"Look here," said Sir Francis, suddenly taking a tack in another direction, "you own that you beat my son—my stepson," he added correctively, "in that way?"

"Yes, Sir Francis," I said, "I didn't know who he was in the dark."

"You couldn't see him?"

"Only just, Sir Francis; and I hit him as hard as I could."

"And you, my man, do you own that you struck my other stepson as hard as you could in the chest?"

"No!" cried Ike fiercely; and to the surprise of all he threw off his jacket and rolled up his shirt sleeve, displaying a great red-brown mass of bone and muscle, and a mighty fist. "Lookye here, your worship. See there. Why, if I'd hit that boy with that there fist as hard as ever I could, there wouldn't be no boy now, only a coroner's inquess. Bah! I wonder at you, Sir Francis! There's none of my marks on him, only where I gripped his arms. Take off your jacket, youngster, and show your pa."

"How dare you!" cried Philip indignantly.

"Take off your jacket, sir!" roared Sir Francis, and trembling and flushing, Philip did as he was told, and at a second bidding rolled up his sleeves to show the marks of Ike's fingers plainly enough.

Ike said nothing now, but uttered a low grunt.

"He did hit me," cried Philip excitedly.

"No; I hit you," I cried, "when I rushed at you first. I followed you after I'd heard you scramble over the wall."

"Oh!" cried Philip with an indignant look.

"You heard them scramble over the wall?" said Sir Francis sharply.

"Yes, Sir Francis. I think it was by the big keeping-pear that is trained horizontally—that large old tree, the last in the row."

Sir Francis sat back in his chair for a few moments in silence; and Courtenay said to his brother in a whisper, but loud enough for everyone to hear:

"Did you ever hear anyone go on like that!"

Sir Francis took no notice, but slowly rose from his seat, crossed the room, opened the French window that looked out upon the lawn, and then said:

"Hand me a candle, Brownsmith."

The candle was placed in his hands, and he walked with it right out on to the lawn and then held it above his head.

Then, walking back into the room, he took up another candlestick.

"Let everyone stay as he is till I come back."

"Do you mean us to stay here, papa—with these people?" said Courtenay haughtily.

Sir Francis stopped short and looked at him sternly without speaking, making the boy blench. Then he turned away without a word, and followed by Mr Solomon bearing a lighted candle, which hardly flickered in the still autumn evening, he went on down the garden.

"Haw—haw—haw!" laughed Ike as soon as we were alone. "You're a pair o' nice uns—you are! But you're ketched this time," he added.

"How dare you speak to us, sir!" cried Courtenay indignantly. "Hold your tongue, sir!"

"No use to hold it now," said Ike laughing. "I say, don't you feel warm?"

"Don't take any notice of the fellow, Court," cried Phil; "and as for pauper—"

"You leave him to me," said Courtenay with a vindictive look. "I'll make him remember telling his lies of me—yes, and of you too. He shall remember to-night as long as he lives, unless he asks our pardon, as soon as Sir Francis comes back and owns that it was he who was taking the pears."

I turned away from them and spoke to Ike, who was asking me about my hurts.

"Oh! they're nothing," I said—"only a few scratches and bruises. I don't mind them."

The two boys were whispering eagerly together, and I heard Philip say:

"Well, ask him; he'd do anything for money."

"Look here," said Courtenay.

I believe he was going to offer to bribe us; but just then there was the sound of voices in the garden and Sir Francis appeared directly after, candle in hand, closely followed by Mr Solomon, and both of them looking very serious, though somehow it did not have the slightest effect on me, for I was watching the faces of Courtenay and Philip.

"Shut that window, Brownsmith," said Sir Francis, as he set down his candle and went back to his chair behind the table.

Mr Solomon shut the window, and then came forward and set down his candle in turn.

"Now," said Sir Francis, "we can finish this business, I think. You say, Grant, that you heard someone climb over the wall by the big trained pear-tree?"

"I heard two people come over, sir, and one of them fell down, and, I think, broke a small tree or bush."

"Yes," said Sir Francis, "a bush is broken, and someone has climbed over by that big pear-tree."

"I digged that bit along that wall only yesterday," said Ike.

"Be silent, sir," cried Sir Francis; "stop. Come forward; set a candle down on the floor, Brownsmith."

It was done.

"You, Isaac, hold up one of your feet—there, by the candle. No, no, man; I want to see the sole."

Ike held up a foot as if he were a horse about to be shod, and growled out:

"Fifteen and six, master, and warranted water-tights."

"That will do, my man," said Sir Francis, frowning severely as if to hide a smile; and Ike put down his great boot and went softly back to his place.

"Now you, Grant," said Sir Francis.

I walked boldly to the candle and held up my heavily-nailed garden boots, so that Sir Francis could see the soles.

"That will do, my lad," he said. "Now you, Courtenay, and you, Philip."

They came forward half-puzzled, but I saw clearly enough Sir Francis' reasons, Ike's remark about the fresh digging having given me the clue.

"That will do," said Sir Francis; and as the boys passed me to go back to their places I heard Philip utter a sigh of relief.

"What time did you hear these people climb over the wall, Grant?" said Sir Francis.

"I can't tell exactly, Sir Francis," I replied. "I think it must have been about eight o'clock."

"What time is it now, Courtenay?" said Sir Francis. The lad clapped his hand to his pocket, but his watch was not there.

"I've left it in the bed-room," he said hastily; and he turned to leave the library, but stopped as if turned to stone as he heard Sir Francis thunder out:

"You left it hanging on the Easter Beurre pear-tree, sir, when you climbed down with your brother—on one of the short spurs, before you both left your foot-marks all over the newly-dug bed. Courtenay Dalton—Philip Dalton, if you were my own sons I should feel that a terrible stain had fallen upon my name."

The boys stood staring at him, looking yellow, and almost ghastly.

"And as if that proof were not enough, Courtenay, Dalton; when you fell and broke that currant bush—"

"It was Phil who fell," cried the boy with a vicious snarl.

"The truth for the first time," said Sir Francis. Then bitterly: "And I thought you were both gentlemen! Leave the room."

"It was Phil who proposed it all, papa," cried Courtenay appealingly.

"Ah, you sneak!" cried Philip. "I didn't, sir. I was as bad as he was, I suppose, and I thought it good fun, but I shouldn't have told all those lies if he hadn't made me. There, they were all lies! Now you can punish me if you like."

"Leave the room!" said Sir Francis again; and he stood pointing to the door as the brothers went out, looking miserably crestfallen.

Then the door closed, and the silence was broken by a sharp cry, a scuffle, the sound of blows, and a fall, accompanied by the smashing of some vessel on the stone floor.

Sir Francis strode out into the hall, and there was a hubbub of voices, and I heard Philip cry passionately:

"Yes; I did hit him. He began on me, and I'll do it again—a coward!"

Then there was a low murmur for a few minutes, and Sir Francis came back into the library and stood by the table, with the light shining on his great silver moustache; and I thought what a fine, handsome, fierce old fellow he looked as he stood frowning there for quite a minute without speaking. Then, turning to Mr Solomon, he said quickly:

"I beg your pardon, Brownsmith. I was excited and irritable to-night, and said what I am sorry for now."

"Then don't say any more, Sir Francis," replied Mr Solomon quietly. "I've been your servant—"

"Faithful servant, Brownsmith."

"Well, Sir Francis, 'faithful servant,'" said Mr Solomon smiling, "these twenty years, and you don't suppose I'm going to heed a word or two like that."

"Thank you, Brownsmith," said Sir Francis, and he turned to Ike and spoke sharply once more.

"What regiment were you in, sir?"

"Eighth Hoozoars, Captain," said Ike, drawing himself up and standing at attention.

"Colonel," whispered Mr Solomon.

"All right!" growled Ike.

"Well, then, Isaac Barnes, speaking as one old soldier to another, I said words to you to-night for which I am heartily sorry. I beg your pardon."

"God bless you, Colonel! If you talk to me like that arterward, you may call me what you like."

"Eh?" cried Sir Francis sharply; "then I will. How dare you then, you scoundrel, go and disgrace yourself; you, an ex-British soldier—a man who has worn the king's uniform—disgrace yourself by getting drunk? Shame on you, man, shame!"

"Go on, Colonel. Give it to me," growled Ike. "I desarve it."

"No," said Sir Francis, smiling; "not another word; but don't let it occur again."

Ike drew his right hand across one eye, and the left over the other, and gave each a flip as if to shake off a tear, as he growled something about "never no more."

I hardly heard him, though, for I was trembling with agitation as I saw Sir Francis turn to me, and I knew that my turn had come.

"Grant, my lad," he said quietly; "I can't tell you how hurt and sorry I felt to-night when I believed you to be mixed up with that contemptible bit of filching. There is an abundance of fruit grown here, and I should never grudge you sharing in that which you help to produce. I was the more sorry because I have been watching your progress, and I was more than satisfied: I beg your pardon too, for all that I have said. Those boys shall beg it too."

He held out his hand, and I caught it eagerly in mine as I said, in choking tones.

"My father was an officer and a gentleman, sir, and to be called a thief was very hard to bear."

"It was, my lad; it was," he said, shaking my hand warmly. "There, there, I'll talk to you another time."

I drew back, and we were leaving the room, I last, when, obeying an impulse, I ran back.

"Well, my lad?" he said kindly.

"I beg your pardon, Sir Francis; but you said that they should beg my pardon."

"Yes," he said hotly; "and they shall."

"If you please, Sir Francis," I said, "I would rather they did not."

"Why, sir?"

"I think they have been humbled enough."

"By their own conduct?" said Sir Francis. "Yes, you are right. I will not mention it again."



CHAPTER THIRTY THREE.

AFTER SEVEN YEARS.

Sir Francis, as I afterwards learned, did not insist upon the matter, but the very next day, as I was in the peach-house, I heard the door open, and I felt anything but comfortable as I saw Courtenay enter the place and come slowly up to me.

I was prepared for anything, but I had no cause for expecting war. He had come in peace.

"We're going away directly after lunch," he said in a low, surly tone, as if he resented what he was saying. "I'll—, I'll—there! I'll try— to be different when I come back again."

He turned and went hurriedly out of the place, and he had not been gone long when the door at the other end clicked, and I found, as soon as he who entered had come round into sight, that it was Philip.

He came up to me in a quick, impetuous way, as if eager to get his task over, and as our eyes met I could see that he had evidently been suffering a good deal.

"I'm going away this afternoon," he said quickly. "I wish I hadn't said and done all I have. I beg—"

He could not finish, but burst into a passionate fit of sobbing, and turned away his face.

"Good-bye!" I said. "I shall not think about it any more."

"Then we'll shake hands," he cried—"some day—next time we meet."

We did shake hands next time we met, but when Philip Dalton said those words he did not know it would be seven years first. But so it was.

————————————————————————————————————

I never knew exactly how it happened, but I believe one of my uncles was influenced to take some part in the affair, and Sir Francis did all the rest. What I do know is that about three months after the young Daltons had gone I was on my way to a clergyman's house, where I stayed a year, being prepared for my future career; and when I had been with the Reverend Hartley Dallas a year I was able to join the Military College at Woolwich, where I went through the regular course, and in due time obtained my commission in the artillery.

I had not long been in the service before the Crimean war broke out, and our battery was one of the first despatched to the seat of war, where, in company with my comrades, I went through that terrible period of misery and privation.

One night I was in charge of a couple of guns in a rather dangerous position near the Redan, and after repairing damages under fire my lads had contrived to patch up a pretty secure shelter with sand-bag and gabion, ready for knocking down next day, but it kept off the rain, and where we huddled together there was no mud under our feet, though it was inches deep in the trench.

It was a bitter night, and the tiny bit of fire that we had ventured to make in the hole we had scooped underground hardly kept the chill from our half-frozen limbs. Food was not plentiful, luxuries we had none, and in place of the dashing-looking artillerymen in blue and gold people are accustomed to see on parade, anyone who had looked upon us would have seen a set of mud-stained, ragged scarecrows, blackened with powder, grim looking, but hard and full of fight.

I was seated on an upturned barrel, hugging my sheepskin-lined greatcoat closer to me, and drawing it down over my high boots, as I made room for a couple of my wet, shivering men, and I felt ashamed to be the owner of so warm a coat as I looked at their well-worn service covering, when my sergeant put in his head and said:

"Captain of the company of foot, sir, would be glad if you could give him a taste of the fire and a drop of brandy; he's half dead with the cold."

"Bring him in," I said; and I waited, thinking about home and the old garden at Isleworth and then of that at Hampton; I didn't know why, but I did. And then I was thinking to myself that it was a good job that we had the stern, manly feeling to comfort us of our hard work being our duty, when I heard the slush, slush, slush, slush, sound of feet coming along the trenches, and then my sergeant said:

"You'll have to stoop very low to get in, sir, but you'll find it warm and dry. The lieutenant's inside."

"Yes, come in," I said; and my men drew back to let the fresh corner get a bit of the fire.

"It's awfully kind of you," he said, as he knelt down, took off his dripping gloves, and held his blue fingers to the flame. "What a night! It isn't fit for a dog to be out in. 'Pon my soul, gunner, I feel ashamed to come in and get shelter, and leave my poor boys in the trench."

"Get a good warm then, and let's thaw and dry one of them at a time. I'm going to turn out soon."

"Sorry for you," he said. "Brandy—thanks. It's worth anything a night like this. I've got some cigars in my breast-pocket, as soon as my fingers will let me get at them."

He had taken off his shako, and the light shone full upon his face, which I recognised directly, though he did not know me, as he looked up and said again:

"It's awfully kind of you, gunner."

"Oh! it's nothing," I said, "Captain Dalton—Philip Dalton, is it not?"

"Yes," he said; "you know me?"

"To be sure," I replied; "but you said that next time we met we'd shake hands."

He sank back and his jaw dropped.

"You remember me—Grant? How is Sir Francis?"

"Remember you!" he said, seizing my hand, "Oh! I say, what a young beast I was!"

————————————————————————————————————

I learned more than once that he and his brother turned out fine, manly soldiers, and did their duty well in that hard-fought campaign. I tried also to do mine, and came back one of the last to leave the Crimea, another grade higher in my rank.

During my college life I often used to go over and see the brothers Brownsmith, to be warmly welcomed at every visit; and if ever he got to know that I was going to Isleworth to spend Sunday, Ike used to walk over, straighten his back and draw himself up to attention, and salute me, looking as serious as if in uniform. He did not approve of my going into the artillery, though.

"It's wrong," he used to say; and in these days he was back at Isleworth, for Mr Solomon had entered into partnership with his brother, and both Ike and Shock had elected to follow him back to the old place.

"Yes," he would say, "it's wrong, Mars Grant, I was always drew to you because your father had been a sojer; but what would he have said to you if he had lived to know as you turned gunner?"

"What would you have had me, then? You must have artillerymen."

"Yes, of course, sir; but what are they? You ought to have been a hoozoar:—

"'Oh, them as with jackets go flying, Oh, they are the gallant hoozoars,'"

he sang—at least he tried to sing; but I went into the artillery.

————————————————————————————————————

By the way, I did not tell you the name of the sergeant who ushered Philip Dalton into my shelter that night. His name was John Hampton, as fine a soldier as ever stepped. He joined the artillery when I got my commission. Poor Shock, for I knew him better by that name; he followed me with the fidelity of a dog; he always contrived something hot for me when we were almost starving, and any day he would have gone without that I might eat. And I believe that he would have fought for me to the death.

Poor Shock! The night when I was told that he could not live, after being struck down by a piece of shell, I knelt by him in the mud and held his hand. He just looked up in my face and said softly:

"Remember being shut up in the sand-pit, sir, and how you prayed? If you wouldn't mind, sir—once again?"

I bent down lower and lower, and at last—soldier—hardened by horrors— grown stern by the life I led—I felt as if I had lost in that rough, true man the best of friends, and I cried over him like a child!

THE END.