Mrs. Larkins made a gesture which might have meant a strong negative to the expression.
‘When did you leave school? Why did you enlist! You never wrote to us.’
‘Four years ago. I was turned adrift in the world, that was why. I wrote over and over again to the Horse Guards, but could not hear where you were.’
‘And Lady Farrington, did she change her mind, or what?’
‘She went mad, so they said, and they locked her up in an asylum.’
‘Mad!’ shouted the sergeant. ‘Didn’t I always tell you so? mad? She were madder than Mike Horniblow who shot the Maltee, and as mad as our old colonel on an inspection parade.’
‘How was she locked up? who did it? Let’s know all that,’ said Mrs. Larkins.
Herbert recounted fully all that had occurred. His leaving Deadham School, the visit to the west country, Sir Rupert Farrington’s ill-treatment.
‘So that’s what the poor soul was after! Searching for a grandson to succeed to the title and estates,’ cried the sergeant. ‘And you were the last that she found. Well: it’s an ill wind, you know; leastways you got the schooling, even if you are none of her kith or kin.’
‘I suppose I am not, really?’ Herbert asked, looking very hard at Mrs. Larkins, who met the glance without lowering her eyes. There was something in her expression which Herbert immediately understood. There must be an explanation between them, but it could not take place then and there.