CHAPTER IV.
MOST UNPLEASANT TIDINGS.
"Hallo!—Keene!—Mr. Jack Keene! At your service, sir."
"Admiral! How do you? I was near giving you the go-by."
"Near running me down, you might say. Like to a three-decker in full sail. You are going indoors? Ay, ay, then I'll wait; I'll come another day. 'Twas in my mind that Mrs. Fairbank might be glad of a word. But since you are here——"
"She will be glad, I can assure you. Pray, sir, come in with me. This is a frightful blow. It was told me as I came off the ground after parade; and I hastened hither at full speed."
"Ay, ay; that did you!" muttered the Admiral. "Seeing nought ahead of you but the Corsican, I'll be bound."
"'Tis a disgrace to his nation," burst out Jack. "Sir, what do you think of the step?"
"Think! The most atrocious—the most abominable piece of work ever heard of. If ever a living man deserved to be strung up at the yard-arm, that man is Napoleon and none other."
"It can never, sure, be carried out."
"Nay, if the Consul choose, what is to hinder?"
"Government will not give up the vessels seized."
"Give them up! Knuckle down to the Corsican! Crouch before him like to a whipped hound! Why, war has been declared. Our Ambassador had had his orders to come home, before ever the step was taken. Give up the ships! Confess ourselves wrong, in a custom which has been allowed for ages. We'll give nothing up, nothing, my dear Jack! Sooner than that, let Boney do his best and his worst. Wants to chase our vessels of war, does he? Ay, so he may, when they turn tail and run away. We shall know how to meet him afloat, fast enough—no fear! With our jolly tars, and brave Nelson at their head, there's a thing or two yet to be taught to the First Consul, or I'm greatly in error."
The two speakers stood outside Mrs. Fairbank's house in Bath, where they had arrived from opposite directions at the same moment. Both had walked fast; and each after his own mode showed excitement. The older of the two, Admiral Peirce, a grizzled veteran, made small attempt to hide the wrath which quivered visibly in every fibre of his athletic figure. He had usually a frank and kindly countenance, weather-beaten by many a storm, yet overflowing with geniality. The geniality had forsaken it this morning, and he looked like one whom an enemy might prefer not to meet at too close quarters.
Jack Keene had, as he intimated, come straight from parade, not waiting to get rid of his uniform; and in that uniform the young ensign looked older than in civilian dress. Also he seemed older in this mood of hot indignation, his light blue eyes sparkling angrily, and his brows frowning. For once, whatever might usually be the case, he had fully the air of a grown man. Boys became men earlier in those days than they do in these, for the tension and stress of life were greater—albeit railways did not exist, and telegrams had not been heard of.
"His worst!" Jack repeated, with a note of inquiry.
"He'll not go beyond a point. Don't think it. No danger to their lives—none whatever, you understand! Only detention. That's bad enough, but that is all. And yon pretty sister of yours, the fair Polly, why, to be sure, and she is the betrothed of Captain Ivor."
Jack nodded. His mind had already made an excursion in that direction.
"Ay, ay. But it can't last. 'Tis a freak of Boney's. The whole civilised world will cry out upon him. Not that he greatly troubles his pate with what folks may say of his deeds!" added Admiral Peirce, reflecting that the civilised world had already, for many years, been crying out upon Napoleon, with no particular result, beyond relieving its own feelings. "Still, my dear sir, there are limits to everything. Yes, yes, I will come in with you. Doubtless the ladies will stand in need of consolation."
Jack led the way, and they found a forlorn trio within. Mrs. Fairbank knitted fast, with set jaw, and frequent droppings of stitches. Polly, white and dismayed, had an arm round Molly, whom she was trying to comfort, while much needing comfort herself. The news of this latest move of the First Consul had reached them less than an hour before.
"Will Roy ever come home again? Will my papa and mamma always be prisoners? Shall I never, never see them any more?" Molly had questioned pitifully, too much bewildered at first even for tears. Two days earlier a letter had arrived from Colonel Baron, with a cheerful report of Roy's improvement; and Molly's happiness was sadly dashed by this new complication.
"Oh, they will come back; of course they will come back," Polly assured her again and again. "Napoleon couldn't keep them always, Molly dear. It would be too cruel. We shall have them back by-and-by; perhaps very soon. Ah—here comes somebody; and we shall hear more about what it all means."
As Jack's face appeared, a cry broke from Molly. "Jack—oh, it is Jack. Jack will tell us."
Jack was speedily down by her side, comforting her. She was small and childish for her twelve years, and he felt himself older unspeakably, besides being exactly like her brother; so she cried quietly, leaning her face against his scarlet coat, while he whispered hopeful foretellings.
"This is truly a doleful state of things, ma'am," the Admiral observed, turning his attention first, as in duty bound, to the elder lady. "Who could have thought it? Dear, dear me; 'tis prodigiously sad. I vow there was never such a being as this First Consul since the world was created. But cheer up, ma'am, and pretty Polly too. Things will come right in time, there's no sort of doubt."
"'Tis a puzzle to us all," pretty Polly remarked, more anxious for precise information than for general abuse of Napoleon, however well deserved. "Is Colonel Baron indeed a prisoner? And Mrs. Baron and Roy? And—Captain Ivor?"
"Nay; not altogether so bad as that. The First Consul may be but a few degrees removed from a fiend, 'tis true; yet even he does not war with women and school-boys. Mrs. Baron is surely free to return when she will, and to bring Roy with her. 'Tis Colonel Baron and Captain Ivor who are to be accounted prisoners of war! An atrocious deed! But being both in His Majesty's Army, they have, I fear, no chance of getting off. Cheer up!" as Polly's tears began to flow. "'Tis but for a while. Just one of the chances of war; though 'tis a mighty shame it should be so, with harmless and innocent travellers, taking their pleasure abroad. But our Government will protest; and it may be Boney will think better of what he has done. Eh, Jack?"
"It says, Admiral—it says, my dear Jack——" Mrs. Fairbank knitted furiously as she spoke—"it says, in that most iniquitous paper——"
"Right, right!" nodded the Admiral. "The paper in truth is iniquitous!"
"That"—pursued Mrs. Fairbank, getting unexpectedly choky, and dropping stitches by the bushel, as her eyes fell on the pitiful faces of Polly and Molly—"that 'all the English, from the age of eighteen to sixty'—all—not men only!"
"Nay, nay, nay; it signifies men only, not women. None but savages fight against women," declared the Admiral, with vigour. "They will be right enough, my dear madam. 'Tis only the Colonel and the Captain who are included."
That "only" sounded hard to Polly, though it was meant in all kindness. The good Admiral was doing his best to cast a gleam of sunshine on the cloudy prospect.
Before anyone could answer him, the door opened, and in sailed Mrs. Bryce, followed by her husband. Mrs. Bryce was looking her gayest, as befitted a fashionable visitor to fashionable Bath.
When once Mrs. Bryce had come upon the scene, other people would not have a chance of saying much.
"So this is the outcome of it all!" she exclaimed, with uplifted hands. "A fortnight in Paris! and only a fortnight! More like to be a matter of years. Nap has them there in safe keeping; and depend on't, he'll not let them go in no sort of haste. I protest, when Colonel Baron told me of his purpose, I had an inkling in my mind of what was to happen. Did I not warn him, Polly? Did I not tell him he should be content to stay at home? For you were there, and you heard. 'Tis now as I foretold. My dear Mrs. Fairbank, I do most sincerely condole with you all."
Mrs. Fairbank parted her lips, and had time to do no more. The Admiral looked at Mr. Bryce, and Mr. Bryce looked at the Admiral.
"'Tis done now, and it cannot be undone, but 'tis a lesson for the future. Had the Colonel but shown his accustomed sense, he would have taken warning by my words, and he might now be sound and safe in old England. But everybody has expected nothing less than war. Pray, my dear madam, what else could have resulted? If England will not give up Malta at the bidding of Nap, England has to fight. And England will never give up Malta."
"The Treaty of Amiens——" Mrs. Fairbank tried to say.
"O excuse me, I beseech—don't talk to me of the Treaty of Amiens! We agreed, doubtless, under certain conditions, to give over Malta to the Knights of St. John. And those conditions have been broke. Broke, my dear ma'am. Broke, my dear sir!" She turned eagerly from one to another, talking as fast as the words would leave her lips. "Give up Malta, quotha! Ay, we did arrange to give it up, but not to Nap! Why, the last new Grand-Master of the Knights of St. John has been appointed by the Pope, and the Pope himself, poor old gentleman, is Boney's humble slave. Give up Malta, under such circumstances! I protest, England is not yet sunk so low."
Mrs. Fairbank and the Admiral both tried to intimate that they entirely agreed with Mrs. Bryce. They failed to make her understand; and the lively lady went on—
"I have it all from my brother, who has it at first hand from his Grace, the Duke of Hamilton. One thing is certain—our friends over the Channel will not be back again this great while. I give them at the least two years. Nay, why not four or five?"
"Nay, why not forty or fifty?" muttered Jack. "Nay, Molly!" as he felt her start. "Who knows? The war may last but six months. And Roy is free." But he could not speak of Ivor as free, and he saw Polly's colour deepen, her eyes filling. This could not be allowed to go on. A diversion had become necessary; and Jack's voice was heard to say something in slow insistent tones, making itself audible through Mrs. Bryce's continued outpour.
"A very great friend of his Grace, the Duke of Hamilton," reached her ears; and Mrs. Bryce, being much of a tuft-hunter, stopped short.
"You were saying, Jack—What was that which you were pleased to remark?"
"I did but observe, ma'am, that the Duke of Hamilton's particular friend—who is also in my humble opinion and in the opinion of many others, the greatest of living Englishmen—chances to be at this instant staying in Bath."
"The Duke's particular friend! Then of a surety, 'tis somebody whom also we are acquainted with, my dear,"—turning to her husband. "Somebody doubtless in the world of mode and fashion; and 'twould be vastly odd if we had not come across him."
"We can scarce claim to be acquainted with all his Grace's friends," objected Mr. Bryce mildly.
"Well, well—that's as may be. But who is the distinguished person, Jack?"
"None less than General Moore himself, ma'am."
Mrs. Bryce held up startled hands, and vowed that the most ardent wish of her heart was to set eyes on this Hero of heroes, General John Moore, whom by a succession of mischances she had hitherto failed to meet.
"Though in truth, 'tis no such marvel, since the General is for ever away across the seas, fighting his country's battles," she added. "Except in the year of the Peace, when each time that I would have seen him fate prevented me. And he is in Bath at this moment, say you? General Moore—that was Governor of St. Lucia, and that was under Sir Ralph Abercrombie, both there and in Egypt! And that Denham Ivor was under also, in both places! General Moore, his very own self!"
"Ay, ma'am!"—when Jack could edge an answer in. "And if you desire to find another, who reckons General Moore to be the foremost English soldier of his time, and to be one of the noblest of men, why, I've but to refer you to Ivor."
Mrs. Bryce did not seem quite convinced even yet. "And you are not seeking to take me in, Jack! You are not jesting?"
"'Tis no matter for jesting, I do assure you, ma'am. The name of so gallant a hero as John Moore is not to be handled lightly."
"He has been of late in command at Brighthelmstone, and there is talk of his being sent to Chatham," observed Mr. Bryce.
"For my part, had I the choice, I would fain follow him to the world's end," murmured Jack.
"And now I bethink myself!" exclaimed Mrs. Bryce. "Was not that a Mrs. Moore, whom in the Pump Room yesterday forenoon Mrs. Peirce introduced me to, saying that I should feel myself honoured, knowing her son's name? I protest. I had forgot the matter till now, having my attention drawn off, and not thinking of the name of General Moore."
Mr. Bryce intimated that his wife was in the right. He, too, had exchanged a word with Mrs. Moore; and he had imagined that Mrs. Bryce understood who she was. General Moore's mother was the widow of a very able Glasgow physician, also a successful author, as he proceeded to explain.
"She appears to be of a singularly retiring and gentle disposition," he observed; "and genteel in her manners. The General, 'tis said, has been always distractedly fond of his mother and sister, and they are here together for a few days. War being now declared, I fear his services will be quickly needed elsewhere."
The attention of Mrs. Bryce was as effectively diverted as Jack had wished. "The General's mother—and friends of his Grace the Duke of Hamilton," she meditated aloud. "A most unassuming person. But since I'm introduced, I'll most certainly leave upon them my visiting-ticket."
"By all means, my dear, if you so desire," assented her husband. "'Tis reported that the good lady cares not greatly for society; but nevertheless she will take it well, in compliment to her son's merits and fame."
"It may be we shall see them in the Pump Room again. I'll away there at once, on leaving this. And if I may but speak with the General, 'twill be the proudest moment of my life. You doubtless, Jack, have seen him already?"
"I have had that honour, ma'am. His is a face that, once seen, can never after be forgot."
"With manners of extraordinary address and elegance," added Mr. Bryce.
"But I had not known him before to be so great a friend of the Duke of Hamilton," remarked Mrs. Bryce, in some amazement, it would seem, at her own ignorance. She was generally credited with knowing everything that was to be known about everybody, and she prided herself on this fact.
"'Tis a friendship singularly founded," Jack observed. "Some thirty years ago, the young Duke went for a tour on the Continent, under the charge of Dr. Moore, remaining abroad, if I mistake not, several years. Dr. Moore took his son—the present General Moore—with them. He was then but a boy of ten or twelve. The Duke one day, being in a mood for idle sport, drew his hanger, and fenced with the lad, making him skip to and fro to avoid his sham thrusts. Unluckily Moore chanced to spring suddenly in a line with the Duke's next thrust, and was wounded. He said no more than 'Ha!'—looking the Duke in the face; and the Duke, in extreme terror, ran for Dr. Moore. 'Twas found to be but a flesh wound, the sword having glanced outside the ribs, and the boy soon recovered. But from that date a most strong friendship has subsisted between the two—the Duke being by four or five years the elder. Indeed, as Ivor ever says, none who know General Moore can fail to be attached to him."
"My dear," Mrs. Bryce said to her husband, "'tis about time we should be hieing to the Pump Room. My friends will there be on the look-out for me. And it may even chance that we may meet the General himself." She stood up, eager to be off; but as she went, she gave a parting fling. "Depend on't, old Nap will be in no sort of hurry to let his prisoners go free. No one need think it."
(To be continued.)
[PALMAM QUI MERUIT FERAT]
'Twas the merry month of May
When the birds sing roundelay,
Each to cheer his brooding mate,
Nor was one disconsolate.
'Twas the golden evening hour
When the spells of thought had power,
Giving peace but chasing mirth,
Bidding spirits walk the earth.
'Twas the fairy's silver spring
With its magic murmuring;
By its side a maiden lay,
Weary both of work and play—
"Little life my past has brought—
What is in the present wrought?
Kindly fairy, let me gaze
In my future's tangled maze."
Came the answer soft and low,
Heard amid the water's flow—
"Maiden, perfect love is thine,
Seek no further to divine."
"Perfect love? How shall I know it?
Fairy, say, who shall bestow it?"
"Maiden! years shall wax and wane
Ere thou seek this spring again.
When thou comest I will tell thee
How that fairest fate befell thee."
'Tis the rosy break of day—
By the fountain's dancing spray,
Sword in hand, and sheathed in steel,
Three in early manhood kneel.
"Gentle fairy, hear us now—
We have ta'en the knightly vow—
Sworn to aid the fair and weak,
Grant the boons thy champions seek."
"Grant," saith one, "if death be nigh
Me, for her I love to die."
And the springlet, singing sweet,
Casts a white rose at his feet.
Prays the second, "Fairy, give
Me for her I love to live."
And the merry water flows
Bearing him a crimson rose.
Saith the third, "Of death or life
I myself can wage the strife—
Only let my love endure,
Given once, unchanged and pure."
Then the fountain sinks to calm,
On its bosom lies a palm.
In the forest, sore dismayed,
Cries for help the lovely maid;
Clutch of brigand fierce and rude
Holds her in that solitude;
Brigand hands seize gems and gold,
Brigand tongues with speeches bold
Offer her, since none can save,
Queenship of their robber-cave.
On the leaves the sunbeams glitter,
'Mid the boughs the wild birds twitter,
In the grass the foxgloves rise—
Is there none to heed her cries?
See the branches dashed apart!
Turns the chief with sudden start,
Feels a sword-thrust in his heart;
And another caitiff's groan
Speaks his coward spirit flown,
While, too swift for dying word,
Dagger-smitten, writhes a third.
Yet before the maid is freed
Victim for her life must bleed;
For the chief with parting breath
Gives one succourer to death;
And his comrades bending low
Over him their mantles throw,
While the maiden's tears betoken
Grief for gratitude unspoken.
Soon for him the death-bell pealeth—
She beside her champion kneeleth—
All in sable vesture dight
Scatters o'er him roses white.
One whose aid her thanks must own
Asks not gratitude alone:
Whispered words have soothed her fears,
Loving hand shall dry her tears;
Spring with all its visions tender
Shall to summer-joys surrender,
Hope who erst would dream apart
Yield to love the virgin heart,
Grateful tears no more be paid
Where the milky roses fade,
But the thoughts she cannot speak
Shall unbidden dye her cheek,
When their emblem she bestows,
Gives her knight the crimson rose.
Yet another champion stood
By the maiden in the wood,
Slew the foe, but, wounded sore
Saw her for awhile no more.
When he met her glance again
Was it joy or was it pain?
Joy her yielded hand to press,
Joy to hear her voice confess
He had helped her in distress,
Joy to see her eye bedewed
With a friend's solicitude,
Pain which would not be denied
For she was another's bride!
"Can I bear? He is fond
But unworthy of her—
The pleasures beyond
Can his light spirit stir;
Gay song, foolish story
Can lead him astray,
Vain glamour of glory
Entice him away.
"Must I speak? She is blind
Be his faults what they will
To her he is kind.
Let me watch and be still:
Her children beguiling
Each hour as it flies,
The world ever smiling,
Untroubled her skies.
"Shall I fly? If I would
She might look e'en on me;
She is true, she is good,
Yet I cannot but see
Some moment unwary
Might bring back again
That thought—— Ah! kind fairy,
Is true love all pain?"
Comes again the eventide:
Happy wife as happy bride,
Happy mother, she has dwelt,
Pain unknown and grief unfelt
Till her lord to rest was laid.
Now in mourning weeds arrayed
She has sought the fairy spring;
Hears once more its murmuring,
Sees once more the bees assemble
There the honeysuckles tremble,
Sees the armoured dragon-fly
And the kingfisher dart by,
Sees the blue forget-me-not
Cluster in the shielded spot,
Sees forsooth, with brimming eyes,
Children of the earth and skies;
Nothing harmful dares to roam
Near the fairy-haunted home.
"Fairy, he has gone to rest,
His the perfect love and best!"
Answered her the water's swell,
"Not the best—he loved thee well."
Wondering even in her tears
Fly her thoughts through bygone years—
"He who lay 'neath roses white,
Was he then the perfect knight?"
Came the answer soft and clear,
"Not the best—he held thee dear."
"Then, as thou didst promise, tell me
How that fairest fate befell me."
"Didst thou mark—a flame his crest—
Him who moved among the rest,
Yet no word of love addressed?
Him who, wounded for thy sake,
Scarce would thanks in guerdon take—
Speechless, though his heart might break.
Yea, thou didst, with laughing glance,
Bid him lead thee to the dance,
Bid him break for thee a lance.
Silently would he comply,
Or with half-averted eye
Watch thee gaily pass him by.
Yet he ever hovered near,
Lest the dawn of woe or fear,
Pain or trouble should appear.
Once in hour of sorest strife
For thy lord he risked his life.
Didst thou know it—thou the wife?
Once within the rushing river
Garments white an instant quiver,
'Twas thy child—a pause, a shiver.
All around in blank dismay
Watch her swiftly whirled away—
He won back the millstream's prey;
Placed her on the margent green,
Saw her maidens o'er her lean,
Parted ere his face was seen.
Death and life for thee were given,
For thy sake a heart was riven.
Was it hard—the yielded breath?
Harder far the living death.
True the love which won thee first—
Truer that in silence nursed.
Now he rests where flowers bloom—
Wilt thou crownless leave his tomb?"
Not with tears, but still and calm,
On his grave she laid the palm.
[ABOUT PEGGY SAVILLE.]
By JESSIE MANSERGH (Mrs. G. de Horne Vaizey), Author of "A Girl in Springtime," "Sisters Three," etc.