Rodney Stone, Arthur Conan Doyle [the best books of all time .TXT] 📗

upon the outside of it with a flying dragon in the middle.

“Whom think you that it is from, Anson?” she asked.

“I had hoped that it was from Lord Nelson,” answered my father.  “It is time the boy had his commission.  But if it be for you, then it cannot be from any one of much importance.”

“Can it not!” she cried, pretending to be offended.  “You will ask my pardon for that speech, sir, for it is from no less a person than Sir Charles Tregellis, my own brother.”

My mother seemed to speak with a hushed voice when she mentioned this wonderful brother of hers, and always had done as long as I can remember, so that I had learned also to have a subdued and reverent feeling when I heard his name.  And indeed it was no wonder, for that name was never mentioned unless it were in connection with something brilliant and extraordinary.  Once we heard that he was at Windsor with the King.  Often he was at Brighton with the Prince.  Sometimes it was as a sportsman that his reputation reached us, as when his Meteor beat the Duke of Queensberry’s Egham, at Newmarket, or when he brought Jim Belcher up from Bristol, and sprang him upon the London fancy.  But usually it was as the friend of the great, the arbiter of fashions, the king of bucks, and the best-dressed man in town that his reputation reached us.  My father, however, did not appear to be elated at my mother’s triumphant rejoinder.

“Ay, and what does he want?” asked he, in no very amiable voice.

“I wrote to him, Anson, and told him that Rodney was growing a man now, thinking, since he had no wife or child of his own, he might be disposed to advance him.”

“We can do very well without him,” growled my father.  “He sheered off from us when the weather was foul, and we have no need of him now that the sun is shining.”

“Nay, you misjudge him, Anson,” said my mother, warmly.  “There is no one with a better heart than Charles; but his own life moves so smoothly that he cannot understand that others may have trouble.  During all these years I have known that I had but to say the word to receive as much as I wished from him.”

“Thank God that you never had to stoop to it, Mary.  I want none of his help.”

“But we must think of Rodney.”

“Rodney has enough for his sea-chest and kit.  He needs no more.”

“But Charles has great power and influence in London.  He could make Rodney known to all the great people.  Surely you would not stand in the way of his advancement.”

“Let us hear what he says, then,” said my father; and this was the letter which she read to him—

14, Jermyn Street, St. James’s,
“April 15th, 1803.

“My dear Sister Mary,

“In answer to your letter, I can assure you that you must not conceive me to be wanting in those finer feelings which are the chief adornment of humanity.  It is true that for some years, absorbed as I have been in affairs of the highest importance, I have seldom taken a pen in hand, for which I can assure you that I have been reproached by many des plus charmantes of your charming sex.  At the present moment I lie abed (having stayed late in order to pay a compliment to the Marchioness of Dover at her ball last night), and this is writ to my dictation by Ambrose, my clever rascal of a valet.  I am interested to hear of my nephew Rodney (Mon dieu, quel nom!), and as I shall be on my way to visit the Prince at Brighton next week, I shall break my journey at Friar’s Oak for the sake of seeing both you and him.  Make my compliments to your husband.

“I am ever, my dear sister Mary,
“Your brother,
“Charles Tregellis.”

“What do you think of that?” cried my mother in triumph when she had finished.

“I think it is the letter of a fop,” said my father, bluntly.

“You are too hard on him, Anson.  You will think better of him when you know him.  But he says that he will be here next week, and this is Thursday, and the best curtains unhung, and no lavender in the sheets!”

Away she bustled, half distracted, while my father sat moody, with his chin upon his hands, and I remained lost in wonder at the thought of this grand new relative from London, and of all that his coming might mean to us.

p. 65CHAPTER V.
BUCK TREGELLIS.

Now that I was in my seventeenth year, and had already some need for a razor, I had begun to weary of the narrow life of the village, and to long to see something of the great world beyond.  The craving was all the stronger because I durst not speak openly about it, for the least hint of it brought the tears into my mother’s eyes.  But now there was the less reason that I should stay at home, since my father was at her side, and so my mind was all filled by this prospect of my uncle’s visit, and of the chance that he might set my feet moving at last upon the road of life.

As you may think, it was towards my father’s profession that my thoughts and my hopes turned, for from my childhood I have never seen the heave of the sea or tasted the salt upon my lips without feeling the blood of five generations of seamen thrill within my veins.  And think of the challenge which was ever waving in those days before the eyes of a coast-living lad!  I had but to walk up to Wolstonbury in the war time to see the sails of the French chasse-marées and privateers.  Again and again I have heard the roar of the guns coming from far out over the waters.  Seamen would tell us how they had left London and been engaged ere nightfall, or sailed out of Portsmouth and been yard-arm to yard-arm before they had lost sight of St. Helen’s light.  It was this imminence of the danger which warmed our hearts to our sailors, and made us talk, round the winter fires, of our little Nelson, and Cuddie Collingwood, and Johnnie Jarvis, and the rest of them, not as being great High Admirals with titles and dignities, but as good friends whom we loved and honoured above all others.  What boy was there through the length and breadth of Britain who did not long to be out with them under the red-cross flag?

But now that peace had come, and the fleets which had swept the Channel and the Mediterranean were lying dismantled in our harbours, there was less to draw one’s fancy seawards.  It was London now of which I thought by day and brooded by night: the huge city, the home of the wise and the great, from which came this constant stream of carriages, and those crowds of dusty people who were for ever flashing past our window-pane.  It was this one side of life which first presented itself to me, and so, as a boy, I used to picture the City as a gigantic stable with a huge huddle of coaches, which were for ever streaming off down the country roads.  But, then, Champion Harrison told me how the fighting-men lived there, and my father how the heads of the Navy lived there, and my mother how her brother and his grand friends were there, until at last I was consumed with impatience to see this marvellous heart of England.  This coming of my uncle, then, was the breaking of light through the darkness, though I hardly dared to hope that he would take me with him into those high circles in which he lived.  My mother, however, had such confidence either in his good nature or in her own powers of persuasion, that she already began to make furtive preparations for my departure.

But if the narrowness of the village life chafed my easy spirit, it was a torture to the keen and ardent mind of Boy Jim.  It was but a few days after the coming of my uncle’s letter that we walked over the Downs together, and I had a peep of the bitterness of his heart.

“What is there for me to do, Rodney?” he cried.  “I forge a shoe, and I fuller it, and I clip it, and I caulken it, and I knock five holes in it, and there it is finished.  Then I do it again and again, and blow up the bellows and feed the forge, and rasp a hoof or two, and there is a day’s work done, and every day the same as the other.  Was it for this only, do you think, that I was born into the world?”

I looked at him, his proud, eagle face, and his tall, sinewy figure, and I wondered whether in the whole land there was a finer, handsomer man.

“The Army or the Navy is the place for you, Jim,” said I.

“That is very well,” he cried.  “If you go into the Navy, as you are likely to do, you go as an officer, and it is you who do the ordering.  If I go in, it is as one who was born to receive orders.”

“An officer gets his orders from those above him.”

“But an officer does not have the lash hung over his head.  I saw a poor fellow at the inn here—it was some years ago—who showed us his back in the tap-room, all cut into red diamonds with the boat-swain’s whip.  ‘Who ordered that?’ I asked.  ‘The captain,’ said he.  ‘And what would you have had if you had struck him dead?’ said I.  ‘The yard-arm,’ he answered.  ‘Then if I had been you that’s where I should have been,’ said I, and I spoke the truth.  I can’t help it, Rod!  There’s something here in my heart, something that is as much a part of myself as this hand is, which holds me to it.”

“I know that you are as proud as Lucifer,” said I.

“It was born with me, Roddy, and I can’t help it.  Life would be easier if I could.  I was made to be my own master, and there’s only one place where I can hope to be so.”

“Where is that, Jim?”

“In London.  Miss Hinton has told me of it, until I feel as if I could find my way through it from end to end.  She loves to talk of it as well as I do to listen.  I have it all laid out in my mind, and I can see where the playhouses are, and how the river runs, and where the King’s house is, and the Prince’s, and the place where the fighting-men live.  I could make my name known in London.”

“How?”

“Never mind how, Rod.  I could do it, and I will do it, too.  ‘Wait!’ says my uncle—‘wait, and it will all come right for you.’  That is what he always says, and my aunt the same.  Why should I wait?  What am I to wait for?  No, Roddy, I’ll stay no longer eating my heart out in this little village, but I’ll leave my apron behind me and I’ll seek my fortune in London, and when I come back to Friar’s Oak, it will be in such style as that gentleman yonder.”

He pointed as he spoke, and there was a high crimson curricle coming down the London road, with two bay mares harnessed tandem fashion before it.  The reins and fittings were of a light fawn colour, and the gentleman had a driving-coat to match, with a servant in dark livery behind.  They flashed past us in a rolling cloud of dust, and I had just a glimpse of the pale, handsome face of the master, and of the dark, shrivelled features of the man.  I should never have given them another thought had it not chanced that when the village came into view there was the curricle again, standing at the door of the inn, and the grooms busy taking out the horses.

“Jim,” I cried, “I believe it is my uncle!” and taking to my heels I ran for home at the top of my speed.  At the door was standing the dark-faced servant.  He carried a cushion, upon which lay a small and fluffy lapdog.

“You will excuse me, young sir,” said he, in the suavest, most soothing of voices, “but am I right in supposing that this is the house of Lieutenant Stone?  In that case you will, perhaps, do me the favour to hand to Mrs. Stone this note which her brother, Sir Charles Tregellis, has just committed to my care.”

I was quite abashed by the man’s flowery way of talking—so unlike anything which I had ever heard.  He had a wizened face, and sharp little dark eyes, which took in me and the house and