Part 16 (1/2)

He dresses as though he kept a horse, yet is his gait that of a man who is continually on his legs, active as a cat, and of no mean pedestrian powers. He remains with Mr. Hardingstone about an hour, during which time much shuffling of feet is heard, and much hard breathing, with occasional expectoration on the part of the visitor.

The windows are invariably thrown wide open during the interview; and at its conclusion, the stranger being supplied with beer, for which fluid he entertains a remarkable predilection, wipes his mouth on his sleeve, and expresses his satisfaction at the hospitality of his entertainer, and the warmth of his reception, by stating, in reprehensibly strong language, that he has had ”a--something--good bellyful.” This too is a professor, and a scientific man; but his profession is that of pugilism, his science the n.o.ble one of self-defence. So the waiter is again all abroad: but when Mary Delaval puts up her veil, and taking out a plain card with her name written thereon, requests the astonished functionary to ”take it up to Mr.

Hardingstone, and tell him a lady wishes to see him,” even a waiter's self-command is overcome, and he can only relieve his feelings by the execution of an infinity of winks for his own benefit, and the frequent repet.i.tion of ”Well, this beats c.o.c.k-fighting!” as he ushers the lady up the hotel stairs, and points out to her the rooms occupied by the mysterious guest.

Most people would have considered Frank hardly prepared to receive visits from a lady, both in respect of his costume and the general arrangement of his apartment. He was sitting in his s.h.i.+rt-sleeves, unbraced, and with his neck bare; his large loose frame curled up on a short, uncomfortable sofa, in anything but a graceful position, and his broad manly countenance gathered into an expression of intense, almost painful attention. A short pipe between his strong white teeth filled the room with odours only preferable to that of _stale_ tobacco-smoke, with which its atmosphere was generally laden; and the book on his knee was a ponderous quarto, to the full as heavy as it looked, and fit for even Frank's large intellect to grapple with. The furniture was simple enough; most of that which belonged to the hotel had been put away, and a set of boxing-gloves, two or three foils, a small black leather portmanteau, and a few books of the same stamp as that on the owner's knee, comprised almost the only objects in the apartment. The morning paper was lying unopened on the window-sill.

When he saw who it was, Frank started up with a blush, s.n.a.t.c.hed the short pipe out of his mouth, set a chair for his visitor, and sitting bolt upright on the short sofa, stared at her with a ludicrous expression of mingled shyness and surprise. He was glad to see her, too--for why?--she belonged in some sort to Blanche.

”Have you seen the morning paper?” began Mary, in her low, measured tones, though her voice shook more than usual. ”Have you seen those disastrous tidings from the Cape? Oh, Mr. Hardingstone, we are all in despair! Charles Kettering has, in all probability, been”--she could not bring herself to say it--”at least he is missing--missing, gracious Heaven! in that fearful country!--and we have only heard of it this morning. The General is incapable of acting; he is completely paralysed by the blow; and I have come--forgive me, Mr.

Hardingstone--I have come to you as our only friend, to ask your advice and a.s.sistance; to entreat you to--to----” Poor Mary broke down, and went into a pa.s.sionate fit of weeping, all the more violent from having been so long restrained.

Frank was horrified at the intelligence; he made a grasp at the paper, and there, sure enough, his worst fears were confirmed. But this was no time for the indulgence of helpless regret; and when Mary was sufficiently composed, he asked her with a strange, meaning anxiety, ”How Blanche bore the fatal tidings?” Heart of man! what depths of selfishness are there in thy chambers! At the back of all his sorrow for his more than brother, at the back of all his anxiety and horror, he hated himself to know that there was a vague feeling of relief as if a load had been taken off, an obstacle removed. He would have laid down his life for Charlie; had he been with him in the bush, he would have shed the last drop of his blood to defend him; yet now that his fate was ascertained, he shuddered to find that his grief was not totally unqualified; he loathed himself when he felt that through the dark there was a gleam somewhere that had a reflection of joy.

”Blanche's feelings you may imagine,” replied Mary, now strangely, almost sternly composed; ”she has lost a more than brother” (Frank winced); ”but of feelings it is not the time to talk. You may think me mad to say so, but something tells me there may still be a hope. He is not reported killed, or even wounded; he is 'missing'; there is a chance yet that he may be saved. These savages do not always kill their prisoners” (she shuddered as she spoke); ”there is yet a possibility that he may have been taken and carried off to the mountains. An energetic man on the spot might even now be the means of preserving him from a hideous fate. These people must surely be amenable to bribes, like the rest of mankind. Oh, it is possible--in G.o.d's mercy it is possible--and we may get him back amongst us, like one from the dead.”

Frank grasped at her meaning in an instant; and even while he did so, he could not help remarking how beautiful she was--her commanding sorrow borne with such dignity and yet such resignation. He drew down his brows, set his teeth firm, and the old expression came over his face which poor Charlie used to admire so much--an expression of grim, unblenching resolve.

”You're right, Mrs. Delaval, it might be done,” he said, slowly and deliberately. ”How long has the mail taken to come to England--twenty-eight days?--the same going out. It is a desperate chance!--yet would it be a satisfaction to know the worst. Poor boy!--poor Charlie!--game to the last, I see, in the general order.

What think ye, Mrs. Delaval; would it be any use?”

”If I was a man,” replied Mary, ”I should be in the train for Southampton at this moment.”

Frank rang the bell; the waiter appeared with an alacrity that looked as if he had been listening at the keyhole. ”Bring my bill,” said Frank to that astonished functionary, ”and have a cab at the door in twenty minutes.”

”You are going, Mr. Hardingstone?” said Mary, clasping her hands; ”G.o.d bless you for it!”

”I am going,” replied Frank, putting the short pipe carefully away, and pulling out the small black portmanteau.

”You will start to-day?” asked Mary, with an expression of admiration on her sorrowing countenance for a decision of character so in accordance with her own nature.

”In twenty minutes,” replied Frank, still packing for hard life; and he was as good as his word. His things were ready; his bill paid; his servant furnished with the necessary directions during his master's absence; and himself in the cab, on his way to his bankers, and from thence to the railway station, in exactly twenty minutes from the moment of his making up his mind to go.

”Tell Blanche I'll bring him back safe and sound,” said he, as he shook hands with Mary on the hotel steps; ”and--and--tell her,” he added, with a deeper tint on his bronzed, manly cheek, ”tell her that I--I had no time to wish her good-bye.”

We question whether this was exactly the message Frank intended to give; but this bold fellow, who could resolve at a moment's notice to undertake a long, tedious voyage, to penetrate to the seat of war in a savage country, and, if need were, to risk his life at every step for the sake of his friend, had not courage to send a single word of commonplace gallantry to a timid, tender girl. So it is--Hercules is but a cripple in sight of Omphale--Samson turns faint-hearted in the lap of Delilah--nor are these heroes of antiquity the only champions who have wittingly placed their brawny necks beneath a small white foot, and been surprised to find it could spurn so fiercely, and tread so heavily. Mary should have loved such a man as Frank, and _vice versa_--here was the _beau ideal_ that each had formed of the opposite s.e.x. Frank was never tired of crying up a woman of energy and courage, one who could dare and suffer, and still preserve the queenly dignity which he chose to esteem woman's chiefest attraction; and so he neglected the gem, and set his great, strong heart upon the flower.

Well, we have often seen it so; we _admire_ the diamond, but we _love_ the rose. As for Mary, she was, if possible, more inconsistent still.

As she walked back to Grosvenor Square she thought over the heroic qualities of Mr. Hardingstone, and wondered how it was possible he should yet remain unmarried. ”Such a man as that,” thought Mary, revolving in her own mind his manifold good qualities, ”so strong, so handsome, so clever, so high-minded, he has all the necessary ingredients that make up a great man; how simple in his habits, and how frank and unaffected in his manner; a woman might acknowledge _him_ as a superior indeed! Mind to reflect; head to plan; and energy to execute! She would be _proud_ to love him, to cling to him, and look up to him, and wors.h.i.+p him. And Blanche has known him from a child, and never seen all this!” and a pang smote Mary's heart, as she recollected _why_, in all probability, Blanche had been so blind to Frank Hardingstone's attractions; and how _she_, of all people, could not blame her for her preference of another: and then the fair young face and the golden curls rose before her mind's eye like a phantom, and she turned sick as she thought it might even now be mouldering in the earth. Then Mary pulled a letter from her pocket, and looked at it almost with loathing, as the past came back to her like the shade of a magic-lantern. She saw the gardens at Bishops'-Baffler; the officers in undress uniform, and the grey charger; the evening walks; the quiet summer twilight; the steeple-chase at Guyville; and her eyes filled with tears, and she softened to another's miseries as she reflected on her own. ”Selfish, unprincipled as he is,” thought Mary, ”he must love me, or he never would make such an offer as this. And what am I, that I should spurn the devotion of any human being? Have not I, too, been selfish and unprincipled, in allowing my mind to dwell alone on him who in reality belonged to another? Have I not cherished and encouraged the poison?--have I not yielded to the temptation?--do I wish even now that it was otherwise?--and am I not rightly punished?--have I not suffered less than I deserve?--and yet how miserable I am--how lonely and how despairing!--there is not another being on earth as miserable as I am!”

”By your leave, ma'am,” said a rough, coa.r.s.e voice; and Mary stepped aside to make way on the pavement for a little mournful procession that was winding gloomily along, in strange, chilling contrast to the bustle and liveliness of the street. It was a little child's funeral.

The short black coffin, carried so easily on one man's shoulder, seemed almost like a plaything for Death. It was touching to think what a tiny body was covered by that scanty pall--how the little thing, once so full of life and laughter, all play and merriment and motion, could be lying stiff and stark in death! It seemed such a contradiction to the whole course of nature--a streamlet turning back towards its source--a rosebud nipped by the frost. Had the grim Reaper no other harvest whitening for his sickle? Was there not age, with its aches and pains and burdens, almost asking for release? Was there not manhood, full of years and honours, its appointed task done on earth, its guerdon fairly earned, itself waiting for the reward? Was there not crime, tainting the atmosphere around it, that to take away would be a mercy to its fellow-men, and a deserved punishment to its own hardened obstinacy, having neglected and set aside every opportunity of repentance and amendment? Was there not virtue willing to go, and misery imploring to be set free? And must he leave all these, and cut off the little creeping tendril that had wound and twisted itself round its mother's heart? There was the mother first in the slow procession--who had so good a right to be chief mourner as that poor, broken woman? Who can estimate the aching void that shall never be quite filled up in that sobbing, weary breast? She is not thinking of the funeral, nor the pa.s.sers-by, nor the c.r.a.pe, nor the mourning; she does not hear rough condolences from neighbours, and well-meant injunctions ”to keep up,” and ”not to give way so,” from those who ”are mothers themselves, and know what a mother's feelings _is_.” She is thinking of her child--her child shut down in that deal box--yet still hers--she has got it still--not till it is consigned to the earth, and the dull clods rattle heavily on the lid, will she feel that she has lost it altogether, when there will come a fearful reaction, and paroxysms of grief that deaden themselves by their own violence; and then the wound will cicatrise, and she will clean her house, and get her husband's dinner, and sit down to her st.i.tching, and neighbours will think that she has ”got over her trouble,” and she will seem contented, and even happy. But the little one will not be forgotten. When the flowers are blooming in the spring--when the voices of children are ringing in the street--when the strain of music comes plaintively up the noisy alley--when the sun is bright in heaven--when the fire is crackling on the hearth--then will her lost cherub stretch its little arms in Paradise, and call its mother home.

As Mary made way for the poor afflicted woman, who for an instant withdrew from her mouth the coa.r.s.e handkerchief that could not stifle her sobs, she recognised Blanche's former maid, poor Gingham. Yes, it was Mrs. Blacke, following her only child, her only treasure, her only consolation, to the grave. Poor thing! her sin had been too heavy for her to bear; with her husband's example daily before her eyes, what wonder that she strove to stifle her conscience in intoxication? Then came ”from bad to worse, from worse to worst of all”; the child was neglected, and a rickety, sickly infant at all times, soon pined away, and sickened and died. The mother was well-nigh maddened with the thought that it _might_ have been saved. Never will she forgive herself for that one night when she left it alone for two hours, and coming back, found the fever had taken it. Never will she drive from her mind the little convulsed limbs, and the rolling eyes that looked upward, ever upward, and never recognised her again. And now her home is desolate, her husband is raving in the hospital, and her child is in that pauper-coffin which she is following to the grave. Mary Delaval, do you still think you are the most miserable being on the face of the earth?

CHAPTER XX

DAWN IN THE EAST

MILITARY CRITICISMS--GARE LES FEMMES!--THE MAJOR AT HOME--A BITTER PILL--”I'M A-WEARY”--VERY NEAR THE BORDER--DAY DAWNS IN THE EAST--THE BETTER ANGEL--A BRAIN FEVER--A SICK-NURSE IN SPURS

”'Gad, I thought the Major was very crusty this morning,” remarked Cornet Capon, as he removed a large cigar from his lips, and watched its fragrant volume curling away into the summer air. ”How he gave it you, Clank, about leading the column so fast, and about riding that old trooper instead of your own charger! I can't help thinking D'Orville's altered somehow; used to be such a cheery fellow.”

”_You_ needn't talk, my boy,” retorted Captain Clank to his subaltern; ”I heard him tell you that if you would attend a little more to your _covering_, and less to your _overalls_, you would be quite as ornamental, and a good deal more useful to the regiment; but I agree with you--he _is_ altered. He's like all the rest of 'em--a capital fellow till you get him in command, and then he's crotchety and cantankerous and devilish disagreeable. Give us another weed.”

These young officers were not very busy; they were occupied in, perhaps, the most wearisome of all the duties that devolve on the dragoon, and their task consisted of lounging about a troop-stable, attired in undress uniform, to watch the men cleaning and ”doing up”