If the other persuaded himself that consideration for the invalid’s infirmities made him patient under the insult, his friends were less romantically credulous: the stigma of that night cleaves to him still. Brazen it out as he may, the hang-dog look remains, telling us that the barriers have been at least once broken down which separate the man from the serf. There would be, perhaps, less mischief abroad if slander were always so promptly and amply avenged.
CHAPTER XXII.
Not long after the events here recorded came a time that we all remember right well, when, without note of preparation, the war-trumpets sounded from the east and the north; when Europe woke up, like a giant refreshed, from the slumber of a forty years’ peace, and took down disused weapons from the wall, and donned a rusted armor. It was a time rife with romantic episodes, and, as such seasons must ever be, fraught with peril to the prudence of womankind. There was perpetual recurrence of the 63 striking antithesis which happened at Brussels before Waterloo, when the roll of the distant cannon at Quatre Bras mingled with the music of the duchess’s ball. The coldest reserve is apt to melt rapidly, and the most skillful coquetry is brought to bay, when opposed to pleading urged possibly for the last time. Those were days of rebuke and blasphemy to “the gentlemen of England who sat at home at ease;” and even the Foreign Office “irresistibles” could hardly hold their own. What chance have the honeyed words of the accomplished civilian against the simple eloquence of the soldier, who speaks with his life in his hand? Truly there were many conquests then achieved of which the world knew nothing, for the victor never came back to claim his prize.
When the funeral of the Great Duke went by, it was easy to find fault with some of the details of that pretentious pageant; but which of us was cool enough to criticise, on the gray February morning, when the Guards marched out? There were practiced veterans enough to be found in their ranks; and each of these perhaps could number some who loved him dearly; but none in the column won such hearty sympathy as those “trim subalterns, holding their swords daintily,” who went forth to their doom gayly and gallantly, as if pestilence were not lying in ambush at fever-stricken Varna, and lines of hungry graves waiting for their prey in the bleak Chersonese. Surely there were sadder faces at home than any that lined the road; and the anxious crowd at the station represented very inadequately the “girls they left behind them.”
When the first certain rumors of war prevailed, Royston Keene was shooting woodcocks in the Hebrides; he hastened back to town without a moment’s delay. We know how quick and unerring, on such occasions, is the instinct of the Rapacidæ. His object was to get on the active-service list as soon as possible. With his powerful interest and high reputation, this was not difficult; and he was soon gazetted to a Light Cavalry regiment. But he did not go out with the first detachments, and the summer was far advanced when he reached the Crimea.
There was great jubilation at his coming. Many out there knew him personally, well; and others rejoiced at having the opportunity of judging for themselves if he really deserved his fame. It soon became apparent that the Cool Captain was strangely altered. To be sure, the opportunities for general conviviality were few, for mess-rooms and ante-rooms were phantoms of the imagination, or only pleasant memories; still, there was a certain amount of agreeable though select réunions, where the vintages of Bordeaux and Burgundy were sufficiently replaced by regulation rum. At these Royston appeared rarely; and when he did show there, was remarkably silent, and apt to let a favorable opportunity, even for a sarcasm, go by. He seemed to prefer the solitude of his own tent to the most tempting inducements of society. Men remembered afterward how, if they went in and found him alone, he was always busy with his revolver, or playing with his sabre. He had refused two advantageous offers of staff appointments, for no apparent reason except the desire not to be out of the way if any work were to be done: and scarcely a day passed when he was not up at head-quarters, trying to find out if there was any chance of a break in the long inaction of the cavalry. Whether it was that the old blood-thirstiness had waked again in a congenial atmosphere, or whether a great weariness weighing on his spirits made him so impatient and restless, none can know for certain. Again I say, let us not sift motives too inquisitively.
It is the morning of the 25th of October, and a lull comes between the storm-gusts. The “Heavies” have just taken up their position, after that magnificent charge, in which the Russian lancers were scattered like dead leaves in autumn when the wind is blowing freshly. There are murmurs of discontent running the ranks of the Light Brigade; it seems as if their chance was never coming. One of his intimates grumbles as much to Royston Keene. The Cool Captain straightens a stray lock of his charger’s mane, and answers, with his old provoking smile,
“Don’t fret yourself, George. I have a presentiment that we shall get rid of the ‘fidgets’ before we sleep. See—that looks like business.”
It seemed as if a spirit of prophecy possessed him; for even while he was speaking, the aide-de-camp came down at speed. There was a pause while that message was delivered, the exact words of which will never be known—for you can not summon the dead as witnesses; then a brief hesitation, and a dozen sentences exchanged between the first and second in command; and then—every trooper in the Brigade understood what he had to do. Many drew true and evil augury from the cloud lowering on the stern features of the “Haughty Earl.”