MICHAEL
'And when God found in the hollow of His hand
This ball of Earth among His other balls,
And set it in His shining firmament,
Between the greater and the lesser lights,
He chose it for the Star of Suffering.'
UGO BASSI.
It is better to draw a veil over the scene that followed Audrey's abrupt
announcement. As Captain Burnett said afterwards, 'Geraldine's attitude
was superb; she was grand, absolutely grand.'
Mrs. Ross was, as usual, a little plaintive.
'If you had only mentioned where you were going, Audrey,' she said
quietly; 'but you are so impulsive, my dear. Geraldine would have
accompanied you with pleasure a little later, and you could have left my
card, and a civil message for Mrs. Blake; that would have been far
nicer, would it not, my love?' with an appealing look at her young
adviser.
'You can send the message by Mr. Blake this evening,' replied Audrey.
She never argued with her mother if she could possibly help it. In the
first place, it was not filial, and in the second, it was perfectly
useless, as there was always a mental reservation in Mrs. Ross's mind,
and she could seldom be induced to decide any question without reference
to Geraldine.
'I think father might have consulted Percival before he asked another
guest,' observed Mrs. Harcourt in rather a dubious tone, for she was
exceedingly jealous of her husband's dignity. 'Percival was told that we
were to be quite alone. I was not going home to change my dress. But if
this young man be invited----'
'My darling,' interrupted her mother, 'you must not think of walking
back all that way--that gown is lovely, is it not, Audrey?--and one more
person does not signify. No doubt your father was anxious that Percival
should see Mr. Blake and give him his opinion; he thinks so much of
Percival's judgment, does he not, Audrey?'
Now here was the opportunity for a douceur, for a nicely-adjusted
compliment, to smooth her sister's ruffled brow; but Audrey was far too
blunt and truthful for such finesse.
'Father told me that he wanted Michael to see Mr. Blake--I don't believe
he was thinking of Percival--because of course the lower school has
nothing to do with Hillside. There is not the least need of changing
your gown, Gage, for of course we are only a family party. Will you come
up with me to my room now, or will you go with mother presently?'
'I will come with you,' returned Mrs. Harcourt.
Audrey was inclined to be contumacious, but she would not yield the
matter so meekly. Audrey was always more contradictory when Michael was
in the background; they seemed to play into each other's hand somehow,
and more than once Geraldine was positive she had heard a softly-uttered
'Bravo!' at some of Audrey's ridiculous speeches.
'Come along, then,' returned Audrey good-humouredly; and as they left
the room together, Captain Burnett laid down his book.
'I am afraid she is going to catch it, Cousin Emmeline; it will be a
case of survival of the fittest--Geraldine is strong, but Audrey can
hold her own. I back Audrey.'
'My dear,' remonstrated Mrs. Ross, as she put away her knitting, 'you
talk as though my girls were likely to quarrel. Geraldine is far too
sweet-tempered to quarrel with anyone; she will only give Audrey a
little advice--dear Audrey is dreadfully careless, she takes after her
father in that; John is always doing imprudent things. Geraldine has
made me most uncomfortable this afternoon; I am quite sure that Mrs.
Blake will be an undesirable friend for Audrey.'
'Do you always see through other people's spectacles?' he asked quietly.
'I have a habit of judging things for myself--I never take anything
second-hand; it is such an unpleasant idea, airing other people's
opinions. Fancy a sensible human being turning himself into a sort of
peg or receptacle for other folks' theories! No, thank you, my dear
cousin; my opinions are all stamped with "Michael Burnett, his mark."'
'Men are different,' she replied tranquilly; and then she left him to go
in search of her husband.
'What a world we live in, Booty!' observed Captain Burnett, as he walked
to the window and his four-footed favourite followed him. 'Oh, you want
a run, do you?' as the little animal looked at him wistfully. 'You think
your master uncommonly lazy this afternoon--you don't happen to have a
pain in your leg, do you, old fellow--a nasty gnawing, grumbling sort of
pain?--there is nothing like neuralgia for making a man lazy. Well, I'll
make an effort to oblige you, my friend--so off you go'; and Captain
Burnett threw a stone, and there was a delighted bark and an excited
patter of the short legs, and Booty vanished round a corner, while his
master followed him more slowly.
The garden of Woodcote was the best in Rutherford; even the Hill houses
could not compete with it: an extensive lawn lay before the house, with
a shrubbery on one side, and the trees and shrubs were exceedingly rare;
a little below the house the ground sloped rather steeply, and a
succession of terraces and flower-beds led down to a miniature lake with
a tiny island; here there were some swans and a punt, and the tall trees
that bordered the water were the favourite haunt of blackbirds and
thrushes.
Captain Burnett sat down on a bench facing the water, and Booty stood
and barked at the swans. How sweet and peaceful everything looked this
evening! The water was golden in the evening sunshine; a blue tit was
flashing from one tree to another; some thrushes were singing a
melodious duet; the swans arched their snowy necks and looked proudly at
him; some children's voices were audible in the distance. There was a
thoughtful expression in Captain Burnett's eyes, a concentrated
melancholy that was often there when he found himself utterly alone.
Captain Burnett had one confidant--his cousin John. Not that he often
called him by that name, their ages were too dissimilar to permit such
easy familiarity; but he had once owned to Dr. Ross, to the man who
loved him as a father, that his life had been a failure.
'Only a failure in the sense that you are no longer fit for active
duty,' had been the reply. 'You must not forget the Victoria Cross,
Michael.'
'Oh, that was nothing; any other man would have done the same in my
place,' Michael had retorted with some heat, for he hated to be reminded
of his good deeds.
Perhaps he was right: hundreds of brave young Englishmen would have
acted in the same way had they been placed in the same circumstances.
The English army is full of heroes, thank God! Nevertheless, Michael
Burnett had earned his Victoria Cross dearly.
It was in one of the Zulu skirmishes. A detachment of the enemy had
surprised them at night; but the little handful of men had repulsed them
bravely. Captain Burnett knew help was at hand; they had only to hold
out until a larger contingent should join them. He hoped things were
going well. They had just driven the Zulus backwards, when, in the dim
light of the flickering watch-fires, he saw dusky figures moving in the
direction of a hut where a few sick and wounded men had been placed.
There was not a second to lose; in another moment the poor fellows would
have been butchered. Calling out to some of his men to follow him, and
not perceiving that he was alone, he tore through the scrub, and entered
the hut by a hole that served as a window. Michael once owned that he
fought like a demon that night; but the thought of the few helpless
wretches writhing in terror on their pallet beds behind him seemed to
give him the force of ten men. 'They shall pass only over my body! God
save my poor fellows!' was his inward cry, as he blocked up the narrow
doorway and struck at his dusky foes like a madman.
More than one poor lad lived to look back on that day, and to bless
their gallant deliverer. 'No one else could have done it, sir,' observed
one of them; 'but the Captain never knew how to give in. I was watching
them, and I thought the devils would have finished him. He staggered
back once, and Bob Jaggers gave a groan, for we thought it was all up
with us; and though I would have made shift to fight before I would be
killed like a rat in a hole, one could not do much with a broken arm.
When our men rushed in, he was pretty nearly finished; one of the
savages had him by the knees. Of course they gave him the Cross. For the
matter of that, he ought to have had it before.
'Did you ever hear how he saved little Tom Blatchley's life? Well, I
will tell you'; and hereupon followed one of those touching incidents
which are so frequent, and which gild with glory even the bloody annals
of war.
Yes, they gave him the Victoria Cross; but as he lay on his bed of
suffering, disabled by cruel wounds, Michael knew that he had won it at
the expense of all that men count dear. 'Greater love hath no man than
this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.' There were times
when, in his anguish, Michael could have prayed that his life--his
useless, broken life--might have been taken too. How gladly, how
thankfully would he have yielded it! how willingly would he have turned
his face to the wall, and ended the conflict, sooner than endure the far
bitterer ordeal that lay before him! for he was young, and he knew his
career was ended, and that, brave soldier as he was, he could no longer
follow the profession that he loved. It was doubtful for a long time how
far he would recover from the effects of that terrible night; his wounds
were long in healing. The principal injuries were in the head and thigh.
One or two of his physicians feared that he would never walk again; the
limb seemed to contract, and neuralgic pains made his life a misery. To
add to his troubles, his nerves were seriously affected, and though he
was no coward, depression held him at times in its fell grip, and mocked
him with delusive pictures of other men's happiness. Like Bunyan's poor
tempted Christian, he, too, at times espied a foul fiend coming over the
field to meet him, and had to wage a deadly combat with many a doubt and
hard, despairing thought. 'You are a wreck, Michael Burnett!' the grim
tempter seemed to say to him. 'Better be quit of it all! Before you are
thirty your work is over; what will you do with the remainder of your
life? You are poor--perhaps crippled; no woman will look at you. You
have your Cross--a little bit of rusty iron--but does such empty glory
avail? You have aches and pains in plenty; your future looks promising,
my fine fellow! A hero! In truth those ten minutes have cost you dearly!
no wonder you repent of your rash gallantry!'
'I repent of nothing,' Michael would rejoin, in that dumb inward
argument so often renewed. 'If it were to come over again, I would do
just the same. "Greater love hath no man than this";' for in his
semi-delirious hours those Divine words seemed to set themselves to
solemn music, and to echo in his brain with ceaseless repetition. 'A
life given, a life laid down, a life spent in suffering--is it not all
the same--a soldier's duty? Shall I shirk my fate? Would it not be
better to bear it like a man?' and Michael would set his teeth hard, and
with an inward prayer for patience--for in the struggle the man was
learning to pray--girded himself up again to the daily fight.
Once, when there had been a fresh outbreak of mischief, and they had
brought him down to Woodcote, that he might be more carefully nursed
than in the town lodgings which was all Michael Burnett called home,
Audrey, who, after her usual pitiful fashion, wore herself out in her
efforts to soothe and comfort the invalid, once read to him some
beautiful lines out of a poem entitled 'The Disciples.'
Michael, who was in one of his dark moods, made no comment on the
passage which she had read in a trembling voice of deep feeling; but
when she left the room on some errand, he stretched out his hand, and
read it over again:
'But if, impatient, thou let slip thy cross,
Thou wilt not find it in this world again,
Nor in another; here, and here alone,
Is given thee to suffer for God's sake.'
When Audrey returned the book was in its place, and Michael was lying
with his eyes closed, and the frown of pain still knitting his temples.
He was not asleep, but she dare not disturb him by offering to go on
with the poem. She sat down at a little distance and looked out of the
window, rather sorrowfully. How strong she was! how full of health and
enjoyment! and this poor Michael, who had acted so nobly----Audrey's
eyes were full of tears. And all the time Michael was saying to himself,
'After all, I am a coward. What if I must suffer? Life will not last for
ever.'
By and by Michael owned that even his hard lot had compensations. He
became used to his semi-invalid existence. Active work of any sort was
impossible--that is, continuous work. He had tried it when his friends
had found an easy post for him, and had been obliged to give it up. He
still suffered severely from neuralgic headaches that left him worn and
exhausted. His maimed leg often troubled him; he could not walk far, and
riding was impossible.
'You must make up your mind to be an idle man--at least, for the
present, Captain Burnett,' one of his doctors had said to him, and
Michael had languidly acquiesced. To be a soldier had been his one
ambition, and he cared for little else. He had enough to keep him in
moderate comfort as a bachelor, and he had faint expectations from an
uncle who lived in Calcutta; but when questioned on this point, Michael
owned he was not sanguine.
'My Uncle Selkirk is by no means an old man,' he would say. 'Any
insurance office would consider his the better life of the two. Besides,
he might marry--he is not sixty yet; even old men make fools of
themselves by taking young wives. It is ill waiting for dead men's shoes
at the best of times. In this case it would be rank stupidity.'
'Then you will never be able to marry, Michael;' for it was to Mrs. Ross
that this last speech was addressed.
'My dear cousin, do you think any girl would look at a sickly,
ill-tempered fellow like me?' was the somewhat bitter reply; and Mrs.
Ross's kind heart was troubled at the tone.
'You should not call yourself names, my dear. You are not ill-tempered.
No one minds a little crossness now and then. Even John can say a sharp
word when he is put out. I think you are wrong, Michael. You are rather
morbid on this point. They say pity is akin to love.'
'But I object to be pitied,' he returned somewhat haughtily; 'and what
is more, I will commend myself to no woman's toleration. I will not be
dominated by any weaker vessel. If I should ever have the happiness of
having a wife--but there will be no Mrs. Michael Burnett, Cousin
Emmeline--I should love her as well as other men love their wives, but I
should distinctly insist on her keeping her proper place. Just
imagine'--working himself up to nervous irritation--'being at the mercy
of some healthy, high-spirited young creature, who will insult me every
day with her overplus of pure animal enjoyment. The effect on me would
be crushing--absolutely crushing.'
'Audrey is very high-spirited, Michael, but I am sure she sympathises
with you as nicely as possible.'
'We were not speaking of Audrey, were we?' he replied, with a slight
change of expression. 'I think it is the Ross idiosyncrasy to wander
hopelessly from any given subject; I imagined that we were suggesting an
impossible wife for your humble servant. Far be it from me to deny
myself comfort in the shape of feminine cousins or friends.'
'Yes, of course; and Geraldine and Audrey are just like your sisters,
Michael.'
'Are they?' a little dryly. 'Well, as I never had a sister, I cannot be
a good judge; but from what other fellows tell me, I imagine Audrey
bullies me enough to be one. Anyhow, I take the brotherly prerogative of
bullying her in return.'
And with this remarkable statement the conversation dropped.
Captain Burnett spent half his time with his cousins, oscillating
between Woodcote and his lodgings in town. Dr. Ross wished him to live
with them entirely; he had a great respect and affection for his young
kinsman, and, as he often told his wife, Michael helped him in a hundred
ways.
'He has the clearest head and the best common-sense I ever knew in any
man. I would trust Mike's judgment before my own. Poor fellow! he has
gone through so much himself, that I think he sees deeper into things
than most people. It is wonderful what knowledge of character he has.
The boys always say there is no cheating the Captain.'
Michael owned himself grateful for his cousin's kindness, but he
declined to call Woodcote his home.
'I must have my own diggings,' was his answer--'a burrow where I can run
to earth when my pet fiend tries to have a fling at me. Seriously, there
are times when I am best alone--and, then, in town one sees one's
friends. For a sick man, or whatever you like to call me, my taste is
decidedly gregarious. "I would not shut me from my kind." Oh dear no!
There is no study so interesting as human nature, and I am avowedly a
student of anthropology; London is the place for a man with a hobby like
mine.'
Nevertheless, the chief part of Captain Burnett's time had been spent
latterly at Woodcote.