By the same evening train--for they were too late for any other--which
had carried the Colonel not very long before to that little rural world
which included Tillington and Marchmain, Horace Scarsdale and Roger
Musgrave, the two gentlemen that night rushed to London. As they went
their darksome way in the dimly-lighted carriage, which, as it chanced,
they occupied alone, each leaned back into a corner, occupied with his
own thoughts. Sir John, totally refusing to accept the uncomfortable
chance of being too late, looked out at every station with an anxious
eye upon the wind, and cried, "Hurrah for the sou'-wester!" as they
dashed into London in the cheery spring morning which brightened the
grimy face of even that overgrown enchantress. Colonel Sutherland said
nothing; his interest in the wind was very limited; he had made up his
mind to misfortune, and blamed himself deeply. The old man understood,
as by a revelation, the mind of the youth who had addressed to him that
letter. The feeling of secret disappointment, without anything to
complain of, the forlorn success of his experiment, the perfect
acquiescence which everybody seemed to have given to his self-disposal;
while, at the same time, it was quite true that he had put himself out
of everybody's way, and "that nobody was to blame," as people say, all
shone through his melancholy leave-taking. If they did succeed in
finding him, would he return? the Colonel asked himself. If they came to
the rescue at last, after he had made his plunge, and had borne the
bitterest part of it, would he consent to be bought off, and owe his
improved rank to Sir John's tardy benevolence? The message itself--was
that judicious?--might not its only effect be to leave a certain stigma
upon the character of the young soldier? Thus one subject of reflection
only more painful than another had quick succession in the Colonel's
thoughts. He vowed to himself he should never again wait for the
co-operation of another in anything which was necessary to be done; and
so only shook his head as Sir John hurra'd for the "sou'-wester," and,
looking behind him as he descended from the carriage, shook his head
still more, and felt the cold whisper of another wind rising upon his
cheek. Sir John perceived it also, and grew pale. "It is only a
current--there are always currents of wind under these archways," he
explained, hurriedly. Then they drove across London in a cab to the
Dover railway, snatched a hasty breakfast of boiling coffee and cold
beef, for which they had not above ten minutes time, and so rushed on
again to make sure of poor Roger's fate. Even Roger's uncertain fate,
however, and all his self-reproach on this occasion, could not hinder
the Colonel's eyes to brighten as they whirled past almost in sight of
Addiscombe, and saw some distant figures in the Cadet's uniform on a
distant road. Could one of them perhaps be Ned?--and the Colonel
thought of seeing his boy to-morrow with a cheerful warmth at his heart,
which, in spite of himself, made him more hopeful--thinking of Ned he
could still believe to find the wind unchanged, the ship unsailed, the
young man's mind unembittered. As the miles and the moments passed, as
the green country sloped upward into grassy hills, and showed here and
there its little precipice of chalk, the Colonel's courage rose. Not
from any reason; he was a man to be above reasons sometimes, this tender
old soldier; the comfort and the courage came, an inexplicable genial
breath from the neighbourhood of his boy.
While, in the meantime, a result perfectly contrary was produced on Sir
John: he shuffled about in his seat with an incontrollable impatience;
he gazed out of the window; he closed his eyes with disgust when he
turned from that; he could have got out and pushed behind like the
Frenchman, so eager was his anxiety. The express train was too slow for
him--the wind had changed!
The wind had changed! When they came in sight of the sea these stormy
straits were specked with ships liberated from their prison, with white
wings spread, and impatient feet, making their way out to the ocean.
Cold and shrill, with its whistle of ungracious breath, the gale hissed
with them through the narrow tunnels; pennons fluttering to the
west--bowsprits pointed seaward, clouds flying on the same cold track,
and as much as these an increase of cold, an acrid contradiction of the
sunshine, bewrayed the east wind which drove invalids to their chambers,
but carried ships down channel. Often before had Sir John Armitage
anathematized the east wind--perhaps he never cursed it in his heart
till now, as he watched with envious impatience a large vessel covered
with sail making her way out of the Downs. "That's her for a wager!"
said Sir John to himself; "the very thing they'd send troops in--a
round, shapeless, horrid old hulk, warranted the worst sailer on the
station. To be sure!--there she goes, bobbing like an apple in a
posset--ugh, you ugly old beast!--couldn't you have waited another
day?"
"Eh?--you were speaking--what's the matter, Armitage?" said the Colonel,
roused by the sound.
"Nothing," said Sir John. To tell the truth, he did not feel himself
quite the hero of the position at this moment; he did not care to
disclose his fears until hope was proved vain; perhaps, after all, that
was not the "Prince Regent"--perhaps the officers were still not aboard,
or some happy accident had prevented her from taking the earliest
advantage of the change of wind. The baronet dragged his companion along
with him to the "Ship" before he would suffer him to ask any questions.
There the obsequious attendants who received the strangers were startled
by the impatient outcry and gesture, almost wild, of the excited
baronet. "The 'Prince Regent,' lying in the Downs, with troops on board
for the Cape--who can tell me if she has sailed?" This inquiry was
somewhat startling to the innkeeper and his vassals. "We can send and
see," suggested timidly one of the waiters, "directly, sir." Sir John
rushed out again, and started off almost at a run towards the pier.
"Sailed two hours ago," said a "seafaring" individual, of questionable
looks, who stood on the steps of the hotel smoking his cigar. "Hallo
there! sailed two hours ago, I tell you--d'ye think you can make up to
her, hey? I'd back you against the precious old tub if you're in that
mind--but she's got the start, look you, by two hours--all sail and a
fresh wind!"
Sir John came back much discomfited and crestfallen. He could not make
up his mind to the disappointment. It was quite intolerable to him. He
consulted everybody round as to the chances of overtaking the ship--was
he likely to do so if he hired a steamer? The nautical bystander took up
this idea with great zeal; but before Sir John committed himself a
better informed waiter volunteered the information that there were still
some officers to join the vessel at Portsmouth, and that she might be
overtaken there. The Colonel shook his head. To him the chances of
success seemed so small, that the further journey was scarcely worth the
while, and some hours would still elapse before there was a train. Sir
John however, still sanguine, found out with a telescope the vessel,
which he still held to be the "Prince Regent," exhausted himself in
contemptuous criticisms on her build and sailing qualities, and declared
that they were certain to be at Portsmouth hours before the unwieldy
transport. The Colonel said nothing; he paced about the room with
serious looks and a grieved heart, sometimes pausing to look wistfully
out from the windows; a week earlier and Roger might have been saved--a
day earlier and they could still have seen him, have tried the last
chance for his deliverance, and made him aware of their real intentions
and regard for his welfare. The Colonel could not forgive himself. For
perhaps the first time in his life he judged his companion unfairly,
felt disgusted at Sir John's exclamation of self-encouragement, and
secretly blamed as levity his eager special pleadings and arguments with
himself. Presently they started again for Portsmouth, fatigue and
vexation together proving almost too much for Colonel Sutherland, who
was the elder by several years, and the most seriously affected in the
present instance. As for Sir John, he still kept himself up by
expectations: of course, they must reach Portsmouth in time--of course,
there could be no difficulties in the way of buying Roger off--he would
return with them, get his commission, and then follow his
pseudo-comrades, if he had still a hankering after the smell of powder.
He was thus flattering himself, when they reached the busy seaport. Sir
John, for once forgetful alike of dinner, rest, and toilette, with
yesterday's beard, and no better provision for the fatigues of the day
than a couple of biscuits, rushed at once into the hubbub of the port.
Some time was occupied in these inquiries; he ran from place to place,
the Colonel marching gravely by his side, putting his hand to his
anxious ear when any one addressed them, listening with his solicitous
stoop forward to every word of every answer. But it was again in
vain--the "Prince Regent" had only signaled in passing, and had neither
paused nor taken in any officers at Portsmouth: by this time, heavy
transport as she was, the vessel was at sea.
Heavily and in silence the two travellers sought an hotel, marched up
the stairs side by side, without saying a word to each other, and threw
themselves, with a simultaneous groan of fatigue and disappointment,
into chairs. This last performance elicited a short, hard laugh from the
baronet, now thoroughly out of sorts. "I've been a confounded fool!"
cried Sir John--"I'll never forgive myself. Why the deuce don't you come
down upon me, Sutherland?--I'm an ass--I'm an idiot--I deserve to be
turned out of decent society! Hang me, if I did not mean to be a father
to that boy!"
The real sincerity and penitence of his tone woke once more all the
kindly feelings of the Colonel. "It cannot be helped now," he said with
a sigh; "by this time it's providence: and I don't doubt it'll turn out
for the best."
"Ah, it is easy for you to speak," said Sir John, who perhaps did not
quite understand his companion's simple, practical reference to a
disposition beyond the power of man; "you are not to blame: to think,
with my confounded trifling, I should have let Musgrave's boy throw
himself away!"
This led the Colonel to soothe his friend, and take the guilt upon
himself, a proceeding which the baronet, after a few minutes, did not
object to. After a while his spirits rose. He began to be reminded of a
vigorous appetite, and to recover the exhaustion of fatigue. With a
little assumption of languor on his own part, and a tender regard for
the necessities of the Colonel, Sir John took upon himself at last to
order dinner. Then the travellers separated, to make their most needful
ablutions. When they met again at dinner Sir John was himself again.
"After all, Sutherland," he said, "nothing can be more absurd than to
disturb ourselves about this, though it is very vexatious. 'Twill do the
boy good, after all--nothing I should have liked better at his age; and
won't harm his prospects a bit--everybody likes adventurous young men.
Here's a health and a famous voyage to the young fellow. I'll take care
there's a welcome waiting for him when he lands--for of course every
ship that sails the passage will outstrip the transport. To be sure,
he's melancholy enough now, I believe. Do him good--teach him to be
careful how he runs away from his friends another time. What's the good
of breaking our hearts over it?--he'd be just as sea-sick if he were
Colonel; and I warrant the 'Prince Regent' gives him quite enough to
think of for eight days. What can't be cured, you know--here's good luck
to him!--the end of his voyage will make up for it all."
The Colonel drank his luckless _protegé's_ health very gravely: he
thought of him all night, travelling with the forlorn lad over the
darksome sea; and sent better things than wishes after him--remembering
his name, in every break of his sleep through that long night, before
God, who saw the boy; and so, unseen, unaided, and ignorant of the
disappointed efforts which had toiled after him, and of the one tender
heart which ached over its failure, and was his bedesman, nothing else
being possible, the young adventurer went away deeper into the world and
his life, further into the night and the distance, and the black paths
of the sea.