THE EXPLANATION, AND THE PROPOSAL.—A TETE-A-TETE.
A week or more had passed away since the visit of the attorney to Mrs.
Meredith, and yet the latter saw not a sufficient reason why she should
send for her friend. Things were not ripe yet; the colonel had, it was
true, been melting gradually; but then to progress ever so little, was
a great point in anything—no matter what it is—something gained.
Mrs. Meredith, however, by no means lost sight of her object; she had
that steadily in view, and worked for it every day; and her daughter
was no less assiduous—she was attentive and humble, waited upon Colonel
Deverill with the affectionate assiduity of a daughter; while, on his
part, he sighed and said, what a happy man he must be, who should have
her for a wife.
It was arranged one day, when he appeared to be more than usually
tender, that the mother should be out that evening, and see some of
her friends, and break the news a little to some of them; a pardonable
vanity in the lady, for it was not in accordance with her position in
society that her daughter could expect such an offer as the one she
daily expected.
The lady did as she had agreed, and left the house, while Margaret went
to the colonel’s sitting-room when his bell rang, and hoped he’d excuse
the absence of her mother, as she had gone out to see some friends whom
she had not seen for some time.
“I am happy having you attend to me, Miss Margaret. I cannot be
attended to better. I am afraid, as it is, I am a terrible annoyance to
you.”
“Annoyance, colonel! far from it—very far from it; and I do hope you do
not mean what you say, else I shall fear I have unwillingly given you
some cause for your opinion, which I shall the more regret, as you are
yourself so kind. I assure you it gives me great pleasure when I know I
can do aught to alleviate the misfortunes, or satisfy the wishes of any
of my friends.”
“And do you reckon me one, Miss Margaret?”
“I hope Colonel Deverill will not consider me too presumptuous in
looking upon him as something more than a mere casual friend or
acquaintance.”
“Casual acquaintance, Miss Margaret—casual acquaintance!”
“Well, friendship, if you allow me to say so.”
“Friendship!” repeated the colonel, with a deep drawn sigh; “I would
I could claim a yet warmer title than a friend. I could then hope for
some of those pleasures which are denied a solitary man like me—I
should then have those whom I loved to soothe my death-bed, and whom I
could benefit by worldly wealth, could I, Margaret, think I could claim
a feeling stronger than that of friendship.”
“Oh! Colonel Deverill, how can you talk in this strain? Indeed, you—you
are too good—dear me, I do not know what I was about to say.”
“Miss Meredith,” said the colonel, taking her hand with gentleness,
and tenderly pressing it, “I am seen to a great disadvantage; I have
been many years fighting for my country, and I have not had time to
cultivate those sweet and tender emotions such as I feel at this
moment.”
[Illustration: The colonel takes Margaret’s hand.]
“Yes, you must have suffered much,” said Margaret.
“And now, when I return again, I am somewhat the worse in appearance;
but my heart is as warm as ever it was, and I am more than ever alive
to the charm of female society. It is that unreserved interchange of
thought and good offices which attaches me to life, and makes me live
even with hope. Do not dispel this day-dream of mine, Margaret.”
The colonel paused and pressed her hand to his lips, while she appeared
confused and irresolute, and was unable to withdraw her hand from his,
but at length she sank trembling into a chair.
“My charming creature, may I suppose this emotion is caused by excess
of feeling—that—that—in short, I am not wholly indifferent to you?”
“Oh, colonel! I’m really unable to speak!”
“My beloved girl, I am loved; yes, I see it—oh, happiness!”
Midst these broken sentences, the colonel contrived to slip his hand
round the young lady’s waist, and he pressed her close to him. For a
moment she forgot his proximity, and remained passive; but suddenly and
quietly disengaging herself, she said,—
“Pardon, me, Colonel Deverill; I had forgotten—I was unconscious—a
weakness came over me, and——”
“You love me!”
“If you have become acquainted with that which was a secret, sir, you
must use it as such; but you must not talk in this strain to me;
promise me, colonel, and—and—I will see about the tea immediately.”
“May I speak to your mother?”
“Colonel Deverill can do as he pleases. I have no secrets from my dear
mamma.”
“I will—I will, and Heaven bless you for saying so much. I may say you
are not averse to me, and that, with her consent, I shall not despair.”
“We will say no more, Colonel Deverill,” said the cautious maiden.
“You shall command me—you are the arbitress of my fate,” said the
colonel, who had become warmer and eulogistic to a degree.
Much more, however, passed between them; the ice was broken, and they
conversed more freely; for when they began the tea, much was said
that did not partake of so warm a character as that which had already
passed; but it, nevertheless, partook of the same purpose.
“When I am married,” said the colonel, “I should like a carriage. I
have no use for one now, as I could but very seldom ride; but when I
had a wife, then I should wish for her accommodation as well as my own;
but which do you prefer, country or town life?”
“There is much of comfort and quiet in a country life,” said Margaret;
“and yet I am not entirely wedded to country life—there is much of
pleasure in London.”
“So there is; and where you have no resources of your own, or in your
own house, it is preferable; but when such is the case, London loses
all its charms, or a great part of them.”
“So it does,” said Margaret.
“However, I am partial to both. I should like a partial town and
country life.”
“That, indeed, would be the very greatest delight one could experience;
to live sometimes in one place, and sometimes in another.”
“So it would.”
“By the way, if we kept a carriage, which I would do,” said the
colonel, after a pause, “it would be a very excellent thing to enable
us to travel about in.”
“Perhaps you have been to some parts, and like them better than others.”
“Yes, I have been to a good many parts; but I cannot at this moment
speak of them; but we would look out for some place that would be more
agreeable than others.”
“Perhaps you have some place of your own you would like to live in?”
“No,—not exactly; these things are not of one’s own choice, and not
empty; and, therefore, are useless as residences.”
“Certainly. Besides, you must be near enough to come to town for
business purposes.”
“Yes, I must, but that needn’t be often,” replied the colonel; “but
where there is plenty of means, there is no fear of not getting what we
want.”
“No, indeed, there is not.”
“And one thing alone would repay me for the hardships I have endured,
the misery I have suffered, and the misfortunes I have experienced in
all my marchings and counter-marchings; my sleeping in the open air by
night, and scorched by the sun by day.”
“And what may that be, colonel?”
“Why, the power it gives me of conferring happiness and wealth upon
you; for, in the natural course of events, you will outlive me.”
“Oh, for mercy’s sake, don’t talk of that, sir.”
“But it is a matter that I can think of calmly enough; and, as a
soldier, I have ample occasion, I can assure you.”
“Indeed! I dare say you must have.”
“I can remember, on one occasion, especially, which I will relate to
you, if I do not weary,” said Colonel Deverill.
“Oh, no—no! I cannot be weary,” said Margaret.
“Then I will tell you. I was ordered to march some troops to attack the
stockade of Puttythempoor, a very strong place.”
“Was it a town?”
“No, merely a place of strength, where the enemy had gathered together
in great numbers; and here we were determined to attack them. The
stockade was a very strong place; and there were strong and high timber
fences, with large mounds of earth and bags of sand, all tending to
make the place one of great strength,” said the colonel.
“What a place it must have been!”
“Yes; it was very strong. Well, my party did not amount to more than
fifteen hundred men strong, while the enemy, with the advantages of the
defence, were more than three thousand, giving them a vast superiority
over us; but we were not to be daunted by that; we were determined to
make a dash, and, from the character of the men I commanded, I had no
fear of the result. We were sure to make our way among them, and then
we were sure of the result.”
“How dreadful!”
“Well, the men were divided into three bodies—five hundred each—and
these into divisions of one hundred each, the one to support the other.
We had no guns, and were therefore compelled to depend entirely upon
our luck in the assault.”
“Goodness me! I wonder how you could think of it with anything like
ease or comfort. It would make me all of a freeze!”
“Oh, Margaret! when the soldier is in the field of battle, he must get
the better of all feelings, save those of honour.”
“It is too true!” said Margaret, with a sigh.
“And then,” said Colonel Deverill, “we, having arranged our plans, and
settled who was to take the command, if I had the mischance to fall——”
“Good Heavens!”
“Well, I say, having done all this, we were resolved to make a dash
at the point, and take the place by assault. To do this the more
effectually, we were resolved to make the attempt in three different
places at once, so as to divert the enemy’s attention, and to place
them in a cross fire, and thus take them the more easily.
“This plan was carried out to the letter, and we made the attack; but
the enemy defended their stockade so vigorously, and what with the
strength of the place, and the determination of the enemy, we were for
some time repulsed—at least, held at bay.
“This would never do, I thought. I must mount the breach myself;
for, if my division was held at bay, I had fears of the rest; they
might meet repulses also, which would occasion the loss of our whole
party, which would have been sure destruction; not defeat alone, but
imprisonment, and possibly death from ill-usage, or from malignant
disorders.”
“What fearful scenes!”
“I ordered my men to keep close and follow me. We made a dash at the
stockade three abreast, and up we went. By Jove, it was fine work—a
brave sight—a sight I can never forget while I have remembrance left
me. We got up the stockade Heaven knows how, and were over it in the
space of a minute; but the impetuosity of those who came first was not
seconded by those who came after; it was easy enough to get down among
the Indians, but it was very hard to get up; and while our friends were
getting up, we were exposed to the strength of hundreds—only four men
to as many hundreds for several minutes.”
[Illustration: The colonel attacks the stockade.]
“Goodness, how dreadful! Were you not all killed?”
“Except for myself, they were all killed. Each received a dozen wounds,
and I should have met with the same fate, but for an Indian officer,
who, seeing me surrounded and thrown down, saved my life from the fury
of his men; but, in a minute after, I was free—my own men came down by
dozens, and the blacks were swept off by the hundred.
“At that moment, too, there were our other parties just appearing over
the other parts of the stockade, so we had now plenty of assistance.
“The blacks now on all sides fell in numbers before the fire, and the
place was our own; and a hearty cheer was given that made the woods
re-echo again.”
“Were you not glad the danger was over?”
“The danger was not over, though we thought it was; for suddenly the
earth heaved up with a tremendous explosion, and many of our poor
fellows were blown up into the air, and I myself was completely knocked
over and smothered in dirt; however, it was dry, and we were soon put
to rights again. I was picked up, and nothing more happened.”
“What was the cause of your disaster?”
“Oh, a mine the scamps had sprung as they were retiring, hoping to do
us more mischief than they did; however, we beat them off, and they
lost many men on that occasion, and did not show themselves again, but
made the best of their way through the woods and jungle by some paths
that we did not know, and hence we did not follow them further.”
“It must have been dreadfully dangerous.”
“Yes, life was the game we played for, and it was won and lost often
enough, during that war; but we must expect it should be so.”
“But you are now safe.”
“Yes, I am now safe, and, I may say, happy. I have had some knocks, and
am none the better for them bodily; but then I have had them well paid
for, so I must not complain. I have now but one object to attain before
I die.”
“And what may that be, colonel, if it be no secret?”
“It is not to you, Miss Meredith,” said the colonel; “it is an early
day—a day on which I may claim you as my own; then, indeed, I shall
have lived and accomplished something; an object worth living for, and,
may I say so, worth dying for.”
“Ah, I hope you may live many years yet, colonel—many years of life and
happiness, to enjoy the fortune you have so gallantly won. Indeed, I
think no fortune ought to give so much joy as the soldier’s.”
“And why, Miss Meredith?”
“Because there is none so arduously won; won often with bloodshed, and
even life; it ought, indeed, to give great and lasting happiness.”
“If I obtain my wishes, I shall be the happiest man in the universe;
and I would go through all I have gone through over—aye, twice over,
and that is no little—to have such a reward as the one I now seek—it is
the crowning happiness of my life.”
“You are very kind to say all this——”
“Aye, but I mean it. It is no common compliment,” said the colonel; “I
mean what I say, most earnestly. Do you believe what I say? I am not
used to the pretty speeches of young men who make love—perhaps I ought;
but I am an old soldier, and am but little used to these ways; however,
I have spoken my mind, and I hope you will not allow any one else to
injure my cause.”
“Anything you have said, Colonel Deverill, has been of too serious a
nature for me to think of anything save the object itself. Your conduct
has been that of a gentleman, and I should be wanting in respect to
myself, and courtesy to you, to think otherwise than seriously of it,”
was the wily reply of Margaret.
“You have my own thoughts,” said the colonel.
“There is my ma’,” said Margaret, as the knocker and bell sounded.
“You will do your utmost with Mrs. Meredith for me, and I will beseech
her myself,” said the colonel; “I hope she will take things in a
favourable light.”