SERGEANT SMITH, V.C.
IN the ensuing few months, save of course from the clique of “saved”
ladies whom we left in the last chapter upon charitable thoughts
intent, Evelyn Manwaring won golden opinions from all the inmates of
the stately old Palace. No one could even see her without being struck
by her grace and beauty, or fascinated by her lustrous eyes; no one
could speak to her without being charmed by her quiet good sense, by
the innocence of her nature, and by the sweetness and simplicity of
her disposition. Her tender, considerate respect delighted the old;
and her girlish buoyancy of spirits and bright cheerfulness--which,
as her last great sorrow became more distant, began to assert itself
more and more--charmed the young. The good Duchess learned to love her
almost as a daughter; the Miss Hazelhursts could not make enough of
her; Miss Strong found the assistant she had longed for in her works
of charity; and poor, paralytic old Lady Stratton, who lived under
the clock, and was cross and sour, felt her lonely life brightened
when the girl came, as she often did, to read aloud to her. Even the
fast daughters of the Countess of Quorndon, the Ladies Skandaliza and
Coreopsis Corker, were awed by the gentle girl’s innocence and purity,
and avowed they must be “good” when she was present. And the stronger
sex? To a man, they were her devoted slaves. Sir Hercules Clarion,
K.C.B., General Sir T. Blazer Brown, Lord Frederic Fitzfoodles, however
much they differed on other points, were all agreed that Evelyn was
perfection. Even Admiral Grogrum emancipated himself from Lady M’Adam,
quarrelled with Lady Lavinia, snubbed Miss Scheimes, told the great
Moodle to mind his own business, and declared that he “was doosed sure
there wasn’t a girl on earth to compare with Miss Manwaring.” As to the
younger men--sons, nephews, and other relations of the inmates of the
Palace, who, holding offices in Town, came down to spend their Sundays
with their friends--they were all over head and ears in love with
her, and Lieutenant Sprattles, a young fellow with small brains but a
tender heart, grew almost desperate on her account, and refused no one
knows what gorgeous offers the Duke of Ribblesdale made him in secret,
to consent to an exchange of regiments. It was fortunate, however, for
the Duke that Jack Sprattles proved so obdurate, for in a few months
an event took place which at all events broke the somewhat monotonous
life of the dwellers at Hampton Court. The troop of the Hussars which,
under Captain Conger and Lieutenant Sprattles, had for a considerable
time been quartered at the barracks, was suddenly moved to Brighton,
and its place was taken by a troop of the Fortieth Dragoons, a most
distinguished regiment now quartered at Hounslow, and but just returned
from India.
At the time of the march to Candahar, the newspapers, and even the
despatches, had made frequent reference to the exploits of a wonderful
Corporal Smith, who belonged to the gallant Fortieth. These exploits
were now to have their reward. Her Majesty having determined to
honour with a visit the Duchess of Ribblesdale, who had formerly held
an office about the royal person, was further graciously pleased
to express her intention of inspecting the troop of the Fortieth on
the occasion of her visit, and of conferring the Victoria Cross at
the same time upon the whilome Corporal Smith, who, upon his return
to England, had been promoted to the rank of Sergeant. When the day
appointed for the royal visit arrived, it was found that “the Queen’s
weather” had for once deserted her. Never was there a wetter day; the
rain fell in buckets, and the barrack court in front of the palace
resembled a lake. At this unfortunate crisis of affairs somebody
official suggested the happy idea that Her Majesty should inspect the
troop, and present the decoration to Sergeant Smith, who had already
arrived from Hounslow, in Cardinal Wolsey’s Hall. The Queen signified
her assent to this proposal, and at the appointed time repaired to
that noble chamber, where a chair of state was placed for her use upon
the edge of the dais. In front of this, and below it, in the body of
the Hall, the troopers were drawn up in a square, open at the upper
end; and the Queen, standing on the step of the dais in front of her
seat, commanded the Sergeant to be brought before her. Meanwhile, the
dense crowd of spectators, which included almost all the inmates of
the Palace, as well as many persons from outside, stood beyond the
line of soldiers, and saw as much of the ceremony as they could. Those
who were tall enough to see anything, were astonished at the personal
beauty and youthful appearance of the Sergeant who had so distinguished
himself. He seemed, in truth, little more than a boy in years, and was
just such a ruddy stripling as he who, of old time, had done battle
with Goliath of Gath. The young man advanced with kindling eyes, but
modest demeanour, to the foot of the dais, and his Sovereign, stepping
forward, addressed to him some gracious words expressive of her
admiration and her appreciation of his noble conduct, and at the same
time pinned the Cross of Honour upon his breast. At that moment a cry,
half-scream, half-exclamation, was heard from the bottom of the Hall,
which seemed to sound like the syllable “Wil----,” and then a stir and
rustle occurred, which showed that something unusual had happened. The
cry seemed to reach the ears of the young hero, who was observed by
some of the bystanders to tremble and turn pale, but this was deemed by
most to proceed from nervousness. Her Majesty, turning to an attendant,
commanded him to ascertain what was the matter. “Only a lady had
fainted in the crowd;” such was the report brought back to the Queen,
who thereupon retired to the apartments of the Duchess of Ribblesdale,
and shortly afterwards set out on her return journey to Windsor. It
was Evelyn who had fainted. Accompanied by Miss Strong, she had come
late into the Hall, and, unable from the crush to penetrate far, had
to be content with standing on the edge of the crowd of spectators,
where little or nothing could be seen. The Queen’s voice, however,
as she addressed the young soldier, was distinctly heard through the
vast chamber, and the next moment, owing to the sudden movement of the
helmeted head of one of the dragoons drawn up in double line in front,
Evelyn caught a momentary glimpse of the heroic young Sergeant. The
effect upon her was electric--to her eyes he seemed the very living
image of her lost brother, and in a moment of uncontrollable impulse
she tried to utter his name, and in the act, fell fainting on the
floor amidst the throng. Willing hands were at once ready to raise
her and carry her into the cloisters, where consciousness returned,
and the party, led by Miss Strong, then bore her upstairs, and laid
her on the sofa in her own drawing-room. As sometimes happens after
a severe fainting fit, the mind of Evelyn seemed deadened, and her
recollection was hazy as to the events immediately preceding the
attack. All she could say, in answer to the inquiries of Miss Strong,
was, that she had imagined Sergeant Smith very strongly to resemble
her brother, and that the shock which the sudden discovery of this
likeness gave her occasioned her to fall to the ground. She now saw
and regretted her weakness, but she could not help feeling an inward
sense of satisfaction that one who had so merited the admiration of his
Sovereign and fellow-countrymen should have resembled a brother whose
character she deemed so noble. “Had he had the chance,” said Evelyn to
her friend, “I think my poor brother would have acted as bravely and as
well.”
Miss Strong took in the _Illustrated London News_, and when it
came to hand the following Saturday, there was a charming portrait of
Sergeant Wilfred Smith, V.C. Miss Strong remarked the coincidence of
Christian names, which, if she was aware of it, had not struck her
before; and although she was in the habit of lending the paper to
her young neighbour, she on this occasion forwarded it straight off
to the Soldiers’ Hospital at Malta, which was invariably its final
destination. Truth to tell, Miss Strong, who was not of a romantic
disposition, and had strong common sense, thought in her heart of
hearts that Evelyn, who had confided everything to her, was just
a wee bit superstitious on the subject of her drowned brother, and
she felt that she would not herself do anything which might tend to
foster that unwholesome feeling. The incident, however, of Evelyn’s
fainting fit was not destined to pass without observation. It formed
abundant subject for remark and discussion at a meeting of the Female
Vehme-Gericht of Hampton Court on the following day.
“Really,” said Lady M’Adam, when the meeting had been duly constituted
in her Ladyship’s drawing-room--“really, I have no patience with people
who have so little command over their nerves as to faint away in the
presence of Royalty; it looks like an insult to the Throne itself, or
like rebellion, which we have the highest authority for saying is worse
than witchcraft.”
“Yes, indeed,” said Lady Lavinia, shrugging the inevitable shoulders;
“but, dear Lady M’Adam, I fear it was much worse than that.”
“What! Worse than witchcraft?” ejaculated Lady M’Adam, in a hollow tone
of voice; “really you frighten me.”
“Yes, dearest Lady M’Adam,” responded Lady Lavinia, “worse than that a
great deal. My firm belief is that that girl is so puffed up with all
that misplaced petting and injudicious putting forward by the poor
dear Duchess, that she couldn’t bear to be--what d’ye call it?--oh!
playing second thingummy, even for a moment, and that she screamed out,
and threw herself down just on purpose to attract the attention of the
men. What do _you_ think, my dearest Helen?”
Miss Scheimes, thus appealed to, nodded her head solemnly three several
times (to the great peril of her front), and then said in oracular
tones, “I fear it was much worse even than that!”
“No?” said Lady M’Adam.
“No?” echoed Lady Lavinia.
“Yes!” responded Miss Scheimes; “unhappily I fear it was. Remember I
was close to her in the crowd, and what did I see with my own, own
eyes?” Miss Scheimes said this as if she was ordinarily in the habit of
using other people’s eyes, but on this great occasion had condescended
to use her own.
“What?” cried Lady M’Adam. “Don’t keep us in suspense, I beg. I trust,
I sincerely trust it was nothing very disgraceful.”
“I fear, I greatly fear it was,” answered Miss Scheimes, solemnly. “I
was standing close to her, remember, and I distinctly saw her fix her
eyes, not on the dear Queen, who looked _so_ well in her black
bonnet--not on the dear Queen, but on the soldier-man they were making
such a fuss about, and then she stretched out her hands, and cried out,
‘Wil----’ and then down she went, flat as a somewhat tasteless fish
they call a flounder. Can you put two and two together, dearest Lady
Lavinia?”
Arithmetic was _not_ one of Lady Lavinia’s strong points, so, with
her shoulders trembling like aspen leaves, she answered nervously, “I
really _don’t_ feel positively certain, my love; but why do you
ask such a very unusual question?”
“Because,” interposed Lady M’Adam, sternly, “any one who can put two
and two together would know this at once, that Miss Manwaring had seen
that man before.”
“Good Heavens!” cried Lady Lavinia.
“Oh! the mysteries of the unconverted heart!” cried the pork-merchant’s
daughter.
“Yes, dear Lady M’Adam, you are right, as you always are; depend upon
it, she had seen that man before,” pursued Miss Scheimes, judicially;
“he is probably some old rustic lover. What was it she cried out too?
‘Will!’ and what is the name of the soldier-man? Why, Wilfred, to be
sure! And pray, how did she know _that_? She must have known the
man before, of course. But now for a proof positive. No sooner did the
young woman blurt out his name before everyone in that brazen-faced and
unseemly manner, than I distinctly saw the soldier-man himself turn
pale--turn pale, and tremble like a leaf! What do you think of that?
‘Nervousness before the Queen,’ folks said; I know better. That’s all a
pack of stuff and nonsense. It was conscience, that’s what it was! And
now tell me, what do you think of that?”
“It is a wonderful chain of thingummy,” answered Lady Lavinia,
drawing down her shoulders almost out of sight; “a wonderful chain of
consumptive evidence--no, not consumptive either, that’s Ventnor and
Madeira, and the River Era; but you know what I mean. But what a head
you have, my dearest Helen; and how dreadful are the revelations you
have made!”
“It’s an awful and instructive instance of human depravity, that’s what
it is,” said Lady M’Adam; “but it’s providential that the mask is torn
betimes from the face of that young Jezebel, and that we at last see
her in the unregenerate nakedness of an unconverted heart. But what are
we to _do_? that’s the question. I suppose it is our bounden duty
to tell the poor deluded Duchess of her mistake.”
“Well, no,” said Lady Lavinia, after a pause; “with all due deference,
dearest Lady M’Adam, to your greatly superior age and experience----”
“Not such a _great_ difference, Lady Lavinia, as you seem to
suppose,” interrupted Lady M’Adam, snappishly.
“I’m sure I beg your pardon,” answered Lady Lavinia; “I was only going
to say, that knowing the poor dear Duchess’s idiosyncrasies, and
prejudices, and crazes, as we do, I think we had better wait----”
“And watch,” interrupted Miss Scheimes.
“Thank you, dearest Helen,” continued Lady Lavinia; “and watch--yes,
watch and wait. Sir Thomas Clarion was saying only the other day that
the Fortieth are likely to be moved here; then we shall perhaps see
more, and be more in a position to move with effect. I shall tell
Papfaddle--such a faithful creature!--to be on the look-out for the
first soldier that goes up to Miss Manwaring’s apartments, and if I
learn anything, you may depend on hearing from me. Now I must run away
and dress for dinner.”
Lady Lavinia’s prudent counsels prevailed, and forthwith the
Vehme-Gericht was dissolved.
“Behold how great a matter a little fire kindleth; and the tongue is
a fire, a world of iniquity; it is an unruly evil, full of deadly
poison.” So speaks the Inspired Word; but Luther having blasphemously
termed the Epistle of S. James an “Epistle of Straw,” these very
protestant ladies probably did not look on his inspired dictum as
binding on their “consciences.”