I BRING YOU THREE LETTERS--I PRAY YOU READ ONE.
Nay, if you read this line,
Remember not the hand that writ it.
The partings were over. Dolly lived upon that last farewell for many a
day to come. Such moments are states, and not mere measures of life.
Everything else was sad enough. Lady Sarah still lingered. Poor little
Lady Henley in her home in Dean's Yard was yellow and silent, and fierce
in her anxiety. What was it to her that Sebastopol was to fall before
the victorious armies if the price she had to pay was the life of her
son? She kept up as best she could, but the strain told upon her health
and her temper. Sir Thomas kept meekly out of the way. The servants
trembled and gave warning; the daughters could not give warning. Woe
betide Norah if she were late for breakfast. Ill-fated Bell used to make
_mal-apropos_ speeches, which were so sternly vented upon her that she
used to go off in tears to her father. Sir Thomas himself was in an
anxious, unsettled state, coming and going from his desk, poring over
maps and papers, and the first of those awful broadsheets of fated names
overcame him completely. He burnt the paper, and would not let it go
upstairs; but how keep out the lurid gleam of Victory that was spreading
over the country? Her flaming sword hung over all their heads by one
single thread, it was the life of one man against the whole campaign for
many of them. Hoarse voices would come shouting and shrieking in the
streets; there was but one thought in everybody's mind. All day long it
seemed in the air, and a nightmare in the darkness. Poor Sir Thomas had
no heart to go out, and used to sit gloomily in a little back study,
with a wire blind, and four pairs of boots, and _The Times_ and a
blotted cheque-book; he determined at last to take his wife home to
Yorkshire again. There at least some silence was to be found among the
moors and the rocky ridges, and some seeming of peace.
But for a long time Lady Henley refused to go. She was nearer Jonah in
London, she said. The post came in one day sooner. It must have brought
news to many an anxious home. What letters they are, those letters
written twenty years ago, with numbed fingers, in dark tents, on chill
battle-fields, in hospital wards. All these correspondents are well and
in good heart, according to their own accounts. They don't suffer much
from their wounds; they don't mind the cold; they think of the dear
people at home, and write to them after a weary night's watch, or a
fierce encounter, in the gentlest words of loving remembrance. The dying
man sends his love and a recommendation for some soldier's children or
widow at home; the strong man is ready to meet his fate, and is full of
compassion for suffering. 'I am writing on poor ----'s sabretache. I am
keeping it for his brother at home,' says one. Another has been to see
his sick friend, and sends cheering accounts of his state. Then, too, we
may read, if we choose, the hearty, ill-spelt correspondence of the
common soldiers, all instinct with the same generous and simple spirit.
There are also the proclamations of the generals. The French announce:
'The hour is come to fight, to conquer, to triumph over the demoralised
columns of the enemy. The enterprise is great and worthy of their
heroism. Providence appears to be on their side, as well as an immense
armament of guns and forces, and the high valour of their English allies
and the chosen forces of the Ottoman Empire. The noble confidence of the
generals is to pass into the souls of the soldiers.' At the same time,
as we read in the English correspondent's letter, Lord Raglan issues his
memorandum, requesting Mr. Commissary-General Filder 'to take steps to
insure that the troops shall all be provided with a ration of porter for
the next few days.'
There is the record of it all in the old newspapers. Private Vance's
letters are not given, for Dolly kept them for her own reading when they
came at last. By the same mail came news from the two last departing
travellers. Marker, who had brought in the letters one evening, waited
in the doorway.
'George!' cried Dolly, tearing her first envelope open, and then
half-laughing, half-crying, she read her letter out.
George seemed in good spirits. He wrote from Varna. A previous packet
must have been lost, for he said he had written before. This was a
cheerful and affectionate letter, quite matter-of-fact, and with no
complaints or railings at fate.
'I daresay people think me a great fool,' he said, 'but, on the
whole, I don't regret what I have done, except for any
annoyance it may have caused you. If you and mamma would go to
the Horse Guards and ask for a commission for me, perhaps two
such pretty ladies might mollify the authorities. They say
commissions are not difficult to get just now. I shall consult
the colonel about it; I am to see him again in a day or two. I
don't know why I did not speak to him just now when he sent for
me.' Then he went on to say that his Bulbul scholarship had
stood him in good service, and his little Turkish had been
turned to account. He had already passed as second-class
interpreter, and he had got hold of some books and was getting
on. 'This is the reason why the Colonel sent for me yesterday
morning. I am Private Vance, remember, only just out of the
awkward squad. Our Colonel is a grand old man, with bright
eagle eyes, and the heroic manner. He is like one of your
favourite heroes. Do you remember Aunt Sarah's talking of David
Fane, our father's old friend? When I found out who he was I
felt very much inclined to tell him my real name. He said to me
at once, "I see you are not exactly what you appear to be. If
you will come to me in a day or two I shall be glad to talk to
you about your prospects; in the meanwhile don't forget what a
good influence one man of good education and feeling can exert
in the ranks of a regiment." Old Fane himself is no bad
specimen of a true knight; we all feel the better for knowing
him. He walks with a long swift stride like a deer, tossing his
head as he goes. I have never seen him in battle, but I can
imagine him leading his men to victory, and I am glad of the
chance which has given me such a leader. I wish there were more
like him. Tell Raban, if you see him, that I am getting on very
well, and that, far from being a black sheep here, no lambskin
can compare with my pipe-clay.' Then came something erased.
'Dearest Dolly, you don't know what your goodness has been to
me all this time. I hope Robert appreciates his good luck. This
will reach you about the time of your wedding-day. I will send
you a little Russian belt when I can find an opportunity. My
love to them all, and be kind to Rhoda, for the sake of your
most affectionate 'G. V.'
There was a P.S.
'I forgot to ask you when I last wrote whether you got the
letter I wrote you at Cambridge, and if old Miller gave you my
packet. I bought the form in the town as I walked down to the
boats; it all seems a horrid dream as I think of it now, and I
am very much ashamed of that whole business; and yet I should
like to leave matters as they are, dear, and to feel that I
have done my best for that poor little girl. My love to old
John; tell him to write. There has been a good deal of sickness
here, but the worst is over.'
The paper trembled in Dolly's hand as she dwelt upon every crooked line
and twist of the dear handwriting that wrote 'George is safe.'
'I told you all along it was absurd to make such a disturbance about
him. You see he was enjoying himself with his common associates,' said
Mrs. Palmer crossly. 'Strangely peculiar,' she added after a moment.
'Dolly, did it ever occur to you that the dear boy was a little----?'
and she tapped her fair forehead significantly.
'He was only unhappy, mamma, but you see he is getting better now,' said
Dolly.
The next time Dolly saw Rhoda she ran up and kissed her, looking so kind
that Rhoda was quite surprised and wondered what had happened to make
Dolly so nice again.