The prisoners felt the relief before they knew whence it came, as men breathing the close atmosphere of a crowded room may feel invigorated before they know that a supply of pure oxygen has been introduced therein. It was not that they fared any better than before. They had the same rations, though the new agent saw with his own eyes that they were good and sufficient. They had the same cramped-up sleeping bunks, only he never let a man be without proper covering, even if he punished him afterwards if he gambled it away. They were still prisoners, hard and fast; yet, somehow, the bondage was not so galling as it
used to be. The agent’s manner was kind and friendly. He spoke cheerily to the prisoners. He asked questions. He took notice of the desponding, and there were many such. The sick he tenderly cared for. This was to the ordinary rank and file. To the officers he was all this and more. Not because he cared more for them, but because, as a rule, he could unbend to them more than to the others without risk of lowering his position. He frequently visited their quarters, chatted freely with them, played billiards with them, was pleased to see the English officers mix at proper times with them, admired heartily the beautiful handiwork of the common men. The only man he could not abide was the one who, whether officer or private, was a fraud or a sham.
And in this treatment of his unfortunate charge the Commandant entirely went along with him.
War was still raging. That in the Peninsula—which so many now-a-days know nothing about,
but prefer “Tit-Bits,” or the writings of sceptical ladies, but in which the most splendid generalship and indomitable bravery were displayed on both sides as in no other country, and which formed one of the hinges on which the fortune of Napoleon turned, the other being the ice-bound plains of Russia—was pouring fresh prisoners into England (20,000 in ten months is the number once mentioned in a despatch of Wellington’s), and no doubt Norman Cross had its share. But for all who arrived there Captain Draper had a friendly look, and for many a word of kindness.
He had not been long at his post before he became acquainted with Captain Tournier; and his sympathy for him, quickly awakened, was all the more increased by what he heard from Major Kelly. They both soon had more reason than ever to be drawn to him.
There was a French agency in London, sanctioned by the English government, through which prisoners of war had under certain
restrictions the means of communication with their friends abroad. Tournier had from the first, as we may be sure, availed himself of this privilege. From his mother’s letters he could not hide from himself the fact that his absence from her, under such melancholy circumstances, was prejudicially affecting her health. The dear old soul always tried to make the best of it, but nature would out, although it was more from indirect remarks than from any positive complaints, that Tournier gathered the true state of the case. Of course it grieved him exceedingly, and added fresh poignancy to his unhappiness. But there was one thing that, for the first two years, her letters always contained in one form or another, that made some sweet amends, and that was that she invariably added how his dear Elise soothed and comforted her. “Whenever I see her,” his mother would write, “I seem to see you; and she says the same of me.”
For the last few months, however, Tournier could not but observe, but most unwillingly,
there had been a gradual cessation of these fond remarks in his mother’s letters, and, worse still, a corresponding chilliness in those of his Elise. At first, it was “How weary it is without you!” then, “How can I go on living without you?” then, “How long will it be before I shall see you?” This is not a romantic way of putting it; but the downward progress of a woman’s heart that is not true, does not deserve romantic description. The auctioneer’s formula is quite good enough, “Going—going—gone.”