HOW IT CAME TO PASS.
"Oh, Cyril," said Mary, in a low and earnest voice, and in her
forcible way, after the first emotions excited by their sudden
meeting had subsided a little, "I have undergone much that might have
made my poor father's bones turn in their grave, by reason of my
exceeding misery! Though young in years, I am old in suffering; for
in my brief time I _have_ endured much."
"My poor Mary!" exclaimed Cyril, gazing with love and admiration on
her pale beauty, which in its calm patrician style, consorted ill, or
oddly at least, with her plain black stuff dress; "tell me all that
has happened since last we met."
"Since last we parted so unhappily, you should say, Cyril."
"My darling, tell me all!"
Then she briefly narrated her story up to that time when in despair,
and in an evil moment, overcome by shame and terror, she threw
herself into the river, and a cry of horror escaped the listener as
he struck his hands together; but she had been providentially rescued
by a waterman, and conveyed to a London hospital in a raging fever.
Cyril, who had listened to her in sorrow and commiseration, closed
his eyes for a moment, and said in a hissing voice, through his
clenched teeth--
"Oh, Chesters, there is a terrible account to be closed one day
between you and me, and close it shall, if lead and powder avail men
yet in their wrath and vengeance! The rascally affair of the drugged
horse--my beautiful bay hunter; the foul cheating at play; the
attempt to disgrace you, my sweet Mary, at home and elsewhere; poor
Horace too in the transport--all, all make up a heavy score indeed,
to be cleared between Ralph Rooke Chesters and Cyril Wedderburn."
"I was at first ungrateful enough not to thank Heaven for sparing my
life," said Mary, "when I slowly recovered and the fever passed away.
I was very, very weak, Cyril, and the professional politeness or
conventional kindness of the hospital doctors and the hired nurses
proved cold, hard, and unsoothing. I longed for the clasp of a
friendly hand; for the glance of an affectionate eye; for a shoulder
whereon I could lay my poor head and be at rest. Cyril, alas! you
were far away--you were no longer mine--and I felt myself lonely--oh,
so lonely in the world! I have endured and felt the bitterness of
death when I sinfully sought it; but not more bitter than what I
endured on losing you."
"Do not heap ashes on my head, I implore you, Mary."
"In that hospital I recovered, yet only wished to die, for it seemed
better, holier, purer, and every way safer to die then and be at
peace, than to live and struggle on, friendless and hopeless; and yet
Chesters had artfully said such terrible things of the dead who die
in such places, unknown and unclaimed, that my heart shrunk within
me. But one day there came a lady, with a comely face and pleasing
manner--a lady who seemed to take a great interest in me, who talked
to me kindly and consolingly, whom I kissed, and who actually
permitted me to press my thin, wan cheek to hers--yes, even to nestle
on her breast, while I told her all my hapless story. Then she took
a deeper interest in me--a lonely girl without father or mother--and
spoke much of the good works one may do in this world.
"Prior to her coming, I had sometimes in my heart rebelliously
questioned the justice of God in creating creatures such as I, only
for trial and sorrow; but she taught me that these thoughts were
evil, and that I had no right to consider His reasons or purpose for
chastening me. Then she spoke of her own mission, and said--
"'Come and be one of us in the East, where we are going to nurse our
poor soldiers. Our hands are weak, but our hearts are strong and
true."
"I immediately agreed to be one of these good Samaritans, and _then_
I thought myself at peace with God, the world, and--myself.
"'I have been so long the nurse of my poor papa,' said I, 'that I
shall be useful, I trust. I owe God some atonement too, for what I
attempted--to rush unbidden into His presence!'
"The desire to devote myself to the cause of suffering humanity
became an enthusiasm within me. Existence and its personal interests
seemed to have lost all value to poor Mary Lennox. I had learned to
feel that out of all grief we may attain to a nobler state of life
than that of the world, and as I cherished these emotions, I felt
myself growing better, holier, almost sublime, in my longing to do
good. I have read that 'it is well for us to remember that we are
only travellers and wayfarers on this earth;' but sometimes it seems
a little hard to think how few traces of our footsteps we leave
behind us when the journey is finished."
"And these emotions and purposes brought you to this horrible
Scutari? To nurse all kinds of fellows, with all manner of wounds
and dreadful diseases incident to camp and field?"
A little colour came into her face as she replied--
"Yes, Cyril; and perhaps a lingering desire, or hope, to be nearer
you; for though you had cast me off so cruelly, I felt that you were
still--the husband of my heart. I did not desire to meet you
because--because--but God has willed it otherwise. It is enough! I
resolved by doing good to consecrate to Heaven the life I had so
wildly, in my despair, attempted to take away."
"My poor Mary! my poor Mary! my own love!" moaned Cyril.
Her voice was grave and sweet; even so was her soft, pale face, as
she replied, meekly--
"You have no longer the right to love me, Cyril Wedderburn."
"Mary?"
"Your wealthy cousin----"
"She is engaged to Horace Ramornie!"
"And you never loved her?"
"Never! I have had many a flirtation, Mary, but never loved woman
save you!"
"Chesters told me----"
"Chesters again! Curses dog his steps!"
Mary said nothing more, lest she might agitate him, and while her
heart began to beat happily, and even some colour mantled in her
cheek, she could not but recall that painful interview, when Lady
Wedderburn, by her silence, seemed tacitly to admit of his engagement
with that terrible and dreaded cousin!
"Oh, my Mary, my own!" said he, while caressing her hand, "such joy
it is to hear your voice again--to feel your hand in mine. But your
engagement-ring----?"
"Is gone, Cyril. It was taken from me after I was picked up
senseless in the water, as I have told you."
"I will soon replace it, darling, by one that shall never be taken
off your finger in life or death! I begin almost to believe in
magnetic influences--in Mesmerism, and the Odic force."
"Why?"
"For never did the touch of a human hand thrill through me as yours
does, dearest Mary. Now, why is this?"
"Because I love you!" she answered, with a beautiful smile.
If it be true that "to people who are in love each casual meeting is
a new miracle," in which they fancifully see the finger of fate, or
destiny, or the hand of Heaven itself, how bewildering to Cyril
Wedderburn was this sudden reunion with Mary Lennox!
"The past is gone for ever," said he, after a happy pause; "let us
forget it; but the present is ours yet, Mary darling--my wee heather
lintie," he added, sliding into the idiom of his schoolboy days; "my
cushat doo, that has come all the way from the purple Lammermuirs to
be my nurse and guide."
"Now you must not speak more, dearest Cyril. Already you have said
too much," said Mary, drawing back from his extended arms.
Cyril was becoming flushed and excited, and it was fortunate that the
arrival of the staff-surgeon, Dr. Riversdale, caused Mary to withdraw
to another ward.
From that day Cyril's progress towards convalescence was marvellous;
and to get chicken broth, arrowroot, calfs-foot jelly, and an
occasional glass of wine from Mary's pretty hand, was marvellous too!
Clever, versatile, full of expedients, she made an excellent nurse,
and was adored by the soldiers, though they soon discovered that her
chief favourites were the wounded of the Royal Fusileers.
Their separation, quarrel, and sorrow; time, and their singular
isolation in that remarkable place, made his love keener, stronger,
and more tender than ever. Glory had suddenly become a myth and a
sham! He had fully earned his war medal, if the army was to have
such a decoration; he had acquitted himself as a soldier at the
passage of the Alma, as he had already done in India. He had a fair
claim for sick leave, prior to selling out, without the hollow
pretence of "urgent private affairs;" and leave he should have, and
bring home a bride with him to Willowdean!
And in sketching out this joyous programme, he quite forgot any
scheme for the exposure or punishment of Chesters.
Cyril saw it all--that happy future. All doubts cleared away, and
Mary's wrongs atoned for, by the devotion of a life to her!
As he grew towards convalescence, however, he saw less and less of
Mary. The rules laid down for her guidance as a volunteer nurse, the
amenities of society, and proper policy alike required that she
should only visit him at stated times, especially after he became
well enough to ride about Scutari, to visit Chalcedon (and linger in
the beautiful garden and plantain grove of Haider Pacha), remembering
he had read in his schoolboy days, that Pliny had called it "the City
of the Blind;" or to ride up the eastern shore of the Bosphorus as
far as Asia, and once by the daily steamer to the Islands of the
Princes, to see the tomb of Irene, and other places set forth in his
"John Murray."'
He was intensely anxious to get well, that he might put his plans in
operation and remove Mary from the perilous and, as he thought them,
degrading tasks to which she had devoted herself; and, as a
preliminary, he resolved to place her at Misseri's Frankish Hotel in
Pera, where several officers' wives with whom he was intimate resided.
But man proposes, and God disposes!