The orthography of these having been settled, I asked his advice upon "benign," which, as written down by me (I forget how) did not seem convincing.

"You are indisputably an honest boy," said he; "but I have yet to acquire that degree of patience which, by all accounts, consorts with my affliction. Continue, pray:

"Prepare the pomp of trifles to behold: Proud peers--a nation's polity unrolled-- Customs, pursuits--its clans, and how they fight, Slight things I labour; not for glory slight, If Heaven attend and Phoebus hearken me.

First, then, for site. Seek and instal your Bee--"

--"With a capital B, if you please. The poet says 'bees': but the singular, especially if written with a capital, adds in my opinion that mock-heroic touch which, as the translator must frequently miss it for all his pains, he had better insert where he can. By the way, how have you spelt 'Phoebus'?"

"F.e.b.u.s," I answered.

"I feared so," he sighed. "And 'site'?"

"S.i.g.h.t." I felt pretty sure about this. He smote his forehead.

"That is how Miss Plinlimmon taught me," I urged almost defiantly.

"I beg your pardon--'Plinlimmon,' did you say? An unusual name.

Do you indeed know a Miss Plinlimmon?"

"It is the name of my dearest friend, sir."

"Most singular! You cannot tell me, I dare say, if she happens to be related to my old friend Arthur Plinlimmon?"

"She is his sister."

"This is most interesting. I remember her, then, as a girl.

You must know that Arthur Plinlimmon and I were comrades in the old Fourth Regiment, and dear friends--are dear friends yet, I trust, although time and circ.u.mstances have separated us. His sister used to keep house for him before his marriage. A most estimable person!

And pray where did you make her acquaintance?"

"In the hospital, sir."

"The hospital? Not an eleemosynary inst.i.tution for the diseased, I hope?"

I did not know what this meant. "It's a place for foundlings, sir,"

I answered.

"But--excuse me--Miss Plinlimmon--Agatha? Arabella? I forget for the moment her Christian name--"

"Amelia, sir."

"To be sure; Amelia. Well, she could not be a foundling, nor--as I remember her--did she in the least resemble one."

"Oh no, sir: she is the matron there."

"I see. And where is this hospital?"

"At Plymouth Dock."

"Hey?"

"At Plymouth Dock. A Mr. Scougall keeps it--a sort of clergyman."

"This is most strange. My friend Arthur's son, young Archibald Plinlimmon, is quartered with his regiment there, and often pays us a visit, poor lad."

"Indeed, sir?"

"His circ.u.mstances are not prosperous. Family troubles--money losses, you understand: and then his father made an imprudent marriage. Not that anything can be said against the Leicesters-- there are few better families. But the lady, I imagine, did not take kindly to poverty: never learnt to cut her coat according to the cloth. Her uncle might have helped her--Sir Charles, that is--the head of the family--a childless man with plenty of money. For some reason, however, he had opposed her match with Arthur. A sad story!

And now, when their lad is grown and the time come for him to be a soldier, he must start in the ranks. But why in the world, if she lives at Plymouth Dock, has Archibald never mentioned his aunt to us?"

This was more than I could tell him. And you may be sure that the name Leicester made me want to ask questions, not to answer them.

But just now Isabel came across the lawn, bearing a tray with a plateful of biscuits, a decanter of claret, and a gla.s.s.

"My dear," asked her father, "has our friend Archibald ever spoken to you of an aunt of his--a Miss Plinlimmon--residing at Plymouth Dock?"

"No, papa." She turned on me, again with that fear and appeal in her eyes, as if in some way I was persecuting her; and the decanter shook and tinkled on the rim of the gla.s.s as she poured out the claret.

The old man lifted the wine and held it between his sightless eyes and the sunshine.

"A sad story," he mused: "but, after all, the lad is young and the world young for him! Rejoice in your youth, Mr. Revel, and honour your Creator in the days of it. For me, I enjoyed it by G.o.d's grace, and it has not forsaken me: no, not when darkness overtook and shut me out of the profession I loved. I cannot see the colour of this wine, nor the face of this my daughter, nor my garden, yonder, full of flowers."

"Seasons return, but not to me returns Day, or the sweet approach of even or morn, Or sight of vernal bloom, or Summer's rose, Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine--"

"Yet memory returns and consoles my blindness. The colour of the wine is there, the flowers are about me, and Isabel--I am told-- resembles her mother. Yes, and away on the edge of Spain, the army I served is planting fresh laurels--my old regiment too, the King's Own, though James Brooks is by this time scarcely a name to it.

Here I sit, hale in wind and limb, and old age creeps on me kindly, telling me that no man is necessary. And yet, if G.o.d should come and lay a command on me--some task that a blind man might undertake--I am at G.o.d's service. I sit with my loins girt and my soul, I hope, shriven. That is my sermon to you, young sir: a clean breast and no baggage. I bid you welcome to Minden Cottage!" He drank to me.

"Is it named from the battle of Minden, sir?" I asked.

"It is, my lad."

"Were you there?"

He laughed. "My father won his captaincy there, in a regiment that mistook orders, charged three lines of cavalry, and broke them one after another. It also broke a sound maxim of war by charging between flanking batteries. The British Army has made half its reputation by mistaking orders--you will understand why, if ever you have the honour to belong to it. Isabel, get me my drum!"

She fetched it from its corner, with the drumsticks; hitched the sling over her beautiful neck; tightened the straps carefully; and began to play a soft tattoo.

The old man leaned back in his chair; felt in his pocket; and having found a silk bandanna handkerchief, unfolded it deliberately, cast it over his head and composed himself to slumber.

The tattoo ran on, peaceful as a brook. Isabel's arms hung lax and motionless: only her hands stirred, from the wrists, and so slightly, or else so rapidly without effort, that they too scarcely seemed to move. Her eyes were averted.

My ear could not separate the short taps. They ran on and on in a murmur as of bees or of leaves rustling together in a wood; grew imperceptibly gentler; and almost imperceptibly ceased.

Isabel glanced at her father, and set the drum back in its corner.

We stole out of the summer-house together, and across to the orchard.

But under the shade of the apple-boughs she turned and faced me.

"Boy, what do you know?"