CHAPTER THE THIRTY-SECOND
*In which the curtain falls, to the sound of bells; and our hero comes to his own.*
It was a mellow day in October, 1760, a little more than six years since the day when Market Drayton gave rein to its enthusiasm in honour of Clive. From a flagstaff newly erected on the roof of the _Four Alls_ on the Newport Road a square of bunting flapped in the breeze. Inside the inn the innkeeper was drawing a pint of ale for his one solitary customer, a shambling countryman with a shock of very red hair, and eyes of innocent blue.
"There, that makes a quart, Tummas Biles, and 'tis as much as your turnip head can safely carry."
He passed the can across the bar on a hook that projected from a wooden socket in his sleeve.
"Why now, Mr. Bulger," said Tummas the tranter, "what fur do you go fur to miscall me like other fowk? I've been miscalled ever since that day since I drove a stranger into Market Drayton six year ago. I mind me he had a red feather in his cap, and not knowing my name was plain Tummas he called me Jehu, he did, and I never forgot it. Ay, and I tell ya what, Mr. Bulger: it took me two year to find out why he give me such an uncommon name. I mind I was sittin' by a hayrick of Mr. Burke's--that was 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.' Ya see, when that stranger saw me, I were drivin' a horse. Well, I says to my horse, 'Gee-ho!' says I. Not knowin' my true chrisom name, the stranger 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 fit you 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 towards Market Drayton. From the distance came the faint sounds of a merry peal. By and by a four-horsed open carriage with outriders appeared on the 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 was decorated with a wedding favour. The cavalcade approached rapidly. As the first carriage drew nearer Bulger became more and more excited, and when 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 no better. Hurray for Major Desmond Burke and his madam--the purtiest gal I ever did see, east or west. Hurray for her father and mother: there they 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; but he would come to see the deed done, which I may be wrong, but the new King George'll make him a live lord afore he's much older. Open your mouth, Tummas, an' if you hee-haw loud enough, I'll draw you another pint for nothing."
Desmond, now a Major, had returned home in company with Clive. During the three years that had passed since he witnessed the sailing of the _Jane_ he had seen much service. He had been with Colonel Forde when that fine soldier expelled the French from the Northern Sirkars. He was with the same officer when he thrashed the Dutch at Biderra. He had been in close touch with Clive when these successful operations were planned; and the nearer he saw him, the more he admired the great man's courage in taking risks, promptitude in dealing with sudden emergencies, sagacity in seeing to the heart of a difficult situation. Thus, during those years, he gained much knowledge of the science of war, and much experience in dealing with men. He became rich also, not by questionable means, but by reaping the legitimate rewards of good and faithful service.
Before leaving India, Desmond learnt of changes that had happened at home. His brother had been thrown by a young and mettlesome horse, and so badly trampled that he must remain a helpless invalid for the rest of his life. Sir Willoughby Stokes, even before he learnt of the death of his nephew Peloti, had made Desmond his heir. Mr. Merriman had bought an estate near his father's old friend, and settled down to the life of a country gentleman. A year after his return, Job Grinsell, the landlord of the _Four Alls_, had been sentenced to a long term of imprisonment for poaching, and Mr. Merriman had no difficulty in persuading Sir Philip Chetwode to let his inn to Bulger.
After an interview with Mr. Merriman, Desmond found the courage to put to Phyllis the question which he had not ventured to ask before she left India. What the answer was may be inferred from the fact that Sir Willoughby insisted on the wedding taking place at once. It was time for the return of his old enemy the gout, he said; he was going to Buxton to end his days, and wished to see the Hall in the hands of his heir before he left. Mr. Burslem, Desmond's old schoolmaster, performed the ceremony, and Clive, though suffering from rheumatism, came down for the occasion. The only familiar form that Desmond missed was that of old Dickon, who had died a few months after Desmond's departure from home.
Desmond settled down for a time at the Hall, cheering his mother's declining years, repaying good for ill to his invalid brother, and winning golden opinions from all his neighbours high and low. He eagerly watched the further career of his old hero, now Lord Clive; learnt to admire him as statesman as well as soldier; sympathized with him through all the attacks made upon him, and mourned him sincerely when, in 1774, the great man, preyed upon by an insidious disease, died by his own hand. Five years later he felt the East calling, bought a commission, and sailed with General Sir Eyre Coote, to take part in the "frantic military exploits," as some one called them, of Warren Hastings against Haidar Ali and Tippu in Mysore. He came home a Colonel, and was made a baronet for his services in the war. Finally retiring from public life, he lived for thirty years longer on his estate, happy in the 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, a lieutenant in the Guards, behaved with a gallantry that attracted the notice of the Iron Duke.
Visitors to Sir Desmond Burke's house were amused and interested to see a battered wooden stump with an iron hook hanging in a conspicuous place in the hall, amid tigers' heads, Indian weapons, and other trophies from the East.
"That?" Sir Desmond would say, in answer to their question. "That belonged to one of the best friends I ever had, a fine old salt named William Bulger. I met him when I was sixteen, and buried him when I was forty: and my wife and I have felt ever since a blank in our lives. If you can put up with an old man's stories, I'll tell you something of what Bulger and I went through together, when I was a youngster with Clive in India."
THE END.