Frank was horrified at the intelligence; he made a grasp at the paper, and there, sure enough, his worst fears were confirmed. But this was no time for the indulgence of helpless regret; and when Mary was sufficiently composed, he asked her with a strange, meaning anxiety, “How Blanche bore the fatal tidings?” Heart of man! what depths of selfishness are there in thy chambers! At the back of all his sorrow for his more than brother, at the back of all his anxiety and horror, he hated himself to know that there was a vague feeling of relief as if a load had been taken off, an obstacle removed. He would have laid down his life for Charlie; had he been with him in the bush, he would have shed the last drop of his blood to defend him; yet now that his fate was ascertained, he shuddered to find that his grief was not totally unqualified; he loathed himself when he felt that through the dark there was a gleam somewhere that had a reflection of joy.
“Blanche’s feelings you may imagine,” replied Mary, now strangely, almost sternly composed; “she has lost a more than brother” (Frank winced); “but of feelings it is not the time to talk. You may think me mad to say so, but something tells me there may still be a hope. He is not reported killed, or even wounded; he is ‘missing’; there is a chance yet that he may be saved. These savages do not always kill their prisoners” (she shuddered as she spoke); “there is yet a possibility that he may have been taken and carried off to the mountains. An energetic man on the spot might even now be the means of preserving him from a hideous fate. These people must surely be amenable to bribes, like the rest of mankind. Oh, it is possible—in God’s mercy it is possible—and we may get him back amongst us, like one from the dead.”
Frank grasped at her meaning in an instant; and even while he did so, he could not help remarking how beautiful she was—her commanding sorrow borne with such dignity and yet such resignation. He drew down his brows, set his teeth firm, and the old expression came over his face which poor Charlie used to admire so much—an expression of grim, unblenching resolve.
“You’re right, Mrs. Delaval, it might be done,” he said, slowly and deliberately. “How long has the mail taken to come to England—twenty-eight days?—the same going out. It is a desperate chance!—yet would it be a satisfaction to know the worst. Poor boy!—poor Charlie!—game to the last, I see, in the general order. What think ye, Mrs. Delaval; would it be any use?”
“If I was a man,” replied Mary, “I should be in the train for Southampton at this moment.”
Frank rang the bell; the waiter appeared with an alacrity that looked as if he had been listening at the keyhole. “Bring my bill,” said Frank to that astonished functionary, “and have a cab at the door in twenty minutes.”
“You are going, Mr. Hardingstone?” said Mary, clasping her hands; “God bless you for it!”
“I am going,” replied Frank, putting the short pipe carefully away, and pulling out the small black portmanteau.
“You will start to-day?” asked Mary, with an expression of admiration on her sorrowing countenance for a decision of character so in accordance with her own nature.
“In twenty minutes,” replied Frank, still packing for hard life; and he was as good as his word. His things were ready; his bill paid; his servant furnished with the necessary directions during his master’s absence; and himself in the cab, on his way to his bankers, and from thence to the railway station, in exactly twenty minutes from the moment of his making up his mind to go.