LADY WEDDERBURN'S WISH.
A Tale of the Crimean War.
BY JAMES GRANT,
AUTHOR OF "THE ROMANCE OF WAR," "FIRST LOVE AND LAST LOVE,"
"THE GIRL HE MARRIED," ETC.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
LONDON:
TINSLEY BROTHERS, 18, CATHERINE STREET, STRAND.
1870.
[_All rights of Translation and Reproduction are reserved._]
LONDON:
SAVILL, EDWARDS AND CO., PRINTERS, CHANDOS STREET,
COVENT GARDEN.
TO
LIEUTENANT-GENERAL EGBERT LAW, K.H.
COLONEL OF THE 71ST HIGHLAND LIGHT INFANTRY,
THIS TALE OF THE CRIMEAN WAR
Is Inscribed,
AS A MEMORIAL OF REGARD, AND OF THE YEARS SPENT
TOGETHER IN AMERICA LONG AGO.
PREFACE.
Some episodes which are facts have been woven up with the following
story of the War in the Crimea.
I may mention that the sorrowful adventure of Major Singleton is no
fiction, save so far as the names are concerned, as it happened to a
Scottish medical officer during one of our late wars in India.
The famous duel fought by De l'Lisle and De la Fosse occurred, as
narrated, in the days of the French Monarchy; and, by a letter which
I had the pleasure to receive from General Lord de Ros (who has
referred to it in a recent military work), he informs me that it was
first recorded in a volume entitled, "The Military Mentor," supposed
to be by General Burgoyne--of unfortunate memory--the same officer
whose army had to capitulate at Saratoga.
A gambling quarrel nearly similar to that of Major Chesters in the
troop-ship once occupied the attention of a court martial, and
suggested the idea of his exposure by the French Colonel as described
in the text.
Of the rest of the narrative the Author leaves his readers to judge
for themselves, as those parts which belong to history are
sufficiently apparent.
_September_, 1870.
CONTENTS
OF
THE FIRST VOLUME.
CHAP.
I. THE DESPATCH BOX
II. THE WILLOWDEAN
III. LADY WEDDERBURN'S HOPE
IV. LONEWOODLEE
V. MARY LENNOX
VI. TWO LOVERS
VII. SUSPENSE AND DREAD
VIII. MARY'S MISTAKE
IX. A SNARE
X. CHESTERHAUGH
XI. CHESTERS' "MILD PLAY"
XII. THE LAST OF THE BAY HUNTER
XIII. GRIEF
XIV. AN UNWELCOME VISITOR
XV. THE SPRING EVENING
XVI. A HAPPY WALK HOME
XVII. COUSIN GWENNY
XVIII. FIRST IMPRESSIONS
XIX. SCHEMES
XX. MY LADY EXPOSTULATES
XXI. THE TRYST
XXII. WHAT THE MORROW BROUGHT FORTH
XXIII. THE DAWN OF LOVE
XXIV. PARTED IN SORROW
XXV. THE TELEGRAM
XXVI. MARY'S NEW TERROR
LADY WEDDERBURN'S WISH.
CHAPTER I.
THE DESPATCH BOX.
"The Colonel has written to the effect, that the regiment has
received 'letters of readiness' for foreign service, and that the
route for the East may come at any moment."
"My dear boy, Cyril, and you will be leaving us."
"For old Gib or Malta in the first place, and the Crimea after,"
continued Cyril, glancing again at the letter he had just opened;
"but the Colonel adds, that until I am telegraphed for, my leave of
absence may remain intact--it is a little anomalous; but he is a
thorough good fellow, the Colonel!"
"And what of Horace?"
"There is no word of Horace, dear mother; but he will probably be
detailed for the depôt."
"My darling Cyril!" exclaimed the anxious mother, as her eyes filled
with tears, and her upper lip quivered.
The "darling" referred to was a handsome young fellow of five feet
ten or so, with a thick curly brown head of hair, shorn short to the
regimental pattern, and most unexceptionable whiskers; one who rather
considered himself as the model officer of the Royal Fusileers, in
which distinguished corps he--Cyril Wedderburn, then on leave of
absence--held the rank of Captain; and now having laid the Colonel's
letter beside his plate--for the family were at breakfast--he
forthwith, and with appetite unimpaired by the prospect of a speedy
and too surely perilous change of scene, attacked the drumstick of a
devilled turkey.
Gervase Asloane, the family butler--a portly individual, in an ample
white waistcoat and suit of black--had but a few minutes before
placed the Russia leather despatch box, with its brass plate, bearing
the family arms, &c., beside Sir John Wedderburn, who had unlocked
it, and distributed the contents among the party at table, which
consisted only of Lady Wedderburn, Miss Flora M'Caw, her companion, a
Highland maiden of doubtful age but undoubted pedigree; her two sons,
Cyril and Robert; her nephew. Horace Ramornie, son of a deceased
sister, and who was junior lieutenant in Cyril's regiment; and a
visitor, Chesters of Chesterhaugh, a gentleman of whom the reader may
hear, perhaps, too much in future.
There were no missives for Miss M'Caw; there never were any, so she
had long since ceased even to affect that one might come.
"One letter for Horace," said Cyril, while decapitating an egg.
"Well, old fellow, what says your despatch--'to amount of account
rendered,' eh?"
"It is only some mess-room gossip from Probyn of ours."
"A kind fellow is Probyn."
"No word of the war as yet, Cyril, so our leaves are safe," added
Horace Ramornie.
"And our lives too, for a time--eh, mamma of mine! A pink cocked hat
for Bob, or invitation, or a love letter, of course? But what is up
with you, Chesters? You look disturbed, as they say on the stage."
"Perhaps I do," whispered Chesters. "I have again backed the wrong
horse, and lost a pot of money, at the last Liverpool Spring Meeting.
The rain fell in torrents."
"And the course was soft?"
"Soft as butter," replied Chesters, filling his mouth with toast to
check a rising malediction.
"How can you talk so gaily and so lightly, Cyril?" urged his mother,
reproachfully, with her fine eyes more full of tears than ever.
"Why, mother dearest, any way, both Horace and I must have had to
leave you soon; the spring drills, the bore of coaching up for the
half-yearly inspection, will soon begin, and then quit we should,
inevitably."
"In May?"
"Yes."
"And this is March: it is hard--very hard! I had formed such
pleasant plans for you."
"Why don't you forward them to the Horse Guards--they might soften
the hearts of the Commander-in-Chief and Adjutant-General?" said
Cyril, laughing. "Another cup of coffee, Miss M'Caw, at your
leisure," he added to that demure personage, who daily officiated at
the magnificent silver urn and Wedgwood breakfast equipage.
"My dear Sir John," exclaimed Lady Wedderburn, suddenly, as her eyes
now fell on her husband, who had remained perfectly silent, "what is
the matter? You look quite pale, and--and--the letter you have read
is wafered with black!"
"And edged with black, too," added Robert Wedderburn, a thoughtless,
but rather pretty looking lad, about eighteen, with curly yellow hair
and dark grey eyes. "What's up, papa--'whose mare is dead?'"
But the Baronet did not answer immediately; he permitted the hand
retainiug the letter to drop upon his knee, and his chin sank upon
his breast as his head drooped forward, and he seemed to become lost
in thought. Then all eyes, including those of old Gervase, the
butler, were turned inquiringly towards him.
"Sir John Wedderburn, Bart, of Nova Scotia, and Willowdean, in the
Merse--creation, 1628," as the heralds have it, was a remarkably
good-looking man, and fully six feet in height, though he did stoop a
little now, being past his sixtieth year. His features were cleanly
cut, and very noble in contour, and benign in expression, his eyes a
clear grey, and his white hair started in spouts from his forehead to
fall back wavily like a lion's mane. His hands, though brown--for he
never wore gloves--the whip, the gun, the rod, or the weeder, seldom
being out of them--were well shaped and aristocratic in form, while
his costume--a suit of coarse grey tweed and long brown leather
leggings, as he sat at table, with a silver whistle at his
button-hole, and a dogwhip in his pocket, only required his old
wide-awake hat, with its row of flies and fish-hooks, to complete it;
but the aforesaid hat hung in the hall without.
"My letter contains most mournful and sudden news, Katharine," said
he, as a tear started to each of his eyes--an emotion all the more
painful, as he was a man quite unused to the melting mood.
"You will perhaps permit me, dear Wedderburn," said she; on which
Cyril took the letter from his father's passive fingers and handed it
to his mother, who lifted her gold eye-glass, and, after a pause,
read as follows; but not without great difficulty, as the handwriting
was tremulous, and in some places degenerated to an almost illegible
scrawl:--
"The Choultry, Madras.
"MY DEAR BROTHER JOHN,--My physician and old friend, of the
Palmacottah Light Infantry, worthy Doctor Chutnay, who has just left
me (and who will forward this to you), has told me that my hours are
numbered now. Before this heavy fever fell upon me, I had fondly
hoped to be with you once again, to inhale the pure, cool breeze that
sweeps over the purple Lammermuir and all down bonnie Lauderdale; but
God has willed it otherwise. I cannot live more than two or three
days at the utmost, and have only strength to write, that I bequeath
to you my most valuable possession on earth--my only child,
Gwendoleyne--whom I know that you and dearest Katharine will love and
cherish, even as your own boys, for the sake of her mother, who, to
the hour of her death, loved you all so well.
"The impulsive blood of her mother's old Welsh race is in my girl's
veins, and she is a warm and enthusiastic creature; so I pray you, as
one so soon to face his God as I, alone can pray, that you will be
her guide and protector. She will be rich; see that she marries
worthily; guide and watch over her lonely steps, dear John, and
love--love to----but my head swims. I cannot pen another line. Be a
father to my little Gwenny, and believe me your affectionate brother,
"WILLIAM WEDDERBURN."
While all listened to this in respectful silence, and the letter was
passed between the brothers for re-perusal, Sir John had thrust aside
his breakfast, and with his chin resting on one hand, sat gazing into
the far vista of the sunny lawn, lost in sad thoughts; but Lady
Wedderburn very deliberately examined the letter in which it was
enclosed, and a document which came with it.
The letter was from the physician, Doctor Chutnay, and was dated from
the cantonments of the 3rd Madras N.I. It stated that "the deceased
expired on the second day after the letter was written, and that his
daughter, Miss Gwendoleyne Wedderburn, would leave Madras for Europe
by the next P. and O. liner that came into the Roads, and that
herewith he begged to enclose a copy of her poor father's will."
William Wedderburn, the younger brother of Sir John--younger by six
or seven years at least--had spent half his life in the Indian Civil
Service, and had realized a handsome fortune by his lucky
speculations in the staple produce of India, such as cotton, indigo,
rice, and coffee; and by his will it would appear that, save a few
thousands bequeathed to Sir John, he left the bulk of his property,
more than three hundred thousand pounds, to his orphan daughter,
including a "garden-house" like an Oriental palace on the Choultry
Plain, shares in the Agra Bank, Indian Stock, and--Heaven only knew
all what more!
The contents of this letter affected all at the table in various
degrees.
Lady Wedderburn had scarcely--and her sons had never--seen, though
they had heard so much of this rich Indian uncle, who yearly sent
home such magnificent and graceful (because suitable) presents to the
family. He had been a kind of myth to all, save Sir John; so
personally his death stirred no deep or tender chord in their hearts.
Her first idea was that the thousands now so suddenly bequeathed
would be a seasonable aid in pushing on Robert at college and
bringing him out for the bar; also in purchasing a majority for Cyril
in some regiment that was not going to the East; and then, if the
orphan cousin was handsome, who could say what might happen? the
Madras heiress would make an excellent wife for one of them.
Her next thoughts ran on the fashion and expense of mourning, for the
whole household, even to the lodge gatekeepers, would require to be
put in black. Was a black hammer-cloth necessary for the carriage?
Gaiety, they could have none of it for a time--a confounded bore,
Robert thought, "when a fellow had so many invitations on hand and in
prospect." Then as the little heiress would be here anon; which
rooms was she to have? The best of course, after her own. All these
ideas swept in quick succession through her busy brain.
Chesters of Chesterhaugh thought of the heiress's thousands and his
own ugly betting-book. He played with his knife and fork; wondered
what she was like, and ventured to inquire her age.
"She will be eighteen in May. Poor girl! and quite an orphan; but so
rich, Captain Chesters!"
The poor companion sighed, for she too had been long friendless; but
no lacs of rupees ever fell to the great Celtic line of the M'Caw.
Horace Ramornie remembered that eight years before this he too had
come an orphan to Willowdean, but "so poor;" and now he had no
thought or interest in the matter, save surprise to see tears falling
silently over the bronzed cheek of bluff and jolly Sir John
Wedderburn. But the memory of the latter was wandering away into the
past, and he could recall the lithe, supple, and handsome figure of
that dead brother, a blue-eyed and golden-haired lad, as he went
forth to seek his fortune in the sunny East, with mingled hope and
sorrow in his heart, and their mother's tears and kisses lingering on
his cheek; and he could recall many a happy, happy hour they had
spent together under yonder old trees, under the roof of
Willowdean--days of nutting and bird-nesting in the summer woods, of
trouting in the Leader and Whitadder; or wandering, truant-like, by
many a harvest-field and lone burn-brae; of tricks they had played
upon their tutor; of depredations committed in the vineries and
hot-houses; and their awful fear of discovery, which was more than
half the charm of the whole adventure; of all their rides and
rambles, their boyish hopes and mutual aspirations; and now--now he
was dead and buried, far, far away in an Indian grave, an old,
shattered, fever-stricken man.
It seemed so difficult to think when he looked across the room to
where hung a portrait of the little Willie of the vanished years, a
laughing and golden-haired boy; and Sir John muttered, with something
between a sigh and a sob in his throat--
"Yes, Willie, I shall be a kind father to your orphan girl, whatever
betide!"
"Gwendoleyne is a pretty name," said Cyril, approvingly.
"I am so glad you like it," observed his mother, following her own
ambitious thoughts.
"Rather romantic though. There is one I like that is more simple."
"Her mother was a Welsh lady--one of the Ap-Rhys of Llanchillwydd,"
added Lady Wedderburn, in an explanatory tone. "But she died, poor
thing, at Madras, when Gwenny was about three years old, and I wonder
that uncle William did not send her home to Europe long ago; but then
she was his only child, and he would have missed her so much!"
As the conversation was now taking a domestic turn, and Sir John
Wedderburn was evidently disturbed by the tidings--for, instead of
his brother's death, his final return had been
anticipated,--Chesters, who hated the dark or gloomy side of
anything, thought he had better go, as he had only ridden over to see
a horse of Cyril's; yet he lingered for a time, smoking a cigar with
him and Robert on the terrace before the mansion, while Lady
Wedderburn was engaged in family council with her husband.