THE CITY OF THE SILENT.
Was it the vision of a distempered brain, he asked of himself, this
strange and fantastic Turkish hall (through which the sunlight fell
in golden flakes from a double row of upper and lower windows of
square form), with all its green and gold arabesques and pious
sentences from the koran traced round on scrolls beneath the
cornices; was it not like some scene he had witnessed in a theatre,
that line of twisted columns and horse-shoe arches dividing the room,
beyond which he saw a marble fountain playing, and places like
pigeon-holes holding vases and beautiful jars, once filled with cool
water, sherbet, or flowers? And could it be possible that Mary
Lennox--she whom he used to meet in the old pine thicket, whose cheek
had so often reposed on his shoulder by the lonely stile in the glen,
was lying there on a wretched straw pallet, amid such strange and
foreign surroundings, and at the point of--death! So he sat in a
kind of stupor, gazing at a group of the Turkish guard seated
drowsily under a sunshade, smoking and listening to the lascivious
story of a dervish, whom they would reward with a para or two.
Anon the nurse came, and told him in a whisper that "she was asleep;"
and he blessed God for it, in the fervent hope that it might be the
forerunner of returning health and strength, and that the crisis
might be past. So he went forth to soothe his nerves by a stroll and
a cigar, and in about two hours returned to find that Mary had been
awake, and that a chaplain of the Duke of Cambridge's division (whom
the splinter of a shell had wounded) was with her; that she was quite
calm, and preparing and wishing to die.
"But not to leave me!" he exclaimed with sorrowful reproach, and he
issued forth again, repassing the Osmanli sentinel, who thought he
must be mad to grieve about a woman--"Mashallah! a sick one too!"
In the yard he met Doctor Riversdale, and questioned him; but the old
staff surgeon shook his head sorrowfully, and his reply recalled to
Cyril the convictions of the nurse.
"There are two expressions in the human face, which when we once see
them, Wedderburn, we never forget--the first quick glance of love,
and the last long look of death! I have been in love in my day, like
most men; and as a soldier have seen many die on the field and in
hospital; and I have seen death in that girl's face, but blended with
love too!"
"How, Riversdale?"
"When her lips uttered your name."
After a time, when he re-entered the Divan Hanée, the curtain veiling
the door was lifted by the nurse, who beckoned him eagerly, and as he
drew near, the woman, with good taste, withdrew, while Cyril, in a
fresh burst of anguish, threw himself on his knees by Mary's side,
striving, but in vain, to control his grief.
She stretched out her thin hands towards him, and gave him a soft,
sad, smile.
Oh, that glance! that too often furtive glance which all lovers know,
and which is too subtle for description, has much of power; but it
was not the glance that was now in the weird and pursuing eyes of
Mary,--it was the earnest glance seen only in the eyes of the dying,
but blended with much of sweetness. So Riversdale was right.
"I am dying, Cyril," said she, in a low voice; "I feel it in my
heart."
"You--you, my Mary; oh, it cannot be!" he whispered with quivering
lips and in a passion of tears.
"Yes, Cyril, my love, I can't last long now."
"Oh! would that my wound had been mortal, and that I had died before
you, darling; we should then have been re-united, never more to part.
But God knows what is best for us."
"And blessed be His holy name, Cyril! Kiss me, darling, while--while
I can see you, and can feel my hand in yours. The sun has set very
suddenly, surely--on the forehead, darling--on the forehead, not the
lip--not the lip!"
"Why, my Mary?"
"There may be death in such a kiss."
"Then welcome be the death!"
"Oh, Cyril!--husband of my heart!" she murmured.
"My plighted wife--my Mary!"
"I am going to my poor papa," she said with childlike simplicity.
"He clung, Cyril, to the fragment of his patrimony even as a gallant
captain clings to the wreck of his ship, and--and----"
"Yes, Mary; though rash, a true gentleman to the last."
"And he loved me so--my poor papa!"
Then her mind began to wander a little again. Far away from Scutari,
from where the hastily buried dead lay on the plain without the
walls,--from the wards of the horrid hospital her thoughts went as in
a dream.--for so her mutterings showed while her poor head rested on
Cyril's neck,--back to Lonewoodlee, to the old grey tower, with its
turrets and cape-house of the stormy Border times; to the mossy stile
and the thorn trees; to the old Scottish firs, with their red stems,
gnarled branches and bronze-like foliage cutting the clear blue sky;
to the mountain burn that brawled amid grey rocks and stones, purple
heather and golden broom; from the green slopes of the Lammermuirs,
to the lonely pastoral hills, where the black-faced wedders browsed
and bleated; to places where the scarlet rowan grew, and where the
pink and white hawthorn loaded the evening air with fragrance; and in
the girl's heart there waxed strong the desire to die--not among her
kindred, for kindred had she none, but that she might die in her
native land, and be laid among the graves where her forefathers lay,
in the Lennox-aisle of the old kirk at Willowdean.
But fate had willed it otherwise.
For an hour she lay with her head pillowed on Cyril's heart, and
barely conscious of his presence. She was hovering on that
Borderland which lies between Time and Eternity--that mysterious
frontier from whence the world, and all its interests, must look very
small indeed; smaller still its wrongs and its sorrows; dim its
doubts, its loves, and allurements.
After a time a shiver, that passed over all the delicate form; a sigh
that escaped her; and the fallen jaw, revealing all the pearl-like
teeth, announced that all was over!
The light was fading as the sun shed its last red rays on the
Bosphorus, but Cyril lingered long with the dead in his arms; and
tenderly, and while his tears fell on them, he kissed her white
eyelids after he had closed them for ever, smoothing the long dark
lashes on the marble cheeks; and the widowed nurse, who was hovering
without, could not restrain her tears when on peeping in she saw the
handsome young officer on his knees, in his blood-stained and
tattered uniform, engaged in prayer by the humble pallet whereon the
dead girl lay, looking in death purer and lovelier than ever.
* * * * *
By the hospital regulations all fever patients were buried
immediately, to avoid the spread of infection, and so that night saw
the last scene of this tragedy.
Four soldiers--wounded Fusileers of Cyril's company, men selected by
himself--bore her on their shoulders in a hastily-made coffin to the
cemetery without the walls, where lie so many of our dead, the
gallant, and in too many instances, perhaps, forgotten victims of the
war and pest. The only pall that covered her was a ship's
union-jack; it had already served for many in Scutari, and would
serve for many more; and Cyril, as he stood at the head of her grave,
could see the full round silver moon as it rose up in beauty from the
sea of Marmora, throwing far across the plain the shadows of the
spectre-like cypresses that overlook the vast Turkish "City of the
Silent," the seven miles of tombs; and after the chaplain had
concluded the affecting burial service of the Church of England, not
a sound was heard but the splash of oars in the Bosphorus, throwing
showers of seeming diamonds upwards, as some light caique shot to or
fro; or the prolonged howling of some houseless dog, the ever
accursed of the prophet, prowling along the streets of Scutari.
It was the night of the 20th February; so the same moon that through
a tempest of snow looked down on the capture of Horace Ramornie near
the Tchernaya, saw his cousin acting in a very different scene in the
great cemetery opposite Seraglio Point.
For a time he sat on a tombstone close by, the picture of thought and
grief, his hands clasped over the hilt of his sword, which was placed
between his knees, and his chin resting on his hands, his eyes bent
on vacancy.
In the last hour or two he seemed to have become older, thinner,
greyer, and more stern.
The chaplain kindly gave him his arm, and his four comrades urged
him, in their own plain fashion, to be comforted, though they could
not comprehend the cause of his grief; but then he was a favourite
officer, and as they put on their caps and saluted him, ere
withdrawing to their quarters in the convalescent portion of the
hospital, they all in unison sympathized with Captain Wedderburn.
And there she lay alone in her grave upon the Asian shore, under the
shadow of those giant cypresses, poor Mary Lennox, the last of that
ilk of the Lonewoodlee.
After all her miseries, it was a strange and wayward fate!
How bitterly and unavailingly now he repented of his past harshness,
suspicions, and injustice to her who was gone--bitterly too, for the
time lost by their needless separation; for the false position in
which she had so long been placed with his family through mistaken
ideas of policy; and he felt in his heart, that surely we suffer our
punishments on this earth, and not hereafter.
He had but one embodied thought ever present now--that he had found
her in this strange land among Miss Nightingale's good Samaritans;
that he had seen the face, again heard the voice of Mary, and held
her hand in his; and that never, never more would that beloved face
turn to his, and never more her voice fall on his ear!
And she had been true to him, and had loved him to the last! He
remembered her warning words of fear and love when he kissed her, and
he was not without hope that he might yet die and be laid by her
side, for Mary seemed so lonely in her grave; but Cyril Wedderburn
was not one of those men who die easily.
Many a solitary hour he lingered by Mary's grave, as if he felt the
influence of her presence about him still, and many a fresh chaplet
of white roses he hung there; for he could not altogether leave the
place where she lay alone--so utterly alone; and times there were
when he thought he might have her remains transmitted home and laid
beside those of her father at Willowdean. There seemed a soothing
yet sorrowful companionship in sitting there and repeating her name
to himself, and looking at the turf which covered the grave, and at
the little marble cross which marked where she who on her deathbed
had called him "the husband of her heart," was lying at peace with
God and man.
Poor Cyril! His life was purposeless now, and more than the half of
it seemed to have passed away. His thick brown hair came out in
handfuls, and he could detect--yet heeded it not now--a grey hair or
two in his beard and moustache. All zest for existence, for
exertion, for anything, had gone with Mary Lennox; but, nevertheless,
idleness soon became intolerable. He speedily reported himself fit
for active service, and Riversdale struck him off the sick list. So
the tenth of March saw him on board of a steam transport, filled with
enthusiastic and cheering convalescents who had partly recovered from
their wounds, all anxious to have "another shy at the Ruskies"--all
longing to be once more before Sebastopol, where the ceaseless cannon
boomed and the bullets went ping-ping from the rifle-pits, where the
dead lay half buried on the hill slopes, and where in rags and misery
the trench guards toiled,--God alone knows for what now: but when
steaming up the Bosphorus, the eyes of Cyril were turned to the point
of Scutari and to the diminishing outline of the cypresses that
overlook "the City of the Silent," for his heart was lying there.
Had Lady Wedderburn known of the catastrophe that imparted such a
tone of distraction to the letters of her favourite son, she might
have thought, with mingled remorse and satisfaction, that her wish
would probably be gratified after all.