The Argosy | Page 7

a finger to
his forehead, "in order to see Lady Chillington and have a little private
talk with her."
"I am afraid that her ladyship will scarcely see you, unless you can give
her some idea of the business that you have called upon."
"My name, miss, is Sergeant John Nicholas. I served formerly in India,
where I was body-servant to her ladyship's son, Captain Charles
Chillington, who died there of cholera nearly twenty years ago, and I
have something of importance to communicate."

Janet made the old soldier come in and sit down in the hall while she
took his message to Lady Chillington. Her ladyship was not yet up, but
was taking her chocolate in bed, with a faded Indian shawl thrown
round her shoulders. She began to tremble violently the moment Janet
delivered the old soldier's message, and could scarcely set down her
cup and saucer. Then she began to cry, and to kiss the hem of the
Indian shawl. Janet went softly out of the room and waited. She had
never even heard of this Captain Charles Chillington, and yet no mere
empty name could have thus affected the stern mistress of Deepley
Walls. Those few tears opened up quite a new view of Lady
Chillington's character. Janet began to see that there might be elements
of tragedy in the old woman's life of which she knew nothing: that
many of the moods which seemed to her so strange and inexplicable
might be so merely for want of the key by which alone they could be
rightly read.
Presently her ladyship's gong sounded. Janet went back into the room,
and found her still sitting up in bed, sipping her chocolate with a steady
hand. All traces of tears had vanished: she looked even more stern and
repressed than usual.
"Request the person of whom you spoke to me a while ago to wait," she
said. "I will see him at eleven in my private sitting-room."
So Sergeant Nicholas was sent to get his breakfast in the servants' room,
and wait till Lady Chillington was ready to receive him.
At eleven precisely he was summoned to her ladyship's presence. She
received him with stately graciousness, and waved him to a chair a yard
or two away. She was dressed for the day in one of her stiff brocaded
silks, and sat as upright as a dart, manipulating a small fan. Miss Hope
stood close at the back of her chair.
"So, my good man, I understand that you were acquainted with my son,
the late Captain Chillington, who died in India twenty years ago?"
"I was his body-servant for two years previous to his death."

"Were you with him when he died?"
"I was, your ladyship. These fingers closed his eyes."
The hand that held the fan began to tremble again. She remained silent
for a few moments, and by a strong effort overmastered her agitation.
"You have some communication which you wish to make to me
respecting my dead son?"
"I have, your ladyship. A communication of a very singular kind."
"Why has it not been made before now?"
"That your ladyship will learn in the course of what I have to say. But
perhaps you will kindly allow me to tell my story my own way."
"By all means. Pray begin: I am all attention."
The Sergeant touched his forelock, gave a preliminary cough, fixed his
clear grey eye on Lady Chillington, and began his narrative as under:--
"Your ladyship and miss: I, John Nicholas, a Staffordshire man born
and bred, went out to India twenty-three years ago as lance corporal in
the hundred-and-first regiment of foot. After I had been in India a few
months, I got drunk and misbehaved myself, and was reduced to the
ranks. Well, ma'am, Captain Chillington took a fancy to me, thought I
was not such a bad dog after all, and got me appointed as his servant.
And a better master no man need ever wish to have--kind, generous,
and a perfect gentleman from top to toe. I loved him, and would have
gone through fire and water to serve him."
Her ladyship's fan was trembling again. "Oblige me with my salts, Miss
Hope," she said. She pressed them to her nose, and motioned to the
Sergeant to proceed.
"When I had been with the Captain a few months," resumed the old
soldier, "he got leave of absence for several weeks, and everybody
knew that it was his intention to spend his holiday in a shooting

excursion among the hills. I was to go with him, of course, and the
usual troop of native servants; but besides himself there was only one
European gentleman in the party, and he was not an Englishman. He
was a Russian, and his name was