THE TELEGRAM.
In her joy and impulsiveness, Mary actually embraced Leslie
Fotheringhame, and kissed him when she heard from Annabelle of the
reconciliation, and explanation of all that seemed so unpleasant and
mysterious.
'Had she not loved you--yes, loved you dearly--do you think she would
have felt all this so much--so keenly and so bitterly!' said Mary to
Fotheringhame.
And hearty were the congratulations of the general, who was pleased
that Eaglescraig should be the scene of such an event, though love
and lovers' quarrels were somewhat beyond his sympathies now; but he
liked Fotheringhame, as a friend of the absent Cecil, and he had a
strong regard for Annabelle, the only daughter of an old and valued
Indian comrade; so the episode immediately brought to memory one of
his inevitable 'up-country' reminiscences.
'Talking of lovers' quarrels,' said he, as they idled over the
dessert; 'egad! I remember one which was not without some strange
features. When we were in Lucknow, under Inglis--just about the time
of the first outbreak of the mutiny--a pair of lovers met, who had
quarrelled in some jealous pique at a ball in Chowringhee. Olive
Vane was a pretty brunette, daughter of an old Sudder judge, and her
Romeo was Bob Acharn--cousin of Acharn of Ours, a lieutenant of the
Bengal Native Infantry. There was not a better fellow at
pig-sticking, or shooting, in all India than Bob; and I remember
that, at Jodpore, he watched and waited for days and nights to pot a
man-eater that had made a whole village desolate.
'As people don't lose time in love affairs in India, it was fully
arranged that--the quarrel made sweetly up--the lovers should be
married on the 31st of May, though many there were who said that the
time was not one for marrying or giving in marriage, for the rising
of the Pandies at Meerut, some time before, had sent a thrill of
terror through every European breast in India, and at Lucknow, as
elsewhere, it was uncertain when the secret hate of the natives might
burst into a flame.
'The bridal party gathered, and at the very moment the clergyman was
asking the bride if she was ready, a musket-shot entered the room,
and she fell, mortally wounded. It had entered her chest, and then
ensued a scene which I cannot describe.
'A company of Acharn's regiment--the 71st Bengal Native Infantry--had
been brought in from the Muchee Bawn for disaffection some days
before. They refused all obedience, and in vain were the black silk
colours they had borne at Sobraon displayed to them. It was deemed
imprudent to coerce them; and the result was that on that eventful
evening--the 31st of May, the _budmashes_, or armed mob of Lucknow,
rose, six thousand strong, crossed the Goomtee in wild tumult by a
ford--a dark mass amid which there were thousands of glittering
steel-points, rushing to join the mutineers. From one of the latter
came the shot that struck down Olive Vane. We turned the great guns
of the Residency upon them, and, after an hour's heavy firing, the
insurrection was suppressed for a time; but a time only.
'During the attack and repulse, poor little Olive Vane lay motionless
on a sofa, with young Acharn bending over her, weeping like a boy,
and striving to staunch the blood that welled from the terrible wound
in her bosom--a wound which the doctors declared she could not
survive above an hour. When she recovered consciousness and learned
the truth, her courage never quailed, but she said:
'"Bob--dearest, kiss me once again. If I am to die, I shall die
worthy of you."
'"And I shall not survive you long, my darling; but there is yet time
for us to be united. Come, sir, we are ready," said he to the
clergyman, who, like all the rest of us, looked on with strange and
haggard eyes.
'The girl's pale cheek flushed, but she was almost too weak to speak,
for mental joy seemed to struggle for mastery with physical pain.
What a strange sight she presented, lying there, her white bridal
dress all stained with her blood, her beautiful dark brown hair all
dishevelled, and looking so wan, so helpless, yet so resigned to die!
'Bob Acharn took her hand, and the chaplain proceeded with the
ceremony. Thrice the quivering lips of Olive parted ere she could
articulate "yes," and when she did so, it was the last word she
uttered; and then a little foam came over her lips, for she was in
her parting agony. And as he concluded the ceremony the sobs of the
chaplain, who hid his face in his surplice, were echoed by those of
Acharn, and the old judge her father.'
'A terrible story!' exclaimed Annabelle.
'And Acharn--what became of him?' asked Mary.
'He fought against the mutineers, with what animus you may imagine.
Seeking death daily, he seemed to have a charmed life, till the 5th
of September, when the enemy made their last serious and desperate
assault, and he was blown to pieces when they exploded a mine near
Apthorp's post, and strewed the garden around it with corpses.'
Anxious that Fotheringhame should confer with the general about
Cecil, Mary had listened to this Indian story, though she heard it
for the first time, with some impatience.
'I do believe,' she said, laughingly, to Annabelle, 'that when the
dear old man can't get an audience he tells some of his Indian
stories to himself!'
'And now, Sir Piers,' said Fotheringhame, influenced by a glance from
Mary, the import of which he read aright, 'about the matter which
brought me here, and the subject of your many letters to Dick
Freeport and myself--what is to be done about my friend Cecil? We
can't leave him to risk life and limb in a wretched affair like the
Servian war.'
'Of course not--of course not, my dear fellow,' replied Sir Piers:
'this self-imposed exile must be ended; he shall be restored to his
regiment and to us all. I must see him again--my boy's boy--once
again before I die!' he added, with sudden emotion.
'Do not speak thus,' implored Mary, caressing him.
'I have a great reparation to make, Mary--great reparation, to the
dead as well as the living. I have been a vain, selfish,
hard-hearted man; but I see my errors now, and shall make reparation,
I say. Why should not I go to Servia in search of him?' exclaimed
the old baronet, as his eye sparkled, and then he added sorrowfully:
'but I am stricken in years, and am almost as much use in the world
now as a gun without a lock, or a Scotch M.P. But we can set the
wires to work, and write to the Secretary of State for Foreign
Affairs.'
'The world is a small place, after all, now; people are always
rubbing up against each other,' said Fotheringhame, cheerfully; 'then
there are the railways.'
'Not in Servia,' said Mary.
'Well, the international post; and it will go hard with us if we
don't trace the wanderer out. Besides, if the colonel gives me
leave, I may start for Servia myself.'
'You!' exclaimed Mary and Annabelle simultaneously, but in tones so
different that Fotheringhame laughed; for the voice of the first was
expressive of joy and gratitude, and of the second, ill-concealed
alarm and dismay.
We have elsewhere shown how the sister of Count Palenka was scheming
out the journey of Cecil to the frontier; so, pretty much about the
same time, another journey with reference to him was schemed out by
poor little Mary at Eaglescraig.
Nothing as yet was defined as to the movements of Fotheringhame, if
he did adopt the idea of setting out in quest of his friend; for he
had his commanding officer to study, and Annabelle, who was of more
importance to him now than the F.M. commanding at the Horse Guards.
But Mary, assisted by John Balderstone, chalked out his route, as she
conceived it must be, from London to Vienna and Buda-Pesth; from
thence to Belgrade by steamer, as she supposed. Oh! it seemed all
very plain and easy, seated over the map, which she could span with
her tiny hand.
How she longed to go thither herself! So great was her impatience
that not even the enchanted carpet of the Arabian tale, which
transported its proprietor through the air to wherever he wished to
be, in an instant, or the enchanted bridle of the famous Ayrshire
'Deil of Ardrossan,' the possessor of which could make his steed
perform such wondrous feats of speed, would have sufficed her.
She was full of schemes now for communicating with Cecil, for
discovering his exact whereabouts, and more than all, for bringing
him safely and quickly home; while the general thought chiefly of his
restoration to his former rank and position in the regiment.
Mary had seen in Robertson's charming little drama of 'Ours,' how the
heroine made her way to the Crimea, amid the winter tempests, and
found the wretched hut of her lover, Hugh Chalcot. Why should she
not go to Servia and bring home the wanderer! Mrs. Garth would go,
of course; and might not Fotheringhame and Annabelle, with whom
matters were progressing so far now, make their wedding trip, if
solicitors and guardians would only look sharp about contracts and
settlements!
It would be quite a joyous journey if the general would only consent,
for were not she and Cecil as solemnly engaged as a man and woman
could be, and with the full consent and sanction of him, her only
guardian! And the girl's heart seemed to go out to him, the absent
and the suffering, with a futile and passionate longing.
Oh yes--yes; she saw it all, and had thought it and planned it so
cleverly, with dear old John Balderstone! So they would go, by
London, Vienna, and Belgrade, to--she continued, as he bent over the
map--to where Cecil was, for they would never--never come home
without him; and in anticipation, she imagined the joy, the wonder,
and the whole excitement of their sudden meeting.
But one thing did provoke her a little!
It seemed as if, in the presence of Annabelle and the new phase of
their love affair, the primary object of Fotheringhame's visit took
somewhat of a secondary place, till the latter, like the whole
household, was terribly startled one morning, when the wishes of all
were frustrated and their hopes crushed by an appalling and
bewildering Reuter's telegram, which Fotheringhame strove, but in
vain, to conceal from Mary, and which ran thus:
'The ex-British officer who is now a prisoner in the camp at
Deligrad, and under sentence, it is believed, of death for treason to
King Milano (as the Prince of Servia names himself) and treachery to
General Tchernaieff, is now known to be the same who so lately and so
gallantly saved the life of the latter in the battle on the banks of
the Morava, when Guebhard's troop of Lancers gave way and fled.'
'Now what on earth does all this mean?' exclaimed Fotheringhame, in
blank dismay, as he read this over for the third time to Mrs. Garth,
while Annabelle, who thought only of Mary, clung to his arm with her
eyes full of tears.
'It is a sad--sad tragedy this of ours,' said the old lady, folding
Mary to her breast; 'but, my darling pet--it may be some mistake; let
us pray that it is so, and that light may come out of the darkness
yet.'
'This is torture upon torture. O my God--is life worth living?'
wailed Mary in her heart, asking unconsciously the question of a
brilliant essayist.