horse up the drive, which was covered with moss, the oak trees that had bordered it lying with rotting branches on the grass beneath them.
In the distance there was a house and anyone watching Lord Cheriton perceptively would have thought that his face was grim and more than usual he resembled a leopard.
The house, built of red brick, was a patch of colour against the surrounding trees.
As he rode towards it, Lord Cheriton was remembering how early one morning he had crept away down the drive when the sea mists made everything seem grey and insubstantial.
It also afforded him protective cover, which was what he needed in order to get away.
His back was hurting him intolerably from the thrashing he had received the night before. The whip that had been used on him had opened the scars from other beatings, and he knew that in climbing out of his bedroom window and shinning down the drainpipe, he had started them bleeding again.
But the only thing that mattered at that moment was to escape, to be free of a situation that was so intolerable, so unbearable, that he could no longer endure it.
He had meant never to come back.
Yet he was here, riding towards the house that he had loathed and hated with a violence that had made it seem menacing even when he had reached India and put two Continents between himself and his father.
He drew nearer, and now he saw with satisfaction that there were holes in the roof and that many of the windows were empty of glass.
He could remember as if it was yesterday his feelings when in 1805 he had returned with his Regiment to England. General Sir Arthur Wellesley had sailed with them at the same time in H.M.S. Trident .
How strange England had seemed to him then after spending nine years in India.
He had been fifteen when he ran away, a boy knowing little of life, but he had learnt – yes, he had learnt – and it had been the hard way.
He had learnt to be a man in the thick jungles of Mallabelly amid the shell-shattered Forts of Seringapatam and the heat and fever of Mysore.
He had often wondered how he had ever survived those years, pretending for the purpose of enlisting that he was three years older than he really was, consorting with men who were so rough that he was often more afraid of them than he was of the enemy.
But any of it, however hard, had been preferable to the tyranny and cruelty of his father.
In a strange way in his own life that he had chosen for himself, he had found as the years went by a happiness that a man knows when he becomes his own master.
By the time he was twenty-five, he told himself that the past was the past, and he had no existence outside that of Stuart Bradleigh, the name he had chosen when he had enlisted in the Army.
Then one day at Deal, where Sir Arthur was waiting for instructions to leave for the Continent, he was told to report to the General’s office.
He wondered why, knowing that his only ambition was to follow the man under whom he had served for eleven years.
He knew, as did all those who had returned from India, that Sir Arthur wanted to be sent where there was fighting, and they were all of them certain that when he went he would ask for his picked men to go with him.
“Sergeant Bradleigh,” Sir Arthur had said as he had entered the office and saluted.
“Sir!”
“Is it true that you enlisted in the Army under an assumed name?”
It was the last thing Lord Cheriton had expected to hear and for a moment he felt it impossible to reply.
He had grown so used to the name of his choice that he had almost forgotten he had another one.
“Yes, sir!” he said finally, and thought his voice sounded strange to his own ears.
“And your real name is John Heywood?”
“Yes, sir!”
“Then I must inform you, Sergeant, that your father is dead!”
It had been impossible to speak because all he could have said was how glad he was and that it was the best bit of news he had ever received.
“This means,” Sir Arthur said
In the distance there was a house and anyone watching Lord Cheriton perceptively would have thought that his face was grim and more than usual he resembled a leopard.
The house, built of red brick, was a patch of colour against the surrounding trees.
As he rode towards it, Lord Cheriton was remembering how early one morning he had crept away down the drive when the sea mists made everything seem grey and insubstantial.
It also afforded him protective cover, which was what he needed in order to get away.
His back was hurting him intolerably from the thrashing he had received the night before. The whip that had been used on him had opened the scars from other beatings, and he knew that in climbing out of his bedroom window and shinning down the drainpipe, he had started them bleeding again.
But the only thing that mattered at that moment was to escape, to be free of a situation that was so intolerable, so unbearable, that he could no longer endure it.
He had meant never to come back.
Yet he was here, riding towards the house that he had loathed and hated with a violence that had made it seem menacing even when he had reached India and put two Continents between himself and his father.
He drew nearer, and now he saw with satisfaction that there were holes in the roof and that many of the windows were empty of glass.
He could remember as if it was yesterday his feelings when in 1805 he had returned with his Regiment to England. General Sir Arthur Wellesley had sailed with them at the same time in H.M.S. Trident .
How strange England had seemed to him then after spending nine years in India.
He had been fifteen when he ran away, a boy knowing little of life, but he had learnt – yes, he had learnt – and it had been the hard way.
He had learnt to be a man in the thick jungles of Mallabelly amid the shell-shattered Forts of Seringapatam and the heat and fever of Mysore.
He had often wondered how he had ever survived those years, pretending for the purpose of enlisting that he was three years older than he really was, consorting with men who were so rough that he was often more afraid of them than he was of the enemy.
But any of it, however hard, had been preferable to the tyranny and cruelty of his father.
In a strange way in his own life that he had chosen for himself, he had found as the years went by a happiness that a man knows when he becomes his own master.
By the time he was twenty-five, he told himself that the past was the past, and he had no existence outside that of Stuart Bradleigh, the name he had chosen when he had enlisted in the Army.
Then one day at Deal, where Sir Arthur was waiting for instructions to leave for the Continent, he was told to report to the General’s office.
He wondered why, knowing that his only ambition was to follow the man under whom he had served for eleven years.
He knew, as did all those who had returned from India, that Sir Arthur wanted to be sent where there was fighting, and they were all of them certain that when he went he would ask for his picked men to go with him.
“Sergeant Bradleigh,” Sir Arthur had said as he had entered the office and saluted.
“Sir!”
“Is it true that you enlisted in the Army under an assumed name?”
It was the last thing Lord Cheriton had expected to hear and for a moment he felt it impossible to reply.
He had grown so used to the name of his choice that he had almost forgotten he had another one.
“Yes, sir!” he said finally, and thought his voice sounded strange to his own ears.
“And your real name is John Heywood?”
“Yes, sir!”
“Then I must inform you, Sergeant, that your father is dead!”
It had been impossible to speak because all he could have said was how glad he was and that it was the best bit of news he had ever received.
“This means,” Sir Arthur said
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