“I assure you he is not,” replied Mrs. Charteris positively. “He was eighteen years old his last birthday. I, his mother, should know.”
Everybody present doubted whether George Charteris was really eighteen or not, but Mr. Wynne settled it. He coolly took down a ledger and turning over the leaves rapidly, came to a certain entry in it.
“Here, madam,” he said, suavely, “is the record of your marriage license. It is dated fourth of June, 1843. Not quite eighteen years ago.”
There was a moment’s silence and then an involuntary burst of laughter from everyone present except Mrs. Charteris, who blushed deeply, and the stripling, who looked thoroughly disappointed at the turn of affairs.
“Never mind, my son,” said Mrs. Charteris, smiling. “Another two years will see you old enough to serve your country.”
“Meanwhile,” said Richard Tremaine, putting his hand on the boy’s shoulder, “send him to Harrowby and let Mr. Lyddon teach him along with Archie. That boy, you know, is just about as crazy as your boy to enlist, and I shouldn’t be surprised if George and Archie and my father were all to run away together and join the army.”
“You are very kind,” answered Mrs. Charteris, “and if Colonel Tremaine will allow it, and Mr. Lyddon will be so good, I think I can’t do better with my boy.”
“I think you could do a great deal better, ma’am,” replied George, promptly. “There are plenty of schools where nobody knows my age and I can easily pass for eighteen or even twenty, and I am going to do it.”
“That’s just the way my brother Archie talks,” said Richard Tremaine. “But sixteen-year-old boys are not good for campaigning.”
“Aren’t we, though,” replied George, slyly, “wait and see.”