Harry Fairfield was a captain in his county militia. It was right that the House of Fairfield should be represented in that corps. Charlie, who was of an easy compliant temper, would have taken the commission and the light duties, if that dignity had been put upon him. But Harry chose it. It extended his acquaintance, added to his opportunities of selling his horses, and opened some houses, small and great, to him, in a neighbourly fashion, when making his circuits to fair and market. He knew something of games, too, and was shrewd at whist and draughts, and held a sure cue at billiards. On the whole, his commission turned him in something in the course of a year.

It was upon some regimental business that Sergeant–Major Archdale was awaiting his return at Wyvern.

Harry Fairfield, as it happened, was thinking of the Sergeant as he rode into the yard in gloomy rumination.

“Well, Archdale, what’s the news?” said he, as he dismounted.

The news was not a great deal. After he had heard it Harry paused for a time, and said he,—

“Quite well, Archdale, I hope?”

“Well, sir, I thank you.”

Again Harry paused.

“How did you come, Archdale.”

“Walked, sir.”

“Walked, oh! very well.”

Here was another pause.

“Archdale, you must go in. Here, Clinton, get some luncheon for Sergeant–Major Archdale. A drink of beer and a mouthful won’t do you no harm; and, Archdale, before you go let me know; I may have a word, and I’ll say it walking down the avenue. Get Mr. Archdale some luncheon, Clinton, and some sherry.”

“I thank you, sir,” said the Sergeant–Major. “’Tis more like a supper for me; I’ve had my dinner, sir, some time.”

And with a stiff military step the Sergeant followed Clinton into the house.

The Sergeant–Major was above the middle size, and stout of body, which made him look shorter. His hair was closely cut, and of a pale blue iron gray. His face was rather pale, and smooth as marble; full and long, with a blue chin, and a sort of light upon his fixed lineaments, not exactly a smile, but a light that was treacherous and cruel. For the rest his military coat, which was of the old-fashioned cut, and his shako, with all the brasses belonging to them, and his Wellington boots, were natty and brilliant, and altogether unexceptionable, and a more perfectly respectable looking man you could not have found in his rank of life in the country.

Without a word, with a creak in his boots, he marched slowly in, with inflexible countenance, after Clinton.

The Squire met Harry in the hall.

“Hollo! it’s a week a most since I set eyes on ye—ye’ll look out some other place for that mad filly ye bought of Jim Hardress: she’s broke a boy’s arm this morning in the stable; I’ll not look after him, I promise ye; ’tis your affair, mind, and you better look sharp, and delay may cost ye money. Ye’re over clever. The devil owes ye a cake this many a day, and he’s a busy bishop, and he’ll pay ye a loaf yet, I promise you. She shan’t be kicking my men—and she bites the manger besides. Get her away, mind, or, by my soul, I’ll sell her for the damage.”

So old Squire Harry stalked on, and the last scion of his stock grinned after him, sulkily, and snarled something between his teeth, so soon as he was quite out of hearing.

“Who’s arm’s broke, Dick, or is it all a damned lie o’ the Governor’s?” inquired Harry of a servant who happened to be passing at that moment.

“Well, yes, sir, Jim Slade’s arm was broke in the stable. ’Twas a kick, sir.”

“What kicked him?”

“The new horse that came in on Thursday, Sir.”

“Mare, ye mean. Why that thing’s a reg’lar lamb; she never kicked no one. A child might play wi’ her. More like ’twas the Governor kicked him. And what did he do wi’ his arm?”

“The doctor, down in the town, set it, and bound it up wi’ splints, sir.”

“Well, didn’t tell him, mind that—I wasn’t here, ye know—good-natured of the doctor, I’ll not deny, but he shan’t be sending in no bills to me. And how’s Jim since—gettin’ on nicely, I’ll swear.”

“I don’t know, sir; I didn’t see him since.”

“Hoot! then, it’s all right, I warrant ye, and ye can tell old Slade, if he likes it, I’ll get him a bit of a writin’ to the hospital for Jim; but it won’t be nothin’—not a bit.”

And with this economical arrangement, Harry dismissed the subject for the present, and took his stand upon the hall-door steps, and smoked his pipe, awaiting the close of Sergeant–Major Archdale’s repast.

The long shadows and lights of golden sunset faded before the guest appeared, and twilight and the moths were abroad.

Almost as the servant informed Harry Fairfield that Mr. Archdale was coming round to the hall-door to receive his commands, the Sergeant–Major appeared in front of the house, and Harry Fairfield stepped down to the court and was received by the militia-man with a military salute.

“I’ll walk a bit wi’ you, Archdale; I want a word about another matter—not regimental business. We’ll walk down towards the gate.”

Stiffly and silently the Sergeant–Major marched beside the smoking gentleman, who having got a little way from the house, knocked the ashes out of his pipe, and dropped it into his pocket.

“That militia sogerin’ is beggarly pay for a man like you, Archdale; and I’ll want a clever fellow, by-and-by—for when the Squire goes off the hooks, and that can’t be a long way off—I’ll have a deal o’ trouble lookin’ after things ; for there’s a young chap to succeed, and a plaguy long minority ’twill be, and one way or another the trouble will fall to my share, bein’ uncle, ye see, to the little fellow. Am I making it plain what I mean?”

“Quite plain, sir,” said the cold voice of the Sergeant-Major.

“Well, there’s the property down at Warhampton, a devilish wide stretch o’ land for the rental. There’s good shootin’ there, and two keepers, but I doubt they makes away wi’ the game, and they want lookin’ after; and there’s the old park o’ Warhampton—ye know that part o’ the country?”

“Yes, sir, well.”

“I know you do. Well, it should turn in a good penny more than the Governor gets. I can’t bring it home to them, but I know what I think. Where the horse lies down, the hair will be foun’, and I doubt the park-book’s doctored. There’ll be a sort o’ steward wanted there, d’ye see. D’ye know Noulton farm?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, it’s a nice thing, a snug house, and as many acres as you’d want to begin wi’; the tenant’s going after harvest—you’d be the very man for’t, and I’ll tell them I’ll do all I can to serve my nephew, but I must live myself too. I’ve nout but my time and my wits to turn a penny by, and if I try to manage for him I’ll want the best help I can get, d’ye see? and you re the man I want; I’ve got no end o’ a character o’ ye, for honesty and steadiness and the like; and ye’re a fellow can use his eyes, and hold his tongue; and ye’d have the farm and the house—ye know them—rent free; and the grazing of three cows on the common, and it’s none o’ your over............