= a
6% t
fore Ow
Suir f' Oo
ce :






a

Ss a
fe






















THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

“Vou good, affectionate little soul!”

“ Give me a kiss, Leonard dear.”

“No, thank you. I’m too old for kissing.
He’s going to march past, and he’s going tc
look out for me with the tail of his eye, and
I’m going to look out for him.”

“Do, Leonard; and mind you tell us when
you see him coming.”

“JT can’t promise. I might forget. But per-
haps you can know him by the good-conduct
stripe on his arm. He used to have two;
but he lost one all along of St. Patrick’s

”

Day.

“That can’t be your partner, Louisa!”

« Officers never have good-conduct stripes.”

“ Leonard, you ought not to talk to common
soldiers. You've gota regular Irish brogue, and
you're learning all sorts of ugly words. You'll

S wr grow up quite a vulgar little boy, if you don’t
si ‘we ae take care.”

ww 2A DSS “JT don’t want to take care. I like being

Irish, and I shall be a vulgar little boy too, if




“T really cannot go if my Sweep has to be left behind.”
























Q

THE BLACK PUPPY. 71



I choose. But when I do grow up, I am going
to grow into an owld, owld, Owld Soldier!”

Leonard made this statement of his inten-
tions in his clearest manner. After which,
having learned that the favor of the fair is
fickleness, he left the ladies, and went to look
for his Black Puppy.

The Master of the House, in arranging for
his visitors to go to the Field Day, had said
that Leonard was not to be of the party. He
had no wish to encourage the child’s fancy for
soldiers: and as Leonard was invariably rest-
less out driving, and had a trick of kicking
people's shins in his changes of mood and posi-
tion, he was a most uncomfortable element in
a carriage full of ladies. But it is needless to
say that he stoutly resisted his father’s decree ;
and the child’s disappointment was so bitter,
and he howled and wept himself into such a
‘) deplorable condition that the young ladies sac-
rificed their own comfort and the crispness of

their new dresses to his grief, and petitioned


LS ie Is SE Sra Se





THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.






















72

the Master of the House that he might be
allowed to go. :

The Master of the House gave in. He was
accustomed to yield where Leonard was con-
cerned. But the concession proved only a
prelude to another struggle. Leonard wanted
the Black Puppy to go too.

On this point the young ladies presented no
petition. Leonard’s boots they had resolved to
endure, but not the dog’s paws. Lady Jane,
too, protested against the puppy, and the mat-
ter seemed settled; but at the last moment,
when all but Leonard were in the carriage, and
the horses chafing to be off, the child made his
appearance, and stood on the entrance-steps —
with his puppy in his arms, and announced, in
dignified sorrow, “I really cannot go if my
Sweep has to be left behind.”

With one consent the grown-up people turned
to look at him.

Even the intoxicating delight that color gives

can hardly exceed the satisfying pleasure in





































































74 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

which beautiful proportions steep the sense of

sight ; and one is often at fault to find the law

that has been so exquisitely fulfilled, when the
| eye has no doubt of its own satisfaction.

The shallow stone steps, on the top of which
Leonard stood, and the old doorway that framed
him, had this mysterious grace, and, truth to

“say, the boy’s beauty was a jewel not unworthy
of its setting.

A holiday dress of crimson velvet, with collar
and ruffles of old lace, became him very quaintly ;
and as he laid a cheek like a rose-leaf against
the sooty head of his pet, and they both gazed
piteously at the carriage, even Lady Jane’s con-
science was stifled by motherly pride. He was
her only child, but as he had said of the Or-
derly, “a very splendid sort of one.”

The Master of the House stamped his foot
with an impatience that was partly real and
partly, perhaps, affected.

“Well, get in somehow, if youmean to. The

horses can’t wait all day for you.”



“Whe 2) oy

ENS Ny te Galop pee oe wt
By to 4 ee Aah
bi
Bay Ss
Se
we, “RY ap “ARM Fe We My HUEY
a5 Sole. Be oe = Ag

TS



















LOVE ME, LOVE MY DOG. 75

No ruby-throated humming bird could have
darted more swiftly from one point to another
than Leonard from the old gray steps into the
carriage. Little boys can be very careful when
they choose, and he trode on no toes and crum-
pled no finery in his flitting.

To those who know dogs, it is needless to say
that the puppy showed an even superior discre-
tion. It bore throttling without a struggle,
Instinctively conscious of the alternative of
being shut up in a stable for the day, and left
there to bark its heart out, it shrank patiently
into Leonard’s grasp, and betrayed no sign of
life except in the strained and pleading anxiety
which a puppy’s eyes so often wear.

“Your dog is a very good dog, Leonard, I
must say," said Louisa Mainwaring ; “but he’s
very ugly. I never saw such legs!”

Leonard tucked the lank black legs under his
velvet and ruffles. “Oh, he’s all right,” he said.
“He'll be very handsome soon. It’s his ugly
mouth.”





THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

“JT wonder you didn’t insist on our bringing
Uncle Rupert and zs dog to complete the
party,” said the Master of the House.

The notion tickled Leonard, and he laughed
so heartily that the puppy’s legs got loose, and
required to be tucked in afresh. Then both






















remained quiet for several seconds, during
which the puppy looked as anxious as ever ;
but Leonard’s face wore a smile of dreamy
content that doubled its loveliness.

But as the carriage passed the windows of
the library a sudden thought struck him, and
dispersed his repose.

Gripping his puppy firmly under his arm,
he sprang to his feet—regardless of other
people’s —and waving his, cap and feather
above his head he cried aloud, ‘Good-bye,
Uncle Rupert! Can you hear me? Uncle
Rupert, I say! I am — /etus —sorte—mea!”

* co co * #
All the Camp was astir.
Men and bugles awoke with the dawn and
wv axle




oh th al np 3 ae Sy




FAIR LAUGHS THE MORN. 77




the birds, and now the women and children of



all ranks were on the alert. (Nowhere does

so large and enthusiastic a crowd collect ‘to




see the pretty soldiers go by,’ as in those




places where pretty soldiers live.)




Soon after gun-fire O'Reilly made his way




from his own quarters to those of the Barrack




Master, opened the back door by some process




best known to himself, and had been busy for




half an hour in the drawing-room before his




proceedings woke the Colonel. They had been



as noiseless as possible; but the Colonel’s




dressing-room opened into the drawing-room,




his bedroom opened into that, and all the



doors and windows were opened to court the





air.
“Who's there?” said the Colonel from his
pillow.




‘Tis O'Reilly, Sir. I ask your pardon, Sir;




but I heard that the Mistress was not well.




She'll be apt to want the reclining-chair, Sir;

and ‘twas damaged in the unpacking. I got







Se cS
See ee A ee Bs ig







































: Bo
u S26 “aie, Gee y PS
tT, A ROE 9

S&

78 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

the screws last night, but I was busy soldier-
ing! till too late; so I come in this morning,
for Smith’s no good at a job of the kind at all.
He’s a butcher to his trade.”

“Mrs. Jones is much obliged to you for
thinking of it, O'Reilly.”

‘°’Tis an honor to oblige her, Sir. I done it
sound and secure. ’Tis as safe as arock; but
I'd like to nail a bit of canvas on from the
porch to the other side of the hut, for shelter,
in case she’d be sitting out to taste the air and
see the troops go by. ‘Twill not take me five
minutes, if the hammering wouldn’t be too

much for the Mistress. ’Tis a hot day, Sir,



for certain, till the guns bring the rain



down.”

“Put it up, if you’ve time.”

“JT will, Sir. I left your sword and gloves
on the kitchen-table, Sir; and I told Smith to

water the rose before the sun’s on to it.”





1 “Soldiering”?—a barrack term for the furbishing up of

accoutrements, &c.









AND SOFT THE ZEPHYR BLOWS. 79



With which O’Reilly adjusted the cushions
of the invalid-chair, and having nailed up the
bit of canvas outside, so as to form an im-
promptu veranda, he ran back to his quarters
to put himself into marching order for the

- Field Day.

The Field Day broke into smiles of sunshine
too early to be lasting. By breakfast-time the
rain came down without waiting for the guns;
but those most concerned took the changes of
weather cheerfully, as soldiers should. Rain
damages uniforms, but it lays dust; and the
dust of the Sandy Slopes was dust indeed!

After a pelting shower the sun broke forth
again, and from that time onwards the weather
was ‘“Queen’s Weather,” and Asholt was at its
best. The sandy Camp lay girdled by a zone
of the verdure of early summer, which passed
by miles of distance, through exquisite grada-
tions of many blues, to meet the soft threaten-
ings of the changeable sky. Those lowering

and yet tender rain-clouds which hover over the





















80 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

British Isles, guardian spirits of that scantly
recognized blessing—a temperate climate;
Naiads of the waters over the earth, whose .
caprices betwixt storm and sunshine fling such
beauty upon a landscape as has no parallel
except in the common simile of a fair face
quivering between tears and smiles,

Smiles were in the ascendant as the regi-
ments began to leave their parade-grounds, and
the surface of the Camp (usually quiet, even
to dulness) sparkled with movement. Along

every principal road the color and glitter of

marching troops rippled lke streams, and as
the band of one regiment died away another
broke upon the excited ear.

At the outlets of the Camp eager crowds
waited patiently in the dusty hedges to greet
favorite regiments, or watch for personal friends
amongst the troops; and on the ways to the
Sandy Slopes every kind of vehicle, from a drag
to a donkey-cart, and every variety of pedes-

trian, from an energetic tourist carrying a field-


ae Roe



























MARCHING TROOPS.

glass to a more admirably energetic mother
carrying a baby, disputed the highway with
cavalry in brazen breastplates, and horse-artil-
lery whose gallant show was drowned in its
own dust.

Lady Jane’s visitors had expressed them-
selves as anxious not to miss anything, and
troops were still pouring out of the Camp when
the Master of the House brought his skittish
horses to where a “block” had just occurred
at the turn to the Sandy Slopes.

What the shins and toes of the visitors
endured whilst that knot of troops of all arms
disentangled itself and streamed away in gay
and glittering lines, could only have been con-
cealed by the supreme powers of endurance
latent in the weaker sex; for with the sight of
every fresh regiment Leonard changed his plans
for his own future career, and with every change
he forgot a fresh promise to keep quiet, and
took by storm that corner of the carriage which

for the moment offered the best point of view.


82 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

Suddenly, through the noise and dust, and

above the dying away of conflicting bands into
the distance, tkaere came another sound —
a sound unlike any other —the skirling of the
pipes; and Lady Jane sprang up and put her
arms about her son, and bade him watch for the
Highlanders, and if Cousin Alan looked up as
he went past to cry “Hurrah for Bonnie
Scotland!”

For this sound and this sight — the bagpipes
and the Highlanders—a sandy-faced Scotch
lad on the tramp to Southampton had waited
for an hour past, frowning and freckling his
face in the sun, and exasperating a naturally
dour temper by reflecting on the probable pride
and heartlessness of folks who wore such soft
complexions and pretty clothes as the ladies
and the little boy in the carriage on the other
side of the road.

But when the skirling of the pipes cleft the
air his cold eyes softened as he caught sight of

Leonard’s face, and the echo that he made to


f\ 7, > NS se 3 2 N “ = “( x < lic \ /
Si ‘ Poe.

Se VEO Kt

aN ve LEAS. Bes = vy.
- Mr, t¢ f Ss ts x N ‘3 Sy ay mG, NS eee fa es
AS oan Ra 3 wale ne eel ah eee :
ae i = Se SS ae So OL,
‘















((

anders.



]
3)



gh



(8

ey.
ne Hi



Tl
















DY fl, Ae
& x 1% S

Bu
BAL |<

84 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

Leonard’s cheer was caught up by the good-
humored crowd, who gave the Scotch regiment
a willing ovation as it swung proudly by. After
which the carriage moved on, and for a time
Leonard sat very still. He was thinking of
Cousin Alan and his comrades; of the tossing
plumes that shade their fierce eyes; of the
swing of kilt and sporran with their unfettered
limbs ; of the rhythmic tread of their white feet
and the fluttering ribbons on the bagpipes; and
of Alan’s handsome face looking out of his
most becoming bravery.

The result of his meditations Leonard
announced with his usual lucidity:

“I am Scotch, not Irish, though O'Reilly és
the nicest man I ever knew. But I must tell
him that I really cannot grow up into an Owld
Soldier, because I mean to bea young Highland
officer, and look at ladies with my eyes like

thts —and carry my sword so/”






















By wu ¢
Ly) X& a

Me ata

CHAPTER V.

“Oh that a man might know the end of this day’s
business ere it comes! "— Fudius Cesar.

YEARS of living amongst soldiers had in-
creased, rather than diminished, Mrs. Jones’s
relish for the sights and sounds of military
life.

The charm of novelty is proverbially great,
but it is not so powerful as that peculiar spell
which drew the retired tallow-chandler back to
“shop” on melting-days, and which guided the
choice of the sexton of a cemetery who only
took one holiday trip in the course of seven
years, and then he went to a cemetery at some
distance to see how they managed matters
there. And, indeed, poor humanity may be
very thankful for the infatuation, since it goes

far to make life pleasant in the living to plain
(85)
























=





86 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

folk who do not make a point of being dis
contented.

In obedience to this law of nature, th a
Barrack Master’s wife did ‘exactly what O’Reill

had expected her to do. As she could nop
ee

i

We?

Sle =

drive to the Field Day, she strolled out to se

the troops go by. Then the vigor derived fromt ey















breakfast and the freshness of the morning ai
began to fail, the day grew hotter, the Camy
looked dreary and deserted, and, either fro
physical weakness or from some untold cause}

a nameless anxiety, a sense of trouble in the air

ld
ei

9

began to oppress her.

A

Me
i

wy

Wandering out again to try and shake it off
it was almost a relief, like the solving of
riddle, to find Blind Baby sitting upon his Big Vy,
Drum, too low-spirited to play the Dead March
and crying because all the bands had “gon
right away.” Mrs. Jones made friends with
him, and led him off to her hut for consolation,
and he was soon as happy as ever, standing b

the piano and beating upon his basket in time





Ve aes
ty
Woe i) h,

ANA




-
ut The Sexton’s Holiday Trip.
oh. (87)
uy ea
ae ‘ Es
©
a 6


7
al

2 VB LY sn a ia ‘4 Hp5 YL,
GE PE

&










88



THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

to the tunes she played for him. But the day




and the hut grew hotter, and her back ached,




and the nameless anxiety re-asserted itself, and




was not relieved by Blind Baby’s preference for




the Dead March over every other tune with




which she tried to beguile him.




And when he had gone back to his own




Parade, with a large piece of cake and many




assurances that the bands would undoubtedly




return, and the day wore on, and the hut




became like an oven (in the absence of any




appliances to mitigate the heat), the Barrack




Master’s wife came to the hasty conclusion




that Asholt was hotter than India, whatever




thermometers might say; and, too weary to




seek for breezes outside, or to find a restful




angle of the reclining chair inside, she folded




her hands in her lap and abandoned herself




to the most universal remedy for most ills —






patience. And patience was its own reward,

See
Saat







for she fell asleep.







pry

Her last thoughts as she dozed off were of her



SS ~
o GOVE - ° oh
2 co : Oy
THERE'S TROUBLE IN THE AIR. 89

husband and her son, wishing that they were safe
home again, that she might assure herself that it
was not on their account that there was trouble
in the air. Then she dreamed of being roused
by the Colonel’s voice saying, ‘I have bad

”

news to tell you—” and was really awakened
by straining in her dream to discover what hin-
dered him from completing his sentence.

She had slept some time —it was now after-
noon, and the air was full of sounds of the
returning bands. She went out into the road
and saw the Barrack Master (he was easy to dis-
tinguish at some distance !) pause on his home-
ward way, and then she saw her son running to
join his father, with his sword under his arm ;
and they came on together, talking as they
came,

And as soon as they got within earshot she
said, “ Have you bad news to tell me?”

The Colonel ran up and drew her hand

within his arm.

“Come indoors, dear Love.”


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

“You are both well?”

“Both of us. Brutally so.”

“Quite well, dear Mother.”

Her son was taking her other hand into
caressing care; there could be no doubt about
the bad news.

“Please tell me what it is.”

“There has been an accident —”

“To whom?” :

“To your brother’s child; that jolly little

4! chap —”’

“Oh, Henry! how?”
“He was standing up in the carriage, IT

believe, with a dog in his arms. George saw

ian him when he went past —didn’t you?”

“Yes. I wonder he didn’t fall thén. I

; fancy some one had told him it was our regi-

ment. The dog was struggling, but he would

Ae take off his hat to us —”’

The young soldier choked, and added with

§ difficulty, “I think I never saw so lovely a face.

Poor little cousin!”



















ROOSE THE FAIR DAY AT EEN. g!I

“ And he overbalanced himself ?”

““Not when George saw him. I believe it was
when the Horse Artillery were going by at the
gallop. They say he got so much excited, and
the dog barked, and they both fell. Some say
there were people moving a drag, and some
that he fell under the horse of a patrol. Any-
; how, I’m afraid he’s very much hurt. They
; took him straight home in an ambulance-wagon
to save time. Erskine went with him. I sent
off a telegram for them for a swell surgeon
‘from town, and Lady Jane promised a line if I
send over this evening. O'Reilly must go after
dinner and wait for the news.”

O’Reilly, sitting stiffly amid the coming and
going of the servants at the Hall, was too
deeply devoured by anxiety to trouble himself
je as to whether the footman’s survey of his uni-

) form bespoke more interest or contempt. But



! when — just after gun-fire ‘had sounded from
} the distant Camp —Jemima brought him the

wis long-waited-for note, he caught the girl’s hand,





92 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.




and held it for some moments before he was
able to say, “Just tell me, miss; is it good




news or bad that I'll be carrying back in this




bit of paper?” And as Jemima only answered

by sobs, he added, almost impatiently, “ Will he




live, dear? Nod your head if ye can do no




more.” ~



Jemima nodded, and the soldier dropped her




hand, drew a long breath, and gave himself one




of those shakes with “which an Irishman so




often throws off care.




“Ah, then, dry your eyes, darlin’; while



there’s life there’s hope.”



But Jemima sobbed still.




“The doctor — from London — says he may




live a good while, but —but—he’s to be a-




cripple all his days!”




“Now wouldn’t I rather be meeting a tiger




this evening than see the mistress’s face when




she gets that news!” ,
And O'Reilly strode back to Camp.

Going along through a shady part of the road







SUA RCO nei a ee 5 QWs Uy
BS OLE GEOR BOBS





PORCELAIN OR BRICK —YET BOTH CLAY. 93



in the dusk, seeing nothing but the red glow




of the pipe with which he was consoling himself,




the soldier stumbled against a lad sleeping on




the grass by the roadside. It was the tramping




Scotchman, and as he sprang to his feet the two




Kelts broke into a fiery dialogue that seemed as




if it could only come to blows.




It did not. It came to the good-natured




soldier’s filling the wayfarer’s pipe for him.




“Much good may it do ye! And maybe the




next time a decent man that’s hastening home




on the wings of misfortune stumbles against ye,




ye'll not be so apt to take offence.”




“Task your pardon, man; I was barely




wakened, and I took ye for one of these gay




red-coats blustering hame after a bloodless
battle on the Field Day, as they ca’ it.”
“Bad luck to the Field Day! A darker

never dawned ; and wouldn’t a bloodier battle






have spared a child?”



“Your child? What’s happened to the



bairn?”’


W294. THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

















“My child indeed! And his mother a lady
- 4 of title, no less.”
“What's got him?”

“Fell out of the carriage, and was trampled



S “3 into a cripple for all the days of his life. He
“Wothat had set as fine a heart as ever beat on
De being a soldier; and a grand one he’d have
% made. ‘Sure ’tis a nobleman ye’ll be,’ says I.
‘Tis an owld soldier I mean to be, O’Reilly,’
oe says he. And—”

“Fond of the soldiers — his mother a leddy?
‘ed & Man! Had he a braw new velvet coat and the
t face of an angel on him?”

} “He had so.”

; “And I that thocht they'd all this warld
Aad gi could offer them!—A cripple? Ech sirs!”



CHAPTER VI.








supporteth me. There God acteth, and not His creature.

Lady Fane Greys:

sight, and of self-discipline, to do more for ay

beautiful and loving pet than play with it.



And if his grace and beauty and high spiritgs

rs ND FLY
how much greater were the excuses for indulgi;

gt
96 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

were cut off by the shears of a destiny that
seemed drearier than death ?

As soon as the poor child was able to be
moved his parents took a place on the west
coast of Scotland, and carried him thither.

The neighborhood of Asholt had become
intolerable by them for some time to come,
and a soft climate and sea-breezes were recom-
mended for his general health.

Jemima’s dismissal was revoked. Leonard
flatly, and indeed furiously, refused to have
any other nurse. During the first crisis a
skilled. hospital nurse was engaged, but from
the time that he fully recovered consciousness
he would receive help from no hands but those
of Jemima and Lady Jane.

Far older and wiser patients than he become
ruthless in their demands upon the time and
strength of those about them; and Leonard
did not spare his willing slaves by night or
by day. It increased their difficulties and his
sufferings that the poor child was absolutely


























LUN x =

WHE
ot tek
< . \

Se
ann . y XY : SS =o ‘ Who We M45 wr ty
eg ONE ere ae ole, BR es TE
OO “ae Oe SS SES is SS







THE TYRANNY OF THE WEAK. 97






unaccustomed to prompt obedience, and dis-
puted the doctor’s orders as he had been accus-
tomed to dispute all others.





Lady Jane’s health became very much




broken, but Jemima was fortunately possessed




of a sturdy body and an inactive mind, and with




a devotion little less than maternal she gave




up both to Leonard’s service.




He had a third slave of his bed-chamber —




a black one—the Black Puppy, from whom




he had absolutely refused to part, and whom




he insisted upon having upon his bed, to the




doctor’s disgust. When months passed, and




the Black Puppy became a Black Dog, large




and cumbersome, another effort was made to




induce Leonard to part with him at night;




but he only complained bitterly.




“Tt is very odd that there cannot be a bed




big enough for me and my dog. I am an




invalid, and I ought to have what I want.”




So The Sweep remained as his bedfellow.




The Sweep also played the part of the last




98 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.


















straw in the drama of Jemima’s life; for Leon-



ard would allow no one but his.own dear nurse¥



to wash his own dear dog; and odd hours, in\|

which Jemima might have snatched a little ras ;

and relaxation, were spent by her in getting the “|

big dog’s still lanky legs into a tub, and keep37/\Stu:




ing him there, and washing him, and drying
and combing him into fit condition to spring ia
back on to Leonard’s coverlet when that imperiz¥7,

ed SS

ous little invalid called for him.







It was a touching manifestation of the dog’s/.
intelligence that he learned with the utmosf?
care to avoid jostling or hurting the poor suffer{’
ing little body of his master. :
Leonard’s fourth slave was his father.

But the Master of the House had no facult

for nursing, and was by no means possessed










“Leonard would allow no one but his own dear nurse te

wash his own dear dog.”

(99)























100 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. ~

son’s sufferings, and tried to stifle the remem-
brance of a calamity and disappointment, whose
bitterness his own heart alone fully knew.

After the lapse of nearly two years Leonard
suddenly asked to be taken home. He was
tired of the shore, and wanted to see if The
Sweep remembered the park. He wanted to
see if Uncle Rupert would look surprised to
see him going about in a wheel-chair- He
wanted to go to the Camp again, now the doc-
tor said he might have drives, and see if
O’Reilly was alive still, and his uncle, and his
aunt, and his cousin. He wanted father to
play to him on their own organ, their very own
organ, and —no, thank you! — he did not want
any other music now.

He hated this nasty place, and wanted to go
home. If he was going to live he wanted to
live there, and if he was going to die he wanted
to die there, and have his funeral his own way,
if they knew a General and could borrow a gun-

carriage and a band.
























De.

BS OBR ERS

«TO EACH HIS SUFFERINGS. 10!

He didn’t want to eat or drink, or to go to
sleep, or to take his medicine, or to go out and
send The Sweep into the sea, or to be read to
or played to; he wanted to go home— home
—home!

The upshot of which was, that before his
parents had time to put into words the idea
that the agonizing associations of Asholt were
still quite unendurable, they found themselves
congratulating each other on having got Leon-
ard safely home before he had cried him-
self into convulsions over twenty-four hours’
delay. 5

For a time, being at home seemed to revive
him. He was in less pain, in better spirits,
had more appetite, and was out a great deal
with his dog and his nurse. But he fatigued
himself, which made him fretful, and he cer-
tainly grew more imperious every day.

His whim was to be wheeled into every nook



ay and corner of the place, inside and out, and to
ese

°c show them to The Sweep. And who could
























102



THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

have had the heart to refuse him anything in
the face of that dread affliction which had so
changed him amid the unchanged surroundings
of his old home?

Jemima led the life of a prisoner on the tread-
mill. When she wasn’t pushing him about she
was going errands for him, fetching and. carry-
ing. She was “never off her feet.”

He moved about a little now on crutches,
though he had not strength to be very active
with them, as some cripples are. But they
became ready instruments of his impatience to
thump the floor with one end, and not infre-
quently to strike those who offended him with
the other.

His face was little less beautiful than of old,
but it looked wan and weird ; and his beauty
was often marred by what is more destructive
of beauty even than sickness—the pinched
lines of peevishness and ill-temper. He suffered
less, but he looked more unhappy, was more

difficult to please, and more impatient with all




« | ee Ge
BE OSB a

PATIENCE ITS OWN REWARD. 103





















efforts to please him. But then, though noth-
ing is truer than that patience is its own re-
ward, it has to be learned first. And, with
children, what has to be learned must be
taught.

To this point Lady Jane’s meditations
brought: her one day as she paced up and
down her own morning-room, and stood before
the window which looked down where the elm-
trees made long shadows on the grass; for
the sun was declining, greatly to Jemima’s
relief, who had been toiling in Leonard’s ser-
vice through the hottest hours of a summer
day.

Lady Jane had a tender conscience, and just
now it was a very uneasy one. She was one of
those somewhat rare souls who are by nature

absolutely true. Not so much with elaborate



avoidance of lying, or an aggressive candor, as
NM straight-minded, single-eyed, clear-headed, and
ayy pure-hearted ; a soul to which the truth and

@ -veality of things, and the facing of things,





















104 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

came as naturally as the sham of them and
the blinking of them comes to others.

When such a nature has strong affections it
is no light matter if love and duty come into
conflict. They were in conflict now, and the
mother’s heart was pierced with a two-edged
sword. For if she truly believed what she
believed, her duty towards Leonard was not
only that of a tender mother to a suffering
child, but the duty of one soul to another soul,
whose responsibilities no man might deliver
him from, nor make agreement unto Gop that
he should be quit of them.

And if the disabling of his body did not
stop the developing, one way or another, of
his mind; if to learn fortitude and patience
under his pains was not only his highest duty
but his best chance of happiness; then, if she
failed to teach him these, of what profit was it
that she would willingly have endured all his
sufferings ten times over that life might be

all sunshine for him?




BS OR Lah BOS




























LOVE AND DUTY. 105

And deep down in her truthful soul another
thought rankled. No one but herself knew
how the pride of her heart had been stirred
by Leonard’s love for soldiers, his brave ambi-
tions, the high spirit and heroic instincts which
he inherited from a long line of gallant men
and noble women. Had her pride been a
sham? Did she only care for the courage
of the battle-field? Was she willing that her
f “ son should be a coward, because it was not the
trumpet’s sound that summoned him to forti-
tude? She had strung her heart to the thought
that, like many a mother of her race, she might
live to gird on his sword; should she fail to
help him to carry his cross?

At this point a cry came from below the
window, and looking out she saw Leonard,
beside himself with passion, raining blows like
hail with his crutch upon poor Jemima; The
Sweep watching matters nervously from under
a garden seat.

Leonard had been irritable all day, and this
106 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

was the second serious outbreak. The first

had sent the Master of the House to town with
a deeply-knitted brow.

Vexed at being thwarted in some slight °
matter, when he was sitting in his wheel-chair
by the side of his father in the library, he had
seized a sheaf of papers tied together with
amber-colored ribbon, and had torn them to
shreds. It was a fair copy of the first two cantos
of “Zhe Soul’s Satiety, a poem on which the °
Master of the House had been engaged for
some years. He had not touched it in Scot-
land, and was now beginning to work at it
again. He could not scold his cripple child,
but he had gone up to London in a far from
comfortable mood.

And now Leonard was banging poor Jemima
with his crutches! Lady Jane felt that her
conscience had not roused her an hour too
- soon.

The Master of the House had dined in town,
and Leonard had tea with his mother in her



















. Be We Ua ait

SOO nr A Wh = oe LY ¥§ TH,

TORS 24 , BCS Ps an a Oa We wy Eee,

| oe di Be See ha i he OP ag
OK) ,

HE THAT THOLES, O’ERCOMES. 107

very Own room; and The Sweep had tea there
too.

And when the old elms looked black. against
the primrose-colored sky, and it had been
Leonard’s bed-time for half an hour past, the
three were together still.

“JT beg your pardon, Jemima, I am very
sorry, and I'll never do so any more. I didn’t
want to beg your pardon before, because I was
naughty, and because you trod on my Sweep’s
foot. But I beg your pardon now, because I
am good —at least I am better, and I am going
to try to be good.”

Leonard’s voice was as clear as ever, and his
manner as direct and forcible. Thus he con-
trived to say so much before Jemima burst in
(she was putting him to bed).

“My lamb! my pretty! You're always
good —”’

“Don’t tell stories, Jemima; and please don’t











108 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

contradict me, for it makes me cross; and if I
am cross I can’t be good; and if I am not good
all to-morrow I am not to be allowed to go
downstairs after dinner. And there’s a V.C.
coming to dinner, and I do want to see him
more than I want anything else in all the
world.”
CHAPTER VII.

“What is there in the world to distinguish virtues

from dishonor, or that can make anything rewardable, but
the labor and the danger, the pain and the difficulty ?” —
Feremy Taylor.

Tue V.C. did not look like a bloodthirsty
warrior. He had a smooth, oval, olivart face,
and dreamy eyes. He was not very big, and
he was absolutely unpretending. He was a
young man, and only by the courtesy of his
manners escaped the imputation of being a shy
young man.

Before the campaign in which he won his
cross he was most distinctively known in soci-
ety as having a very beautiful voice and a very
charming way of singing, and yet as giving him-
self no airs on the subject of an accomplish-
ment which makes some men almost intolerable

by their fellow-men.


IIo THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

He was a favorite with ladies on several ac-
counts, large and small. Among the latter was
his fastidious choice in the words of the songs he
sang, and sang with a rare fineness of enunciation.

It is not always safe to believe that a singer
means what he sings ; but if he sing very noble
words with justness and felicity, the ear rarely
refuses to flatter itself that it is learning some

of the secrets of a noble heart.
Upon a silence that could be felt the last

notes of such a song had just fallen. The
V.C.’s lips were closed, and those of the Master
of the House (who had been accompanying
him) were still parted with a smile of approval,
when .the wheels of his chair and some little
fuss at the drawing-room door announced that
Leonard had come to claim his mother’s prom-
ise. And when Lady Jane rose and went to
meet him, the V.C. followed her.

“There is my boy, of whom I told you.
Leonard, this is the gentleman you have wished

so much to see.”


THE COURAGE TO BEAR. II!

The V.C., who sang so easily, was not a

ready speaker, and the sight of Leonard took
him by surprise, and kept him silent. He had
been prepared to pity and be good-natured to a
lame child who had a whim to see him; but
not for this. vision of rare beauty, beautifully
dressed, with crippled limbs lapped in Eastern
embroideries by his color-loving father, and
whose wan face and wonderful eyes were lam-
bent with an intelligence so eager and so wist-
ful, that the creature looked less like a morsel
of suffering humanity than like a soul fretted
by the brief detention of an all-but-broken
chain.

“How do you do, V.C.? I am very glad to
see you. I wanted to see you more than any-
thing in the world. ‘I hope you don’t mind
seeing me because I have been a coward, for I
mean to be brave now; and that is why I
wanted to see you so much, because you are
such a very brave man. The reason I was a

coward was partly with being so cross when


Iit2 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

my back hurts, but particularly with hitting
Jemima with my crutches, for no one but a
coward strikes a woman. She trod on my
dog’s toes. This is my dog. Please pat him;
he would like to be patted by a V.C. He is
called The Sweep because he is black. He
lives with me all along. I have hit him, but I
hope I shall not be naughty again any more.
I wanted to grow up into a brave soldier, but
I don’t think, perhaps, that I ever can now;
but mother says I can be a brave cripple. I
would rather be a brave soldier, but I’m going
to try to be a brave cripple. Jemima says
there’s no saying what you can do till you try.
Please show me your Victoria Cross.”

“Tt’s on my tunic, and that’s in my quarters
in Camp. I’m so sorry.”

“So am I. I knew you lived in Camp. I
like the Camp, and I want you to tell me about

your hut. Do you know my uncle, Colonel

Jones? Do you know my aunt, Mrs. Jones?
And my cousin, Mr. Jones? Do you know a


“You are nice and funny.



But can you carry me ?”?


=

PRS. el! : ae Bee PAR Np We Li
(OOS BAERS BR PES eg
Y q y . (°

THE COURAGE TO DARE. I13

very nice Irishman, with one good-conduct
stripe, called O'Reilly? Do you know my
cousin Alan in the Highlanders? But I be-
lieve he has gone away. I have so many
things I want to ask you, and oh!—those
ladies are coming after us! They want to take
you away. Look at that ugly old thing with a
hook-nose and an eye-glass, and a lace shawl,
and a green dress; she’s just like the Poll Par-
rot in the housekeeper’s room. But she’s look-
ing at you. Mother! Mother dear! Don’t let
them take him away. You did promise me,
you know you did, that if I was good all to-day
I should talk to the V.C. I can’t talk to him
if I can’t have him all to myself. Do let us go
into the library, and be all to ourselves. Do



keep those women away, particularly the Poll ee s, \
Parrot. Oh, I hope I shan’t be naughty! I do






feel soimpatient! Iwas good, you know I was.



Why doesn’t James come and show my friend
into the library and carry me out of my chair?”

“Let me carry you, little friend, and we'll


Sh

Le GEES BE GB Ge
YY ~~ - ?

















ae



IIi4 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

Tun away together, and the company will say,
‘There goes a V.C. running away from a Poll
Parrot in a lace shawl!’”

“Ha! ha! You are nice and funny. But
can you carry me? Take off this thing! Did
you ever carry anybody that had been hurt ?”

“Yes, several people — much bigger than

”

you.

“Men ?”

“Men.”

“Men hurt like me, or wounded in battle?”

“Wounded in battle.”

“Poor things! Did they die?”

“Some of them.”

“T shall die pretty soon, I believe. I meant Re
to die young, but more grown-up than this, and (
in battle. About your age, I think. How old
are you?”

“T shall be twenty-five in October.”

“That’s rather old. I meant about Uncle
Rupert’s age. He died in battle. He was

seventeen. You carry very comfortably. Now >


PRB.» soeth BE s Ber ste Moloo, BUTE

ARE REALLY ONE AND THE SAME. II5




























we’re safe! Put me on the yellow sofa, please.
I want all the cushions, because of my back.
It’s because of my back, you know, that I can't
grow up into a soldier. I don’t think I possibly
can. Soldiers do have to have such very
straight backs, and Jemima thinks mine will
never be straight again ‘on this side the grave.’
So I’ve got to try and be brave as Iam; and
that’s why I wanted to see you. Do you mind
my talking rather more than you? I have so
very much to say, and I’ve only a quarter of an
hour, because of its being long past my bed-
time, and a good lot of that has gone.”

“Please talk, and let me listen.”

“Thank you. Pat The Sweep again, please.
He thinks we’re neglecting him. That’s why
he gets up and knocks you with his head.”

“Poor Sweep! Good old dog!”

“Thank you. Now should you think that
if I am very good, and not cross about a lot
of pain in my back and my head —really a

good lot —that that would count up to be as














116 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

brave as having one wound if I’d been a sol-
dier.”

“ Certainly.”

“ Mother says it would, and I think it might.
Not a very big wound, of course, but a poke
with a spear, or something of that sort. It ds
very bad sometimes, particularly when it keeps
you awake at night.”

“My little friend, at would count for lying
out all night wounded on the field when the
battle’s over. Soldiers are not always fight-

“Did you ever lie out for a night on a battle-
tleldsy,

“Ves, once.”
“Did the night seem very long ?”
“Very long, and we were very thirsty.”

“So am I sometimes, but I have barley-water



and lemons by my bed, and jelly, and lots of -




things. You'd no barley-water had you?”
“No.”
“ Nothing?”








8 Pe al) Si5 Ol Lp
Roos coe SYS YY ts
Me ES











<8




@

Z,
THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 5 v

Se oO i DEO 9 DS Lee: “ < Yr, SV RE
ELE PE

118



“Nothing till the rain fell, then we sucked
our clothes.”

“It would take a lot of my bad nights to
But I think when I’m ill in
bed I might count that like being a soldier in

count up to that !

hospital?”

“Of course.”

“T thought —no matter how good I got to
be—nothing could ever count up to be as
brave as a real battle, leading your men on and
fighting for your country, though you know
But Mother
says, if I could try very hard, and think of poor

you may be killed any minute.

Jemima as well as myself, and keep brave in
spite of feeling miserable, that then (particularly
as I shan’t be very long before I do die) it
would be as good as if I’d lived to be as old
as Uncle Rupert, and fought bravely when the
battle was against me, and cheered on my men,
though I knew I could never come out of it
alive. Do you think it cou/d count up to that ?

Do you? Oh, do answer me, and don’t stroke




THE COURAGE OF A V.C. Tig

my head! I get so impatient. You’ve been in
battles —do you?”

Cole domelerdors

“You're a V.C., and you ought to know. I
suppose nothing — not even if I could be good
always, from this minute right away till I die
—nothing could ever count up to the courage
Olay VaCa cs

“Gop knows it could, a thousand times
over !”

“Where are you going? Please don’t go.
Look at me. They’re not going to chop the
Queen’s head off, are they?”

“Heaven forbid! What are you thinking
about 2?”

“Why, because— Look at meagain. Ah!
you've winked it away, but your eyes were
full of tears ; and the only other brave man I
ever heard of crying was Uncle Rupert, and
that was because he knew they were going to
chop the poor King’s head off.”

“That was enough to make anybody cry.”
2 ybody cry



















120



THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.



“TI know it was. But do you know now,



when I’m wheeling about in my chair and play-



ing with him, and he looks at me wherever I



go; sometimes for a bit I forget about the



King, and I fancy he is sorry for me. Sorry,




I mean, that I can’t jump about, and creep
under the table. Under the table was the only
place where I could get out of the sight of his
eyes. Oh, dear! there’s Jemima.”




“But you are going to be good?”



“T know I am. And I’m going to do



lessons again. I did a little French this morn-



ing —a story. Mother did most of it; but I



know what the French officer called the poor



old French soldier when he went to see him



in a hospital.”
“What ?”

“ Mon brave. That means ‘my brave fellow.’





A nice name, wasn’t it?”



“Very nice. Here’s Jemima.”
“Tm coming, Jemima. I’m not going to be
naughty; but you may go back to the chair,







“Sometimes I forget about the King, and I fancy he is
sorry for me,’?







GOOD NIGHT, MON BRAVE. 121

for this officer will carry me. He carries so
comfortably. Come along, my Sweep. Thank
you so much. You have put me in beautifully.
Kiss me, please. Good night, V.C.”

“Good night, mon brave.”






CHAPTER VIII.

















“Tama man of no strength at all of body, nor yet of
mind; but would, if I could, though I can but crawl, spend
my life in the pilgrims’ way. When I came at the gate
that is at the head of the way, the lord of that place did
entertain me freely . . . gave me such things that were
necessary for my journey, and bid me hope to the end.
- . . Other brunts I also look for; but this I have re-
solved on, to wit, to run when I can, to go when I cannot
run, and to creep when I cannot go. As to the main, I
thank Him that loves me, I am fixed; my way is before
me, my mind is beyond the river that has no bridge,
though I am as you see. :

“And behold— Mr. Ready-to-halt came by with his
crutches in his hand, and he was also going on Pil-
grimage.” — Bunyan’s Pilgrims Progress.

“AnD if we tie it with the amber-colored
ribbon, then every time I have it out to put
in a new Poor Thing, I shall remember how
very naughty I was, and how I spoilt your

poetry.”

























Se aie Hoda, BRN Teme Sy a
oe ihe OES ES

THE BOOK OF POOR THINGS. 123 °

“Then we'll certainly tie it with something
else,’ said the Master of the House, and he
jerked away the ribbon with a gesture as deci-
sive as his words. “Let bygones be bygones.
If / forget it, you needn’t remember it !”’

“Oh, but, indeed, I ought to remember it;
and I do think I de¢ter had—to remind myself
never, never to be so naughty again!”

“Your mother’s own son!” muttered the
Master of the House; and he added aloud:
“Well, I forbid you to remember it — so there!
It'll be naughty if you do. Here’s some red
ribbon. That should please you, as you’re so
fond of soldiers.”

Leonard and his father were seated side by
side at a table in the library. The dog lay at
their feet.

They were very busy; the Master of the
House working under Leonard’s direction, who,

issuing his orders from his wheel-chair, was so



full of anxiety and importance, that when Lady

Jane opened the library-door he knitted his







124 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.




brow and put up one thin little hand, in a

comically old-fashioned manner, to deprecate




interruption.




“Don’t make any disturbance, Mother dear,




if you please. Father and I are very much




engaged.”

“Don’t you think, Len, it would be kind to
let poor Mother see what we are doing and tell
her about it ?”’






Leonard pondered an instant.
“Well — I don’t mind.”

Then, as his mother’s arm came round him,




he added, impetuously :
“Yes, I should like to. You can show, Father
dear, and /’// do all the explaining.”






The Master of the House displayed some
sheets of paper, tied with ribbon, which already
contained a good deal of his handiwork, includ-
ing a finely illuminated capital L on the title-
page.

“It is to be called the Book of Poor Things,
Mother dear. We're doing it in bits first; then








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Rep. vo 8 BE, see se Malo, BAN a te atte
SO sO GNA Es ON TOE Sot





















By ae
§ Q Ae
os AW, AG,
MAN IS MASTER OF HIS FATE. 125 Be NY Bes

Z : 3 ie Ay foe [(*%.

coe ; : ue eek ff

it will be bound. It’s a collection—a collec 7 }EY ~

tion of Poor Things who’ve been hurt, like me; e Ge

My ae
or blind like the Organ-tuner; or had their ge Le
heads — no, not their heads, they couldn't go a
on doing things after that—had their legs or
their arms chopped off in battle, and are very
good and brave about it, and manage very, very
nearly as well as people who have got nothing
the matter with them, Father doesn’t think
Poor Things is a good name. He wanted to
call it Masters of Fate, because of some poetry.
What was it, Father?”

“Man is Man and Master of his Fate,”
quoted the Master of the House.

“ Yes, that’s it. But I don’t understand it so
well as Poor Things. They ave Poor Things,
you know, and of course we shall only put in
brave Poor Things: not cowardly Poor Things.
It was all my idea, only. Father is doing the
ruling, and printing, and illuminating for me.
I thought of it when the Organ-tuner was here.”

“The Organ-tuner ?”


















126 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

“Yes, I heard the organ, and I made James
carry me in, and put me in the armchair close
to the organ. And the Tuner was tuning, and
he looked round, and James said, ‘It’s the
young gentleman,’ and the Tuner said, ‘Good
morning, Sir,’ and I said, ‘Good morning,
Tuner; go on tuning, please, for I want to see
you do it.’ And he went on; and he dropped
a tin thing, like a big extinguisher, on to the
floor; and he got down to look for it, and he
felt about in such a funny way that I burst out
laughing. I didn’t mean to be rude; I couldn’t
help it. And I said, oCamntt: your see itv = [t's
just under the table.’ And he said, ‘I can’t
see anything, Sir; I’m stone blind.’ And he
said, perhaps I would be kind enough to give it
him. And I said I was very sorry, but I hadn’t
got my crutches, and so I couldn’t get out of
my Chair without some one to help me. And
he was so awfully sorry for me, you can’t think!
He said he didn’t know I was more afflicted than

he was; but I was awfully sorry for him, for










iQ =.
=

The Organ-tuner.
oS


128 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

I've tried shutting my eyes; and you can bear
it just a minute, and then you mst open them
to see again. And I said, ‘How can you do
anything when you see nothing but blackness .
all along?’ And he says he can do well enough
as long as he’s spared the use of his limbs to
earn his own livelihood. And I said, ‘Are
there any more blind men, do you think, that
earn their own livelihood? I wish I could earn
mine!’ And he said, ‘There are a good many
blind tuners, Sir. And I said, ‘Go on tuning,
please: I like to hear you do it.’ And he went
on, and I did like him so much. Do you know
the blind Tuner, Mother dear? And don’t you
like him very much? I think he is just what
you think very good, and I think V.C. would
think it nearly as brave asa battle to be afflicted
and go on earning your own livelihood when you
can see nothing but blackness all along. Poor
man !”

“T do think it very good of him, my darling,

and very brave.”


5 silo. aE _ We ee
js yp NS or hy Salon, Bee By eae

we






SWEET ARE THE USES OF ADVERSITY. 129






“T knew you would. And then I thought

perhaps there are lots of brave afflicted people






—poor things! and perhaps there never was
anybody but me who wasn’t. And I wished I
knew their names, and I asked the Tuner his
name, and he told me. And then I thought of

my book, for a good idea—a collection, you







know. And I thought perhaps, by degrees, I
might collect three hundred and sixty-five Poor

Things, all brave. And so I am making Father




rule it like his Diary, and we've got the Tuner’s

name down for the First of January; and if you





can think of anybody else you must tell me, and
if I think they’re afflicted enough and brave
enough, I'll put them in. But I shall have to






be rather particular, for we don’t want to fill up
too fast. Now, Father, I’ve done the explain-

ing, so you can show your part. Look, Mother,




hasn’t he ruled it well? There’s only one tiny




mess, and it was the Sweep shaking the table





with getting up to be patted.”
“He has ruled it beautifully. But what a

1»

handsome L!


130 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

“Oh, I forget! Wait a minute, Father, the
explaining isn’t quite finished. What do you
think that L stands for, Mother dear?”

“For Leonard, I suppose.”

“No, no! What fun! You're quite wrong.

Guess again.”

“Ts it not the Tuner’s name?”

“Oh, no! He’s in the first of January —I
told you so. And in plain printing. Father
really couldn’t illuminate three hundred and
sixty-five poor things!”

“Of course he couldn’t. It was silly of me
to think so.”

“Do you give it up?”

“TI must. I cannot guess.”

“Tt’s the beginning of ‘Letus sorte mea.’
Ah, you know now! You ought to have
guessed without my telling you. Do you
remember? JI remember, and I mean to
remember. I told Jemima that very night. I
said, ‘It means Happy with my fate, and in our

family we have to be happy with it, whatever




os
UR Ses MS sooty ae Halon, “Atte es OY
aoe FES PO SEs ES

NOBLESSE OBLIGE. 131

sort of a one itis.’ For you told meso. And
I told the Tuner, and he liked hearing about it
very much. And then he went on tuning, and
he smiled so when he was listening to the
notes, I thought he looked very happy; so I.
“asked him, and he said, ‘Yes, he was always
happy when he was meddling with a musical
instrument.’ But I thought most likely all
brave poor things are happy with their fate,
even if they can’t tune; and I asked Father,
and he said, ‘ Yes,’ and so we are putting it into
my collection— partly for that, and partly,
when the coat-of-arms is done, to show that the
book belongs to me. Now, Father dear, the
explaining is really quite finished this time, and
you may do all the rest of the show-off your-

self!”























Bay wy

s > AP a =
5 yt TE
ro

eer yd

CHAPTER’ LX:

“St. George ! a stirring life they lead,
That have such neighbors near.”

Marmion.

“Ou, Jemima! Jemima! I know you are very
kind, and I do mean not to be impatient; but
either you're telling stories or you're talking
nonsense, and that’s a fact. How can you say
that that blue stuff is a beautiful match, and
will wash the exact color, and that you’re sure
I shall like it when it’s made up with a cord
and tassels, when it’s zo¢ the blue I want, and
when you £vow the men in hospital haven't
any tassels to their dressing-cowns at all!
You're as bad as that horrid shopman who
made me so angry. If I had not been obliged
to be good, I should have liked to hit him hard
with my crutch, when he kept on saying he


is
TRS 9, SR, oP ate Baloo “BRMeTonn Wz in WEE
ee SPL OB Es ON OE Ata

3 7 Lie C ce Ot
a qf at



A BLUE DRESSING-GOWN. 133

knew I should prefer a shawl-pattern lined with
crimson, if I would let him send one. Oh,
here comes Father! Now, that’s right; he'll
know. Father dear, zs this blue pattern the
same color as that?”

“Certainly not. But what’s the matter, my
child?”

“Tt’s about my dressing-gown; and I do get
so tired about. it, because people will talk non-
sense, and won’t speak the truth, and won't
believe I know what I want myself. Now, I'll
tell you what I want. Do you know the Hospi-
tal Lines?”

“In the Camp? Yes.”

“And you've seen all the invalids walking
about in blue dressing-gowns and little red
ties?”

“Yes. Charming bits of color.”

“Hurrah! that’s just it! Now, Father dear,

if you wanted a dressing-gown exactly like

that — would you have one made of this?”

“Not if I knew it! Crude, coarse, staring



yy
pA ye Sle LO My GP Ries. ay RS aa “y ip
De iL Sk oe bets te Ei tg EE

134 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.



—please don’t wave it in front of my eyes,

unless you want to make me feel like a bull



with a red-rag before him!”



“Oh, Father dear, you are sensible! (Je-



mima, throw this pattern away, please!) But



you'd have felt far worse if you’d seen the



shawl-pattern lined with crimson. Oh, I do



wish I could have been a bull that wasn’t



obliged to be /etus for half a minute, to give



that shopman just one toss! But I believe the



best way to do will be as O'Reilly says — get



Uncle Henry to buy me a real one out of



store, and have it made smaller for me. And



I should like it ‘out of store.’ ”



From this conversation it will be seen that



Leonard’s military bias knew no change. Had



it been less strong it could only have served to



intensify the pain of the heartbreaking associa-



tions which anything connected with the troops



now naturally raised in his parents’ minds,



But it was a sore subject that fairly healed




COURAGE AND PATIENCE. 135























The Camp had proved a more cruel neigh-
‘bor than the Master of the House had ever
imagined in his forebodings ; but it also proved
a friend. For if the high, ambitious spirit, the
ardent imagination, the vigorous will, which
fired the boy’s fancy for soldiers and soldier-
life, had thus led to his calamity, they found
in that sympathy with men of hardihood and
lives of discipline, not only an interest that
never failed and that lifted the sufferer out of
himself, but a constant incentive to those
virtues of courage and patience for which he .
struggled with touching conscientiousness.

Then, without disparagement to the earnest-
ness of his efforts to be good, it will be well
believed that his parents did their best to make
goodness easy to him. His vigorous individu-
ality still swayed the plans of the household,
and these came to be regulated by those of the
Camp to a degree which half annoyed and
half amused its Master.

The Asholt Gazette was delivered as regu-


6 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

larly as the Zzmes; but on special occasions,
the arrangements for which were only known
the night before, O’Reilly or some other Or-
derly, might be seen wending his way up the
Elm Avenue by breakfast time, “with Colonel

Jones’ compliments, and the Orders of the Day

for the young gentleman.” And so many were
the military displays at which Leonard contrived
to be present, that the associations of pleasure
and alleviation with Parades and Manceuvres
came at last almost to blot out the associations
of pain connected with that fatal Field Day.

He drove about a great deal, either among
air-cushions in the big carriage or in a sort of
perambulator of his own, which was all too easily
pushed by any one, and by the side of which
the Sweep walked slowly and contentedly, stop-
ping when Leonard stopped, wagging his tail
when Leonard spoke, and keeping sympathetic
step to the invalid’s pace with four sinewy
black legs, which were young enough and

strong enough to have ranged for miles over


BS CSB OSE ae





MILITARY MANCEUVRES.





the heather hills and never felt fatigue. A true
Dog Friend !

What the Master of the House pleasantly
called “Our Military Mania,’ seemed to have





reached its climax during certain July manceu-




vres of the regiments stationed at Asholt, and




of additional troops who lay out under canvas




in the surrounding country.




Into this mimic campaign Leonard threw



himself heart and soul. His camp friends




furnished him with early information of the




plans for each day, so far as the generals of




the respective forces allowed them to get wind,




and with an energy that defied his disabilities



he drove about after “the armies,’ and then




scrambled on his crutches to points of vantage




where the carriage could not go.




And the Master of the House went with him.




The House itself ‘seemed soldier-bewitched.

Orderlies were as plentiful as rooks among the




elm-trees. The Staff clattered in and out, and




had luncheon at unusual hours, and strewed
iy,

: sé Os
2 poo gE IT Sh See EY




dete



138 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.



the cedar-wood hall with swords and cocked




hats, and made low bows over Lady Jane’s




hand, and rode away among the trees.




These were weeks of pleasure and enthusiasm




for Leonard, and of not less delight for the




Sweep; but they were followed by an illness.




That Leonard bore his sufferings better




helped to conceal the fact that they undoubt-




edly increased; and he over-fatigued himself




and got a chill, and had to go to bed, and took
the Sweep to bed with him.
And it was when he could play at no





“soldier-game,” except that of “being in hos-




pital,” that he made up his mind to have a blue




dressing-gown of regulation color and pattern,




and met with the difficulties aforesaid in carry-




ing out his whim.





- Seye
BON ae Be










f EAR “f ‘ ry
A \ up Ol
line HOY

Sg Bilin” a
oe LM
D abe Le
- Seer CaN 1 AE til
5 faa Mis

1,

“ Orderlies were as plentiful as rooks among the elm-trees.”

Dts as NS oe eh ak Hola. Bub 8
gee ge ee Big As Os st ey
5







- CHAPTER X.

“ Fills the room up of my absent child,
Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me;
Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words,
Remembgrs me of all his gracious parts,
Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form.”
King Fohn, Act iii.

Lone years after they were written, a bundle
of letters lay in the drawer of a cabinet in Lady
Jane’s morning-room, carefully kept, each in
its own envelope, and every envelope stamped
with the post-mark of Asholt Camp.

They were in Leonard’s handwriting. A
childish hand, though good for his age, but»
round and clear as his own speech,

After much coaxing and considering, and
after consulting with the doctors, Leonard had
been allowed to visit the Barrack Master and

(140)






- ae We Wyo see eee
ee % oe 53 eee = . ie a



SR





LIFE IS MADE UP OF LITTLE THINGS. I4I




his wife. After his illness he was taken to
the seaside, which he liked so little that he was




bribed to stay there by the promise that, if the





doctor would allow it, he should, on his return,

have the desire of his heart, and be permitted




to live for a time “in Camp,” and sleep in a
hut.





The doctor gave leave. Small quarters would




neither mar nor mend an injured spine; and




.if he felt the lack of space and luxuries to




which he was accustomed, he would then be




content to return home.

The Barrack Master's hut only boasted one




spare bed-chamber for visitors, and when Leon-




ard and his dog were in it there was not much

elbow-room, A sort of cupboard was appro-




priated for the use of Jemima, and Lady Jane




drove constantly into the Camp to see her son.




Meanwhile he proved a very good correspond-




ent, as his letters will show for themselves.





iif

wd 1 Rees
{5 gt fixe
eG 2 sa
THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE,

Letter I.

“ BARRACK MASTER’S Hut,
“The Camp, Asholt.

“My DEAR, DEAR MOTHER, —

““T hope you are quite well, and Father also.
I am very happy, and so is the Sweep. He
tried sleeping on my bed last night, but there
was not room, though I gave him as much as

ever I could. So he slept on the floor. It is a

camp bed, and folds up, if you want it to. We

have nothing like it. It belonged to a real
General. The General is dead. Uncle Henry
bought it at his sale. You always have a sale
if you die, and your brother-officers buy your
‘things to pay your debts. Sometimes you get
them very cheap. I mean the things.

“The drawers fold up, too. I mean the chest
of drawers, and so does the wash-hand-stand.
It goes into the corner, and takes up very little
room. There couldn’t be a bigger one, or the

door would not open —the one that leads into


















we ge or ohr Hloe, Bb SG,
eee a & rats > 3 P ~~



LIFE IS MADE UP OF LITTLE THINGS. 143

the kitchen. The other door leads into a pas-
sage. I like having the kitchen next me. You
can hear everything. You can hear O’Reilly
come in the morning, and I call to him to open
my door, and he says, ‘Yes, sir,’ and opens it,
and lets the Sweep out for a run, and takes my
boots. And you can hear the tap of the boiler
running with your hot water before she brings
it, and you can smell the bacon frying for break-
fast.

“« Aunt Adelaide was afraid I should not like



being woke up so early, but I do. I waked a
good many times. First with the gun. It’s
like a very short thunder, and shakes you.
And then the bugles play. Father would like
them! And then right away in the distance
—trumpets. And the air comes in so fresh
at the window. And you pull up the clothes,
if they’ve fallen off you, and go to sleep again.
Mine had all fallen off, except the sheet, and
the Sweep was lying on them. Wasn’t it

clever of him to have found them in the dark?
144 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

If I can’t keep them on, I’m going to have
campaigning blankets; they are sewed up like
a bag, and yow get into them.

“What do you think I found on my coverlet
when I went to bed? A real, proper, blue
dressing-gown, and a crimson tie! It came out
of store, and Aunt Adelaide made it smaller
herself. Wasn’t it kind of her?

“I have got it on now. Presently I am go-
ing to dress properly, and O’Reilly is going to _
wheel me down to the stores. It will be great
fun. My cough has been pretty bad, but it’s
no worse than it was at home. :

‘““There’s a soldier come for the letters, and
they are obliged to be ready.

“T am, your loving and dutiful son,
LEonaRD,

“PR. S:—Uncle Henry says his father was

very old-fashioned, and he always liked him to
put ‘Your dutiful son,’ so I put it to you.
‘All these crosses mean kisses, Jemima told


CHURCH PARADE.

Letter II,

a . I went to church yesterday, though it

was only Tuesday. I need not have gone unless
I liked, but I liked. There is service every
evening in.the Iron Church, and Aunt Adelaide
goes, and so do I, and sometimes Uncle Henry.
There are not very many people go, but they
behave very well, what there are. You can’t
tell what the officers belong to in the afternoon,
because they are in plain clothes; but Aunt
Adelaide thinks they were Royal Engineers,
except one Commissariat one, and an A. D. C.,
and the Colonel of a regiment that marched in
last week. You can’t tell what the ladies be-
long to unless you know them.

“You can always tell the men. Some were
Barrack Sergeants, and some were Sappers,
and there were two Gunners, and an Army
Hospital Corps, and a Cavalry Corporal who
came all the way from the barracks, and sat

near the door, and said very long prayers to




146 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.





himself at the end. And there were some
schoolmasters, and a man with gray hair and
no uniform, who mends the roofs and teaches
in the Sunday School, and I forget the rest.
Most of the choir are Sappers and Commis-
sariat men, and the boys are soldiers’ sons.
The Sappers and Commissariat belong to our
Brigade.

“There is no Sexton to our Church. He’s
a Church Orderly. He has put me a kind of
a back in the corner of one of the Officers’
Seats, to make me comfortable in church, and
a very high footstool. I mean to go every day,
and as often as I can on Sundays, without get-
ting too much tired.

“You can go very often on Sunday mornings
if you want to. They begin at eight o'clock,
and go on till luncheon. There’s a fresh band,
and a fresh chaplain, and a fresh sermon, and
a fresh congregation every time. Those are
Parade Services. The others are Voluntary

Services, and I thought that meant for the
ee


VOLUNTARY SERVICES. 147

Volunteers; but O'Reilly laughed, and said,
‘No, it only means that there’s no occasion to
go to them at all’ he means unless you like.
But then I do like. There’s no sermon on

week days. Uncle Henry is very glad, and

so am I. I think it might make my back

ache.

“JT am afraid, dear Mother, that you won't
be able to understand all I write to you from
the Camp; but if you don’t, you must ask me
and I’ll explain.

“When I say owr quarters, remember I mean
our hut; and when I say vations it means bread
and meat, and I’m not quite sure if it means
coals and candles as well. But I think I'll
make you a Dictionary if I can get a ruled book
from the Canteen. It would make this letter
too much to go for a penny if I put all the
words in I know. Cousin George tells me
them when he comes in after mess. He told
me the Camp name for Iron Church is Tin

Tabernacle; but Aunt Adelaide says it’s not,





148 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.










and I’m not to call it so, so I don’t. But that’s




what he says. _




“T like Cousin George very much. I like his




uniform. Heis very thin, particularly round the




waist. Uncle Henry is very stout, particularly




round the waist. Last night George came in




after mess, and two other officers out of his regi-




ment came too. And then another officer came
in. And they chaffed Uncle Henry, and Uncle
Henry doesn’t mind. And the other officer

said, ‘Three times round a Subaltern— once







round a Barrack Master.’ And so they got




Uncle Henry’s sword-belt out of his dressing-
room, and George and his friends stood back to
back, and held up their jackets out of the way,
and the other officer put the belt right round
them, all three, and told them not to laugh. And
Aunt Adelaide said, ‘Oh!’ and ‘You'll hurt
them.’ And he said, ‘Not a bit of it.’ And he
buckled it. So that shows. It was great fun.









“Iam, your loving and dutiful son,




“ LEONARD.
























150 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

“P. S. — The other officer is an Irish officer
—at least, I think so, but I can’t be quite sure,
because he won’t speak the truth. I said, ‘You
talk rather like O'Reilly ; are you an Irish sol-
dier?’ And he said, ‘I’d the misfortune to be
quartered for six months in the County Cork,
and it was the ruin of my French accent.’ So
I said, ‘Are you a Frenchman?’ and they all
laughed, so I don’t know.

“P. S. No. 2.— My back has been very bad,
but Aunt Adelaide says I have been very good.
This is not meant for swagger, but to let you
know,

(“ Swagger means boasting. If you're a sol-
dier, swagger is the next worst thing to running
away.)

“P.S. No. 3. —I know another officer now.
I like him. He isa D.A.O.M.G,_ I would let
you guess that if you could ever find it out,
but you couldn’t. It means Deputy-Assistant-
Quarter-Master-General.” He is not so grand as
you would think; a plain General is really

grander. Uncle Henry says so, and he knows.”


si i Ce oS “ i r We YE 3 if “4
a Set he BEE
q PSN We





















WHEN GREEK MEETS GREEK.

Letrer III.

“. . . I HAVE seen V.C. I have seen him
twice. I have seen his cross. The first time
was at the Sports. Aunt Adelaide drove me
there in the pony carriage. We stopped at the
Enclosure. The Enclosure is a rope, with a
man taking tickets. The Sports are inside; so
is the tent, with tea; so are the ladies, in
awfully pretty dresses, and the officers walking
round them.

“There’s great fun outside, at least, I should
think so. There’s a crowd of people, and
booths, and a skeleton man. I saw his pict-
ure. I should like to have seen him, but Aunt

_ Adelaide didn’t want to, so I tried to be -Zetus
without.

“When we got to the Enclosure there was a
gentleman taking his ticket, and when he turned
round he was V.C. Wasn’t it funny? So he
came back and said, ‘Why, here’s my little

friend!’ And he said, ‘You must let me carry







152 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

you.’ And so he did, and put me among the



ladies. But the ladies got him a good deal.
He went and talked to lots of them, but I tried





to be /etus without him; and then Cousin




George came, and lots of others, and then the




V.C. came back and showed me things about




the Sports.




“Sports are very hard work ; they make you




so hot and tired; but they are very nice to




watch. The races were great fun, particularly




when they fell in the water, and the men in




sacks who hop, and the blindfolded men with




wheelbarrows. Oh, they were so funny! They




kept wheeling into each other, all except one, and




he went wheeling and wheeling right away up the




field, all by himself and all wrong! I did laugh.




“But what I liked best were the tent-pegging




men, and most best of all, the Tug-of-War.




“The Irish officer did tent-pegging. He has




the dearest pony you ever saw. He is so fond




of it, and it is so fond of him. He talks to it in

Irish, and it understands him. He cut off the





THEN COMES THE TUG-OF-WAR. 153

Turk’s head, — not a real Turk, a sham Turk,
and not a whole one, only the head stuck on a
pole.

“The Tug-of-War was splendid ! Two sets
of men pulling at a rope to see which is strong-
est. They did pull! They pulled so hard, both
of them, with all their might and main, that we
thought it must be a drawn battle. But at last
one set pulled the other over, and then there
was such a noise that my head ached dreadfully,
and the Irish officer carried me into the tent
and gave me some tea. And then we went
home.

“The next time I saw V.C. was on Sunday
at Parade Service. He is on the staff, and
wears a cocked hat. He came in with the
General and the A. D. C., who was at church
on Tuesday, and I was so glad to see him.

“After church, everybody went about say-
ing ‘Good morning,’ and ‘How hot it was
in church!’ and V.C, helped me with my
crutches, and showed me his cross. And the



















‘tel



















154 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

General came up and spoke to me, and I saw
his medals, and he asked how you were, and I
said, ‘Quite well, thank you.’ And then he
talked to a lady with some little boys dressed
like sailors. She said how hot it was in church,
and he said, ‘I thought the roof was coming off
with that last hymn.’ And she said, ‘ My little
boys call it the Tug-of-War Hymn; they are
very fond of it. And he said, ‘The men seem
very fond of it.’ And he turned round to an
officer I didn’t know, and said, ‘They ran away
from you that last verse but one.’ And the
officer said, ‘Yes, sir, they always do; so I
stop the organ and let them have it their
own way.’

“T asked Aunt Adelaide, ‘Does that officer
play the organ?’ And she said, ‘Yes, and he
trains the choir. He’s coming in to supper.’
So he came. If the officers stay sermon on
Sunday evenings, they are late for mess. So
the chaplain stops after Prayers, and any-
body that likes to go out before sermon can.

:






THE SON OF GOD GOES FORTH TO WAR.




















155

If they stay sermon, they go to supper with
some of the married officers instead of dining
at mess. ‘

“So he came. I liked him awfully. He
plays like Father, only I think he can play
more difficult things.

“He says, “Tug-of-War Hymn’ is the very
good name for that hymn, because the men are
so fond of it they all sing, and the ones at the
bottom of the church ‘drag over’ the choir and
the organ.

“He said, ‘I’ve talked till I’m black in the
face, and all to no purpose. It would try the
patience of a saint.’ So I said, ‘Are you a
saint?’ And he laughed and said, ‘No, I’m
afraid not ; I’m only a kapellmeister.’ So I call
him ‘Kapellmeister.’ I do like him.

“I do like the Tug-of-War Hymn. It begins,
‘The Son of Gop goes forth to war.’ That’s
the one. But we have it to a tune of our own,
on Saints’ Days. The verse the men tug
with is, ‘A noble army, men and boys.’ I

Hee
THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

think they like it, because it’s about the army ;
and so do I.
“Tam, your loving and dutiful son,
“ LEONARD.

«P. S.—I call the ones with cocked hats
and feathers, ‘Cockatoos.’ There was another
Cockatoo who walked away with the General.
Not very big. About the bigness of the stuffed
General in the Pawnbroker’s window; and I do
‘think he had quite as many medals. I wanted
to see them. I wish I had. He looked at me.
He had a very gentle face; but I was afraid of
it. Was Ia coward? .

“You remember what these crosses are, don’t

you? I told you.”

Letter IV.

“THIS is a very short letter. It’s only to
ask you to send my book of Poor Things by
the Orderly who takes this, unless you are
quite sure you are coming to see me to-day.


se)



RSD. 4 PE ; AS. . we a Pa he Ws wp Uy
| oe OBS TAs eS
% Q ect






THE ONE-ARMED COLONEL. 157

“A lot of officers are collecting for me, and




there’s one in the Engineers can print very




well, so he’ll put them in.




“A Colonel with only one arm dined here




yesterday. You can’t think how well he




manages, using first his knife and then his fork,




and talking so politely all the time. He has




all kinds of dodges, so as not to give trouble




and do everything for himself. I mean to put




him in.




“JT wrote to Cousin Alan, and asked him
to collect for me. I like writing letters, and I




do like getting them. Uncle Henry says he




hates a lot of posts in the day. I hate posts




when there’s nothing for me. I like all the



rest.




“Cousin Alan wrote back by return. He
says he can only think of the old chap, whose




legs were cut of in battle:




‘And when his legs were smitten off,



He fought upon his stumps !?


158 : THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

It was very brave, if it’s true. Do you think it
is? He did not tell me his name.
“Your loving and dutiful son,
“ LEONARD.

“P.S.—I am /etus sorte mea, and so is the

Sweep.”
LETTER V.

“Tus letter is not about a Poor Thing. It’s
about a saint—a soldier saint—which I and
the chaplain think nearly the best kind. His
name was Martin, he got to be a Bishop in the
end, but when he first enlisted he was only
a catechumen. Do you know what a cate-
chumen is, dear. Mother? Perhaps if you're
not quite so high-church as the engineer I told
you of, who prints so beautifully, you may not
know. It means when you've been born a
heathen, and are going to be a Christian, only
you've not yet been baptized. The engineer’
has given me a picture of him, St. Martin I

mean, and now he has printed underneath it, in


A SOLDIER SAINT.

beautiful thick black letters that you can hardly

read if you don’t know what they are, and the
very particular words in red, ‘Martin — yet but
aCatechumen!’ Hecan illuminate, too, though
not quite so well as Father, he is very high-
church, and I’m high-church too, and so is
our Chaplain, but he is broad as well. The
engineer thinks he’s rather too broad, but Uncle
Henry and Aunt Adelaide think he’s quite
perfect, and so do I, and so does everybody
else. He comes in sometimes, but not very
often because he’s so busy. He came the other
night because I wanted to confess. What I
wanted to confess was that I had laughed in
‘church. He is a very big man, and he has a
very big surplice, with a great lot of gathers
behind, which makes my engineer very angry,
because it’s the wrong shape, and he preaches
splendidly, the Chaplain I mean, straight out of
his head, and when all the soldiers are listen-
ing he swings his arms about, and the surplice

gets in his way, and he catches hold of it, and




ih



Ce?

BS
6
“ES

Si

160 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

oh! Mother dear, I must tell you what it
reminded me of. When I was very little, and
Father used to tie a knot in his big pocket-
handkerchief and put his first finger into it to
make a head that nodded, and wind the rest
round his hand, and stick out his thumb and
another finger for arms, and do the ‘ Yea-verily-
man’ to amuse you and me. It was last
Sunday, and a most splendid sermon, but his
stole got round under his ear, and his sleeves
did look just like the Yea-verily-man, and I tried
not to look, and then I caught the Irish officer’s
eye and he twinkled, and then I laughed,
because I remembered his telling Aunt
Adelaide ‘That’s the grandest old Padré that
ever got up into a pulpit, but did ye ever see
a man get so mixed up with his clothes?’ I
was very sorry when I laughed, so I settled
I would confess, for my engineer thinks you
ought always to confess, so when our chaplain
came in. after dinner on Monday, I confessed,
but he only laughed, till he broke down Aunt
































7 ia
FOR sto. oy NO as Bue aig Sp ue
ees ast i : ¥ a loo, ee <5 ao ; we

MARTIN — YET BUT A CATECHUMEN! 161

Adelaide’s black and gold chair. He is too big
for it, really. Aunt Adelaide never lets Uncle
Henry sit on it. So he was very sorry, and
Aunt Adelaide begged him not to mind, and
then in came my engineer in war-paint (if you
look out warpaint in the Canteen Book I gave
you, you'll see what it means). He was in war-
paint because he was Orderly Officer for the
evening, and he’d got his sword under one arm,
and the picture under the other, and his short
cloak on to keep it dry, because it was raining.
He made the frame himself; he can make
Oxford frames quite well, and he’s going to
teach me how to. Then I said, ‘Who is it?’
so he told me, and now I’m going to tell you, in
case you don’t know. Well, St. Martin was
born in Hungary, in the year 316. His father
and mother were heathens, but when he was
about my age he made up his mind he would
be a Christian. His father and mother were so
afraid of his turning into a monk, that as soon
as he was old enough they enlisted him in the



rear Neen 2
a FE
























162 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

army, hoping that would cure him of wanting
to be a Christian, but it didn’t — Martin wanted
to be a Christian just as much as ever; still he
got interested with his work and his comrades,
and he dawdled on only a Catechumen, and
didn’t make full profession and get baptized.
One winter his corps was quartered at Amiens,
and on a very bitter night, near the gates, he
saw a half naked beggar shivering with the cold.
(Lasked my engineer, ‘ Was he Orderly Officer
for the evening?’ but he said, ‘More likely on
patrol duty, with some of his comrades.’ How-
ever, he says he won’t be sure, for Martin was
Tribune, which is very nearly a Colonel, two
years afterwards, he knows.) When Martin saw
the Beggar at the gate, he pulled out his big
military cloak, and drew his sword, and cut it in
half, and wrapped half of it round the poor
Beggar to keep him warm.. I know you'll think
him very kind, but wait a bit, that’s not all.
Next night when Martin the soldier was asleep

he had a vision. Did you ever have a vision?


sic,

vsti ee eee
see

MARTIN’S VISION. 163





I wish I could! This was Martin’s vision. He



saw Christ our Lord in Heaven, sitting among



the shining hosts, and wearing over one




shoulder half a military.cloak, and as Martin




saw him he heard him say, ‘Behold the mantle
given to Me by Martin— yet but a Catechu-

men!’ After that vision he didn’t wait any





longer; he was baptized at once.




“Mother dear, I’ve told you this quite truth-




fully, but I can’t tell it you so splendidly as my




engineer did, standing with his back to the




fire and holding: out his cape, and drawing




his sword, to show me how Martin divided his




cloak with the Beggar. Aunt Adelaide isn’t




afraid of swords, she is too used to them, but




she says she thinks soldiers do things in huts




they would never think of doing in big rooms,




just to show how neatly they can manage, with-
out hurting anything. The chaplain broke the
chair, but then he isn’t exactly a soldier, and
the D.A.Q.M.G. that I told you of, comes in

sometimes and says, ‘I beg your pardon, Mrs.






i er S

¢ FS)
} ot a
aod)
J ¥
pe Pe we f-5
ae b 3 -
b ASS
of!
Y




























164 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

Jones, but I must,’—and puts both his hands
on the end of the sofa, and lifts his body till he
gets his legs sticking straight out. They are
very long legs, and he and the sofa go nearly
across the room, but he never kicks anything,
it’s a kind of athletics; and there’s another
officer who comes in at one door and Catherine-
wheel’s right across to the farthest corner, and
he is over six foot, too, but they never break
anything. We do laugh.

“I wish you could have seen my engineer
doing St. Martin. He had to go directly after-
wards, and then the chaplain came and stood
in front of me, on the hearthrug, in the fire-
light, just where my engineer had been stand-
ing, and he took up the picture, and looked at
it. So TI said, ‘Do you know about St. Martin?’
and he said he did, and he said, ‘One of the
greatest of those many Soldiers of the Cross’
who have also fought under earthly banners.’
Then he put down the picture, and got .hold

of his elbow with his hand, as if he was holding

LESION

Xv


‘¢ Martin — yet but a Catechumen !”’





GODLIKE MEN. 165

his surplice out of the way, and said, ‘Great,

as well as good, for this reason; he was one



of those rare souls to whom the counsels of
God are clear, not to the utmost of the times
in which he lived—but in advance of those





times. Such men are not always popular, nor
even largely successful in their day, but the
light they hold lightens more generations of
this naughty world, than the pious tapers of
commoner men. You know that Martin the
Catechumen became Martin the Saint —do you
know that Martin the soldier became Martin
the Bishop ?—and that in an age of credulity
and fanaticism, that man of God discredited

some relics very popular with the pious in his







diocese, and proved and exposed them to be
those of an executed robber. Later in life it

is recorded of Martin, Bishop of Tours, that




he lifted his voice in protest against persecu-



tions for religion, and the punishment of here-



tics. In the nineteenth century we are little



able to judge how great must have been the




























166 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

faith of that man in the God of truth and of
love.’ It was like a little sermon, and I think
this is exactly how he said it, for I got Aunt
Adelaide to write it out for me this morning,
and she remembers sermons awfully well. I’ve
been looking St. Martin out in the calendar ;
his day is the roth of November. He is not a
Collect, Epistle, and Gospel Saint, only one of
the Black Letter ones; but the roth of Novem-
ber is going to be on a Sunday this year, and
I am so glad, for I’ve asked our chaplain if we
may have the Tug-of-War Hymn for St. Martin
—and he has given leave.

“It’s a long way off; I wish it came sooner.
So now, Mother dear, you have time to make
your arrangements as you like, but you see
that whatever happens, Z must be in Camp on
St. Martin’s Day.

“Your loving and dutiful son,

“LEONARD,”




CHAPTER XI.



“T have fought a good fight. I have finished my
course. I have kept the faith. Henceforth —!”

1 Zim. iv. 7.

Ir was Sunday. Sunday, the tenth of No-
vember — St. Martin’s Day.

Though it was in November, a summer day.
A day of that Little Summer which alternately
claims St. Luke and St. Martin as its patrons,
and is apt to shine its brightest when it can
claim both — on the feast of All Saints.

Sunday in Camp. With curious points of
likeness and unlikeness to English . Sundays
elsewhere. Like in that general aspect of
tidiness and quiet, of gravity and pause, which
betrays that a hard-working and very practical

people have thought good to keep much of the
(167)














168 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

Sabbath with its Sunday. Like, too, in the
little groups of children, gay in Sunday best,
and grave with Sunday books, trotting to Sun-
day school.

Unlike, in that to see all the men about the
place washed and shaved is not, among soldiers,
peculiar to Sunday. Unlike, also, in a more
festal feeling produced by the gay gatherings of
men and officers on Church Parade (far distant
be the day when Parade Services shall be
abolished !), and by the exhilarating sounds of
the Bands with which each regiment marched
from its parade-ground to the church.

Here and there small detachments might be
met making their way fo the Roman Catholic
church in Camp, or to places of worship of
various denominations in the neighboring
town; and on Blind Baby’s Parade (where he

was prematurely crushing his Sunday frock

with his drum-basket in ecstatic sympathy with

the bands), a corporal of exceptional views was

parading himself and two privates of the same




SAINT MARTIN’S DAY.





















169

denomination, before marching the three of
them to their own peculiar prayer-meeting.

The Brigade for the Iron Church paraded
early (the sunshine and sweet air seemed to
promote alacrity). And after the men were
seated their officers still lingered outside, chat-
ting with the ladies and the Staff, as these
assembled by degrees, and sunning themselves
in the genial warmth of St. Martin’s Little
Summer.

The V.C. was talking with the little boys in
sailor suits and their mother, when the officer
who played the organ came towards them.

“Good morning, Kapellmeister!” said two
or three voices.

Nicknames were common in the Camp, and
this one had been rapidly adopted.

“Ye look cloudy this fine morning, Kapell-
meister!’ cried the Irish officer. ‘Got the

toothache?”’



The Kapellmeister shook his head, and forced

a smile which rather intensified than diminished
























ELE Bg Re OE

170 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.



the gloom of a countenance which did not
naturally lend itself to lines of levity. Was he
not a Scotchman and also a musician? His
lips smiled in answer to the chaff, but his
sombre eyes were fixed on the V.C. They had
—as some eyes have —an odd, summoning
power, and the V.C. went to meet him. ,

When he said, *‘ I was in there this morning,”
the V.C.’s eyes followed the Kapellmeister’s
to the Barrack Master’s hut, and his own face
fell.

“Fe wants the Tug-of-War Hymn,” said the
Kapellmeister.

“ He’s not coming to church?”

“Oh, no; but he’s set his heart on hearing
the Tug-ofWar Hymn through his bedroom
window; and it seems the chaplain has prom-
ised we shall have it to-day. It’s a most amaz-
ing thing,” added the Kapellmeister, shooting
out one arm with a gesture, common to him
when oppressed by an idea,— “it’s a most iis

amazing thing! For I think, if I were in my }>




vy; wQ we S Ae s : Wy.

ES GILT AM ENDE DOCH NUR VORWARTS! I7I






















grave, that hymn—as these men bolt with it
—might make me turn in my place of rest;

but it’s the last thing I should care to hear if I



were ill in bed! However, he wants it, poor
lad, and he asked me to ask you if you would
turn outside when it begins, and sing so that he
can hear your voice and the words.”

“Oh, he can never hear me over there!’’

“Tie can hear you fast enough! It’s quite
close. He begged me to ask you, and I was to
say it’s his last Sunday.”

There was a pause. The V.C. looked at the
little ‘Officers’ Door,” which was close to his
usual seat, which always stood open in summer
weather, and half in half out of which men
often stood in the crush of a Parade Service.
There was no difficulty in the matter except
his own intense dislike to anything approach-
ing to display. Also he had become more
attached than he could have believed possible
to the gallant-hearted child whose worship of

him had been flattery as delicate as it was



THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.


















sincere. It was no small pain to know that
the boy lay dying —-a pain he would have pre-
ferred to bear in silence.

“Ts he very much set upon it?”

« Absolutely.”

“Is she —is Lady Jane there?”

“All of them. He can’t last the day out.”

“When will it be sung—that hymn, I
mean?”

“Tve put it on after the third Collect.”

“ All right.”

The V.C. took up his sword and went to his
seat, and the Kapellmeister took up his and

went to the organ.
ae # He * ae

In the Barrack Master’s hut my hero lay
dying. His mind was now absolutely clear,
but during the night it had wandered —
wandered in a delirium that was perhaps
some solace of his sufferings, for he had

believed himself to be a _ soldier on active
TR Se on “oR ays, Se aR We Xp se,
Bis pO aR le Betas ae

BEYOND THE VEIL. 173

service, bearing the brunt of battle and the
pain of wounds; and when fever consumed
him, he thought it was the heat of India that
parched his throat and scorched his skin; and
called again and again in noble raving to
imaginary comrades to keep up heart and
press forward.

About four o’clock he sank into stupor, and
the doctor forced Lady Jane to go and lie
down, and the Colonel took his wife away to
rest also.

At Gun-fire Leonard opened his eyes. For
some minutes he gazed straight ahead of him,
and the Master of the House, who sat by his
bedside, could not be sure whether he were
still delirious or no; but when their eyes met
he saw that Leonard’s senses had returned to
him, and kissed the wan little hand that was
feeling about for the Sweep’s head in silence
that he almost feared to break.

Leonard broke in by saying, ‘When did you

bring Uncle Rupert to Camp, Father dear?”





ioe aS) es apa “s
EG

yee a. - ae
mig wig te ae NGS

Bo oy

ts







174. THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

“Uncle Rupert is at home, my darling; and




you arein Uncle Henry’s hut.”




“IT know I am; and so is Uncle Rupert.




He is at the end of the room there. Can’t




you see him?”




“No, Len; I only see the wall, with your




text on it that poor old Father did for you.”




“My ‘Goodly heritage,’ you mean? I can’t




see that now. Uncle Rupert is in front of it.




I thought you put him there.. Only he’s out of




his frame, and — it’s very odd!”
““What’s odd, my darling ?”

‘Some one has wiped away all the tears from




his eyes.”








‘‘Hymn two hundred and sixty-three: ‘Fight
the good fight of faith,’ ”





The third Collect was just ended, and a pro-




longed and somewhat irregular Amen was dying




away among the Choir, who were beginning to




feel for their hymn-books.
























BEYOND THE VEIL. 175

The lack of precision, the “dropping shots”
style in which that Azzen was delivered, would
have been more exasperating to the Kapell-
meister, if his own attention had not been for
the moment diverted by anxiety to know if the
V.C. remembered that the time had come.

As the Chaplain gave out the hymn, the
Kapellmeister gave one glance of an eye, as
searching as it was sombre, round the corner
of that odd little curtain which it is the custom
to hang behind an organist; and this sufficing
to tell him that the V.C. had not forgotten, he
drew out certain very vocal stops, and bending
himself to manual and pedal, gave forth the
popular melody of the “Tug-of-War” hymn
with a precision indicative of a resolution to
have it sung in strict time, or know the reason
whys

And as nine hundred and odd men rose to

their feet with some clatter of heavy boots and



cs = accoutrements the V.C. turned quietly out of

the crowded church, and stood outside upon
176 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

the steps, bare-headed in the sunshine of St.
Martin’s Little Summer, and with the tiniest
of hymn-books between his fingers and thumb.

Circumstances had made a soldier of the
V.C. but by nature he was a student. When
he brought the little hymn-book to his eyes to
get a mental grasp of the hymn before he began
to sing it, he committed the first four lines
to an intelligence sufficiently trained to hold
them in remembrance for the brief time that

it would take to sing them. Involuntarily his

active brain did more, and was crossed by a

critical sense of the crude, barbaric taste of
childhood, and a wonder what consolation the
suffering boy could find in these gaudy lines : —

“The Son of God goes forth to war,
A kingly crown to gain;
His blood-red banner streams afar ;
Who follows in His train ?”

But when he brought the little hymn-book to

his eyes to take in the next four lines, they




“The Son of God goes forth to war.”

(177)
THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE,

startled him with the revulsion of a sudden
sympathy; and lifting his face towards the
Barrack Master's hut, he sang—as he rarely
sang in drawing-rooms, even words the most
felicitous to melodies the most sweet — sang
not only to the delight of dying ears, but so
that the Kapellmeister himself heard him, and
smiled as he heard : —
“Who best can drink His cup of woe
Triumphant over pain,

Who patient bears His cross below,
He follows in His train.”

On each side of Leonard’s bed, like guardian
angels, knelt his father and mother. At his
feet lay the Sweep, who now and then lifted a
long, melancholy nose and anxious eyes.

At the foot of the bed stood the Barrack
Master. He had taken up this position at
the request of the Master of the House, who
had avoided any further allusion to Leonard’s

fancy that their Naseby Ancestor had come to


BEAR THY CROSS.

Asholt Camp, but had begged his big brother-

in-law to stand there and blot out Uncle

Rupert’s Ghost with his substantial body.

But whether Leonard. perceived the ruse,
forgot Uncle Rupert, or saw him all the same,
by no word or sign did he ever betray.

Near the window sat Aunt Adelaide, with
her Prayer-book, following the service in her
own orderly and pious fashion, sometimes say-
ing a prayer aloud at Leonard’s bidding, and
anon replying to his oft-repeated inquiry: “Is
it the third Collect yet, Aunty dear?”

She had turned her head, more quickly than
usual, to speak, when, clear and strenuous on
vocal stops, came the melody of the “ Tug-of-
War” hymn.

“There! There it is! Oh, good Kapell-
meister! Mother dear, please go to the win-
dow and see if V.C. is there, and wave your
hand to him. Father dear, lift me up a little,
please. Ah, now I hear him! Good V.C.! I

don’t believe you'll sing better than that when


















Ws a‘
= in : 4 1
Nyy We SU ae OS DEP A On MY ey, RRS
Dita) PIE iy EE SES BE Se het EE
180 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

you're promoted to be an angel. Are the men
singing pretty loud? May I have a little of
that stuff to keep me from coughing, Mother
dear? You know I am not impatient; but I
do hope, please God, I shan’t die till I’ve just

1?

heard them zug that verse once more

The sight of Lady Jane had distracted the
V.C.’s thoughts from the hymn. He was sing-
ing mechanically, when he became conscious

' of some increasing pressure and irregularity in’
the time. Then he remembered what it was.
The soldiers were beginning to tug.

In a moment more the organ stopped, and

the V.C. found himself, with over three hun-




dred men at his back, singing without accom-




paniment, and in unison —




“A noble army — men and boys,




The matron and the maid,




Around their Saviour’s throne rejoice,




In robes of white arrayed.”
















THUS TO THE STARS!

The Kapellmeister conceded that verse to
the shouts of the congregation; but he invari-
ably reclaimed control over the last.

Even now, as the men paused to take breath





after their “tug,” the organ spoke again, softly,
but seraphically, and clearer and sweeter above
the voices behind him rose the voice of the

V.C., singing to his little friend —

“They climbed the steep ascent of Heaven,
Through peril, toil, and pain ” —

The men sang on; but the V.C. stopped, as if
he had been shot. For a man’s hand had come
to the Barrack Master’s window and pulled the

white blind down.






CHAPTER XII.

“He that hath found some fledged-bird’s nest may know
At first sight, if the bird be flown;
But what fair dell or grove he sings in now,
That is to him unknown.”
flenry Vaughan.














TruE to its character as an emblem of
human life, the Camp stands on, with all its
little manners and customs, whilst the men
who garrison it pass rapidly away.

Strange as the vicissitudes of a whole gen-
eration elsewhere, are the changes and chances
that a few years bring to those who were
stationed there together.

To what unforeseen celebrity (or to a dropping
out of one’s life and even hearsay that once
seemed quite as little likely) do one’s old neigh-

bors sometimes come! They seem to pass in




UNWORLDLY WISE. 183

afew drill seasons as other men pass by life-
times. Some to foolishness and forgetfulness,
and some to fame. This old acquaintance to
unexpected glory; that dear friend —alas!—
to the grave. And some—God speed them!
—to the world’s end and back, following the
drum till it leads them Home again, with famil-
iar faces little changed— with boys and girls,
perchance, very greatly changed —and with
hearts not changed at all. Can the last part-
ing do much to hurt such friendships between
good souls, who have so long learnt to say
farewell; to love in absence, to trust through
silence, and to have faith in reunion?

The Barrack Master’s appointment was an
unusually permanent one; and he and his wife
lived on in Asholt Camp, and saw regiments
come and go, as O’Reilly had prophesied, and
threw out additional rooms and bow-windows,
and took in more garden, and kept a cow ona
bit of Government grass beyond the stores,

and—with the man who did the roofs, the




















Va “ 2 VIL.
Ss Wy 2 VERY



184,
















THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

church orderly, and one or two other public
characters—came to be reckoned among the
oldest inhabitants.

George went away pretty soon with his regi-
ment. He was a good, straightforward young
fellow, with a dogged devotion to duty, and a
certain provincialism of. intellect, and general
John Bullishness, which he inherited from
his father, who had inherited it from his
country forefathers. He inherited equally a
certain romantic, instinctive, and immovable
high-mindedness, not invariably characteristic
of much more brilliant men.

He had been very fond of his little cousin,
and Leonard’s death was a natural grief to him.
The funeral tried his fortitude, and his detesta-
tion of “scenes,” to the very uttermost.

Like most young men who had the honor to

know her, George’s devotion to his beautiful



and gracious aunt, Lady Jane, had had in it




something of the nature of worship; but now




he was almost glad he was going away, and























BS QE an BOR

UNWORLDLY WISE. 185

not likely to see her face for a long time, be-
cause it made him feel miserable to see her,
and he objected to feeling miserable both on
. principle and in practice. His peace of mind
was assailed, however, from a wholly unex-
pected quarter, and one which pursued him
even more abroad than at home.

The Barrack Master’s son had been shocked
by his cousin’s death ; but the shock was really
and truly greater when he discovered, by chance
gossip, and certain society indications, that the
calamity which left Lady Jane childless had
made him his uncle’s presumptive heir. The
almost physical disgust which the discovery
that he had thus acquired some little social
prestige produced in this subaltern of a march-
ing regiment must be hard to comprehend by
persons of more imagination and less sturdy
independence, or by scholars in the science of
success. But man differs widely from man,
and it is true. :

He had been nearly two years in Canada


Sts
Oy 08 Ae. antes fl
to LGSE or ct IE HR ey 3

A aed 7)






186 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.



when “the English mail” caused him to fling

his fur cap into the air with such demonstra-




tions of delight as greatly aroused the curiosity




of his comrades, and, as he bolted to his quar-




ters without further explanation than “Good




news from home!” a rumor was for some time




current that ‘Jones had come into his fortune.”




Safe in his own quarters, he once more




applied himself to his mother’s letter, and




picked up the thread of a passage which ran
thus : —





“Your dear father gets very impatient, and I

long to be back in my hut again and see after




my flowers, which I can trust to no one since




O’Reilly took his discharge. The little con-




servatory is like a new toy to me, but it is very




tiny, and your dear father is worse than no use




in it, as he says himself. However, I can’t



leave Lady Jane till she is quite strong. The




baby is a noble little fellow and really beautiful




— which I know you won't believe, but that’s


a

Wye
: “ ou i “2 Eaiee f ‘ge
oe gene te he, ee
TDP
SY

Es
FEN LLG EES
GOOD NEWS FROM HOME. 187




because you know nothing about babies: not as




beautiful as Leonard, of course—that could




never be—but a fine, healthy, handsome boy,




with eyes that do remind one of his darling




brother. I know, dear George, how greatly you




always did admire and appreciate your Aunt.




Not one bit too much, my son. She is the






noblest woman I have ever known. We have

had a very happy time together, and I pray it




may please God to spare this child to be the




comfort to her that you are and have been to




“Your loving




“ MoTHER.”





This was the good news from home that had

sent the young subaltern’s fur cap into the air,




and that now sent him to his desk; the last




place where, as a rule, he enjoyed himself.




Poor scribe as he was, however, he wrote two




letters then and there; one to his mother, and




one of impetuous congratulations to his uncle,




full of messages to Lady Jane.





BIS Sy SOS:

Satis yea 4 :
age ee



































: Ws, s :
L0H Se pO OO Lette ME nS May, te SC
Dg) pI IN BT Et pe ae

188 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

The Master of the House read the letter
more than once. It pleased him.

In his own way he was quite as unworldly as
his nephew, but it was chiefly from a philo-
sophic contempt for many things that worldly
folk struggle for, and a connoisseurship ‘in
sources of pleasure not purchasable éxcept by
the mentally endowed, and not even valuable to
George, as he knew. And he was a man of the
world, and a somewhat cynical student of char-
acter.

After the third reading he took it, smiling, to
Lady Jane’s morning room, where she was
sitting, looking rather pale, with her fine hair
“coming down” over a tea-gown of strange
tints of her husband’s choosing, and with the
new baby lying in her lap.

He shut the door noiselessly, took a footstool
to her feet, and kissed her hand.

“You look like a Romney, Jane, —an unfin-
ished Romney, for you are too white. If you've
got a headache, you shan’t hear this letter

which I know you'd like to hear.”
ei AQ, we

ae WEF ee Un Ey,
aoe Se ns TO, Bah Se Cae ee yom
a IS NS Oe a a
Lo TUS
: a
OK | : en,

Ne







MORE PRECIOUS THAN RUBIES. 189

“TI see that I should. Canada postmarks.



It’s George.”



“Yes; it’s George. He’s uproariously de-
. lighted at the advent of this little chap.”’

“Oh, I knew he’d be that. Let me hear
what he says.”

The Master of the House read the letter.





Lady Jane’s eyes filled with tears at the tender



references to Leonard, but she smiled through



them.





“ Fe’s a dear, good fellow.’

“THe zs a dear, good fellow. It’s a most dorne



intellect, but excellence itself. And I’m bound



to say,” added the Master of the House, driving



his hands through the jungle of his hair, “that



there is a certain excellence about a soldier,



when he is a good fellow, that seems to be a



thing per se.”



After meditating on this matter for some



moments, he sprang up and vigorously rang the
bell.

“Jane, you're terribly white; you can bear






1gO THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.





nothing. Nurse is to take that brat at once,

and I’m going to carry you into the garden.”



Always much given to the collection and care



of precious things, and apt also to change his



fads and to pursue each with partiality for the



moment, the Master of the House had, for some



time past, been devoting all his thoughts and



his theories to the preservation of a possession



not less valuable than the paragon of Chippen-



dale chairs, and much more destructible — he



was taking care of his good wife.



Many family treasures are lost for lack of a



little timely care and cherishing, and there are



living “examples” as rare as most bric-a-brac,



and quite as perishable. Lady Jane was one



of them, and after Leonard’s death, with no



motive for keeping up, she sank into a condi-



tion of weakness so profound that it became



evident that, unless her failing forces were



fostered, she would not long be parted from
her son.

Her husband had taken up his poem again,



”

(3)
oO
g
3
wm.
es
an
ss
me
a
2
3
St
~
o
a
e
gs
9
2
n
2
o
a
2
=


1g2 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

to divert his mind from his own grief: but he
left it behind, and took Lady Jane abroad.

Once roused, he brought to the task of
coaxing her back to life an intelligence that
generally insured the success of his aims, and
he succeeded now. Lady Jane got well; out
of sheer gratitude, she said.

Leonard’s military friends do not forget
him. They are accustomed to remember the
absent.

With the death of his little friend the V.C.
quits these pages. He will be found in the
pages of history.

The Kapellmeister is a fine organist, and a
few musical members of the congregation, of all
ranks, have a knack of lingering after Evensong
at the Iron Church to hear him “ play away the
people.” But on the Sunday after Leonard’s
death the congregation rose and remained ex

masse as the Dead March from Saul spoke in

solemn and familiar tones the requiem of a

hero’s soul.








Bap Mes Pe, BE CEG

{

I LIST NO MORE THE TUCK OF DRUM. 193




Blind Baby’s father was a Presbyterian, and




disapproved of organs, but he was a fond

parent, and his blind child had heard tell that





the officer who played the organ so grandly was
to play the Dead March on the Sabbath even-
ing for the little gentleman that died on the






Sabbath previous, and he was wild to go and




hear it. Then the service would be past, and



the Kapellmeister was a fellow-Scot, and the




house of mourning has a powerful attraction for




that serious race, and for one reason or another




Corporal MacDonald yielded to the point of




saying, ‘ Aweel, if you’re a gude bairn, I'll tak




ye to the kirk door, and ye may lay your lug at




the chink, and hear what ye can.”




But when they got there the door was open,




and Blind Baby pushed his way through the




crowd, as if the organ had drawn him with a




rope, straight to the Kapellmeister’s side.




It was the beginning of a friendship much to




Blind Baby’s advantage, which did not end when




the child had been sent to a Blind School, and


194. THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

then to a college where he learnt to be a tuner,
and ‘earned his own living.”

Poor Jemima fretted so bitterly for the loss
of the child she had nursed with such devo-
tion, that there was possibly some truth in
O’Reilly’s rather complicated assertion that he
married her because he could not bear to see
her cry.

“He took his discharge, and was installed by
the Master of the House as lodge-keeper at the
gates through which he had so often passed as

‘a tidy one.”

Freed from military restraints, he became a

very untidy one indeed, and grew hair in such
reckless abundance that he came to look like
an ourang-outang with an unusually restrained
figure and exceptionally upright carriage.

He was the best of husbands every day in the
year but the seventeenth of March; and Jemima
enjoyed herself very much as she boasted to the
wives of less handy civilians that “her man was

as good as a woman about the house, any day.”


WHAT IS HOME, AND WHERE? 195

(Any day, that is, except the seventeenth of
March.)

With window-plants cunningly and ornament-
ally enclosed by a miniature paling and gate,
as if the window-sill were a hut garden; with

colored tissue-paper fly-catchers made on the

principle of barrack-room Christmas decora-

tions; with shelves, brackets, Oxford frames,
and other efforts of the decorative joinery of
O’Reilly’s evenings; with a large, hard sofa,
chairs, elbow-chairs, and antimacassars; and
with a round table in the middle—the Lodge
parlor is not a room to live in, but it is almost
bewildering to peep into, and curiously like the
shrine of some departed saint, so highly framed
are the photographs of Leonard’s lovely face,
and so numerous are his relics.

The fate of Leonard’s dog may not readily be
guessed,

The gentle reader would not deem it unnat-
ural were I to chronicle that he died of a broken

heart. Failing this ‘excess of sensibility, it

2 UE
“Alay 63

y

re


196 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

seems obvious that he should have attached

himself immovably to Lady Jane, and have

lived at ease and died full of dignity in his
little master’s ancestral halls. He did go back -
there for a short time, but the day after the
funeral he disappeared. When word came to
the household that he was missing and had not
been seen since he was let out in the morning,
the butler put on his hat and hurried off with a
beating heart to Leonard’s grave.

But the Sweep was not there, dead or alive.
He was at that moment going at a sling trot
along the dusty road that led into the Camp.
Timid persons, imperfectly acquainted with
dogs, avoided him; he went so very straight,
it looked like hydrophobia; men who knew
better, and saw that he was only “on urgent
private affairs,” chaffed him as they passed, and
some with little canes and horseplay waylaid and
tried to intercept him. But he was a big dog,
and made himself respected, and pursued his

way.


; OY x a2 zs © st,

he Due 4 2 ‘ ma a or Soman ee ne sun,
Sg Ee SAN OL, SEB NA, eg Soe ett
i : a

— BUT WITH THE LOVING. 197

His way was to the Barrack Master’s hut.

The first room he went into was that in which

Leonard died. He did not stay there three min-
utes. Then he went to Leonard’s own room,
the little one next to the kitchen, and this he
examined exhaustively, crawling under the bed,
snuffing at both doors, and lifting his long nose
against hope to investigate impossible places,
such as the top of the military chest of drawers.
Then he got on to the late General’s camp bed
and went to sleep.
_ He was awakened by the smell of the bacon
frying for breakfast, and he had breakfast with
the family. After this he went out, and was
seen by different persons at various places in
the Camp, the General Parade, the Stores, and
the Iron Church, still searching.

He was invited to dinner in at least twenty
different barrack-rooms, but he rejected all
overtures till he met O'Reilly, when he turned
round and went back to dine with him and his

comrades.






LNW Py









wt Q

fe os “i
ce © 2 wo
NORE oe aS “




198









THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

He searched Leonard’s room once more, and
not finding him, he refused to make his home
with the Barrack Master; possibly because he
could not make up his mind to have a home at
all till he could have one with Leonard.

Half-a-dozen of Leonard’s officer friends
would willingly have adopted him, but he



would not own another master. Then military




dogs are apt to attach themselves exclusively




either to commissioned or to non-commissioned




soldiers, and the Sweep cast in his lot with the




men, and slept-on old coats in corners of bar-




rack-rooms, and bided his time. Dogs’ masters




do get called away suddenly and come back




again. The Sweep had his hopes, and did not




commit himself.




Even if, at length, he realized that Leonard




had passed beyond this life’s outposts, it roused




in him no instincts to return to the Hall. With




a somewhat sublime contempt for those shreds




of poor mortality laid to rest in the family vault,




he elected to live where his little master had




been happiest — in Asholt Camp.


aa

BeBe gh Re ope oe sty Melon, EES ES




STILL SEARCHING. 199





Now and then he became excited. It was




when a fresh regiment marched in. On these




occasions he invariably made so exhaustive an




examination of the regiment and its baggage, as




led to his being more or less forcibly adopted by




half-a-dozen good-natured soldiers who had had




to leave their previous pets behind them. But




when he found that Leonard had not returned




with that detachment, he shook off everybody




and went back to O'Reilly.




When O’Reilly married, he took the Sweep




to the Lodge, who thereupon instituted a search




about the house and grounds; but it was evi-




dent that he had not expected any good results,




and when he did not find Leonard he went




away quickly down the old Elm Avenue. As




he passed along the dusty road that led to




Camp for the last time, he looked back now




and again with sad eyes to see if O'Reilly was




not coming too. Then he returned to the




Barrack Room, where he was greeted with



uproarious welcome, and eventually presented






Ke
A
U
Is
satu
s

oe 3
\
2D

LS Gas

out,” he lived and died a Soldier’s Dog.






















1 Ke = 2 x
- SO Le
.
THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE,
with a new collar by subscription. And so,

rising with gunfire and resting with “lights

He has
brothers and sisters to complete the natural

The new heir thrives at the Hall.

happiness of his home, he has good health,
good parents, and is having a good education.
He will have a goodly heritage. He is develop-
ing nearly as vigorous a fancy for soldiers as
Leonard had, and drills his brothers and sisters
with the help of O'Reilly.
make arms his profession he will not be

thwarted, for the Master of the House has

If he wishes to

decided that it is in many respects a desirable
Lady

Jane may yet have to buckle on a hero’s sword.

and wholesome career for an eldest son.

Brought up by such a mother in the fear of God,
he ought to be good, he may live to be great,
it’s odds if he cannot be happy. But never, not

in the “one crowded hour of glorious ”’ victory,


sg ih a hie, BO ae te






NOT LOST, BUT GONE BEFORE, 201

not in years of the softest comforts of a peace-
ful home, by no virtues and in no success shall
he bear more fitly than his crippled brother

bore the ancient motto of their house :—

“Letus Sorte Pea.”

THE END.






ys

TE Se eS apie asec