II.

His father was killed in the Soudan, having inherited the property when his elder brother had been killed, a few years before, in Zulu-land. Four brothers, all of them men of splendid physique, had been slain in battle within a space of four years, and three widows and many children had been left desolate.

He knew the story of heroism associated with every one of the four, and he knew the stories of the heroism associated with the death of his grandfather at the Alma, and his greatgrandfather at Waterloo. That was why he had taken it for granted from his earliest years that he was to be a solder. It never occurred to him that there was any other destiny possible for a Harland of the Hall.

But when his mother came to him one day and poured her plaint into his ear, entreating him for her sake to think of himself as associated with a happier fate, he had yielded to her, though he made no admissions in regard to the comparative happiness involved in the fate of dying on the field of battle, or as a senile fox-hunter after a protracted run to hounds. He showed himself to be a dutiful son, and he went to Oxford and then ate his dinners at the Temple, as he believed a reasonably aspiring country gentleman should do if he wished to retain his self-respect. He had also drilled every year with the Militia regiment in which he held a commission, and was rapidly qualifying for the rank of major.

But during these years the country was engaged in no war that made any great demand upon its resources: he had no great temptation to go against the Afridis, and he felt sure that Khartoum could be reached by Kitchener without his personal supervision. But his mother noticed a change upon him as he read day by day of the probabilities of a war breaking out between England and the Transvaal. A strange uneasiness seemed to have come over him, and he talked of nothing except South Africa as a campaigning ground.

His mother became more uneasy than he was, and she was only in a measure relieved when one day he came to her, telling her that he had asked Madge Winston, the daughter of the Vicar of Hurst Harland, to marry him, and that she had consented. Mrs Harland told him that he had made her the happiest mother in the world; but from the chat, just recorded, which she had with Madge in the hall before Julian had returned with the news of the ultimatum, it will be gathered that she had still some misgivings.

They were strengthened by observing Julian’s strange behaviour during the drinking of the toast. She saw the light that was in his eyes as he talked a little wildly about the coming campaign. She had seen such a light in the eyes of his father when talking of a coming campaign. She knew what it meant.

She did not accompany Julian and Madge when they went out together to look at the old pillar sundial which a gardener had dug up the day before. She was happily able to make a reasonable excuse for staying behind: a servant had just brought her a message to the effect that one of the lacemakers of the village had come by appointment to see her. She had interested herself for several years in the lacemaking, and was in the habit of getting old pieces of her own splendid collection repaired by one of the cleverest of the girls.

This girl was still in the hall when Julian and Madge were driven indoors by a slight shower, and Mrs Harland showed them the piece of work which she had had mended. It was a delicate handkerchief bordered with rosebuds, and curiously enough, as Julian pointed out, the sprays arranged themselves so as to form a constant repetition of the letter M.

“That stands for Madge, doesn’t it?” cried he.

“It stands for Medici,” said his mother. “This particular piece of lace belonged to Marie de’ Medici, though no one ever noticed that the rosebuds entwined themselves into the letter M.”

“I will buy the handkerchief from my mother for you, Madge,” he cried. “Who knows what magic may be ‘in the web of it,’ like poor Desdemona’s! These Medici were uncanny folk. The earlier ones certainly understood the art of magic as practised by the highest authorities in the Middle Ages. Yes, the M stands for Madge. Take it, dear, I won’t be so ungracious as to add Othello’s charge to Desdemona about keeping it; and if I should find it in a railway carriage or anywhere else in years to come, you may make your mind easy. I’ll not strangle you on that account.”

“I got it mended on purpose for you, Madge,” said Mrs Harland.

“You are so good,” said the girl, spreading out the filmy thing admiringly. “You know that there is nothing I love so well as lace, and this design is the most perfect that could be imagined. A thousand thanks, dearest mother.”

Julian seemed before the evening to have become quite resigned to staying at home; and during the next few weeks, though he followed the progress of the preparations for the campaign with great interest, pointing out what he believed would be the plans of each of the divisional commanders to his mother and Madge, yet he never semed to be unduly eager in the matter. He seemed to look on the campaign in a purely academic spirit—merely as a Kriegspiel,—and his mother’s fears vanished. She blessed the day that Madge had come to the Hall. It was Madge, and Madge only, who had succeeded in restraining his burning desire to be in the thick of the fight.

But, then, following swiftly upon the news of the arrival of the First Army Corps and the successes of the sorties from Ladysmith, which elated the whole of England for some days, came like a thunderclap the news of a disaster—a second disaster—a third! It seemed as if the campaign was going to collapse before it had well begun. The change made itself apparent in every part of England—in every household in England, and in none more vividly than at Harland Hall. A change had come over Julian; he had no word for any one; he walked moodily about the house and the grounds, taking no interest in anything. He made an excuse for going up to London for a day or two, and he returned with a mass of news. The country had been taken by surprise in regard to the Boer preparations. The campaign was going to be a long one, and every available man was to be called out; he had it from good authority—the best authority in the world.

His mother saw that the old light had come back to his eyes, and she shuddered.

The next morning when Madge came downstairs she saw her sitting in the hall, with her head bent down, her son standing over her with a paper in his hands.

“Madge! Madge!” cried the mother, “you will tell him to stay; he is going to leave us, but you will tell him to stay. He will stay if you implore of him.”

“Yes,” said he, “I will stay if Madge asks me; but she will not ask me.”

“You will ask him—you will implore of him to stay, Madge, my daughter!” cried Mrs Harland.

There was a long silence. The girl had become deathly pale. She stood at her chair at the table. She did not speak.

“Why are you silent?—why are you dumb?” cried the mother. “Will you see him go forth to die, as all the others of his family have done in the past? Cannot you understand what has happened? Oh! you have only just come down. You have not heard the news: the last of the Reserves have been called out, and volunteers are being called on from the Militia!”

“And I have volunteered,” said Julian in a low voice.

She was still deathly pale. Her hands grasped the carved back of the chair. She did not speak.

“Dear Madge, you will tell him?” began Mrs Harland.

“Yes,” said the girl, “I will tell him that I am proud of him—that if he had remained at home now I would never have married him!”

She walked steadily across the hall and put both her hands out to him. He took them in his own, and bent his head down to them, kissing each of them.

Then he raised his head and looked round at the portraits in the panels, and laughed.

He left the Hall in the evening.