lived and loved. On the woman’s part the affection was as pure and
generous as ever filled the breast of a maiden; on the man’s, as warm
as his nature permitted. His love did not absorb his whole soul, it
rather permeated his mind and coloured his being. Like most men of his
not uncommon stamp, his affection once given, was given for ever. His
was not a jubilant nature, nor did his feelings lie near the surface,
and his manner was undemonstrative. The girl was clear-sighted enough
to see that what love there was, was pure and true, and she made up
for its scarcity with the overflowings of her sympathetic nature. She
idealised rather than condoned. She gave in such measure that she could
not perceive how little she was receiving in return; or if she noticed
it, her consciousness of its worth seemed to her a full equivalent. He
was an artist; and circumstances forced the lovers to wait, and at the
same time kept them apart. A couple of days once a month, and a week
now and again, was the limit of the time they could spend together.
This, of course, prevented them getting that intimate knowledge of each
other’s personality which both recognised as an essential adjunct to
the happiness of married life, though they did their best to obviate
it by long letters, giving full details of daily events and of the
society in which they moved. The remedy was an imperfect one. Strive
as they might, the sketches were crude, and the letters had a tendency
to become stereotyped. We only mention these details to show that they
tried to be perfectly honest with each other.
While the girl’s life, in her quiet country home, was one that held
little variety in it, it was a part of the man’s stock-in-trade to mix
with society and to observe closely. Whether he liked it or not, he
was compelled to make friends to such an extent as to afford him an
opportunity of gauging character. Unfortunately for the purposes of my
study, he had no sympathy with pessimism or pessimists. He loved the
good and the beautiful for their own sakes, and in his art loved to
dwell on the bright side of human nature, a side which the writer has
found so much easier to meet with than the more sombre colouring we are
constantly told is the predominating one in life. Like most artists, he
was somewhat susceptible, but his susceptibility was on the surface;
the inward depths of his soul had never been stirred save by the gentle
girl who held his heart, and she was such as to inspire a constant and
growing affection rather than a demonstrative passion.
At one of the many houses at which he was a welcome guest, the lover
found a young girl bright, sensuous, beautiful. Unwittingly, he
compared her with the one whose heart he held, and the comparison was
unsatisfactory to him; do what he would, the honesty of his nature
compelled him to allow that this beautiful girl was the superior in a
number of ways to her to whom he had pledged his life. He was caught
in the Circe’s chains of golden hair, and fancied—almost hoped—yet
feared lest, like bonds of cobwebs in the fairy tale, the toils were
too strong for him to break. He could see, too, that the girl regarded
him with a feeling so warm, that a chance spark would rouse it into a
flame of love; and this gave her an interest as dangerous as it was
fascinating. His fancy swerved. Day after day he strove with himself,
and by efforts, too violent to be wise, he kept away from the siren
till his inflamed fancy forced him back to her side.
To the maiden in the country he was partially honest. In his letters he
faithfully told her of his visits, and as far as he could, recorded his
opinions of the girl who had captivated his fancy. Too keen an artist
to be blind to her faults, he dwelt on them in his frequent letters
at unnecessary length. When the lovers met, the girl questioned him
closely about her rival, but only from the interest she felt in all his
friends known and unknown, for her love for him was too pure and strong
to admit of jealousy, and he, with what honesty he could, answered her
questions unreservedly.
Little by little he began to examine himself. Which girl did he really
love? Should he not be doing a wrong to both by not deciding? The
examination was dangerous, because it was not thorough. The premises
were true, but incomplete. Yet we should wrong him if we implied that
he for a moment thought seriously about breaking off his engagement.
Even had he wished, his almost mistaken feelings of honour would have
forbidden it. This constant surface introspection—a kind of examination
which, had not the subject been himself, he would have despised and
avoided—could have but one result—an obliquity of mental vision. He had
a horror of being untrue—untrue to himself as untrue to his lass, and
yet he dreaded causing pain to a bosom so tender and innocent. When
he sat down to write the periodical letters to the girl to whom he
was engaged, he found his phrases becoming more and more general and
guarded. He took pains not to let her know what he felt must wound her,
and the letters grew as unnatural as they had been the reverse; they
were descriptive of the man rather than the reflex of his personality.
The country girl was quick of perception. The letters were more full of
endearing terms than ever; they were longer and told more of his life;
yet between the lines she could see that they were by one whose heart
was not at rest, and that a sense of duty and not of pleasure prompted
the ample details. Their very regularity was painful: it seemed as if
the writer was anxious to act up to the letter of his understanding.
She knew that the letters were often written when he was tired out. Why
did he not put off writing, and taking advantage of her love, let her
exercise her trust in him? Eagerly she scanned the pages to find the
name of her rival, and having found it, would thoughtfully weigh every
word of description, of blame or praise.
When the lovers met, she questioned him more closely than she had ever
done before. He was seemingly as fond as ever; no endearing name, no
accustomed caress, was forgotten. He spoke of himself and his friends
as freely as usual, and all her questions were answered without a
shadow of reserve. Yet the answers were slower, and his manner absent
and thoughtful. For a time she put it down to the absorbing nature of
his pursuits; but little by little, a belief that she was no longer
_dearest_ crept into her heart, and would not be dislodged, try as she
might. She thought she was jealous, and struggled night and day against
a fault she dreaded above all others; then, in a paroxysm of despair,
she allowed herself to be convinced of what she feared, and, loving him
deeply, prepared to make the greatest sacrifice an unselfish woman can
offer. He no longer loved her; it was best he should be free.
When he had been with her last, he had told her that his ensuing
absence must perforce be longer than usual, and this she thought would
be the best time for her purpose.
‘Dear Frank,’ she wrote at the end of a pitiful little letter, ‘I am
going to ask you not to come here next week. This will surprise you,
for in all my other letters I have told you that what I most look
forward to in life is your visits. But I have been thinking, dear, that
it will be best for us to part for ever. I often ask myself if we love
one another as much as we did, and I am afraid we do not. A loveless
married life would be too dreadful to live through, and I dare not risk
it. It is better that the parting should come through me. Do not fancy
that I am reproaching you; I cannot, for to me you are above reproach,
above blame. All I feel is that our affection is colder, so we had
better part. God bless you, Frank; I can never tell you how deeply I
have loved you.—ELSIE.’
Frank was almost stunned by the receipt of this letter. He read it and
re-read it till every word seemed burnt into his brain. That the girl’s
love for him was less, he did not believe; he could read undiminished
affection in the vague phraseology, in the studied carefulness to take
equal blame on herself. That she should be jealous, was out of the
question; long years of experience had taught him that this was totally
foreign to her trustful nature. There was but one conclusion to come
to. She had given him up because she thought his happiness involved.
Yet she wished him to be free; might it not be ungracious to refuse to
accept her gift?
Free! There was a terrible fascination in the sound. Be the bondage
ever so pleasant, be it even preferable to liberty itself, the idea of
freedom is irresistibly alluring. If the same bondage will be chosen
again, there is a delight in the consciousness that it will be your
own untrammelled choice. Frank was aware of a wild exultation when he
realised the fact that he was once more a free agent. In the first
flush of liberty, poor Elsie’s image faded out of sight, and that of
the siren took its place. Now, without wrong, he might follow his
inclinations. He determined to write to Elsie, but knew not what to
say, and put it off till the morrow.
There could be no harm in going to the house of his fascinator; it
was pleasant to think that he might now speak, think, look, without
any mental reservations; there would be no longer any need to watch
his actions, or to force back the words which would tell her that she
exercised a deadly power over him. The girl received him with a winning
smile, yet, when he touched her hand, he did not feel his brain throb
or his blood rush madly through his veins as he had expected. He bore
his part through the evening quietly, and owned that it was a pleasant
one; still, the flavour was not what he had expected. He called to
mind that when he was abroad for the first time, he had been served
with a peculiar dish, which he remembered, and often longed for when
unattainable. After several years, he had visited the same café and
ordered the same dish. The same cook prepared it, and the same waiter
served it, but the taste was not the same; expectation had heightened
the flavour, and the real was inferior to the ideal.
So it was with Frank. Before, when the siren had seemed unattainable,
he had luxuriated in her beauty, admired her grace and genius, and
revelled in her wit; now, when he felt he might call these his own,
his eye began to detect deficiencies. The girl noted his critical
attitude, and chafed at the calmness of his keen, watchful glance.
Where was the open admiration she used to read in his eyes? Piqued at
his indifference, she grew silent and irritable; and when he bade her
farewell, both were conscious that an ideal had been shattered.
He buttoned his overcoat, and prepared for a long walk to the lonely
chambers where he lived the usual careless, comfortless life of a
bachelor whose purse is limited. All the way home he submitted himself
to a deep and critical examination. He felt as if he was sitting by
the ashes of a failing fire which he had no means of replenishing;
the night was coming, and he must sit in the cold. If passion died
out, where was he to look for the sympathy, the respect, the true
friendliness which alone can supply its place in married life? Then he
thought of Elsie. He had made a mistake, but a very common mistake. He
had thought that the excitement of his interest, the enchaining of his
fancy, and the enthralment of his senses, was love, and lo! it was only
passion. He analysed his feelings more deeply yet, and getting below
the surface-currents which are stirred by the winds, saw that the quiet
waters beneath had kept unswervingly on their course.
When he reached his chambers, he sat down by his table and drew paper
and ink towards him. ‘I shall not accept your dismissal, Elsie,’ he
wrote hurriedly in answer to her piteous letter: ‘I should be very
shallow if I could not read the motive which prompted your letter. I
shall come down as usual, and we will talk over it till we understand
each other fully. Till then, you must believe me when I tell you that
I love you all the more for your act of sacrifice, and that I love you
more now than I have ever done before.’
Frank and Elsie have been long married, and are content. There is no
fear of his swerving again; but the event described left its mark on
Frank. He knows now that he was on the verge of committing a grievous
mistake, and one which might have darkened all his future life. For
it is not great events, involving tragedies and tears, that impress
themselves most deeply upon the body of our habits and thoughts; but
the tendency of our life, as in the case before us, is often most
deeply affected by what is no more than ‘an every-day occurrence.’
A NIGHT IN A WELL.
The station of Rawal Pindi, in which the following incident took place,
is a large military cantonment in the Punjab, about a hundred miles
from the Indus at Attock, where the magnificent bridge across the rapid
river now completes the connection by rail between the presidency towns
of Calcutta, Madras, and Bombay with Peshawur our frontier outpost,
which, like a watchful sentinel, stands looking straight into the
gloomy portal of the far-famed Khyber Pass. It was at Rawal Pindi that
the meeting took place between the Viceroy of India, Lord Dufferin, and
the present Ameer of Afghanistan, before whom were then paraded not
only the garrison of Rawal Pindi, or, as it is more generally known
in those parts, by the familiar abbreviation of Pindi—a Punjabi word
signifying a village—but a goodly array of the three arms, artillery,
cavalry, and infantry, drawn from the garrisons of the Punjab and
North-west Provinces of India. In ordinary times, the troops in
garrison at Pindi consist of four or five batteries of royal artillery,
both horse and field; a regiment of British, and one of Indian cavalry;
and one regiment of British, and two of Bengal infantry, with a company
of sappers and miners. The barracks—or, as they are called in India,
the lines—occupied by these troops extend across the Grand Trunk Road
leading to Peshawur, those of the royal artillery being almost, if not
quite on the extreme right, and it is here that the occurrence which
gives the heading to this article took place.
In front of the lines of each regiment is the quarter-guard belonging
to it, at a distance of two or three hundred yards from the centre
barrack. The men of this guard are turned out and inspected once by
day and once by night by the officer on duty, technically known as the
orderly officer. In rear of the quarter-guard, as has been already
said, are the men’s barracks; and in rear of them the cook-houses and
horse-lines, amongst and behind which are large wells—‘_pucka_ wells,’
as they are called, from being lined for a long way down and about the
surface with brick-work and cement, in distinction from the ordinary
‘_cutcha_ wells,’ which are merely circular holes dug until water is
reached.
The _pucka_ wells in the Pindi cantonments are from twelve to fourteen
feet in diameter, and from thirty to forty feet from the surface to the
water. They are surrounded by low parapets; and from each well extend
long troughs of brick and cement, into which the water drawn from the
well is conducted by channels, for the use of the horses and other
cattle belonging to the artillery or cavalry. The low parapets round
the wells are sufficient protection, at all events in the daytime;
though instances are not unfrequent when accidents have occurred on
a dark night to goats, sheep, and even bullocks straying from their
tethers, especially when a dust-storm has been adding by its turmoil to
the bewilderment of all so unfortunate as to be caught abroad in it,
as the writer has on more than one occasion, when compelled to stand
or sit for hours behind some protecting wall or tree; the darkness in
noonday has been so great that his hand, though held close to his eyes,
was with difficulty discernible. When to such a state of things are
added the roar of the wind and the beating of broken branches of trees,
wisps of straw, and other articles caught up and hurtled along, it may
be easily imagined how dazed and perplexed is the condition of every
creature so exposed. A dust-storm, however, had nothing to say to the
accident with which we have to do.
In rear of the cook-houses, wells, &c., come the mess-house and the
bungalows in which the officers reside, each in its own compound or
inclosure, about eighty or a hundred yards square, and about a quarter
of a mile from the men’s lines.
One night in the cold season of 1866-67, as well as I can remember,
the subaltern on duty at Pindi was Lieutenant Black—as we will call
him—of the Royal Horse Artillery. He was well known in the arm of the
service to which he belonged as a bold and fearless horseman, who had
distinguished himself on many occasions as a race-rider both at home
and abroad. On the evening in question he remained playing billiards in
the mess-house until it was time to visit the quarter-guard in front of
the lines. A little before midnight he mounted his horse at the door of
the mess, and started. It was very dark; but he knew the road well, and
had perfect faith in his horse, a favourite charger; so, immediately on
passing the gate of the mess compound, he set off, as was his custom,
at a smart canter along the straight road leading to the barracks.
He passed through these, and soon reached the guard, which he turned
out, and finding all present and correct, proceeded to return to his
own bungalow, having completed his duty for the day. He rode through
the lines by the way he had come; but then, being in a hurry to get to
bed, he left the main road and took a short-cut across an open space.
Notwithstanding the darkness, the horse was cantering freely on, no
doubt as anxious as his master to reach his comfortable stall, when
all at once Black felt him jump over some obstacle, which he cleared,
and the next moment horse and rider were falling through the air; and
a great splash and crash were the last things of which Black had any
consciousness. After an interval—how long he couldn’t tell—sensation
slowly returned, and he became aware that he was still sitting in his
saddle, but bestriding a dead horse. His legs were in water; and the
hollow reverberation of his voice when he shouted for help, as he did
until he could do so no longer, informed him that he had fallen into
one of the huge wells somewhere in the lines. It was intensely dark;
but he soon became aware that there were other living creatures in the
well, for from its sides came occasional weird rustlings and hissings,
which added considerably to the horror of his situation, by creating a
vague feeling of dread of some unknown danger close at hand.
Slowly the long night passed, and he could plainly hear the gongs of
the different regiments as the hours were struck on them, and the
sentries, as if in mockery, crying the usual ‘All’s well.’ Gradually
day began to dawn, and light to show up above at the mouth of the
well. By degrees, his prison became less dim, and he could see his
surroundings. He was bestriding his dead charger, which lay crumpled
up with a broken neck at the bottom of the well, in which was not more
than three feet of water. Black himself, except for the shock, was
uninjured. His legs were pretty well numbed, from being so long in the
water, but there were no bones broken; and barring the terrible jar to
his system, he was sound in every respect. As the sun arose, he began
to peer about, and again tried to make himself heard above ground.
This caused a renewal of the peculiar rustlings and hissings we have
referred to; and he was now enabled to verify what he had dreaded and
suspected when he first heard them in the dark. All round the sides of
the well were holes, tenanted by snakes, most of them of the deadly
cobra tribe, and many, seemingly, of an extraordinary size. Presently,
like muffled thunder, the morning gun roused the sleepers in the
various barracks, and the loud reveille quickly following it, brought
hope of speedy release to the worn-out watcher.
The _bheesties_ coming to draw water were the first to discover him,
and their loud cries soon surrounded the mouth of the well with
stalwart artillerymen. Drag-ropes were brought from the nearest
battery; and Black, barely able to attach them to his body, was at
length drawn, to all appearance more dead than alive, to upper air,
unable to reply to the eager questionings of those by whom he was
surrounded. He was placed on a hospital litter, and hurried off to
his own bungalow. Under careful treatment, and thanks to a splendid
constitution, he was in a short time again fit for duty.
When recounting the events of the night, Black didn’t forget to mention
his sensations at hearing the hissings all round him, and which the
darkness at first made him think to be closer even than they were. This
at once caused a proposal to be made for a raid upon the inhabitants
of the holes; but he begged that they should not be disturbed, saying
that they could do no harm where they were, and that he couldn’t but
feel deeply grateful for their forbearance in confining themselves to
hissing his first and, he sincerely hoped, his last appearance in a
well.
PERSEPHONÉ.
A LAY OF SPRING.[1]
Through the dusky halls of Hadës
Thrills the echo of a voice,
Full of love, and full of longing:
‘Come, and bid my heart rejoice!
Daughter, all the world is barren,
While I mourn thy long delay!’
It is fond Demeter calling
On her lost Persephoné.
Sad she leans, the queen of Hadës,
On the gloomy monarch’s breast,
When upon her fettered senses
Falls that wail of Earth distrest;
And it woos her latent fancy
With a dream of days gone by—
And her heart responds in rapture
To that eager parent-cry!
Gently from the shadowy circle
Of his arms she lifts her head,
And its youthful beauty lightens
Even the Kingdom of the Dead.
Half a-dreaming, yet resistless
To the voice that bids her come,
Soft she murmurs: ‘Mother calls me;
Hermes waits to lead me home.’
‘Wilt thou leave me? I have loved thee,
Held thee dear as queenly wife;
It was Zeus who gave thee to me—
Life to Death, and Death to Life!’
Still a-dreaming and bewildered,
‘Ah!’ she says, complaining low,
‘Hear ye not Demeter calling?
King and husband, let me go!’
Lingeringly he yields his darling,
But she leaves the Shadow-land
With his spell upon her spirit,
With his chain upon her hand.
‘She will come again,’ he whispers,
‘And our union earth must own;
Young Life drawn from Death’s embraces
Will return to share his throne!’
. . . . .
Pure and queenly, all immortal,
Stands she ’neath her native skies:
Cloud and sunbeam, dew and rainbow,
Mingle in her lucid eyes:
Fitful smiles and vivid blushes
Blend to banish every tear,
And, like lute, her tender accents
Fall upon Demeter’s ear:
‘Mother, from the heart of Hadës
I have come again to thee!’—
Desert wide and boundless welkin,
Grove and valley, hill and sea,
All the animate creation,
All the haunts of listening day,
Echo with Demeter’s answer:
‘Hail, my child Persephoné!’
Lo! the world awakes to rapture;
Love rejoices, gods are glad,
Flowers unfold around her footfalls,
Youth in virgin garb is clad;
All the Muses chant a welcome;
Nymph and Naïad swell the strain;
Dancing sunbeams, laughing waters,
Aid the triumph of her train.
Where she moves, a magic whisper
Stirs the world to wanton mirth;
Winter flies before her presence;
Forms of beauty find new birth;
Nature’s languid pulses flutter
With the fervid breath of Spring,
Zephyrs tell to opening blossoms:
‘Eros comes to reign as king!’
Ah! while life breaks forth in music,
Emerald hues, and heavenly light,
Warmth, and love, and fairest promise,
Still a vision of the night
Glides athwart the happy Present,
Vague as harvest hopes in May;
’Tis a dream of gloomy Hadës
Haunts the young Persephoné!
So, to Mother Earth she falters:
‘Though thy daughter, still his wife.
Zeus decrees in kingly fashion,
Death shall hold the hand of Life:
Zeus decrees, and in one circle
Life and Death doth still combine.
Though I crown thee with my beauty,
Though my soul is part of thine,
Yet the mighty Hadës holds me
By a power that is divine.
‘But, sweet mother, Life can only
Be withdrawn. It never dies.
From the heart of sombre Hadës,
At thy call I will arise.
Year by year thy eager summons
Shall have power to break the chain,
And in all her youthful glory,
Will thy daughter come again.
‘Yet, because his spell must ever
Lie upon my charmèd soul,
He, the gloomy Lord of Shadows,
Shall my wayward will control.
As I heard thee call, my mother,
So his call I must obey;
Even here shall come his mandate,
And I may not answer nay.
Ah! when harvest fruits are garnered,
Mourn thy child Persephoné.’
JESSIE M. E. SAXBY.