On a low little bed in a small chamber, once a cell of the Convent,
Charles Conway lay, pale, bloodless, and breathing heavily. The
surgeon's report of that morning called him “mortally wounded,” and
several of his comrades had already come to bid him farewell. To
alleviate in some measure his sufferings, he was propped up with pillows
and cushions to a half-sitting posture, and so placed that his gaze
could rest upon the open sea, which lay calm and waveless beneath his
window; but even on this his eyes wandered vaguely, as though already
all fixity of thought was fled, and that the world and its scenes had
ceased to move or interest him. He was in that state of exhaustion which
follows great loss of blood, and in which the brain wanders dreamily and
incoherently, though ready at any sudden question to arouse itself to an
effort of right reason.
A faint, sad smile, a little nod, a gesture of the hand, were tokens
that one by one his comrades recorded of their last interview with him;
and now all were gone, and he was alone. A low murmur of voices at his
door bespoke several persons in earnest conversation, but the sounds
never reached the ears of the sick man.
“He spoke of making a will, then?” said Classon, in a whisper.
“Yes, sir,” replied the sergeant. “He asked several times if there was
not some one who could take down his wishes in writing, and let him sign
it before witnesses.”
“That will do admirably,” said Paul, pushing his way into the room,
closely followed by Terry Driscoll. “Ah, Driscoll,” said Paul,
unctuously, “if we were moralists instead of poor, frail, time-serving
creatures as we are, what a lesson might we not read in the fate of the
poor fellow that lies there!”
“Ay, indeed!” sighed out Terry, assentingly.
“What an empty sound 'my Lord' is, when a man comes to that!” said
Paul, in the same solemn tone, giving, however, to the words “my Lord” a
startling distinctness that immediately struck upon the sick man's ear.
Conway quickly looked up and fixed his eyes on the speaker.
“Is it all true, then,--am I not dreaming?” asked the wounded soldier,
eagerly.
“Every word of it true, my Lord,” said Classon, sitting down beside the
bed.
“And I was the first, my Lord, to bring out the news,” interposed Terry.
“'Twas myself found the papers in an old farm-house, and showed them to
Davenport Dunn.”
“Hush, don't you see that you only confuse him?” whispered Classon,
cautiously.
“Dunn, Dunn,” muttered Conway, trying to recollect. “Yes, we met at poor
Kellett's funeral,--poor Kellett! the last of the Albueras!”
“A gallant soldier, I have heard,” chimed in Classon, merely to lead him
on.
“Not a whit more so than his son Jack. Where is he?--where is Jack?”
None could answer him, and there was a silence of some minutes.
“Jack Kellett would never have deserted me in this way if he were alive
and well,” muttered Conway, painfully. “Can no one give me any tidings
of him?”
Another silence ensued.
“And I intended he should have been my heir,” said Conway, dreamily.
“How strangely it sounds, to be sure, the notion of inheriting anything
from Charley Conway! How little chance there was a month or two back
that my best legacy might not have been a shabrack or a pair of pistols;
and now I'm the Lord Viscount--what is it?--Viscount--”
A wild gust of wind--one of those swooping blasts for which the Euxine
is famous--now struck the strong old walls, and made the massive
casements rattle. The sick man started at the noise, which recalled at
once the crash of the battle-field, and he cried out vigorously,
“Move up, men,--move up; keep together, and charge! Charge!” and with
bent-down head and compressed lips he seemed like one prepared to meet
a murderous onslaught. A sudden faintness succeeded to this excitement,
and he lay back weak and exhausted. As he fell back, a letter dropped
from his hand to the ground. Classon speedily caught it up, and opened
it. He had, however, but time to read the opening line, which ran
thus--“My dearest Charley, our cause is all but won--”
“From his mother,” interposed Driscoll, leaning over his shoulder.
“Ay, my mother,” murmured Conway, whose ear, preternaturally acute from
fever, caught the word; “she will see that my wishes are carried out,
and that all I leave behind me goes to poor Jack.”
“We'll take care of that, sir,” said Classon, blandly; “only let us know
what it is you desire. We have no other object here than to learn your
wishes.”
With all the alacrity of one accustomed to such emergencies, Paul drew a
small portfolio from his pocket provided with all materials for writing,
and arrayed them neatly before him; but already the sick man had dropped
off into a sleep, and was breathing heavily.
“That box must contain all the papers,” said Classon, rising stealthily
and crossing the room; “and see, the key is in the lock!” In a moment
they were both on the spot, busily ransacking the contents. One glance
showed their suspicions to be correct: there were heaps of legal
documents, copies of deeds, extracts of registries, with innumerable
letters of explanation. They had no time for more than the most hurried
look at these; in fact, they turned in terror at every movement, to see
if the sick man had recovered from his swoon.
“This is all; better than I ever looked for,” said Classon. “Fill your
pockets with them: we must divide the spoil between us, and be off
before he rallies.”
Driscoll obeyed with readiness. His eager eye scrutinized hastily so
much as he could catch of the import of each document; but he did not
venture, by any attempt at selection, to excite Classon's suspicions.
“If we cannot make our own terms after this night's work, Driscoll,
my name is not Paul Classon. The poor fellow here will soon be past
tale-telling, even if he were able to see us. There you have dropped a
large parchment.”
“I' ll put it in the pocket of my cloak,” said the other, in a whisper;
while he added, still more stealthily, “would n't you swear that he was
looking at us this minute?”
Classon started. The sick man's eyes were open, and their gaze directed
towards them; while his lips, slightly parted, seemed to indicate a
powerless attempt to speak.
“No,” said Classon, in a scarcely audible whisper; “that is death.”
“I declare I think he sees us,” muttered Driscoll.
“And if he does, man, what signifies it? He's going where the knowledge
will little benefit him. Have you everything safe and sure now? There,
button your coat well up; we must start at once.”
“May I never! if I can take my eyes off him,” said Driscoll, trembling.
“You had better take yourself off bodily, my worthy friend; there's
no saying who might chance to come in upon us here. Is not that a
signet-ring on his finger? It would only be a proper attention to carry
it to his mother, Driscoll.” There was a half-sarcasm about the tone of
this speech that made it sound strangely ambiguous, as, stooping down,
he proceeded to take off the ring.
“Leave it there,--leave it there! it will bring bad luck upon us,”
murmured Driscoll, in terror.
“There is no such bad luck as not to profit by an opportunity,”
whispered Classon, as he tried, but in vain, to withdraw the ring.
A sharp, half-suppressed cry suddenly escaped him, and Driscoll
exclaimed,--
“What is it? What's the matter?”
“Look, and see if he has n't got hold of me, and tightly too.”
The affected jocularity of his tone accorded but ill with the expression
of pain and fright so written upon his features, for the dying man had
grasped him by the wrist, and held him with a grip of iron.
“That's what they call a dead man's grip, I suppose?” said Classon, in
assumed mockery. “Just try if you cannot unclasp his fingers.”
“I wouldn't touch him if you offered me a thousand guineas for it,” said
Driscoll, shuddering.
“Nonsense, man. We cannot stand fooling here, and I shall only hurt him
if I try it with one hand. Come, open his fingers gently. Be quick. I
hear voices without, and the tramp of horses' feet in the court below.
Where are you going? You're not about to leave me here?”
“May I never! if I know what to do,” muttered Driscoll, in a voice of
despair. “And did n't I tell you from the first it would bring bad luck
upon us?”
“The worst of all luck is to be associated with a fool and a coward,”
said Classon, savagely. “Open these fingers at once, or give me a knife
and I 'll do it myself.”
“The Lord forgive you, but you 're a terrible man!” cried Driscoll,
moving stealthily towards the door.
“So you _are_ going?” muttered Paul, with a voice of intense passion.
“You would leave me here to take the consequences, whatever they might
be?”
Driscoll made no reply, but stepped hastily out of the room, and closed
the door.
For a moment Classon stood still and motionless; then bending down his
head, he tried to listen to what was passing outside, for there was
a sound of voices in the corridor, and Driscoll's one of them. “The
scoundrel is betraying me!” muttered Paul to himself. “At all events,
these must not be found upon me.” And with this, and by the aid of his
one disengaged hand, he proceeded to strew the floor of the room with
the various papers he had abstracted from the box. Again, too, he
listened; but now all was still without. What could it mean? Had
Driscoll got clear away, without even alluding to him? And now he turned
his gaze upon the sick man, who lay there calm and motionless as
before. “This will end badly if I cannot make my escape,” muttered he
to himself; and he once more strove with all his might to unclasp the
knotted fingers; but such was the rigid tenacity of their grasp, they
felt as though they must sooner be broken than yield. “Open your hand,
sir. Let me free,” whispered he, in Conway's ear. “That fellow has
robbed you, and I must follow him. There, my poor man, unclasp your
fingers,” said he, caressingly, “or it will be too late!”
[Illustration: 402]
Was it a delusion, that he thought a faint flickering of a smile passed
over that death-like countenance? And now, in whispered entreaty,
Classon begged and implored the other to set him free.
“There is nothing for it, then, but this,” said Paul, with a muttered
curse, “and your own fault is it that I am driven to it!” And, so
saying, he drew a powerful clasp-knife from his pocket, and tried to
open it with his teeth; but the resistance of the spring still defied
all his efforts for some time, and it was only after a long struggle
that he succeeded. “He's insensible; he'll never feel it,” muttered Paul
below his breath; “and even if he should, self-preservation is the first
of all cares.” And with this he grasped the knife vigorously in his
strong hand, and gazed at the sick man, who seemed to return his
stare as fixedly. There was in Conway's look even a something of bold
defiance, that seemed to say, “I dare and defy you!” so at least did
Classon read it, and quailed before its haughty meaning. “What wretched
cowardice is over me, and at a time when minutes are worth days!”
muttered Classon. “Here goes!” But now a confused noise of many voices,
and the steps of advancing feet were heard in the corridor; and Classon
sank down beside the bed, a cold sweat covering his forehead and face,
while he trembled in every limb.
The room was speedily filled with staff officers and surgeons, in the
midst of whom was a civilian, travel-stained and tired-looking, who
pressed eagerly forward, saying, as he beheld Classon, “Who is this
man,--what is he doing here?”
“An humble missionary,--a weak vessel,” said Paul, whiningly. “In a
paroxysm of his pain he caught me thus, and has held me ever since.
There--at last I am free!” And as he said these words, the sick man's
fingers unclasped and liberated him.
“There has been foul play here,” said Mr. Reggie, the stranger in
civilian dress. “See! that box has been rifled; the floor is covered
with papers. This man must be detained.”
“In bonds or in a dungeon, it matters not,” said Paul, holding up his
hands as if about to open a lengthy discourse; but he was hurried away
ere he could continue.
“He is certainly no worse,” said one of the surgeons, as he felt
Conway's pulse and examined the action of his heart; “but I am far from
saying that he will recover!”
“If I do not greatly mistake,” said Reggis, “our friend the missionary
is the man through whose kind offices I was betrayed within the Russian
lines; but I' ll look to this later. As it was, I have had little to
complain of my treatment in Sebastopol, and my detention was of the
shortest.”
“And Miss Kellett,--is she free also?” asked one of the bystanders.
“Yes; we came back together. She is up at headquarters, giving Lord
Raglan an account of her capture.”
“What is it, Conway?” asked one of the surgeons, suddenly startled by
the intensity of the anxiety in his face. “Are you in pain?”
He shook his head in dissent.
“You are thirsty, perhaps? Will you have something to drink?”
“No,” said he, with the faintest possible utterance.
“What is it, then, my poor fellow?” said he, affectionately.
“So it was not a dream!” gasped out Conway.
“What was it you fancied to be a dream?”
“All,--everything but this!” And he pointed to a deep wound from a
sabre-cut in his shoulder.
“Ay, and that, too, will be as a dream some years hence!” said the
other, cheeringly.
It was evident, now, that the excitement of talking and seeing so many
persons about him was injurious, and the surgeons silently motioned to
the bystanders to retire.
“May I remain with him?” asked the lawyer. “If he could give his consent
to certain measures, sign one or two papers, years of litigation might
be saved.”
Conway had meanwhile beckoned to the surgeon to approach him; and then,
as the other leaned over the bed, he whispered,--
“Was it true what I have just heard,--was she really here?”
“Miss Kellett, do you mean? Yes; she carried up the news to you herself?
It was she that tied the handkerchief on your wounded artery, too, and
saved your life.”
“Here,--in the Crimea? It cannot--cannot be!” sighed Conway.
“She is not the only noble-hearted woman who has left home and friends
to brave perils and face hardships, though, I own, she stands alone for
heroism and daring.”
“So, then, it was not a delusion,--I did actually see her in the
trenches?” said Conway, eagerly.
“She was in the advanced parallel the night the Russians surprised the
5th. She was the first to give the alarm of the attack.”
“Only think, doctor, of what happened to me that night! I was sent up
at speed to say that reinforcements were coming up. Two companies of the
Royals were already in march. My horse had twice fallen with me, and,
being one-armed, I was a good deal shaken, and so faint when I arrived
that I could scarcely deliver my message. It was just then a woman--I
could only perceive, in the darkness, that she seemed young--gave me her
brandy-flask; after drinking, I turned to give it back to her, but she
was gone. There was no time to search for her at such a moment, and
I was about to ride away, when a 'carcasse,' exploding on one of the
redoubts, lit up the whole scene for a considerable space around,
and whom should I see but Jack Kellett's sister, cheering the men and
encouraging them to hold their ground?
[Illustration: 406]
I could have sworn to her features, as I could now to yours; but that
she could really be there seemed so utterly impossible that I fancied
it was a delusion. Nay,” added he, after a pause, “let me tell the whole
truth. I thought it was a warning! Ay, doctor, the weight is off my
heart now that I have confessed this weakness.” As Conway spoke, he
seemed, indeed, as though he had relieved himself of some mighty care;
for already his eye had regained its lustre, and his bold features
recovered their wonted expression. “Now,” cried he, with a renovated
vigor, “I have done with false terrors about second sight, and the rest
of it I am myself again.”
“You can listen to my tidings, then,” said Reggis, seating himself at
the bedside, and at once beginning a narrative, to which I am obliged to
own Conway did not always pay a becoming attention, his thoughts still
reverting to very different scenes and incidents from those which the
lawyer recounted. Indeed, more than once was the narrator's patience
sorely tried and tested. “I am doing my very best to be brief, sir. I
am limiting myself strictly to a mere outline of the case,” said he, in
something of piqué: “It _might_ interest you,--it _ought_ to interest
you!”
“If the doctor yonder will promise me health and years to enjoy all this
same good fortune, so it will interest me,” cried Conway. “What does the
income amount to?”
“If we only recover the English estates, it will be something under
twelve thousand a year. If we succeed with, the Irish, it will be about
three more.”
“And how far are we on the road to this success?” “One verdict is
already won. The first action for ejectment on title has been brought,
and we are the victors. Upon this, all your counsel are agreed, your
claim to the Viscounty rests.”
“I can scarcely credit--scarcely picture it to myself,” said Conway,
half aloud. “My mind is confused by the thought of all the things I wish
to do, if this be true. First of all, I want to purchase Jack Kellett's
commission.”
“If you mean Miss Kellett's brother, he is already gazetted an ensign,
and on his way to join his regiment in India.”
“And how do you know this?”
“She told me so herself.”
“She! When and where have you seen her?”
“Here, at headquarters; in Sebastopol, where we were prisoners together;
at the camp yesterday, where we parted.”
“My poor head cannot bear this,” said Conway, painfully; “I am
struggling between the delight of all these good tidings and a terrible
dread that I am to awake and find them but a dream. You said that she
was here in the camp?”
“That she is. If you but heard the cheer that greeted her arrival! It
began at the advanced pickets, and swelled loader and louder, till, like
the roar of the sea, it seemed to make the very air tremble. There, hear
that! As I live, it is the same shout again.”
“Here comes the General and his staff into the court below,” said the
doctor, hurrying away to receive them.
As the sounds of a distant cheer died away, the noise of horses' feet
resounded through the courtyard, and the clank of musketry in salute
announced the arrival of an officer of rank.
“I declare they are coming this way,” cried Mr. Reggis, rising in some
confusion, “and I heard your name spoken. Coming, I have no doubt, to
see _you_.”
“The General of your division, Conway, come to ask after you,” said
an aide-de-camp, entering, and then standing aside to make place for a
venerable, soldier-like man, whose snow-white hair would have graced a
patriarch.
“I have come to shake your hand, Conway,” said he, “and to tell you we
are all proud of you. There is nothing else talked of through our own
or the French camp than that daring feat of yours; and England will soon
hear of it.”
A deep blush of manly shame covered Conway's face as he listened to
these words; but he could not speak.
“I have been talking the matter over with the General
Commanding-in-chief,” resumed he, “who agrees with me that the Horse
Guards might, possibly, recognizing your former rank of Captain, make
you now a Brevet-major, and thus qualify you for the Bath.”
“Time enough, General, for that,” said Conway. “I have a very long
arrear of folly and absurdity to wipe out ere I have any pretension to
claim high rewards.”
“Well, but if all that I hear be true, we are likely to lose your
services here; they have a story abroad about a peerage and a vast
fortune to which you have succeeded. Indeed, I heard this moment from
Miss Kellett--”
“Is she here, sir?--can I see her?” cried Conway, eagerly.
“Yes. She has come over to say good-bye; for, I regret to say, she too
is about to leave us to join her brother at Calcutta.”
A sickly paleness spread itself over Conway's cheeks, and he muttered,
“I must see her--I must speak with her at once.”
“So you shall, my poor fellow,” said the other, affectionately; “and I
know of no such recompense for wounds and suffering as to see her gentle
smile and hear her soft voice. She shall come to you immediately.”
Conway covered his face with his hand, to conceal the emotion that
stirred him, and heard no more. Nor was he conscious that, one by one,
the persons around him slipped noiselessly from the room, while into the
seat beside his bed glided a young girl's figure, dressed in deep black,
and veiled.
“Such a fate!” muttered he, half aloud. “All this, that they call my
good fortune, comes exactly when I do not care for it.”
“And why so?” asked a low, soft voice, almost in his very ear.
“Is this, indeed, you?” cried he, eagerly. “Was it _your_ hand I felt on
my temples as I lay wounded outside the trenches? Was it your voice that
cheered me as they carried me to the rear?”
She slightly bent her head in assent, and murmured, “Your old comrade's
sister could not do less.”
“And now you are about to leave me,” said he, with an overwhelming
sorrow in the tone.
She turned away her head slightly, and made no answer.
“I, who am utterly alone here,” said he, in a broken voice. “Is this,
too, like my old comrade's sister?” There was a peevishness in the way
he spoke this of which he seemed himself to be ashamed the moment the
words were uttered; and he quickly added, “What a fellow I am to say
this to you!--you, who have done so much for me,--you, who promised to
be a daughter to my poor mother when I am gone!”
“But you are not to take this gloomy view,” said she, hastily; “the
surgeons all pronounce you better; they agree that your wounds
progress favorably, and that, in a week or two, you may be removed to
Constantinople, and thence to England.”
He gave a faint, sickly smile of most melancholy meaning.
“And what will not the cheery, bracing air of those Welsh mountains do,
aided by the kind care of that best of nurses, a fond mother?”
“And where will you be by that time?” asked he, eagerly.
“Journeying away eastward to some far-away land, still more friendless!”
said she, sadly.
“This, then, is the sum of all my good fortune, that when life opens
fairly for me, it shall be bereft of all that I care for!” cried he,
wildly.
Terrified by the excited tone in which he spoke, as well as by the
feverish lustre of his eyes, Sybella tried to calm and soothe him, but
he listened--if, indeed, he heard her--with utter apathy.
“Come!” cried he, at last, “if your resolve be taken, so is mine. If you
leave for India, I shall never quit the Crimea.”
“It is not thus I expected one to speak who loves his mother as you do,”
said she, reproachfully.
“Ah, Sybella, it would indeed have been a happy day for me when I should
have returned to her in honor, could I but have said, 'You have not
alone a son beneath your roof, but a dear daughter also.' If all that
they call my great luck had brought this fortune, then had I been indeed
a fellow to be envied. Without that hope there is not another that I
want to cling to.”
She tried gently to withdraw her hand from his, but he held it in his
grasp, and continued,--
“You, who never heard of me till the first day we met, know little
of the stored-up happiness your very name has afforded me for many a
day,--how, days long, Jack talked of you to me as we rambled together,
how the long nights of the trenches were beguiled by telling of
you,--till at length I scarcely knew whether I had not myself known
and loved you for years. I used to fancy, too, how every trait of poor
Jack--his noble ardor, his generous devotion--might be displayed amidst
the softer and more graceful virtues of womanhood; and at last I came to
know you, far and away above all I have ever dreamed of.”
“Let me go,--let me say good-bye,” said she, in a faint whisper.
“Bear with me a few moments longer, Sybella,” cried he, passionately.
“With all their misery, they are the happiest of my life.”
“This is unfair,--it is almost ungenerous of you,” said she, with
scarcely stifled emotion, and still endeavoring to withdraw her hand.
“So it is!” cried he, suddenly; “it is unmanly and ignoble both, and it
is only a poor, selfish sick man could stoop to plead so abjectly.” He
relinquished her hand as he spoke, and then, grasping it suddenly, he
pressed it to his lips, and burst into tears. “A soldier should be
made of better stuff, Sybella,” said he, trying to smile.
“Goodbye,--good-bye.”
“It is too late to say so now,” said she, faintly; “I will not go.”
“Not go,--not leave me, Sybella?” cried he. “Oh that I may have heard
you aright! Did you say you would remain with me, and for how long?”
“Forever!” said she, stooping down and kissing his forehead. The next
moment she was gone.
“Come, Conway,” said the doctor, “cheer up, my good fellow; you 'll be
all right in a week or so. You 've got something worth living for, too,
if all accounts be true.”
“More than you think for, doctor,” said Conway, heartily,--“far more
than you think for.”
“The lawyer talks of a peerage and a fine estate.”
“Far more than that,” cried Conway; “a million times better.”
The surgeon turned a look of half apprehension on the sick man, and,
gently closing the shutters, he withdrew.
Dark as was that room, and silent as it was, what blissful hopes and
blessed anticipations crowded and clustered around that low “sick-bed”!
What years of happiness unfolded themselves before that poor brain,
which no longer felt a pang, save in the confusion of its bright
imaginings! How were wounds forgotten and sufferings unminded in those
hours wherein a whole future was revealed!
At last he fell off to sleep, and to dream of a fair white hand that
parted the hair upon his forehead, and then gently touched his feverish
cheek. Nor was it all a dream; she was at his bedside.