“Tell Blanche I’ll bring him back safe and sound,” said he, as he shook hands with Mary on the hotel steps; “and—and—tell her,” he added, with a deeper tint on his bronzed, manly cheek, “tell her that I—I had no time to wish her good-bye.”
We question whether this was exactly the message Frank intended to give; but this bold fellow, who could resolve at a moment’s notice to undertake a long, tedious voyage, to penetrate to the seat of war in a savage country, and, if need were, to risk his life at every step for the sake of his friend, had not courage to send a single word of commonplace gallantry to a timid, tender girl. So it is—Hercules is but a cripple in sight of Omphale—Samson turns faint-hearted in the lap of Delilah—nor are these heroes of antiquity the only champions who have wittingly placed their brawny necks beneath a small white foot, and been surprised to find it could spurn so fiercely, and tread so heavily. Mary should have loved such a man as Frank, and vice versâ—here was the beau idéal that each had formed of the opposite sex. Frank was never tired of crying up a woman of energy and courage, one who could dare and suffer, and still preserve the queenly dignity which he chose to esteem woman’s chiefest attraction; and so he neglected the gem, and set his great, strong heart upon the flower. Well, we have often seen it so; we admire the diamond, but we love the rose. As for Mary, she was, if possible, more inconsistent still. As she walked back to Grosvenor Square she thought over the heroic qualities of Mr. Hardingstone, and wondered how it was possible he should yet remain unmarried. “Such a man as that,” thought Mary, revolving in her own mind his manifold good qualities, “so strong, so handsome, so clever, so high-minded, he has all the necessary ingredients that make up a great man; how simple in his habits, and how frank and unaffected in his manner; a woman might acknowledge him as a superior indeed! Mind to reflect; head to plan; and energy to execute! She would be proud to love him, to cling to him, and look up to him, and worship him. And Blanche has known him from a child, and never seen all this!” and a pang smote Mary’s heart, as she recollected why, in all probability, Blanche had been so blind to Frank Hardingstone’s attractions; and how she, of all people, could not blame her for her preference of another: and then the fair young face and the golden curls rose before her mind’s eye like a phantom, and she turned sick as she thought it might even now be mouldering in the earth. Then Mary pulled a letter from her pocket, and looked at it almost with loathing, as the past came back to her like the shade of a magic-lantern. She saw the gardens at Bishops’-Baffler; the officers in undress uniform, and the grey charger; the evening walks; the quiet summer twilight; the steeple-chase at Guyville; and her eyes filled with tears, and she softened to another’s miseries as she reflected on her own. “Selfish, unprincipled as he is,” thought Mary, “he must love me, or he never would make such an offer as this. And what am I, that I should spurn the devotion of any human being? Have not I, too, been selfish and unprincipled, in allowing my mind to dwell alone on him who in reality belonged to another? Have I not cherished and encouraged the poison?—have I not yielded to the temptation?—do I wish even now that it was otherwise?—and am I not rightly punished?—have I not suffered less than I deserve?—and yet how miserable I am—how lonely and how despairing!—there is not another being on earth as miserable as I am!”
“By your leave, ma’am,” said a rough, coarse voice; and Mary stepped aside to make way on the pavement for a little mournful procession that was winding gloomily along, in strange, chilling contrast to the bustle and liveliness of the street. It was a little child’s funeral. The short black coffin, carried so easily on one man’s shoulder, seemed almost like a plaything for Death. It was touching to think what a tiny body was covered by that scanty pall—how the little thing, once so full of life and laughter, all play and merriment and motion, could be lying stiff and stark in death! It seemed such a contradiction to the whole course of nature—a streamlet turning back towards its source—a rosebud nipped by the frost. Had the grim Reaper no other harvest whitening for his sickle? Was there not age, with its aches and pains and burdens, almost asking for release? Was there not manhood, full of years and honours, its appointed task done on earth, its guerdon fairly earned, itself waiting for the reward? Was there not crime, tainting the atmosphere around it, that to take away would be a mercy to its fellow-men, and a deserved punishment to its own hardened obstinacy, having neglected and set aside every opportunity of repentance and amendment? Was there not virtue willing to go, and misery imploring to be set free? And must he leave all these, and cut off the little creeping tendril that had wound and twisted itself round its mother’s heart? There was the mother first in the slow procession—who had so good a right to be chief mourner as that poor, broken woman? Who can estimate the aching void that shall never be quite filled up in that sobbing, weary breast? She is not thinking of the funeral, nor the passers-by, nor the crape, nor the mourning; she does not hear rough condolences from neighbours, and well-meant injunctions “to keep up,” and “not to give way so,” from those who “are mothers themselves, and know what a mother’s feelings is.” She is thinking of her child—her child shut down in that deal box—yet still hers—she has got it still—not till it is consigned to the earth, and the dull clods rattle heavily on the lid, will she feel that she has lost it altogether, when there will come a fearful reaction, and paroxysms of grief that deaden themselves by their own violence; and then the wound will cicatrise, and she will clean her house, and get her husband’s dinner, and sit down to her stitching, and neighbours will think that she has “got over her trouble,” and she will seem contented, and even happy. But the little one will not be forgotten. When the flowers are blooming in the spring—when the voices of children are ringing in the street—when the strain of music comes plaintively up the noisy alley—when the sun is bright in heaven—when the fire is crackling on the hearth—then will her lost cherub stretch its little arms in Paradise, and call its mother home.
As Mary made way for the poor afflicted woman, who for an instant withdrew from her mouth the coarse handkerchief that could not stifle her sobs, she recognised Blanche’s former maid, poor Gingham. Yes, it was Mrs. Blacke, following her only child, her only treasure, her only consolation, to the grave. Poor thing! her sin had been too heavy for her to bear; with her husband’s example daily before her eyes, what wonder that she strove to stifle her conscience in intoxication? Then came “from bad to worse, from worse to worst of all”; the child was neglected, and a rickety, sickly infant at all times, soon pined away, and sickened and died. The mother was well-nigh maddened with the thought that it might have been saved. Never will she forgive herself for that one night when she left it alone for two hours, and coming back, found the fever had taken it. Never will she drive from her mind the little convulsed limbs, and the rolling eyes that looked upward, ever upward, and never recognised her again. And now her home is desolate, her husband is raving in the hospital, and her child is in that pauper-coffin which she is following to the grave. Mary Delaval, do you still think you are the most miserable being on the face of the earth?
[CHAPTER XX]
DAWN IN THE EAST
MILITARY CRITICISMS—GARE LES FEMMES!—THE MAJOR AT HOME—A BITTER PILL—“I’M A-WEARY”—VERY NEAR THE BORDER—DAY DAWNS IN THE EAST—THE BETTER ANGEL—A BRAIN FEVER—A SICK-NURSE IN SPURS
“’Gad, I thought the Major was very crusty this morning,” remarked Cornet Capon, as he removed a large cigar from his lips, and watched its fragrant volume curling away into the summer air. “How he gave it you, Clank, about leading the column so fast, and about riding that old trooper instead of your own charger! I can’t help thinking D’Orville’s altered somehow; used to be such a cheery fellow.”
“You needn’t talk, my boy,” retorted Captain Clank to his subaltern; “I heard him tell you that if you would attend a little more to your covering, and less to your overalls, you would be quite as ornamental, and a good deal more useful to the regiment; but I agree with you—he is altered. He’s like all the rest of ’em—a capital fellow till you get him in command, and then he’s crotchety and cantankerous and devilish disagreeable. Give us another weed.”