THE PARAGRAPH.
"My kindred are dead, my love is fled;
Courage, my heart, thou canst love no more;
Pale is my cheek, my body is weak;
Courage, my heart, 'twill soon be o'er.
Dim are my eyes with tears of sorrow,
They ache for a night without a morrow!"
M.N.S.
It was towards the end of the month--the last days of October, now.
The acorns were falling from the moss-grown oaks, the hollies and
hedge-rows were gay with scarlet berries and haws, the grey sea-gulls
were often seen mingling with the black gleds and hoodie-crows far
afield inshore. The redwing, the fieldfare, and the woodcock had
come again to their old haunts on the braes of Rohallion, in the
oakwood shaw, in the hawthorn birks that overhang the Girvan, and the
deep carse land where the rushes grew and the water flowed of old.
The autumn winds, as they swept through the hollow glen, shook down
the last brown leaves of the old sycamores, and the spoils of the
past summer lay in rustling heaps about the haunted gate and the guns
of La Bonne Citoyenne on the battery before the castle-keep. From
the tall square chimneys of the old feudal stronghold on the
storm-beaten bluff, the gudeman of Elsie Irvine and other fishermen
from the coves, saw the smoke of the rousing fires ascending into the
grey autumn sky, and the evening lights glittering early in the great
towers, a land-mark now to them as it had been to their forefathers
long ages ago, when the Scot and the Saxon found work nearer home for
their swords than fighting for conquered Spain or ravaged Portugal.
"People now-a-days, with the help of the penny-post and the
telegraph, and the endless means of communication and of coming and
going, are certainly able to _care for_ a greater number of persons
than they could have done a hundred years ago," says a recent writer
in the "Cornhill;" but he might have said thirty years ago, so far as
the people of Scotland are concerned. Thus, secluded by her own
retiring habits and personal circumstances, as well as by those
incident to the time, content to reside in her narrow circle, and
chiefly among her husband's household and dependents, Lady
Rohallion's heart yearned with all a mother's love for her lost
protégé, the more, perhaps, that the cold and repulsive manner of her
only son Cosmo had cast her warm and affectionate heart somewhat
back, as it were, upon herself; though the memory of much if not all
his shortcomings in the way of filial reverence and regard were now
by her forgotten, or merged in the idea of his absence at the seat of
war.
Quentin's memory she cherished chiefly in silence; for, still
fostering her hopes or views with regard to Cosmo and the wilful
little heiress of Ardgour, she spoke of the lost one but reservedly,
and at long intervals, to the latter; though, sooth to say, young
Fernie of Fernwoodlee, a neighbouring proprietor, had become so
frequent a visitor at the castle, that, so far as good looks,
assiduity, and unwearying industry as an admirer might go, he bade
fair--gossips said--to supplant both Quentin and the Master of
Rohallion, for a lover lost, and another commencing a campaign, were
just as satisfactory as no lover at all.
It was about this time that the post-bag brought by John Legate, the
running-footman, from Maybole, was opened before Lord Rohallion by
his faithful old henchman Jack Andrews, and emptied on the
breakfast-table.
One small missive, bearing Fernwoodlee's crest--a fern leaf all
proper--he handed to Flora, who coloured slightly and said it
referred to a proposed ride as far as the ruins of Kilhenzie, to see
the Eglinton hounds throw off, as the keeper had promised to find a
leash of foxes in the cover there.
"These fox-hunting fools are beginning their work betimes--why, this
is only October," said his lordship, drily; "they would be better
employed riding in the light dragoons against the enemies of Europe."
Pushing the rest of the letters across the table to Lady Rohallion,
as if for perusal at her leisure, he opened the latest newspaper, and
betook himself, with true military instinct, to the gazette and
matters pertaining to the war against France and the Corsican, by
land and sea.
Erelong, it was with an exclamation of astonishment that shook the
powder from his venerable pigtail, that made Lady Rohallion permit
the urn to overrun her teacup, Flora to start nervously, Mr. Spillsby
to drop the egg-stand with its contents, and Jack Andrews to spring
mechanically to "attention" on his lame leg, that his lordship,
raising his voice to an unusually high pitch, read the following
paragraph:--
"On the 6th October, the final despatch of the premier reached the
general commanding at Lisbon, and by this time the whole army will
have been in motion across the Spanish frontier, to chastise the
barbarian hordes of the Corsican tyrant, under whose sway the people
of France and Spain alike are groaning. We rejoice to say that
before marching from Portalegre, Lieutenant-General Sir John Hope of
Rankeillour most successfully opened a communication with the famous
guerilla, El Estudiente, a matter fully and finally arranged by the
skill and courage of Mr. Quentin Kennedy, a young volunteer, then
serving with H.M. 25th Regiment, or 'King's Own Borderers.'"
"Quentin!" exclaimed Flora, rushing behind Lord Rohallion's chair,
her cheeks flushing red, as she peeped over his shoulder.
"Quentin Kennedy!" said Lady Rohallion, in a breathless voice, as she
grew pale and trembled.
"The boy is found--found at last! There, read the paragraph for
yourselves," said his lordship, flourishing the paper over his head.
Poor Lady Rohallion made many ineffectual efforts to do as he bid
her; but her eyes were full of tears, and her spectacles were quite
obscured.
"Spillsby--Andrews, send for John Girvan: zounds! the 25th, too--the
blessed old number!--here's news for him! The lost is found again!
You'll write him, Winny--and Flora, too--gad, we'll all write!"
continued the old Lord, in a very incoherent way. "The cunning
rogue, to keep us in suspense so long, and to be wearing the buttons
of the old Borderers all the time. It must be he: there can't be two
Quentin Kennedies; oh, no--of course it must be he!"
"There is something strange in this," said Lady Rohallion, finding
relief in tears; "how many letters, Flora, have we had from Cosmo
since he left us?"
"Five."
"Five letters!"
"One from Colchester; others from Santarem and Abrantes; and two from
Portalegre."
"Exactly," said Lord Rohallion, on whose benign brow a cloud
gathered; "five letters, and in none of them has one word escaped him
concerning the poor lad who joined the corps before him--the dear old
25th, of my earliest memories. It is not generous, Winny; I don't
envy Quentin his commanding officer; it shows a bad animus, and I am
sorry our boy should behave so."
Lady Winifred was silent, for she felt the truth of what her husband
said; and Flora, full of her own joyous thoughts, was silent too.
"Read over the paragraph again, Flora, darling; egad, I must cut it
out, and send it over to Earl Hugh, at Eglinton;" and while Flora
read, Rohallion walked to and fro, rubbing his hands with intense
satisfaction and delight.
"But, good heavens, my lord," she suddenly exclaimed, while the
colour left her face, "what is this that follows? there is here
another paragraph, about--about----"
"About what?"
"Poor Quentin," she added, faintly.
"Read it!" said Rohallion, impetuously.
"'We regret to have to add, it is feared that after accomplishing
this valuable public service with the guerilla, our enterprising
young soldier has fallen a sacrifice to his zeal, or the lawless
state of the country, as--as he has not been heard of since.'" .....
Flora's sweet voice died away almost in a tremulous whisper as she
read this blighting paragraph, which Lord Rohallion, after hastily
snatching the paper from her, read again and again, with his brows
deeply knit.
It did not fall upon him with the crushing effect it had upon the two
ladies, who sat silently weeping, for the words of the paragraph
were, to them, terribly suggestive and vague; and now the old
quartermaster, who had been noisily summoned by his veteran comrade
the valet, arrived to join the conclave; and truly, had a
thirteen-inch bombshell, shot from a mortar of similar diameter,
exploded among the breakfast equipage, worthy John Girvan could not
have seemed more astonished and bewildered than he did by the whole
affair.
Lord Rohallion and he, as old soldiers, endeavoured to explain the
matter away, and to speak from past experience of many instances of
men reported as "missing" who always turned up again; newspaper
paragraphs in general they treated with great contempt, and expressed
their certain conviction that "by this time," no doubt, he had
rejoined the corps.
Indeed, so certain were they of this that Lord Rohallion desired the
quartermaster to write at once; Flora, with charming frankness,
offered to enclose a tiny note, and the old general wrote at once by
the next mail to the Horse Guards, urging "the immediate promotion of
his young friend to the first ensigncy at the disposal of His Royal
Highness the Field Marshal Commanding-in-Chief--in the 25th Foot, if
practicable."
This done, the male part of the household, though full of the affair,
and their innumerable yarns of the corps, which it had called to
memory, felt more composed on the subject. The quartermaster
furbished up his old red coat, and remained to dinner: Flora's
engagement to ride with young Fernwoodlee and the meet at Kilhenzie,
were committed to oblivion, and were utterly forgotten, as she sat
alone, full of thought, on the old mossgrown garden-seat, with the
autumn leaves whirling round her.
Through the branches of the stripped trees on which the rooks were
cawing, the sunlight fell aslant upon the copper gnomon of the
ancient sun and moon dial, which occupied the centre of the quaint
Scoto-French garden, and round the pedestal of which Quentin, to
please her, during the last spring, had trained a creeping plant.
The plant was still there, but its tendrils and trailers were dead,
withered, and yellow, and sadly Flora felt in her heart that she was
lonely, and that Rohallion was now a _broken home_--broken, indeed,
as if Death himself had been there!
Lady Winifred was also alone.
The noonday sun was streaming as of old into the yellow damask
drawing-room, and the sea-coal fire crackled on the hearth between
the delft-lined jambs cheerily and brightly. Before it, on the thick
cosy rug, a sleek tom-cat sat winking and purring, and the favourite
terrier of Quentin, coiled up round as a ball, was there too, but
fast asleep beside the many-spotted Dalmatian dog, which always
followed the old-fashioned family carriage.
The antique ormolu clock, that ticked so loudly on the mantelpiece on
the night when Quentin was rescued from the wreck, and his father's
corpse was cast on the surf-beaten sand, and when he, a wailing
child, was brought by Elsie Irvine to Rohallion, was ticking there
still, quietly, regularly, and monotonously, and Lady Winifred looked
at its quaint dial wistfully, as she might have done in the face of
an old and familiar friend.
Now Quentin and her beloved and only son were both far, far away;
both were to encounter the perils of war, and she might never see
them more! How much and how many things had happened, she thought,
and still the old clock ticked there monotonously, even as it had
done when, on an evening now many, many years ago, she came a
blooming bride to the old castle by the sea; and so it might continue
to tick, long after she, and her comely and affectionate old Lord,
lay side by side among the Crawfords of past centuries in the
Rohallion aisle of the venerable kirk whose tower she could see
terminating the woody vista of yonder lonely glen.
The paragraph of the morning had called up a multitude of sad
thoughts that had long been buried, and she felt melancholy, almost
miserable, and opening her escritoire, she looked long and earnestly
on the relics of Quentin's father--his commission in the French
service, the letter in the poor man's pocket-book, and the ring that
was taken from his finger, bearing the name of Josephine--the boy's
mother, doubtless.
The dominie, to whom the quartermaster lost no time in hastening with
the intelligence, like the old Lord, was stout in his belief that
Quentin would, as he phrased it, "cast up again."
"Disappeared," he repeated two or three times; "the bairn no since
heard o'; the thing's no possible! He will, he shall return again,
be assured, to receive his reward, for he is worthy of a crown of
gold--worthy of it, yea, as ever were Manlius Torquatus or Valerius
Corvus, ilk ane o' wham, as we are told in Livy, slew a Gaul in
single combat."
This classic reward did not seem very probable, when a few weeks
after, a long official letter was brought to Rohallion, and added
greatly to the anxiety and perplexity of the inmates thereof.
In this missive the military secretary, by direction of H.R.H. the
Duke of York, "presented his compliments to Major-General Lord
Rohallion, K.C.B., and regretted to acquaint him that it was
impossible to entertain his request with regard to Mr. Quentin
Kennedy, a volunteer with the 25th Foot, as matters had transpired
which might render his clearance before a general court-martial
necessary."