CHILL NEWS
The first news of trouble reached Carne in a brief letter from Colonel
Carron to Sir Denzil.
Gracie and the Rev. Charles were sitting over their tea one afternoon
in the quiet, hopeful despondency--if the expression may be
permitted--which had become the natural state of all who had dear ones
at the war. They were full of fears; they cherished hope; they waited
with quiet resignation what each day might bring forth.
When Kennet rapped on the door of the cottage, Gracie's heart jumped
and sank, and Eager incongruously thought of the old Latin Grammar
tag: _Mors æquo pede_ . . . ("Death with equal foot knocks at the door
of rich and poor").
"Sir Denzil begs you will come and see him at once, sir."
"Bad news, Kennet?" asked Eager, as he reached down his hat.
"He didn't say, sir; but he's in a bad-enough humour. Not that that's
much to go by, though, these days "--from which one gathers that even
Sir Denzil's equanimity was not entirely unaffected by the
disturbances of the times.
Gracie had slipped on her cloak and little fur turban. He looked at
her doubtfully. But she shook her head with decision.
"I could not possibly wait here, fearing everything," she said; and
they went along together.
Sir Denzil expressed no surprise at sight of her.
"I have just received a letter from my son, Colonel Carron," he said,
in a voice perhaps a trifle too unnaturally even and unmoved. "The
boys, I am sorry to say, have met with a misfortune." Gracie's heart
sank, and braced itself as best it could for the worst. "It is not,
however, as bad as it might be." Her heart gave a hopeful kick. "They
are both prisoners in the hands of the Russians, and one of them is
wounded again; but, so far, he has not been able to ascertain which.
That is all; but I thought it better to let you know the full extent
of the matter. The newspaper accounts are so garbled at times that one
is apt to get wrong impressions. When you come across their names
among the missing, you will understand. It does not necessarily mean
anything more than I have told you. In fact"--with an appreciative
pinch of snuff--"it may well be that they are safer inside Sebastopol
than outside."
"Prisoners!" jerked Gracie. "Will they be well treated?"
"Oh yes; I should say so. The rank and file of the Russian
army are doubtless somewhat boorish, but their officers are
civilised--gentlemanly, indeed, I believe, if you don't go too far
down. I do not think you need fear any ill-treatment for them, Miss
Gracie. It is annoying, of course, not to know which of them is
wounded, and to what extent. But the authorities will, no doubt, do
their best to ascertain, and we may hear shortly."
"I am inclined to think with you, sir, that they will probably be
safer inside than outside," said Eager thoughtfully. "From all
accounts, the state of things in the camps is awful."
"Extremely British," said Sir Denzil. "Matters will improve in time.
When the Many-headed One awakes to the fact that all this waste and
misery are quite unnecessary, it will roar loud enough, I warrant you.
Then our men will be properly looked after--that is, if there are any
of them left to look after, which seems somewhat doubtful."
"It is shameful!" broke out Gracie, with vehemence. "I wish I could
have gone with Miss Nightingale to help them."
"You would have died of atrophy and paralysis, my dear, if you had
come in contact with the red-tape of the services. If Miss Nightingale
succeeds in her mission she will be the one woman in ten million, and
will deserve well of her country."
And so they were left in doubt and much distress of mind as to the
welfare of the boys.
Margaret Herapath, in her deep mourning and her own bitter sorrow,
came over to share their anxiety and distress. Her father had suddenly
become an old and broken man. Charles Eager was much with him, and he
was the only person, outside his own household, whom Sir George cared
to see. And Eager, with the wisdom of deepest love and sympathy, let
the old man's grief run its course, and then strove to build him up
anew by diverting his grief from the one to the many.
Bitter sad times were those in the happy homes of England. Sorrow lay
on the land like a chill black frost; but below it were simmering all
those forces of passionate indignation which presently rose into that
inextinguishable roar which swept men from their high positions, and
in time carried somewhat of relief to the remnant of the army before
Sebastopol.