Marcus: the Young Centurion Part 8

"Yes, father--old Serge."

"Ah, Serge!" said Cracis, with his brow clouding over. "I am sorry all that happened, but it was your fault, my boy. You regularly led the brave, old, honest fellow astray."

"Yes, father, I did," cried Marcus, eagerly, "and now he has taken all your angry words to heart."

"Oh, tut, tut, tut! Nonsense! I have forgiven it all, my boy; but he has not yet brought in the chest."

"No, father, I have left him packing it all now, and I have told him that all that is over, and that when we have time we must amuse ourselves in some other way than playing at soldiers and talking of war."

Cracis laid his hand upon his son's shoulder and, with his face growing sterner, looked proudly in the young, frank face.

"Thank you, my boy," he said. "That is very brave and right of you. It shows great respect for me. Well, there! The past is all forgiven and forgotten--nay, I will not say forgotten; that can never be. Let it always stand in your memory as a stone of warning. Well, that is all over now."

"But it isn't all over, father," cried the boy. "Old Serge says what you said has cut him to the heart, and that you didn't forgive him properly, and that he is dishonoured and disgraced as a soldier."

"Poor brave old Serge!" said Cracis, warmly.

"Hah!" cried Marcus, excitedly. "I wish he were here to hear you speak like that."

"Oh, nonsense, boy. Time is too valuable to waste by thinking over such troubles as that. He must understand that I have reproved him for a fault and forgiven him."

"But he won't understand, father. He's as obstinate as a bull."

"He is, and always was, Marcus," said Cracis, smiling; "but no man is perfect, and Serge's good qualities more than balance all his bad. But there, boy, what does he want me to do?"

"I don't know, father. He thinks what you have said can never be undone, that he can never be the same here again as he was, that he has lost your confidence and you won't trust him again, and--"

"Well, and what?" said Cracis, smiling tolerantly.

"Oh, it's too stupid to tell you, father."

"One has to hear stupid things in life, my boy, as well as wise, so tell me all the same. You see, poor Serge, with all his n.o.ble qualities, has never been a man to read and learn wisdom from the works of the great.

Simple, matter-of-fact and straightforward, he is not one who reflects and balances his acts before he makes them live. I don't think Serge ever said to himself: 'shall I? Shall I not?' before he did a thing, and I suppose he has not been reflecting now. I am sorry I hurt his feelings, but I am the master. He is my servant, just as in old days I was his officer, he my legionary. It was his duty to obey. Now then, what is he doing?"

"Putting the armour together to go in the chest."

"Well, quite right."

"But it's what he's going to do next, father."

"And what is he going to do next?"

"Pack up his bundle, and then tramp up into the mountains to lie down and die, for the wolves to pick his bones."

It is impossible to put in words the young speaker's tones, mingled, as they were, of sadness, ridicule and mirth, while Cracis drew a deep, long breath and said, softly:

"Brave as a lion, strong beyond the limits of ordinary men; and yet, poor faithful Serge, what a child he is at heart! Don't tell him what I said, boy. That is a piece of confidence between ourselves."

"But it's all so real, father. If you are angry with me you scold me, and it's soon all over. I forget it all."

"Yes, too soon, my boy, sometimes."

"Oh, but I do try to go on right, father. But, you see, with poor old Serge it all sticks. He's regularly wounded."

"Yes, my boy, I know, and it's the sort of wound that will not heal.

Well, of course, that's all absurd. He mustn't go."

"He will, father, if something isn't done."

"Yes, I am afraid he would; so something must be done. Who is in the wrong, boy--I or he?"

"It's this--_I_, father."

"Of course," said Cracis, laughing; "but I think I am in the right. The master, if right, cannot humble himself to his man if he is in this position, Marcus. If he is in the wrong it is n.o.ble and brave to give way. Tell Serge to come to me at once. I will try to set him at one with me; the sooner this is set aside the better for us all."

"Thank you, father," cried the boy, excitedly; and hurrying out he made for the back of the villa, where he found Serge in his own particular den, hard at work packing the various accoutrements, but evidently finding it difficult to make them fit.

"Well, I've been and talked to father, Serge," cried Marcus, quickly.

"That's right, boy," said the old soldier, without turning his head.

"I told him you were packing up the armour."

"Yes? Hard work. The things don't lie easy one with another, and we mustn't have the helmets bruised. The s.h.i.+elds don't lie so flat as I could wish, but--"

"Father wants you, Serge."

"What for, boy? What for?"

"To talk to you about you know what."

"Then you've told him I'm going away?"

"Of course."

"Then it's of no use for me to go and see him."

"But that's what he wishes to speak about."

"Yes, and I know how he can talk and get round a man. Why, if I went to his place yonder he'd talk me into stopping, and I'm not going to do that now."

"Nonsense! Father only wants to say a few words more. He has forgiven you--I mean, us--and, after he has spoken, everything will be as it was before. He says it's all nonsense about your going away."

Serge nodded.

"Yes, I knew he'd say that, my boy. Of course he would."

"Well," said Marcus, impatiently, "isn't that what you want?"