The day after Mr. Kendal’s departure, Mrs. Meadows had another attack,
but a fortnight still passed before the long long task was over and the
weary spirit set free. There had been no real consciousness and no one
could speak of regret; of anything but relief and thankfulness that
release had come at last, when Albinia had redeemed her pledge and knew
she should no more hear of the dreary ‘very bad night,’ nor be greeted
by the low, restless moan. The long good-night was come, and, on the
whole, there was peace and absence of self-condemnation in looking back
on the past connexion. Forbearance and unselfishness were recompensed
by the calm tenderness with which she could regard one who at the outset
had appeared likely to cause nothing but frets and misunderstandings.
Had she and Sophy been left to themselves, there would have been nothing
to break upon this frame of mind, but early the next day arrived Mr. and
Mrs. Drury, upsetting all her arrangements, implying that it had been
presumptuous to exert any authority without relationship. It did seem
hard that the claims of kindred should be only recollected in order to
unsettle her plans, and offend her unostentatious tastes.
Averse both to the proposals, and to the discussion, she felt
unprotected and forlorn, but her spirit revived as she heard her
brother’s voice in the hall, and she hastened to put herself in his
hands. He declined doing battle, he said it would be better to yield
than to argue, and leave a grudge for ever. ‘It will not vex Edmund,’
he said, ‘and though you and Sophy may be pained by incongruities, they
will hurt you less than disputing.’
She felt that he was right, and by yielding the main points he contrived
amicably to persuade Mr. Drury out of the numerous invitations and grand
luncheon as well as to adhere to the day that she had originally fixed
for the funeral, after which he hoped to take her and the young ones
home with him and give her the thorough change and rest of which the
over-energy of her manner betrayed the need.
Not that she consented. She could not bear not to meet her letters at
once; or suppose Edmund and Gilbert should return to an empty, unaired
house, and she thought herself selfish, when it might do so much good to
Sophy, &c., &c., &c.--till Mr. Ferrars, going home for a night, agreed
with Winifred, that domineering would be the only way to deal with her.
On his return he found Albinia on the stairs, and boxes and trunks
carried down after her. Running to him, she exclaimed, abruptly, ‘I am
going to Malta, Maurice, to-morrow evening!’
‘Has Edmund sent for you?’
‘Not exactly--he did not know--but Gilbert is dying, and wretched at my
not coming. I never wished him good-by--he thinks I did not forgive him.
Don’t say a word--I shall go.’
He held her trembling hands, and said, ‘This is not the way to be able
to go. Come in here, sit down and tell me.’
‘It is no use to argue. It is my duty now,’ said Albinia; but she let
him lead her into the room, where Sophy was changing the bright border
of a travelling-cloak to crape, and Maurice stood watching, as if
stunned.
‘It is settled,’ continued she, rapidly. ‘Sophy and the children go
to the vicarage. Yes, I know, you are very kind, but Maurice would be
troublesome, and Winifred is not well enough, and the Dusautoys wish
it.’
‘Yes, that may be the best plan, as I shall be absent.’
She turned round, startled.
‘I cannot let you go alone.’
‘Nonsense--Winifred--Sunday--Lent--I don’t want any one. Nothing could
happen to me.’
Mr. Ferrars caught Sophy’s eye beaming with sudden relief and gratitude,
and repeated, ‘If you go, I must take you.’
‘I can’t wait for Sunday,’ she said.
‘What have you heard?’
She produced the letter, and read parts of it. The whole stood thus:--
‘Bormola, 11 p.m., February 28th, 1855.
‘Dearest Albinia,
‘I hope all has gone fairly well with you in my absence, and that Sophia
is well again. Could I have foreseen the condition of affairs here, I
doubt whether I could have resolved on leaving you at home, though you
may be spared much by not being with us. I landed at noon to-day, and
was met in the harbour by your cousin, who had come off in a boat
in hopes of finding you on board. He did his best to prepare me for
Gilbert’s appearance, but I was more shocked than I can express. There
can no longer be any doubt that it is a case of rapid decline, brought
on by exposure, and, aggravated by the injury at Balaklava. Colonel
Ferrars fancies that Gilbert’s exertions on his behalf in the early part
of his illness may have done harm, by preventing the broken bone
from uniting, and causing it to press on the lungs; but knowing the
constitutional tendency, we need not dwell on secondary causes, and
there is no one to whom we owe a deeper debt of gratitude than to your
cousin, for his most assiduous and affectionate attendance at a time
when he is very little equal to exertion. They are like brothers
together, and I am sure nothing has been wanting to Gilbert that he
could devise for his comfort. They are in a tolerably commodious airy
lodging, where I found Gilbert propped up with cushions on a large chair
by the window, flushed with eager watching. Poor fellow, to see how
his countenance fell when he found I was alone, was the most cutting
reproach I ever received in my life. He was so completely overcome,
that he could not restrain his tears, though he strove hard to command
himself in this fear of wounding my feelings; but there are moments
when the truth will have its way, and you have been more to him than his
father has ever been. May it be granted that he may yet know how I feel
towards him! His first impression was that you had never forgiven him
for his unfortunate adventure with Maurice, and could never feel towards
him as before; and though I trust I have removed this idea, perhaps such
a letter as you can write might set his heart at rest. Ferrars says that
hitherto his spirits have kept up wonderfully, though latterly he
had been evidently aware of his condition, but he has been very
much depressed this evening, probably from the reaction of excited
expectation. On learning the cause of Lucy’s desertion, he seemed to
consider that his participation in the transactions of that night had
recoiled upon himself, and deprived him of your presence. It was very
painful to see how he took it. He was eager to be told of the children,
and the only time I saw him brighten was when I gave him their messages.
I am writing while I hope he sleeps. I am glad to be here to relieve
the Colonel, who for several nights past has slept on the floor, in his
room, not thinking the Maltese servant trustworthy. He looks very ill
and suffering, but seems to have no thought but for Gilbert, and
will not hear of leaving him; and, in truth, they cling together so
affectionately, that I could not bear to urge their parting, even were
Fred more fit to travel home alone. I will close my letter to-morrow
after the doctor’s visit.’
The conclusion was even more desponding; the physician had spoken of the
case as hopeless, and likely to terminate rapidly; and Gilbert, who was
always at the worst in the morning, had shown no symptom that could lead
his father to retract his first impression.
Mr. Ferrars saw that it would be useless and cruel to endeavour to
detain his sister, and only doubted whether in her precipitation, she
might not cross and miss her husband in a still sadder journey homeward,
and this made him the more resolved to be her escort. When she dissuaded
him vehemently as though she were bent on doing something desperate, he
replied that he was anxious about Fred, and if she and her husband were
engrossed by their son, he should be of service in bringing him home;
and this somewhat reconciled her to what was so much to her benefit.
Only she gave notice that he must not prevent her from travelling day
and night, to which he made no answer, while Sophy hoarsely said
that but for knowing herself to be a mere impediment, she should have
insisted on going, and her uncle must not keep mamma back. Then Maurice
imitatively broke out, ‘Mamma, take me to Gilbert, I wont be a plague, I
promise you.’ He was scarcely silenced before Mr. Dusautoy came striding
in to urge on her that Fanny and himself should be much happier if he
were permitted to conduct Mrs. Kendal to Malta (the fact being that
Fanny was persuaded that Mr. Ferrars would obviate such necessity).
Albinia almost laughed, as she had declared that she had set all the
parsons in the country in commotion, and Mr. Dusautoy was obliged
to limit his good offices to the care of the children, and the
responsibility of the Fairmead Sunday services.
The good hard-worked brother had hardly time to eat his luncheon, before
he started to inform his wife, and prepare for his journey. Winifred was
a very good sister on an emergency; she had not once growled since poor
Mrs. Meadows had been really ill; and though she had been feeding on
hopes of Albinia’s visit, and was far from strong, she quashed her
husband’s misgivings, and cheerily strove to convince him that he would
be wanted by no one, least of all by herself. A slight vituperation of
the polysyllabic pair was all the relief she permitted herself, and who
could blame her for that, when even Mr. Dusautoy called the one ‘that
foolish fellow,’ and the other ‘poor dear Lucy?’
Albinia and Sophy safe over the fire that evening, after their sorrowful
tasks unable to turn to anything else, wondering how and when they
should meet again, and their words coming slowly, and with long
intervals of silence.
‘Dear child,’ said Albinia, ‘promise me to take care of yourself, and to
let Mrs. Dusautoy judge what you can do.’
‘I’m not worth taking care of,’ muttered Sophy.
‘We think you worth our anxiety,’ said Albinia, tenderly.
‘I will not make it worse for you,’ meekly replied Sophy. ‘I don’t think
I’m cross now, I could not be--’
‘No, indeed you are not, my dear. We have leant on each other, and when
we come home, you will make our welcome.’
‘The children will.’
‘Ah! I think Maurice will behave well. He is very much subdued. I told
him he was to do no lessons, and he fairly burst out crying.’
‘Oh, mamma!’ exclaimed Sophy, hurt, indignant, and nearly ready to
follow his example.
‘I do not think he has mastery over himself, so as to help being unruly
and idle, when he is chained to a spelling-book. I would not for the
world set him and you to worry each other for an hour a day, and I shall
start afresh with him all the better, when he knows what absence of
lessons is, and has forgotten all the old associations.’
‘How could you make him cry?’ said Sophy, in reproach.
‘I believe the tears only wanted an excuse. I _did_ put it on his
naughtiness, which usually would have elated him; but his heart was so
full as to make even a long holiday a punishment. That boy often shows
me what a thorough Kendal he is; things sink into him as they never did
into us at the same age, when my aunts used to think I had no feeling.
Oh, Sophy! how will you comfort him?’
‘His will be an unstained sorrow,’ said Sophy, from the depths of her
heart. ‘O, mamma, only tell Gilbert what you know I feel--no, you don’t,
no one can, but what I would not give, to change all I have felt towards
him? If I had been like Edmund, and prized his gentleness and sweetness,
and the humility that was the best worth of all, how different it would
be! But I was proud of despising where truth was wanting.’
‘I should have thought I should have done the same,’ said Albinia; but
there was no keeping from loving Gibbie. Besides, he was sincere, except
when he was afraid, and he was miserable when he was deceiving.’
‘Yes, after you came,’ said Sophy; ‘but I believe I helped him to think
truth disagreeable. I showed my scorn for his want of boldness, instead
of helping him. Think of my having fancied _he_ had no courage.’
‘Kindness taught him courage,’ said Albinia. ‘It might perhaps have
earlier taught him moral courage. If you and he could have leant against
each other, and been fused together, you would have made something like
what Edmund was, I suppose.’
‘I drove him off,’ cried Sophy. ‘I was no sister to him. Will you bring
me his forgiveness?’
‘Indeed I will; and you may feel sure of it already, dearest. It will
make you gentler all your life.’
‘No, I shall grow harder and harsher the longer I live, and the fewer I
have to love me in spite of myself.’
‘I think not,’ said Albinia. ‘Humility will make your severity more
gentle, and you will soften, and win love and esteem.’
She looked up, but cried, ‘I shall never make up to Gilbert nor to
grandmamma!’
Albinia felt it almost as hard to leave her as the two little ones.
When once on her journey, and feeling each moment an advance towards the
goal, Albinia was less unhappy than she could have thought possible; she
trusted to her brother, and enjoyed the absence of responsibility,
and while he let her go on, could give her mind to what pleased and
interested him, and he, who was an excellent courier, so managed that
there were few detentions to overthrow her equanimity on the way to
Marseilles.
But when the Vectis came in sight of the rocky isle, with its white
stony heights, the heart-sickness of apprehension grew over her, and
she saw, as in a mist, the noble crescent-shaped harbour, the stately
ramparts, mighty batteries, the lofty terraces of flat-roofed dwellings,
apparently rather hewn out of, than built on, the dazzling white stone,
between the intense blue of the sky above and of the sea below. Her eye
roamed as in a dream over the crowds of gay boats with white awnings,
and the motley crowds of English and natives, the boatmen screaming
and fighting for the luggage, and beggars plaintively whining out their
entreaties for small coins. Her brother Maurice had been at Malta as a
little boy, and remembered the habits of the place enough, as soon
as they had set foot on shore, to secure a brown-skinned loiterer, in
Phrygian cap, loose trousers, and crimson sash, to act as guide and
porter.
Along the Strada San Giovanni, a street of stairs, shut in by high
stone walls, with doors opening on either side, they went not as fast as
Albinia’s quivering limbs would fain have moved, yet too fast when her
breath came thick with anxiety--down again by the stone stairs called
‘Nix Mangiare’ (nothing to eat), from the incessant cry of the beggars
that haunt them--then again in a boat, which carried them amid a strange
world of shipping to the bottom of the dockyard creek, where, again
landing, she was told she had but to ascend, and she would be at
Bormola.
She could have paused, in dread; and she leant heavily on her brother’s
arm when they presently turned up a lane, no broader than a passage,
with low stone steps at irregular intervals. They were come!
The summons at the door was answered by a dark-visaged Maltese, and
while Maurice was putting the question whether Colonel Ferrars and
Captain Kendal lived here, a figure appeared on the stairs, and
beckoned, ascending noiselessly with languid steps and slippered feet,
and leading the way into a slightly furnished room, with green balcony
and striped blind. There he turned and held out his hand; but Albinia
hardly recognised him till he said, ‘I thought I heard your voice,
Maurice;’ and then the low subdued tone, together with the gaunt wasted
form, haggard aged face, the long beard, and worn undress uniform, with
the armless sleeve, made her so realize his sufferings, that, clasping
his remaining hand in both her own, she could utter nothing but, ‘Oh!
Fred! Fred!’
He looked at her brother with such inquiry, perplexity, and compassion,
that almost in despair Maurice exclaimed, ‘We are not too late!’
‘No, thank God!’ said Frederick. ‘We did hope you might come! Sit down,
Albinia; I’ll--’
‘Edmund! Is he there!’ she said, scarcely alive to what was passing, and
casting another expressively sorrowful look at Maurice, Fred answered,
‘Yes, I will tell him: I will see if you can come in.’
‘Stay,’ said Mr. Ferrars; ‘she should compose herself, or she will only
hurt herself and Gilbert.’
‘I don’t know,’ murmured Fred, hastily leaving them.
Maurice understood that Gilbert was even then summoned by one who
would brook no delays; but Albinia, too much agitated to notice slight
indications, was about to follow, when her brother took her hand, and
checked her like a child. ‘Wait a minute, my dear, he will soon come
back.’
‘Where’s Edmund? Why mayn’t I go to Gilbert?’ she said, still
bewildered.
‘Fred is gone to tell them. Sit down, my dear; take off your bonnet, you
are heated, you will be better able to go to him, if you are quiet.’
She passively submitted to be placed on a chair, and to remove her
bonnet; and seeing some dressing apparatus through an open door, Maurice
brought her some cold water to refresh her burning face. She looked
up with a smile, herself again. ‘There thank you, Maurice: I wont be
foolish now.’
‘God support you, my dear!’ said her brother, for the longer the Colonel
tarried, the worse were his forebodings.
‘Perhaps the doctor is there,’ she proceeded. ‘That will be well.
Ask him everything, Maurice. But oh! did you ever see any one so much
altered as poor Fred! He looks twenty years older! Ah! I am quite good
now! I may go now!’ she cried, as the door opened.
But as Frederick returned, there was that written on his brow, which
lifted her out of the childishness of her agitation.
‘My dear Albinia,’ he said in a trembling voice, ‘Mr. Kendal cannot
leave him to come to you. He has been much worse since last night,’ and
as her face showed that she was gathering his meaning, he pursued in a
lower and more awe-struck tone: ‘We think he is sensible, but we cannot
tell. It could not hurt him for you to come in, and perhaps he may know
you, but are you able to bear it? Is she, Maurice?’
‘Yes, I am,’ she answered; and the calm firmness of her tone proved that
she was a woman again. Her hand shook less than did that of her cousin,
as silently and reverently he took it, and led her into another room on
the same floor.
There, in the subdued light, she saw her husband, seated on the bed,
holding in his arms his son, who lay lifted up and supported upon his
breast, with head resting on his shoulder, and eyes closed. There was
no greeting, no sound save the long, heavily drawn, gasping breaths.
Mr. Kendal raised his eyes to her; she silently knelt down and took the
wasted hand that lay helplessly on the coverlet, but it moved feebly
from her as though harassed by the touch.
‘Gilbert, dear boy,’ said his father, earnestly, ‘she is come! Speak to
him, Albinia.’
She hardly knew her own voice as she said, ‘Gilbert, Gibbie dear, here I
am.’
Those large brown eyes were shown for a few moments beneath the
heavy lids, and met hers. The mouth, hitherto only gasping for air,
endeavoured to form a word; the hand sought hers. She kissed him, and
his eyes opened wide and brightened, while he said, ‘I think it is
pardon now.’
‘Pardon indeed!’ said his father, with a greater look of relief than
Albinia understood, ‘you are resting in His Merits.’
Gilbert’s look brightened, and he said, ‘I know it now.’
‘Thank God,’ said Mr. Kendal.
His eyes closed, and Fred whispered to the father, ‘Maurice is here
too.’
Again the light woke in the eye, with almost a smile, the look that
always welcomed the little brother; and Albinia grieved to say, ‘Not
little Maurice, though he longed to come; it is my brother.’ But the air
of eagerness did not pass away, and he seemed satisfied when Mr. Ferrars
came in. It was as a priest, speaking words not his own; and Albinia
and Fred knelt with him. At the close of each prayer or psalm, Gilbert
signed imploringly for more, even like our mighty dying queen; and
at each short pause, the distressed agonized expression would again
contract the brow, though in the sound of the holy words all was peace.
The Psalm of the Good Shepherd with the Rod and Staff in the Valley of
the Shadow of Death, recurred so strongly to Maurice, that he repeated
it like a cadence after each penitential supplication, every time
bringing a look of peace to the countenance of the sufferer.
They must have remained long thus, Fred had grown exhausted with
kneeling and had been forced to sit on the floor, and Maurice’s voice
waxed low and hoarse; yet he durst not pause, though doubting whether
Gilbert could follow the meaning. At length the eyes were again raised.
With a start as of haste, Gilbert looked full at Albinia, and said,
‘Thank you. Tell Maurice--’ He could not finish, and there was an
agony for breath, then as his father raised him, he contrived to say,
‘Father--mother--kiss me; it is forgiven!’
Another look brought Fred to press his hand, and he smiled his thanks.
There were a few more terrible minutes, from which they would fain
have led away Albinia, but suddenly his brow grew smooth, his eyes were
eagerly fixed as on something before him, and as if replying to a call,
he said, ‘Yes!’ with a start and a quiver of all his limbs, and then--
The first words were Mr. Kendal’s. ‘Edmund has come for him!’
It was to the rest as if the father had been in some manner conscious of
the presence of the one twin-brother, and, were resigning the other to
his charge, for he calmly kissed the forehead, closed the eyes, laid
down the form, he had so long held in his arms, and after a few
moments on his knees, with his face hidden, in his hands, he rose with
composure, and said to his wife, ‘I am glad you were in time.’
Had he given way, Albinia would have been strong, but there was no need
to support to counteract the force of disappointment and grief, acting
upon overwrought spirits, and a fatigued, exhausted frame. Were these
half-conscious looks and broken words all she had come for, all
she should ever have of Gilbert? This was the moment’s predominant
sensation; she was past thinking; and though she still controlled
herself, she cast a wild, piteous eye on her husband, and as he lifted
her up, she sank on his breast, not fainting, not sobbing, but utterly
prostrated, and needing all his support as he led her out, and laid
her on a couch in the next room, speaking softly as if hoping his voice
would restore her. ‘We had some faint hope of you; we knew you would
wish it, so you see all is ready. But you have done too much, my dear:
Maurice should not have let you travel so fast.’
‘No, no,’ said Albinia, catching her breath. ‘Oh! not to have come
sooner!’ and she gave way to a violent burst of tears, during which he
fondled and soothed her till she suddenly said, ‘I did not come here to
behave in this way! I came to help you! Edmund, what shall I do?’ and
she would have started up.
‘Only lie still, and let me take care of you,’ said he. ‘Nothing could
be to me like your coming,’ and she was forced to believe his glistening
eyes and voice of tenderness.
‘Can you keep quiet a little while,’ said Mr. Kendal, wistfully, ‘while
I go to speak to your brother? It was very good in him to come! Don’t
speak; I will come back directly.’
She did lie still, for she was too much spent to move, and the silence
was good for her; for if the overwhelming sensation of grief would sweep
over her, on the other hand, there was the remembrance of the look of
peace, and the perception that her husband was not as yet so struck to
the earth as she had feared. He was not long in returning, bringing
some coffee for her and for himself, and speaking with the same dreamy
serenity, though looking excessively pale. ‘Your brother told me to give
you this,’ he said. ‘I am glad the colonel is under such care, for he is
terribly distressed and not at all fit to bear it. I could not make him
go to bed all last night.’
‘You were up all last night, and many nights before,’ said Albinia; ‘and
all alone! Oh! why was I not here to help!’
‘Fred was a great comfort,’ said Mr. Kendal. ‘I cannot describe my
gratitude to him. And dearest--’ He paused, and added with hesitation,
‘I do not now regret the having come out alone. After the first
disappointment, I think that my boy and I learnt to know each other
better. If he had left me nothing but the recollection that I had been
too severe and unsympathizing to win his confidence, I hardly know how I
could have borne it.’
‘He was able to talk to you, then?’ cried Albinia. ‘That was what I
always wished! Yes, it _was_ right, so it came right. I had got between
you as I ought not to have done, and it was well you should have him to
yourself.’
‘Not as you ought not,’ he fondly answered. ‘You always were his better
angel, and you came at last as a messenger of peace. There was relief
and hope from the moment that he knew you.’
He told her what could scarcely have passed his lips save in those
earlier hours of affliction. It had been a time of grievous mental
distress. Neither natural temperament nor previous life had been such
as to arm poor Gilbert to meet the King of Terrors; and as day by day he
felt the cold grasp tightening on him, he had fluttered like a bird
in the snare of the fowler, physically affrighted at the death-pang,
shrinking from the lonely entrance into the unknown future, and
despairing of the acceptableness of his own repentance. He believed that
he had too often relapsed, and he could not take heart to grasp the hope
of mercy and rest in the great atonement. The last Communion had been
melancholy, the contrite spirit unable to lift itself up, and apparently
only sunk the lower by the weight of love and gratitude, deepening
the sense of how much had been disregarded. There had since been a few
hopeful gleams, but dimmed by bodily suffering and terror; and doubly
mournful had been the weary hours of the night and morning, while he lay
gasping away his life upon his father’s breast. Having at first taken
the absence of his stepmother as a sign that she had not forgiven him,
he had only laid aside this notion for a more morbid fancy that the
deprivation was a token of wrath from above; and there could be little
doubt that her final appearance was hailed as a seal of pardon not
merely from her. Her brother, who had raised him up after his last fall,
was likewise the person above all others to bring the message of mercy
to speed him to the Unseen, where, as his look and gesture had persuaded
his father, his brother, or some yet more blessed one, had received and
welcomed the frail and trembling spirit.
That last farewell, that dawn of peace, so long prayed for, so ardently
desired, had given Mr. Kendal such thankfulness and relief as sustained
him, and enabled him to support his wife, who knew not how to meet her
first home grief; whereas to him sorrow had long been a household guest
more familiar than joy; and he was more at rest about his son than he
had been for many a year. He could dwell on him together with Edmund,
instead of connecting him with shame, grief, and pain; though how
little could he have borne to think that thus it would end, when in the
springtime of his manhood he had rejoiced over his beautiful twin boys.
He knew his son better than heretofore. After the first day’s
disappointment, Gilbert had found him all-sufficient, and had rested on
his tenderness. All sternness had ceased on one side, all concealment
on the other, and the sweetness of both characters had had full scope.
Gilbert’s ardent love of home had shown itself in every word, and his
last exertion, had been to write a long letter to his little brother,
which had been completed and despatched by a private hand a few days
previously. He had desired that Maurice should have his sword, and
mentioned the books which he wished his sisters to share, talking of
Sophy as one whom he honoured much, and wished he had known better; but
much pained by hearing nothing from Lucy, and lamenting his share in
her union with Algernon. He had said something about his wish that the
almshouses should be built, but his father had turned away the subject,
knowing that in case of his dying intestate and unmarried, the property
was settled on the sisters, and seeing little chance of any such work
being carried out with the co-operation of Mr. Cavendish Dusautoy.
Latterly he had spoken of Genevieve Durant; he knew better how unworthy
of her he had been, and how harassing his pursuit must have appeared,
but he could not help entreating that her pardon might be asked in his
name, that she might hear that he had loved her to the last, and above
all, that his father would never lose sight of her; and Mr. Kendal’s
promise to regard her as the next thing to his daughters had been
requited with a look of the utmost gratitude and affection.
This was the substance of what Mr. Kendal told his wife as they sat
together, unwitting of the lapse of time, and shrinking from any
interruption that might mar their present peace and renew the sense of
bereavement.
Mr. Ferrars was the first to knock at the door. He had been doing his
utmost to spare both them and Fred, who needed all his care. These four
months of mutual dependence had been even more endearing than the rescue
of Fred’s life on the battlefield; and he declared that Gilbert had done
him more good than any one else. They had been so thrown together as to
make the ‘religious sentiment’ of the younger tell upon the warm though
thoughtless heart of the elder. They had been most fondly attached; and
in his present state, reduced by wounds and exhausted by watching, Fred
was more overpowered than those more closely concerned. He could hardly
speak collectedly when an officer of the garrison called to consult him
with regard to a military funeral, and it was for this that Maurice was
obliged to refer to the father. There were indeed none of his regiment
in the island, but there was a universal desire in the garrison to do
honour to the distinguished young officer, for whom great interest
had been felt and the compliment brought a glow of exultation to Mr.
Kendal’s face, as he expressed his warm thanks, but desired that the
decision might rest with Fred himself, as his son’s lieutenant-colonel.
Maurice felt himself fully justified in his expedition when he found
that all devolved on him, even writing to Sophy, and making the most
necessary arrangements; for the colonel was incapable of exertion,
Albinia was prostrated by the shock, and Mr. Kendal appeared to be
lulled into a strange calm by the effects of the excessive bodily
weariness consequent on the exhausting attendance of the last few days.
They all depended upon Mr. Ferrars, and recognised his presence as an
infinite comfort.
In the morning Albinia came forth like one who had been knocked down and
shattered, weary and gentle, and with the tears ever welling into her
eyes, above all when she endeavoured to write to Sophy; and she showed
her ordinary earnestness only when she entreated to see her boy once
more. Her husband took her to look on the countenance settled into the
expression of unearthly peace, but she was not satisfied; it was not her
own Gilbert, boyish, sensitive, dependent, and shrinking. The pale
brow, the marked manly features, the lower ones concealed by the brown
moustache, belonged to the hero who had dared the deadly ride and borne
his friend through the storm of shot and shell; the noble, settled,
steadfast face was the face of a stranger, and gave her a thrill of
disappointment. She gloried in the later Gilbert, but the last she had
seen of him whom she loved for his weakness, had been when she had not
heeded his farewell.
It made the pang the less when evening came and he was carried to his
resting-place. They would have persuaded Frederick to spare himself, but
as the only officer of the same corps, as well as for the sake of many
closer ties, he would not hear of being absent, and made his cousin
Maurice do his best to restore the smart soldierly air which he for the
first time thought of regretting.
Gilbert’s horse had perished at Balaklava, but his cap, sword, and
spurs, were laid on the coffin, and from her shaded window Albinia
watched it borne between the files of soldiers with arms reversed;
and the procession of officers whose bright array contrasted with the
colonel’s war-worn dress, ghastly cheek, and empty sleeve, tokens of the
reality of war amid its pageantry, as all moved slowly away to the deep
tones of the solemn Dead March, music well befitting the calm grandeur
of the face she had seen, and leaving her heart throbbing with the deep
exulting awe and pathos of a soldier’s funeral. She knelt alone, and
followed the burial service in the stillness of the room overlooking
the broad expanse of blue sea and sky; and by-and-by, through the window
came the sound of the volley fired over the grave, the farewell of the
army to the soldier at rest, his battles ended.
‘There was peace, and there was glory; but she could not divest herself
of a sense of unreality. She could not feel as if it were really and
truly Gilbert, and she were mourning for him. All was like a
dream--that solemn military spectacle--the serene, grave sunshine on the
fortress-harbour stretching its mailed arms into the sea--the roofs of
the knightly old monastic city rising in steps from the bay crowded with
white sails--and even those around her were different, her husband pale
and still, as in a region above common life, and her cousin like another
man, without his characteristic joyousness and insouciance. She could
hardly induce herself, in her drowsy state, to believe that all was
indeed veritable and tangible.
There was nothing to detain them at Malta, and Mr. Ferrars, who arranged
everything, thought the calm of a sea-voyage would be better for them
all than the bustle and fatigue of a land journey.
‘Kendal himself does not care about getting home,’ he said to Fred, who
was afraid this was determined on his account. ‘I fear many annoyances
are in store for him. His son-in-law will not be pleasant to deal with
about the property.’
With an exclamation Fred started from the chairs on which he had been
resting, and dived into his sabre-tasch which hung from the wall. ‘I
never liked to begin about it,’ he said, ‘but I ought to have given them
this. It was done when he was so bad at Scutari. One night he worked
himself into a fever lest he should not live till his birthday, and said
a great deal about this Dusautoy making himself an annoyance, perhaps
insisting on a sale and turning his father out. Nothing pacified him
till, the very day he was of age, we got the vice-consul to draw up what
he wanted, and witness it, and so did I and the doctor, and here it is.
Afterwards he warned me to say nothing of it when Mr. Kendal came, for
he said if the other fellow made a row, it would be better his father
should be able to say he had known nothing of the matter.’
‘Does he make his father his heir?’
‘That’s the whole of it. He said his sisters would see it was the
only way to get things even, and I was to tell Albinia something about
building cottages or almshouses. Ay, “his father was to do what ought to
have been done.”’
‘Well, there’s the best deed of poor Gilbert’s life!’
‘Thank you,’ mumbled Fred, hall drolly, half gravely.
‘Ay, Kendal and Albinia will do more good with that property than you
have thought of in all your life, sir.’
‘Their future and my past,’ laughed Fred, adding more gravely, ‘Scamp
as I am, there’s more responsibility coming on me now, and I have gone
through some preparation for it. If I can get out to Canada--’
‘You will not lessen your responsibilities,’ said Maurice, smiling, ‘nor
your competency to meet them.’
‘I _trust_ not,’ said Fred.
Mr. Ferrars read in his countenance far more than was implied by those
words. The General, by treating him as a boy, had kept him one, and
perhaps his levity had been prolonged by the rejection of his first
love; but a really steady attachment had settled his character, and he
had been undergoing much training through his own sufferings, Gilbert’s
illness, and the sense of the new position that awaited him as
commanding officer; and for the first time Maurice, who had always been
very fond of him, felt that he was talking to a high-principled and
right-minded man instead of the family pet and laughing-stock.
‘I suppose,’ he said, ‘that you cannot have heard often from Montreal
since you have been in the East.’
‘No. If my letters are anywhere, it is at the Family Office. I desired
them to be forwarded thither from head-quarters, not expecting to be
detained here. But,’ cried Fred with animation, ‘what think you of the
General actually writing to Mr. Kinnaird from Balaklava?’
‘It would have been too bad if he had not.’
‘I believe he did so solely to make me sleep, but it is the first time
he has deigned to treat the affair as anything but a delusion, and he
can’t retract now. Since that, poor Gilbert has made a scrap or two of
mine presentable, and there’s all that I have been able to accomplish;
but I hope it may have set her mind at rest.’
‘Shall I be secretary?’
‘Thank you, I think not. She would only worry herself about what is
before me; and if the doctors let me off easy, I had rather report of
myself in person.’
His eyes danced, and Maurice thought his unselfishness deserved a
reward.
‘My poor Gilbert’s last secret,’ said Mr. Kendal, as he laid before his
wife the brief document by which his son had designated him as his sole
heir and executor. ‘A gift to you, and a trust to me.’
Albinia looked up for explanation.
‘While he intrusts his sisters to my justice, he tacitly commends to me
the works which you wished to see accomplished.’
‘The almshouses! The improvements! Do you mean to undertake them?’
‘It shall be my most sacred duty.’
‘Oh! that we could have planned it with him!’
‘Perhaps I value this the more from the certainty that it is
spontaneous,’ said Mr. Kendal. ‘It showed great consideration and
forethought, that he said nothing of his intention to me. Had he
mentioned it, I should have thought it right to suggest his leaving his
sisters their share; and yet, as we are situated with young Dusautoy, it
would have been awkward to have interfered. He did well and wisely to be
silent.’
‘You don’t expect Algernon to be discontented. Impossible, at such a
time, and so well off as he is!’
‘I wish it may be impossible.’
‘What do you mean, to do?’
‘As far as I can see at present, I shall do this. I fear neither the
mode of acquisition nor the management of that property was such as to
bring a blessing, and I believe my poor boy has made it over to me in
order to free his sisters from the necessity of winking at oppression
and iniquity. Had it gone to them, matters must have been let alone till
Sophia came of age, and even then, all improvements must have depended
on Algernon’s consent. The land and houses we will keep, and sufficient
ready money for the building and repairs; and to this, Sophia, at least,
will gladly agree. The rest--something under twenty thousand, if I
remember correctly--is the girls’ right. I will settle Lucy’s share on
her so as to be out of her husband’s power, and Sophia shall have hers
when she comes of age.’
‘I am sure that will take from Algernon all power of grumbling, though I
cannot believe that even he could complain.’
‘You approve, then?’
‘How can you ask? It is the first thing that has seemed like happiness,
if it did not make one long for him to talk it over!’ The wound was
still very recent, and her spirits very tender, and the more she felt
the blessing of the association with Gilbert in the work of love, the
more she wept, though not altogether in sorrow.
Mortified at having come so much overworked and weakened, as to occasion
only trouble and anxiety, she yielded resignedly when forbidden to wear
out strength and spirits by a visit to the burial-ground before her
embarkation. She must content herself with Maurice’s description of
the locality, and carry away in her eye only the general picture of the
sapphire ocean and white rock fortress of the holy warriors vowed to
tenderness and heroism, as the last resting-place of her cherished
Gilbert, when ‘out of weakness he had been made strong’ in penitence and
love.