Chapter 6. Making The Best Of It

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_ CHAPTER SIX. MAKING THE BEST OF IT

Cracis was deep in thought, seated by the open window, with the double roll of a volume in his hands, reading slowly line by line of the old papyrus Romano-Grecian writings of one of the philosophers, and, as he came to each line's end, it slowly disappeared beneath the upper roll, while the nether was opened out to leave the next line visible to the reader's eye.

Marcus dashed in loudly, but stopped short as he saw how his father was occupied, and waited for him to speak; but Cracis was deep in his studies and heard him not, so, bubbling over with impatience, the boy advanced and laid his hand upon the student's arm.

Cracis looked up, wonderingly, and seemed to be obliged to drag his attention from the book, smiling pleasantly in the flushed face of his son, and with every trace of anger missing from his own.

"Well, boy," he said, gently, "what is it? Something you can't make out?"

"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 noble 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 noble 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 shields 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?"

"No, not now, boy. Things can never be the same again."

"Why not?" cried Marcus.

"Because they can't, boy."

"Oh, Serge, don't be so obstinate!"

"No, my lad, not obstinate; only doing what's right. I can't help what's done, nor what's said."

"But don't stop talking, Serge. Father wants to see you at once."

The old soldier shook his head and went on packing with increased vigour.

"Well, why don't you go?" cried Marcus, impatiently.

"I daren't," said the man, frowning.

"Then that's because you feel you're in the wrong, Serge."

"Yes, boy, that's it; I'm in the wrong, and the master knows it, so it's of no use for me to go."

"Oh, Serge," cried Marcus, "you do make me so angry when you will keep on like this. Look here, Serge."

"No," said the man, sourly, "and it's of no use for you to talk, boy, because my mind's made up. You want to talk me round, same as your father, the master, would. I've done wrong, and I told him so. It's all because I tried to make a good soldier of you, as is what Nature meant you to be, and he can't forgive me for that. He couldn't even if he tried. There, that's better--you lie there, and that'll make more room for the boy's helmet. Yes, that'll do. Swords lie on each side under the shields and keep them steady," he continued, apostrophising the different portions of the military equipment, as he worked very rapidly now in spite of Marcus' words, till the whole of the war-like pieces were to his liking and the chest quite full, when he closed the lid and sat upon it as if to think, with his eyes fixed upon one corner of the place.

"There, now are you satisfied?" cried Marcus. "Fortunately, father is reading, and he will not notice how long you have been. You've made me horribly impatient. Now go in to him at once and get it over."

"I shall only want a little bundle and my staff," said Serge, as if to himself. "That is mine, for I cut it in the forest and shaped and trimmed it myself. Yes, that's all."

"Aren't you going to take the chest into father's room?" said Marcus, quietly.

"Eh? No, my lad."

"But he told you to."

"Yes, boy, but it was after all was over, and I can't face him again."

"Then you are going off without saying good-bye to him?"

The old soldier nodded.

"And you are not going in to see him after he has sent for you to come?"

"No, boy," said the old soldier, with a sigh. "It's the only way. I'm just going to take my bundle and my stick, and then I'm going off at once--_alone_," he added, meaningly.

"No, you're not, Serge, for someone else can be stubborn too."

"What do you mean?" cried the man, sharply.

"What I told you. I'm coming too."

"Nay, boy, you're not; your father would stop that, and you must obey him," cried Serge, angrily.

"No, I mustn't," said Marcus.

"What! Sons must obey their fathers."

"And soldiers must obey their officers."

"But he's not my officer now."

"Yes, he is," cried Marcus, angrily; "your officer as well as my father. If you go, Serge, I shall go, and I don't care where it is."

"He'd never forgive you," cried the old soldier, angrily.

"Well, I should take my chance of that. You know me, Serge. When I say I'll do a thing I do it; and I shall do this, for I don't mean to let you go away from here alone. Now what have you got to say?"

The old soldier got up from the shut-down lid of the chest, walked to the corner of the room, and took his crook-like staff, to which a rough bundle was already tied, and then he stepped back to where Marcus was seated upon the edge of the table which had so lately borne the armour carefully spread out.

"Good-bye, Marcus, boy," he said, holding out his hand.

The lad sprang from the table and made for the door.

"Won't you say good-bye, Marcus?" cried Serge, pitifully.

"No," was the short, sharp reply. "What's the good? But stop a moment. I'd better go and shut up Lupus, or he'll come bounding after us and we shan't get rid of him again."

"Oh!" roared the old soldier, angrily, and he dashed his bundle and staff across the room to the corner from which they had been taken. "You're both of you too much for me."

"Come on, Serge, old fellow," said Marcus, softly, as he took his old companion by the arm. "Shall I come in to father with you?"

"No!" growled Serge. "I'm going to be beat, and I'll go alone."

The next minute his steps were heard plodding heavily towards his master's study, and, as he listened Marcus burst out into a merry, silent laugh.

"Poor old Serge!" he said. "How father hurt his feelings! He'll never leave us while he lives, but I believe if he had gone away it would have broken his heart. Well, that's all over, and things will be all right again."

The boy stood thinking for a few minutes, and then he sighed.

"My poor old sword and shield," he said, half aloud; "and the helmet and armour too! Oh, how grand it was! When I had them on I used to feel as if I was marching with a successful army coming from the wars, and now it's all over and I must sit and read and write, and the days will seem so dull with nothing exciting, nothing bright, no war in the future-- Yes, there will be," he cried; "there'll be those boys. They'll be coming on again as the grapes turn black. Yes," he went on, with a merry laugh, "and if they come I'll make some of them turn black. No war! I'll make war with them, with old Serge and Lupus for allies. And then the winter will come again, and there'll be the wolves. Why, there'll be plenty to think of, after all." _

Read next: Chapter 7. Company Comes

Read previous: Chapter 5. The Trouble Grows

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