CHAPTER THE THIRTY-SECOND
*In which the curtain falls, to the sound of bells; and our hero comesto his own.*
It was a mellow day in October, 1760, a little more than six years sincethe day when Market Drayton gave rein to its enthusiasm in honour ofClive. From a flagstaff newly erected on the roof of the _Four Alls_ onthe Newport Road a square of bunting flapped in the breeze. Inside theinn the innkeeper was drawing a pint of ale for his one solitarycustomer, a shambling countryman with a shock of very red hair, and eyesof innocent blue.
"There, that makes a quart, Tummas Biles, and 'tis as much as yourturnip head can safely carry."
He passed the can across the bar on a hook that projected from a woodensocket in his sleeve.
"Why now, Mr. Bulger," said Tummas the tranter, "what fur do you go furto miscall me like other fowk? I've been miscalled ever since that daysince I drove a stranger into Market Drayton six year ago. I mind me hehad a red feather in his cap, and not knowing my name was plain Tummashe called me Jehu, he did, and I never forgot it. Ay, and I tell yawhat, Mr. Bulger: it took me two year to find out why he give me such anuncommon name. I mind I was sittin' by a hayrick of Mr. Burke's--thatwas long afore he was lamed by that terrible horse o' his--and ponderin'on that heathen name, when all at wunst it comed to me like a flash o'lightnin'. 'Jehu!' says I to myself. 'I bin and got ya at last.' Yasee, when that stranger saw me, I were drivin' a horse. Well, I says tomy horse, 'Gee-ho!' says I. Not knowin' my true chrisom name, thestranger takes up my words an' fits 'em to me. 'Gee-ho!' says I;'Gee-ho!' says he; only bein' a kind o' furriner he turns it into'Jehu': an' the name fits me uncommon. Hee! hee!"
"I may be wrong," said Bulger, "but 'tis my belief 'Hee-haw!' would fityou a big sight better. But hark! en't them the bells a-ringin '?"
The two hastened to the door, and stood looking down the road towardsMarket Drayton. From the distance came the faint sounds of a merrypeal. By and by a four-horsed open carriage with outriders appeared onthe crest of the hill. Amid the dust it raised another could be seen,and behind this a long line of vehicles. Every coachman's whip wasdecorated with a wedding favour. The cavalcade approached rapidly. Asthe first carriage drew nearer Bulger became more and more excited, andwhen it dashed past the inn he raised his hook and shouted "Hurray!hurray!" with the full force of his lungs.
"Give 'em a cheer, Tummas," he cried. "Hee-haw will do if you knows nobetter. Hurray for Major Desmond Burke and his madam--the purtiest galI ever did see, east or west. Hurray for her father and mother: therethey are, with old squire an' the Major's mother. And there's Mr.Clive, all alone by himself 'cos his leg's stiff wi' the rheumatics; buthe would come to see the deed done, which I may be wrong, but the newKing George'll make him a live lord afore he's much older. Open yourmouth, Tummas, an' if you hee-haw loud enough, I'll draw you anotherpint for nothing."
Desmond, now a Major, had returned home in company with Clive. Duringthe three years that had passed since he witnessed the sailing of the_Jane_ he had seen much service. He had been with Colonel Forde whenthat fine soldier expelled the French from the Northern Sirkars. He waswith the same officer when he thrashed the Dutch at Biderra. He hadbeen in close touch with Clive when these successful operations wereplanned; and the nearer he saw him, the more he admired the great man'scourage in taking risks, promptitude in dealing with sudden emergencies,sagacity in seeing to the heart of a difficult situation. Thus, duringthose years, he gained much knowledge of the science of war, and muchexperience in dealing with men. He became rich also, not byquestionable means, but by reaping the legitimate rewards of good andfaithful service.
Before leaving India, Desmond learnt of changes that had happened athome. His brother had been thrown by a young and mettlesome horse, andso badly trampled that he must remain a helpless invalid for the rest ofhis life. Sir Willoughby Stokes, even before he learnt of the death ofhis nephew Peloti, had made Desmond his heir. Mr. Merriman had bought anestate near his father's old friend, and settled down to the life of acountry gentleman. A year after his return, Job Grinsell, the landlordof the _Four Alls_, had been sentenced to a long term of imprisonmentfor poaching, and Mr. Merriman had no difficulty in persuading SirPhilip Chetwode to let his inn to Bulger.
After an interview with Mr. Merriman, Desmond found the courage to putto Phyllis the question which he had not ventured to ask before she leftIndia. What the answer was may be inferred from the fact that SirWilloughby insisted on the wedding taking place at once. It was timefor the return of his old enemy the gout, he said; he was going toBuxton to end his days, and wished to see the Hall in the hands of hisheir before he left. Mr. Burslem, Desmond's old schoolmaster, performedthe ceremony, and Clive, though suffering from rheumatism, came down forthe occasion. The only familiar form that Desmond missed was that ofold Dickon, who had died a few months after Desmond's departure fromhome.
Desmond settled down for a time at the Hall, cheering his mother'sdeclining years, repaying good for ill to his invalid brother, andwinning golden opinions from all his neighbours high and low. Heeagerly watched the further career of his old hero, now Lord Clive;learnt to admire him as statesman as well as soldier; sympathized withhim through all the attacks made upon him, and mourned him sincerelywhen, in 1774, the great man, preyed upon by an insidious disease, diedby his own hand. Five years later he felt the East calling, bought acommission, and sailed with General Sir Eyre Coote, to take part in the"frantic military exploits," as some one called them, of Warren Hastingsagainst Haidar Ali and Tippu in Mysore. He came home a Colonel, and wasmade a baronet for his services in the war. Finally retiring frompublic life, he lived for thirty years longer on his estate, happy inthe careers of his two sons, who became soldiers like himself. He died,an old man, in the year after Waterloo, at which his eldest grandson, alieutenant in the Guards, behaved with a gallantry that attracted thenotice of the Iron Duke.
Visitors to Sir Desmond Burke's house were amused and interested to seea battered wooden stump with an iron hook hanging in a conspicuous placein the hall, amid tigers' heads, Indian weapons, and other trophies fromthe East.
"That?" Sir Desmond would say, in answer to their question. "Thatbelonged to one of the best friends I ever had, a fine old salt namedWilliam Bulger. I met him when I was sixteen, and buried him when I wasforty: and my wife and I have felt ever since a blank in our lives. Ifyou can put up with an old man's stories, I'll tell you something ofwhat Bulger and I went through together, when I was a youngster withClive in India."
THE END.
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