“Not a doubt of it,” echoed the General, the illness of whose favourite was a sad cause of grief and anxiety, which vented themselves in a more than customary abruptness and irritation. “Better? How d’ye mean? Zounds, sir, don’t talk to me of doctors! I tell ye the lad’s rallying—rallying, sir. What? If that boy’s not a-horseback in June, I’ll——” And here the warm-hearted old General’s courage invariably gave way, and as he thought of the alternative he would burst into tears, and stump hastily off to hide his emotion.
There never was such a February as that. Even inland people congratulated themselves on enjoying at last a really mild winter; and in such a sheltered, sunshiny situation as St Swithin’s, the weather would have borne comparison with any boasted climate of the warm Mediterranean. Like some poor, draggled, pining bird, the invalid seemed to drink in health and strength from the very sunbeams; and as he lay full-length upon his couch, drawn as near the waves as the tide would allow, and basked in the warmth, and inhaled the soft fresh breezes of the Channel, he looked so composed, so happy—and the cough, though frequent, became so much less violent, that all agreed there never was “anything so providential as bringing him down to St. Swithin’s”—“these illnesses are only fatal when not taken in time”—“positively it was the very saving of the boy’s life.” But Mary looked very pale, and shook her head. She seldom spoke much now.
One evening, just at sundown, Charlie begged to speak to Uncle Baldwin alone. He was lying as usual close to the open window, and as the breeze fanned his cheek he seemed to drink in its fragrance with a keener zest than he had shown for days. He felt better and stronger, too; he was able to sit up, and his voice was steadier and fuller than it had been since he came home. He spoke almost jestingly of his present state; but the words of hope which he thought it right to affect, in consideration of his uncle’s feelings, were belied by the topic on which he sought an interview.
“Uncle,” said he, “you’ve been a father to me, and I’ve never been strong enough to thank you till to-day.”
“Stronger, my boy—to be sure you are—virtually, you’re quite well. Don’t tell——” There was something in Charlie’s smile that checked the General, and the boy went on—
“Life’s very uncertain, uncle, and if—you know I only say if—I should not get over this business, I want you to arrange two or three little matters for me. This is a beautiful world, uncle, and a pleasant one; but I sometimes think I’d rather not live now. I—I don’t mind going. No, I don’t seem as if I belonged so much to this earth—I can’t tell why, but I feel it, I’m sure I do. Well, dear Uncle Baldwin, when I’m gone, I want you to give as much of my money to poor Gingham as will enable her to go out and join her husband in Australia. I know she wishes it, and I think it would come better from me than any one. If I get well, I mean to do it myself; but I like to make sure; and—and—uncle”—a deep blush spread over Charlie’s face—“all the rest I wish to go to Mrs. Delaval; but don’t let her find out it’s from me. Promise me, dear Uncle Baldwin—promise me this.”
The General started. He began to see what he now thought himself very blind not to have seen long ago, but he promised faithfully enough; and Charlie, lying back as if a weight had been taken off his mind, added, with a placid smile, “One thing more, uncle, and I will not trouble you any more—take care of poor Haphazard, and never let him run in a steeple-chase again.” The General’s heart was in his eyes, but he concealed his feelings from the invalid; and this too he promised, much to Cousin Charlie’s satisfaction, who talked on so cheerfully, and avowed himself to feel so much better, that when at last Uncle Baldwin left him he joined the rest of the party more sanguine than any of them of his ultimate recovery, and vowed “he could not have believed what the sea-air would do.” “You may sigh, Mrs. Delaval, and shake your head, but he’s as strong to-day as ever he was in his life. Lungs!—his lungs are as good as mine. What?—he’s only outgrown his strength—don’t tell me, the lad’s six feet high. Why, I saw Globus this very day, and he assures me confidently that he thinks Charlie will be quite well by the spring.”
Spring bloomed into summer and summer faded into autumn. When London became empty—that is to say, when some thousand or two of its millions took their departure from the swarm—we went, as is our custom, to court health and sea-breezes at St. Swithin’s. Though we follow blindly the example of our kind, rushing tumultuously to crowded resorts and overflowing watering-places, yet do we love solitude in the abstract as do most men who have outlived their digestions, and consequently we were not disappointed to find the day after our arrival so gusty, gloomy, and disagreeable, that the fair-weather visitors were compelled to remain indoors, and we had the beach pretty well to ourselves. There was a thick haze over the Channel, and a small drizzling rain beat in our face. We may be peculiar, but we confess we have no objection to a fog, and rather like a drizzling rain; so we breasted the breeze, and walked boldly on till we got clear of the town, and keeping steadily along “high-water mark,” could enjoy our humour of sulking undisturbed.
But one figure shared our solitude—a tall, handsome woman, dressed in the deepest mourning, short of widow’s weeds, that we ever saw. As we passed her, she was gazing steadily to seaward, and we caught but one glimpse of her countenance; yet that face we never have forgotten. Care had hollowed the eyes and wasted the pale cheek, and streaked the masses of dark hair with many a silver line, but the deep expression of holy beauty that sat on those marble features was that of an angel—some spirit sorrowing for the spirit-band from which it was parted, and yearning for its home. She was listening intently to the regular and monotonous gush of the Channel waves as they poured in their steady measured music, like a requiem for the dead. A well-beloved voice spoke to her on the sighing breeze, an old familiar strain was borne upon the rolling waters: she was communing with another world, and we left her, but not alone.