Some years have now elapsed since Philip Dalton parted from his friend
Herbert at Bednore, upon the mission of the unfortunate Mathews; and it
becomes necessary to revert to him for a while, in order to present
successively the various events which belong to our history, in such a
manner as may best serve to fix them upon the reader’s attention, and
which from their connection, though at considerable distances of time,
it is needful to follow to the end in their true order.
Philip’s journey to the coast was rapid, but he had time once more to
tread the ground which was the scene of that spirited conflict, once
more to visit the grave of his young companion, which was undisturbed;
and he saw with satisfaction that the simple monument which they had
ordered to be erected over it, to preserve it from being molested as
well as to mark the place, was in a state of forwardness and would soon
be finished. In a few days more the party were at the coast, and finding
vessels there belonging to the Government, they embarked, and with the
soft and favourable breezes of the season, soon reached their
destination in safety.
Here now ensued a scene of bitter contention among the friends of both
parties, and opinions ran high on both sides. While the one urged the
incompetency, the neglect of orders and caution, and the obstinacy of
Mathews, in not listening to the advice of those well calculated by
their rank and experience to give it, there were also those who argued,
that in all his acts Mathews was fully justified,—that, should disaster
come, the Government of the island was alone to blame, in having
directed him to undertake operations of such magnitude with means so
insignificant, which, though they had been eminently successful, he
could not be expected to maintain without large and speedy
reinforcements.
Before the council, however, the affairs were argued with calmness and
temper; the letters of Mathews certainly threw no light upon his
position, his means of defence or intelligence of the enemy; and though
Philip Dalton defended his commander with zeal and temper, he was forced
to acknowledge that there were many points on which he, in common with
others, had offered advice that had been disregarded—points, the neglect
of which could not be otherwise than injurious to the discipline of the
army, which had already suffered in a great degree.
The arguments against Mathews finally prevailed, and the orders for his
supercession in the command were given to Macleod, who, with Shaw and
Humberstone, already mentioned, took a speedy departure from Bombay. A
severe indisposition prevented Philip’s accompanying them, as he had
intended; for Macleod, aware of his talent, zeal, and military skill,
had offered him the same office on his own staff which he had filled
with Mathews, and he had accepted it; and as the Government had promised
a reinforcement, which the commanders represented as absolutely
necessary to enable them to hold the ground they had acquired, there was
an opportunity for proceeding with troops. This, besides being more
agreeable to Philip, would enable him to be of use to the officer who
was nominated to the command, from his knowledge of the road and of the
country.
But he was destined never to proceed: the three commanders, who had
sailed from Bombay in a small armed vessel belonging to the Government,
were attacked off the Mahratta fort of Gheriah by some heavy Mahratta
vessels, for which they were no match. The officers defended themselves
and their charge bravely, and made a determined though ineffectual
resistance, in which one of their number, the gallant Humberstone, lost
his life; the others, with the crew and vessel, were carried into
Gheriah, and it was not until after a long lapse of time that their
release was effected. When the news of this disaster reached Bombay, it
retarded the preparations for embarkation which were being made for the
troops; and ere many weeks had passed, the sad intelligence of the
disaster at Bednore completed the distress and consternation of the
Presidency.
From the few that escaped, who magnified the terrors of the event, and
described in fearful terms the miseries endured by the prisoners,—and
from the reports of the cruelties exercised upon them, which had long
been prevalent, and were known to be well founded—Philip had despaired
of ever gaining intelligence of his friend Herbert; and while he wrote
to his family, whose direction he was in possession of, to inform them
of the sad event, and to tell them that Herbert was known to have been
in good health when he was taken with the rest, he could give them but
little hope as to the final issue; indeed upon this point he was quite
silent, as, having no hope himself, he was unable to impart any to them.
He did not, however, write for several months after the intelligence had
been received at Bombay; for the letters he had dispatched for Herbert
immediately on his arrival would, he hoped, prevent his family from
being over anxious; and he thought that perhaps news might arrive of the
prisoners, of their health and condition, which would be acceptable, or
that some treaty might be arranged between the English and Mysore
Governments which would put an end to their captivity; indeed it was in
the latter confident hope that he wrote, when all prospect of an
immediate release was out of the question.
The letters which Herbert had dispatched had reached England, and by
them his family were informed of the issue of the war as far as the
capture of Bednore; and he then wrote in the highest spirits, like a
young and gallant soldier, of the prospects of the campaign, made light
of his wound, and was eagerly looking for fresh encounters with the
enemy, in which distinction and promotion were to be won. This account
greatly soothed his parents and Amy, who was especially tormented by
agonising fears and apprehensions regarding him, in spite of his often
repeated but playful assurances that he was safe and well.
‘He cannot be safe,’ she used to argue to herself, ‘when there are such
desperate engagements as that of which he writes us word, and where he
has too the baneful climate to contend against; but God is over all, and
to Him I commit the future in hope and confidence.’
And so she continued—a vague dread of future misery striving for mastery
in her heart with deep religious reliance; and during this struggle her
parents became, from her altered appearance, so anxious for her, that
they would fain have removed her to one of the watering-places for
change of air and scene.
She firmly opposed the proposal, for she clung with increasing
attachment to her home, and apparently to the pursuits which Herbert had
shared with her. But if they looked at her sketches, there used to be
little advance made from day to day; she would sit for hours seemingly
engaged on them, whilst her eye was fixed upon vacancy, or gazing upon
the familiar spots she was delineating, where she had often watched his
figure, or realising to her tenacious memory all the words she had heard
him speak there.
And thus the time passed; her companionship with the family of Herbert
increased, and she would spend days in conversing with them, especially
with Mrs. Compton, about him, listening to every tale of his life,—to
every incident even of his childhood with delight, and an interest which
appeared to increase in their repetition. But the suspense after the
receipt of his last letter—the one dispatched by Philip Dalton—grew day
by day more insupportable; several vessels arrived, but there was no
intelligence from Herbert. Many of the newspapers of the day mentioned
the expedition, with some criticisms upon its object, and prophesied an
ill termination to its exertions: and at length, when the ship arrived
by which she had expected a long despatch, and there was none, and the
letter was read from Mr. Herbert’s agent, as we have before recorded,
wherein he stated broadly that there was bad news from India—the poor
girl’s brain reeled under the shock of having her worst fears confirmed.
Her active and already excited mind in an instant presented to her the
being in whose existence her own was wrapped up, as if in death,
ghastly, with disfiguring wounds; and the thought, suddenly as it had
come into her mind, for the time paralyzed her faculties; her body was
not strong enough to resist its influence, and, yielding at once, she
had fainted under the overpowering weight of her misery. News, however,
there was of Herbert, which in some measure relieved their worst fears
and gave room for hope; although sickening in its uncertainty, it gave
room for hope, to which every member of both families clung with the
tenacity naturally inspired by their affection.
The newspapers gave such accounts as could be gained of the disaster,
and the name of Herbert was mentioned among those who were known to be
in captivity. But they nowhere saw that of Dalton, whom Herbert had so
constantly mentioned in his letters, and they concluded that he had been
killed in one of the engagements: this was an additional source of pain
to them, that Herbert had lost his dearest friend.
However in a few months after, the first letter from Philip arrived at
the rectory, and despite its melancholy tone, it gave the family good
reason to hope. Philip was one who could not believe implicitly in the
constant ill-treatment said to be exercised by the Sultaun upon his
prisoners, and he could plainly see that such statements were encouraged
by the Government, in order to induce those favourable to their cause to
lend their aid in the struggle. And perceiving this, he wrote that he
hoped the treaties about to be drawn up between the two nations would be
productive not only of Herbert’s release, but of that of his
fellow-captives;—he undeceived them, too (which was necessary), as to
the natives of the country being savage, assuring them, on the contrary,
that they were polite and courteous; and as the hopes of peace continued
to be confirmed from time to time by Philip, who wrote by every
opportunity, as well as by the papers, they remained in a most pitiable
state of excitement, which was doomed to be bitterly disappointed.
The peace of 1784 came. Many a man whose existence had been despaired of
by his long-expecting and wretched family reappeared, and that of the
rectory now looked forward with intense eagerness to the receipt of
letters from Herbert or from Philip Dalton, announcing their reunion,
and the prospect of their speedy return home.
Alas! while others rejoiced, they were plunged into deeper despair than
ever; for, as Herbert’s name did not appear in the lists of those who
had been given up, Philip did not immediately write his bitter
disappointment that his dear friend was not among their number.
Who could paint the withering effect of this miserable intelligence upon
the unhappy Amy? She had striven, and successfully, against her own
despairing heart; whilst a ray of hope broke in upon her gloomy future,
she cherished it, and strove to dispel the clouds which doubt would, in
spite of her exertions, accumulate before her. She was cheerful, and
when Mrs. Compton mourned her son’s early fate in bitter grief, and
almost refused comfort, Amy would soothe her, and raise her to hope
again. But from the last news there was no comfort to be gained. Had
Herbert been alive, he would have been given up like the rest; and
though it was suspected at the time that many prisoners were retained by
Tippoo in defiance of the articles of treaty, still that was so
uncertain, so vague and wretched a hope, that it was abandoned as even
sinful to indulge in, and Herbert was mourned as dead.
It was happy perhaps for Amy that her own grief was in a measure
diverted by the long illness of Mrs. Compton, whom the violence of the
affliction brought to the very verge of the grave. For many months did
the gentle and patient girl minister to her who was to have been her
mother, with a devotion of affection which hardly found its equal in
that of her own daughter. From no one’s hand did the sufferer take the
remedies prescribed so readily as from Amy’s; none could smooth the
pillow of the languid invalid like Amy—none read to her so sweetly, none
conversed with her upon their favourite subject—him who was lost to them
both—so eloquently and so devotedly as Amy. And her beauty, which had
grown up with her years, until it was now surpassingly bright—her meek
and cheerful resignation, after the first pang of sorrow was over—her
unceasing and untiring benevolence—made her an object of peculiar
interest to the neighbourhood of all ranks, to whom her sad story and
early trials were known.
Calm and cheerful as she usually was in the society of her family and at
the rectory, no one but her mother knew the bitter bursts of grief to
which nature would force her sometimes, when the memory of him they
thought dead was more prominently excited. Herbert was constantly the
subject of their conversation; for this Amy loved, and it often soothed
her to hear him spoken of or alluded to. But it was not this that
affected her; it was often the merest trifle and sudden thought, the
sight of a flower, a word or tone from Charles, who now strongly
resembled his brother, that caused these paroxysms, which, violent as
they were, prostrated her for the time, only to rise with renewed
cheerfulness, resignation, and affection for those she loved.
They continued to hear from Philip Dalton, who, restless under the
belief that Herbert still lived, spared neither money nor pains to get
information. As time flew on, it became known that some Europeans were
in confinement, and Philip had dispatched one or two trusty emissaries
to endeavour to discover Herbert. All had, however, ended in
disappointment, and he was baffled in every inquiry. He did not assert
to Herbert’s family that he lived, but from time to time he renewed the
supposition. After the lapse of nearly four years, they heard from him
that he was about to return home on leave, and that he would take the
earliest opportunity of visiting the rectory. His coming was earnestly
and impatiently expected for many months; for how much should they not
have to hear of their long-lost Herbert from his most devoted friend!
how many particulars of their short service together and its fatal
result, which, though the themes of many letters, were incomplete in
comparison with what they should hear from him in person!
At length his arrival in England was announced by him, and though he
could not say when he should be at liberty, he declared it would not be
long ere he performed his promise. Philip had thought it better thus to
leave them in uncertainty, lest, having their attention fixed upon any
particular day, the contemplation of the excitement which would
necessarily follow would be more than the female part of the families
could endure.
But he did not, he could not delay long; he was impatient to communicate
his suspicions, his hopes that Herbert existed, which every day’s
experience and reflection told him were reasonable; and hardly a
fortnight had elapsed, ere he took the mail to the town of ——, where the
regiment had been quartered, and where he had now a friend. Leaving his
portmanteau at the barracks, he took with him a change of linen, and
late in the afternoon rode his friend’s horse over to the rectory.
It was a lovely autumn evening; the twilight had begun to deepen the
shadows of the luxuriant woods of the park, and the rectory groves
appeared dark and solemn at that hour. A few leaves had already fallen
upon the smooth and beautifully kept entrance avenue, which passed under
some huge elms, on whose tops the noisy rooks still sat cawing, or
rising suddenly with eccentric and rapid flights large bodies of the
colony sailed through the air, alighting only to dispossess others of a
more favoured place or one more coveted. Beyond a turning in the avenue,
the house opened upon his view—an old edifice of red brick, of the age
of Elizabeth; the large oblong windows of the drawing-room, with their
diamond panes, were a blaze of light; and even as he rode along he could
distinguish the forms of many within, and the cheerful notes of music
came to him through the open casement.
A pale elderly lady lay on the sofa working—he felt sure it was
Herbert’s mother. There were several standing round a pianoforte: he
listened for a while with deep pleasure, as the sounds of music now
rose, now fell upon the evening air, and affected him the more
powerfully as the air was one he well remembered Herbert to have often
sung, and now the place he had occupied there was vacant, perhaps for
ever.
As he listened, the voice of a female arose in a solo part, so liquid,
so melodious, so exquisitely modulated, that he drew closer to hear it
better. Could it be that of Amy? he thought, or one of Herbert’s
sisters, of whom he had heard him speak so often that he fancied he
almost knew them?—Ellen perhaps, his favourite; but it was useless to
speculate—he should soon know all. The solo ceased; again arose a full
swell of voices, attuned by constant practice, and assisted by the
instrument and a bass violin, which was played by an elderly gentleman.
It lasted for a while, then ceased entirely—the party broke up
cheerfully, and the sound of their merry voices caught his ear—a change,
perhaps an abrupt one, from the melody he had heard, which he would have
wished had been followed by silence, for his feelings were mournful, and
the image of his lost friend was painfully vivid to his imagination;
they might have arrived together he thought.
Again he cast his eyes around him; the house, with its deeply embayed
windows and quaint projections, was covered with roses and creepers,
which entwined thickly around the drawing-room; beside there were a
pear-tree and a large fig-tree which were trained over the wall, and
almost hid it with their luxuriant foliage, showing here and there the
large black crossbeams which appeared through the masonry of the wall,
and added to its venerable appearance. Before the house there was a
flower-garden, which bloomed with a profusion of flowers, whose rich
perfume arose in the evening air. On one side a long conservatory, and
beyond it a thick and closely kept hedge that partly screened a wall
which led to other gardens. On the other side was a lawn, close and
mossy-looking, which stretched a short distance to a sunken fence,
beyond which was a field with a few single trees, and the deep woods of
the park made up the distance. The hall-door was low and deeply screened
by a porch, around which roses and clematis flourished in luxuriance.
Dismounting from his horse he rang the bell, which was quickly answered;
and desiring the servant to inform Mr. Compton that a gentleman wished
to speak to him, he remained in the porch.
‘Who can it be?’ said some, as the servant announced the message. In
another instant it had flashed into the minds of all that it might be
Captain Dalton; and with him came the memory of poor Herbert, now to be
so freely awakened.
‘If it should be he, Maria,’ said Mr. Compton to his lady, who at the
announcement had risen from the sofa, ‘can you bear to see him?’
‘Yes, love—yes, here—but with you only. Go into the dining-room, my
children, we will call you after a while.’
They obeyed instantly, and Mr. Compton hurried into the hall to receive
the stranger, while his lady prayed fervently for support in the coming
interview; for she trembled exceedingly, and her conflicting emotions
almost overpowered her.
The servant was holding Philip’s horse, and he himself was pacing slowly
up and down the narrow porch. As Mr. Compton advanced, Philip turned to
meet him; and his first glance assured him that the friend of his lost
son was before him.
‘You need not mention your name, my dear sir,’ said the old gentleman,
as he clasped his hand most warmly and affectionately in his own, while
his trembling voice showed how deeply he was agitated; ‘I am convinced
that I now welcome our long-expected and already very dear Captain
Dalton. We have been long expecting you and I need hardly say how
anxiously we have looked for the arrival of one who was so dear to—’ and
he hesitated for an instant; but mastering his emotion, he continued—‘to
our poor Herbert, from whom we heard so much of you. God bless you, sir!
that you have come to us so soon, when you must have had so many claims
upon you from your own family.’
‘I thank you, sir, heartily, for this warm welcome,’ said Philip. ‘But
before I proceed further, tell me candidly whether Mrs. Compton is able
to see me. That I have seen you, will be a comfort to me, and for the
present I will leave you, and give her time for any preparation she may
wish to make.’
‘By no means: she is already aware that this visit could be from no
other but yourself, and she will be better when she has seen you. You
must make some allowances for a mother’s grief—a fond mother’s
too—Captain Dalton.’
‘I know all, sir,’ said Philip, pressing his hand; ‘and Miss Hayward?’
‘She is fortunately not with us to-night,’ replied Mr. Compton, ‘and we
will speak upon the subject with her parents before we tell her that you
are come.’
They were at the drawing-room door, and Philip’s heart beat faster than
he had ever remembered it to beat before. The suspense and anxiety he
was in, as to the issue of his meeting with Mrs. Compton, almost
overcame his habitual self-possession; and he would have given worlds
could he have ensured her equanimity, which was little to be expected.
She, too, was not less excited; and a feeling of faintness came over her
as she heard the hand of her husband upon the lock. She made a strong
effort, however, to repel it, and the next moment he and Dalton were
before her.
‘This is Captain Dalton, Maria,’ were all the words Mr. Compton had time
to utter ere his lady advanced to meet him. It needed not his words to
assure her that the tall, manly, and soldier-like figure of the young
man was Philip; and as she eagerly took his proffered hand, while her
eyes were full of tears, she in vain strove to speak. She read in the
expression of his fine features, as she looked into his face, that her
own grief was reciprocated, and she could no longer restrain the
utterance of her feelings, nor the impulse of her affectionate heart.
She threw herself into his arms, as she would have done into her own
son’s, and wept; the tears and bitter sobs of a mother’s grief could not
be restrained, and she yielded to them freely.
For a while his reserved demeanour, under which was concealed as kind a
heart as ever beat, struggled with his awakened sensibilities; but
nature asserted her power; Philip’s tears mingled with hers, and she
could feel them falling fast upon her cheek, though silently, as he bent
over and supported her. Mr. Compton did not interrupt them; he was too
glad to see her emotion find so natural and easy a vent, for he had
anticipated a much more violent effect. Mrs. Compton soon rallied.
‘You will forgive this welcome of one who is so dear to us, Captain
Dalton,’ she said, speaking with difficulty; ‘but you know that with you
are associated many, many painful recollections. Bear with me,—I shall
be calm soon. I feel that my heart has already been relieved and is
lighter.’
Philip could not then say much in reply; but soon their conversation
flowed more naturally and calmly; and ere long the rest of the family
were admitted, and he was introduced and received as a brother among
them.
Gradually their conversation turned upon him they thought dead. Philip
had to answer a thousand questions, and to give the minutest particulars
to the eager and loving inquirers; and though the tears of all flowed
silently and fast, even as they spoke, yet Mrs. Compton felt, when she
retired to rest at a late hour, as if some portion of the load which had
oppressed her had been removed, and she fervently blessed God who had
sent her such a friend and comforter.
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