An important change took place in the management of the barracks at
Norman Cross a few months after the event narrated in the preceding
chapter. Captain Mortimer, the admiralty agent, resigned his position
there on promotion to another charge. Whether the relations between him
and Major Kelly became rather strained, or whether he himself was a
little ashamed of the violent measures he had recommended to suppress the
mutiny, and which certainly had made him more unpopular than ever, cannot
be determined. But resign he did in the month of August, 1811, and was
succeeded by Captain John Draper, R.N. The exchange was a blessed one
for the prisoners: not because the important duties were done more
punctually and exactly, but because the one was a sympathising man, and
the other a mere machine. There was all the difference between the two
men that there is between the music of a street piano that rattles
through long runs with provoking correctness, and a sweet air played by
the fair hands of one whose soul is in her music.
The prisoners felt the relief before they knew whence it came, as men
breathing the close atmosphere of a crowded room may feel invigorated
before they know that a supply of pure oxygen has been introduced
therein. It was not that they fared any better than before. They had
the same rations, though the new agent saw with his own eyes that they
were good and sufficient. They had the same cramped-up sleeping bunks,
only he never let a man be without proper covering, even if he punished
him afterwards if he gambled it away. They were still prisoners, hard
and fast; yet, somehow, the bondage was not so galling as it used to be.
The agent's manner was kind and friendly. He spoke cheerily to the
prisoners. He asked questions. He took notice of the desponding, and
there were many such. The sick he tenderly cared for. This was to the
ordinary rank and file. To the officers he was all this and more. Not
because he cared more for them, but because, as a rule, he could unbend
to them more than to the others without risk of lowering his position. He
frequently visited their quarters, chatted freely with them, played
billiards with them, was pleased to see the English officers mix at
proper times with them, admired heartily the beautiful handiwork of the
common men. The only man he could not abide was the one who, whether
officer or private, was a fraud or a sham.
And in this treatment of his unfortunate charge the Commandant entirely
went along with him.
War was still raging. That in the Peninsula--which so many now-a-days
know nothing about, but prefer "Tit-Bits," or the writings of sceptical
ladies, but in which the most splendid generalship and indomitable
bravery were displayed on _both_ sides as in no other country, and which
formed one of the hinges on which the fortune of Napoleon turned, the
other being the ice-bound plains of Russia--was pouring fresh prisoners
into England (20,000 in ten months is the number once mentioned in a
despatch of Wellington's), and no doubt Norman Cross had its share. But
for all who arrived there Captain Draper had a friendly look, and for
many a word of kindness.
He had not been long at his post before he became acquainted with Captain
Tournier; and his sympathy for him, quickly awakened, was all the more
increased by what he heard from Major Kelly. They both soon had more
reason than ever to be drawn to him.
There was a French agency in London, sanctioned by the English
government, through which prisoners of war had under certain restrictions
the means of communication with their friends abroad. Tournier had from
the first, as we may be sure, availed himself of this privilege. From
his mother's letters he could not hide from himself the fact that his
absence from her, under such melancholy circumstances, was prejudicially
affecting her health. The dear old soul always tried to make the best of
it, but nature would out, although it was more from indirect remarks than
from any positive complaints, that Tournier gathered the true state of
the case. Of course it grieved him exceedingly, and added fresh
poignancy to his unhappiness. But there was one thing that, for the
first two years, her letters always contained in one form or another,
that made some sweet amends, and that was that she invariably added how
his dear Elise soothed and comforted her. "Whenever I see her," his
mother would write, "I seem to see you; and she says the same of me."
For the last few months, however, Tournier could not but observe, but
most unwillingly, there had been a gradual cessation of these fond
remarks in his mother's letters, and, worse still, a corresponding
chilliness in those of his Elise. At first, it was "How weary it is
without you!" then, "How can I go on living without you?" then, "How long
will it be before I shall see you?" This is not a romantic way of
putting it; but the downward progress of a woman's heart that is not
true, does not deserve romantic description. The auctioneer's formula is
quite good enough, "Going--going--gone."
Still the man who loved her with true and generous affection could not,
and would not, believe evil. "Poor dear heart," he would say; "she is
indeed to be pitied! How can she help being weary of my absence so
long?"
And here it must not fail to be recorded, that Tournier was no longer the
same man that he had been when first he arrived at Norman Cross--a proud,
bitterly disappointed, sensitive, angry man, who had lost what little
faith he ever had in God. He was still a faulty character, no doubt.
Poor erring men do not leap into perfection at a bound. But the
revolving light that first sent forth its rays into his mind, some two
years ago, in Cosin's house, had gone on revolving till it became a
settled and influential conviction--that God is good, and will help all
who want Him, even in their direst need. _How_ good and _how_ mighty to
save God was, he had yet to learn: but that He _was_ good, and that He
would help _him_, that he firmly believed. And who had done it for
him--this miracle, if you like to call it?--God. By weak human
instrumentality, by degrees: but yet God: for none else could have done
it.
It made him stronger, much stronger, to bear the bitter trouble that yet
oppressed him day by day. It made him hope on, even in the dark. It
gave him an object in life, when all he once had lived for seemed swept
away.
The reality of his belief was before long put to a very severe test. A
letter from his mother arrived one day. The unusually shaky hand-writing
of the address instantly struck him, and a horrible dread that something
was wrong seized him. It might have turned out nothing after all, for
where we remember one presentiment that turns out true, we forget twenty
that turn out false. But in this case it possessed him. He had been
very far from well for some time past. In fact, the three years of
prison life, and its attendant anxieties, were telling on him. He was
lying on a sofa, which his friend at the farm had sent to the prison for
him, when the letter was put in his hand. "I cannot read this here," he
muttered, and hurried out of the room, and thence into the road. Taking
the way towards Yaxley, he almost ran down a lane that turned towards
Whittlesea mere to a favourite spot by the water, where he had often gone
fishing with Cosin (for it was deep there), and was very secluded. He
called it his _sanctuaire_. Flinging himself down, he tore open the
letter with trembling hands, and began to read:--
"Oh, my dear, dear son! How can I write what I have to say to you? The
good God give you strength to bear it like a man. Elise has run away
from her home. Your friend, Colonel Fontenoy, has been staying in our
neighbourhood, having recovered from his wounds: and made love to her in
spite of the opposition of her family (you know what a handsome man he
is), and by this time they are married in Paris . . ."
Whether Tournier got as far as this, no one could say. He was found some
hours after with the letter crumpled up in his hand, lying lifeless on
the green turf.
But what had been going on during the interval between his beginning the
letter and his swooning away? One thing was most certain: The footsteps
leading to the brink of the water, again and again repeated, were signs
of an awful struggle between the impulse to get free from the troubles of
this life (though not of the next), and the determination to trust in God
and do the right.
His fellow-prisoners had noticed his agitated manner and hasty departure
after receiving the letter, and when he did not return to the barracks
for some hours, they communicated with the officer of the guard, who lost
no time in informing the Commandant. Major Kelly fancied Tournier might
be with his friend at the Manor Farm, but, not being quite easy about it,
he went there himself.
"Oh," said Cosin, "I'll be bound he is at his favourite haunt. The
prison is not the place to read love-letters in. He always goes there
when he wants to be alone. Shall we go and see, major?"
There, as has been said, they found him. The first impression was that
he was dead. And no wonder: he looked so like it. But closer
examination shewed that life was still in him. As quickly as possible
they obtained a light cart, and tenderly placed the body in it--Cosin
supporting the head--and gently drove away.
"I wish you would allow me to take him to my house," said Cosin: "it is
nearer than the barracks; and by the look of the poor, dear fellow, he
will not bear much shaking, and--I should so like to have him."
The major thought a minute, and said, "Perhaps you are right. It is
nearer and quieter than the barracks. I can authorise you to take charge
of him, though Draper may be jealous of you."
So they brought him to the Manor House, and carried him upstairs with
utmost care, and placed him in Cosin's own room, for none other was
ready, and put him to bed.
He was still unconscious, and no restoratives they applied to the best of
their ability had any effect. Would he ever wake up again?
Meanwhile, a doctor was sent for post-haste. Those at the barracks were
all English, of whom Mr. Vise, of Stilton, was chief; and he, happening
to be there at the time, instantly drove to the Manor House.
"Brain fever," said the doctor, after careful examination of the patient:
"and a very bad case too I fear. It is of course too early to speak
positively as yet: but so far as I see at present, I should say it is
extremely improbable that he will ever regain consciousness. Perfect
quietude is all-essential to him. His life depends on it. He must have
had intense irritation of the brain, and some shock must have supervened
to bring him to the state in which I find him. What is that paper
clutched so tightly in his hand?" he added. "It may explain something."
And then, with a doctor's skill, he succeeded in disengaging from his
grasp the fatal letter, and read it.
"There is the explanation, at least in part."
Each of the others read the letter so far as was needful, but, like
gentlemen, no further. And Cosin understood it all better than the
others could.
Full directions were given by the doctor as to treatment, and his last
words were, "You must never leave him for a minute night nor day; and if
he wake--_if_ he wake--let nothing on any account excite him."
No doubt the doctor was right in theory, but medical directions are
sometimes more easy to give than to carry out.
The doctor then drove away with Major Kelly, having first ascertained
that Alice Cosin had sent for the best nurse in the village, who,
wonderful to say, was a very good one.
Soon after they had left, Villemet came hurrying to the house, having
obtained leave from the major. He seemed to have run all the way.
"You are the very man I want," said Cosin.
"Do let me see him," cried the other, all out of breath.
"You shall directly, only you must restrain your feelings, and on no
account disturb him. He is so ill, it would kill him outright if you
did."
And he told him why it was he was so glad he had come: because, if their
friend chanced to arouse, it would not excite him so much to see
Villemet, as it would to see any one else. "I only wish you could stop
all night," he added.
"So I can. The major said I might if you wanted me; but I did not like
to intrude myself upon you."
And they two kept watch all through the night, hearing the church-clock,
close by, strike every hour; Cosin keeping out of sight, and Villemet
sitting where the eyes of the patient might more easily see him, should
they ever open again.
The fever increased. Restlessness began. Then a murmur, very faint,
startled them; but it was nothing. Louder and articulate words came
next; and delirium set in, lasting many weary hours. He was in
France--always in France. He spoke of his mother; was talking to her:
called her by name. But he never once mentioned the name Elise.
A tear came into Villemet's eye when he heard his poor friend express his
joy at seeing his mother--he thought of his own--but he dashed it away.
Why be ashamed, strong man? It becomes the brave to weep sometimes. Only
noodles never do so. There must be brains to produce tears, and a heart
too: and noodles have neither.
This went on for many hours. They wanted Villemet to take some rest, but
he refused. He dosed in his chair, but the slightest sound awoke him: a
sentinel at the shrine of friendship. At length, on the third day in the
early morning, the eyes of the sick man opened, and fully rested on the
familiar face of his friend. Instantly, but without any startling haste,
Villemet was on his knee beside him, looking at him with a placid smile,
as if nothing had happened.
"I have been so happy. I have been to France, and seen the old place--and
my mother. But is it not strange? I never saw her, E--." And the eyes
closed again, and the voice sank out.
Some hours of unconsciousness followed, but with decreasing restlessness.
The doctor gave hope. Only he again warned them that the next waking
would be the critical one. "Whatever you do," he said, "keep him, if you
can, from reverting to the past as long as possible."
Yet it so happened that the next time Tournier aroused, Villemet was out
of the room, and Cosin had taken his place. The afternoon sun was
lighting up his face with a slanting ray as he sat by the bedside and
looked toward the window; and when he turned his eyes again on his
friend, he could hardly refrain from starting. Tournier was gazing on
him with a look of intense earnestness.
"Where am I?"
"You are on a visit to me, and have been very ill, and I want you to go
to sleep again, and not think about anything."
"But do you know," said Tournier, making a feeble effort to put out his
hand, which his friend gently took, "that when I first woke up, such
horrid thoughts came into my mind! but I caught sight of your face, and
they went away."
"That's right. Now take this nourishment, and try to sleep again. We
shall have plenty of time to talk when you are stronger, and I shall be
always close by."
It would be wearisome to describe at any length the various stages of
recovery: for recover he did, and became as strong and vigorous as ever.
No little share had Alice Cosin in bringing this about, though in that
unobtrusive, and often unknown, way in which dear, kind women work, for
she was one of those who had the mark of the true lady in her household
duties. She knew everything, and saw to everything, and did anything
that would make the household comfortable.
And when Tournier got strong enough to think and converse without
restraint, he told Cosin, with great emotion, the terrible nature of that
struggle he had had beside the water of the mere before they found him,
and what it was God had made use of to save him.
"I cannot describe," he said, "the hell that rose up within me when I
read that she was married. I rushed to the water (I knew it was deep
there,) in furious passion, to fling myself in. It was not fear that
stopped me--never in my life was I afraid of anything--it was a voice,
not outside me, but within: a voice that was more distinct to me than a
bell tolled close to my ear, and all the more because it never reached me
through the ear; it reached my brain though, aye, and my heart. And it
said, 'God is good. God can help.' Over and over again I rushed to the
water to drown myself, and over and over again that voice within stopped
me at the brink. Oh, it was frightful! but God _was_ good, and God _did_
help me."
Many a time after this did the friends converse together, in their walks,
when they rode out, and as they sat at the fire-side; and without any
affectation of superior wisdom, yet, when Tournier at any time appeared
to flag or grow weary in bearing up under his still severe trials, Cosin
would cheer him by telling him, out of the fulness of his own heart, that
all hopeless trouble came from trying to live without God, and that no
one is really wise who thinks he knows better than He.
And when, on one occasion, Tournier was much depressed, because he had
asked himself a question which every man must one day ask, if he means to
be truly happy, though some, by God's grace, learn the answer before they
know the immensity of it.
"I cannot understand how it is that God can be so good to such imperfect,
nay, I will out with the word, sinful creatures as we are? I am afraid I
have made use of religious jargon, like many others."
"My dear fellow," replied Cosin, "God is good to all; but we have no
right to _claim_ any share in His goodness except through _Christ_. If
we left that out it would be jargon indeed."