Blanche glanced at Mary; and even that grave face brightened into a smile—while Frank, seating himself on the shingle, drew a letter from his pocket and began to read.
“Cannot resist—hem—congratulations—hem—blessings in store—hem—leaving this country for a long absence.” (“Ah! here it is.”) “As I am going out in command of troops, I shall have the pleasure of once more rubbing up my seamanship by a voyage round the Cape. We embark at Gravesend on the —th, and shall probably sail when the tide suits the following day.” (“’Gad—I believe it is the Indiaman!”) “Lacquers accompanies me, having got the majority in my corps, and has become a great soldier—perhaps thanks to your success in the attack on which I now write to congratulate you.” (“Here’s a long story about you, Blanche—shall I read it?”) Blanche passed her little hand over his mouth, and Frank proceeded. “As I shall probably not have another opportunity of writing to my English friends for four or five months, I will not apologise for the length of my present epistle, but give you all the news I can to enliven your honeymoon—a piece of presumption which, I conclude, is like refining refined gold or painting the lily. London is not very full, although Parliament has brought its regular quantum of members who stand in awe of their constituents—no small number in these reformed and reforming days. I recollect, my dear Frank, though you don’t, when all the electors for a county met in the Justices’ room, and returned the Lord-Lieutenant’s nominee with as little discussion as my orderly-sergeant will make this afternoon when he reports ‘the officers’ baggage gone on board.’ However, they won’t stand that kind of thing now. Talking of Parliament, you read Mount Helicon’s speech on the Tallow question, of course. It quite took the House by storm. Honourable members expected something from the author of ‘Broadsides from the Baltic,’ and they were not disappointed. Not a word, however, taken from that exceedingly clear and voluminous pamphlet; and where he can have picked up such an additional store of information is a mystery to every one. The speech, however, has floored his party. Its whole tone, every sentiment it breathed, was so diametrically opposite to their policy, that they found themselves at its conclusion without a leg to stand on. Having selected him for their mouthpiece, they were furious, and no wonder. What can he be at? We soldiers are plain-dealing men, and cannot understand all this mining and counter-mining. His lady-mother, I understand, is still at Bubbleton. You must have seen something of her in the winter, unless you had only eyes and ears for one—particularly as I hear she gives out everywhere that she has refused General Bounce. If your abrupt uncle is the man I take him for, she never had an opportunity.” (Frank was here obliged to pause, the General’s delight at this portion of the letter venting itself in a series of chuckles that threatened to choke him. It was with difficulty he restrained himself from relating the whole story of the widow at Cheltenham, as a narrative bearing irresistibly on the case in point. He swallowed it, however, and Frank proceeded.) “We never thought her ladyship a great beauty, but they tell me now she is dreadfully altered—disappointed about her son—disappointed in her winter campaign—dreadfully sore at the slights she fancies she has received from the Dinadams, who passing through Bubbleton on their way to Wassailworth, had no time to return the visit she paid them at their hotel—and conscious of growing old, without having done the slightest good in her generation. No wonder the worn-out fine lady is sick of her wretched world, such as it is—no wonder she is startled to discover that she has spent a lifetime of illusions, and never found out the real world after all. You will smile, my dear Frank, at my moralities, but I do begin to see things a little clearer than I used; and if I have reason so bitterly to regret the forty years I have spent in selfish uselessness, what must be the feelings of threescore years and odd, with the world slipping from under its feet, the waking moment rapidly approaching, and the feverish dream leaving not one solid reality behind it—not one satisfactory reflection to gild the past—not one well-grounded hope to hold a beacon through the dark cold voyage of the future?”
“Frank ... drew a letter from his pocket, and began to read.”
Hairblower, who had been listening attentively with a puzzled expression of countenance, brightened up considerably at a metaphor which had reference to his own daily occupations, and muttered something about “ballast aboard,” and the “anchor apeak”; whilst Mrs. Delaval stole a longing, lingering look at poor Charlie, who had closed his eyes as if wearied out and half asleep. Frank read on.
“Tell young Kettering I have many inquiries after his health from his friends here, amongst others an old fellow-campaigner in Kaffirland whose tent he shared, and who is full of Kettering’s famous attack in support of the Rifles. He says it was one of the most dashing things of the war, and the service can ill afford to lose so gallant an officer. He sends his own and his terrier’s kindest remembrances.”
Charlie’s eyes opened wide; he did not seem drowsy now. The long wasted fingers of his right hand closed as if upon the handle of his sword, and a light stole over his countenance as if the sun had just gleamed athwart it—the soldier-spirit was stirring in that powerless frame. He looked handsomer than ever, poor boy, poor boy!
“His admiring well-wisher,” the letter went on to say, “who, by the way, is one of the best-looking fellows in London, got his promotion in that very action, and is now on leave, making up for past privations by every kind of dissipation which the village affords. I do not see much of him; but dining last night at the ‘Peace and Plenty,’ he told me that our mutual friend, Sir Ascot, was going to be married. Mrs. Hardingstone will be amused to hear this. The fortunate lady is a Miss Deeper, who threw over young Cashley, as in duty bound, for the baronet. Laurel, too, has carried off pretty Kate Carmine at last; they are the poorest couple in Christendom, and the happiest. I met Sir Bloomer Buttercup yesterday at the ‘Godiva.’ He and Mulligatawney were, as usual, discussing the matrimonial question; the latter more ‘Malthusian’ than ever, since Mrs. M. has taken up the Rapping theory. Sir Bloomer thinks that now he can only pretend to a widow, but is still determined to marry as soon as his affairs can be put ‘on a footing.’ We are all of opinion if he waits till then he will die a bachelor. You are aware I have got my promotion, and am going out to take the command of one of the smartest regiments in the service. I trust it will not deteriorate in any way whilst in my hands. Lacquers unites with me in congratulations and cordial good wishes to the whole of your party. If Mrs. Delaval is with you, remember me most kindly to her, and believe me,” etc.
“Well done the Colonel,” said Frank, folding up his letter and putting it in his pocket. “I never saw a man so changed and so improved. Blanche, don’t you regret now?—eh?” Blanche laughed, and called him “a goose”; but Mary applied herself more assiduously than ever to the invalid’s cushions; and whatever may have been her thoughts, she kept them most carefully to herself. We can guess, however, that notwithstanding the many good qualities developing themselves in her old admirer, she never for an instant thought of comparing him with that poor helpless boy whom they were now obliged to carry into the house, lest even the soft evening breeze should strike too chill upon his lacerated lungs. Next to Mary, however, perhaps none tended the sufferer with such patience and gentleness as Hairblower—that worthy’s view of the malady and its cause was peculiar to himself, and he clung to it with heroic obstinacy. “It all came of making him a soger,” said the seaman, with a tear running down his weather-beaten cheek; “goin’ about half-dressed in them monkey-jackets and sleepin’ out o’ nights without a dry thread to bless theirselves—it’s enough to kill a cat, let alone a gentleman. Now, if he’d had a dry plank above and below, and a hammock to swing in, and watches to keep all regular and ship-shape, he’d have lived to be an admiral—see if he wouldn’t. But he’s better, is Master Charlie, much better, now the salt’s gettin’ into him. Oh, he’ll be well in no time now, will Master Charlie—not a doubt of it!”