EPILOGUE
"WELL, good night, my own darling Boy," said the beautiful Lady Huntingten, as she lit her candle from that of her son, by the table in the hall. "Don't keep Father up all night, if he and General Strong come to your bedroom."
"Good night, dearest," replied he, kissing her fondly.
Setting down her candlestick, she took him by the lapels of his coat as though loth to let him out of her sight and part with him, even for the night.
"Oh, but it is good to have you again, darling," she murmured, gazing long at his bronzed and weather-beaten face. "You won't go off again for a long, long time, will you? And we must keep your promise to that wholly delightful 'Erb, if it's humanly possible. But I really cannot picture him as a discreet and silent-footed valet. … I simply loved him and the Bucking Bronco. I don't know which is the more precious and priceless. … I do so wonder whether he'll be happy with his Carmelita. … I shall love seeing her."
"Yes, 'Erb and Buck are great birds," replied her son, "but poor old John Bull was the chap."
"Poor man, how awful—with freedom in sight. … You knew nothing of his story?" she asked.
"Absolutely nothing, dearest. All I know about him is that he was one of the very best. Funny thing, y' know, Mother—I simply lived with that chap, night and day, for a year, and know no more about him than just that. That, and his marks—and by Jove, he'd got some.… Simply a mass of scars, beginning with the crown of his head, where was a hole you could have laid your thumb in. Been about a bit, too; fought in China, Madagascar, West Africa, the Sahara and Morocco, in the Legion. Certainly been in the British Army—in Africa, too. I fancy he'd been a sailor as well—anyhow he'd been in Japan and got the loveliest bit of tattooing I ever set eyes on. Wonderful colours—snake winding round his wrist and up his forearm. Thing looked alive though it had been done for over thirty years. Nagasaki, I think he said.…" He yawned hugely. "But here I am rambling on about a person you never saw, and keeping you up," he added. He bent to kiss his mother again.
"Mother!—darling! Don't you feel well? Here, I'll get you a little brandy."
Lady Huntingten was clutching at the edge of the table, and staring at her son, white-lipped. Her face looked drawn and suddenly old.
"No, no," she said. "Come back. I—sometimes—a little …" and she sat down on the oak settle beside the table.
"The heat …" she continued incoherently. "There, I'm all right now. Tell me some more about this—John Bull.… He is dead? … You buried him yourself, you said."
"Yes, poor old chap, it was awful."
"And he gave you no messages for his people? He did not tell you his real name?"
"No. Nothing. He's taken his story with him. The last words he said were 'Will you go and tell my wife, Lady …' and there he pulled himself up, and said he never had a wife. But he had, I'm sure—and he called to her by her Christian name. As he died, he cried out, 'At last—my darling—’"
"Marguerite," whispered Lady Huntingten.