VIII
A VETERAN RECRUIT
Millicent Dixon's uncle, Col. Elliott Coke, invalided from some remoteAfghan frontier station whose name on the map was utterly out ofproportion to the inconsiderableness of the place, was in London. I methim at the Bassishaws' when Arthur, in tones of infinite respect, hadpointed out to my notice a small, keen face, curried by Indian suns,with moustaches out of which both the colour and the moisture had beengrilled years and years before.
"I say, Rollo," Bassishaw had whispered, "do you know who that is?That's Col. Coke."
"It's a good name," I observed. "Who's he?"
"Who's he? I say, Rollo! Why, he's the best authority on hill batteriesand jungle skirmishes in India! Led an attack on some darned place orother in--I forget the date. V. C. Went through the Afghan war, youknow--got about a hundred and fifty clasps."
"Indeed?" I said. "Present me."
Arthur had presented me to his hero almost apologetically, and I hadsince improved the acquaintance considerably.
I gathered from the Colonel that the Afghan frontier was not overrunwith European ladies to any great extent, and certainly the little man'smanner on being transported to a place where a full numerical half ofthe population (and a much larger proportion in every other respect)consisted of women, was very pleasant to watch. The luxury of seeingthem was almost enough for him, and when it came to the intimacies ofconversation the little warrior's embarrassment was as delightful asyoung Ted Carmichael's.
"Gad, Butterfield," he said, as we threaded Piccadilly one evening,"this is home, you know! It's like one big family--you feel as if youcan speak to any of them!"
The Colonel's observation was perhaps truer than he had any idea of; butI couldn't dash his boyish pleasure.
"Yes," I replied. "I almost envy you the delight, Coke, of having thefull measure all at once. It is to you what tiger-shooting would be tome, did my tastes run in that direction."
"Gad," he replied (he seldom replied without "Gad"), "it's marvellous!And all with faces as white as my own, Butterfield!"
I smiled, looking at the piece of tropical cookery he called white, butlet him run on.
"Do you know," he said, "there was Powell's wife, and poor Jack Dennis'swidow, and the adjutant's sister; and, by Gad, except for a _dahi_ thatPowell kept (Powell's wife was never strong), there wasn't anotherwoman, Butterfield, in the whole damned station! And Winifred Dennisdidn't amount to much. But here----"
He never seemed to get accustomed to it. Had a London fog stamped themetropolitan complexion indelibly and universally black, Coke would havegiven a sigh, as knowing that his glimpse was too good to have lasted,and returned to his old order of things. The rustle of a silk skirt wasan unstaled wonder to him; and the contrast between what he called the"real European baby-ribbon sort of thing" and the "infernal blouse andpuggaree business" never failed to entertain him.
With Miss Dixon he was soon on good terms, but with most other ladies,Mrs. Loring Chatterton first of all, his diffidence was marked. Hischivalrous devotion was Quixotic, but most of them would have barteredit, I am sure, for a more work-a-day and less punctilious style ofattention. Mrs. Loring, indeed, said so.
"I don't know where he got his style of conversation from," sheremarked, "but he is absolutely embarrassed when I present him to awoman. How do you account for it, Mr. Butterfield?"
"It is not," I replied, "that he is deficient in physical bravery. I canonly account for it on the supposition of instinct. He knows yourpropensities, Mrs. Loring, and would possibly die as he has lived, ablameless bachelor."
"But it's just the same with the married women," she returned. "What isthere to be afraid of in Alice Carmichael?"
"I decline to be invidious, Mrs. Loring," I replied. "He gets along wellenough with Millicent Dixon."
"They are related," she replied, somewhat inconclusively.
"I am afraid it is a _non sequitur_," I answered. "Friendship generallyvaries inversely as the square of the distance of the relationship."
"I wonder what we could do?" she said, half to herself. "Do you thinkMrs. Gervase would do him any good?"
The wicked, wedded creature! Emily Gervase, a youthful widow, was CicelyVicars's sister. I drew myself up with dignity.
"Mrs. Loring," I said, looking full at her, "I wonder that you do nottremble! What is it you would do? Has Col. Coke, of a score of Indianhill fights, the bearer of honourable scars of war and climate, notearned his peace? Would you, now that his body is broken on the outpostsof an Empire for your protection, harrow the boyish soul within it? No,madam. On me, if you will, you may exercise your arts; but if you oncesubmit that venerable head to the machinations of Emily Gervase--Iexpose you."
"Exercise arts on you!" she retorted. "You're too fond of it; and I_shall_ be--nice--to the Colonel, in spite of you, Mr. Butterfield."
She kept her word. She indulged her undoubted gifts for being "nice" topeople in a series of variations, the theme of which was always thesame--the development of the Colonel's intimacy with Mrs. Gervase. Mrs.Loring's methods were old enough to me--I knew them by heart; but to themaiden soul of the Colonel they came as a revelation of femaleunselfishness.
"Do you know, Butterfield," he said to me one evening, "I'm beginning tothink Mrs. Chatterton is no end of a fine woman, by Gad! She's loyal, byGad! The way she stands by that little friend of hers, Mrs. Gervase--youknow her"--(I nodded)--"why, it's just what a man would do!"
"Then you have met Mrs. Gervase, Coke?" I asked.
"Yes," he replied, "the other evening. She's infernally shy, by Gad!Quiet, you know. That's what I like about an Englishwoman here. Now,Powell's wife, and the regimental women----"
"Exactly; were not shy. And what do you think of Mrs. Gervase?"
"Well, you know,"--the little man looked at me with a comical air ofworldly knowledge that was a joy to see,--"she was awfully quiet,Butterfield--only looked at you; but _I_ brought her out, by Gad! Andshe's intelligent, too, when you once get her talking."
"You succeeded in making her talk, then?" I asked with an irony that wasfor my private satisfaction, and meant nothing to him.
"Yes," he replied, "after I'd--played her a bit, you know. And thatwoman, Butterfield, displayed an intelligence, by Gad, on transport, andcommissariat, and mobilisation that was simply little short ofmarvellous! Marvellous, by Gad!"
"She's a clever woman, I believe," I answered. "She asked you how oftenyou had been wounded, I suppose?"
"She _did_ ask me that," he admitted; "but women haven't got to hearabout that kind of thing, you know, Butterfield. You've got to keep 'emat arm's length in such matters--kind of----"
"Exactly. Play them a bit. I congratulate you, Colonel, onhaving--er--brought out Mrs. Gervase."
"Oh," he replied, "she's only a child, of course, widow or no widow; butshe'll make a fine woman, Butterfield."
I would have given much that Emily Gervase should have heard herself setdown a child. The Colonel, unconsciously, had in his hand theopportunity for complete and sweeping revenge.
It was my fortune to be present when Mrs. Gervase, doubtless after deepconsideration, made the next move. We were to call on Mrs. CharlieVicars--or rather, Coke was to call, and persuaded me along with him.
"Mrs. Chatterton said you wouldn't mind, Butterfield," he said; "and, byGad, I can't keep two of them going."
"You undervalue yourself, Coke," I said. "But I'll come."
And so we found ourselves in the aestheticism of Mrs. Vicars'sdrawing-room. That lady found means to entertain me, while Coke appliedhimself to the creation of a conversational warmth that should inducethe unfolding of the timid bud by his side.
"Col. Coke seems to have taken quite a fancy to Emily, Mr. Butterfield?"said Mrs. Charlie interrogatively.
"It is a pretty sight, Mrs. Vicars," I replied. "The scarred veteran inthe evening of his life, his grim battles behind him, returning to takea younger generation on
his knee----"
Mrs. Vicars looked round in alarm.
"--And to tell of fights in which their fathers were engaged----"
"Col. Coke is not so old as that, Mr. Butterfield. He can't be mucholder than you," she interrupted.
"He is young enough to be Emily's father," I admitted, "and perhaps alittle too juvenile to be her grandfather. Coke is fifty."
"He doesn't look it, Mr. Butterfield."
"He looks it, Mrs. Vicars, and you know it. Let us talk about somethingelse. How is Master--Percival, is his name to be?"
The young gentleman in question had known the light of day for exactlythree weeks, and was the commencement of Cicely Vicars's family. I hadbeen presented to him in his cot some days before, but beyond mutualcelibacy, there was little as yet in common between us, and theconversation had flagged.
"Yes," Mrs. Vicars responded, "he's to be called Percival; and oh, Mr.Butterfield, he's to be christened in a week, and I wondered----"
She hesitated.
"I already stand sponsor to an embarrassing extent, Mrs. Vicars," Ireplied. "I never ascertained precisely to what the position pledged me,but I have an uncomfortable sense of responsibility to which I do notfeel inclined to add."
"But, Mr. Butterfield, those were--other people's children--not mine."
She turned a supplicating eye on me. It runs in the family.
"Naturally," I replied. "It would be a big burden, in these days ofsmall families, for any one person. But no, Mrs. Vicars. Perhaps on afuture occasion----I have it!" I added.
"You have what?"
"Coke's your man, Mrs. Vicars. Come."
I rose, and assisted her to rise also. She hung back, but I brought heralong. It was the very thing! We approached the couple. The Colonel washolding forth on the dialects of the North-Western Provinces.
"Coke!" I said. He looked up.
"Accept my felicitations. You are to stand godfather to Mrs. Vicars'slittle boy next week."
Coke blushed a vivid gamboge, and stopped dead.
"Gad!" he stammered. "Wha--what's that, Butterfield?"
"Sponsor, my dear Coke," I returned, "at the investiture of a fellow-manwith a name. You're just the man."
Things were whirling round Coke. He grasped the edge of the sofa withboth hands, and looked blankly at us.
"Me!" he gasped, "me! at a christening! What the devil--me a godfather!No, I'm damned if I can!"
"My dear Coke," I answered, "calm yourself. Of course you can--you must!A man with the Victoria Cross cannot get out of these things so easily.Look at me--a baker's dozen at least."
"Gad," he replied, wiping his brow, "I'd rather get the Cross again."
"Nonsense," I replied. "It's a duty. Somebody did it for us, and we keepup the tradition. Besides, it's unlucky to have to ask twice."
I had no authority for this last statement, but it seemed to go. Cokeleaned back for ease in breathing.
"But I've never done anything of the kind," he almost whispered. "Ishall shake like a recruit. I shan't know what to do--I shall get mixedup with the bridesmaids----"
The Colonel's notions as to the procedure of christenings wereundoubtedly vague. I looked at Mrs. Gervase.
"This is not a wedding," I said, "but a christening. That's all right,Coke. You shall wear your uniform and grasp the hilt of your sword allthe time. You'll do."
"But--but--hang it, Butterfield, what about the family? You'll pardonme, ladies, but I--you are the only members I am happy enough to know."
"Oh," said Mrs. Vicars, "there's only mother, Colonel. I forgot youhadn't met her. You shall to-morrow. You do promise?"
The Colonel was evidently looking for flaws in the position, but seemedto find none. He rose, as unhappy a little soldier as ever wore a medal.
"Well, ladies," he said, "I would rather have shot Afghans for you fortwelve months than undertake this--this post. If I break down youmustn't blame me. I'll do my best."
And with a sigh he pulled his white moustaches nervously, and we beggedleave to go.
Now, my only object in all this was a half-whimsical protest, such as ispermissible against what was evidently in the minds of both theseladies--the matching of Mrs. Gervase with a man easily twenty years hersenior. The position of godfather to a succeeding generation, apart fromthe edification of seeing such a man as Coke in such a capacity, wasmuch more suitable than any wedding so uneven, and I had allowed myselfto hint as much. But Coke himself, as he afterwards told me, had carriedthe thing a good deal further.
It was in the smoke-room of the Faineant Club that I heard itsconclusion. The ceremony was over, and Coke was composing his nerveswith green Indian cigars. He had sat meditatively watching the smoke forsome time, when he suddenly looked up and caught my eye.
"Well, Butterfield," he said, "I got it over; but, by Gad, never again!They shall call 'Deserters' next time for me!"
"Yes?" I said inquiringly.
"Yes," he replied. "It was this way, Butterfield. I called on Mrs.Vicars next day, and met her mother, and, by Gad, Butterfield"--theColonel threw his cigar away in his excitement, and faced full round onme--"it was little Cissie Munro, who threw me over before I left, thirtyyears ago! By Gad"--he sank back in his chair--"you could have pulled myshoulder-straps off! I knew her in a minute. I didn't know whether shewas living or dead, Butterfield. I'm used to my friends dying--andthere, by Gad, she turns up! My stars, it beats all!"
It was certainly a coincidence.
"And the awkward part of the whole thing was--I don't mind telling_you_, Butterfield--that I'd all but taken a fancy to that quiet littledaughter of hers, Mrs. Gervase. Well, I was all at sea; the whole thingwas too infernally odd. It didn't seem right, somehow, that I should bethrown over by one woman, make love to her daughter, and be godfather towhat might have been my own grandchild, by Gad; and I was in no end of amess. Don't you think so?"
I admitted the questionableness of the proceeding.
"Well, I could not get out of the confounded christening--thanks to you,Butterfield,--but as to Mrs. Gervase, that was another matter. I canhelp that. And she's a good little woman, too," he added, "if she werenot so infernally modest, by Gad."
"I think it is, perhaps, better, Coke," I replied.