THE FATE OF ELLINOR.
We left Ellinor smarting keenly under the memory of how Lord Dunkeld
and the two ladies of his family ignored all recognition of her
presence in the Jungfernsteig, and the despairing mood of mind in
which she was brought back by Gaiters and the Erau Wyburg to the
gloomy house by the Bleichen Fleet.
The expression of her face at that time seemed to tell simply of one
who endured life till death might come.
'Escape from this--oh, how to escape!' she wailed, as she wrung her
slender hands in bitter helplessness.
Her windows were always fastened beyond her power of opening them,
and the water of the Fleet was fully twenty feet below them, so
escape in that direction was not to be thought of.
The evening of the fourth day of her intolerable captivity was
drawing to a close when Ellinor made a discovery by the merest chance.
That which appeared to be the back of the antique wardrobe in her
room proved in reality to be a door, though partially concealed by
garments hung on pegs screwed into it.
A door! Whither did it lead? To ask Lenchen would at once excite
suspicion, and perhaps deprive her of the power of utilising it if
possible. This discovery excited her alarm more than hope or
curiosity, for though she was able as yet to secure her chamber-door
on the inside at night--or was permitted to do so--her privacy might,
she naturally thought, be violated at any time by this new and
unexpected avenue, which she resolved to explore.
The door-handle yielded to her touch; it fell backward, and she found
a comfortable, but narrow, old oak stair, the steps of which were
mouldy, damp, and worm-eaten. It descended at an angle, within the
thickness of the solid wall, some forty steps or so, and ended in an
opening that was without any door, and immediately overhung the
canal. Rusty hinges in the jambs showed that a door had once closed
this entrance to the house, but it had probably fallen to pieces and
never been replaced.
In short, it was simply one of the many back entrances from the
water, of which the mercantile community in many parts of Hamburg
still avail themselves, and showed that at one time, and before that
of its declension, the house of Herr Wyburg had been the residence of
some wealthy trader, whose boats had been rowed or pulled up to his
private door from the Brandenburger Hafen and under the Scharstein
Bridge.
Here was a source of escape suddenly found, and of which she might
avail herself; but the only boats she had ever seen pass that way
were those of the Vierlander vegetable dealers, and how was she to
make known to these people her peril and her wishes?
Frau Wyburg had said to her more than once, 'When in tribulation
there is nothing like keeping your mind easy and trusting in the
unexpected.'
And now the unexpected had come.
Dusk was closing--almost darkness--as she stood there looking at the
gloomy and turbid water of the Fleet, across which lights from the
house windows were already casting dim and tremulous lines of
radiance, while she felt her heart beating wildly as prayer and agony
mingled in her soul together; but the former was responded to, for
even while she stood there she saw a boat approaching, pulled along
by four seamen, and containing about a dozen soldiers, to whom she
called aloud for succour. They responded by banter, and were about
to push past on their way when a cry of despair escaped her, and then
she heard the voice of one who seemed to be in authority issue an
order.
The boat was steered in close to the entrance, and she sprang on
board to find herself among a party of Uhlans, who were all armed
with their carbines, and were under the command of him who had just
spoken--the fair-haired young Baron Holandsburg--and were a patrol of
the picket from the Dammthor Barracks in pursuit of two conscript
deserters.
Overcome by the intensity of her agitation, Ellinor was about to sink
down in a kind of heap, as it were, when his arm went round her in
support.
'My God!' he exclaimed; 'my God, it is the Fraulein Ellinor!'
He gave a wild, inquiring glance at the house from which she had
come, but its sombre mass gave him no information; he then took her
death-cold hands in his caressingly, and looked
entreatingly--encouragingly--into her drawn and tragic face.
To him a great pity and horror, with much of blank wonder, were
emphasised by its haggard expression, and her dazed, sunken eyes, as
she clung to him, and he felt he had no time then--as military duty
sternly required him to proceed--to inquire into the what, the
wherefore, and the how she came to be there!
He felt only sorrow and intense dismay, he knew not of what, but was
only certain that she had escaped death, or that something else very
dreadful must have occurred.
He felt thankful, however, that he had saved her in this sudden and
unexpected manner from some of the 'perils of nineteenth century
civilisation,' as the author of 'Altiora Peto' calls them.
By his order, the boat's head was put round, and pulled away for the
nearest landing-place--the Pulverthbrugge, from whence he could have
her conveyed at once to Altona.
When again he saw her on the following day in the pretty drawing-room
of the villa, with her head resting on Mary's shoulder and Mary's arm
round her, and Mrs. Deroubigne hovering near, though colourless as a
lily, she was scarcely like the same ghastly and hunted creature he
had rescued in the boat, from whom he had so much to learn, and whose
adventures had been so perilous.
She looked so pretty--so beautiful indeed--in her simple cotton
morning dress, with its delicate crisp puffs and frillings, with her
gentle eyes and pure, perfect face, that the young baron sighed to
think she was not, and never might be, his!
And yet she owed him, by the chance of fate, a mighty debt of
gratitude.
Her story was barely concluded when, with something that sounded very
naughty on his lips in his anger, he put his sword under his arm and
departed to look after that _schelm_ Sleath and the Wyburgs too.
'Poor foolish Ellinor,' thought he, as he galloped his horse towards
the Rathhaus Strasse, 'if she could not love, she always had a look
of passionless affection for me--warm friendship shall I call it?
Yet her bright face was somewhat delusive, for she would never love,
nor flirt, nor even chatter nonsense with me.'
Ellinor knew not exactly the names of those who had been in league
with Sleath against her, nor could she describe the exact locality of
the house in which they had detained her, but the baron knew where he
had found her, and with the police and some of the Uhlans who had
been with him on the preceding night, proceeded by boat up the
Bleichen Fleet; but, just as they were about to penetrate by the open
back entrance, a loud explosion was heard high over head, and a
quantity of bricks, tiles, and old timber came tumbling down to
splash in the canal.
'Der Teufel! what is this!' exclaimed the baron, 'are we at the siege
of Paris again?'
But, though the house was closely examined, the mingled tragedy and
catastrophe which Herr Wyburg's revengeful scheme had brought about
was never quite explained.
Mr. John Gaiters heard betimes of a dead and mangled body, answering
to the description of his master, being discovered in the
half-blown-up house; and found himself without a place and also
without a character.
He applied a cambric handkerchief--one of Sir Redmond's--to his eyes,
and then anathematised them. He then took possession of his late
master's portmanteaux at the 'Hotel Russie,' lit a cigarette, and
went leisurely on board the London steamer at the Hafenbasin, and
Hamburg knew him no more.
The public prints had made all interested therein, aware that Leslie
Colville and another, described variously as Taimar of the Guide
Corps, and Corporal Wodrow of the 10th Hussars, had escaped the
massacre and were safe.
Colville safe and living still! What an awful burden was now doubly
lifted from the heart of Mary--a heart too full for words.
It was natural for her to have hope at her years; but the tidings of
the slaughter at the Residency seemed to crush all hope for ever.
A telegram first came from Colville, and ere long there was actually
a letter from Robert Wodrow.
'Forgive me, beloved Ellinor, as I have forgiven and forgotten a
portion of our past,' he wrote, gently and humbly. 'Because that
fellow Sleath was a rascal, you do not mean to go through life "a
maiden all forlorn." And so you still stick to me alone, in spite of
what people may say--a poor corporal of Hussars as yet. When I think
of you sought after, admired, and doubtless loved by dozens of
fellows, better a thousand degrees than luckless Bob Wodrow; I can
but trust to your heart holding the memory of me against them
all--for a memory it may be, Ellinor, as I am not out of this
perilous Afghanistan yet--and a year ago I never thought to be _here_.
"The poison is yet in my brain, love,
The thorn in my flesh, for you know
'Twas only a year ago, love,
'Twas only a year ago."
And Ellinor wept as she read the words his hands had traced.
A few more references to history.
A clasp for Charasiah was ordered to be worn with the war medal, but
ere he saw Ellinor, Robert Wodrow had yet to win the bronze star
awarded to all who shared in Roberts's famous march to Candahar.
'After all the peril faced and glory won, are we to give up
Candahar--after _all_?' was the ever-recurring question among the
soldiers of our army, as they marched back to India, and felt that,
though Roberts had restored our prestige, all the honour gained in
battle would be lost if we failed to retain Candahar.
Through the gates of that city have all the great conquerors of India
come--Alexander and Timor, Genghis Khan and Nadir Shah; it bars the
approach to India from the north and west, and the power that holds
it--as one day Russia will--commands both Cabul and Herat.
The facilities for attacking India from it are innumerable, and, as
Sir Edward Hamley has it, 'I believe the concurrent testimony of all
Indians is that there is no territory on which it would be more
perilous to give our enemy the chance of winning a battle than our
Indian Empire.'
General Roberts, in a minute to the Government, 29th May, 1880, urged
'that our grasp on Candahar should never be loosened,' and that its
military retention was of vital importance to us in all wars
connected with the Afghans or Russians in Central Asia. Lord Napier
of Magdala, Sir George Lawrence, Sir Henry Rawlinson, and all other
high authorities on Indian military affairs, have spoken or written
in the same tone on this all-important subject; yet, in defiance of
their opinions, Candahar was handed over to the Ameer, and since then
the Russian eagle has laid its talons on Merv!