 CHAPTER 64 THE MARCH BY NIGHT The next day the sergeant was away in his gig to Wyvern, a long journey to report to the squire and obtain leave of absence from his duties for a day or two. He was to spend that night at Hatherton, there to make arrangements about the funeral. It was a relief to all at Knowleton Farm, I need hardly say, when the master of the house was away. A very sad day it was for the boy. A day whose gloom was every now and then crossed by the thrill and fear of a great excitement. As evening darkened he went out again to the garden in the hope of seeing Tom Orange. He would have liked that cheer at the eve of his great venture, but Tom was not there. Neither counsel nor encouragement to be heard. Nothing but the song of the small birds among the leaves, and the late flowers, soon to close, peeping from among the garden plants, and the long quiet shadows of the poplars, that stood so tall and still against the western sky. The boy came in and had his lonely cup of tea in the parlor, and a little talk with the somewhat sour and sad old servant. He was longing for the night, yearning to see Tom's friendly face, and to end his suspense. At last the twilight was gone. The night had indeed come, and the moon shone serenely over the old gray roof and the solemn trees, over the dead and the living. The boy lay down in his bed at the accustomed early hour. The old woman had taken away his candle and shut the door. He lay with his eyes wide open, listening with a palpitating heart for every sound. The inflexible regularity which the absent master had established in his household was in the boy's favor. He heard the servant shut and bar the outer door at the wanted hour. He saw the boy's candle in his window for a while and then put out. Tony was in his bed, and for tired Tony to lie down was generally to be asleep. Peeping stealthily from his lattice, he saw the old servant's candle, glimmering, readily through the window, on the juniper that stood near the wall in the shadow. And soon that light also disappeared, and he knew that the old woman had gone into her room. It was half past ten. She would be asleep at a quarter of an hour, and in another fifteen minutes his critical adventure would have commenced. Stealthily, breathlessly he dressed. His window looked toward the osier trees where Tom was to await him. It opened, lattice fashion, with a hinge. Happily the night was still, and the process of preparing to descend perfectly noiseless. The piece of old rope that lay in the corner he had early fixed on as his instrument of escape. He made it fast to the bed-post, and began to let himself down the wall. The rope was too short, and he dangled in air from the end of it for a second or two, and then dropped to the ground. The distance of the fall, though not much, was enough to throw him from his feet, and the dog in the lock-up-yard at the other side of the house began to bark angrily. For a minute the boy gave himself up. He lay, however, perfectly still, and the barking subsided. There was no other alarm, and he stole very softly away under cover of the trees, and then faster down the slope toward the appointed osiers. There indeed was Tom Orange, in that faint light more solemn than he ever remembered to have seen him before. Tom was thinking that the stealing away this boy might possibly turn out the most serious enterprise he had yet engaged in. He had no notion, however, of receding, and merely telling the boy to follow him. He got into a swinging trot that tried the little fellow's endurance rather severely. I think they ran full three miles before Tom came to a halt. Then more like himself he inquired how he was, and whether he thought he could go on fifteen miles more that night. Oh, yes, he could do anything that night quite well. Well, walk a bit, that you may get breath, and then we'll run again, said Tom. And so they set forward once more. They had now accomplished about four miles more. The little fellow was not so fresh as at starting. A drizzling rain, too, had commenced. With a cold change of wind, and altogether the mere adventure of running away was not quite so pleasant, nor even Tom's society quite so agreeable on the occasion, as he had fancied. You have done four out of the fifteen. You have only eleven of the fifteen before you now. You have got over seven altogether up to this. Not so bad. You're not tired, youngster? Not the least. That's right, you're a good soldier. Now come, we'll stand close under this hedge, and eat a bit. They supped very heartily on great slices of bread and corned beef, which bore ample traces of the greens, in which it had been served when hot. And now, boy, you must go on to Hatherton by yourself, for I'm known about here, and there's a fair there in the morning, and there will be people on the way before light. You must go a mile beyond the town to the George public. Mrs. Gumpford keeps it, and there I'll meet you. Then he detailed the route and the landmarks for the boy's guidance. Take a drink of this, said he, pulling a soda water bottle full of milk out of his coat pocket. And when he had done, take him out full of this, my hero, it'll keep you warm. And he placed a flask of brandy to the boy's lips, and made him swallow a little. And here's a bit more bread, if you should be hungry. Good night, and remember. After about an hour's solitary walking, the boy began to grow alarmed. Tom's landmarks failed him, and he began to fear that he had lost his way. In half an hour more, he was sure that he was quite out of his reckoning, and as his spirit sank, he began to feel the cold wind and drenching rain more and more. And now he found himself entering a town not at all answering Tom's description of Hatherton. The little town was silent, its doors and windows shut, and all except a few old-fashioned oil lamps dark. After walking listlessly about, afraid to knock and ask somewhere for shelter, worn out, he sat down on a doorstep. He leaned back, and soon fell fast asleep. A shake by the shoulder roused him. A policeman was stooping over him. I say, get up out of that, said the imperious voice of the policeman. The boy was not half awake. He stared at him, his big face and leather-bound chimney pot looked like a dream. I say, he continued shaking him, but not violently. You must get up out of that. You're not to be making yourself comfortable there all night. Come, be lively. Comfortable? Lively? All comparative, all a question of degrees. The boy got up as quickly as the cold and stiffness of his joints would let him. Very dutifully he got up and stood, drenched, pale and shivering in the moonlight. The policeman looked down, not unkindly now, at the little wayfarer. There was something piteous, I dare say. He looked a grave, thoughtful man, of more than fifty, and he put his hand on the child's shoulder. You see, boy, that was no place to sleep in. No, sir, I'll never do it again, sir, please. You're cold. You'd get pains in your bones. I'll not any more, sir, please. Come with me, my boy, it's only a step. He brought the boy into his house down the lane, close by. There's a fire. You warm yourself. There's my little one in fever, so you can't stop long. Sit down, child, and warm yourself. He gave him a drink of hot milk and a piece of bread. You don't get up, you know, there's no need, he added. I think he was afraid of his pewter spoons. He kept the little fellow nearly half an hour, and he lent him an old bottomless sack to wrap about his shoulders, and charged him to bring it back in the morning. I think the man thought he might be a thief. He was a kind man. There was a balancing of great pity and suspicion. The boy returned the sack with many thanks, in the first faint twilight of morning, and set forth again for Hatherton. It was, the fellow who directed him said, still five miles on. At about a mile from Hatherton, cold and wet, and fearing to be too early at the George Inn, the rendezvous agreed on, the tired little fellow crept in, cold and wet, to a roadside pot-house. At the fire of the ale-house three fellows were drinking beer. Says one who had now and then had his eye on the boy. That boy there has run away from school. I cannot describe the terror with which the little fellow heard these words. The other two looked at him. One was a fat fellow in britches and top boots, and a red cloth waistcoat, and a ruddy, good-humored face, and after a look they returned to their talk. And in a little while, the lean man, who seemed to find it hard to take his eyes off him, said, that's a runaway that chap, we ought to tell the police, and send him back to school. Well, that's no business of ours. Can't you let him be? said the red waistcoat. Come here, said the lean man, beckoning him over with his hard eye on him. He rose and slowly approached under that dreadful command. I can't say that there was anything malevolent in that man's face. He was somewhat sharp and stern, with a lean inflexibility of duty. To the boy at this moment no face could have been imagined more terrific. His only hope was in his fat companion. He turned, I am sure, and imploring look upon him. Come, irons, let the boy alone, unless you mean to quarrel with me. Damn me! He shall let him alone. Can get him his breakfast or something hot, and be lively, he called to the people, and scored it up to me. So thanks to the good Samaritan, in top boots and red waistcoat, the dejected little man pursued his way comforted. As he walked through Hatherton, he was looking into a shop window listlessly, when he distinctly saw reflected in the plate glass, that which appalled him so that he thought he should have fainted. It was the marble blue-chinned face of the sergeant major looking over his shoulder, with his icy gray eyes, into the same window. He was utterly powerless to move. His great eyes were fixed on that dreadful shadow. He was actually touching his shoulder as he leaned over. Unfortunately, the sergeant did not examine the reflection, which he would have been sure to recognize. The bird fascinated by the cold eye of a snake, and expecting momentarily, with palpitating heart, the spring of the reptile may feel when withdrawing the spell. It glides harmlessly away, as the boy did, when he saw that dreaded man turn away, and walk with measured tread up the street. For a moment his terror was renewed. For beyond that yellow namesake of the philosopher, recognizing him, stood against the boy's leg, and scratched repeatedly, and gave him a shove with his nose, and whimpered. The boy turned quickly, and walking away the dog left him, and ran after his master, and took his place at his side. At the George Inn, a little way out of Hatherton, the boy to his inexpressible delight at last found Tom Orange. He told Tom at once of his adventure at the shop window, and the occurrence darkened Tom's countenance. He peeped out, and took a long look toward Hatherton. Put the horse to the fly, and bring it round at once, said Tom, who put his hand in his pocket and drew forth a rather showy handful of silver. I don't pretend to say when Tom was out of regular employment, from what pursuits exactly he drew his revenue. They had rather improved than otherwise, but I dare say there were anxious compensations. The boy had eaten his breakfast before he reached Hatherton, so much the better, for the apparition of the sergeant major would have left him totally without appetite. As it was, he was in an agony to be gone, every moment expecting to see him approach the little inn to arrest him and Tom. Tom Orange was uneasy, I am sure, and very fidgety till the fly came round. You know, squire Fairfield from Wyvern, said the hostess, while they were waiting. I said, Tom, did you hear the news? What is it? Shot the night before last in a row with poachers. Gentlemen should leave that sort of work to their keepers, but they was always a fighting wild lot, them Fairfields, and he's lying now a dead man all the same. Move over by Dr. Willett in another. We a whole charge of duck shot lodged under his shoulder. And that's the news? Said Tom, raising his eyes and looking through the door. He had been looking down on the ground as Mrs. Gumpford of the George told her story. There's sharp fellows, poachers round there, I'm told. He said, next time, he'd have been out himself with the keepers to take him dead or alive. I suppose they wouldn't answer them. "'Tis a wicked world,' said the lady. "'Damn wicked,' said Tom. Here's the fly.' In they got and drove off. Tom was gloomy and very silent. "'Tom, where are we going to?' asked the boy at last. "'All right,' said Tom. "'All right, my young master, you'll find it's to no one but good friends. And say now, haven't I been a good friend to you, Master Harry, all your days, sir?' Many a mile that you know nothing about has Tom Orange walked on your business and down to the cottage and back again. And where would you or her have been if it wasn't for poor Tom Orange?' "'Yes indeed, Tom, and I love you, Tom. And now I've took you away from that fellow, and I'm told I'm likely to be hanged for it. Well, no matter.' "'Oh, Tom, poor Tom. Oh, no, no, no.' And he threw his arms around Tom's neck in a paroxysm of agonized affection. And in spite of the jolting, kissed Tom, sometimes on the cheek, on the eyebrow, on the chin, and in a great jolt violently on the rim of his hat. And it rolled over his shoulder under their feet. "'Well, that is gratifying,' said Tom, dry in his eyes. There is some reward for principle, after all. And if you come to be a great man some of these days, you'll not forget poor Tom Orange, that would have spent his last bob and spilt his heart's blood without fee or reward in your service. Another explosion, a friendship from the boy, assured Tom of his eternal gratitude. "'Do you know this place, sir?' asked Tom. With the return of his old manner, as making a sudden turn, the little carriage drove through an open gate and up to an old-fashioned house. A carriage was waiting at the door. "'There could be no mistake. How delightful! And who was that? Mammy!' at the hall door. And in an instant they were locked in one another's arms. And oh, the darling and mammy, mammy, mammy, were the only words audible, half stifled in sobs and kisses. In a minute more there came into the hall, smiling, weeping, and with hands extended toward him the pretty lady dressed in black. And her weeping grew into a wild cry, as coming quickly she caught him in her heart. "'My darling, my child, my blessed boy, you're the image! Oh, darling, I loved you the moment I saw you, and now I know it all.' The boy was worn out, his march including his divergence from his intended route had not been much less than thirty miles, and all in chill and wet. They got him to his bed and made him thoroughly comfortable, and with Mammy at his bedside, and her hand to make quite sure of her, fast in his, he fell into a deep sleep. Alice had already heard enough to convince her of the boy's identity, but an urgent message from Harry who was dying determined her to go at once to Wyvern to see him, as he desired, so leaving the boy in charge of Mammy, she was soon on her way to the old seat of the Fairfields. If Harry had not known that he was dying, no power could ever have made him confess the story he had to tell. There were two points on which he greatly insisted. The first was that believing that his brother was really married to Bertha Vildercost, he was justified in holding that his nephew had no legal right to succeed. The second was that he had resolved, although he might have wavered lately a little, never to marry, and to educate the boy better than ever he was educated himself, and finally to make him heir to Wyvern, pretending him to be an illegitimate son of his own. Whether the sergeant major knew more than he was ordered or undertook to know, he never gave the smallest ground to conjecture. He stated exactly what had passed between him and Harry Fairfield. By him he was told that the child, which was conveyed to Marjorie Travellian's care, was his own unacknowledged son. On the very same evening, and when Old Mildred Tarnley was in the house of Twyford, was a child taken, with the seeds of consumption already active in it from a workhouse in another part of England, and placed there as the son of Charles Fairfield and Alice. It was when, contrary to all assurances, this child appeared for a few days to rally, and the situation consequent on its growing up, the reputed heir to Wyvern, alarmed Harry, that he went over in his panic to the Grange, and there opened his case, that the child at Twyford was a changeling and not his brother's son. When, however, the child began to sink, and its approaching death could no longer be doubtful, he became, as we have seen, once more quite clear that the baby was the same which he had taken away from Carwell Grange. Dr. Willett seeing the child so often at Twyford also prevented suspicion, though illogically enough, for had they reflected they might easily have remembered that the doctor had hardly seen the child twice after its birth while at the Grange, and that, like everyone else, he took its identity for granted when he saw it at Twyford. Alice returned greatly agitated late that evening, no difficulty any longer remained, and the boy, with ample proof to sustain his claim, was accepted as the undoubted heir to Wyvern and the representative of the ancient family of Fairfield. The boy Henry Fairfield was as happy as mortal can be, henceforward. His little playmate, the pretty little girl whom Alice had adopted, who called her Mama, and yet was the daughter of a distant cousin only, has now grown up, and is as a girl even more beautiful than she was as a child. Henry will be of age in a few months, and they are then to be married. They now reside at Wyvern. The estate which has long been at Nurse is now clear and has funded money beside. Everything promises a happy and prosperous reign for the young Fairfield. Nildred Tarnley, very old, is made comfortable at Carwell Grange. Good old Dolcey Bella is still living, very happy, and very kind, but grown a little huffy. Being perhaps a little overpetted, in all other respects the effect of years being allowed for, she is just what she always was. Tom Orange, with a very handsome sum presented by those whom he had served, referred Australia to the old country. Harry Fairfield had asserted, in his vehement way, while lying in his last hours at Wyvern, that the fellow with the handkerchief over his face who shot him was, he could all but swear, his old friend, Tom Orange. Tom swore that, had he lived, he would have prosecuted him for slander, as it is the eccentric genius has prospered as the proprietor of a monster tavern at Melbourne, where there is comic and sentimental singing and some dramatic buffooneries and excellent deviled kidneys and brandy. Marjorie Trevelyan lives with the family at Wyvern, and I think if kind old lady Wendale were still living, the consolations of Alice would be nearly full.