The Larkins family had taken up their residence in a small cottage on the road to the Moorish Castle. Larkins pÈre was now principal barrack-sergeant, and as such was entitled to fairly good quarters. He had aged considerably since our first acquaintance with him. His hair was grizzled, his gait was stiff as though his ankle-joints were affected by innumerable barrack inspections, and his eyes were weak from constant search for nail-holes or other barrack damages, or the continuous appraisement of fair wear and tear. Mrs. Larkins had also changed appreciably. She was still buxom, however, and her voice had lost none of its shrill power when she was aroused. This was more seldom than of yore. Her children were no longer the trial they had once been. The two eldest boys were out in the world; Sennacherib was in the band of a regiment at Malta, and Rechab was at the same place on board a man-of-war. Two younger ones, Ascanius and Leonora, were still at home, and so was Jemima Ann, familiarly called Mimie, now a blooming maiden of nineteen, with a soft voice, a sweet face, and eyes bright enough to give the heart-ache to half the young fellows of the place.

The old sergeant preceded Herbert into the cottage, to prepare his wife for a surprise.

‘Some one I know, Jonadab? Some one I’ve not seen these years? A colour-sergeant in the Duke’s Own? What are you driving at? I know no colour-sergeants; for the matter of that none of the Duke’s Own,’ Herbert heard her say as she came to the door.

The moment she set eyes upon her visitor she started and shook all over. She seemed dazed, and could frame no word of speech. Then all at once she gave way, and taking Herbert’s hands in hers, drew him towards her, kissing him again and again, while tears of joy ran down her cheeks.

‘What, Hercules, boy! My boy, my own sweet boy! This is a sight for sore eyes. Where have you dropped from, and in this dress? Come in, boy, come in and tell us all your news.’

And Herbert was led into the house.

Mimie came shyly forward when she was called to add her welcome to the brother she had almost forgotten. But she offered him her cheek quite naturally, and received a sister’s salute, which, nevertheless, sent the warm blood tingling through her veins.

‘You are a sister to be proud of,’ said Herbert. ‘What a beauty you have grown!’

‘Grown!’ interrupted Mrs. Larkins. ‘It’s you who’ve grown out of all memory almost, except to those who love you. But now sit down and let’s know all about it. What brought you to take the shilling? and you never let on, not one word. You might have written to us, Hercules. We, Jonadab and me, have had you always in our thoughts, thinking you were getting to be a fine gentleman who’d have nothing to do with the likes of us.’

‘As if I could ever forget my mother.’

Mrs. Larkins made a gesture which might have meant a strong negative to the expression.

‘When did you leave school? Why did you enlist! You never wrote to us.’

‘Four years ago. I was turned adrift in the world, that was why. I wrote over and over again to the Horse Guards, but could not hear where you were.’

‘And Lady Farrington, did she change her mind, or what?’

‘She went mad, so they said, and they locked her up in an asylum.’

‘Mad!’ shouted the sergeant. ‘Didn’t I always tell you so? mad? She were madder than Mike Horniblow who shot the Maltee, and as mad as our old colonel on an inspection parade.’

‘How was she locked up? who did it? Let’s know all that,’ said Mrs. Larkins.

Herbert recounted fully all that had occurred. His leaving Deadham School, the visit to the west country, Sir Rupert Farrington’s ill-treatment.

‘So that’s what the poor soul was after! Searching for a grandson to succeed to the title and estates,’ cried the sergeant. ‘And you were the last that she found. Well: it’s an ill wind, you know; leastways you got the schooling, even if you are none of her kith or kin.’

‘I suppose I am not, really?’ Herbert asked, looking very hard at Mrs. Larkins, who met the glance without lowering her eyes. There was something in her expression which Herbert immediately understood. There must be an explanation between them, but it could not take place then and there.

‘How should you be?’ asked the sergeant. ‘Didn’t I take you over with the mother when I married her at York? The widow Conlan, she was then, and you her only child.’

‘Conlan is my name then?’

‘By rights, yes; but you’ve took that of Larkins now, and you are a credit to it; so you may take it for what it’s worth, and keep it till you can find a better.’

Was there ever a chance of that? Was he really a Farrington after all, and might he yet prove his claims? Of this no one could give him a clue but Mrs. Larkins, and he gathered from her manner that the subject was one which she would only discuss when they were alone. He had no chance that time of speaking to her on this the subject nearest his heart. The rest of the evening was spent in the interchange of personal news, as is the case when friends and relatives meet after a long separation, and there is so much on both sides to tell and hear.

But Herbert went to the cottage next day. The sergeant, fortunately, was at the barrack-office; Mimie was out of the way, and Mrs. Larkins had the house all to herself.

‘I want to know all you can tell me, mother. Is it not natural? To whom else should I come? For you are my mother, are you not?’

‘No mother could feel more warmly for her child than I do for you, Hercules.’

‘Do but tell me, plainly—I am really your son?’

Mrs. Larkins was silent.

‘It is cruel to keep me in this suspense, mother,—for you have been one to me always. I implore you to tell me the whole truth.’

‘I will, Hercules, or Herbert as you ought by rights to be called. It is a hard matter to tell you all the tale, for there is shame and sorrow in it enough, and that for both you and me.

‘I must begin at the beginning. Years, years ago when I was a bit of a girl in my father’s house, I and my twin sister Annie—whom I loved dearly, as the apple of my eye—father lived at Newark-on-Trent; he was a small tradesman, but well enough to do. Mother died when we were quite chicks, and we grew up to have things much our own way. Annie was a real beauty, and had dozens of lads after her always, but she never fancied none of them. At last luck sent a recruiting party of the 12th Lancers to Newark. One of them was a young corporal, as proper a chap as ever took the shilling, fair spoken, well educated, and superior to the common run. He soon got courting our Annie, and he was the first she favoured. Father did not like it—not a bit. He hated soldiers, and was very rough about Corporal Smith. Annie and he had high words over it, and one day she was not to be found.

‘The recruiters had left the town too.

‘I won’t tell you what grief there was at home. Father was like a madman, and I was little better. He tried hard to get her back. He went miles—to the other end of England—after the regiment, but he never caught them up. He was too late. The regiment had been ordered off to the Cape of Good Hope. Through the rector, father wrote to the War Office, inquiring after Corporal Smith and his wife. The answer came months later, to say that the corporal was alive and well, but that he had no wife—at least no one according to the regimental books.

‘Father never held up his head after that, and within the year he died. I was nearly heart-broken too; but I was young, and I bore up better. As I was all alone in the world, and had the shop on my hands, I took a husband, who offered just then—Michael Conlan, a clerk in a maltster’s at Newark. He was a kindly soul, not over strong, but he helped me in the business, and we managed to get along.

‘One night Annie returned—not alone—she had a child with her, her own, a few months old only, and the two came, seeking shelter and rest. It was as I thought at first—the old story—betrayed, neglected, left.’

‘But you took her in?’ Herbert asked, eagerly.

‘Of course. Neither Michael nor myself asked any questions; our duty was plain, and it was one of love besides for me. All I know is what Annie herself told me, and that was not much. The corporal, it seems, belonged really to a higher station in life. He had quarrelled with his friends and left his home, and wanted never to see or hear of them again. But when Annie’s child was born—’

‘He had married her?’

‘Annie would not acknowledge it; although her silence told only against her own sweet name. She wore a ring, but so may any one; and as to all other proofs she obstinately refused to speak. I pointed out the hardship to her boy. She admitted that, but said she had promised and could not break her word. So I did not worry her, but left her to speak in her own good time. That time never came. Before Annie had been back a week I saw she was not long for this world. She pined and pined. She looked eagerly for news from abroad, but none came from where she sought it, and the disappointment helped the disease in bringing on the end.

‘On her death-bed I swore to be a mother to her boy—’

‘To me?’ said Herbert, no longer in doubt; and as she nodded assent, he took her hard hand and kissed it again and again.

‘And nobly you have fulfilled your oath.’

‘I did my best, Herbert. But I have more to tell you. Your mother, just before she died, gave me a letter. It was from your father to his friends, and was only to be sent to them at Annie’s death, or if she was in dire distress. The letter was addressed to Lady Farrington of Farrington Hall. It was not sealed, and I thought I might read what was inside. There were only a few words: “From Herbert to his mother—Be kinder to my boy.” I added a few of your bright curls, Herbert, and sent the letter on at once. But I gave no clue as to where it had come from. I wanted no answer. I was resolved to take no help from any one in doing my duty by you. I hated the whole of the Farringtons. I so hated the name of Herbert even, that we called you Hercules Albert instead.

‘Later on I lost Michael, my first husband; and I could not bear to remain in Newark alone. I sold up the shop and my belongings, and moved to York. It was there, as Mrs. Conlan, a widow, with one boy—you, Herbert—I met the Sergeant. Things were not prospering with me. I married him gladly, and he has been a thorough good man to me.’

Herbert’s heart was too full for him to speak for some time. Anger, disappointment, anguish—all three feelings possessed him. He was angry with his father, sore at heart for his mother’s sorrow, disappointed that there was no more to tell him.

‘Do you think there was a marriage, mother?’

‘I do. I always did.’

‘It all turns upon that. I may have Farrington blood in me; but whether or no would matter little if I was not entitled to bear the name.’

‘You must make up your mind to your disappointment, Herbert. What clue can we get to the marriage after all these years? Everybody who could speak to it is probably dead.’

‘My father—perhaps he is still alive.’

‘Would he not have sought us out before this if he had been? But he has never made a sign. Nothing but a miracle could do you any good, my boy. Better be contented as you are. And why should you be cast down? You are young and strong. You have been educated like a gentleman; have made a first-rate start, and have everything before you. Make a name for yourself in the world if you can, and don’t pine after what others might have given you.’

‘How is a mere sergeant to make himself a name?’

‘By sticking to his colours and doing his duty like a man. Non-commissioned officers have got to the top of the tree before now. Why should not you?’

‘If we could only have a chance of service—there’s no other hope for a soldier. But we never have any fighting in these days.’

‘How do you know? You be ready for the chance when it offers, that’s all you’ve got to do. Get a commission, and you’ll hold yourself as high as Sir Rupert then, and meet him on equal terms.’