CHAPTER XXII.
THE QUEEN ANNE'S HEAD.
"Well, suppose life be a desert? There are halting-places and shades, and refreshing waters; let us profit by them for to-day. We know that we must march on when to-morrow comes, and tramp on our destiny onward."—THACKERAY.
Having amply satisfied the worthy carrier, Quentin quitted the waggon, and proceeded through the bustling, but then narrow, unpaved, and ill-lighted streets of Ayr, towards one of the principal inns, the Queen Anne's Head, the only ONe in the town with which he was familiar, as Lord Rohallion's carriage occasionally stopped there. It was a large, rambling, old-fashioned house, with a galleried court, ample stabling, low ceiled rooms; with dark oak panels, heavy dormant beams, and stone fire-places; wooden balconies projecting over stone piazzas, tall gables, and turret-like turnpike stairs; and a mouldered escutcheon over the entrance door showed that in palmier days it had been the town mansion of some steel-coated lesser baron.
Hotels were still unknown in the three bailiwicks of Carrick, Kyle, and Cunninghame; thus in the yard behind the Queen Anne's Head, the stage coach, his majesty's mail (whose scarlet-coated guard bore pistols, and a blunderbuss that might have frightened Bonaparte), the carrier's waggon, the farmer's gig, and the lumbering, old-fashioned coaches of my Lord Rohallion, or the Earls of Cassilis and Eglinton, with their wooden springs and stately hammercloths, might all be seen standing side by side. Though war rendered the continent a sealed book to the English, Sir Walter Scott's poems and novels had not as yet opened up all Scotland to the tourists of Europe and Cockneydom. The kingdom of the Jameses could not be "done" then as now, by Brown, Jones, and Robinson, with knapsack on back (with Black's Guide and Bradshaw's Table, tartan peg-tops and paper collars), in a fortnight by rail and steam; hence a traveller on foot, and portmanteau in hand, was apt to be considered in the rural districts as an English pedlar or worse. Indeed, Scotland and England were then very little changed from what they had been in the days of William and Mary, and but for worthy old James Watt they might have been so still.
"I'll be extravagant—I'll have a jovial dinner and a glass of wine," thought Quentin, who, though pale and weary, had the appetite of a young hawk, notwithstanding all his doubts and troubles. "Which way?" he inquired of a surly-looking waiter, who stood at the inn door, with a towel over his arm; but this official, instead of replying, very leisurely surveyed Quentin from head to foot, and then glanced superciliously at his portmanteau.
His wetting over night, his repose among the straw, and the subsequent journey among the carrier's bales and butter firkins had not improved his external appearance. Quentin felt aware of this, and reiterated angrily.
"Which way—did you not hear me?"
"You've taen the wrang gate, my friend, I'm thinking," replied the waiter, shaking his head.
"Wrong way! What do you mean, fellow?"
"Nae mair a fellow than yoursel'," said the waiter, saucily. "The 'Blue Bell,' doon the next wynd, or the 'Souter Johnnie,' opposite the Tolbooth, will better suit ye than the 'Anne's Head.' They are famous resorts for packmen and dustifute bodies."
"I mean to remain where I am. Show me to a bedroom, and order dinner for me in the dining-room," said Quentin, flushing up with sudden passion. "The best in the house, and lose no time!"
"Some military gentlemen are in the best chamber," urged the waiter, whom this manner did not fail to impress, as he lingered with his hand on the lock of a door.
"If the devil himself were there, what is it to me? Do as I order, or I will kick you into the street!"
The waiter, who, as tourists and idle travellers were then unknown in Ayr, was utterly at a loss to make out the character of this new guest, bowed and ushered him into a bedroom, after which, he hastened away, no doubt to report upon the dubious kind of occupant, who had almost forced his way into No. 20.
Though the contents of Quentin's portmanteau were limited, he speedily made such an improvement in his toilet, that when he came forth he received a very gracious bow from Boniface, who had been hovering about the corridor on the watch; and he was ushered into the principal dining-room of the establishment, a long and rather low-roofed apartment, having several massive tables and oval-backed old-fashioned chairs, a gigantic sideboard, within the brass rail of which stood three upright knife and spoon cases, several plated tankards, salvers, and branch candlesticks of quaint and antique form.
The room was decorated with prints of Nelson's victories, the Siege of Gibraltar, the Battle of Alexandria, and other recent glories of our arms by sea and land; while over the mantel-piece was one of Gillray's gaudily-coloured political caricatures, which were then so much in vogue—for he was the H.B. and Punch of the Regency.
Two officers in undress uniform, with blue facings (their swords, sashes, and caps lying on the table beside them) were lounging over some brandy and water, and laughing at Gillray's, not over-delicate print, while Quentin retired to a remote corner of the room, and smarting under the waiter's impertinence, now felt more lonely and depressed than he had done since leaving home. He could remember that his last reception in that very house had been so different, when, in Lady Rohallion's carriage, he and Flora Warrender had driven up to the door and ordered luncheon.
One of the military guests was a tall, weather-beaten, soldier-like man, about thirty-five years of age, a lieutenant apparently by the bullion of his epaulettes; the other was slender, fair-haired, and rather plainly featured, and proved to be the ensign of his recruiting party, which was then beating up at Ayr. As the churlish waiter passed them after putting some wine before Quentin, the lieutenant asked, in a low voice—
"What is he?"
"Who, sir?"
"That young fellow in the corner."
"Too proud for a recruit—an officer, I think," said the waiter, with a grin.
"A sheriff's officer?—that boy, do you mean?"
"No, sir—in the army," whispered the waiter, with a still more impertinent grin, and retired before Quentin could hurl the decanter at his head, which he felt very much inclined to do.
He was seriously offended, but affected to look out of the window, while the two subalterns, turning their backs on him, resumed their conversation as if he had not been present.
"And so, Pimple," said the senior, "when you proposed for the Bailie's daughter you were deep in love—"
"Yes—very."
"And in debt and drink, too?"
"I was in love, I tell you," said the ensign, angrily.
"For the twenty-fifth time, eh?"
"Not exactly, Monkton; but you are aware that fathers have flinty hearts, and seldom see with—with—"
"With what—out with it, old fellow.",
"Their charming daughters' eyes," sighed the ensign.
"True, or I should have been seen to advantage long ago. But an ensign under orders for foreign service is not the most eligible of sons-in-law."
"True—but in my ease, at least," continued the ensign, who was quite serious, while his senior officer was purple with suppressed laughter, "in my case, as a young gentleman possessed of moderate fortune, moderate accomplishments——"
"And moderate virtue—eh, Pimple?"
"You are very impertinent, Monkton," remonstrated the other, upbraidingly.
"But truthful, my dear boy, very truthful," said the quizzing lieutenant, for half the conversation was mere "barrack-room chaff," to use a phrase then unknown; "and if old Squaretoes——"
"Who do you mean?"
"Mean? why this rich old flax-spinner, the father of your fair one. If he should come down handsomely, we fellows of the 25th would consider you quite as our factor—eh, Pimple?"
On hearing this number, which was so familiar to his ear, Quentin Kennedy turned to observe the speakers more particularly, when a third officer, a very handsome man, about forty years of age, with a nut-brown cheek, a rollicking blue eye, and a hearty laugh, a square, well-built form, clad in full regimentals, scarlet-faced and lapelled with green and gold to the waist, and wearing large loose epaulettes, burst into the room, noisily and without ceremony. As he did so, he threw his arms round a very pretty chambermaid, who was tripping past with something from the sideboard, and kissing the girl, who was half pleased and half scared, he shouted in a tragi-comic manner, a passage from the Merchant's Wife, a now forgotten play:—
"Woman thou stol'st my heart—just now thou stol'st it,
A cannon-bullet might have kissed my lips
And left me as much life!"
"If the sour-visaged landlord catches you kissing any of his squaws"——suggested the lieutenant.
"It is a custom we learned in the Dutch service," replied the new comer, laughingly.
"Have you got the route for to-morrow, Warriston?" asked the lieutenant.
"All right," said the other, flourishing an oblong official paper; "it was brought by an orderly dragoon—here it is. His majesty's will and pleasure, &c., to civil (query, uncivil) magistrates and others and so forth, to provide billets for the noisy, carriages for the drunken, and handcuffs for the disorderly, of three officers, three sergeants, and seventy rank and file, proceeding by Muirkirk and Kirknewton to Edinburgh—a seventy miles' march."
"Ugh!" groaned the lieutenant.
"So, Pimple, your love affair must be off like ourselves, by beat of drum to-morrow."
The ensign heaved a kind of mock sigh, and raised his white eyebrows.
"Now, waiter, quick with dinner—the best in larder and cellar," said the captain to that churlish attendant, who laid a knife and fork for Quentin at the extreme end of the long table.
"Who is the solitary or exclusive person that is to be carved for there, half a mile off?" asked the captain.
The waiter glanced towards Quentin.
"Nonsense," said the Captain of the 94th, "lay his cover with ours—absurd to dine alone at the end of this devilish long table. You'll join us, eh?"
"With pleasure," said Quentin, bowing.
"A glass of wine with you. What are you drinking?"
"Sherry."
They filled their glasses, bowed, and drank, after which Quentin came forward and joined them.
"I'm Dick Warriston, 94th. My friends, Mr. Monkton and Mr. Boyle, 25th."
"Mr. Kennedy," said Quentin, introducing himself, with a heightened colour.
Quentin soon learned from their conversation that the captain had been recruiting for the 94th, and the other two officers for the 25th, in Ayrshire, with considerable success; that they had obtained a sufficient number of men, and were under orders to march for the head-quarters of their respective corps by daybreak on the morrow. He also heard, incidentally, some of the little secrets of recruiting, and the tricks played by knowing sergeants to trepan men into paying smart-money, and so forth; that the lieutenant had been "rowed" with a threat of being summoned to head-quarters for enlisting men beneath the proper height, his sergeant having supplied them with false heels, five feet seven being the minimum for "the Borderers;" and next, that he had narrowly escaped a court-martial for sending some half-dozen O'Neils and O'Donnels (all Irish) to the regiment, as MacNeils and MacDonnels from the Western Isles.
The three officers, in their jollity, thoughtlessness, laughter, and general lightness of heart, formed a strong contrast to poor Quentin's dejection of spirit. He envied them, and asked of himself why was he not happy and merry too—why was he not one of them?
Richard Warriston, the senior, had begun life as a subaltern in General Sir Ralph Dundas's Regiment of the Scots-Dutch, as they were named—the famous old Scots brigade of six battalions, which served their High Mightinesses the States of Holland from the days of James VI. to those of the French Revolution—in all the bloody wars of two centuries, bearing themselves with honour and never losing a standard, though they had captured many from every army in Europe. They volunteered, as the 94th Foot, into the British service about the end of the last century, and came back to Scotland clad in the old Dutch yellow uniform; hence Warriston's stories and memories were all of Holland and Flanders, Prussia and Austria, and many a strange anecdote he had to tell at times.
Desirous of showing the suspicious landlord and impertinent waiter how other persons viewed him, Quentin ordered another bottle of wine.
"The deuce!" he heard the captain whisper to Monkton; "we can't permit this mere boy to treat us to wine."
"Two bottles, and be sharp, waiter," said Quentin, whose pride the well-meaning officer had piqued.
"He is a regular trump," said Monkton, adjusting his napkin.
"A gentleman—a phrase I prefer," added Warriston in the same undertone, as he proceeded to slice down a gallant capon; for he could perceive at once, by Quentin's bearing at the dinner-table—the truest and best test—that he knew all its etiquette and had been used to good society. As the wine circulated and reserve thawed (not that there was much of it, certainly, in the present quartet) Quentin asked Monkton if he remembered an officer named Girvan in his corps.
"Girvan—Girvan—remember him?—yes; an old quartermaster—rose from the ranks, didn't he?"
"Yes."
"He left us on a half-pay commission in the year I joined, during Lord Rohallion's lieutenant-colonelcy. (By-the-bye, his lordship lives somewhere hereabout; should leave our cards for him, but have no time.) Girvan was a queer old fellow, who always wore a yellow wig—do you know him?"
"Intimately. I have known him from my childhood," said Quentin, his eyes sparkling and heart swelling with pleasure, that he could speak of some one at home.
"Any relation of yours?" asked Monkton; and so weak is human nature that Quentin blushed that any one should think he was so, and then blushed deeper still that he was ashamed of his true and sterling old friend.
"Perhaps he is your father?" suggested the ensign, mischievously.
"Sir, I said my name is Kennedy; my father was a captain of the Scots Brigade in the French service."
"Ah—indeed!" said Warriston, becoming suddenly interested; "is he still alive?"
"Alas, sir, no!"
"Killed in action, likely?"
"He was drowned at sea, after an engagement with a French ship off the mouth of the Clyde."
"And where have you come from, that you travel thus alone?"
"I cannot say."
"Then where are you going to?" asked the ensign.
"I don't know," replied Quentin, sadly.
"Can't say and don't know!" said the captain of the Scots Brigade; "then my advice would be to stay where you are."
"That is not possible."
"You are an odd fellow—quite an enigma," said Monkton, laughing.
"Perhaps I am," replied poor Quentin, with a sickly smile.
"Do you know, my young friend, that I have been observing you closely for some time (pardon me saying so), but with something of friendly interest, and I perceive an air of dejection about you that shows there is something wrong—a screw loose somewhere," said Captain Warriston, kindly.
"Wrong?" repeated Quentin, flushing, and in doubt how to take the remark.
"Yes; I have seen so much of the world that I can read a man's face like an open book."
"And the reading of mine——"
"Is satisfactory; but there is something in your eyes that tells me you are in a scrape somehow—at home, perhaps?"
"Home!" exclaimed Quentin, in a voice that trembled, for the wine was affecting him; "I have none!"
The three officers glanced at each other, and the fair-haired ensign's white eyebrows went up rather superciliously.
"I find that I must talk with you, my young friend," said Warriston—"will you have a cigar?" he added, offering his case after the cloth was removed.
"Thank you—no; I am not a smoker."
In fact, Quentin had never seen the soothing "weed" in such a form, until his foe, the Master, came to Rohallion.
"Waiter, bring candles—another bottle, and then be off; these decanters are empty—fill again; le Roi est mort—vive le Roi!"
"In short, Mr. Kennedy, you have run from college or home, I fear," said Monkton; "what have you been about—making love to some of your lady-mother's maids, and got into a double scrape, or what? See how he flushes—there has been some love in the case, at least."
"Were you never in love?" asked Quentin, who certainly did redden, but with annoyance.
"Who—I—me?—what the devil—in love!" and the bulky lieutenant lay back in his chair and fairly laughed himself crimson, either at the idea or the simplicity of the question. "I have long since learned that there is nothing so variable in the world as woman's temper."
"The Horse Guards excepted," said Warriston; "the great nobs there never know their own minds for three days consecutively; witness all the vacillation about who is to command the Spanish expedition."
"Then, Mr. Pimple," began Quentin, "have you ever——"
"Mr. Kennedy," said the ensign, angrily, "I'll have you to know, sir, that my name is Boyle—Ensign Patrick Boyle, at your service."
"So it is," said the lieutenant, choking with laughter, on perceiving that Quentin looked quite bewildered; "but we call him Pimple at the mess for being only five feet and an inch or so. He is not big enough to be a Boyle, though he is one of a tall Ayrshire stock. Is not it so, Pat, old boy? Perhaps you are some relation of the famous chemist?”
"I mean Robert Boyle was seventh son of the Earl of Cork, and became father of chemistry. Now, don't think of calling me out, Pat, for, 'pon my soul, I won't go. The 25th couldn't do without us. You must know, Warriston, that Pimple was in the Royals before he joined us; but he had always a fancy for the Borderers. You used to pass yourself, in mufti, as a 25th man; didn't you, Pimple?—long before you had the honour to admire that blessed number on your own buttons—eh?"
Though hearty, hospitable, and jovial, to Quentin it seemed that Monkton had an irrepressible desire to quiz the ensign, even to rudeness, and the latter took it all good-naturedly enough till the fumes of the wine mounted into his head.
"But, to return to what we were talking of," said Warriston, earnestly and kindly. "Can I advise you in any way, my friend? Are you already a prodigal, who has neither a herd of promising pigs, nor the husks wherewith to feed them?"
"Excuse me entering much into my own affairs. My father, I have told you, is dead. I have no mother—no friends—to counsel me," he continued, in a tremulous voice, "and I know not whether to join the service or drown myself in the nearest river."
"The Ayr is not very deep," said Monkton, despite a deprecatory glance from his senior; "why don't you say hang yourself?"
"Well, then, or hang myself," said Quentin, bitterly.
"And the alternative is joining the service?"
"Yes."
"You pay his Majesty and his uniform a high compliment," said Warriston, with a hearty laugh, in which Quentin, seeing the ungraciousness of his remark, was fain to join; "but as for entering the ranks, you must not think of that. Why not do as I did, and many better men have done—join some regiment of Cavalry or Infantry, as a gentleman volunteer?"
A new light seemed to break upon Quentin with these words—a new hope and spirit flashed up in his heart.
"How, sir," he asked, "how, sir? Explain to me, pray."
"Zounds, man! it is very simple. A letter of recommendation to the officer commanding any regiment now under orders for the seat of war, a few pounds in your pocket to pay your way till under canvas or before the enemy, are all that is necessary."
"Thanks to a dear friend, I have money enough and to spare; but the letter——"
"We have too many volunteers already with both battalions of the Scots Brigade," said Warriston, reflectively.
"But you can give him a letter to our commanding officer," interposed Monkton.
"Why not give him one yourself, Dick?"
"Old Middleton would never believe in any person who was warmly recommended for the first vacant commission by such a fellow as I."
"Egad, you are perhaps right," said Warriston, laughing; "get me ink and paper, Pimple——"
"Boyle," said the ensign, sullenly.
"Beg pardon, Boyle, I mean—thanks. Here goes for all the virtues that were ever recorded on a rich man's tombstone." With great readiness Captain Warriston wrote a letter of introduction and recommendation for Quentin to the officer commanding the 25th Foot, in which he gave him as many good qualities as the sheet of paper could contain, and wrote of him as warmly as if he had known him from boyhood. It was unanimously approved of by all present—by none more than Quentin himself, and after it was duly scaled, he pocketed it as carefully as ever Gil Blas did his patent of nobility.