As a heavy stone falling into a pond sends waves circling outward to
a distance, so the death of Sir John Moore at Coruña sent many a wave
of sorrow to the hearts of men, north and south, east and west. One
such wave found its way to the distant town of Verdun, where still
languished the détenus, taken captive in 1803, together with many later
Prisoners of War on parole, sent thither.
News in those days travelled slowly, and prisoners travelled more
slowly still. But a day arrived, though not till very many weeks after
the Battle of Coruña, when Jack Keene found himself within the ramparts
of Verdun.
It was spring; and he carried his right arm in a sling, and when he
moved a distinct limp might be seen. He had just been to report himself
at the citadel, and he now stood outside, meditating on his next move.
A rather young man, with a keen clever face, passed him quickly, then
pulled up, turning in his direction.
“I beg your pardon. Have you just arrived here?”
“Yes. You’re English. That’s right,” said Jack heartily. “I’m a
prisoner.”
“Can I be of service to you? Have you friends in the place?”
“Could you direct me to Colonel Baron’s house or lodgings?”
“Certainly. I know them all. My name is Curtis.”
“Ah! I have heard that name from Roy Baron.”
“Roy and I were great friends, when he was here. Anything you can tell
me about him will be welcome.”
Curtis looked questioningly, and Jack answered the look.
“My name is Keene. Roy and I have been through the Campaign in Spain
together, and on the retreat I was wounded and taken prisoner.”
Curtis held out his hand, to be grasped by Jack’s left.
“You have travelled all the way from Spain.”
“With a convoy of prisoners. Yes. Been a good while about it, too.
First part of the way in a waggon, after that on horseback. Tell me how
they all are here. I have heard nothing for ages.”
“I’ll come and show you the way. The Colonel keeps all right. Looks
older than he used, that’s all. Mrs. Baron is well. One fancied at the
time that Roy’s being sent to Bitche would kill her outright; but it
didn’t. Having to devote herself to Ivor was a mercy in disguise, I
don’t doubt. Kept her from dwelling on her own trouble. It was a vast
relief to them all, when the kind fellow, who got Roy away, came and
told them he’d seen the boy safe on board a vessel for England. He was
well rewarded by the Colonel, as you may suppose—not that he did it for
reward! But, of course, we don’t breathe a word about it in Verdun, for
the fellow’s own sake. Only, as I know them well, and as I know you
belong to them——”
Jack made a gesture of assent.
“Ivor was ill, was he not?”
“I daresay he would have been so anyhow, after the march from
Valenciennes; but the arrest of Roy was a finishing stroke. You won’t
find him looking good for much now. I suppose hardly anything could
have knocked him down like the death of Sir John Moore. It is a fearful
loss to the country. No man living could have been worse spared.”
Curtis paused, cast a glance at Jack, and changed the subject.
Presently they reached the house, where still the Barons lived, as ever
since their first arrival in Verdun.
“By-the-by, I’m not sure whether you’ll find them in,” he said. “The
Colonel at _appel_ said he was going to take Ivor with his wife for a
drive in the country, hoping it might do him good. It was worth trying.
But I think they may have returned before now.”
“You’re allowed to go where you will?”
“Why, no! _Douceurs_ are efficacious, however. Will you let me show you
the way upstairs?”
Jack hesitated.
“No, I understand. Of course, you’d rather see them first alone; and I
didn’t mean to go in. But you can’t mistake the room. First landing,
first door to the right.”
Curtis vanished, and Jack, obeying the directions, came to a door
slightly ajar. He pushed it wider, and went softly through.
It was a good-sized salon; empty, except for the presence of one man,
writing at a side table. By build and bearing, Jack recognised Ivor
instantly; but, finding himself unnoticed, he had a fancy not at once
to make his presence known. He drew a few steps nearer, and then stood
motionless. He had a good side-view of the other.
Jack studied him gravely, recalling the splendid physique and health of
the young Guardsman six years earlier. The physique was in a sense the
same; and the fine bearing of head and shoulders remained unaltered;
but the sharpened delicacy and pallor of the face impressed Jack
painfully, as did a streak of grey hair above the temple, a stamp of
habitual lassitude upon the brow, and the thinness of the strongly-made
right hand, which moved the pen. Jack began dimly to understand what
the long waiting and patience of these years had been.
Ivor seemed to become conscious of Jack’s gaze. He laid down his pen,
glanced round, and started up.
“Jack! Is it possible?”
“Just arrived,” remarked Jack, with an _insouciance_ which he was far
from feeling. “Come across Spain and France. Yes, wounded; but I’m
getting all right. Always was a tough subject, you know.”
“Where were you taken?”
“On the march, at Lugo. Two days off from Coruña. Got too far ahead of
my men. Wounded in the leg first; then, as I was defending myself, a
musket-ball broke my right arm. So I had to give in.”
“You are lame still. Sit down. You a prisoner, too! I hardly know how
to believe it.”
“Fortune of war, as our French friends would say. I’ve no right to
complain. Had my share, though ’tis a shame to be cut off from more of
it. Den, you’re looking very far from well.”
Denham did not heed the words.
“What of Roy?” he asked. “We have had no home-news for ages.”
“Roy is Ensign in my Regiment. Didn’t you know even that? Been with me
through this Campaign. He and I were in the Reserve—under _his_ eye”—in
a lower voice. “You have heard——”
“No particulars. The fact of a battle at Coruña—and—— Tell me all you
can.”
“You know that it was victory.”
“I know!”—in a stirred deep tone. “Not from the papers. French papers
never admit defeat. But—under him—how could it be otherwise?”
“It never _was_ otherwise. Never—once!”
Denham rested his face on both hands.
“Tell me all you know. We are cut off from everything here.”
Jack’s information was but partial. Before starting for France, he had
been kept by his wounds some time in the neighbourhood of Lugo; and
thus a few details of that heroic death had filtered round to him. It
was hard work for Jack to repeat them in a steady voice. Once Ivor
raised his head; and the dumb white sorrow of his look all but overcame
Jack’s fortitude. Then Ivor returned to his former position, and Jack
went on resolutely.
“That’s about all,” he said at length. “As much as I’ve heard yet....
He was his own grand self to the last!... It was the death he would
have chosen to die.... He always wished for it.... On the field—in
the moment of victory! But the loss to us—to England!... The best—the
noblest——”
Jack could say no more. Silence followed.
“Soult is a brave fellow. I heard that he was going to put up a
memorial stone[1]—to _him_! The French know what he was.”
Silence again. Denham had not stirred.
“He saved the Army—and baulked Napoleon. None except we who were there
could know the true state of things—the hopeless inefficiency of the
Spaniards. If he had had treble the number of men, and sufficient
supplies, England might have told a very different tale to-day. What
could be done by mortal man, under such circumstances, he did.”
Renewed silence. Jack studied the other gravely.
“You’re not fit for any more of this! When did you hear last from home?
So long? And you actually didn’t know that Roy was in Spain? Smart
young officer, too. He came in more than once for particular notice.”
Jack found himself verging on another allusion to the name which filled
their thoughts, and he turned to a fresh subject. “This Commandant of
yours at Verdun—Wirion—must be a queer chap, judging from reports of
him in the English papers.”
“He—was.”
“Not here now?”
“Courcelles is the present Commandant. Wirion went too far. There were
some scandalous cases—young Englishmen fleeced to the tune of five
thousand pounds.”
“What a vile shame!”
“Some of us made a stir, and facts were carried to headquarters. Wirion
was suspended, and he received a hint that he might as well put himself
out of the way. He acted upon the hint.”
“You mean that he——?”
“Shot himself.”
“Present man any improvement?”
“Oppressions are a degree more carefully veiled.”
Denham lifted his face from his hands with a sudden movement.
“What am I thinking about? You must be in want of food.”
“No, it’s all right. I went to a café on arrival. Your next meal is
soon enough for me.”
The absence of any inquiry after Polly was arousing Jack’s wonder. At
first, in the engrossing interest of that other subject, he had not
so much noticed Denham’s reticence, but now each minute it grew more
marked. Should he speak of Polly himself? No, that would not do. The
first mention ought to be from Ivor. So Jack decided, not realising
that his own silence might be misconstrued. Some questions as to his
wounds followed. Denham had moved to the large arm-chair, and was
leaning back with a spiritless look. Jack wondered anew, and at length
he could not resist putting forth a slight feeler.
“Are there no folks at home of whom you would fain hear?”
Ivor took the hint, looked straight at him, and said—
“Is Polly married yet?”
Jack’s breath was taken away. He was like one who has received a slap
in the face. This—from Ivor!
“Upon—my—word!” he ejaculated. “You take it coolly. Uncommon coolly!”
“I have at least a right to ask the question.”
For a moment Jack was very nearly in a passion, but the anger went down
as fast as it had arisen.
“Of course you don’t mean—— But, I say, what in the wide world made
you think of such a thing? Polly married! No, nor like to be.”
“I heard that she was engaged.”
“To whom?”
“The Admiral’s nephew—Peirce.”
“Who told you the lie?”
“Then—it was a lie!”
“You might have known it. Who told you?”
“One whom I should have counted trustworthy.”
“When did you hear the tale?”
“The year I was in Valenciennes.”
Jack recalled Roy’s description of Ivor’s return from that absence, and
he began to grasp the state of the case.
“When did you hear last from Polly herself?”
“Over two years ago. A letter which had been written before the date
when she was said to have become engaged.”
The last remnants of Jack’s anger died out. Two years of silence
following upon such a report!
“You have not writ yourself to Polly, this great while.”
“How could I—not speaking of this? And—how speak of it—if it were not
true?”
Silence again. Jack observed slowly, as he watched the other’s
colourless lips—
“Den, I’m going to be frank. ’Tis no case for half confidences. There
was a time, I’ll confess, when I had a doubt in my own mind of Polly’s
constancy. She’s a pretty creature, and she has had an uncommon lot of
admiration. But I wronged her, for she has been ever faithful to you,
and she has cared for none other. And the night before I started for
Spain, she and I talked together, and she spoke out plainly. She said
that, if you but asked her to come to Verdun she would come—and gladly.
She wondered, if indeed you cared for her still, that you had not so
done.”
A flush came, and Denham’s hand was held hard against his forehead.
“Never!” he said, in a low voice.
“You would not wish to have her out?”—incredulously.
“Never! If Polly were here, I might be taken from her in a week—sent to
a dungeon, leaving her unprotected.”
“I see! Nay, that would not do. Polly and you must wait a while longer.
But you will know now that she is waiting too.”
“It might be better for her—not——” Denham broke off.
“Your head is not often like this, I hope,” Jack said, in a concerned
tone.
“Not much respite lately.”
“Have you had medical advice? Can nothing be done?”
“One infallible remedy—if it might be had.”
“And that is?”
“Freedom—and Home.”
There was a short breath between the words, which said much, for Denham
was not given to sighing. Then voices outside told of the return of
Colonel and Mrs. Baron. Denham stood up, murmured a hasty apology, and
left the room.
“Poor fellow!” Jack said aloud.
(_To be continued._)
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Soult was recalled too soon, and this was done by Romana. In the
year 1814 a marble monument was erected by the English Government at
Coruña.
FROCKS FOR TO-MORROW.
BY “THE LADY DRESSMAKER”
I have seen nothing more wonderful this season than the combinations
of colour in dress. To hear the suggestions of your dressmaker on the
subject is to hear all your preconceived notions disputed and set at
naught. The other day I went with a friend to order a dress, and she
selected one of the new canvas grenadines, blue with a white silk spot.
The blue was rather a bright one, and the material very transparent,
and open in its meshes. There were several suggestions made for the
silken lining by the very clever woman who was attending to us—white,
pale blue, a darker blue, emerald green, pink, rose, red, lemon,
orange, and, finally, a mauve—and mauve it was—being the latest colour
combination and newer than the rest. But violet or heliotrope goes
best, to my mind, with crimson; and that is a colour combination which
came in as long ago as the early seventies, after the Franco-Prussian
war; and nothing can exceed its effectiveness if you get the right
shades for your mixture. Then heliotrope and light blue is very pretty;
but much less so than the other. The favourite mixture of this season
is, without doubt, black and white, and a very useful one it is. One
of the favourite materials for the everyday wear of the season is
alpaca, and next to that, for best gowns, comes canvas grenadines, and
a new make of crepon. Nothing can exceed the beauty of the satin-faced
foulards, which everyone seems to be ordering; and there is a great
return to spots, either placed at regular distances over the material,
or else arranged in irregularly-shaped masses. The new nun’s veilings
are also very pretty, and make delightful summer frocks for girls.
[Illustration: SOME SUMMER GOWNS.]
There is much to be said on the subject of linings, and on all sides
you will probably hear it said that no silk, or, at least, no rustling
silk linings are used now; and that all dresses are so soft and
clinging that only very soft linings are used, such as _batiste_,
which is either watered or plain, muslin, or any kind of unstiffened
material. Alpaca is lined with the same material, and not with silk,
but canvas must be silk-lined, so a new kind of foulard silk is to be
found which is non-rustling and flows in straight lines in the skirt.
Instead of a braid at the edge of your skirt, you must now use velvet,
which is to be obtained at all the shops for that purpose, and black
velvet is most used for the purpose.
The attenuation of the quite up-to-date woman is very remarkable,
and her skirts are so long and so unstiffened that they wrap round
her feet, and make her look “like a mermaid,” as one of our many
fashion-writers assures us; but, whatever the creature is that she may
be like, the effect is startling; it is so long and so unshapely when
the new style is applied to a thin figure.
[Illustration: TWO HARMONIES IN BLACK AND WHITE.]
The group of figures which I have called “Two harmonies in black
and white,” are two pretty gowns in the two hues which are the most
fashionable of all. The figure on the left holding a bird wears a gown
of white lace over black satin, which is trimmed with crescent-shaped
pieces of silk, shading from black to grey and white. These are laid
on in regular sequence of size on the skirt as well as on the bodice.
The other dress is of plainer character, and is of black, with a white
design. It is, in fact, one of the new satin-faced foulards, the
pattern being of small leaves and dots. The vest is of pleated white
satin, with revers of the same covered with lace. The bodice and
skirt are also trimmed with ruches of cream-coloured lace, which are
laid over the dress in pannier fashion, and go round the skirt at the
back. These small ruchings, made of ribbon, narrow lace, or pinked-out
silk, are quite one of the features of this season’s gowns and mantles.
[Illustration: MUSLIN FROCK FOR A YOUNG GIRL.]
The frocks for young girls are especially pretty this season, and the
use of muslin makes them always youthful-looking and light. The frock
illustrated in our sketch is made of a dotted muslin, which may be of
cream or _écru_, or even of a colour. It is lined with either a good
sateen or a silk, rose, pink, or blue being pretty colours; and the
bodice has a deep yoke of silk of the colour of the lining, which has
a ruching of lace round it, or else one of silk gauze, which is almost
equally popular. The muslin which covers the bodice is tucked, and also
that on the pointed tunic, which is edged with deep muslin frills,
having lines of narrow pink or blue ribbon on them. The sash is of
the same colour, tied at the back, the ends of which are fringed, and
trimmed with bands of a deeper shade of the same colour. This might
be made in an easier manner by tucking the skirt, as shown in the
drawing, in a pointed shape, and then putting the muslin flounce on as
a trimming to it. This frock could, of course, be copied in any other
material, such as cambric nun’s veiling or a grenadine. Pale grey
grenadine over pink or blue silk is a very fashionable gown for young
people this season.
The second figure of this group wears a black corded silk jacket, made
very short, with white revers, and cordings of white satin. It is quite
tight-fitting, and has an under vest of white satin, and a high collar
at the back. A large scarf of lace is worn with a big bow under the
chin. These last-named are donned by everyone this year, and they are
also universally becoming, and lend much softness to the face. They are
very easy to make for oneself at home, with the aid of a yard or so of
net and a little pretty lace. But beware of getting either of these
too cheap, for cheapness here would destroy the good effect; and poor
materials will not wash. The skirt worn by this figure is of pale grey,
trimmed with flat bands of silk, and made with a pointed tunic. The hat
is a very pretty one, of white chip, trimmed with black tulle, ruched.
A gold buckle and black feathers are worn with it. The edge is bound
with black velvet, and underneath the brim is a bunch of pink roses.
In the hair-dressing of the present moment there is an enormous amount
of frizzing and waving; in fact, too much of it for the symmetry of the
head, and the work of the curling-irons is all too evident. One thing
of which everyone complains is, that all heads are alike, and it is
much to be desired that more individual thought should be devoted to
the dressing of the head. The back hair is dressed in coils, winding
round and round smoothly, except when the door-knocker style is still
retained; but this form of hair-dressing is fast going out. Then the
head is covered with a mass of frizzled hair, which is too disorderly
to be beautiful, and in which the beauty of its colour is lost.
A great many women and girls have deserted the use of hot irons, and
have gone back to curl-papers, and hair-pins, to wave the hair. In
order to avoid the use of either of these, an inventive genius has
found out a way of winding a ribbon round with the hair-pin, so that,
after the hair is wound in and out on it, the hair-pin can be slipped
out, and the two ends of the ribbon which have been left out are tied
tightly together, and the hair is then held on the ribbon only. The
little bunch thus made is far less ugly than the spiky wire-fencing
made by the hairpin ends. The ribbon used is baby ribbon, of course,
and when a becoming colour is selected, the effect is quite pretty.
Silk pieces of various colours are used also, on which to curl the
hair, and in some measure do away with the ugliness of the usual
papers. I have heard lately of a young married lady who had a false
front made, to put on at night over her hair-wavers, which, she said,
were so ugly, she could not bear to look at herself in them, and so
tried this way to surmount the difficulty.
In the group of three figures called “Some Summer Gowns,” the first
figure on the right wears a light-grey gown, with trimmings of
coffee-coloured lace. The flounces are edged with the same, and the
vest has alternate stripings of grey and black. There is a draping of
white satin on the vest, which is like a sash from the side of the
bodice. There are revers of the same lace, and upstanding frilling
at the back of the neck. The sleeves are fluted in puffs, from the
shoulder to the elbow, with rows of coffee-coloured lace insertion
between them, and are finished with a pointed cuff over the hand. The
centre figure wears a blouse of _écru_ silk, the sleeves and yoke being
mitred, and a pointed epaulette at the shoulder. With this a white
muslin collar is worn. The last figure, at the extreme left, wears a
cape of white silk with a cover of black net, and ruches of black and
white satin ribbon; small black rosettes round the collar, and a ruche
of black and white lace at the neck. A white hat, bound at the edge of
the brim with a black velvet, the trimming being of black tulle, with
pale-pink roses, and brownish leaves and buds; the same flowers under
the brim at the back.
I do not think, in spite of Viscountess Harberton, that the majority of
English women desire to wear knickerbockers, nor even the divided skirt
with which her name has been so much associated in the past; and I
hear that French women of the better classes are adopting the skirt of
the English women, which they consider much more becoming. After all,
there is no need of complaint, for several English firms supply a most
ingenious skirt, which—though divided, and giving all the advantages
of that shape—when on the bicycle, falls into the usual folds of the
skirt which is not divided, and looks just the same. I must confess
that this appears to me to meet all requirements, and that the extreme
ugliness of the knickerbockers, when worn, need not make them an object
of attraction to any woman who values her appearance. There seems to
be a universal consensus of opinion that nothing can look better than
an Englishwoman in a tailor-made and carefully-fitted dress, quiet in
colour, and of the suitable length and shape of skirt. She looks one
with her machine, and has nothing flying in the way of decorations to
make her untidy.
IN THE TWILIGHT SIDE BY SIDE.
BY RUTH LAMB.