G.A. Henty - With Kitchener in the Soudan - a story of Atbara and Omdurman

of his family, and there could be nothing new that he could write to me on that score.

I have told you that he quarrelled with his father because he chose to marry me. As you have heard from me, I ivas the daughter of a clergyman, and at his death took a post as governess. Your father fell in love with me. He was the son of the Hon. James Hartley, who was brother to the Earl of Langdale. Your father had an elder h'other. Mr. Hartley was a man of the type now happily less common than it was twenty years ago. He had but a younger brother's poi'tion and a small estate that had belonged to his mother, but he was as proud as if he had been a peer of the realm and oivner of a county. I do not know exactly what the law of England is — whether at the death of his brother your grandfather woidd have inherited the title or not.

I never talked on this subject with your father, who very seldom alluded to matters at home. He had also two sisters. As he was clever and had already gained some reputation by his explorations in Egypt, and toas, moreover, an exceptionally handsome man — at least I thought so — your grandfather made up his mind that he would make a very good marriage. When he learned of your father's affection for me he ivas absolutely furious, told his son that he never wished to see him again, arid spoke of me in a manner that Gh-egory resented, and as a result they quarrelled.

Your father left the house never to enter it again. I would have released him from his promise, but he would not hear of it, and we were married. He had written for magazines and newspapers on Egyptian subjects, and thought that he coidd make a living for us both with his pen; but unhappily he found that great numbers of men were trying to do the same, and that although his papers on Egyptian discoveries had always been accepted, it was quite another thing when he came to write on general subjects.

We had a hard time of it, but we were very happy nevertheless.

Then came the time when my health began to give way. I had a ( M 917 \ x

terrible cough, and the doctor said that I must have a change to a warmer climate. We were very poor then — so poor that we had only a few shillings left, and lived in one room. Your father saw an advertisement for a man to go out to the branch of a London firm at Alexandria. Without saying a word to me he went and obtained it, thanks to his knowledge of Arabic. He was getting on well in the firm when the bombardment of Alexandria took place. The offices and stores of his employers were burned, and as it would take many months before they could be rebuilt the employees were ordered home, but any who chose to stay were permitted to do so, and received three months' pay. Your father saw that there would be many chances when the country settled down, and so took a post under a contractor of meat for the army. We moved to Cairo. Shortly after our arrival there he was, as he thought, fortunate in obtaining the appointment of an interpreter with Hicks Pasha. I did not try to dissuade him. Everyone supposed that the Egyptian troops would easily defeat the Dervishes. There was some danger, of course; but it seemed to me r as it did to him, that this opening would lead to better things, and that when the rebellion was put down he would be able to obtain some good civil appointment in the Soudan.

It was not the thought of his pay as interpreter thai iveighed in the slightest with either of us. I was anxious above all things that he shoidd be restored to a position where he could associate with gentlemen as one of themselves, and could again take his real name.

Gregory started as he read this. He had never had an idea that the name he bore was not rightly his own, and even the statement of his grandfather's name had not struck him as affecting himself.

Your father had an honourable pride in his name, which was an old one, and when he took the post at Alexandria, which was little above that of an ordinary office messenger, he did not care that he should be recognized or that one of his name shoidd be known to be

occupying such a station. He did not change his name, he simply dropped the surname. His full name was Gregory Hilliard Hartley. He had always intended, when he had made a position for himself, to recur to it, and of course it will be open to you to do so also; but I know that it would have been his wish that you, like him, shoidd not do so unless you had made such a position for yourself that you ivould be a credit to it.

On starting, your father left me to decide whether I should go home. I imagine that the packet merely contains his views on that subject. He knew what mine were. I would rather have begged my bread than have gone back to ask for alms of the man who treated his son so cruelly. It is probable that by this time the old man is dead; but I should object as much to have to appeal to my husband's brother, a character I disliked. Although he knew that his father's means were small, he was extravagant to the last degree, and the old man was weak enough to keep himself in perpetual difficulties to satisfy his son. Your father looked for no pecuniary assistance from his brother, but the latter might at least have come to see him or written kindly to him when he was in London. As your father was writing in his own name for magazines, his address could be easily found out by anyone who wanted to know it.

He never sent one single word to him, and I should object quite as much to appeal to him as to the old man. As to the sisters, who were younger than my husband, they were nice girls; but even if your grandfather is dead, and has, as no doubt would be the case, left what he had between them, it certainly would not amount to much. Your father has told me that the old man had mortgaged the estate up to the hilt to pay his brother's debts, and that when it came to be sold, as it pvbably would be at his death, there would be very little left for the girls. Therefore, certainly I could not go and ask them to support us. My hope is, my dear boy, that you may be able to make your way here in the same manner as your father was doing when he fell, and that some day you may attain to an honourable position, in

which you will be able, if you visit England, to call upon your aunts, not as one who has anything to ask of them, but as a relative of whom they need not feel in any way ashamed. I feel that my end is very near, Gregory. I hope to say all that I have to say to you before it comes, but I may not have an oppmiunity, and in that case some time may elapse before you read this, and it will come to you as a, voice from the grave. I am not in any way wishing to bind you to any course of action, but only to explain fully your position to you and to tell you my thoughts. God bless you, my dear boy, prosper and keep you! I know enough of you to be sure that, whatever your course may be, you will bear yourself as a true gentleman, worthy of your father and of the name you bear.

Your loving Mother.

Gregory sat for some time before opening the other enclosure. It contained an open envelope, on which was written " To my Wife ", and three others, also unfastened, addressed respectively, "The Hon. James Hartley, King's Lawn, Tavistock, Devon"; the second, "G. Hilliard Hartley, Esq., The Albany, Piccadilly, London"; the third, "Miss Hartley", the address being the same as that of her father. He first opened the one to his mother.

My dearest Wife,

I hope that you will never read these lines, but that I shall return to you safe and sound —I am writing this in case it should be otherwise — and that you will never have occasion to read these instructions, or rather I should say this advice, for it is no more than that. We did talk the matter over, but you were so wholly averse from any idea of ever appealing to my father or family, however sore the straits to which you might be reduced, that I could not urge the matter upon you; and yet, although I sympathize most thoroughly with your feelings, I think that in case of dire necessity you should &o so, and at least afford my father the opportunity of making