DISPATCHES
SOCIAL LIBERTY--DOMESTIC ECONOMY--A GAZETTE FROM THE CAPE--A
MAN OF MANY IRONS--A TRUE FRIEND--A REAL HERO--COUPLES, NOT
PAIRS--OH ME MISERUM!--GATHERED IN THE DEW
Mary Delaval, in London, was one of the many flowers born to “waste
their sweetness on the desert air,” for London is, indeed, a desert to
those who are in it and not of it, whose destiny seems to have been
warped into a strange unfitness in the great, struggling, noisy,
pompous town; whose proper place would seem to be in some quiet,
secluded nook, the ornament and the joy of a peaceful home, instead of
the ever-shifting surface of that seething tide which drifts them here
and there in aimless restlessness. Verily, Fortune does sometimes
shuffle the pack in most inexplicable confusion--_Ludum insolentem,
ludere pertinax_--she seems to take a perverse pleasure in smuggling
the court-cards into all sorts of incongruous places, and to carry out
the Latin poet’s metaphor, _trans-mutat incertos honores_, or, in
plain English, palms the trumps, with dexterous sleight-of-hand, where
they seem utterly valueless to influence the result of the game. As
society is constituted, such a woman as Mary, with her queenly
dignity, her charming manner, her striking beauty, and, above all, her
noble, well-cultivated mind, was just as thoroughly _tabooed_ and
excluded from the circle of her so-called superiors as if she had been
a quadroon in the United States, whose very beauty owes its brilliance
to that African stain which, in the Land of Freedom and Equality,
makes a shade of colouring the badge that entitles man to lord it
over his brother more despotically than over the beasts of the field.
Thank God for it, we have no slavery in England; and the time cannot
be very far distant when slavery shall be a word without a meaning in
the dictionary of every language on the face of the globe. Already,
from East to West, the trumpet-note has sounded, and those stir in
their sleep who have drugged themselves into insensibility, and
stopped their ears against the voice of the charmer, but cannot
smother the still small whisper within. Scarcely has its last peal
died away beneath the blushing Western wave, ere its echoes are caught
up in the very heart of the Morning Land, and even now, while we
write, a barbarian despot is quailing on his celestial throne, and the
voice of Liberty--real Liberty, Civilisation, and Christianity--is
thundering in the ears of millions and millions of immortal beings,
hitherto held in thraldom, throughout that mysterious empire, which
for ages has been a sealed book to all other nations upon earth. Shall
not England still be in the van, as she has always been? Never yet has
she failed in the good cause, and never will she. Has she not ever
struck for Freedom and the Cross? inseparable watchwords, that the
experience of the world has taught us must go hand in hand, or not at
all; and where she strikes, good faith, she drives well home. Has she
not ever been the first assailant in the breach? stood the outmost
bulwark in the gap? and will she fail now? Believe it not. Her destiny
would seem the brightest that Providence has yet ordained for any
nation since the world began. Formidable and glorious without, she is
setting her house in order within. Steadily and gradually the good
cause--the universal brotherhood of the soul--is progressing
everywhere; through wars and rumours of wars, through political clouds
and private disappointments, there seems to be in all men’s minds a
settled conviction that “the good time’s coming”; and if, as we firmly
believe, England shall bear the glorious banner in the van, why, night
and morning will we go down upon our knees and thank God that we are
Englishmen! But what has all this to do with a penniless governess,
sitting up two pair of stairs in Grosvenor Square? Thus much, as we
think: our social system is yet a long way from perfection--there is
yet much to be improved and much prejudice to be taken away--we have
too much class-feeling and class-isolation, and, perhaps, on no people
do these shortcomings in our charity fall so heavily as on those to
whom we entrust the education of our children. What is it in which we
are so superior to them that entitles us to hold ourselves thus aloof,
and, for all the courtesy of our wayfaring salutation, virtually “to
pass by on the other side”? What is it that constitutes the talismanic
qualification for what we modestly term _good_ society? Is it birth,
that accident on which we so rationally plume ourselves? They
generally possess even that negative advantage. Is it education,
intellect, cultivation of mind? We do not entrust our darlings to
their care because they are _inferior_ to us in attainments, or we
should teach the pupils ourselves. Is it manner? We do not quarrel
with a peer for being gross, or a millionaire for being vulgar--and
those of whom we are speaking generally show no want at least of
decorum in their demeanour and conversation. Is it money? God forbid!
Is it then mere frivolity and assumption in which we excel? For shame!
No; the truth must out; there is a leaven still left in us of the very
essence of vulgarity, the feeling that we are ill at ease with a
so-called inferior, or the domineering spirit which every schoolboy
knows too well, prompting us to exult in every chance advantage we may
possess over a fellow-creature. Of these amiable causes we may take
our choice; but one or other it is which leaves the governess to pine
up-stairs in her school-room, while revelry and pleasure and
good-fellowship are laughing below.
Now, Mary had, indeed, little of this sort of neglect to complain of;
yet was she lonely and sad during the London season which Blanche
enjoyed so much. She could not, of course, accompany her to all the
balls and “At Homes” which were fast becoming the business of the
girl’s life; if she had, we think the worshipful body of chaperons
would have lost nothing in dignity, and gained a good deal in grace,
beauty, and good-humour by her adhesion. So she felt she was too much
separated from Blanche, whom she dearly loved; and it was with a
sensation almost of satisfaction, for which she was, nevertheless,
quite angry with herself, that she heard of the entire disturbance of
all the family arrangements, and the loss of fortune sustained by the
young heiress. “Ah,” thought Mary, “perhaps I may be of some use to
her now in her distress; at any rate, I can give her good counsel and
practical instruction how to _bear_--none better;” and had it not been
for a certain marriage, which seemed more than ever indispensable,
Mary would have been ashamed to confess to herself how glad she was.
The General, it is needless to say, was a man of vigorous execution
when he had once made up his mind. He had ascertained, as he believed,
the validity of the will, had paid Gingham her legacy, with a gratuity
over and above on his own account, and now held a council of war with
the two ladies, before breakfast, in which he discloses his plans with
a degree of meekness nothing could ever have brought him to, save a
misfortune affecting his beloved Blanche.
“No going abroad this year, my dear,” said the General, looking the
while less warlike than usual; “glad of it--what? A German
watering-place--bah! an association of blackguards in an overgrown
village, robbing the public to soft music in the open air. No, my
dear, we’ll get to Newton-Hollows before the strawberries are
done--and I’m glad of it. We’ll let this great house--you’re tired of
it, Blanche, and so am I; what’s the use of a house all up and
down-stairs? You should have seen my bungalow at Simlah--a man could
get about in that and hear himself speak. Well, we’ll put down two of
the carriages and one of the footmen--that pompous one. Zounds, if he
had stayed a week longer I must have bastinadoed him--and we’ll start
Poulard: confound him, he never gives one a dinner fit to eat, and
wouldn’t dress a cutlet for Mrs. Delaval, only the day before
yesterday, because we dined out--I’ll trounce him before he goes.
Then, my dear, we’ll keep your scrubby pony for the little carriage,
and ‘Water King’ can go down home with the others, and you’ll ride a
deal more there than in London, Blanche. Manage? I’ll manage--how d’ye
mean? I’m only a steward till Charlie comes back. I must write to
Charlie by this mail, and we’ll have him safe and sound from the
Kaffirs--and rejoicings when he comes home, and a--who knows
what?”--(Mary Delaval got up at this juncture, went to fetch her work,
and sat majestically down to it, as the General went on.)--“Yes, we’ll
make it all right when Charlie comes back. Let me see, we ought to
have a mail to-day. Zounds, these servants they read all the
news--money market, foreign intelligence, every one of their own
cursed advertisements for places they won’t keep six months--and then,
if I ask whether the paper’s come, ‘Please, sir, it’s not ironed.’
Ironed! ’Gad, I’ll iron them--wish I’d my Kitmugar here--bamboozle
them well on the soles of their feet--there’s no liberty in this
country. Blanche, ring the bell, there’s a dear--oh, here it comes;”
and the General’s further strictures were cut short by the entrance of
his old, pompous servant, who laid the paper out for his master’s
perusal with a strange air of mingled pity and concern. The General
put on his spectacles, deliberately unfolded the sheet, and after a
glance at the money market, in which consols had, as usual, fluctuated
the fraction of a fraction, he turned to the well-known column in
which the budget of the African mail was likely to be detailed;
Blanche leaning over his shoulder the while, and Mary watching them
with an eager glance that seemed almost prescient of evil.
Suddenly the General’s face flushed up to a purple hue. “Engagement
with the Kaffirs,” he muttered; “gallant repulse of the
enemy--capture--loss--strong position--brilliant success of the Light
Brigade--O my boy! my boy!” And, forgetful of all around, the old man
leaned his head upon the table and gave way to a passion of grief that
was frightful to contemplate. There it was, sure enough, in distinct,
choicely-printed types--there was no mistaking the name, or the
regiment, or the authenticity of the report, and Blanche, with
bloodless lips and stony eyes, could see nothing but that one line of
hopeless import--“Missing, Cornet Kettering, of the 20th Lancers.”
Yes, she had skimmed through killed and wounded, with the agonising
fear of seeing her cousin returned in that awful list, and a deep sigh
of relief was rising to her lips as she recognised no beloved name
among the sufferers, when it was frozen back again by the startling
truth. And there she stood, utterly colourless, her hair pushed back
from her temples, and her eyes staring wildly and vacantly, as she
kept her finger pressed on the dreadful line, of which she too well
comprehended the meaning.
The General rocked to and fro in an agony of grief, his broken
exclamations of childish despair strangely mingled with those warlike
sentiments of honour and resignation which become second nature in the
soldier’s character.
“My boy, my boy! my gallant, handsome, light-hearted Charlie! I might
have known it must be so--I’ve seen it a hundred times--the youngest,
the fairest, the happiest, go down at the first shot. That pale,
tender lad at the sortie from Bayonne--my subaltern at Quatre Bras--my
_aide-de-camp_ in the Deccan, always the brightest and the most
hopeful--and now my boy, my Charlie! Why did I let him go? a soldier’s
fate, poor lad. Well, well, every bullet has its billet--but, oh, he
need never have gone to that savage country. O my boy, my boy! you
were more than a son to me, and now you’re lying mangled and rotting
in the bush below the Anatolas.”
Mary alone preserved her presence of mind. Utter despair is the most
powerful of sedatives; and she walked deliberately across the room,
took the paper from Blanche’s unresisting hands, and satisfied herself
of the worst. A special paragraph of nearly six lines was devoted to
the fate of “this gallant and promising young officer, who was last
seen waving his men on in a brilliant attack which he led against a
numerous horde of savages; the enemy were driven from their defences
at all points; but we regret to learn Cornet Kettering was reported
missing at nightfall, and we have reason to fear, from the barbarous
and ferocious character of Kaffir warfare, it will be almost
impossible to recover or identify his remains.”
And was this the end of all? Was this the fate of the
bright, happy, beloved boy, whose image, as she last saw
him, radiant in health and hope, had never since left her
mind?--mangled--defaced--butchered--dead!--that awful word comprised
everything--never to see him more, never to hear his voice; to feel as
if it was all a dream, as if it had never been; as if there was no
Past, and there would be no Future--that the deadening, heavy,
soul-sickening Present was to be all! But she could not give him up
like this: the report was dated immediately previous to the departure
of the mail, and there might be a possibility of error. Steadily,
calmly, closely, like a heroine as she was, Mary read through the
whole official account of the engagement, word for word, and line for
line; how “the Brigadier had received information of the enemy’s
movements, and had held himself in readiness, and had given such and
such orders, and executed such and such movements,” all detailed in
the happy, self-satisfied style which characterises official accounts
of the game of death; how in a previous report his Excellency had been
apprised of the capture of so many head of cattle, and the submission
of so many chiefs with hard names; and how the Brigadier had great
pleasure in informing his Excellency of the further capture of several
thousand oxen, and the discomfiture of more chiefs, and all with a
loss of life trifling compared to the important results of this
brilliant _coup-de-main_. How the troops, and the levies, and the
Hottentots, had each and all reaped their share of laurels, by their
gallantry in attack, their steadiness under fire, and general
cheerfulness and good discipline through long, toilsome marches and
harassing privations; and how the Brigadier’s own thanks were due to
officers commanding regiments, and officers commanding companies, and
his _aides-de-camp_, and his quartermaster, and his medical staff, and
all the brave fellows who had won their share in the triumph of the
hour; and the report concluded with a few feeling words of manly
regret for those who had earned a soldier’s grave, amongst whom poor
“Old Swipes,” shot down as he led his men so gallantly to the attack,
was not forgotten; whilst a line of concern for the uncertainty
attending Cornet Kettering’s fate (otherwise honourably mentioned in
the dispatch) wound up the whole. All this Mary read with a painful
distinctness that seemed to burn every word into her brain, and from
it she gathered, indeed, small hope and small consolation. Truly, war
is a fine thing in the abstract! The martial music, the flaunting
colours, the steady tramp of bold, bronzed men, exulting in their
freemasonry of danger, the enthusiasm of the spectators, the
professional charlatanry (we use the word with no disrespectful
meaning) which pervades the brotherhood,--all this is taking enough
when the engine is in repose; and then the joys of a campaign, the
continual change of scene, the never-flagging excitement, the little
luxuries of the bivouac, the rough good-fellowship of the march, and
the boiling, thrilling excitement of the encounter--all these
doubtless have their charms when the machine is put into action; but
there is a sad reverse to the picture, and those who read with the
military enthusiasm of ignorance such captivating accounts of
brilliant strategy and daring heroism, should recollect that the same
Gazette which makes captains and colonels, makes also widows and
orphans; that eyes are gushing and hearts breaking over those very
lines that bid the uninterested peruser thrill with warlike ardour and
half-envious pride in the deeds of arms of his countrymen. The
greatest hero of the age has recorded his opinion of those scenes in
which he reaped his own immortal laurels, when he said, “he prayed God
he might never again see so frightful a calamity as a national war;”
and his opinion has been often quoted, to the effect that a battle won
was the next most horrible sight to a battle lost. Far and wide
spreads the crop of misery that springs from that iron shower. Its
effects are not confined to wasted fields and blackened houses, and
devoted ranks stretched where they fell in all the ghastly distortions
of violent death. Far, far away, in happy homes and peaceful families,
women and children must wail and pine in vain for him whom they will
never see again on earth; and the ounce of lead that carries death
into that loyal, kind heart, scatters misery and grief, and penury,
perhaps, and ruin, over the gentle dependents here at home in England,
that have none to trust to, none to care for them, save him who lies
cold and stiff upon the field of glory. Glory! when will men learn the
right meaning of the word?
Well, three lines in the Gazette had brought misery enough to the
inmates of the house in Grosvenor Square. How paltry to them now
seemed the household cares and little money arrangements that had
occupied their morning consultation. What was there to arrange for
now? What signified it how things went? He would never return to
enjoy the fruits of their care. What mattered it who had the house,
and the fortune, and the plate, and the personalities, and all the
paltry dross, which now showed its real value?--to-morrow it will
begin again to resume its fictitious appearance, for grief passes as
surely as does the cloud. But to-day, the General and Blanche are
almost stupefied, and can think of nothing but Charlie--dear, _dear_,
lost Charlie. The old man sits rocking to and fro, in violent
paroxysms, frightful in one of his age--who would have thought he had
so much feeling left in him?--and Blanche is exhausted with weeping,
and lies with her face buried, and her long golden hair trailing over
the sofa cushions, incapable of thought or exertion. Mary alone
retains her presence of mind; Mary alone vindicates her noble nature
in the hour of trial; Mary alone is fit to command; and Mary alone
resolves upon what is best to be done, and proceeds at once to put her
schemes into execution. There is but one person to apply to for advice
and assistance: there is but one friend in whom the bereaved family
can confide; who should it be but kind, generous, bold-hearted Frank
Hardingstone? Mary puts on her bonnet and shawl: out of the confused
mass in the hall she selects Mr. Hardingstone’s card, ascertains his
address, and without saying a word about her intentions, sallies forth
to seek him out, primed with the eloquence of a woman’s hopeless,
unselfish love.
Frank has lingered on in London, he scarce knows why. He is training
his strong, masculine mind to bear the loss of Blanche--for he feels
that Blanche is lost to him--just as he would train to make any other
effort, or endure any other suffering. His mornings are spent in close
and severe study; his afternoons in those athletic exercises at which
he is so proficient; and in the evening he goes into _men’s_ society,
as gentlemen do when they are sore about the other sex, and tries to
be amused, and to enter into the frivolities and pastimes of his
associates, and succeeds sometimes indifferently badly, sometimes not
at all. Strange visitors are admitted to Frank’s morning-room at the
hotel where he puts up--the waiter cannot make him but at all. Now, an
engineer, in his Sunday clothes, but with a rough chin and grimy
hands, is closeted with him all the morning, and the waiter overhears
casual expressions, such as “power,” and “gradients,” and “angles,”
and “the motive,” and “the bite,” and “the catch,” which, on the
principle of _omne ignotum pro terribili_, make his hair stand on end.
Then, just as he had made up his mind that Mr. Hardingstone is
_professional_, and not a _real_ gent after all, some live Duke or
magnificent Marquis comes in with his hat on, and says, “Frank, my
dear fellow, how goes it?” and the waiter’s conclusions are again
completely upset. Then an archæologian, with smooth white neckcloth
and well-brushed beaver, steps gravely up-stairs, and remains for
hours discussing the probable site of some problematic edifice which
there is reason to suppose _might_ have been pulled down by the
Confessor; and on this interesting topic they lavish a store of
knowledge, penetration, and research rather disproportioned to the
result arrived at, till the archæologian stays to have luncheon, and
shows no small energy even at that. The waiter begins to think Mr.
Hardingstone is a gent connected with the British Museum (for which
institution he entertains a superstitious reverence), and possibly a
fellow-labourer with Layard and Rawlinson. But again, twice a week, an
individual is admitted whose general appearance is so much the reverse
of the respectable, sleek archæologian, that the waiter finds it
impossible to reconcile the contradiction of Mr. Hardingstone’s being,
as he terms it, “_in_ with both.” This latter visitor is of athletic
frame, and remarkably forbidding countenance, none the less so from an
originally snub nose having been smashed into a sort of plaster over
the adjoining territory. His hair is cut as short as is consistent
with the use of scissors, and his arms, in very tight sleeves, hang
down his sides as if they were in the last stage of powerless fatigue.
He dresses as though he kept a horse, yet is his gait that of a man
who is continually on his legs, active as a cat, and of no mean
pedestrian powers. He remains with Mr. Hardingstone about an hour,
during which time much shuffling of feet is heard, and much hard
breathing, with occasional expectoration on the part of the visitor.
The windows are invariably thrown wide open during the interview; and
at its conclusion, the stranger being supplied with beer, for which
fluid he entertains a remarkable predilection, wipes his mouth on his
sleeve, and expresses his satisfaction at the hospitality of his
entertainer, and the warmth of his reception, by stating, in
reprehensibly strong language, that he has had “a--something--good
bellyful.” This too is a professor, and a scientific man; but his
profession is that of pugilism, his science the noble one of
self-defence. So the waiter is again all abroad: but when Mary Delaval
puts up her veil, and taking out a plain card with her name written
thereon, requests the astonished functionary to “take it up to Mr.
Hardingstone, and tell him a lady wishes to see him,” even a waiter’s
self-command is overcome, and he can only relieve his feelings by the
execution of an infinity of winks for his own benefit, and the
frequent repetition of “Well, this beats cock-fighting!” as he ushers
the lady up the hotel stairs, and points out to her the rooms occupied
by the mysterious guest.
Most people would have considered Frank hardly prepared to receive
visits from a lady, both in respect of his costume and the general
arrangement of his apartment. He was sitting in his shirt-sleeves,
unbraced, and with his neck bare; his large loose frame curled up on a
short, uncomfortable sofa, in anything but a graceful position, and
his broad manly countenance gathered into an expression of intense,
almost painful attention. A short pipe between his strong white teeth
filled the room with odours only preferable to that of _stale_
tobacco-smoke, with which its atmosphere was generally laden; and the
book on his knee was a ponderous quarto, to the full as heavy as it
looked, and fit for even Frank’s large intellect to grapple with. The
furniture was simple enough; most of that which belonged to the hotel
had been put away, and a set of boxing-gloves, two or three foils, a
small black leather portmanteau, and a few books of the same stamp as
that on the owner’s knee, comprised almost the only objects in the
apartment. The morning paper was lying unopened on the window-sill.
When he saw who it was, Frank started up with a blush, snatched the
short pipe out of his mouth, set a chair for his visitor, and sitting
bolt upright on the short sofa, stared at her with a ludicrous
expression of mingled shyness and surprise. He was glad to see her,
too--for why?--she belonged in some sort to Blanche.
“Have you seen the morning paper?” began Mary, in her low, measured
tones, though her voice shook more than usual. “Have you seen those
disastrous tidings from the Cape? Oh, Mr. Hardingstone, we are all in
despair! Charles Kettering has, in all probability, been”--she could
not bring herself to say it--“at least he is missing--missing,
gracious Heaven! in that fearful country!--and we have only heard of
it this morning. The General is incapable of acting; he is completely
paralysed by the blow; and I have come--forgive me, Mr.
Hardingstone--I have come to you as our only friend, to ask your
advice and assistance; to entreat you to--to----” Poor Mary broke
down, and went into a passionate fit of weeping, all the more violent
from having been so long restrained.
Frank was horrified at the intelligence; he made a grasp at the paper,
and there, sure enough, his worst fears were confirmed. But this was
no time for the indulgence of helpless regret; and when Mary was
sufficiently composed, he asked her with a strange, meaning anxiety,
“How Blanche bore the fatal tidings?” Heart of man! what depths of
selfishness are there in thy chambers! At the back of all his sorrow
for his more than brother, at the back of all his anxiety and horror,
he hated himself to know that there was a vague feeling of relief as
if a load had been taken off, an obstacle removed. He would have laid
down his life for Charlie; had he been with him in the bush, he would
have shed the last drop of his blood to defend him; yet now that his
fate was ascertained, he shuddered to find that his grief was not
totally unqualified; he loathed himself when he felt that through the
dark there was a gleam somewhere that had a reflection of joy.
“Blanche’s feelings you may imagine,” replied Mary, now strangely,
almost sternly composed; “she has lost a more than brother” (Frank
winced); “but of feelings it is not the time to talk. You may think me
mad to say so, but something tells me there may still be a hope. He
is not reported killed, or even wounded; he is ‘missing’; there is a
chance yet that he may be saved. These savages do not always kill
their prisoners” (she shuddered as she spoke); “there is yet a
possibility that he may have been taken and carried off to the
mountains. An energetic man on the spot might even now be the means of
preserving him from a hideous fate. These people must surely be
amenable to bribes, like the rest of mankind. Oh, it is possible--in
God’s mercy it is possible--and we may get him back amongst us, like
one from the dead.”
Frank grasped at her meaning in an instant; and even while he did so,
he could not help remarking how beautiful she was--her commanding
sorrow borne with such dignity and yet such resignation. He drew down
his brows, set his teeth firm, and the old expression came over his
face which poor Charlie used to admire so much--an expression of grim,
unblenching resolve.
“You’re right, Mrs. Delaval, it might be done,” he said, slowly
and deliberately. “How long has the mail taken to come to
England--twenty-eight days?--the same going out. It is a desperate
chance!--yet would it be a satisfaction to know the worst. Poor
boy!--poor Charlie!--game to the last, I see, in the general order.
What think ye, Mrs. Delaval; would it be any use?”
“If I was a man,” replied Mary, “I should be in the train for
Southampton at this moment.”
Frank rang the bell; the waiter appeared with an alacrity that looked
as if he had been listening at the keyhole. “Bring my bill,” said
Frank to that astonished functionary, “and have a cab at the door in
twenty minutes.”
“You are going, Mr. Hardingstone?” said Mary, clasping her hands; “God
bless you for it!”
“I am going,” replied Frank, putting the short pipe carefully away,
and pulling out the small black portmanteau.
“You will start to-day?” asked Mary, with an expression of admiration
on her sorrowing countenance for a decision of character so in
accordance with her own nature.
“In twenty minutes,” replied Frank, still packing for hard life; and
he was as good as his word. His things were ready; his bill paid; his
servant furnished with the necessary directions during his master’s
absence; and himself in the cab, on his way to his bankers, and from
thence to the railway station, in exactly twenty minutes from the
moment of his making up his mind to go.
“Tell Blanche I’ll bring him back safe and sound,” said he, as he
shook hands with Mary on the hotel steps; “and--and--tell her,” he
added, with a deeper tint on his bronzed, manly cheek, “tell her that
I--I had no time to wish her good-bye.”
We question whether this was exactly the message Frank intended to
give; but this bold fellow, who could resolve at a moment’s notice to
undertake a long, tedious voyage, to penetrate to the seat of war in a
savage country, and, if need were, to risk his life at every step for
the sake of his friend, had not courage to send a single word of
commonplace gallantry to a timid, tender girl. So it is--Hercules is
but a cripple in sight of Omphale--Samson turns faint-hearted in the
lap of Delilah--nor are these heroes of antiquity the only champions
who have wittingly placed their brawny necks beneath a small white
foot, and been surprised to find it could spurn so fiercely, and tread
so heavily. Mary should have loved such a man as Frank, and _vice
versâ_--here was the _beau idéal_ that each had formed of the opposite
sex. Frank was never tired of crying up a woman of energy and courage,
one who could dare and suffer, and still preserve the queenly dignity
which he chose to esteem woman’s chiefest attraction; and so he
neglected the gem, and set his great, strong heart upon the flower.
Well, we have often seen it so; we _admire_ the diamond, but we _love_
the rose. As for Mary, she was, if possible, more inconsistent still.
As she walked back to Grosvenor Square she thought over the heroic
qualities of Mr. Hardingstone, and wondered how it was possible he
should yet remain unmarried. “Such a man as that,” thought Mary,
revolving in her own mind his manifold good qualities, “so strong, so
handsome, so clever, so high-minded, he has all the necessary
ingredients that make up a great man; how simple in his habits, and
how frank and unaffected in his manner; a woman might acknowledge
_him_ as a superior indeed! Mind to reflect; head to plan; and energy
to execute! She would be _proud_ to love him, to cling to him, and
look up to him, and worship him. And Blanche has known him from a
child, and never seen all this!” and a pang smote Mary’s heart, as she
recollected _why_, in all probability, Blanche had been so blind to
Frank Hardingstone’s attractions; and how _she_, of all people, could
not blame her for her preference of another: and then the fair young
face and the golden curls rose before her mind’s eye like a phantom,
and she turned sick as she thought it might even now be mouldering in
the earth. Then Mary pulled a letter from her pocket, and looked at it
almost with loathing, as the past came back to her like the shade of a
magic-lantern. She saw the gardens at Bishops’-Baffler; the officers
in undress uniform, and the grey charger; the evening walks; the quiet
summer twilight; the steeple-chase at Guyville; and her eyes filled
with tears, and she softened to another’s miseries as she reflected on
her own. “Selfish, unprincipled as he is,” thought Mary, “he must love
me, or he never would make such an offer as this. And what am I, that
I should spurn the devotion of any human being? Have not I, too, been
selfish and unprincipled, in allowing my mind to dwell alone on him
who in reality belonged to another? Have I not cherished and
encouraged the poison?--have I not yielded to the temptation?--do I
wish even now that it was otherwise?--and am I not rightly
punished?--have I not suffered less than I deserve?--and yet how
miserable I am--how lonely and how despairing!--there is not another
being on earth as miserable as I am!”
“By your leave, ma’am,” said a rough, coarse voice; and Mary stepped
aside to make way on the pavement for a little mournful procession
that was winding gloomily along, in strange, chilling contrast to the
bustle and liveliness of the street. It was a little child’s funeral.
The short black coffin, carried so easily on one man’s shoulder,
seemed almost like a plaything for Death. It was touching to think
what a tiny body was covered by that scanty pall--how the little
thing, once so full of life and laughter, all play and merriment and
motion, could be lying stiff and stark in death! It seemed such a
contradiction to the whole course of nature--a streamlet turning back
towards its source--a rosebud nipped by the frost. Had the grim Reaper
no other harvest whitening for his sickle? Was there not age, with its
aches and pains and burdens, almost asking for release? Was there not
manhood, full of years and honours, its appointed task done on earth,
its guerdon fairly earned, itself waiting for the reward? Was there
not crime, tainting the atmosphere around it, that to take away would
be a mercy to its fellow-men, and a deserved punishment to its own
hardened obstinacy, having neglected and set aside every opportunity
of repentance and amendment? Was there not virtue willing to go, and
misery imploring to be set free? And must he leave all these, and cut
off the little creeping tendril that had wound and twisted itself
round its mother’s heart? There was the mother first in the slow
procession--who had so good a right to be chief mourner as that poor,
broken woman? Who can estimate the aching void that shall never be
quite filled up in that sobbing, weary breast? She is not thinking of
the funeral, nor the passers-by, nor the crape, nor the mourning; she
does not hear rough condolences from neighbours, and well-meant
injunctions “to keep up,” and “not to give way so,” from those who
“are mothers themselves, and know what a mother’s feelings _is_.” She
is thinking of her child--her child shut down in that deal box--yet
still hers--she has got it still--not till it is consigned to the
earth, and the dull clods rattle heavily on the lid, will she feel
that she has lost it altogether, when there will come a fearful
reaction, and paroxysms of grief that deaden themselves by their own
violence; and then the wound will cicatrise, and she will clean her
house, and get her husband’s dinner, and sit down to her stitching,
and neighbours will think that she has “got over her trouble,” and she
will seem contented, and even happy. But the little one will not be
forgotten. When the flowers are blooming in the spring--when the
voices of children are ringing in the street--when the strain of music
comes plaintively up the noisy alley--when the sun is bright in
heaven--when the fire is crackling on the hearth--then will her lost
cherub stretch its little arms in Paradise, and call its mother home.
As Mary made way for the poor afflicted woman, who for an instant
withdrew from her mouth the coarse handkerchief that could not stifle
her sobs, she recognised Blanche’s former maid, poor Gingham. Yes, it
was Mrs. Blacke, following her only child, her only treasure, her only
consolation, to the grave. Poor thing! her sin had been too heavy for
her to bear; with her husband’s example daily before her eyes, what
wonder that she strove to stifle her conscience in intoxication? Then
came “from bad to worse, from worse to worst of all”; the child was
neglected, and a rickety, sickly infant at all times, soon pined away,
and sickened and died. The mother was well-nigh maddened with the
thought that it _might_ have been saved. Never will she forgive
herself for that one night when she left it alone for two hours, and
coming back, found the fever had taken it. Never will she drive from
her mind the little convulsed limbs, and the rolling eyes that looked
upward, ever upward, and never recognised her again. And now her home
is desolate, her husband is raving in the hospital, and her child is
in that pauper-coffin which she is following to the grave. Mary
Delaval, do you still think you are the most miserable being on the
face of the earth?