£DU€A2?I0H LIBR. 
 
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 Education 
 
 GIFT OF 
 
 Louise Farrow Barr 
 
THE 
 
 STORY OF A SHORT LIFE 
 
 BY 
 
 JULIANA HORATIA J2WING 
 
 Author of " Jackanapes," " Daddy Darwin's Dovecot," etc. 
 
 NEW YORK: 46 East 14TH Street 
 
 THOMAS Y. CROWELL & CO. 
 
 BOSTON : ico Purchase Street 
 
Copyright, 1893, 
 
 BY 
 
 Thomas Y. Ckowell & Co. 
 
 Education 
 
 Add' 2 
 GIFT 
 
 Nortoooti ^j3rrgg : 
 Berwick & Smith, Boston, U.S.A. 
 
w 
 
 st< 
 
 SIS' 
 
 "o 
 Li'btacy 
 
 H But the fair guerdon when we hope to find, 
 And think to burst out into sudden blaze, 
 Comes the blind Fury with the abhorred shears 
 And slits the thin spun life, — ' But not the praise.' " 
 
 Milton. 
 
 " It 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 allurements 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 
 
 heart . . ." 
 
 Carlyle. 
 
 32C 
 
(4) 
 
THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 
 
 '^©^ c 
 
 CHAPTER L 
 
 "Arma virumque cano." — sEneid. 
 
 "Man — and the horseradish — are most biting when 
 grated.' 1 — Jean 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. 
 
 The child was defiantly like his father, even 
 to a knitted brow, for his whole face was 
 (5) 
 
6 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- 
 
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 — Lcetus 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 
 
8 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 never painted a portrait fuller of sad 
 dignity, even in those troubled times. 
 
WORD AND HONOR. 9 
 
 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." 
 
 It was partly because the child himself looked 
 as if he were going to cry — and that not f rac- 
 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. 
 
IO THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 
 
 Lady Jane came to his defence. 
 
 " I 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 well, 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. I I 
 
 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 will 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. 
 
 " I wrote three lines, and was interrupted 
 four times," replied his sire, with bitter 
 brevity. 
 
 " I think P 11 write some poetry. I don't 
 mind being interrupted. May I have your 
 ink ? " 
 
 " No, you may not ! " roared the Master of 
 the House and of the inkpot of priceless china 
 which Leonard had seized. " Now, be off to 
 the nursery ! " 
 
 " I 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 
 
" He was seated among the cushions of the oriel 
 
 window-seat." 
 
 (13) 
 
14 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 
 
 canonizing him for his sudden goodness) almost 
 before his father could reply. 
 
 " I 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 ? " 
 
 " Yes ; 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 brandies, I t J link I shall 
 turn round and draw the fire-place,' murmured 
 Leonard. 
 
 "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 — " 
 
 " / am doing the inscription ! / can print Old 
 English. What does L. diphthong AL. T. U. S. 
 mean?" said Leonard. 
 
 "It means joyful, contented, happy. — I was at 
 Eton at the time. Disastrous ill-luck ! " 
 
CROSS-QUESTIONS. 1 5 
 
 " Are there any children ? " 
 
 "One son. And to crown all, his regiment 
 is at Asholt. Nice famjly party ! " 
 
 " A young man ! Has he been well brought 
 up?" 
 
 " What does — " 
 
 " Will yon 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 Service.' " 
 
 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 a couch, but Lady Jane sat upright, and her 
 eyes gave an unwonted flash. She came of an 
 
1 6 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. 
 
 " I 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. 
 
 " I 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 
 time?" 
 
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 — " 
 
 " / only just want to know zvJiat S. O. R. T. 
 E. M. E. A. means," Leonard hastily broke in. 
 " I've done it all nozv, and shaiit want to know 
 anything more." 
 
 " Sorte me a is Latin for My fate, or My lot 
 in life. Lcetns sorte mea means Happy in my 
 lot. Lt is our family 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 
 
1 8 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 are 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 is a Gunner. He 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. 19 
 
 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 
 one, Father dear? He is a very splendid sort 
 of man." 
 
 " 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- 
 fore?" 
 
 She shook her head, and he seized his son 
 by the shoulder. 
 
 " If that woman has taught you to tell un- 
 truths— " 
 
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 
 live 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 
 
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 ill-repressed 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 ! " 
 

 L 
 
 He does poke with his spear in battle, I do believe 
 but he didn't poke us." 
 
AND CIRCUMSTANCE OF CHIVALRY. 2$ 
 
 " 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 — '" 
 
 "Hang Jemima!" said the Master of the 
 House. " Now listen to me. You said your 
 mother told you. What did she tell you ? " 
 
 "Je — Je — Jemima said, 'No, he's a Orderly'; 
 and asked the way — I qu — quite forget where 
 to — I truthfully do. And next morning I 
 
24 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 
 
 asked Mother what does Orderly mean ? And 
 she said tidy. 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 
 
L^TUS SORTE MEA. 25 
 
 the motto from the chimney-piece was irregu- 
 larly traced. 
 
 "You 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. 
 
 " I am thinking very hard, Father. Please 
 tell me again what our motto means." 
 
 " ' Lcztus sorte mea, — Happy in my lot.' 
 
26 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 
 
 What are you puzzling your little brains 
 about ? " 
 
 " Because I know I know something so like 
 it, and I can't think what! Yes — no! Wait 
 a minute ! 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 lot is 
 fallen unto me in a fair ground. Yea, I have a 
 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 
 text ? " 
 
 " 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." 
 
THE LOT IS FALLEN UNTO ME. 2J 
 
 " That is generally the date of your desires. 
 What is it ? " 
 
 " I 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. I'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 
 
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 is 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; 
 
IN A FAIR GROUND. 29 
 
 ? 
 
 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 gentle, 
 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 — 
 tage ! ' 
 
30 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. 
 
 " Isn't it splendid, Mother ? Father and I 
 made it together out of my Wednesday text. 
 Uncle Rupert, canyon 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." — Tempest, Act i. Scene I. 
 
 " 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. 1 ' 
 
 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. 
 (30 
 
32 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 
 
 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 
 
A Highwayman^ Heath. 
 (33) 
 
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. 35 
 
 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 
 
36 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 
 
 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 not 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 
 
HARD LINES. 37 
 
 the lines were monotonous and yet confusing, 
 and every road and parade-ground more dusty 
 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, whep 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, 
 were it only situated in a comparatively inac- 
 cessible part of the Pyrenees, instead of being 
 within an hour or two of London. 
 
ET CONSTRUCTA SUAS HABITANS. 39 
 
 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- 
 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 
 
40 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. 
 
AUF WIEDER SEHN ! 41 
 
 But, in truth, the Camp's best defence in the 
 hearts of its defenders was that it was a camp, 
 — military life in epitome, with all its defects 
 and all its charm ; not the least of which, to 
 some whimsical minds, is, that it represents, as 
 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 
 is carried by. , 
 
 Bare and dusty are the Parade Grounds, but 
 
 1 Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress. 
 
42 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, 1 but 
 oftener at funerals ! 
 
 1 " Flag-wagging," a name among soldiers' children for 
 " signalling." 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 " Ut migraturus habita" (Dwell as if about to Depart). 
 — Old House Motto. 
 
 The 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 could 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 is 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 
 (43) 
 
44 TH E 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. 
 
 " I ask your pardon, madam. But there's 
 
..v^* *** 
 
 O'Reilly ! what is that baby doing ? " 
 (45) 
 
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 ? " 
 
 " It'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." 
 
 "I can't live without flowers, O'Reilly, and 
 
GARDENING. 47 
 
 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." 
 
 " You 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 
 
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 
 of it." 
 
 " I 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 God 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 
 
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 '11 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." 
 
 "A very pretty picture, O'Reilly. Why 
 should it bring tears to your eyes ? An old 
 soldier like you must know that one would 
 
50 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 
 
 never have 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 
 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 he 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." 
 
SOW BEANS IN THE MUD. 5 1 
 
 " 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 I 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." 
 
52 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 ? " 
 
 " It 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'll 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. 
 ' God bless ye, Captain,' says I, ' never mind 
 your legs ; I'd manage the cramp, sir,' I says, 
 1 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 
 
THE SOLDIERS 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 
 
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 to the 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 
 
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: 
 — "I must show you your nephew. Leonard ! " 
 But Leonard was not there. 
 
 " I 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 
 
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 glued 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 
 behind them stood Blind Baby, beating upon 
 his basket. 
 
 For the basket had been recovered, and Blind 
 Baby's equanimity also ; and he wandered up 
 and down the parade again in the sun, long 
 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." 
 
 Geoi'ge Eliot. 
 
 "Your sister is as nice as nice can be, 
 Rupert ; and I like the Barrack Master very 
 much, too. He is 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." 
 (60) 
 
BIRTH S GUDE, BUT BREEDING S BETTER. 01 
 
 "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 
 
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. 6$ 
 
 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. 
 
64 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 
 
 " You did take rose-colored spectacles with 
 you to the Camp ! " 
 
 Lady Jane laughed. 
 
 u I 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 
 
FIELD DAYS. 6j 
 
 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." 
 
 " I 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." 
 
OLD SOLDIERS. 69 
 
 " Louisa, is that Major O'Reilly of the 
 Rifles ? " 
 
 "I don't know, dear. Is your friend O'Reilly 
 in the Rifles, Leonard ? " 
 
 " I don't know. I know he's an owld soldier 
 — he told me so." 
 
 " Old, Leonard ; not owld. You mustn't talk 
 like that." 
 
 "I shall if I like. He does, and I mean to." 
 
 " I 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!" 
 
 " I stood so, too. I mean to do as like him 
 as ever I can. I do love him so very very 
 much!" 
 
 " Dear boy!" 
 
yO THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 
 
 " You 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." 
 
 " I 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 cant be your partner, Louisa ! " 
 
 "Officers never have good-conduct stripes." 
 
 " Leonard, you ought not to talk to common 
 soldiers. You've got a regular Irish brogue, and 
 you're learning all sorts of ugly words. You'll 
 grow up quite a vulgar little boy, if you don't 
 take care." 
 
 "I don't want to take care. I like being 
 Irish, and I shall be a vulgar little boy too, if 
 
"I really cannot go if my Sweep has to be left behind." 
 
THE BLACK PUPPY. >]\ 
 
 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 
 
72 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 
 
 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 
 
(73) 
 
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 you mean to. The 
 horses can't wait all day for you." 
 
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." 
 
y6 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 
 
 "I wonder you didn't insist on our bringing 
 Uncle Rupert and his 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 — Icetus — sorte — mea ! " 
 
 t(c t(c t|c "3(v t(c 
 
 All the Camp was astir. 
 
 Men and bugles awoke with the dawn and 
 
FAIR LAUGHS THE MORN. >tf 
 
 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 
 
y8 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 
 
 the screws last night, but I was busy soldier- 
 ing 1 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 a rock ; 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." 
 
 " I 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 like 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 1m energetic tourist carrying a field- 
 
MARCHING TROOPS. 8l 
 
 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, there 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 
 
The Highlanders. 
 (83) 
 
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 is 
 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 be a young Highland 
 officer, and look at ladies with my eyes like 
 this — and carry my sword so!" 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 " Oh that a man might know the end of this day's 
 business ere it comes ! " — Julius Ccssar. 
 
 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, the 
 Barrack Master's wife did exactly what O'Reilly 
 had expected her to do. As she could not 
 drive to the Field Day, she strolled out to see 
 the troops go by. Then the vigor derived from 
 breakfast and the freshness of the morning air 
 began to fail, the day grew hotter, the Camp 
 looked dreary and deserted, and, either from 
 physical weakness or from some untold cause, 
 a nameless anxiety, a sense of trouble in the air, 
 began to oppress her. 
 
 Wandering out again to try and shake it off, 
 it was almost a relief, like the solving of a 
 riddle, to find Blind Baby sitting upon his Big 
 Drum, too low-spirited to play the Dead March, 
 and crying because all the bands had "gone 
 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 by 
 the piano and beating upon his basket in time 
 
The Sexton's Holiday Trip. 
 (87) 
 
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, 
 for she fell asleep. 
 
 Her last thoughts as she dozed off were of her 
 
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." 
 
90 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 
 chap — " 
 
 " Oh, Henry ! how ? " 
 
 " He was standing up in the carriage, I 
 believe, with a dog in his arms. George saw 
 him when he went past — didn't you ? " 
 
 " Yes. I wonder he didn't fall then. I 
 fancy some one had told him it was our regi- 
 ment. The dog was struggling, but he would 
 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 E EN. 91 
 
 " 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 
 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 
 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 
 
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." 
 
 " I ask 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?" 
 
94 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 
 
 " My child indeed ! And his mother a lady 
 of title, no less." 
 
 "What's got him?" 
 
 " Fell out of the carriage, and was trampled 
 into a cripple for all the days of his life. He 
 that had set as fine a heart as ever beat on 
 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,' 
 says he. And — " 
 
 " Fond of the soldiers — his mother a leddy ? 
 Man! Had he a braw new velvet coat and the 
 face of an angel on him ? " 
 
 "He had so." 
 
 "And I that thocht they'd all this warld 
 could offer them! — A cripple? Ech sirs!" 
 
CHAPTER VI. 
 
 11 1 will do it . . . for I am weak by nature, and very 
 timorous, unless where a strong sense of duty holdeth and 
 supporteth me. There God acteth, and not His creature." 
 
 Lady Jane Grey. 
 
 Leonard was to some extent a spoiled child. 
 But it demands a great deal of unselfish fore- 
 sight, and of self-discipline, to do more for a 
 beautiful and loving pet than play with it. 
 
 And if his grace and beauty and high spirits 
 had been strong temptations to give him every- 
 thing he desired, and his own way above all, 
 how much greater were the excuses for indulg- 
 ing every whim when the radiant loveliness of 
 health had faded to the wan wistfulness of pain, 
 when the young limbs bounded no more, and 
 when his boyish hopes and hereditary ambitions 
 (95) 
 
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 
 
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. 
 
 " It 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 rest 
 and relaxation, were spent by her in getting the 
 big dog's still lanky legs into a tub, and keep- 
 ing him there, and washing him, and drying 
 and combing him into fit condition to spring 
 back on to Leonard's coverlet when that imperi- 
 ous little invalid called for him. 
 
 It was a touching manifestation of the dog's 
 intelligence that he learned with the utmost 
 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 faculty 
 for nursing, and was by no means possessed of 
 the patience needed to persuade Leonard for 
 his good. So he could only be with the child 
 when he was fit to be read or played to, and 
 later on, when he was able to be out of doors. 
 And at times he went away out of sight of his 
 
" Leonard would allow no one but his own dear nurse to 
 wash his own dear dog.'" 
 
 (99) 
 
IOO 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. 
 
TO EACH HIS SUFFERINGS. IOI 
 
 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. 
 
 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 
 and corner of the place, inside and out, and to 
 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 
 
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 
 straight-minded, single-eyed, clear-headed, and 
 pure-hearted ; a soul to which the truth and 
 reality 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 God 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 ? 
 
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 
 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 The 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 
 
HE THAT THOLES, O ERCOMES. IO7 
 
 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. 
 
 " 1 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 ? " — 
 Jeremy Taylor. 
 
 The 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. 
 
 (109) 
 
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. Ill 
 
 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 
 
112 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." 
 
 " It'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 ? " 
 
THE COURAGE TO DARE. II3 
 
 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 a\^ay. 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 
 Parrot. Oh, I hope I shan't be naughty ! I do 
 feel so impatient ! I was 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 
 
114 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 
 
 run 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." 4 
 
 "Poor things! Did they die?" 
 
 "Some of them." 
 
 " I shall die pretty soon, I believe. I meant 
 to die young, but more grown-up than this, and 
 in battle. About your age, I think. How old 
 are you ? " 
 
 " I 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 
 
ARE REALLY ONE AND THE SAME. 115 
 
 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 I am ; 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 
 
Il6 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 is 
 very bad sometimes, particularly when it keeps 
 you awake at night." 
 
 " My little friend, that would count for lying 
 out all night wounded on the field when the 
 battle's over. Soldiers are not always fight- 
 ing." 
 
 " Did you ever lie out for a night on a battle- 
 field ? " 
 
 "Yes, 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?" 
 
" Did the night seem very long ? ' 
 f«7) 
 
Il8 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 
 
 " Nothing till the rain fell, then we sucked 
 our clothes." 
 
 "It would take a lot of my bad nights to 
 count up to that ! But I think when I'm ill in 
 bed I might count that like being a soldier in 
 hospital ? " 
 
 "Of course." 
 
 "I 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 
 you may be killed any minute. But Mother 
 says, if I could try very hard, and think of poor 
 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 could count up to that ? 
 Do you? Oh, do answer me, and don't stroke 
 
THE COURAGE OF A V.C. II9 
 
 my head ! I get so impatient. You've been in 
 battles — do you ? " 
 
 " I do, I do." 
 
 "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 
 of a V.C?" 
 
 "God 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 ? " 
 
 " Why, because — Look at me again. 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." 
 
120 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 
 
 " I 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?" 
 
 " I 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." 
 
 " I'm coming, Jemima. I'm not going to be 
 naughty ; but you may go back to the chair, 
 
J ^y* mi if^jT " v 
 
 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. 
 
 "lama 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 1 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. 1 ' — Buny art's PilgrinCs 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." 
 
 (122) 
 
THE BOOK OF POOR THINGS. 1 23 
 
 "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 better 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 
 
MAN IS MASTER OF HIS FATE. 1 25 
 
 it will be bound. It's a collection — a collec- 
 tion of Poor Things who've been hurt, like me ; 
 or blind like the Organ-tuner; or had their 
 heads — no, not their heads, they couldn't go 
 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. 
 
 14 Yes, that's it. But I don't understand it so 
 well as Poor Things. They are 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, 'Can't you see it? It'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 
 
The Organ-tuner. 
 
 (127) 
 
128 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 
 
 I've tried shutting my eyes ; and you can bear 
 it just a minute, and then you must 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 timers, 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 as a battle to be afflicted 
 and go on earning your own livelihood when you 
 can see nothing but blackness all along. Poor 
 man ! " 
 
 " I do think it very good of him, my darling, 
 and very brave." 
 
SWEET ARE THE USES OF ADVERSITY. I 20, 
 
 " I 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 £11 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 
 handsome L ! " 
 
I30 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." 
 
 " Is 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 ? " 
 
 " I must. I cannot guess." 
 
 "It's the beginning of ' Lcetus sorte mea.' 
 Ah, you know now ! You ought to have 
 guessed without my telling you. Do you 
 remember ? I 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 
 
NOBLESSE OBLIGE. I3I 
 
 sort of a one it is.' For you told me so. 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 1 
 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!" 
 
CHAPTER IX. 
 
 " St. George ! a stirring life they lead, 
 That have such neighbors near." 
 
 Marmion. 
 
 " Oh, 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 not the blue I want, and 
 when you know the men in hospital haven't 
 any tassels to their dressing-gowns 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 
 (132) 
 
A BLUE DRESSING-GOWN. 1 33 
 
 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, is this blue pattern the 
 same color as that ? " 
 
 " Certainly not. But what's the matter, my 
 child ? " 
 
 " It'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 
 
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 Icetus 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 
 itself. 
 
COURAGE AND PATIENCE. 1 35 
 
 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 As ho It Gazette was delivered as regu- 
 
136 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 
 
 larly as the Times ; 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 Manoeuvres 
 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 
 
MILITARY MANOEUVRES. 1 37 
 
 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 manoeu- 
 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 
 
I38 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. 
 
Orderlies were as plentiful as rooks among the elm-trees." 
 (139) 
 
CHAPTER X. 
 
 u 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, 
 Remembers me of all his gracious parts, 
 Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form. 1 ' 
 
 King John, Act iii. 
 
 Long 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) 
 
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. 
 
142 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 
 
 Letter I. 
 
 " Barrack Master's Hut, 
 
 « The Camp, As holt. 
 "My dear, dear Mother, — 
 
 " I 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 
 
LIFE IS MADE UP OF LITTLE THINGS. I43 
 
 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 you 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. 
 
 " I am, your loving and dutiful son, 
 
 Leonard. 
 
 " P. 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 
 me." 
 
CHURCH PARADE. I45 
 
 Letter II. 
 
 "... 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 
 
I46 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 
 
VOLUNTARY SERVICES. \Arf 
 
 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. 
 
 " I 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 
 an4 I'll explain. 
 
 " When I say our quarters, remember I mean 
 our hut ; and when I say rations 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, 
 
I48 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 
 
 and I'm not to call it so, so I don't. But that's 
 what he says. 
 
 " I like Cousin George very much. I like his 
 uniform. He is 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. 
 " I am, your loving and dutiful son, 
 
 " Leonard. 
 
"It was great fun." 
 (149) 
 
ISO 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 is a D.A.Q.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." 
 
WHEN GREEK MEETS GREEK. 15 1 
 
 Letter 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 Icetus 
 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 Icetus 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. 1 53 
 
 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 
 
154 TH E 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.' 
 
 "I 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. 1 55 
 
 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 God 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 
 
I56 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 
 
 think they like it, because it's about the army ; 
 and so do I. 
 
 " I am, 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 I a 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. 
 
THE ONE-ARMED COLONEL. I 57 
 
 11 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. 
 
 " I 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 Icetus sorte mea, and so is the 
 Sweep." 
 
 Letter V. 
 
 "This 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. I 59 
 
 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 
 a Catechumen ! ' He can 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 
 
l6o 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 Padre 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 
 
MARTIN YET BUT A CATECHUMEN! l6l 
 
 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 war-paint 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 
 
l62 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. 
 (I asked 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 ? 
 
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. 
 
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 I 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 
 
Martin — yet but a Catechumen ! 
 
GODLIKE MEN. l6$ 
 
 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 
 
l66 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 ioth of November. He is not a 
 Collect, Epistle, and Gospel Saint, only one of 
 the Black Letter ones ; but the ioth 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, / must be in Camp on 
 St. Martin's Day. 
 
 " Your loving and dutiful son, 
 
 "Leonard." 
 
CHAPTER XL 
 
 " I have fought a good fight. I have finished my 
 course. I have kept the faith. Henceforth — ! " 
 
 i Ti?n. iv. 7. 
 
 It 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 theieast 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) 
 
1 68 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 to 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 
 
I70 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. 
 
 " He 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-of-War 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 
 amazing thing ! For I think, if I were in my 
 
ES GILT AM ENDE DOCH NUR VORWARTS ! I/I 
 
 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 ! " 
 " He 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 jt was 
 
172 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. 
 
 " Is 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 ? " 
 
 " I've 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. 
 
 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 
 believe^ himself to be a soldier on active 
 
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?" 
 
174 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 
 
 "Uncle Rupert is at home, my darling; and 
 you are in Uncle Henry's hut." 
 
 " I 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." 
 
 11 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. 1 75 
 
 The lack of precision, the " dropping shots " 
 style in which that Amen was delivered, would 
 iiave 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 
 why. 
 
 And as nine hundred and odd men rose to 
 their feet with some clatter of heavy boots and 
 accoutrements the V.C. turned quietly out of 
 the crowded church, and stood outside upon 
 
1/6 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) 
 
178 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 
 Ma*ster. 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. 179 
 
 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 
 
l80 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 
 heard them tug 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! l8l 
 
 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." 
 
 Henry 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 
 (182) 
 
UNWORLDLY WISE. 1 83 
 
 a few 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 on a 
 bit of Government grass beyond the stores, 
 and — with the man who did the roofs, the 
 
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 
 
UNWORLDLY WISE. 1 85 
 
 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 
 
1 86 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 
 
GOOD NEWS FROM HOME. 1 87 
 
 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. 
 
1 88 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 except 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." 
 
MORE PRECIOUS THAN RUBIES. 1 89 
 
 " I 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. 
 
 "He's a dear, good fellow." 
 
 " He is a dear, good fellow. It's a most borne 
 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 
 
190 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, 
 
"Nurse is to take that brat at once." 
 (190 
 
ig2 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 en 
 masse as the Dead March from Saul spoke in 
 solemn and familiar tones the requiem of a 
 hero's soul. 
 
I LIST NO MORE THE TUCK OF DRUM. I93 
 
 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 1 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? I95 
 
 (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 
 
I96 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. 
 
— BUT WITH THE LOVING. 1 97 
 
 His way was to the Barrack Master's hut. 
 
 The first room he went into v/as 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. 
 
I98 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. 
 
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, Vie 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 
 
200 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 
 
 with a new collar by subscription. And so, 
 rising with gunfire and resting with "lights 
 out," he lived and died a Soldier's Dog. 
 
 The new heir thrives at the Hall. He has 
 brothers and sisters to complete the natural 
 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. If he wishes to 
 make arms his profession he will not be 
 thwarted, for the Master of the House has 
 decided that it is in many respects a desirable 
 and wholesome career for an eldest son. Lady 
 Jane may yet have to buckle on a hero's sword. 
 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, 
 
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: — 
 
 "ILaetus $orte Men" 
 
 THE END. 
 
YB 3"" 
 
 / W / KJ 
 
/\*