“Lord Castleton has arranged all, so that his name and madness (thus let us call it) will never be known.”
“Pride, pride, pride still!” murmured the old soldier. “The name, the name,—well, that is much; but the living soul!—I wish Austin were here.”
“I have sent for him, sir.”
Roland pressed my hand, and was again silent. Then he began to mutter, as I thought, incoherently about the Peninsula and obeying orders; and how some officer woke Lord Wellington at night and said that something or other (I could not catch what,—the phrase was technical and military) was impossible; and how Lord Wellington asked, “Where’s the order-book?” and looking into the order-book, said, “Not at all impossible, for it is in the order-book;” and so Lord Wellington turned round and went to sleep again. Then suddenly Roland half rose, and said, in a voice clear and firm, “But Lord Wellington, though a great captain, was a fallible man, sir, and the order-book was his own mortal handiwork. Get me the Bible!”
Oh, Roland, Roland! and I had feared that thy mind was wandering!
So I went down and borrowed a Bible in large characters, and placed it on the bed before him, opening the shutters and letting in God’s day upon God’s word.
I had just done this when there was a slight knock at the door. I opened it, and Lord Castleton stood without. He asked me, in a whisper, if he might see my uncle. I drew him in gently, and pointed to the soldier of life “learning what was not impossible” from the unerring Order-Book.
Lord Castleton gazed with a changing countenance, and without disturbing my uncle, stole back. I followed him, and gently closed the door.
“You must save his son,” he said in a faltering voice,—“you must; and tell me how to help you. That sight,—no sermon ever touched me more! Now come down and receive Lady Ellinor’s thanks. We are going. She wants me to tell my own tale to my old friend Mrs. Grundy; so I go with them. Come!”
On entering the sitting-room, Lady Ellinor came up and fairly embraced me. I need not repeat her thanks, still less the praises, which fell cold and hollow on my ear. My gaze rested on Fanny where she stood apart,—her eyes, heavy with fresh tears, bent on the ground. And the sense of all her charms; the memory of the tender, exquisite kindness she had shown to the stricken father; the generous pardon she had extended to the criminal son; the looks she had bent upon me on that memorable night (looks that had spoken such trust in my presence), the moment in which she had clung to me for protection, and her breath been warm upon my cheek,—all these rushed over me, and I felt that the struggle of months was undone, that I had never loved her as I loved her then, when I saw her but to lose her evermore! And then there came for the first, and, I now rejoice to think, for the only time, a bitter, ungrateful accusation against the cruelty of fortune and the disparities of life. What was it that set our two hearts eternally apart and made hope impossible? Not nature, but the fortune that gives a second nature to the world. Ah, could I then think that it is in that second nature that the soul is ordained to seek its trials, and that the elements of human virtue find their harmonious place? What I answered I know not. Neither know I how long I stood there listening to sounds which seemed to have no meaning, till there came other sounds which indeed woke my sense and made my blood run cold to hear,—the tramp of the horses, the grating of the wheels, the voice at the door that said all was ready.