The morrow came—a bright and joyous day, on which the spirit of beauty
and of love revelled in every natural creation, and was abroad over the
whole earth,—a day of dreamy, voluptuous repose, when one feels only
fitted to hold silent converse with nature in intense admiration of the
glorious perfection of her works.
The sun was almost overpoweringly bright, and the world abroad rejoiced
in his beams. Man everywhere should have rejoiced too; yet there were
some hearts which his effulgence could not illumine, which his cheering
influence could not enliven. The breakfast-table at the rectory was a
silent one, where heretofore all had been joyous and cheerful; for it
was useless to struggle against the grief which pervaded the whole
family. Mr. Compton and Herbert strove the most manfully and with best
success to cheer the rest and themselves, but Mrs. Compton dared not
look at any one; and she sat silently, with quivering lips, and eyes
filled with tears, of which she was unconscious, except as those drops,
starting from the pure fountain of a mother’s love, ran down upon her
cheek, and were hastily brushed away. Her eyes were now fixed upon
vacancy, and again wandered to her son, and were withdrawn only when it
became agony to repress the emotion she felt.
Who can fathom the depth of a mother’s love for such a son, one on whom
she had doated, even to weakness, from his birth? We dare not attempt to
depict it, nor can it be expressed; but it has been felt by millions,
and will continue to be so while the tenderest and holiest feelings of
love are continued as blessings to us.
Herbert fulfilled his appointment faithfully; ere he had passed the
little bridge many paces, the maiden met him, for she had long sat and
watched for him; and they strolled on, away through the most sequestered
glades of the park, resting at whiles on hillocks of thyme and mossy
banks, which courted occupation as they wandered by. Time flew lightly,
and in that perfect bliss which can be only known once,—so pure are the
sensations, that the heart does not hope to feel them again; and which,
if once enjoyed, remain indelibly impressed upon it for ever.
They wandered on; they had no thought for anything around them, no eyes
to behold beauties, except in the luxury of their own thoughts. Their
minds were like stringed instruments in perfect unison,—each touch by
the one was responded to by the other with harmony. They spoke of the
future with confidence, with that pure hope only known to the young who
have never felt the agony of hope deferred. There was no cloud now over
their bright future. Four years! to look back on it was nothing; they
could remember the occurrences of four years ago as though they were
yesterday, and those to come they thought would pass as fast.
He spoke to her of the gorgeous East, of the temples, the palaces, the
almost fairy-land he was to see, and they pictured to themselves a land
so bright and fair that they longed to roam over it in company. He
promised her letters,—not cold formal ones written at a sitting, but
daily records of his thoughts, and minute descriptions of the varied
scenes he should pass through. He promised sketches too, by every
opportunity, of everything about him,—of his tent, his room, even of his
table where he should sit and hold conversations with her in writing, as
well as of the scenery and magnificent remains of the country.
And in this exquisite converse all care for the time had passed away
from them; for though the feeling of parting did often float through
their minds, yet it would have been hard had it been allowed to damp the
buoyancy of two such naturally cheerful hearts as theirs; and they
entered the drawing-room of Beechwood together, glowing with such
pleasure, and with such joyous expressions upon their faces, that Mrs.
Hayward, who had been long waiting for them, and had expected a far
different scene, was affected with joy instead of sorrow; and though the
result was much the same, yet her equanimity was soon restored, and the
hearty blessing and greeting she gave the pair, as they advanced to
receive it, gratified her benevolent and loving heart.
Herbert stayed with them till the night was far spent; there was perfect
confidence and perfect love among the party; and if these are seldom
vouchsafed together in life’s pilgrimage, they make the period of that
intercourse so marked in its purity of character that it is the better
appreciated and the longer remembered.
But sadness came at length,—the dreaded day of departure drew nigh;—the
Sabbath, Herbert’s last day with his parents, was held sacred by both
families; and as they now had a common interest in him who was about to
leave, they passed it together at the rectory. There is little pleasure
in dwelling upon a scene so sad,—in depicting the sorrow of those who
were assembled. Mr. and Mrs. Hayward did the utmost their kind hearts
could suggest to comfort their friends, and in some measure succeeded;
but the time passed heavily, the conversation, however it was directed,
only tended to the same point,—but that was too painful a one to be
discussed freely, and was only alluded to with difficulty. Mrs. Compton
tried in vain to sit out the evening in the drawing-room, and at length
was obliged to retire to her own chamber, where she was followed and
tended by her friend and Amy with true affection.
Poor Amy! she had a hard part to bear. To conceal her own miserable
feelings, in order that she might not be an additional weight upon the
already oppressed spirits of others, was a task she was barely equal to;
yet she strove well to master her grief, and to all appearance hers was
the only light heart of the party. Herbert had promised to accompany her
home through the park, so that she would be spared the misery of bidding
him farewell before others, even though they might be her own parents,
and this also consoled her.
In their evening worship, Mr. Compton took occasion to allude to
Herbert’s departure; his prayer was beautiful and simple, and in fervent
supplication he earnestly commended him to the Almighty’s care and
protection. The bitter sobs of Mrs. Compton could throughout be heard
above his own tremulous voice, but he persevered manfully, and all of
that assembly arose more calm and more reconciled to what was now
inevitable.
Mr. Hayward’s carriage was soon afterwards at the door; it was announced
in the drawing-room, and he and Mrs. Hayward arose to depart. They were
both deeply affected; as may well be imagined Herbert was so too, and
spoke with difficulty; but they blessed him, and gave him their fervent
wishes for success, and a safe return within the time he had appointed,
as warmly as if he had been one of their own children.
‘I have only one last favour to beg, dear Mrs. Hayward,’ he said, as he
handed her into the carriage, ‘that you will allow Amy to walk home
under my escort; I shall feel very thankful, if you will consent.’
‘I will not refuse you, Herbert,’ she said: ‘be gentle to her, for she
loves you very deeply; never disappoint her in writing, for I am well
convinced your letters will be her life while you are away. I will
endeavour to make every allowance for the delay which needs must occur
in the transmission of letters from such a distance; but still you must
be punctual and regular. Remember, these are my last and only commands
upon you; take Amy with you now, but do not keep her out late, for the
dews are heavy and may hurt you both. Now God bless you!’
‘My letters shall be my best answers to your commands,’ said Herbert;
‘believe me, I shall not miss a single opportunity of sending many to
you all, for you will never be absent from my thoughts. The time will
soon pass, and I hope and trust we shall all again be reunited in this
dear spot—till then good-bye! good-bye!’
‘Mrs. Hayward says I may escort Amy home through the park, sir,’ said
Herbert to Mr. Hayward, who was following; ‘we shall hardly lose our way
in this beautiful moonlight, and I hope you have no objection?’
‘Not if you promise you will not be late, Herbert; but I leave her to
your own discretion; I have not the heart to part you to-night; so
farewell, my brave boy! I trust we shall see you back soon a colonel at
least. You will not forget to write punctually, as well for our sake as
for Amy’s.’
‘I have already promised Mrs. Hayward that,’ said Herbert, ‘and most
faithfully will I fulfil it.’
‘Then I will say no more, but again farewell, and God bless you!’
He wrung Herbert’s hand warmly, and with cordial sincerity, and stepping
into the carriage, it drove rapidly away.
‘Now, dearest,’ said Herbert, ‘at least we can have a few moments which
we can call our own—moments to be the food of years; when every word,
however trivial, that one has uttered, will be to the other the most
precious in the stock of our hearts remembrances. Come, let us stroll
gently on.’
She took his arm, and they wandered onwards towards the park. The moon
was nigh the full, and her bright orb shed a mellow light on all around.
A few fleecy clouds floated near her in the deep blue heaven, but not
enough to dim her lustre, and her beams illuminated while they softened
every object in the well-known pathway.
The perfect silence which reigned around them, only broken at intervals
by the faint tinkling of the sheep bells here and there, or the feeble
bleat of a lamb, was soothing to them; and the wide glades of the park,
seen dimly in the distance, appeared to melt away into air, more like
the momentary visions of dreams than the realities they had been
accustomed to for years. They had much to say to each other; for they
were young, ardent, confiding—loving with the intenseness of a first and
sincere attachment, the gentle growth of years; yet theirs was not the
language of passion, but those sobered, chastened, and now sorrowful
feelings, which were the result at once of their long attachment and
their dread of parting; and they lingered on, nor knew how swiftly time
was flying, and that their sad farewell must be spoken at last. They
walked up to the house several times, and thought to leave each other;
but always some new word was spoken, some train of thought aroused,
which carried them away again, forgetful of their promises not to delay.
Nor could Amy’s buoyant heart support her to the last as it had done
through the day,—indeed through the last few days; bitter were her sobs
as she clung to the manly form of him she loved,—bitter and more
violent, as the clock of the out-offices struck an hour—she did not,
could not count it,—which seemed to be a last warning to her to leave
him; she almost longed to do so, and yet had not the power; nor could
Herbert bring himself to utter the wish for her to go.
They stood before the hall-door, irresolute, as the clock struck; and
gently, in as soothing words as he could frame his thoughts to
utterance, he reminded her of his promise to her mother and of her
strict injunctions. ‘It was only from my promise that we have enjoyed
these exquisite moments,’ he said, ‘and I would not vex her, Amy.’ But
still they lingered; she was helpless as a child, her tears fell very
fast, and convulsive sobs shook her sadly. Herbert supported her with
one arm, while he wiped away her tears, and kissed the beautiful face
which, upturned to his, had lost its cheerful expression, and now wore
one of such mental anguish as had never before visited it, that he
almost reproached himself for having caused it. It required all his
self-possession to restrain a violent outbreak of passionate emotion;
for his heart was full even to bursting, and could he have shed tears,
he thought it would have relieved him, but they were denied him. They
could speak but little; all he could utter were words of consolation,
which, repeated again and again almost unintelligibly, fell on heedless
ears, for the misery of her mind repelled them. But it could not last;
sooner or later he must leave her, and he felt that every moment was
causing her additional pain, while no immediate alleviation could
follow.
He drew her gently towards the door; she understood his meaning, and
acquiesced, by making no resistance; they ascended the steps together;
the door had been left unfastened on purpose to receive her, and he felt
this delicate mark of kindness in her parents deeply; it seemed even to
comfort Amy that she should be able to reach her chamber unobserved.
‘Go and pray for me, as you pray for yourself, dearest! it will soothe
you more than my words or feeble consolations,’ he said, as opening the
door he led her within it; ‘soon I will join my prayers to yours, and
ascending together to Him who is alone able to grant them, they will
bring us that peace which indeed passes understanding. Go! may He who
looks down from yonder bright and glorious heaven upon us, bless you for
ever, my angel, and keep you in safety!’
He could not add more, nor did she dare to reply, though some indistinct
murmurs escaped her; he clasped her to his heart in one ardent embrace;
kissed her forehead—her eyes—her lips in passionate fervour; and then
disengaging her from him,—for she did not, could not oppose it,—he led
her softly within the hall; and not daring to hazard a second glance
upon her, he gently closed the door, and with an almost bursting heart
rushed from the house.
He did not go far thus. Nature, who will not be denied vent for such
bitter feelings as his were, and which had been so long and so ill
repressed, demanded relief; and overcome by emotion, his temples
throbbing as though they would burst, with a choking sensation in his
throat, which caused him to breathe with difficulty, he threw himself
upon a rustic seat by the side of the walk. For awhile the agony he
suffered was almost insupportable, but afterwards a passionate burst of
tears, which he could not check or repress, came to his relief. He
leaned his head upon his hand and sobbed bitterly for many minutes; but
he arose at last, in some degree soothed by the effort nature had made
to relieve the sorrow which had well-nigh overpowered him.
Herbert left his home the next morning amidst the unrestrained and
bitter grief of all. All his mother’s previous resolutions failed her;
for a while she refused to be comforted; dread, that he was going from
her for ever, oppressed her with a weight which she could not throw off
by the most strenuous mental exertions. Mr. Compton strove to console
her, and Herbert was as cheerful as he could be under the circumstances.
But it was all of no use; deep affection would find its vent, and no
wonder, when all had been so knit together in the ties of love as that
family.
But after breakfast, which they had vainly tried to eat, and the viands
which had been provided remained untasted upon the table, the carriage
was announced. To each of his brothers and his younger sisters Herbert
bade a tender farewell, promising them all sorts of presents and
drawings from eastern climates; but who shall paint his last moments
with his dear and honoured mother? It would be profanation of such
feelings to attempt their delineation—they can be felt only, never
described. Mute with sorrow, Mrs. Compton could not speak to him, as he
folded her in a last embrace; and as he tore himself away from her, and
hurried to the carriage, she tottered to the window, and supporting
herself by the side panel, with eyes dim with weeping and now almost
blinded by her tears, she watched him as long as sight of him was spared
her. She saw him throw himself into the carriage—his father attending
him to it—the door shut—the orders given to proceed; but ere the
postilion could urge his horses forward, she had sunk senseless upon the
ground.
The regiment marched that day towards Dover, where his father joined
Herbert in a few days. Here they were detained only as long as was
sufficient to provide the requisite necessaries to the regiment for a
hot climate, and the duties of furnishing these to his men kept Herbert
continually employed. He had some idea at one time of returning home,
even for a day or two, but the remembrance of the pangs which both his
mother and Amy had suffered was too fresh in his mind to allow of his
indulging in so selfish and indeed a useless gratification. He had his
father with him, whose presence was not only a solace, but who
prevented, as much as was in his power, Herbert’s giving way to the
grief which at times he could not repress, and which endured in despite
of him.
At length the day arrived for the embarkation, and a gallant but painful
sight it was to see so many brave fellows leaving their native land,
their homes, their parents, children, and other perhaps dearer
ties—prepared to shed their blood in their country’s cause—to brave the
perils of an unknown land and dangerous climate for her sake. Yet, as
the regiment moved towards the pier from the barracks in open column,
headed by their band, playing the most lively marches, to which the firm
and measured tread of the men formed a noble accompaniment, there could
not be seen a sorrowful face among the whole; for their colours were
unfurled, and floated proudly to the breeze; and as each man’s eye
rested upon those emblems of their national honour which he had sworn to
guard, it glistened with that undefinable sensation of glowing pride
which soldiers only know, and feel most deeply on an occasion like this.
The regiment was attended by all the other officers of the garrison, and
the inhabitants of the town, and was loudly cheered as they passed
along. The boats waited beside the pier: each division was marched in an
orderly manner into its respective boats, and at a signal given the oars
were dipped at once, and the whole mimic fleet stretched at their utmost
speed towards the ships, which lay at some distance from the shore.
Three hearty English cheers followed them, led regularly by an officer
of distinction, who stood upon a capstan for the purpose; while the band
of his corps, which was stationed upon the pier, played the slow march
of the departing regiment with admirable expression. The three cheers
were as heartily returned from the boats, and the gallant corps sped
quickly on to their vessels.
Mr. Compton accompanied his son on board, and stayed as long as it was
possible. The anchors of the fleet were a-peak, their topsails loosed,
when they arrived on board; and when the men were somewhat settled, and
order restored, the signal was made for sailing; soon the anchors were
at the cat-heads, the topsails sheeted home, and the vast fabrics began
their march over the deep, to be continued through storm or calm to the
end. But as sail after sail was set, the vessels began to move the
faster, until it was no longer possible to retain the boat which was
towing astern, in which he was to return; he was aware that every
indulgence had been shown him in having been allowed to remain so long,
and he could make no opposition to its being ordered alongside.
‘May He who alone is able to protect you, Herbert,’ he said, as he wrung
his hand, ‘keep you in health! You go, I am well aware, to many dangers,
but I leave you in confident hope that we may meet again; and my most
fervent supplications shall ever be for you. Be careful of yourself; you
are strong, active, temperate,—blessings which you cannot prize too
highly. And now embrace me, my dear boy—I dare speak no more.’
He left the deck: Herbert watched him down the side safely into the
boat; the rope was cast off, and in another instant it was dancing in
the wake of the vessel astern; the boatmen set their sail, and soon the
tiny bark was dancing merrily along over the waters. Herbert gazed till
it became a speck, and then disappeared; but Mr. Compton saw the tall
vessels, which had spread every sail to court a gentle and favourable
wind, longer, and he watched the last faint glitter of their white
canvas with straining eyes and an aching heart, till he could see them
no longer upon the blue horizon.
* * * * *
We must now return to a point in our narrative from which we have very
widely digressed, in order to put our readers in possession of what we
have detailed of the history of Herbert Compton; and we will return to
the happy party which was assembled round the cheerful fire at Alston
Rectory.
Besides the family, Amy was there; and, since the events we have
detailed, she was often at Alston for days together: she was bright and
joyous as ever, indeed much improved in personal appearance. Little more
than a year had elapsed since Herbert had left them, but the letters he
had written had been so regularly received, that the miserable
apprehensions which all had indulged on his departure were completely
dispelled; they knew that he was happy, and enjoyed excellent health,
that he had formed pleasant friendships, and liked the country, which he
described with eloquence. Still, as he had gone on service soon after
his arrival, they were anxious, and looked eagerly for news.
‘Come, let us have a glee, girls,’ said Mr. Compton, after a game of
forfeits had been played with all its pleasant, noisy fun, which seems
now to have abandoned us; ‘come, we must have some music. Get you to the
harpsichord, Amy, and I will help out my own bass with my violoncello.’
‘What shall we sing, sir?’ answered Amy, gaily, going at once to the
instrument; ‘here are all kinds,—comic, lively, and grave. Ah! I have
hit at once upon Herbert’s favourite,—“When winds breathe soft.”’
‘Very good; you could not have anything better; and we all know that
your heart will be in your song;—but, let us see.’
The parts were soon arranged; Amy led the glee, the delicious harmony of
which appeared to float in the air above their heads, so perfectly was
it sung by voices, excellent in themselves, and attuned by constant
practice. Others followed; for as they had begun with glees, so they
agreed to continue.
At last, after a pause, Mr. Compton, patting her cheek, said,—‘Well, you
have sung so well, Amy, that I think I shall have a letter for my pet
to-night.’
‘A letter!—for me? Ah, sir, from whom? not from Herbert?’
‘Indeed I hope so, my darling,’ added Mrs. Compton; ‘you know we were
disappointed by the last packet, and Mr. Compton heard yesterday from
his London agent, saying that a Bombay vessel had arrived with letters,
and that he would forward ours the next day.’
‘I am so happy! dear, dear Mrs. Compton,’ cried the joyful girl,
throwing her arms around her, and kissing her; ‘I feel so very happy!
And when will the letters come?’
‘I expect the boy every moment with the bag,’ she replied; ‘he should
have been here before this; but perhaps the post is late at —— to-day,
on account of the weather.’
‘Then we shall have a delightful evening, indeed,’ said Amy; ‘shall we
not, boys and girls? Herbert’s letters to all of you shall be read
first, and then I will read just such scraps of mine as I please. You
know how I love to tyrannise over you, and tempt you with a great deal
that you must not see.’
‘Well, here is the bag!’ cried Edward, taking it from the servant, who
just then entered. ‘Now we shall see!’ and he opened it. ‘What! only
one?—that is a disappointment! It is for you, father.’
‘Ah, from my agents I see; perhaps the letters have not been delivered;
but we shall hear all about it.’ They crowded round him, but poor Amy’s
heart sunk within her; she almost sickened lest there should be no news
of Herbert.
‘Dear Sir,’ read Mr. Compton, ‘we are sorry to inform you that there
were no letters for you or for Miss Hayward, per _Ocean_ from Bombay,
and we are sorry to add that the general news is not so favourable as we
could wish—’
‘Look to Amy! look to Amy!’ cried Mrs. Compton, suddenly and anxiously.
It was indeed necessary,—for she had fainted. It was long ere she
recovered; she had naturally a powerful mind, but it had been suddenly,
perhaps unadvisedly, excited; and when such disappointment ensued, she
had not been able to bear up against it, the more so as this was the
second she had experienced within a short time, and there was no doubt
from the previous public information, that severe fighting had been
apprehended, in which Herbert’s regiment must take a part.
In vain was it that Mr. and Mrs. Hayward tried to console her,—they had
felt the disappointment as keenly as Amy; for the time, therefore, all
were sad, and the evening which had begun so cheerfully, was concluded
in painful and almost silent apprehension; nor did the accounts which
appeared in the newspapers some days afterwards convey to them any
alleviation of their fears.
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