TERRIBLE TIDINGS.
And now, when all seemed so fair and smooth, when I thought that at last
fortune had resolved to make amends for all her frowns--with Harry
looking forward hopefully to his new appointment in Australia, with
Polly engaged to a man whom I felt sure would make her happy, with five
and a half years passed since Percy left for India, and only two and a
half to look forward to, and these I felt sure would be happy ones,
spent as we had arranged that they should be, with Polly and her
husband--now was to come the blow which should shatter for ever my
fabric of happiness, and destroy at once all those plans which I had
vainly fancied were so fixed and settled.
It was the end of March. Polly was to be married in July. Early in the
month I had received my periodical letter from Percy. It was written in
his usual spirits; but there was one part of it which made me rather
uneasy at the time, although I did not think that it could be anything
serious. It was as follows:--
"You must not fidget yourself, dearest, about what I am going to say
now. I should not say it at all, but the fact is so notorious that I
have no doubt you will see allusions and accounts in the newspapers,
which will very likely, as newspapers often do, greatly exaggerate
matters, and had I not written to you on the subject, might make you
very uneasy. Some of the native troops are grumbling and disaffected. It
seems that some one has persuaded them that the cartridges they use are
greased with pig's fat, on purpose to destroy their caste. However, the
authorities are quite awake, and several of the regiments have been
disarmed; and there, no doubt, with a severe punishment of some of the
ringleaders, the matter will end. These scamps are too well treated,
and, like all men who are too well fed and too much petted, they must
find something to grumble at. The cartridge question is a mere pretext,
and could be at once avoided by withdrawing all the cartridges which
have been served, and letting the men make them for themselves. I
suppose it will blow over, as these things usually do; but the native
mind is certainly a good deal disturbed; strange rumours are going about
the country, and the natives in general have an idea that the Company's
raj, or rule, is going to end shortly; but I confess that, for my part,
I don't think John Company is at all likely to give up this trifling bit
of country in a hurry."
The rest of Percy's letter was written in his usual way, and was very
loving and tender. He said that in a little more than two years he
should be thinking of starting for England, and that as he had not
fallen in love with any native princess yet, he thought there was every
chance now of his claiming me when he got back. It was a very long
letter--longer even than usual; but long as it was, how often and often
I have read it over since!
It was the last I ever received from him.
The letter was written from a place in India then but little known in
England, although it has attained a terrible celebrity since. It was
dated from Lucknow, where Percy had recently been sent with a very good
staff appointment, his regiment being in quite another part of India.
The mail which brought his letter, brought, as he had predicted,
accounts of disaffection in the Bengal army; but still, no one thought
that it was anything very serious, and I did not feel at all uneasy, for
the scene where the regiments had been mutinous and were disarmed, was a
very long distance from the place where he was stationed.
The next mail brought news of how the disaffection was spreading--fresh
regiments had mutinied, and had been disbanded; and the next--oh, what a
throb of agony it sent through England!--told of risings and massacres,
and unutterable horrors. Oh, it was terrible! With what fearful anxiety
I waited, as thousands did in England at that dreadful time, for the
arrival of the next mail! and how that anxiety grew when the post only
brought darker and darker news, and tidings that at every station there
were risings and massacres.
Every one during that two months was very, very kind to me. We were very
quiet, for Harry brought no one in now, and Charley Horton was our only
visitor. He tried to moderate his big hearty voice for my sake, and
brought me down what cheering news he could from the City,--of how
people thought it would not spread farther, and that our troops would
soon get the upper hand again. I tried hard to believe him; but I could
not but feel that he only told me so to cheer me, and not because he
believed what he said.
At last one morning Harry went up as usual to catch the eight o'clock
train, but instead of going by it, came back in twenty minutes after he
had started. As he came in at the gate I saw that he had the paper in
his hand, and I felt intuitively that there was bad news in it, and that
he had come back to tell me.
"Do not be alarmed, Agnes," he said, as he came in, seeing the look of
terrible suspense on my face. "There is nothing about Percy in the
paper."
"Thank God!" I murmured.
"The news," he went on, "is only what we had almost expected. The last
mail told us that they were making every preparation; and with a man
like Lawrence to lead them, there is, I trust, no fear for their
ultimate safety. Still, darling, the news is undoubtedly bad. They have
risen at Lucknow. The garrison have retreated to the Residency. They
made a sortie at first to meet the rebels, who were marching towards the
town; but it seems that our men got the worst of it. So they blew up the
fort, which the last mail said they were fortifying, and all retired
into the Residency: it appears to be a fortified sort of place, and they
think they can hold out until relief comes."
This was terrible news. Harry gave me the paper, now, to look at. There
was a long list of telegrams about different stations and garrisons, but
that was all I read; it was nearly word for word as he had told me,
nothing more--but what could be worse? It was evident that the garrison
was terribly weak, or they would never have abandoned the post they had
so carefully fortified. Probably they had suffered dreadfully in that
sortie, and Percy was sure to have been among them.
Had he ever got back into Lucknow? and if so, could they hold out till
relief came? And where was it to come from? Oh, what a terrible four or
five days that was before the mail came in with the details of the news,
what a sickening agony of suspense I suffered!
At the end of that time all suspense, all hope was over.
The day that it was expected, Polly went down to the gate to watch if
Harry returned from the station, which he was sure to do if there was
news.
I could not stand there with her, but sat indoors watching her, with my
heart hardly beating, and my hands grasping tightly the arms of the
chair, as if to keep down the wild impulse which prompted me to rush
madly down to the station to see the paper. At last Polly moved, and
then went up the road, out of my sight, and I knew then that she saw
Harry coming back again, and that the news was in.
How long--oh, how long they were coming! I knew that, owing to a little
turn of the road, he could not have been more than a hundred yards off
when she caught sight of him, not fifty when she met him. Oh, how long
they were! and as second passed by after second--each second seeming an
age to me--and still they did not come, my heart sank lower and lower,
and hope died quite out. At last they appeared at the gate. I could not
see Harry's face, for it was bent down, but Polly's was as white as
death, and then I knew that Percy was killed.
I did not hear anything about it for some time afterwards: I remember
them coming in at the gate, and the sight of Polly's face, and the next
thing that I recollect, was that I was laying on the sofa, with Polly
crying softly over me, and Dr. Whitmore standing beside me.
Harry was not there, for he had cried so terribly, and had been so much
in the way, that the doctor had been obliged to send him out of the
room. I had been for a long time in a faint, so long that they had
become seriously alarmed, and had sent the servant to fetch the doctor;
but even with his aid, there had been a great difficulty in bringing me
round.
As soon as I recovered sufficiently to be moved, Harry came in and
carried me up to my room, and Polly got me into bed. I was very faint
and weak still, and soon dozed off to sleep. I believe, indeed, that Dr.
Whitmore gave me some powerful sedative. It was not till next day that I
was recovered sufficiently to ask any questions. I had never been told
that Percy was dead, but I knew it as well as if they had spoken; they
saw that I knew it, and had not even alluded to the subject.
"Let me see the account," I said at last.
"Are you strong enough, darling?" Polly said, anxiously.
"Yes, it cannot do me any harm, Polly. I know the worst; please let me
see how it was."
Polly in silence fetched the paper, folded it down to the place, and
gave it to me. It was the account of that disastrous sortie made from
Lucknow just before the siege began. In the account of the retreat of
the little column back to the town, during which so many noble fellows
fell, were the words: "Among the little troop of cavalry, composed
principally of officers either on the staff, or who had found their way
to Lucknow, where their regiments had mutinied, Lieutenant Desborough,
of the Lancers, greatly distinguished himself, until, heading a gallant
charge to check the pursuing rebels, he fell. He had already, earlier in
the day, been wounded, but not so badly as to prevent his keeping his
seat. In common with nearly every one who fell, it was impossible, from
the close pursuit of the rebels, to bring off his body."
Two or three times I read through the paragraph and then turned round
wearily to the wall. This was the end then. My Percy was dead, and there
was not even the consolation of knowing that he had been laid tenderly
in some quiet churchyard, there to wait, under that burning Indian sky,
till the time should come, when we should again meet, and never part
more. But now I could not even think of him so; I had not even that
consolation; I could not think of him as lying anywhere; his body had
fallen into the hands of the rebels, to be hacked and mutilated, before
they left it to the jackals and wild dogs. I could not think of him at
all, it was too horrible--Oh, Percy, Percy!
The next day Ada came down to see me. Grieved and shocked as she was,
the dear girl had thought of me, and of my sorrow--greater even than
hers--and so had driven down in her brougham to see me.
Polly left us to ourselves, and Ada cried with me, and talked with me
over her dead brother, till our tears ceased to flow so fast, and we
were both comforted.
The next day I was about the house again, and the next Polly went to
London to buy mourning for me. Not for herself, although she had
intended to do so, but I would not allow it. I pointed out to her that
Harry would sail in little over three months now, and that it was
absolutely necessary that our original plan should be carried out, and
that she should be married before he started. I showed her how
inconvenient delay would be; for that we had given notice to give up the
house at that time, and I knew the landlord had already found a tenant
for it, and that therefore there would be nowhere for her to be married
from. Consequently, that our plans must hold good as before intended,
and it would be a useless expense for her to go into mourning.
Polly endeavoured at first to argue that her marriage should be
postponed; but finding that I would not hear of it, and seeing that it
really would be very inconvenient, she gave way. However, when she came
back from town, I found that she had bought a black dress and bonnet for
herself, to wear until her marriage.
Charley Horton came that evening. I did not see him, but Polly did, and
had a long talk with him. Polly told me afterwards that directly he came
in and had inquired after me, he said--
"Well, Polly, all we can do is to try hard to make your poor sister as
happy as we can. Her loss will in one way be your gain, Polly; for she
would have gone back with her husband to India, and you would not have
seen her for years. Now, you will be always able to keep her with you,
as of course she will live with us, you know."
Polly thereupon, as she confided to me, straightway bestowed upon
Charley, to his great embarrassment and delight, the first kiss which
she had yet vouchsafed him.
"Do you know, my dear old bear, that only this afternoon I was thinking
that, perhaps, we should not be married after all?"
"You don't say so, Polly," Charley said, in great astonishment; "and why
not?"
"Well you see, Charley, I cannot leave Agnes now, and if you had raised
the least difficulty or question----"
"Oh, come now, Polly, dash it----I beg your pardon, but I can't help it.
No, really now, that is too bad. Why I should be glad, very glad to have
Agnes to live with us. I like her almost as much as I do you. Not so
well you know, Polly, and in a different sort of way, but still very
much. And even if I did not----No, really now, Polly, that's not fair
on a man."
"Never mind, Charley, it is all right now; but you see I was thinking so
much of my sister and of her life, that I almost forgot what a good old
bear it is, and you don't know how pleased I am that you have spoken as
you have done."
Polly then had a serious talk with him; for he was of course anxious to
know whether she wished her marriage postponed. But she told him what I
had said against any alteration being made in the time; and so to his
great pleasure it was settled that things should remain as previously
arranged. When Charley had gone, Polly came up to me to tell me how
warmly and sincerely he had expressed his pleasure at the thought of my
taking up my permanent residence with them.
I expressed my earnest satisfaction; for I would not for worlds have
damped her pleasure by telling her what my own resolve was. Indeed, I
was firmly convinced that had she known it, much as she loved Charley,
Polly would have at once broken off her engagement with him; for I had
quite made up my mind that I would not on any account live with her and
her husband. It was not so much that I did not wish to inflict my
dulness upon her, for I knew how kindly they would bear with me; but I
felt quite unequal to join even in home society like theirs. I was
certain that at any rate for a very, very long time I should be a sad,
unsociable woman. I had lived so many years on hope, that now that hope
was gone I seemed to have nothing more to live for. I knew that I should
not for years be fit to join in society. I felt already old and strange;
the light and youth seemed at once to have faded out of my life. I was
resolved that I would return to Canterbury and take up my abode there.
My heart seemed to yearn for the dear old town, with its tranquil,
sleepy ways, and I felt that it would harmonize well with my changed
life, and that I should be calmer, more resigned and tranquil, there
than I could be anywhere else. And now my next thought was of Harry. Why
should he not take a wife with him on his long journey?
I asked him this the first time that I had an opportunity of speaking to
him alone. After much pressing he owned that when he first accepted the
appointment he had thought of it; but that these Indian troubles had
begun, and while I was so anxious and troubled he could not be thinking
of marrying; but he said that he had spoken to Nelly Planter, and that
she had agreed to wait three years until he came back to fetch her. But
I cried--
"No, no, Harry; take her with you. No more waiting. Oh, think of my
ruined life, Harry, and don't ask her to wait! Go at once, Harry! go at
once, and persuade her to go with you. There are three months yet."
I would not let Harry rest till he went. He was away two hours, and when
he came back I saw by his face that he had succeeded, and that his wife
would accompany him on his journey.
I pass over those three months. I tried hard for Harry and Polly's sake
to keep up, and as there was so much to do with his outfit and her
trousseau, I succeeded pretty well.
It was a very quiet double wedding in the old Putney church. I could not
trust myself to go with them, but went in to Rupert Planter's, where
they had a quiet breakfast afterwards. When they had finished, I said
good-bye to Harry and my new sister--good-bye for a long time, for they
were to start at once and go down to Plymouth, where the ship they were
to sail in would touch in a week's time. Charley and Polly were going up
the Rhine. They all said good-bye, and started together. I did not
cry--I could not--I did not feel as if anything but my own sad thoughts
could ever make me cry again. I then went off to Ada's, where my things
had been sent the night before. I did not return to Daisy Villa, for all
had been arranged for our leaving; everything was packed and ready, and
Rupert Planter willingly promised to see the boxes off, and to hand the
house over to the landlord. Our servant was to go down for three weeks
to Canterbury to see her friends, and was then to come back to Polly's
new home, which was a pretty villa on Putney Hill. There I was to meet
her, and was to get everything ready for her new master and mistress's
return. And so I went to Ada's for three weeks; very, very kind she was
to me during that time, and so was her husband. Ada told me that her
mother felt Percy's death terribly, and that it seemed quite to have
crushed her. Ada was sure, although Lady Desborough had not said so to
her, that she bitterly regretted now the course she had taken with
reference to his engagement with me.
Thus it often is with us, we take a course, and we keep to it, as if we
were infallible, and we allow nothing to alter our convictions. We
persuade ourselves that we are right, and we hold on our course unmoved.
Death steps in: and now, when the past is irrevocable, the scales that
have so long darkened our eyes, fall at once to the ground, and we see
that we were wrong after all. How much cruel conduct, how many harsh
words, how many little unkindnesses do we wish unspoken and undone when
we look upon a dead face we have loved, or stand by the side of a
new-made grave! how we wish--how we wish that we could but have the time
over again! Perhaps in past times we were quite content with our own
conduct; we had no doubts in our mind but that we always did what was
right and kind, and that we were in every way doing our duty. But now in
what a different light do right and duty appear! how we regret that we
ever caused tears to flow from those dear eyes, now never to open again!
why could we not have made those small concessions which would have cost
us so little, why were we so hard upon that trifling fault, why so
impatient with that little failing? Ah me! ah me! if we could but live
our lives over again, how different, oh, how different it should be! And
yet while we say this, we do not think that there are others yet alive
upon whose faults we are just as hard, with whose failings we bear just
as little, and that these, too, may some day go down into the quiet
grave, and that we may again have to stand beside and cry "peccavi."
And so with Lady Desborough; now that Percy was dead, and her
repentance--as far as he was concerned--came too late, she murmured and
grieved bitterly over what she had done. I did not see her while I
stayed at Ada's, but she sent a very pitiable message to me by her
daughter, praying me to forgive her. I sent back to say that I forgave
and pitied her, but I was obliged to decline an interview, which she
asked for, that she might personally express her contrition, as I was
not equal to such a scene. Before I left Ada's I told her of my
intention of taking up my residence at Canterbury, she would have
combated the idea, but I told her at once that my mind was made up, at
any rate for some time. I had already had a correspondence with Mrs.
Mapleside, a very old friend of ours at Canterbury, and had accepted her
invitation to stay with her until I settled myself there. From Ada's
home I went to Polly's pretty new abode, and saw that everything was in
readiness for their return; and I then left, on the afternoon of the day
they were to come back, leaving a letter for Polly stating my
determination and my reasons for it. I told her that I knew that she
would be grieved, but that I begged her not to try and change my
determination, which was immoveable; and I promised to come up every six
months and stay for a fortnight at least with her. Polly wrote in return
quite heart-broken; but sorry as I was for the grief I knew my darling
was suffering for my sake, I was still sure that I had acted for the
best and that my life would never be fit to mingle with gay happy
society, while in dear old Canterbury it might at least flow easily and
tranquilly along.