With Kitchener in the Soudan: A Story of Atbara and Omdurman. Henty George Alfred
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by absolute want, to apply to Mr. Hartley, was determined to keep to it.
A year after this conversation, Gregory was sixteen. Now tall and strong, he had, for some time past, been anxious to obtain some employment that would enable his mother to give up her teaching. Some of this, indeed, she had been obliged to relinquish. During the past few months her cheeks had become hollow, and her cough was now frequent by day, as well as by night. She had consulted an English doctor, who, she saw by the paper, was staying at Shepherd's Hotel. He had hesitated before giving a direct opinion, but on her imploring him to tell her the exact state of her health, said gently:
"I am afraid, madam, that I can give you no hope of recovery. One lung has already gone, the other is very seriously diseased. Were you living in England, I should say that your life might be prolonged by taking you to a warm climate; but as it is, no change could be made for the better."
"Thank you, Doctor. I wanted to know the exact truth, and be able to make my arrangements accordingly. I was quite convinced that my condition was hopeless, but I thought it right to consult a physician, and to know how much time I could reckon on. Can you tell me that?"
"That is always difficult, Mrs. Hilliard. It may be three months hence. It might be more speedily–a vessel might give way in the lungs, suddenly. On the other hand, you might live six months. Of course, I cannot say how rapid the progress of the disease has been."
"It may not be a week, doctor. I am not at all afraid of hearing your sentence–indeed, I can see it in your eyes."
"It may be within a week"–the doctor bowed his head gravely–"it may be at any time."
"Thank you!" she said, quietly. "I was sure it could not be long. I have been teaching, but three weeks ago I had to give up my last pupil. My breath is so short that the slightest exertion brings on a fit of coughing."
On her return home she said to Gregory:
"My dear boy, you must have seen–you cannot have helped seeing–that my time is not long here. I have seen an English doctor today, and he says the end may come at any moment."
"Oh, Mother, Mother!" the lad cried, throwing himself on his knees, and burying his face in her lap, "don't say so!"
The news, indeed, did not come as a surprise to him. He had, for months, noticed the steady change in her: how her face had fallen away, how her hands seemed nerveless, her flesh transparent, and her eyes grew larger and larger. Many times he had walked far up among the hills and, when beyond the reach of human eye, thrown himself down and cried unrestrainedly, until his strength seemed utterly exhausted, and yet the verdict now given seemed to come as a sudden blow.
"You must not break down, dear," she said quietly. "For months I have felt that it was so; and, but for your sake, I did not care to live. I thank God that I have been spared to see you growing up all that I could wish; and though I should have liked to see you fairly started in life, I feel that you may now make your way, unaided.
"Now I want, before it is too late, to give you instructions. In my desk you will find a sealed envelope. It contains a copy of the registers of my marriage, and of your birth. These will prove that your father married, and had a son. You can get plenty of witnesses who can prove that you were the child mentioned. I promised your father that I would not mention our real name to anyone, until it was necessary for me to write to your grandfather. I have kept that promise. His name was Gregory Hilliard, so we have not taken false names. They were his Christian names. The third name, his family name, you will find when you open that envelope.
"I have been thinking, for months past, what you had best do; and this is my advice, but do not look upon it as an order. You are old enough to think for yourself. You know that Sir Herbert Kitchener, the Sirdar, is pushing his way up the Nile. I have no doubt that, with your knowledge of Arabic, and of the language used by the black race in the Soudan, you will be able to obtain some sort of post in the army, perhaps as an interpreter to one of the officers commanding a brigade–the same position, in fact, as your father had, except that the army is now virtually British, whereas that he went with was Egyptian.
"I have two reasons for desiring this. I do not wish you to go home, until you are in a position to dispense with all aid from your family. I have done without it, and I trust that you will be able to do the same. I should like you to be able to go home at one-and-twenty, and to say to your grandfather, 'I have not come home to ask for money or assistance of any kind. I am earning my living honourably. I only ask recognition, by my family, as my father's son.'
"It is probable that this expedition will last fully two years. It must be a gradual advance, and even then, if the Khalifa is beaten, it must be a considerable time before matters are thoroughly settled. There will be many civil posts open to those who, like yourself, are well acquainted with the language of the country; and if you can obtain one of these, you may well remain there until you come of age. You can then obtain a few months' leave of absence and go to England.
"My second reason is that, although my hope that your father is still alive has almost died out, it is just possible that he is, like Neufeld and some others, a prisoner in the Khalifa's hands; or possibly living as an Arab cultivator near El Obeid. Many prisoners will be taken, and from some of these we may learn such details, of the battle, as may clear us of the darkness that hangs over your father's fate.
"When you do go home, Gregory, you had best go first to your father's brother. His address is on a paper in the envelope. He was heir to a peerage, and has, perhaps, now come into it. I have no reasons for supposing that he sided with his father against yours. The brothers were not bad friends, although they saw little of each other; for your father, after he left Oxford, was for the most part away from England, until a year before his marriage; and at that time your uncle was in America, having gone out with two or three others on a hunting expedition among the Rocky Mountains. There is, therefore, no reason for supposing that he will receive you otherwise than kindly, when once he is sure that you are his nephew. He may, indeed, for aught I know, have made efforts to discover your father, after he returned from abroad."
"I would rather leave them alone altogether, Mother," Gregory said passionately.
"That you cannot do, my boy. Your father was anxious that you should be at least recognized, and afterwards bear your proper name. You will not be going as a beggar, and there will be nothing humiliating. As to your grandfather, he may not even be alive. It is seldom that I see an English newspaper, and even had his death been advertised in one of the papers, I should hardly have noticed it, as I never did more than just glance at the principal items of news.
"In my desk you will also see my bank book. It is in your name. I have thought it better that it should stand so, as it will save a great deal of trouble, should anything happen to me. Happily, I have never had any reasons to draw upon it, and there are now about five hundred and fifty pounds standing to your credit. Of late you have generally paid in the money, and you are personally known to the manager. Should there be any difficulty, I have made a will leaving everything to you. That sum will keep you, if you cannot obtain the employment we speak of, until you come of age; and will, at any rate, facilitate your getting employment with the army, as you will not be obliged to demand much pay, and can take anything that offers.
"Another reason for your going to England is that your grandfather may, if he is dead, have relented at last towards your father, and may have left him some share in his fortune; and although you might well refuse to accept any help from him, if he is alive, you can have no hesitation in taking that which should be yours by right. I think sometimes now, my boy, that I have been wrong in not accepting the fact of your father's death as proved, and taking you home to England; but you will believe that I acted for the best, and I shrank from the thought of going home as a beggar, while I could maintain you and myself comfortably, here."
"You were quite right, Mother dear. We have been very happy, and I have been looking forward to the time when I might work for you, as you have worked for me. It has been a thousand times better, so, than living on the charity of a man who looked down upon you, and who cast off my father."
"Well, you will believe at least that I acted for the best, dear, and I am not sure that it has not been for the best. At any rate I, too, have been far happier than I could have been, if living in England