“Yes, sir,” said the inflexible Sergeant-Major.
“You held the same rank in the line, Sergeant-Major, didn’t you?”
“Yes, sir,” said the Sergeant-Major, and saluted from habit.
“I thought so, and that says a deal for you, Mr. Archdale; and I remember one of your papers says you were the youngest sergeant ever made in your regiment?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, that says a lot too, and a very responsible office that is. Egad, from all I ’a seen, I’d say the sergeants has more to do with the state of a regiment than all the other officers, commissioned or noncommissioned, put together.”
“There’s a good deal depends on ’em, sir.”
“You keep to yourself, Archdale; that’s the way to rise.”
“I was a man of few acquaintances, sir, and confidential with my superior officers, and few words, but I meant ’em, sir, and made the men do their duty.”
“That’s the man for my money,” said Harry. “Will ye be ready for Noulton Farm by the middle o’ next month?”
“Yes, sir, I expect.”
“I’ll settle that for ye, then, and the pay and the commonage. I’ll settle that wi’ my father tomorrow, and we’ll get the writings drawn.”
“I thank you, sir.”
“And, wait a bit. I told you,” said Harry, perhaps a very little embarrassed, “there’s another little thing you must manage for me.”
“Yes, sir.”
He almost wished Mr. Archdale to ask questions and raise difficulties. This icy surface, beneath which he saw nothing, began to embarrass him.
“Every fellow’s a fool once or twice in his life, you know, Archdale; and that’s the way rogues makes money, and honest chaps is sold—
‘No fools at the fair,
No sale for bad ware,’
you know?”
He looked for sympathy in the face of the Sergeant-Major, but he found there neither sympathy nor ridicule, but a serene, dignified, supercilious composure.
“Well, I’m not married, and more’s the pity,” he said, affecting a kind of jocularity, uneasily; “but among ’em they’ve made me a present of a brat they calls my son, and I must just put him to nurse and provide for him, I do suppose; and keep all quiet, and ye’ll look out some decent poor body that lives lonely and won’t ask no questions nor give no trouble, but be content wi’ a trifle, and I’ll gi’e’t to you every quarter for her, and she’ll never hear my name, mind, nor be the wiser who owns it or where it came from. I’d rayther she thought ’twas a poor body’s—if they think a fellow’s well-to-do it makes ’em unreasonable, and that’s the reason I pitched on you, Archdale, because ye’re a man o’ sense, and won’t be talkin’ like the pratin’ fools that’s goin’—and is it settled? is it a bargain?”
“Yes, sir, I thank you, quite,” said Archdale.
“Well, then, ye shall hear from me by the end o’ the week, and not a word, mind—till all’s signed and sealed—about Noulton Farm, and about t’other thing—never. The stars is comin’ out bright, and the sunset did ye mind; we’ll ’a frost tonight; it’s come dark very sudden; sharp air.”
He paused, but the noncommissioned officer did not venture a kindred remark, even an acquiescence in these meteorological speculations.
“And I heard the other day you made an organ for Mr. Arden. Is it true?” said Harry, suddenly.
“Just a small thing, three stops, sir—diapason, principal, and dulciana.”
“Well, I don’t know nothing myself about such gear, except to hear the old organ o’ Wyvern o’ Sundays. But it’s clever o’ you. How did ye learn?”
“ ’Prenticed, sir, two years to an organ builder in Westminster—Mr. Lomas—and he died, and I was put to the army,” said Archdale.
“Well, I may give ye a lift that way, too. They were talkin’ of an organ for Warhampton Church. We’ll see. I’ll not forget.”
“I thank you, sir,” repeated Archdale. “Any more commands for me, sir?”
Mr. Archdale stood stiffly at the gate, drawn up, as it were, at right angles to Harry Fairfield.
“No, nothing, Archdale. I’m glad the thing suits you, and it may lie in my way yet to make them better than you think for. Good night, Archdale; good night, Sergeant-Major.”
“Good night, sir.”
And Archdale wheeled to his left, and with his back toward the village of Wyvern, marched away at so stiff and regular a quick march that you could have fancied the accompaniment of the drums and fifes.
Harry stood at the iron gate, one half of which was open, and he kicked a stone listlessly into the road, and, leaning on the old iron arabesques, he looked long after that portly figure receding in distance and melting in twilight.
“Night’s the mother o’ thought, I’ve heard say,” said Harry, rousing himself, and swinging the great valve into its place with a clang. “But thought won’t do to dine on. Hollo! Gate! gate! Jorrocks, anyone,” he shouted. “Lock the gate, some of you, and make all sure for the night.”
And with these orders to Jorrocks, he marched back under the ancestral trees to the old hall of Wyvern. Who was to keep the hearth of the Fairfields aglow? The light of the old Squire’s life was flaring low in the socket, a tiny taper was just lighted in darksome Carwell, and Harry Fairfield—was he ever to take his turn and illuminate the Wyvern world?
LII
A Talk with the Squire
Harry proved how hungry he was by eating a huge dinner. He had the old dining-room to himself, and sipped his brandy and water there by a pleasant fire of coal and spluttering wood. With a button or two undone, he gazed drowsily into the fire, with his head thrown back and his eyes nearly closed; and the warmth of the fire and the glow of the alcohol flushed his cheeks and his nose and his forehead to a brilliant crimson.
Harry had had a hard day’s riding. Some agitations, great variety of air, and now, as we have seen, a hearty dinner and many glasses of brandy and water, and a hot fire
