“THE SAD SEA WAVE”
THE HONEYMOON--OUTWARD-BOUND--A FULL REPORT--THE HOPES OF
SPRING--THE BLIGHT OF AUTUMN--ALL ALONE
And of all places in the world, where did they choose to spend their
honeymoon? Why, at St. Swithin’s; there they had first met--there the
girl had first seen her young ideal of manly perfection--there Frank
had first surrendered the self-control he held so dear. When at the
end of a twenty-seventh chapter the gentleman saves from drowning the
lady after whom he has been hankering through the previous twenty-six,
it is needless to specify how “bride-cake must be the issue.” “Hot
water” after cold is a fair conclusion; so the dressmaker in Old Bond
Street was written to--and the man-of-business came down from
Lincoln’s Inn--and there was a gathering of friends and relatives--a
breakfast to the grandees--a dinner to the tenants--a ball to the
labourers--and the bells of Newton ringing almost without cessation
for eight-and-forty hours--the bridesmaids smiled and sparkled--the
bride wept and trembled--the bridegroom looked like a fool--everything
was strictly orthodox, save the interference of the General, who
wanted to set the clergyman right during the sacred ceremony, and very
properly received a rap over the knuckles from that dignitary, which
was no less than he deserved--the county paper devoted a column and a
half to its description of the ceremony--the _Morning Post_ dismissed
it in three lines under the head of “Fashionable Intelligence”; and so
the knot was tied, and Frank Hardingstone, M., took Blanche
Kettering, N., and they became man and wife.
We must now shift the scene to where we first introduced the
characters of our somewhat lengthened narrative; nor will we, after
the fashion of sundry eminent divines, prolong our “in conclusion” to
an indefinite abusing of the listener’s patience and the Queen’s
English. The honeymoon is over--they never last more than a week
now-a-days--and the relatives of the principal performers have broken
up the _tête-à-tête_, and joined the happy pair at St. Swithin’s. It
is a mild sunny afternoon about the middle of February. At the
sea-side, where there are no bare trees and leafless hedges to destroy
the illusion, it might be midsummer, so soft and balmy is the air, so
bright the beams glinting on the Channel, so hushed and peaceful the
ripple of the ebbing tide; the fishing-boats seem asleep upon the
waters; a large square-rigged vessel looms almost motionless in the
offing; and a group of five persons are congregated about an invalid’s
couch on the beach. As Mary Delaval moves round it to place a cushion
more comfortably at his back, we recognise the delicate features and
waving moustaches of our young lancer. It is indeed the wasted face of
Cousin Charlie, attenuated to an unearthly beauty, and wearing the
calm, gentle expression of those who are ere long to be summoned home.
“Outward-bound,” says a stout seaman-like man, shutting up the glass
with which he has been diligently conning the distant ship.
“Outward-bound, and an Indiaman, as I make her, Miss Blanche; I beg
your pardon.” Hairblower never can call her by her matronly title.
“If that’s an Indiaman, I’ll eat her,” exclaims the General; “don’t
tell me--I should know something of that class of ship at any rate.
Look at her spars! She’s bound for the Baltic; I can take my oath.
Indiaman!--if she’s not a Dutchman, _I am_.”
The General’s appearance indeed gave weight to this assertion. His
stout, short frame enveloped in a jacket and trousers--for, out of
compliment to the locality, he thought it necessary to appear in
nautical costume--possessed that well-filled appearance which custom
has chosen to consider indigenous to the Hollander. The General’s
love-making did not progress very rapidly, but he had still a
hankering to stand well in the opinion of Mrs. Delaval; and when he
considered the care and attention with which she tended poor Charlie,
administering to all his wants and fancies as only a woman can, he
thought that such a wife would indeed be a treasure for an elderly
gentleman who was beginning to experience sundry twinges at the
extremities, reminding him most unpleasantly of good things long since
consumed, and claret bottles emptied in life’s thirsty noon.
“What do _you_ think, darling?” says Blanche, sidling up to her
husband, and placing her arm confidingly within his. Like all
newly-married women she is a little _gauche_, and wears her happiness
with too demonstrative an air, appealing on all occasions to her lord,
and hanging on his every word and look as if there were no one else in
the universe. To do the sex justice, however, this is a fault of which
they are invariably cured in less than a twelvemonth, and radically
too--we cannot call to mind a single instance of a relapse.
“How should I know, my dear?” replies Frank, awaking from deep
thought; “yet stay, may it not be the very ship in which your old
friend D’Orville was to sail?” with a malicious glance at Blanche, who
looked up at him with such an open smile as showed how little
impression the handsome Major’s attentions had ever made on _her_
young heart. “Let me see, what day was he to start? I’ve got his
letter in my pocket.”
“Pocket!--letter!--what? read it!” exclaimed the General--“that will
prove the thing at once--you’ll see she’s a Dutchman.”
Blanche glanced at Mary; and even that grave face brightened into a
smile--while Frank, seating himself on the shingle, drew a letter from
his pocket and began to read.
“Cannot resist--hem--congratulations--hem--blessings in
store--hem--leaving this country for a long absence.” (“Ah! here it
is.”) “As I am going out in command of troops, I shall have the
pleasure of once more rubbing up my seamanship by a voyage round the
Cape. We embark at Gravesend on the --th, and shall probably sail
when the tide suits the following day.” (“’Gad--I believe it is the
Indiaman!”) “Lacquers accompanies me, having got the majority in my
corps, and has become a _great_ soldier--perhaps thanks to your
success in the attack on which I now write to congratulate you.”
(“Here’s a long story about _you_, Blanche--shall I read it?”) Blanche
passed her little hand over his mouth, and Frank proceeded. “As I
shall probably not have another opportunity of writing to my English
friends for four or five months, I will not apologise for the length
of my present epistle, but give you all the news I can to enliven your
honeymoon--a piece of presumption which, I conclude, is like refining
refined gold or painting the lily. London is not very full, although
Parliament has brought its regular quantum of members who stand in awe
of their constituents--no small number in these reformed and reforming
days. _I_ recollect, my dear Frank, though _you_ don’t, when all the
electors for a county met in the Justices’ room, and returned the
Lord-Lieutenant’s nominee with as little discussion as my
orderly-sergeant will make this afternoon when he reports ‘the
officers’ baggage gone on board.’ However, they won’t stand that kind
of thing now. Talking of Parliament, you read Mount Helicon’s speech
on the Tallow question, of course. It quite took the House by storm.
Honourable members expected _something_ from the author of ‘Broadsides
from the Baltic,’ and they were not disappointed. Not a word, however,
taken from that exceedingly clear and voluminous pamphlet; and where
he can have picked up such an additional store of information is a
mystery to every one. The speech, however, has floored his party. Its
whole tone, every sentiment it breathed, was so diametrically opposite
to their policy, that they found themselves at its conclusion without
a leg to stand on. Having selected him for their mouthpiece, they were
furious, and no wonder. What can he be at? We soldiers are
plain-dealing men, and cannot understand all this mining and
counter-mining. His lady-mother, I understand, is still at Bubbleton.
You must have seen something of her in the winter, unless you had only
eyes and ears for one--particularly as I hear she gives out
everywhere that she has refused General Bounce. If your abrupt uncle
is the man I take him for, she never had an opportunity.” (Frank was
here obliged to pause, the General’s delight at this portion of the
letter venting itself in a series of chuckles that threatened to choke
him. It was with difficulty he restrained himself from relating the
whole story of the widow at Cheltenham, as a narrative bearing
irresistibly on the case in point. He swallowed it, however, and Frank
proceeded.) “We never thought her ladyship a great beauty, but they
tell me now she is dreadfully altered--disappointed about her
son--disappointed in her winter campaign--dreadfully sore at the
slights she fancies she has received from the Dinadams, who passing
through Bubbleton on their way to Wassailworth, had no time to return
the visit she paid them at their hotel--and conscious of growing old,
without having done the slightest good in her generation. No wonder
the worn-out fine lady is sick of her wretched world, such as it
is--no wonder she is startled to discover that she has spent a
lifetime of illusions, and never found out the _real_ world after all.
You will smile, my dear Frank, at my moralities, but I do begin to see
things a little clearer than I used; and if I have reason so bitterly
to regret the forty years I have spent in selfish uselessness, what
must be the feelings of threescore years and odd, with the world
slipping from under its feet, the waking moment rapidly approaching,
and the feverish dream leaving not one solid reality behind it--not
one satisfactory reflection to gild the past--not one well-grounded
hope to hold a beacon through the dark cold voyage of the future?”
[Illustration: “Frank ... drew a letter from his pocket, and began to
read.”
_Page 376_]
Hairblower, who had been listening attentively with a puzzled
expression of countenance, brightened up considerably at a metaphor
which had reference to his own daily occupations, and muttered
something about “ballast aboard,” and the “anchor apeak”; whilst Mrs.
Delaval stole a longing, lingering look at poor Charlie, who had
closed his eyes as if wearied out and half asleep. Frank read on.
“Tell young Kettering I have many inquiries after his health from his
friends here, amongst others an old fellow-campaigner in Kaffirland
whose tent he shared, and who is full of Kettering’s famous attack in
support of the Rifles. He says it was one of the most dashing things
of the war, and the service can ill afford to lose so gallant an
officer. He sends his own and his terrier’s kindest remembrances.”
Charlie’s eyes opened wide; he did not seem drowsy now. The long
wasted fingers of his right hand closed as if upon the handle of his
sword, and a light stole over his countenance as if the sun had just
gleamed athwart it--the soldier-spirit was stirring in that powerless
frame. He looked handsomer than ever, poor boy, poor boy!
“His admiring well-wisher,” the letter went on to say, “who, by the
way, is one of the best-looking fellows in London, got his promotion
in that very action, and is now on leave, making up for past
privations by every kind of dissipation which the village affords. I
do not see much of him; but dining last night at the ‘Peace and
Plenty,’ he told me that our mutual friend, Sir Ascot, was going to be
married. Mrs. Hardingstone will be amused to hear this. The fortunate
lady is a Miss Deeper, who threw over young Cashley, as in duty bound,
for the baronet. Laurel, too, has carried off pretty Kate Carmine at
last; they are the poorest couple in Christendom, and the happiest. I
met Sir Bloomer Buttercup yesterday at the ‘Godiva.’ He and
Mulligatawney were, as usual, discussing the matrimonial question; the
latter more ‘Malthusian’ than ever, since Mrs. M. has taken up the
Rapping theory. Sir Bloomer thinks that now he can only pretend to a
widow, but is still determined to marry as soon as his affairs can be
put ‘on a footing.’ We are all of opinion if he waits till then he
will die a bachelor. You are aware I have got my promotion, and am
going out to take the command of one of the smartest regiments in the
service. I trust it will not deteriorate in any way whilst in my
hands. Lacquers unites with me in congratulations and cordial good
wishes to the whole of your party. If Mrs. Delaval is with you,
remember me most kindly to her, and believe me,” etc.
“Well done the Colonel,” said Frank, folding up his letter and putting
it in his pocket. “I never saw a man so changed and so improved.
Blanche, don’t you regret now?--eh?” Blanche laughed, and called him
“a goose”; but Mary applied herself more assiduously than ever to the
invalid’s cushions; and whatever may have been her thoughts, she kept
them most carefully to herself. We can guess, however, that
notwithstanding the many good qualities developing themselves in her
old admirer, she never for an instant thought of comparing him with
that poor helpless boy whom they were now obliged to carry into the
house, lest even the soft evening breeze should strike too chill upon
his lacerated lungs. Next to Mary, however, perhaps none tended the
sufferer with such patience and gentleness as Hairblower--that
worthy’s view of the malady and its cause was peculiar to himself, and
he clung to it with heroic obstinacy. “It all came of making him a
soger,” said the seaman, with a tear running down his weather-beaten
cheek; “goin’ about half-dressed in them monkey-jackets and sleepin’
out o’ nights without a dry thread to bless theirselves--it’s enough
to kill a cat, let alone a gentleman. Now, if he’d had a dry plank
above and below, and a hammock to swing in, and watches to keep all
regular and ship-shape, he’d have lived to be an admiral--see if he
wouldn’t. But he’s better, is Master Charlie, much better, now the
_salt_’s gettin’ into him. Oh, he’ll be well in no time now, will
Master Charlie--not a doubt of it!”
“Not a doubt of it,” echoed the General, the illness of whose
favourite was a sad cause of grief and anxiety, which vented
themselves in a more than customary abruptness and irritation.
“Better? How d’ye mean? Zounds, sir, don’t talk to me of doctors! I
tell ye the lad’s rallying--rallying, sir. What? If that boy’s not
a-horseback in June, I’ll----” And here the warm-hearted old
General’s courage invariably gave way, and as he thought of the
alternative he would burst into tears, and stump hastily off to hide
his emotion.
There never was such a February as that. Even inland people
congratulated themselves on enjoying at last a _really_ mild winter;
and in such a sheltered, sunshiny situation as St Swithin’s, the
weather would have borne comparison with any boasted climate of the
warm Mediterranean. Like some poor, draggled, pining bird, the invalid
seemed to drink in health and strength from the very sunbeams; and as
he lay full-length upon his couch, drawn as near the waves as the tide
would allow, and basked in the warmth, and inhaled the soft fresh
breezes of the Channel, he looked so composed, so happy--and the
cough, though frequent, became so much less violent, that all agreed
there never was “anything so providential as bringing him down to St.
Swithin’s”--“these illnesses are only fatal when not taken in
time”--“positively it was the very saving of the boy’s life.” But Mary
looked very pale, and shook her head. She seldom spoke much now.
One evening, just at sundown, Charlie begged to speak to Uncle Baldwin
alone. He was lying as usual close to the open window, and as the
breeze fanned his cheek he seemed to drink in its fragrance with a
keener zest than he had shown for days. He felt better and stronger,
too; he was able to sit up, and his voice was steadier and fuller than
it had been since he came home. He spoke almost jestingly of his
present state; but the words of hope which he thought it right to
affect, in consideration of his uncle’s feelings, were belied by the
topic on which he sought an interview.
“Uncle,” said he, “you’ve been a father to me, and I’ve never been
strong enough to thank you till to-day.”
“Stronger, my boy--to be sure you are--virtually, you’re quite well.
Don’t tell----” There was something in Charlie’s smile that checked
the General, and the boy went on--
“Life’s very uncertain, uncle, and if--you know I only say _if_--I
should not get over this business, I want you to arrange two or three
little matters for me. This is a beautiful world, uncle, and a
pleasant one; but I sometimes think I’d rather _not_ live now. I--I
don’t mind going. No, I don’t seem as if I belonged so much to this
earth--I can’t tell why, but I _feel_ it, I’m sure I do. Well, dear
Uncle Baldwin, when I’m _gone_, I want you to give as much of my money
to poor Gingham as will enable her to go out and join her husband in
Australia. I know she wishes it, and I think it would come better from
me than any one. If I get well, I mean to do it myself; but I like to
make sure; and--and--uncle”--a deep blush spread over Charlie’s
face--“all the rest I wish to go to Mrs. Delaval; but don’t let her
find out it’s from me. Promise me, dear Uncle Baldwin--promise me
this.”
The General started. He began to see what he now thought himself very
blind not to have seen long ago, but he promised faithfully enough;
and Charlie, lying back as if a weight had been taken off his mind,
added, with a placid smile, “One thing more, uncle, and I will not
trouble you any more--take care of poor Haphazard, and never let him
run in a steeple-chase again.” The General’s heart was in his eyes,
but he concealed his feelings from the invalid; and this too he
promised, much to Cousin Charlie’s satisfaction, who talked on so
cheerfully, and avowed himself to feel so much better, that when at
last Uncle Baldwin left him he joined the rest of the party more
sanguine than any of them of his ultimate recovery, and vowed “he
could not have believed what the sea-air would do.” “You may sigh,
Mrs. Delaval, and shake your head, but he’s as strong to-day as ever
he was in his life. Lungs!--his lungs are as good as mine. What?--he’s
only outgrown his strength--don’t tell me, the lad’s six feet high.
Why, I saw Globus this very day, and he assures me confidently that he
thinks Charlie will be quite well by the spring.”
* * * * *
Spring bloomed into summer and summer faded into autumn. When London
became empty--that is to say, when some thousand or two of its
millions took their departure from the swarm--we went, as is our
custom, to court health and sea-breezes at St. Swithin’s. Though we
follow blindly the example of our kind, rushing tumultuously to
crowded resorts and overflowing watering-places, yet do we love
solitude in the abstract as do most men who have outlived their
digestions, and consequently we were not disappointed to find the day
after our arrival so gusty, gloomy, and disagreeable, that the
fair-weather visitors were compelled to remain indoors, and we had the
beach pretty well to ourselves. There was a thick haze over the
Channel, and a small drizzling rain beat in our face. We may be
peculiar, but we confess we have no objection to a fog, and rather
like a drizzling rain; so we breasted the breeze, and walked boldly
on till we got clear of the town, and keeping steadily along
“high-water mark,” could enjoy our humour of sulking undisturbed.
But one figure shared our solitude--a tall, handsome woman, dressed in
the deepest mourning, short of widow’s weeds, that we ever saw. As we
passed her, she was gazing steadily to seaward, and we caught but one
glimpse of her countenance; yet that face we never have forgotten.
Care had hollowed the eyes and wasted the pale cheek, and streaked the
masses of dark hair with many a silver line, but the deep expression
of holy beauty that sat on those marble features was that of an
angel--some spirit sorrowing for the spirit-band from which it was
parted, and yearning for its home. She was listening intently to the
regular and monotonous gush of the Channel waves as they poured in
their steady measured music, like a requiem for the dead. A
well-beloved voice spoke to her on the sighing breeze, an old familiar
strain was borne upon the rolling waters: she was communing with
another world, and we left her, but not alone.
Mary Delaval has never quitted St. Swithin’s. Marble, wrought to
warlike trophies, blazons in a lengthened inscription the blighted
fame and early death of a blooming warrior, who dragged his sinking
frame hither to gaze upon the shining waters, and so to die. But it is
not in the stately aisle or over the speechless stone that Mary weeps
for her lost hopes, and mourns her buried love. No, she had rather
wander by the lonely shore and listen to the “sad sea waves,” as they
murmur their mournful tale of the unforgotten Past. Day by day, ay,
night by night, she glides about amongst the poor, ever on errands of
mercy--ever eager but for one thing on earth--to do good--to fulfil
her destiny--to die _here_ where _he_ died--and so to go to _him_. By
the bed of sickness, in the abode of misery--ay, in the very den of
vice, if it be but hallowed by grief, that pale sad face is as well
known as the High Church curate’s or the parish doctor’s; but the poor
respect her sorrows; and the rough fishermen, the busy artisans, the
very careless romping children will turn out of the path, and forbear
to intrude upon the presence of the “dark lady,” as she sits looking
wistfully to seaward, or wanders dejectedly along the beach. They seem
to feel that she is _with_ them, but not _of_ them--a sojourner here,
but not for long.
We love to gaze on the blooming merry faces of the young--we
can admire the bright, hopeful girl--the contented, happy
matron--childhood--prime--and old age. All have their beauties, all
reflect more or less vividly the image of their Creator; but never in
mortal features have we seen such a heavenly expression as that borne
by Mary Delaval with her aching heart; deeper than hope, holier than
joy, it hallows those alone whose every tie to lower earth is torn
asunder, whose treasure is not here, whose home is beyond the
grave--of whom Infinite Mercy has said, “Blessed are those that mourn,
for they shall be comforted.”