CHAPTER I.

IT was considerably after midnight when one of three officers seated at a whist-table in the mess-room of the Cavalry Barracks at Idleminster, where the Scarlet Lancers were quartered, called out, “Bootles, come and take a hand—there’s a good chap.”

Captain Algernon Ferrers, more commonly known as “Bootles,” looked up.

“I don’t mind if I do,” he said, rising and moving towards them. “What do you want me to do? Who’s my partner?”

The three other men stared at one another in surprise, for Bootles was one of the best whist-players in the regiment, and in an ordinary way would as soon have thought of counting honors as of settling the questions of partners other than by cutting, except in the case of a revenge.

“Why, take a card, of course, my friend,” laughed Lacy, in a ridiculously soft voice. Lacy was a recent importation from the White Dragoons, and had taken possession of the place left vacant in Bootles’s every-day life by Scott Laurie’s marriage.

“Ah, yes; to be sure—cut, of course. I believe,” said Bootles, looking at the three faces before him in an uncertain way—“I believe I’ve got a headache.”

“Oh, nothing like whist for a headache,” answered Hartog, turning up the last card. “Ace of diamonds.” However, after stumbling through one game—after twice trumping his partner’s trick, a revoke, and several such like blunders—he rose to his feet.

“It’s no use, you fellows; I’m no good to-night—I can’t even see the cards. Get some one to take my place and make a fresh start.”

“Why, you’re ill, Bootles,” cried Preston. “What is it?”

“It’s a devil of a headache,” answered Bootles, promptly. “Here’s Miles—the very man. Goodnight.”

“Good-night,” called the fellows after him. Then they settled down to their game, and Preston dealt.

“Never saw Bootles seedy before,” said Lacy.

“Oh yes; he gets these headaches sometimes,” answered Hartog. “Not often, though. Miles, your lead.”

Meantime Bootles went wearily away, almost feeling his road under the veranda of the mess-rooms, along the broad _pavé_ in front of the officers’ quarters, and up the wide flight of stone steps to his rooms facing the green of the barrack square. Being the senior captain, with only one bachelor field-officer in the regiment, he had two large and pleasant rooms, not very grandly furnished, for, though a rich man, he was not an extravagant one, and saw no fun in having costly goods and chattels to be at the tender mercies of soldier servants; but they were neat, clean, and comfortable, with a sufficiency of great easy travelling-chairs, plenty of fur rugs, and lots of pretty little pictures and knickknacks.

The fire in his sitting-room was fast dying out, but a bright and cheerful blaze illumined his sleeping-room, shining on the brass knobs of his cot, on the silver ornamentations at the corners of his dressing-case, on three or four scent bottles on the tall cretonne-petticoated toilette table, and on the tired but resplendent figure of Bootles himself.

He dragged the big chair pretty near to the fire, and dropped into it with a sigh of relief, absolutely too sick and weary to think about getting into bed just then. As Hartog had said, sometimes these headaches seized him, but it did not happen often; in fact, he had not had one for more than a year—quite often enough, he said.

Well, he had been lying in the big and easy chair, his eyes shut and his hands hanging idly over the broad straps which served for arms, for perhaps half an hour, when to his surprise he heard a soft rustling movement behind him. His first and not unnatural thought was that the fellows had come to draw him, so, without moving, he called out, “Oh! confound it all, don’t come boring a poor devil with a headache. By Jove, it’s cruelty to animals, neither more nor less.”

The soft rustling ceased, and Bootles closed his eyes again, with a devout prayer that they would, in response to this appeal, take themselves off. But presently it began again, accompanied by a sound which made his heart jump almost into his mouth, and beat so furiously as to be simply suffocating. It stopped—was repeated—“_The_—DEVIL,” muttered Bootles.

But it was not the devil at all—more like a little angel, in truth; for after a moment’s irresolution he sprang from his chair and faced the horror behind him. It really was a horror to him, for there, sitting up among the pillows of the cot, with the clothes pushed back, was a baby, a baby whose short golden curls shone in the fire-light—a little child dressed in white, with a pair of wide-open, wondering eyes, as bright as stars and as blue as sapphires.

Bootles stood in dismay staring at it.

“Where, in the name of all that’s wonderful, did _you_ come from?” he asked aloud, keeping at a safe distance lest it should suddenly start howling.

But the little stranger did not howl; on the contrary, as its bewildered eyes fell upon Bootles’s resplendent figure, his gold-laced scarlet jacket and gold-embroidered waistcoat of white velvet, his gold-laced overalls and jingling spurs, it stretched out its little arms and cried, “Boo, boo, boo—!”

Bootles took a step back in his surprise, and his headache vanished as if by magic.

“By—Jove!” he exclaimed.

“Boo—boo—boo!” crowed the usurper of the cot, cheerily.

Bootles went a step nearer. “Why, you’re a queer little beggar,” he remarked. “Where did you come from, eh?”

The “queer little beggar” suddenly changed its tone, and started another system of crowing more triumphant and cheery than the first.

“Chucka—chucka—chucka—chuck!” it went.

Bootles began to laugh. “Can’t talk, hey? Well, what do you want?” as it struggled fiercely to rise, and stretched out its small arms more impatiently than before. “Want to be lifted up, hey? Oh, but dash it,” scratching his head perplexedly, “I can’t lift you up, you know; it’s out of the question—impossible. By Jove, I might let you drop and smash you!”

“Chucka—chucka—chucka! Boo—oo—oo!” gobbled the baby, as if it were the best joke in the world.

Bootles positively roared.

“You don’t mind? Well, come along, then,” approaching very gingerly, and wondering where he should begin to get hold of it, so to speak.

The baby soon settled that question, holding out its arms towards his neck. Then somehow he gathered it up and carried it in doubt and trepidation to the big chair by the fire, where the creature sat contentedly upon his knee, the curly golden head resting against his scarlet jacket, the soft fingers of one baby hand tight twined round one of his, the other picking and wandering aimlessly about the scrolls and curves of the gold embroidery on his waistcoat.

“By Jove! you’re a jolly little chap,” said Bootles, just as if it could understand him. “But the question is, where did you come from, and what’s to be done with you? You can’t stop here, you know.”

The babe’s big blue eyes raised themselves to his, and the fingers which had been twined round his made a grab at his watch-chain.

“Gar—gar—garr—rah!” it remarked, in such evident delight that Bootles laughed again.

“Oh, you like it, do you? Well, you’re a queer little beggar; no mistake about that. I wonder whom you belong to, and where you live when you are at home? Can’t be a barrack child—too dainty-looking and not slobbery enough. And this dress”—taking hold of the richly embroidered white skirt—“this must have cost a lot; and it’s all lace too.”

He knew what embroidery cost by his own mess waistcoats and his tunics. Then not only was the dress of the child of a very costly description, but its sleeves were tied up with Cambridge blue ribbons that were evidently new, and its waist was encircled by a broad sash of the same material and tint. Altogether it was just such a child as he was occasionally called upon to admire in the houses of his married brother officers; yet that any lady in the regiment would lend her baby for a whole night to a set of harum-scarum young fellows for the purpose of playing a trick on a brother officer was manifestly absurd. And besides that, Bootles was so good-natured and such a favorite with the ladies of the regiment that he thought he knew all their babies by sight, and he became afraid that this one was indeed a little stranger in the land, welcome or unwelcome.

Yet if it was the fellows’ doing, where had they got it? And if it was not the fellows’ doing, why should any one leave a baby asleep in his cot? The whole thing was inexplicable.

Just then the child, in playing with his chain, slipped a little on the smooth cloth of his overalls, and Bootles, with a “Whoa! whoa, my lad!” hauled it up again. In doing so he felt a piece of paper rustle somewhere about the embroidered skirt.

“A note. This grows melodramatic,” said Bootles, craning his head to find it. “Oh, here we are! Now we shall see.”

The note was written in a firm, large, yet thoroughly feminine hand, and ran thus:

“You will not absolve me from my oath of secrecy respecting our marriage, though now that I have offended you, I may starve or go to the work-house. I cannot break my oath, though you have broken _all_ yours, but I am determined that you _shall_ acknowledge your child. I am going to leave her to-night in your rooms with her clothes. By midnight I shall be out of the country. I do this because I have obtained a good situation, and because when I reach my destination I shall have spent my last shilling. I give you fair warning, however, that if you desert the child, or fail to acknowledge her, I will break my oath and proclaim our marriage. If you engage a nurse she will not be much trouble. She is a good and sweet-tempered child, and I have called her Mary, after your dear mother. Oh, how she would pity me if she could see me now! Farewell.”

From that moment Bootles absolved “the fellows” from any share in the affair; but what to do with the child he had not the least idea.

“It is the very devil,” he said aloud, watching the busy fingers still playing with his chain.

He gathered it awkwardly in his arms, and rose to look for the clothing spoken of in the letter. Yes, there it was, a parcel of goodly size, wrapped in a stout brown paper cover, and on the chair beside his cot lay the out-door garments of a young child—a white coat bordered with fur, a fur-trimmed cap, and some other things, which Bootles did not quite understand the use of; white wool fingerless gloves (at least he did not know what else they could be), and some longer things of the same class, like stockings without feet.

Bootles shook his head bewilderingly. “Mother means it to stop; _I_ don’t know what to do,” he said, helplessly.

It occurred to him then that perhaps some of the fellows might be able to make a suggestion. He did not know what to do with the child for the night, nor, for the matter of that, what to do with it for the moment. He had the sense not to take it out into the chill midnight air, and when he attempted to put it back into the cot it rebelled, clinging to his watch-chain with might and main.

“Well, have it then,” he said, slipping it off.

The baby, pleased with the glittering toy, set up a cry of delight, and Bootles took the opportunity of slipping out. He entered the anteroom with a very rueful face, finding it pretty much as he had left it. Lacy was the first to catch sight of him.

“Halloo, Bootles, what’s the mat-tah?” he asked. “Is your head worse?”

“My head? Oh, I forgot all about it,” Bootles replied. “But, I say, I’m in a mess. There’s a baby in my room.”

“A WHAT?” they cried, with one voice.

“A baby,” repeated Bootles, dismally.

“Al—ive?” asked Lacy, with his head on one side.

“Alive! Oh, very, very much so, and means to stop, for it has brought its entire wardrobe and a letter of introduction with it,” holding the letter for any one to take who chose. It was Lacy who did so, and he asked if he should read it up.

“Yes, do,” said Bootles, dropping into a chair with a groan. “Perhaps some one else will own to it.”

So Lacy read the letter in his ridiculous drawl of a voice, and ceased amid profound silence—“Fa-ah-well!”

“Well?” said Bootles, finding no one seemed inclined to speak. “Well?”

“Well,” said Preston, solemnly, “if you want my opinion, Bootles, I think you ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

A general laugh followed, but Bootles protested.

“Oh, don’t imagine it’s me. I’ve nothing to do with it. I shouldn’t have come to you fellows if I had.”

“No, no, of course not,” returned Miles, promptly, but with an air which raised another shout.

“Then it’s a plant,” announced Preston, in a tone of conviction.

“Of course it’s a plant,” cried Bootles; “but why in the wide world should it be planted on me?”

“Why, indeed?” echoed Miles, feelingly.

“Besides,” Bootles continued, “some of you know my mother, and that her name was not Mary but Margaret.”

Now as several of those present had known Lady Margaret Ferrers very well, that was a strong point in favor of Preston’s assertion that the affair was a plant. The chief question, however, was what could be done with the little stranger for that night. Some woman, of course, must look after it, but who? It was then after two o’clock, and the lights had been out hours ago in the married people’s quarters. Bootles did not know what to do, and said so.

“Is it in your room now?” Preston asked.

“Yes.”

“Where did you find it?”

“In my cot.”

“The devil you did! I wonder you weren’t frightened out of your very wits.”

“I nearly was,” Bootles admitted.

“Did you see it at once? Was it howling?”

“Howling? Not a bit of it. Never saw a jollier little beggar in all my life.”

“Oh!” ejaculated Miles, blankly. “I say, you fellows, don’t that sound to you very much like the proud pap—ah?”

“You fellows” all laughed at this, even perplexed Bootles, and Hartog asked a question.

“Did you see it directly, Bootles?”

“Oh no; not for half an hour or more.”

“What on earth did you do?”

“Why, I looked at it of course. What would you have done?”

“Did you _touch_ it?”

Bootles laughed. “Yes, by Jove, the little beggar came to me like a bird.”

“Great gods!” uttered Miles, “and you can doubt the fatherliness of _that_!”

“Oh, what an ass you are!” returned Hartog; then, as if by a bright inspiration, suggested, “I say, let’s go and have a look at it.”

Thereupon the assembled officers, five of them, trooped along the way Bootles had stumbled over alone in the blindness of his now forgotten headache. The baby was still in the cot, contentedly playing with the watch and chain, and at the sight of the five resplendent figures it set up a loud “Boo—boo—boo—ing,” followed by a “Chucka—chucka—chucka—ing.” Evidently it considered this was the land of Goshen.

“Seems to take after its mother in its love for a scarlet jacket,” remarked Miles, sententiously. “I’ve heard that the child is father of the man—seems of the woman too.”

“Bootles,” said Lacy, gravely, “isn’t it very pwretty?”

“Yes, poor little beggar.”

“Let’s see you nurse it,” cried Hartog.

So Bootles, proud of this new accomplishment, lifted the child awkwardly in his arms, pretty much as he might have done if it had been a sackful of eggs, and he had made a wager he wouldn’t break one of them. He carried it to the fire.

[Picture: Let’s go and have a look at it]

“Just light the candles, one of you,” he said.

“It’s the image of Bootles,” persisted Miles.

“Well, it isn’t mine, except by deed of gift,” returned Bootles, with a laugh.

“Bootles,” said Lacy, “look back over your past life—” Here he made a pause.

“Well?” said Bootles, expectantly.

“Twry to think if you can twrace any likeness to some early love, who may have marwried—or, for that matter, _not_ have marwried—some one else, and—er—wremembering your kind heart—for you have a dashed kind heart, Bootles, there’s no denying it—may have found herself hard up or too much encumbered—for—er—you know, a babay is sometimes an awkward addition to a lady’s belongings—and may have twrusted to your—er—general—well, shall we say softness of chawracter to see it well pwrovided for—er—see?”

“No, I don’t. Of course I see what you mean, but I can’t—”

“Well—er—” Lacy broke in, “I—er—pewraps was not thinking so much of _your_ case as of my own. You see,” appealing to the other three, “the advent of this—er—babay cwreates a precedent, and—er—if it should chance to occur to my first love—it would be awkward—for me, very awkward. Her name,” plunging headlong into a story they all knew, “was Naomi, and—er—she—er—in fact, jilted me for an elephantine parson, whose reverend name was—er—Fligg, Solomon Fligg. Now, if Mrs.—er—Solomon Fligg was to take it into her head to pack up the—er—eleven little Fliggs and send ’em to me—it would be what I should call awkward—devilish awkward.” Lacy’s four hearers positively roared, and the baby on Bootles’s knee chuckled and crowed with delight.

“I believe it understands,” Preston laughed.

“No. But it seems a jolly little chap,” answered Bootles. “Oh, I forgot, ’tis a girl. I say, I do wish you fellows would advise me what to do. How can I get any one to attend to it?”

“Oh, roll it up in the bedclothes and sleep on the sofa. It will go to sleep when it’s tired,” said one.

“With its clothes on?” said Bootles, doubtfully. “I rather fancy they undress babies when they put ’em to bed.”

“I don’t advise you to try. Oh, it won’t hurt for to-night.”

[Picture: Bootles, proud of his new accomplishment, lifted the child awkwardly in his arms]

“There’s a cab just driven up. I believe it’s the Grays. I saw them go out dressed before dinner,” said Hartog. The Grays were the adjutant and his wife, who lived in barracks. “She would help you in a minute.”

“Oh, go and see; there’s a good chap,” Bootles cried, eagerly.

Hartog therefore went out. He found that it was the adjutant with his wife returning from a party, and to the lady he addressed himself. “Oh, Mrs. Gray, Bootles is in such trouble—” he began.

“In trouble?—Bootles?—Captain Ferrers?” she said. “What is the matter?”

“Well, he’s got a baby,” Hartog answered.

“Got WHAT?” Mrs. Gray cried.

“A baby. It’s been left in his rooms, clothes and all, and Bootles don’t know what the de—, what in the world, I mean, to do with it.”

“Shall I go in and see it?” Mrs. Gray asked.

“I wish you would. Some of the others are there.”

Well, eventually Mrs. Gray carried off the little stranger to her own quarters, and put it to bed. As for Bootles, he too went to bed, but during the whole of that blessed night he never slept a wink.