Mignon; or, Bootles' Baby

IT was considerably after midnight when one of three officers seated at a whist-table in the mess-room of the Cavalry Barracks at Idleminster, where the Scarlet Lancers were quartered, called out, “Bootles, come and take a hand—there’s a good chap.”

Captain Algernon Ferrers, more commonly known as “Bootles,” looked up.

“I don’t mind if I do,” he said, rising and moving towards them. “What do you want me to do? Who’s my partner?”

The three other men stared at one another in surprise, for Bootles was one of the best whist-players in the regiment, and in an ordinary way would as soon have thought of counting honors as of settling the questions of partners other than by cutting, except in the case of a revenge.

“Why, take a card, of course, my friend,” laughed Lacy, in a ridiculously soft voice. Lacy was a recent importation from the White Dragoons, and had taken possession of the place left vacant in Bootles’s every-day life by Scott Laurie’s marriage.

“Ah, yes; to be sure—cut, of course. I believe,” said Bootles, looking at the three faces before him in an uncertain way—“I believe I’ve got a headache.”

“Oh, nothing like whist for a headache,” answered Hartog, turning up the last card. “Ace of diamonds.” However, after stumbling through one game—after twice trumping his partner’s trick, a revoke, and several such like blunders—he rose to his feet.

“It’s no use, you fellows; I’m no good to-night—I can’t even see the cards. Get some one to take my place and make a fresh start.”

“Why, you’re ill, Bootles,” cried Preston. “What is it?”

“It’s a devil of a headache,” answered Bootles, promptly. “Here’s Miles—the very man. Goodnight.”

“Good-night,” called the fellows after him. Then they settled down to their game, and Preston dealt.

“Never saw Bootles seedy before,” said Lacy.

“Oh yes; he gets these headaches sometimes,” answered Hartog. “Not often, though. Miles, your lead.”

Meantime Bootles went wearily away, almost feeling his road under the veranda of the mess-rooms, along the broad pavé in front of the officers’ quarters, and up the wide flight of stone steps to his rooms facing the green of the barrack square. Being the senior captain, with only one bachelor field-officer in the regiment, he had two large and pleasant rooms, not very grandly furnished, for, though a rich man, he was not an extravagant one, and saw no fun in having costly goods and chattels to be at the tender mercies of soldier servants; but they were neat, clean, and comfortable, with a sufficiency of great easy travelling-chairs, plenty of fur rugs, and lots of pretty little pictures and knickknacks.

The fire in his sitting-room was fast dying out, but a bright and cheerful blaze illumined his sleeping-room, shining on the brass knobs of his cot, on the silver ornamentations at the corners of his dressing-case, on three or four scent bottles on the tall cretonne-petticoated toilette table, and on the tired but resplendent figure of Bootles himself.

He dragged the big chair pretty near to the fire, and dropped into it with a sigh of relief, absolutely too sick and weary to think about getting into bed just then. As Hartog had said, sometimes these headaches seized him, but it did not happen often; in fact, he had not had one for more than a year—quite often enough, he said.

Well, he had been lying in the big and easy chair, his eyes shut and his hands hanging idly over the broad straps which served for arms, for perhaps half an hour, when to his surprise he heard a soft rustling movement behind him. His first and not unnatural thought was that the fellows had come to draw him, so, without moving, he called out, “Oh! confound it all, don’t come boring a poor devil with a headache. By Jove, it’s cruelty to animals, neither more nor less.”

The soft rustling ceased, and Bootles closed his eyes again, with a devout prayer that they would, in response to this appeal, take themselves off. But presently it began again, accompanied by a sound which made his heart jump almost into his mouth, and beat so furiously as to be simply suffocating. It stopped—was repeated—“_The_—DEVIL,” muttered Bootles.

But it was not the devil at all—more like a little angel, in truth; for after a moment’s irresolution he sprang from his chair and faced the horror behind him. It really was a horror to him, for there, sitting up among the pillows of the cot, with the clothes pushed back, was a baby, a baby whose short golden curls shone in the fire-light—a little child dressed in white, with a pair of wide-open, wondering eyes, as bright as stars and as blue as sapphires.

Bootles stood in dismay staring at it.

“Where, in the name of all that’s wonderful, did you come from?” he asked aloud, keeping at a safe distance lest it should suddenly start howling.

But the little stranger did not howl; on the contrary, as its bewildered eyes fell upon Bootles’s resplendent figure, his gold-laced scarlet jacket and gold-embroidered waistcoat of white velvet, his gold-laced overalls and jingling spurs, it stretched out its little arms and cried, “Boo, boo, boo—!”

Bootles took a step back in his surprise, and his headache vanished as if by magic.

“By—Jove!” he exclaimed.

“Boo—boo—boo!” crowed the usurper of the cot, cheerily.

Bootles went a step nearer. “Why, you’re a queer little beggar,” he remarked. “Where did you come from, eh?”

The “queer little beggar” suddenly changed its tone, and started another system of crowing more triumphant and cheery than the first.

“Chucka—chucka—chucka—chuck!” it went.

Bootles began to laugh. “Can’t talk, hey? Well, what do you want?” as it struggled fiercely to rise, and stretched out its small arms more impatiently than before. “Want to be lifted up, hey? Oh, but dash it,” scratching his head perplexedly, “I can’t lift you up, you know; it’s out of the question—impossible. By Jove, I might let you drop and smash you!”

“Chucka—chucka—chucka! Boo—oo—oo!” gobbled the baby, as if it were the best joke in the world.

Bootles positively roared.

“You don’t mind? Well, come along, then,” approaching very gingerly, and wondering where he should begin to get hold of it, so to speak.

The baby soon settled that question, holding out its arms towards his neck. Then somehow he gathered it up and carried it in doubt and trepidation to the big chair by the fire, where the creature sat contentedly upon his knee, the curly golden head resting against his scarlet jacket, the soft fingers of one baby hand tight twined round one of his, the other picking and wandering aimlessly about the scrolls and curves of the gold embroidery on his waistcoat.

“By Jove! you’re a jolly little chap,” said Bootles, just as if it could understand him. “But the question is, where did you come from, and what’s to be done with you? You can’t stop here, you know.”

The babe’s big blue eyes raised themselves to his, and the fingers which had been twined round his made a grab at his watch-chain.

“Gar—gar—garr—rah!” it remarked, in such evident delight that Bootles laughed again.

“Oh, you like it, do you? Well, you’re a queer little beggar; no mistake about that. I wonder whom you belong to, and where you live when you are at home? Can’t be a barrack child—too dainty-looking and not slobbery enough. And this dress”—taking hold of the richly embroidered white skirt—“this must have cost a lot; and it’s all lace too.”

He knew what embroidery cost by his own mess waistcoats and his tunics. Then not only was the dress of the child of a very costly description, but its sleeves were tied up with Cambridge blue ribbons that were evidently new, and its waist was encircled by a broad sash of the same material and tint. Altogether it was just such a child as he was occasionally called upon to admire in the houses of his married brother officers; yet that any lady in the regiment would lend her baby for a whole night to a set of harum-scarum young fellows for the purpose of playing a trick on a brother officer was manifestly absurd. And besides that, Bootles was so good-natured and such a favorite with the ladies of the regiment that he thought he knew all their babies by sight, and he became afraid that this one was indeed a little stranger in the land, welcome or unwelcome.

Yet if it was the fellows’ doing, where had they got it? And if it was not the fellows’ doing, why should any one leave a baby asleep in his cot? The whole thing was inexplicable.

Just then the child, in playing with his chain, slipped a little on the smooth cloth of his overalls, and Bootles, with a “Whoa! whoa, my lad!” hauled it up again. In doing so he felt a piece of paper rustle somewhere about the embroidered skirt.