Once more the hearty cheers responded to each other over the water; again the little white handkerchief was seen to wave as the yacht led the way down the Solent and through Spithead, that famous reach and roadstead, the rendezvous of our fleets in time of war.
'Farewell, God speed you!' came the signal from the yacht once more, and the Bannockburn stood out to sea under the lee of the beautiful Isle of Wight.
The boats were all finally secured; the anchors hauled close up to the cat-heads by the cat-fall; the forecourse and maintopsail were set to accelerate her speed, and the troop-ship stood on her voyage down the Channel.
The high excitement of the last few hours had now completely passed away. On deck the half-hushed groups of soldiers in their gray greatcoats were lingering, watching the occasional twinkling of the shore lights, taking their last look of old England; and when night had completely fallen, and the bugles had blown tattoo, the Mother of Nations had faded out in the distance as the ship gave the land a wide berth.
Weary with the unintermitting toil and bustle of the day, Roland, after mess, betook himself with a cigar to his own little cabin; a small substitute certainly for the luxuries of Earlshaugh, as was his sole retinue now, for the staff there; his single soldier-servant by this time had made his bed, arranged his toilette and sea-going kit, and put the entire place in the most perfect order; and of old, Roland knew well how invaluable a thorough soldier-servant is.
'What cannot he do with regulation pipe-clay?' it has been asked. 'In his hands it is omnipotent over cloth. He can charm stains and grease-spots thereout, even as an Indian juggler charms snakes; and what sleight of hand he exercises over your garments generally. The tunic, grimed and mud-bespattered, he can switch and cane, and, when folded away, it comes out as from a press. Trousers baggy at the knees as the historical parachute of old Mrs. Gamp, are manipulated into their former shape. Compared to the private valet, always expensive and frequently mutinous, he is a pearl of the greatest price. His cost is a dole, and, thanks to the regimental guard-room, he can always be kept within control.'
In the great cabin, which was brilliantly lighted still, Roland heard the loud hum of many voices where the jovial fellows he had left were lingering over their wine and talking unlimited 'shop'—discussing everything, from Lord Wolseley's supposed plan of the Soudan campaign to the last fashion in regimental buttons.
How he envied the jollity and lightheartedness of his brother-officers—Dick Mostyn in particular.
Dick had not lost an inheritance nor a false love to boot, certainly; but it was nothing to him that his pockets were well-nigh empty, his banker's account over-drawn, and that he had debts innumerable, all but paid by the proverbial 'a roll on the drum;' his talent for soothing irate tailors had failed him; still his wardrobe was faultless; he still wore priceless boots and irreproachable lavender kids as steadily as he retained his step in the waltz and his seat in the saddle, which would be of good service to him if he joined the Mounted Infantry. He could take nothing deeply to heart, and even now, leading the van in Bacchanalian noise and jollity—a verse of his song—it was from poor 'Tilbury Nogo,' ran through the cabin, and just then it seemed exactly to suit Roland's frame of mind as he lounged on a sofa with his uniform jacket unbuttoned:
'I sigh not for woman, I want not her charms—
The long waving tress, the melting black eye—
For the sting of the adder still lurks in her arms,
And falsehood is wafted in each burning sigh;
Such pleasure is poisoned, such ecstasy vain—
Forget her! remembrance shall fade in champagne!'