DARK DAYS.
"Well, thank Heaven, they are separated at last!" was Lady
Wedderburn's mental congratulation, as she saw, but not without
emotions of pity and suspicion mingled, the pale girl--her soul wrung
with uncontrollable anguish--retire to her own room after the
departure of Horace; but she knew not how inexpressibly dear they had
become to each other, by that very separation.
In oppressive dulness the weeks succeeded each other now, for as the
family were in mourning still for Uncle Wedderburn, the visitors were
fewer than usual at Willowdean; and it was not until the fourth or
fifth day, and when a letter arrived, dated at Chatham Barracks from
Horace and addressed to his aunt, that Gwenny realized to the full
the fact of his absence.
"Horace gone," thought she; "Horace (like Scott's 'Quentin Blane') so
gentle-voiced and gentle-eyed, who looked like one whom all the world
had frowned on, oh! what a dreary void, what a blank her life would
be now! There were no more drives, or walks, or rides together; no
more reading together, and no more sweet companionship."
But Horace, she knew, would be sad, even as she was herself; and who
could comfort him? and who fill her place?
And the confidence and innocent truth of her own heart told
her--_none_!
How happily the past three months had fled! Oh! how she missed him,
and wept and sorrowed in secret for his absence from a house where no
one seemed particularly to care for him; for Robert Wedderburn was
cold and selfish, hence perhaps his legal predilections; Sir John was
incessantly occupied by all the cares that take up the time of a
sporting country gentleman; by politics, county meetings, and the
internal affairs of the little burgh of Willowdean, where he was
viewed as a species of potentate, even by the ministers of the three
Presbyterian denominations who had churches there and Christian
hearers who hated each other most cordially. As for Lady Wedderburn,
she had special views and wishes, that made her approve of Horace
being away, though he was soon to be face to face with death and
suffering.
The piano Gwenny would touch no more, for the music so powerfully
reminded her of his presence and voice, as to give her absolute pain.
Her worsted work, her embroidery, her flowers and the birds she had
brought from India, had all become distasteful to her; and so were
her books, though these were full of passages he had marked, poor
boy--for he was not much more than a boy after all; and fast fell her
tears as she re-read them.
"Alone--alone! oh, I am now so much alone!" she would say.
Her engagement-ring, which, curiously enough, escaped Lady
Wedderburn's attention among the others that glittered on Gwenny's
white fingers, and which had cost poor Horace a couple of months'
pay, she was never weary of looking at, during the first few weeks of
their separation; even as another sad girl was looking at her
plainer--but equally, or perhaps more beloved hoop, which from its
form was emblematic of something more than a mere betrothal ring.
In her separation, Gwenny had no wound to her self-love, such as that
which tortured the heart of Mary Lennox; the consciousness that one
of whose whole soul and thoughts she had been empress, to whom her
least word was law, her smiles and glances happiness, had cast off
his allegiance, was neglecting and ignoring her, and seeking to
forget her as one who would disgrace him.
The joy and excitement of Gwendoleyne when letters came from Horace,
and her normal condition of sadness, were alike ignored by Lady
Wedderburn, though the latter was viewed with some concern by
good-natured, but unthinking Sir John.
"Well, Gwenny, my summer blossom, why so sad? Thinking of your
Indian home and poor papa--eh?" he would ask at times, and suppose
that such were her thoughts as he received no direct reply; and then
his handsome sun-burned hand would caress her dark hair, which was
always dressed to perfection by the skilful fingers of her ayah
Zillah, the Madrassee; but she wore fewer ornaments now, for there
was no one at Willowdean whose eye she cared to please.
And so the summer months stole on.
Horace was as yet at crowded and bustling Chatham, where the drills
and duties were hard and incessant; and unremitting too were the
departures of troops for the East, amid the cheers of the people, the
crash of music, and the clangour of bells; and he knew that the time
for him to go must arrive soon, for the grim fever king was thinning
fast the ranks of his regiment at Varna. But never before had Horace
seemed in such an affectionate mood to his aunt, and never had he
written to her so many letters, so that at times she had, most
unwillingly, to depute "the task" of answering them to Gwenny, the
first sight of whose handwriting made Horace start as if electrified
when he received a letter in Chatham barrackyard.
"Dear Aunt Wedderburn has desired me to write in her place; she has
one of her nervous headaches to-day, and neither Dr. Squills, nor
Miss M'Caw with Rimmel, can make anything of her."
He could read no further, for now the bugle sounded; but Gwenny's
presence seemed beside him--Gwenny in her innocent love and artless
girlhood--and he became so bewildered, that as the exasperated
adjutant said, "he made a mull of the whole day's drill by his
blunders, by twice marching a camp colour through the centre of his
company, and repeatedly throwing the whole line out!"
Attended by an old groom, Gwenny often rode to the places she and
Horace had visited, and his stories of the quaint old world that was
past, came back to her memory with many a sweet and pleasant
association; but how dull, how lonely and valueless seemed all those
places now, for he whose presence had shed a charm over them, was no
longer by her side.
The evening sun setting in gold and amber clouds beyond the purple
ridges of the Lammermuirs; the beautiful flowers in the garden, even
those he and she had planted (the seedlings "from dear papa's house
in the Choultry"), expanding under the summer warmth; the rippling
grass, the growing corn on the upland slopes, the green waves
breaking in surf on the rocky shore, were all alike gloomy and
discordant, for Horace was not there, and never more might be, the
most terrible reflection of all! Had she but known the solitary Mary
Lennox, what delightful companions they would have been, with their
community of thought and wishes; for though their positions in
fortune were widely different, their hopes were one.
Arrangements had been made to join Lady Ernescleugh in London during
the season; but now Lady Wedderburn, on hearing from Cyril's letters
and the public prints, of the disease and horrors by which, through
the utter inertia of the Ministry, our splendid army was literally
withering away at Varna, shrunk from the idea of leaving Willowdean
for a house in town and entering into gaiety, so the family remained
at home.
Though it has been truly written that "three months of a London
season teach us more than six months in the country," Lady Wedderburn
had no desire that her niece's mind should become so much
enlightened; so even the mixed and melancholy gaieties of Edinburgh
were eschewed, and young gentlemen visitors by no means encouraged.
So the girl would sigh with utter weariness when visitors came who
talked only of crops and cattle, or the county pack; or when the
Reverend Mr. M'Guffog paid a solemn and fussy visit, for then the
conversation ran entirely on matters clerical. And thus Gwenny
learned for the first time that there was a Scottish Established
Church, a Dissenting Episcopal Church with bishops, a Free Kirk which
had none, and other roads to heaven without number; and she heard of
petty squabbles about religious forms, if the utter absence of any
could be so called. The pharisees seemed the most powerful sect of
all; and she would listen in vacant wonder to the discussion of
affairs that seemed as incomprehensible as the difference between
Parsees and Hindoos, Brahmins, Bheels and Khonds; but much less
picturesque.
Summer we have said had come; the scarlet poppies and blue
cornflowers studding the golden fields of the Home Farm, pleased the
eyes of Gwenny more than those of Sir John, who viewed them as weeds,
and a bore; and Lady Wedderburn sighed when she thought of all that
might happen, and all her eldest son must face before that corn was
reaped and ground, for it was evident that our army would soon take
the field, and be where hard knocks were going, as the Ministry, with
a stupidity, if not worse, that has few parallels in history, was
only waiting for _winter_ to commence the Russian campaign.
Once, peace and war had only been empty words to many a heart and
household; but they had a terrible significance now.
The Turks had compelled the Russians to raise the siege of Silistria,
and driven them across the Danube; our ships of war had destroyed the
batteries of Sulina, a Bessarabian village at the mouth of that
river; the battle of Bayazid was fought in Armenia; Bomarsund, in the
Baltic, had been bombarded by land and sea, and utterly destroyed by
old Sir Charles Napier; and now many new and barbarous names of
places almost never heard of before became at every table and
fireside at home in Great Britain familiar in the mouths of all "as
household words;" and even Lady Ernescleugh wrote Lady Wedderburn, to
announce that, with some friends, she was actually thinking of going
to Constantinople in Everard's yacht.
"My friend Lord Cardigan's yacht has already sailed; would you care
to join us?" she added; and then followed a catalogue of many events
of the London season: the debts and difficulties of some, the
flirtations, matches, and jiltings of others--threatened duels, for
that fashion of adjusting disputes had barely gone out.
"What if Cyril saw Gwenny now, or after the lapse of some months?"
thought Lady Wedderburn. "Yes, we shall go; and perhaps I may get
leave for him to come back with me on 'urgent private affairs,' as so
many contrive to do now. Yes--yes, I must bring my dear boy away
from that odious place before the fighting begins with us."
But Sir John was opposed to the scheme as eccentric, and so far as
regarded Cyril, incompatible with honour. The yacht required
complete refitting, and the plans of Lady Ernescleugh were delayed
for a time.
Though an active and obstinate opponent of Lord Aberdeen's
government; and one who mistrusted him personally and as a minister,
Sir John gave a large dinner party to a few neighbours and local
notabilities, on news coming of the surrender of Bomarsund to Napier
and General Baraguay d'Hilliers, when two thousand two hundred
Russians were taken prisoners; and to his guests he bitterly reviled
the Ministry for their delays and utter mismanagement of the war, and
the mode by which, through their previous reductions and
retrenchments, they had crippled our power by land and sea, so that
our very arsenals could scarcely furnish shot for the first siege
trains, while the entrenching tools issued to the troops had been
condemned as worthless by the Duke of Wellington in Spain forty-three
years before; and in conclusion, he quoted that fine sentence of Sir
William Napier, whose words are terrible in their significance and
truth. "In the beginning of each war, England has to seek in blood
the knowledge necessary to insure success, and, like the fiend's
progress towards Eden, her conquering course is through chaos,
followed by Death!"*
* "History of the Peninsular War."
"Sae that evil-minded neer-do-weel, Chesters o' Chesterhaugh, has
gone to help the Turks in person," said the Baron-Bailie of
Willowdean, who officiated as croupier; "think ye it is true news,
Sir John?"
"Yes; he has been gazetted to a majority in the Turkish contingent,"
replied Sir John, laughing.
"A major o' Bashi Bozooks, whatever they be!" said the Reverend Mr.
M'Guffog, lifting up his dreary eyes; "the Lord be good to us!"
"It's just what we micht hae expected o' siccan a loon, sirs,"
resumed the irate bailie, who, being a grocer and general dealer,
ranked heavily as a creditor against Chesters; "he's mair a Turk than
a Christian by nature, and will find himsel' quite at hame amang
their harem-scarems, I warrant."
The mention of Chesters' name, by a direct association of ideas
caused a reference to be made to the decayed Laird of Lonewoodlee,
and the _esclandre_ concerning his pretty daughter.
Sir John, his son, and several gentlemen who were present, were
disposed to express their disbelief of the matter, or their hopes at
least, that the Master of Ernescleugh had been mistaken on the night
in question; but the Baron-Bailie, who was a strict Sabbatarian, and
vehement expounder in public on religion and morality, and who
naturally took the worst views of human nature, maintained that "the
young leddy had doubtless gude reasons o' her ain for her mysterious
visits to such a man; and evil or no evil, there was aye some water
found where the stirkie droons," a Scottish proverb which is supposed
to infer a vast deal more than one may dare to say; and as she
listened, again in her heart did Lady Wedderburn congratulate herself
on the escape of her eldest son "from the snares of that designing
girl."
Singularly enough, the next day was to behold somewhat of a change in
her views regarding Mary Lennox.
Just as she and Gwenny were setting forth in the basket-phaeton which
was drawn by a pretty pair of Orkney ponies, for a drive as far as
the town of Greenlaw, a man whose face seemed not unfamiliar,
approached, and respectfully lifting his bonnet, craved a few words
"with her Ladyship."
"I think I know your face," said she, pausing, whip in hand, and
bowing pleasantly to encourage him.
"I am Tony Heron, my lady, a gate-keeper at Chesterhaugh."
"Well, Tony, what can I do for you?"
"Much, madam, if you are but willing, and a' in the Merse ken how
kind you are to the poor. I have a wife and five wee bairns that can
neither work nor want. They are a' thrown on my hands, which are
empty, for the Mansion House is you know shut up; Chesters has gone
to the wars; the servants are all dismissed, and I have got notice to
quit too, from Grub and Wylie, the writers."
"Poor man!" said Gwenny, beginning to open her purse; but Lady
Wedderburn checked her, for the man, who saw she had mistaken his
intended appeal, blushed scarlet and drew back.
"You want employment, I presume?"
"Just so, my lady; and if you or Sir John could find me something to
do about Willowdean, to put a little bread into the bairns' mouths,
I'd be beholden to you for life. I have been twenty years in
service, and have a good character."
"But from a bad master."
"I was servant to the good laird his father, before him."
"I fear you may find it a poor recommendation to Sir John having been
at Chesterhaugh."
"So I hear on all hands now," said the other, with a sigh of
bitterness; "but no man can say a word derogatory to the character of
Tony Heron."
"Well, I shall speak to Sir John and the ground bailie, and do what I
can for you, Tony, were it but for the children's sake."
The man's eyes kindled with gratitude; but he was not profuse in
thanks; for Scotchmen, reserved at all times, seldom are so.
Suddenly, checking her ponies again, Lady Wedderburn asked--
"Were you the gate-keeper who was cognisant of the visits Miss Lennox
paid your bachelor master?"
"Miss Lennox never visited my master," replied the man with a glance
of genuine surprise.
"But you must have heard it said that she did?" continued Lady
Wedderburn, looking astonished in turn.
"I have heard, my lady, what a' the countryside has been ringing wi';
but Miss Lennox was never, to my knowledge, at Chesterhaugh save
once, and then she came to visit me."
"You--about what--or for what reason?"
"She came in the evening, about the sunset time, to make some inquiry
anent the terrible night when Mr. Cyril--that is, Captain
Wedderburn--went amissing; to ask me the hour he left--if his horse
was restive, and so forth?"
"What interest could _she_ possibly have in the matter?" asked Lady
Wedderburn, rather haughtily, and with a heightened colour.
"Interest, my lady! Through a' the Lammermuirs, secret as they
thought it, it was well kent that they loved each other well and
truly, till some quarrel came between them. Just as she was asking
me all about the captain, poor thing, her heart seeming to be in her
mouth the while, the master lured her inside the gate, and then the
storm of hail and snow came suddenly on. She wished to take shelter
in my lodge; but the master would not hear of it, and half led, half
pulled her into the house, where he kept her till midnight, as his
hellicate groom, Billy Trayner, told us, by pretending that the
springs of his waggonette were broken; and that is the whole story,
my lady; and if I have told you a word that is untrue, may my puir
bairns lack the bread I'm seeking to win them!"
"Why did you not state this before?" asked Lady Wedderburn, angrily.
"To whom, my lady? Besides, it was not my place or interest to speak
against my master."
"True," she replied, and a keen emotion of remorse inspired her, as
she now saw that the poor girl in her love for Cyril--artful though
it might be--and her burning anxiety to learn tidings of him, after
that terrible night and time of suspense and dread, had permitted
herself to be lured into the false position we have so fully
described elsewhere, and which was so destructive to her peace of
mind and place in society.
"Call again to-morrow, Tony, and I shall see what can be done for
you. Meanwhile," she added, turning to Gwenny, "We must call openly
on Miss Lennox, and see if we cannot in some measure repair the
serious injury that has been done her."
"I don't think she will see you, my lady," said Tony Heron.
"Not see me--why?" she asked haughtily.
"Because as I passed the tower gate this morning, I heard the women
lamenting, for the Laird of Lonewoodlee had died in the night; and he
is the last of the auld Lennox line, my lady," added the man, with an
emotion of respect.
Lady Wedderburn, to do her justice, was inexpressibly shocked and
grieved when she heard of this, notwithstanding all the old quarrels
and coolnesses in the past time. She relinquished her idea of
driving, and sent Gervase Asloane with cards of condolence; and she
even in the first emotion of generosity wrote to Cyril on the
subject; but he never got her letter (as she was pleased to think, on
after-thoughts), for the mail steamer by which it went was cast away
in the Gulf of Salonica.
And, though she knew it not, times there were when Cyril's thoughts
flashed home, quicker than the electric wire could have brought them:
when he sat in his tent at Varna, gazing listlessly out upon the flat
shore, the vast blue semicircular bay, and the hideous, gloomy, and
dilapidated Bulgarian town, while his heart grew filled with
irritating doubts and vague regrets, and with the mournful image of
his lost Mary. Was she indeed false, as had been represented, and
with Rooke Chesters of all men? Had she forgotten him? Had
separation and time effaced his memory from her heart? Was he now as
one she had never known and never cared for?
"Well, well," he would think, "a few more weeks must see me at
Eupatoria, and a Russian bullet may solve all my doubts and
difficulties."
But we are somewhat anticipating the regular progress of our story.