“These things,” said Lord Glengariff, pushing the despatches contemptuously away, “add nothing to our knowledge. That writer in the 'Times' gives us everything we want to know, and gives it better too. Send them back to Dunn, and ascertain, if you can, when we are likely to see him. I want him to come down to the bay; he ought to see the harbor and the coast. Manage this, Miss Kellett,—not from me, of course, but in your own way,—and let me know.”
Lord Glengariff now left the room, and Sybella was once more deep in the despatches.
Dry and guarded as they were,—formal, with all the stamp of official accuracy,—they yet told of the greatest and grandest struggle of our age. It was a true war of Titans, with the whole world for spectators. The splendid heroism of our army seemed even eclipsed by the unbroken endurance of daily hardship,—that stern and uncomplaining courage that faced death in cold blood, and marched to the fatal trenches with the steadfast tramp of a forlorn hope.
“No conscript soldiers ever bore themselves thus,” cried she, in ecstasy. “These are the traits of personal gallantry, not the disciplined bravery that comes of the serried file and the roll of the drum.”
With all her anxieties for his fate, she gloried to think “dear Jack” was there,—that he was bearing his share of their hardships, and reaping his share of their glory. And oh! if she could but read mention of his name; if she could hear of him quoted for some act of gallantry, or, better still, some trait of humanity and kindness,—that he had rescued a wounded comrade, or succored some poor maimed and forlorn enemy!
How hard was it for her on that morning, full of these themes, to address herself to the daily routine of her work! The grand panorama of war continued to unroll itself before her eyes, and the splendid spectacle of the contending armies revealed itself like a picture before her. The wondrous achievements she had read of reminded her of those old histories which had been the delight of her childhood, and she gloried to think that the English race was the same in daring and chivalry as it had shown itself centuries back!
She tried hard to persuade herself that the peaceful triumphs of art, the great discoveries of science, were finer and grander developments of human nature; but with all her ingenuity they seemed inglorious and poor beside the splendid displays of heroism.
“And now to my task,” said she, with a sigh, as she folded up the map of the Crimea, on which she was tracing the events of the war.
Her work of that morning was the completion of a little “Memoir” of Glengariff and its vicinity, written in that easy and popular style which finds acceptance in our periodicals, and meant to draw attention to the great scheme for whose accomplishment a company was to be formed. Lord Glengariff wished this sketch should be completed while Dunn was still there, so that it might be shown him, and his opinion be obtained upon it.
Never had her task seemed so difficult, never so uncongenial; and though she labored hard to summon up all her former interest in the great enterprise, her thoughts would stray away, in spite of her, to the indented shores of the Crimea, and the wild and swelling plains around Sebastopol. Determined to see if change of place might not effect some change of thought, she carried her papers to a little summer-house on the river-side, and once more addressed herself resolutely to her work. With an energy that rarely failed her, she soon overcame the little distraction, and wrote away rapidly and with ease. She at last reached that stage in her essay where, having enumerated all the advantages of the locality, she desired to show how nothing was wanting to complete its celebrity and recognition but the touch of some of those great financial magicians whose great privilege it is to develop the wealth and augment the resources of their fellow-men. She dwelt earnestly and, indeed, eloquently on the beauty of the scenery. She knew it in every varying aspect of its coloring, and she lingered over a description of which the reality had so often captivated her. Still, even here, the fostering hand of taste might yet contribute much. The stone pine and the ilex would blend favorably with the lighter foliage of the ash and the hazel, and many a fine point of view was still all but inaccessible for want of a footpath. How beautifully, too, would the tasteful cottage of some true lover of the picturesque peep from amidst the evergreen oaks that grew down to the very shore. While she wrote, a shadow fell over her paper. She looked up, and saw Mr. Dunn. He had strolled by accident to the spot, and entered unperceived by her.