I have already told how for some time I had been looking toward the Rubicon; I crossed it when I crossed the Tweed. Not all at once, however. I had been many months in England before I could have said that my emancipation was complete.
Shall I ever forget my first day in my new home? I had arrived in Tynecaster at an early hour on Sunday morning, and being very tired after my long journey I went to bed at once. When I awoke the sun was high in the heavens, and my ears were filled with the most delightful music I had ever heard. I rose, went to my window and drew up the blind. My room overlooked a goodly-sized park, enclosed by high stone walls. A regiment of soldiers were on parade, and their band was playing a stirring march. I could not understand it; did I not arrive on Sunday morning? I could not possibly have slept for a whole day—and yet, there was a band playing a march.
I dressed hastily and made my way to the common-room, where one solitary man sat reading.
I bade him good-morning, told him who I was (I had seen none of the staff on my arrival), and then, with some shame-facedness, I said:
“Excuse me troubling you, but will you please tell me what day of the week this is?”
My companion looked up in astonishment. He imagined, I think, that I was a little “off” in the upper story, and answered:
“Why, it’s Sunday, old man. What makes you dubious?”
“Well, I heard a band playing a march, that was all.”
“Oh, yes, the ‘Noodles’—the Yeomanry, that is, are up for their annual training, and I suppose you heard the band playing them to church. You’ll get accustomed to these things by and by.”
I said nothing, but thought a good deal.