DECISION.
The following dawn ushered in Sunday. Walter was accustomed on that
day to breakfast with Sir Cæsar, and then accompany him and his
daughter to church, a privilege which made him an object of envy to
some young officers and civilians. Young Gurney did not on this day
break the understood engagement. Those Sabbath mornings sometimes
gave him an opportunity of speaking a few words on religious subjects
to Flora, or reading sacred poetry, of which they both were fond.
How soon these too happy mornings would become things of the past!
At the accustomed hour Walter mounted the broad flight of steps which
led to the wide verandah, and pushing aside the green _chik_,*
entered the drawing-room, in which were seated Sir Cæsar and his
daughter. What a contrast that drawing-room presented to Walter's
quarters in the Eagle's Nest! The Indian mat which covered the floor
was itself partly hidden under rich Cashmere rugs, tiger's skins, and
the thick fur of the bear. The whiteness of the walls was relieved
by painted arabesque patterns, with here and there a chromograph or
well-selected print in a gilded frame. The tables were adorned with
fine china, and delicate specimens of Agra's inlaid marble work. A
profusion of flowers from a dozen vases filled the air with delicious
perfume. In a most richly-carved ebony cabinet appeared a collection
of elegantly-bound books; albums lay on one of the tables. It was
the home of luxury; and everything on which the eye rested, from the
grand piano to the small bird of exquisite plumage in its
flower-wreathed cage, told of the presiding taste of a refined and
cultivated woman. It was a fit perch for a Bird of Paradise.
* A kind of blind, admitting the free circulation of air.
Sir Cæsar, on the easiest of easy chairs, was enjoying the coolness
imparted by the measured, monotonous swing of the _punkah_;* for,
though it was but the end of March, the weather was already
oppressively hot.
* An enormous kind of fan.
"Well, Walter," said Sir Cæsar, without rising for any more formal
greeting, "we're to be off a good deal sooner than I had expected.
I've had a telegram to say that the Warings, who were going by next
week's steamer, are detained by one of the children taking the
measles, so that their cabins are vacant. It's not a chance to be
lost, though it rather hurries our movements; but it's worth a push
to get out of this heat. So Flora and I will be off in a week.
Don't look so startled, my good friend. I mean you to come with us,
and we'll take Italy in our way."
"Oh, yes; it will delight you to see the art-treasures of Venice,
Rome, and Florence," cried Flora. "Certainly, you must come with us."
The conversation was interrupted by the entrance of Captain Mills, an
officer invited to breakfast.
A native servant in livery, bright with scarlet and gold, but with
shoeless feet, announced that the meal was on the table; and Flora
led the way into the room, in which was spread a luxurious repast
served by half-a-dozen attendants.
Walter was unusually silent. The tidings of the sudden departure had
struck like a knell in his heart. Sir Cæsar talked enough for both;
he was full of his projected Italian tour.
Soon after the conclusion of the lengthened breakfast, the bells
began to chime for Divine service, and in due course of time the
party proceeded to the stately-looking church. Walter took his
accustomed place behind Flora in the choir. Was it for the last
time? he thought, with a pang; or might he not avail himself of Sir
Cæsar's offer, as he had now an uncle's home to visit in England?
The young man was dazzled by the brightness of the prospect opening
before him, yet felt--had there been no other reason against his
going--that it was undesirable to travel as a pensioner on Sir
Cæsar's bounty.
It was exceedingly difficult for Walter to keep his attention to the
prayers; he tried to do so, but scarcely succeeded. But it was very
different when the organ pealed forth the first hymn. This hymn was
a great favourite with Flora, who poured forth in it her splendid
voice without giving a thought to the meaning of the words. But the
words were to Walter the very soul of the hymn, merely clothed with a
musical body.
"Nearer, my God, to Thee,
Nearer to Thee,
E'en though it be a cross
That raiseth me."
Walter could not sing that verse at that moment; he felt that it
would be a mockery to offer that prayer in which his rebellious heart
did not join; it would be an act of hypocrisy, for he saw plainly the
cross before him, and he shrank from taking it up. To him, at that
crisis in his life, the mountain fort in Afghanistan appeared much as
the burning fiery furnace must have appeared to the three young Jews.
Flora missed the familiar voice behind her, which had hitherto ever
blended so harmoniously with her own.
After leaving the church, Walter declined Sir Cæsar's invitation to
come home with him to tiffin. He had sometimes shared that meal, but
had never joined in the Sunday drive, or the Sunday dinner-party.
Walter felt that he must be alone; he could never exercise a calm
judgment on such a matter as the important decision before him, under
the fascination of Flora's presence.
"What is the matter with Gurney to-day?" said Sir Cæsar, when Walter
had quitted the party. "He has been mum as a fish, did not sing, and
looks thoroughly upset."
"He has studied too hard," observed Flora; but her smile betokened
that some other cause for the young man's trouble had occurred to her
mind.
"He feels this weather as I do," cried Sir Cæsar, passing his
handkerchief over his heated brow.
"By-the-by," said Captain Mills, "did you see the paragraph in the
_Weekly Times_ which came by this mail?"
"I have not opened the paper yet," said Sir Cæsar.
"There's a paragraph about a certain Gilbert Gurney, only surviving
son of Augustus Gurney, Esq. of Eaton Square and Claverdon Hall being
killed by a fall in the hunting-field."
"Ha! that must be the son of Walter's uncle!" exclaimed Sir Cæsar;
"then our friend Walter will be, I suppose, next heir to a handsome
estate and at least ten thousand a-year."
"Lucky fellow!" ejaculated the captain; "lucky in everything I take
it. But I don't suppose that the property is entailed, and Mr.
Gurney of Claverdon Hall may not sympathise with his nephew's
missionary peculiarities."
"Oh, we'll hear no more of that nonsense now," said Sir Cæsar; "the
heir to ten thousand per annum will see matters in quite a new light."
There the conversation on the subject ended. Flora had not joined in
it, but busied herself with newly arranging some flowers in a vase.
But it was noticed by those who accompanied her in her afternoon ride
that the young lady was in unusually high spirits at the prospect of
her speedy departure for England.
Walter's spirits were as depressed as hers were elevated. He passed
a second sleepless night, and on the Monday morning was absent from
the morning lecture at the college.
As he sat at his solitary breakfast, a letter was brought in which
bore English post-marks. It had arrived by the same mail as that
from the secretary of the mission, but a mistake in the address had
for two days delayed its transmission. The student expected no
letter from England, as his uncle, his only correspondent there, had
written to him but twice in the course of nine years. But Walter
recognised the handwriting of Augustus Gurney. His epistle, as
usual, was brief:--
"Dear Walter,--You have probably seen in the papers that I have had
the misfortune to lose my last remaining son, killed by a fall from
his horse. You are now my nearest relative, and in declining years,
with broken health, I should like to have one beside me. If you
accept the position of a son, I propose receiving you as my heir.
Come to England at once; I enclose a cheque for travelling expenses."
Walter felt dizzy,--almost as if he had received a stroke of the sun.
Will he sink very low in the reader's estimation when it is owned
that the latter gave him a wild thrill of delight? It was not that
he coveted a fortune,--it was not merely the prospect of wealth that
made his pulse beat so high. As a penniless adventurer he could
hardly have aspired to the hand of Flora Dashley; but the heir of the
wealthy Augustus Gurney might, without any presumption, ask her to be
his bride. Walter sprang from his seat, and with rapid steps paced
up and down the apartment. Satan tempted him--as he is so ready to
tempt God's people--with arguments drawn from religion itself. Was
not this letter, coming at so critical a time, an indication of the
leading of Providence? What a talent to be used for God would be
wealth devoted to the noblest objects! What visions of schools
opened and alms-houses built, a happy peasantry, a delightful home,
rose before the mental vision of Walter! He was almost persuaded for
a few moments that his own will was the will of God. His was nearly
being a case of spiritual sun-stroke indeed.
Walter's intoxicating day-dream was interrupted by the entrance of
Will Green, a gay young college companion.
"Walter, you played truant from the lecture this morning. I'm glad
that you kept me in countenance for once. No" (as Walter motioned
for him to take a chair), "I've really no time to sit down. I've
brought you a present, a dirty old picture from the bazaar, put up
for two annas, and hardly worth them. But I saw your good father's
name and Santgunge written in the corner, so I thought that it might
be some family relic of yours that I had lighted on by chance. There
it is," he added, throwing down his purchase on the table; "I can't
stop now, I have an appointment," and the student went off as
suddenly as he had entered.
A family relic, yes! In that stained, fly-spotted, insect-eaten
piece of paper, Walter recognised the picture which had hung in his
earliest home; it was the print of the Israelites crossing the
desert, the story of which, Walter as a child, had first heard from
the lips of his mother. As he gazed on it the young man seemed to
hear again the voice of his venerated father uttering these words,
which had been Walter's comfort in one of the most critical points of
his life--"God may lead us into a desert, my boy, but it is a blessed
way if His presence go with us."
A straw may turn a balance; a single sentence change the course of a
life. Walter was again on his knees, in a wrestling agony of prayer.
He arose comparatively calm, but pale as a corpse. Walter sat down,
opened his desk, and took out the letter which he had written to the
bishop, but which he had not yet had resolution to send. He then,
with unsteady hand, wrote another. It was a grateful one to Sir
Cæsar, thanking him for kindness which could never be either repaid
or forgotten, but bidding him a long farewell. Walter could give no
reason for not seeking a personal interview; he thought that a father
might guess the cause. Young Gurney could not trust himself to say
good-by to Flora. He but added a postscript, with a hand that
trembled with agitation, in which he requested Sir Cæsar to remember
him gratefully to his daughter.
It was almost as painful a task to write to his uncle; Walter was as
one undergoing an operation, who would, while writhing under the
knife, have all over as quickly as might be. The terrible work was
over--the letters completed, enveloped, and sealed. Walter summoned
the servant who waited in the verandah, gave him the three epistles,
bade him take two to their respective destinations, and the third to
the post. When he had done this, the unhappy young man seemed to
have reached the utmost point of endurance. As the servant departed,
Walter sank back on his chair, and covered his face with his hands.
"Oh, pillar of cloud!--dark, terrible pillar!" he groaned; "thou art
leading me into a waste and howling wilderness, indeed!"
In another hour Walter was being whirled along in a train, he cared
not whither; he had taken his ticket almost at random for a place of
which he scarcely knew the name, and whose recommendation was that it
was so retired that he was not likely to meet there with any one who
knew him. There, in a dreary _dák-bungalow_* young Gurney lay for
some days in a fever; before he had thoroughly recovered, Sir Cæsar
and his daughter had started for England.
* A kind of inn, provided by Government for the convenience of
travellers.
Walter Gurney had narrowly escaped from one of the chief perils of
his life--that of union with a vain and worldly woman, who would
sooner have drawn him down to her own level than have risen up to
his. He had all but crossed over the stile into the Bypath Meadow
described by Bunyan, which leads to the territory of Giant Despair;
that he had not done so was the result of faith's upward glance at
the pillar of cloud and fire.