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[203] 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[204] 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[205] 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[206] 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[207] 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[208] 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,[209] 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.’

[210]

‘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............