Day broke heavily and dull through the massively barred windows of the Convent of St George, and dimly discovered a vast crowd assembled in the great hall of waiting: officers—sailor and soldier—come to inquire news of wounded comrades, camp-followers, sutlers, surgeons, araba-drivers, Tartar-guides, hospital nurses, newspaper correspondents, Jew money-changers, being only some of the varieties in that great and motley crowd.
Two immense fireplaces threw a ruddy glare over two wide semicircles of human faces before them; but here and there throughout the hall, knots and groups were gathered, engaged in deep and earnest converse. Occasionally, one speaker occupied the attention of a listening group; but, more generally, there was a sort of discussion in which parties suggested this or that explanation, and so supplied some piece of omitted intelligence.
It is to this dropping and broken discourse of one of these small gatherings that I would now draw my reader's attention. The group consisted of nigh a dozen persons, of whom a staff-officer and a naval captain were the principal speakers.
“My own opinion is,” said the former, “that if the personal episodes of this war come ever to be written, they will be found infinitely more strange and interesting than all the great achievements of the campaign. I ask you, for instance, where is there anything like this very case? A wounded soldier, half cut to pieces by the enemy, is carried to the rear to hear that his claim to a peerage has just been established, and that he has only to get well again to enjoy fifteen thousand a year.”
“The way the tidings reach him is yet stranger,” broke in another.
“What is your version of that?”
“It is the correct one, I promise you,” rejoined he; “I had it from Colthorpe, who was present When the London lawyer—I don't know his name—reached Balaklava, he discovered, to his horror, that Conway was in the front; and when the fellow summons pluck enough to move on to head-quarters, he learns that Charley has just gone out with a party of eight, openly declaring they mean to do something before they come back. Up to this, the man of parchment has studiously kept his secret; in fact, the general belief about him was that he was charged with a writ, or some such confounded thing, against the poor Smasher, and, of course, the impression contributed little to secure him a polite reception. Now, however, all his calm and prudential reserve is gone, and he rushes madly into the General's tent, where the General is at breakfast with all the staff and several guests, and, with the air of a man secure of his position, he flings down upon the table a letter to the General Commanding-in-chief from a Minister of State, saying, 'There, sir! may I reckon upon your assistance?' It was some time before the General could quite persuade himself that the man was in his senses, he talked away so wildly and incoherently, repeatedly saying, 'I throw it all upon you, sir. Remember, sir, I take none of the responsibility,—none!'
“'I wish you would kindly inform me as to the precise service you expect at my hands, sir,' said the General, somewhat haughtily.
“'To have this document deposited in the hands of Lieutenant Charles Conway, sir,' said he, pompously, laying down a heavily sealed package; 'to convey to him the news that his claim to the title and estates of his family has been declared perfect; that before he can reach England he will be Lord Viscount Cackington and Conway.'
“'Bad news from the front, sir,9 said an aide-de-camp, breaking in. 'After a successful attack on a small redoubt near the Cemetery; two squadrons of the —th have been surprised, and nearly all cut up. Conway, they say, killed.'
“'No, not killed,' broke in another; 'badly wounded, and left behind.'
“There was, as you may imagine, very little thought bestowed on the lawyer after this. Indeed, the party was scattered almost immediately, and Colthorpe was just going out, when one of Miss Nightingale's ladies said to him, 'Will you do me a great favor, Major Colthorpe,—a very great favor? It is to let me have my saddle put on your gray charger for half an hour.' Colly says, if she had n't been the very prettiest girl he had ever seen since they left England, he 'd have shirked it, but he could not; and in less than ten minutes, there she was, cantering away through the tents and heading straight for the front. It was not, however, only the gray Arab she carried off, but the great letter of the lawyer was gone too; and so now every one knew at once she was away to the front.”
“And after that,—after that?” asked three or four together, as the narrator paused.
“After that,” resumed he, “there is little to be told. Colthorpe's Arab galloped back with a ball in his counter, and the saddle torn to rags with shot. The girl has not been heard of.”
“I can supply this portion of the story,” said a young fellow, with his arm in a sling. “She had come up with Conway, whom they had placed on a horse, and were leading him back to the lines, when a Russian skirmishing-party swept past and carried the girl off, and she is now in Sebastopol, under the care of the Countess Woronzoff.”
“And Conway?”
“Conway's here; and though he has, between shot and sabre-cuts, eight severe wounds, they say that, but for his anxiety about this girl's fate, his chances of recovery are not so bad. Here comes Dr. Raikes, however, who could give us the latest tidings of him.”
The gentleman thus alluded to moved hastily down the hall, followed by a numerous train of assistants, to whom he gave his orders as he went He continued, at the same time, to open and run his eyes over various letters which an assistant handed to him, one by one.
“I will not be tormented with these requests, Parkes,” said he, peremptorily. “You are to refuse all applications to see patients who are not in the convalescent wards. These interviews have, invariably, one effect,—they double our labor here.”
By this time the doctor was hemmed closely in by a dense crowd, eagerly asking for news of some dear friend or kinsman. A brief “Badly,” “Better,” “Sinking,” “Won't do,” were, in general, the extent of his replies; but in no case did he ever seem at a loss as to the name or circumstance of the individual alluded to.
And now, at last, the great hall began to thin. Wrapping themselves well in their warm cloaks, securing the hoods tightly over their heads, men set out in twos and threes, on foot, on horseback, or in arabas, some for the camp, some for Balaklava, and some for the far-away quarter at the extreme right, near the Tchernaya. A heavy snow was falling, and a cold and cutting wind came over the Black Sea, and howled drearily along the vaulted corridors of the old Convent.
Matter enough for story was there beneath that venerable roof! It was the week after the memorable fight of Inkermann, and some of the best blood of Britain was ebbing in those dimly lighted cells, whose echoes gave back heart-sick sighs for home from lips that were soon to be mute forever. There are unlucky days in the calendar of medicine,—days when the convalescent makes no progress, and the sick man grows worse; when medicaments seem mulcted of half their efficacy, and disastrous chances abound. Doctors rarely reject the influence of this superstition, but accept it with calm resignation.
Such, at least, seemed the spirit in which two army surgeons now discussed the events of the day, as they walked briskly for exercise along one of the corridors of the Convent.
“We shall have a gloomy report to send in to-morrow, Parkes,” said the elder. “Not one of these late operation cases will recover. Hopeton is sinking fast; Malcolm's wound has put on a treacherous appearance; that compound fracture shows signs of gangrene; and there's Conway, we all thought so well of last night, going rapidly, as though from some internal hemorrhage.”
“Poor fellow! it's rather hard to die just when he has arrived at so much to live for. You know that he is to have a peerage.”
“So he told me himself. He said laughingly to me, 'Becknell, my boy, be careful, you are cutting up no common sort of fellow; it's all lordly flesh and blood here!' We were afraid the news might over-excite him, but he took it as easily as possible, and only said, 'How happy it will make my poor mother;' and, after a moment, 'If I only get back to tell it to her!'”
“A civilian below,” said an hospital sergeant, “wishes to see Mr. Conway.”
“Can't be,—say so,” was the curt reply, as the doctor tore, without reading, the piece of paper on which a name was written.
“The lawyer, I have no doubt,” said the other; “as if the poor fellow could care to hear of title-deeds and rent-rolls now. He 'd rather have twenty drops of morphine than know that his estate covered half a county.”
The sergeant waited for a second or two to see if the doctor should reconsider his reply, and then respectfully retired. The stranger, during the short interval of absence, had denuded himself of great-coat and snow-shoes, and was briskly chafing his hands before the fire.
“Well, Sergeant, may I see him?” asked he, eagerly.
“No. The doctors won't permit it.”
“You did n't tell them who I was, then, that's the reason. You did n't say I was the confidential agent of his family, charged with a most important communication?”
“If I didn't, it was, perhaps, because I didn't know it,” said the man, laughing.
“Well, then, go back at once, and say that I've come out special,—that I must see him,—that the ten minutes I 'll stay will save years and years of law and chancery,—and that”—here he dropped his voice—“there's a hundred pounds here for the same minutes.”
“You'd better keep that secret to yourself, my good friend,” interposed the sergeant, stiffly.
“Well, so I will, if you recommend it,” said the other, submissively; “but surely, a ten-pound note would do you no harm yourself, Sergeant.”
An insolent laugh was the only answer the other vouchsafed, as he lighted his cigar and sat down before the fire.
“They won't let me see him for the mischief it might do him,” resumed the other, “and little they know that what I have to tell him might be the saving of his life.”
“How so?”
“Just that I 've news for him here that would make a man a'most get out of his coffin,—news that would do more to cure him than all the doctors in Europe. There's paper in that bag there that only wants his name to them' to be worth thousands and thousands of pounds, and if he dies without signing them there's nothing but ruin to come of it; and when I said a ten-pound note awhile ago to you, it was a hundred gold sovereigns I meant, counted into the hollow of your fist, just as you sat there. See now, show me your hand.”
As if in a sort of Jocular pantomime, the man held out his hand, and the other, taking a strong leather purse from his pocket, proceeded to untie the string, fastened with many a cunning device. At length it was opened, and, emptying out a quantity of its contents into one hand, he began to deposit the pieces, one by one, in the other's palm. “One, two, three, four,” went he on, leisurely, till the last sovereign dropped from his fingers with the words “one hundred!”
Secret and safe as the bargain seemed, a pair of keen eyes peering through the half-snowed-up window had watched the whole negotiation, following the sergeant's fingers as they closed upon the gold and deposited it within his pocket.
“Wait here, and I'll see what can be done by and by,” said the sergeant, as he moved away.
Scarcely was the stranger left alone than the door opened, and a man entered, shaking the snow from his heavy boots and his long capote.
“So, my worthy friend,” cried he, in a rich, soft voice, “you stole a march on me,—moved off without beat of drum, and took up a position before I was stirring!”
“Ah, my reverend friend, you here!” said the other, in evident confusion. “I never so much as suspected you were coming in this direction.”
Paul Classon and Terry Driscoll stared long and significantly at each other. Of all those silences, which are more eloquent than words, none can equal that interval in which two consummate knaves exchange glances of recognition, so complete an appreciation is there of each other's gifts, such an honest, unaffected, frank interchange of admiration.
“You are a clever fellow, Driscoll, you are!” said Paul, admiringly.
“No, no. The Lord help me, I'm a poor crayture,” said Terry, shaking his head despondingly.
“Don't believe it, man,—don't believe it,” said Paul, clapping him on the shoulder; “you have great natural gifts. Your face alone is worth a thousand a year, and you have a shuffling, shambling way of coming into a room that's better than an account at Coutts's. Joe Norris used to say that a slight palsy he had in one hand was worth twelve hundred a year to him at billiards alone.”
“What a droll man you are, Mr. Classon!” said Terry, wiping his eyes as he laughed. And again they looked at each other long and curiously.
“Driscoll,” said Paul, after a considerable pause, “on which side do you hold your brief?”
“My brief! God knows it's little I know about brief and parchments,” sighed Terry, heavily.
“Come, come, man, what's the use of fencing? I see your hand; I know every trump in it.”
Driscoll shook his head, and muttered something about the “faver that destroyed him entirely.”
“Ah!” sighed Classon, “I cannot well picture to my mind what you might have been anterior to that calamity, but what remains is still remarkable,—very remarkable. And now I ask again, on which side are you engaged?”
“Dear me,—dear me!” groaned out Terry; “it's a terrible world we live in!”
“Truly and well observed, Driscoll. Life is nothing but a long and harassing journey, with accidents at every stage, and mischances at every halt; meanwhile, for whom do you act?”
The door at the end of the long gallery was slightly and noiselessly opened at this instant, and a signal with a hand caught Driscoll's attention. Rapid and stealthy as was the motion, Classon turned hastily round and detected it.
“Sit still, Driscoll,” said he, smiling, “and let us talk this matter over like men of sense and business. It's clear enough, my worthy friend, that neither you nor I are rich men.”
Driscoll sighed an assent.
“That, on the contrary, we are poor, struggling, hard-toiling fellows, mortgaging the good talents Fortune has blessed us with to men who have been born to inferior gifts but better opportunities.”
Another sigh from Terry.
“You and I, as I have observed, have been deputed out here to play a certain game. Let us be, therefore, not opponents, but partners. One side only can win, let us both be at that side.”
Again Terry sighed, but more faintly than before.
“Besides,” said Classon, rising and turning his back to the fire, while he stuck his hands in his pockets, “I'm an excellent colleague, and, unless the world wrongs me, a most inveterate enemy.”
“Will he live, do you think?” said Terry, with a gesture of his thumb to indicate him of whom he spoke.
“No; impossible,” said Classon, confidently; “he stands in the report fatally wounded, and I have it confidentially that there's not a chance for him.”
“And his claim dies with him?”
“That's by no means so sure; at least, we'd be all the safer if we had his papers, Master Driscoll.”
“Ay!” said Driscoll, knowingly.
“Now, which of us is to do the job, Driscoll? That's the question. I have my claim to see him, as chaplain to the—I 'm not sure of the name of what branch of the service—we'll say the 'Irregular Contingent' Legion. What are you, my respected friend?”
“A connection of the family, on the mother's side,” said Terry, with a leer.
“A connection of the family!” laughed out Classon. “Nothing better.”
“But, after all,” sighed Terry, despondingly, “there's another fellow before us both,—that chap had brought out the news to the camp, Mr. Reggis, from the house of Swindal and Reggis.”
“He's cared for already,” said Classon, with a grin.
“The Lord protect us! what do you mean?” exclaimed Driscoll, in terror.
“He wanted to find his way out here last night, so I bribed two Chasseurs d'Afrique to guide him. They took him off outside the French advance, and dropped him within five hundred yards of a Cossack picket, so that the worthy practitioner is now snug in Sebastopol. In fact, Driscoll, my boy, I 'm—as I said before—an ugly antagonist!”
Terry laughed an assent, but there was little enjoyment in his mirth.
“The girl,—one of those hospital ladies,” continued Classon,—“a certain Miss Kellett, is also a prisoner.”
“Miss Kellett!” cried Driscoll, in amazement and terror together. “I know her well, and if she's here she 'll outwit us both.”
“She's in safe hands this time, let her be as cunning as she will. In fact, my dear Driscoll, the game is our own if we be but true to each other.”
“I 'm more afraid of that girl than them all,” muttered Driscoll.
“Look over those hills yonder, Driscoll, and say if that prison-house be not strong enough to keep her. Mr. Reggis and herself are likely to see Moscow before they visit Cheapside. Remember, however, if the field be our own, it is only for a very brief space of time. Conway is dying. What is to be done must be done quickly; and as there is no time for delay, Driscoll, tell me frankly what is it worth to you?” Terry sneezed and wiped his eyes, and sneezed again,—all little artifices to gain time and consider how he should act.
“My instructions are these,” said Classon, boldly: “to get Conway to sign a bond abdicating all claim to certain rights in lieu of a good round sum in hand; or, if he refuse—” S.
“Which he certainly would refuse,” broke in Driscoll.
“Well, then, to possess myself of his papers, deeds, letters, whatever they were,—make away with them, or with any one holding them. Ay, Driscoll, it is sharp practice, my boy; but we 're just now in a land where sudden death dispenses with a coroner's inquest, and the keenest inquirer would be puzzled whether the fatal bullet came from a Russian rifle or a Croat carbine. Lend me a helping hand here, and I 'll pledge myself that you are well paid for it. Try and dodge me, and I'll back myself to beat you at your own game.”
“Here's an order for one of you gentlemen,” said an hospital orderly, “coming up to see Lieutenant Conway.”
“It is for me,” said Driscoll, eagerly; “I'm a relation of his.”
“And I am his family chaplain,” said Classon, rising; “well go together.” And before Driscoll could interpose a word, Paul slipped his arm within the other's and led him away.
On a low little bed in a small chamber, once a cell of the Convent, Charles Conway lay, pale, bloodless, and breathing heavily. The surgeon's report of that morning called him “mortally wounded,” and several of his comrades had already come to bid him farewell. To alleviate in some measure his sufferings, he was propped up with pillows and cushions to a half-sitting posture, and so placed that his gaze could rest upon the open sea, which lay calm and waveless beneath his window; but even on this his eyes wandered vaguely, as though already all fixity of thought was fled, and that the world and its scenes had ceased to move or interest him. He was in that state of exhaustion which follows great loss of blood, and in which the brain wanders dreamily and incoherently, though ready at any sudden question to arouse itself to an effort of right reason.
A faint, sad smile, a little nod, a gesture of the hand, were tokens that one by one his comrades recorded of their last interview with him; and now all were gone, and he was alone. A low murmur of voices at his door bespoke several persons in earnest conversation, but the sounds never reached the ears of the sick man.
“He spoke of making a will, then?” said Classon, in a whisper.
“Yes, sir,” replied the sergeant. “He asked several times if there was not some one who could take down his wishes in writing, and let him sign it before witnesses.”
“That will do admirably,” said Paul, pushing his way into the room, closely followed by Terry Driscoll. “Ah, Driscoll,” said Paul, unctuously, “if we were moralists instead of poor, frail, time-serving creatures as we are, what a lesson might we not read in the fate of the poor fellow that lies there!”
“Ay, indeed!” sighed out Terry, assentingly.
“What an empty sound 'my Lord' is, when a man comes to that!” said Paul, in the same solemn tone, giving, however, to the words “my Lord” a startling distinctness that immediately struck upon the sick man's ear. Conway quickly looked up and fixed his eyes on the speaker.
“Is it all true, then,—am I not dreaming?” asked the wounded soldier, eagerly.
“Every word of it true, my Lord,” said Classon, sitting down beside the bed.
“And I was the first, my Lord, to bring out the news,” interposed Terry. “'Twas myself found the papers in an old farm-house, and showed them to Davenport Dunn.”
“Hush, don't you see that you only confuse him?” whispered Classon, cautiously.
“Dunn, Dunn,” muttered Conway, trying to recollect. “Yes, we met at poor Kellett's funeral,—poor Kellett! the last of the Albueras!”
“A gallant soldier, I have heard,” chimed in Classon, merely to lead him on.
“Not a whit more so than his son Jack. Where is he?—where is Jack?”
None could answer him, and there was a silence of some minutes.
“Jack Kellett would never have deserted me in this way if he were alive and well,” muttered Conway, painfully. “Can no one give me any tidings of him?”
Another silence ensued.
“And I intended he should have been my heir,” said Conway, dreamily. “How strangely it sounds, to be sure, the notion of inheriting anything from Charley Conway! How little chance there was a month or two back that my best legacy might not have been a shabrack or a pair of pistols; and now I'm the Lord Viscount—what is it?—Viscount—”
A wild gust of wind—one of those swooping blasts for which the Euxine is famous—now struck the strong old walls, and made the massive casements rattle. The sick man started at the noise, which recalled at once the crash of the battle-field, and he cried out vigorously, “Move up, men,—move up; keep together, and charge! Charge!” and with bent-down head and compressed lips he seemed like one prepared to meet a murderous onslaught. A sudden faintness succeeded to this excitement, and he lay back weak and exhausted. As he fell back, a letter dropped from his hand to the ground. Classon speedily caught it up, and opened it. He had, however, but time to read the opening line, which ran thus—“My dearest Charley, our cause is all but won—”
“From his mother,” interposed Driscoll, leaning over his shoulder.
“Ay, my mother,” murmured Conway, whose ear, preternaturally acute from fever, caught the word; “she will see that my wishes are carried out, and that all I leave behind me goes to poor Jack.”
“We'll take care of that, sir,” said Classon, blandly; “only let us know what it is you desire. We have no other object here than to learn your wishes.”
With all the alacrity of one accustomed to such emergencies, Paul drew a small portfolio from his pocket provided with all materials for writing, and arrayed them neatly before him; but already the sick man had dropped off into a sleep, and was breathing heavily.
“That box must contain all the papers,” said Classon, rising stealthily and crossing the room; “and see, the key is in the lock!” In a moment they were both on the spot, busily ransacking the contents. One glance showed their suspicions to be correct: there were heaps of legal documents, copies of deeds, extracts of registries, with innumerable letters of explanation. They had no time for more than the most hurried look at these; in fact, they turned in terror at every movement, to see if the sick man had recovered from his swoon.
“This is all; better than I ever looked for,” said Classon. “Fill your pockets with them: we must divide the spoil between us, and be off before he rallies.”
Driscoll obeyed with readiness. His eager eye scrutinized hastily so much as he could catch of the import of each document; but he did not venture, by any attempt at selection, to excite Classon's suspicions.
“If we cannot make our own terms after this night's work, Driscoll, my name is not Paul Classon. The poor fellow here will soon be past tale-telling, even if he were able to see us. There you have dropped a large parchment.”
“I' ll put it in the pocket of my cloak,” said the other, in a whisper; while he added, still more stealthily, “would n't you swear that he was looking at us this minute?”
Classon started. The sick man's eyes were open, and their gaze directed towards them; while his lips, slightly parted, seemed to indicate a powerless attempt to speak.
“No,” said Classon, in a scarcely audible whisper; “that is death.”
“I declare I think he sees us,” muttered Driscoll.
“And if he does, man, what signifies it? He's going where the knowledge will little benefit him. Have you everything safe and sure now? There, button your coat well up; we must start at once.”
“May I never! if I can take my eyes off him,” said Driscoll, trembling.
“You had better take yourself off bodily, my worthy friend; there's no saying who might chance to come in upon us here. Is not that a signet-ring on his finger? It would only be a proper attention to carry it to his mother, Driscoll.” There was a half-sarcasm about the tone of this speech that made it sound strangely ambiguous, as, stooping down, he proceeded to take off the ring.
“Leave it there,—leave it there! it will bring bad luck upon us,” murmured Driscoll, in terror.
“There is no such bad luck as not to profit by an opportunity,” whispered Classon, as he tried, but in vain, to withdraw the ring. A sharp, half-suppressed cry suddenly escaped him, and Driscoll exclaimed,—
“What is it? What's the matter?”
“Look, and see if he has n't got hold of me, and tightly too.”
The affected jocularity of his tone accorded but ill with the expression of pain and fright so written upon his features, for the dying man had grasped him by the wrist, and held him with a grip of iron.
“That's what they call a dead man's grip, I suppose?” said Classon, in assumed mockery. “Just try if you cannot unclasp his fingers.”
“I wouldn't touch him if you offered me a thousand guineas for it,” said Driscoll, shuddering.
“Nonsense, man. We cannot stand fooling here, and I shall only hurt him if I try it with one hand. Come, open his fingers gently. Be quick. I hear voices without, and the tramp of horses' feet in the court below. Where are you going? You're not about to leave me here?”
“May I never! if I know what to do,” muttered Driscoll, in a voice of despair. “And did n't I tell you from the first it would bring bad luck upon us?”
“The worst of all luck is to be associated with a fool and a coward,” said Classon, savagely. “Open these fingers at once, or give me a knife and I 'll do it myself.”
“The Lord forgive you, but you 're a terrible man!” cried Driscoll, moving stealthily towards the door.
“So you are going?” muttered Paul, with a voice of intense passion. “You would leave me here to take the consequences, whatever they might be?”
Driscoll made no reply, but stepped hastily out of the room, and closed the door.
For a moment Classon stood still and motionless; then bending down his head, he tried to listen to what was passing outside, for there was a sound of voices in the corridor, and Driscoll's one of them. “The scoundrel is betraying me!” muttered Paul to himself. “At all events, these must not be found upon me.” And with this, and by the aid of his one disengaged hand, he proceeded to strew the floor of the room with the various papers he had abstracted from the box. Again, too, he listened; but now all was still without. What could it mean? Had Driscoll got clear away, without even alluding to him? And now he turned his gaze upon the sick man, who lay there calm and motionless as before. “This will end badly if I cannot make my escape,” muttered he to himself; and he once more strove with all his might to unclasp the knotted fingers; but such was the rigid tenacity of their grasp, they felt as though they must sooner be broken than yield. “Open your hand, sir. Let me free,” whispered he, in Conway's ear. “That fellow has robbed you, and I must follow him. There, my poor man, unclasp your fingers,” said he, caressingly, “or it will be too late!”
Was it a delusion, that he thought a faint flickering of a smile passed over that death-like countenance? And now, in whispered entreaty, Classon begged and implored the other to set him free.
“There is nothing for it, then, but this,” said Paul, with a muttered curse, “and your own fault is it that I am driven to it!” And, so saying, he drew a powerful clasp-knife from his pocket, and tried to open it with his teeth; but the resistance of the spring still defied all his efforts for some time, and it was only after a long struggle that he succeeded. “He's insensible; he'll never feel it,” muttered Paul below his breath; “and even if he should, self-preservation is the first of all cares.” And with this he grasped the knife vigorously in his strong hand, and gazed at the sick man, who seemed to return his stare as fixedly. There was in Conway's look even a something of bold defiance, that seemed to say, “I dare and defy you!” so at least did Classon read it, and quailed before its haughty meaning. “What wretched cowardice is over me, and at a time when minutes are worth days!” muttered Classon. “Here goes!” But now a confused noise of many voices, and the steps of advancing feet were heard in the corridor; and Classon sank down beside the bed, a cold sweat covering his forehead and face, while he trembled in every limb.
The room was speedily filled with staff officers and surgeons, in the midst of whom was a civilian, travel-stained and tired-looking, who pressed eagerly forward, saying, as he beheld Classon, “Who is this man,—what is he doing here?”
“An humble missionary,—a weak vessel,” said Paul, whiningly. “In a paroxysm of his pain he caught me thus, and has held me ever since. There—at last I am free!” And as he said these words, the sick man's fingers unclasped and liberated him.
“There has been foul play here,” said Mr. Reggie, the stranger in civilian dress. “See! that box has been rifled; the floor is covered with papers. This man must be detained.”
“In bonds or in a dungeon, it matters not,” said Paul, holding up his hands as if about to open a lengthy discourse; but he was hurried away ere he could continue.
“He is certainly no worse,” said one of the surgeons, as he felt Conway's pulse and examined the action of his heart; “but I am far from saying that he will recover!”
“If I do not greatly mistake,” said Reggis, “our friend the missionary is the man through whose kind offices I was betrayed within the Russian lines; but I' ll look to this later. As it was, I have had little to complain of my treatment in Sebastopol, and my detention was of the shortest.”
“And Miss Kellett,—is she free also?” asked one of the bystanders.
“Yes; we came back together. She is up at headquarters, giving Lord Raglan an account of her capture.”
“What is it, Conway?” asked one of the surgeons, suddenly startled by the intensity of the anxiety in his face. “Are you in pain?”
He shook his head in dissent.
“You are thirsty, perhaps? Will you have something to drink?”
“No,” said he, with the faintest possible utterance.
“What is it, then, my poor fellow?” said he, affectionately.
“So it was not a dream!” gasped out Conway.
“What was it you fancied to be a dream?”
“All,—everything but this!” And he pointed to a deep wound from a sabre-cut in his shoulder.
“Ay, and that, too, will be as a dream some years hence!” said the other, cheeringly.
It was evident, now, that the excitement of talking and seeing so many persons about him was injurious, and the surgeons silently motioned to the bystanders to retire.
“May I remain with him?” asked the lawyer. “If he could give his consent to certain measures, sign one or two papers, years of litigation might be saved.”
Conway had meanwhile beckoned to the surgeon to approach him; and then, as the other leaned over the bed, he whispered,—
“Was it true what I have just heard,—was she really here?”
“Miss Kellett, do you mean? Yes; she carried up the news to you herself? It was she that tied the handkerchief on your wounded artery, too, and saved your life.”
“Here,—in the Crimea? It cannot—cannot be!” sighed Conway.
“She is not the only noble-hearted woman who has left home and friends to brave perils and face hardships, though, I own, she stands alone for heroism and daring.”
“So, then, it was not a delusion,—I did actually see her in the trenches?” said Conway, eagerly.
“She was in the advanced parallel the night the Russians surprised the 5th. She was the first to give the alarm of the attack.”
“Only think, doctor, of what happened to me that night! I was sent up at speed to say that reinforcements were coming up. Two companies of the Royals were already in march. My horse had twice fallen with me, and, being one-armed, I was a good deal shaken, and so faint when I arrived that I could scarcely deliver my message. It was just then a woman—I could only perceive, in the darkness, that she seemed young—gave me her brandy-flask; after drinking, I turned to give it back to her, but she was gone. There was no time to search for her at such a moment, and I was about to ride away, when a 'carcasse,' exploding on one of the redoubts, lit up the whole scene for a considerable space around, and whom should I see but Jack Kellett's sister, cheering the men and encouraging them to hold their ground?
I could have sworn to her features, as I could now to yours; but that she could really be there seemed so utterly impossible that I fancied it was a delusion. Nay,” added he, after a pause, “let me tell the whole truth. I thought it was a warning! Ay, doctor, the weight is off my heart now that I have confessed this weakness.” As Conway spoke, he seemed, indeed, as though he had relieved himself of some mighty care; for already his eye had regained its lustre, and his bold features recovered their wonted expression. “Now,” cried he, with a renovated vigor, “I have done with false terrors about second sight, and the rest of it I am myself again.”
“You can listen to my tidings, then,” said Reggis, seating himself at the bedside, and at once beginning a narrative, to which I am obliged to own Conway did not always pay a becoming attention, his thoughts still reverting to very different scenes and incidents from those which the lawyer recounted. Indeed, more than once was the narrator's patience sorely tried and tested. “I am doing my very best to be brief, sir. I am limiting myself strictly to a mere outline of the case,” said he, in something of piqué: “It might interest you,—it ought to interest you!”
“If the doctor yonder will promise me health and years to enjoy all this same good fortune, so it will interest me,” cried Conway. “What does the income amount to?”
“If we only recover the English estates, it will be something under twelve thousand a year. If we succeed with, the Irish, it will be about three more.”
“And how far are we on the road to this success?” “One verdict is already won. The first action for ejectment on title has been brought, and we are the victors. Upon this, all your counsel are agreed, your claim to the Viscounty rests.”
“I can scarcely credit—scarcely picture it to myself,” said Conway, half aloud. “My mind is confused by the thought of all the things I wish to do, if this be true. First of all, I want to purchase Jack Kellett's commission.”
“If you mean Miss Kellett's brother, he is already gazetted an ensign, and on his way to join his regiment in India.”
“And how do you know this?”
“She told me so herself.”
“She! When and where have you seen her?”
“Here, at headquarters; in Sebastopol, where we were prisoners together; at the camp yesterday, where we parted.”
“My poor head cannot bear this,” said Conway, painfully; “I am struggling between the delight of all these good tidings and a terrible dread that I am to awake and find them but a dream. You said that she was here in the camp?”
“That she is. If you but heard the cheer that greeted her arrival! It began at the advanced pickets, and swelled loader and louder, till, like the roar of the sea, it seemed to make the very air tremble. There, hear that! As I live, it is the same shout again.”
“Here comes the General and his staff into the court below,” said the doctor, hurrying away to receive them.
As the sounds of a distant cheer died away, the noise of horses' feet resounded through the courtyard, and the clank of musketry in salute announced the arrival of an officer of rank.
“I declare they are coming this way,” cried Mr. Reggis, rising in some confusion, “and I heard your name spoken. Coming, I have no doubt, to see you.”
“The General of your division, Conway, come to ask after you,” said an aide-de-camp, entering, and then standing aside to make place for a venerable, soldier-like man, whose snow-white hair would have graced a patriarch.
“I have come to shake your hand, Conway,” said he, “and to tell you we are all proud of you. There is nothing else talked of through our own or the French camp than that daring feat of yours; and England will soon hear of it.”
A deep blush of manly shame covered Conway's face as he listened to these words; but he could not speak.
“I have been talking the matter over with the General Commanding-in-chief,” resumed he, “who agrees with me that the Horse Guards might, possibly, recognizing your former rank of Captain, make you now a Brevet-major, and thus qualify you for the Bath.”
“Time enough, General, for that,” said Conway. “I have a very long arrear of folly and absurdity to wipe out ere I have any pretension to claim high rewards.”
“Well, but if all that I hear be true, we are likely to lose your services here; they have a story abroad about a peerage and a vast fortune to which you have succeeded. Indeed, I heard this moment from Miss Kellett—”
“Is she here, sir?—can I see her?” cried Conway, eagerly.
“Yes. She has come over to say good-bye; for, I regret to say, she too is about to leave us to join her brother at Calcutta.”
A sickly paleness spread itself over Conway's cheeks, and he muttered, “I must see her—I must speak with her at once.”
“So you shall, my poor fellow,” said the other, affectionately; “and I know of no such recompense for wounds and suffering as to see her gentle smile and hear her soft voice. She shall come to you immediately.”
Conway covered his face with his hand, to conceal the emotion that stirred him, and heard no more. Nor was he conscious that, one by one, the persons around him slipped noiselessly from the room, while into the seat beside his bed glided a young girl's figure, dressed in deep black, and veiled.
“Such a fate!” muttered he, half aloud. “All this, that they call my good fortune, comes exactly when I do not care for it.”
“And why so?” asked a low, soft voice, almost in his very ear.
“Is this, indeed, you?” cried he, eagerly. “Was it your hand I felt on my temples as I lay wounded outside the trenches? Was it your voice that cheered me as they carried me to the rear?”
She slightly bent her head in assent, and murmured, “Your old comrade's sister could not do less.”
“And now you are about to leave me,” said he, with an overwhelming sorrow in the tone.
She turned away her head slightly, and made no answer.
“I, who am utterly alone here,” said he, in a broken voice. “Is this, too, like my old comrade's sister?” There was a peevishness in the way he spoke this of which he seemed himself to be ashamed the moment the words were uttered; and he quickly added, “What a fellow I am to say this to you!—you, who have done so much for me,—you, who promised to be a daughter to my poor mother when I am gone!”
“But you are not to take this gloomy view,” said she, hastily; “the surgeons all pronounce you better; they agree that your wounds progress favorably, and that, in a week or two, you may be removed to Constantinople, and thence to England.”
He gave a faint, sickly smile of most melancholy meaning.
“And what will not the cheery, bracing air of those Welsh mountains do, aided by the kind care of that best of nurses, a fond mother?”
“And where will you be by that time?” asked he, eagerly.
“Journeying away eastward to some far-away land, still more friendless!” said she, sadly.
“This, then, is the sum of all my good fortune, that when life opens fairly for me, it shall be bereft of all that I care for!” cried he, wildly.
Terrified by the excited tone in which he spoke, as well as by the feverish lustre of his eyes, Sybella tried to calm and soothe him, but he listened—if, indeed, he heard her—with utter apathy.
“Come!” cried he, at last, “if your resolve be taken, so is mine. If you leave for India, I shall never quit the Crimea.”
“It is not thus I expected one to speak who loves his mother as you do,” said she, reproachfully.
“Ah, Sybella, it would indeed have been a happy day for me when I should have returned to her in honor, could I but have said, 'You have not alone a son beneath your roof, but a dear daughter also.' If all that they call my great luck had brought this fortune, then had I been indeed a fellow to be envied. Without that hope there is not another that I want to cling to.”
She tried gently to withdraw her hand from his, but he held it in his grasp, and continued,—
“You, who never heard of me till the first day we met, know little of the stored-up happiness your very name has afforded me for many a day,—how, days long, Jack talked of you to me as we rambled together, how the long nights of the trenches were beguiled by telling of you,—till at length I scarcely knew whether I had not myself known and loved you for years. I used to fancy, too, how every trait of poor Jack—his noble ardor, his generous devotion—might be displayed amidst the softer and more graceful virtues of womanhood; and at last I came to know you, far and away above all I have ever dreamed of.”
“Let me go,—let me say good-bye,” said she, in a faint whisper.
“Bear with me a few moments longer, Sybella,” cried he, passionately. “With all their misery, they are the happiest of my life.”
“This is unfair,—it is almost ungenerous of you,” said she, with scarcely stifled emotion, and still endeavoring to withdraw her hand.
“So it is!” cried he, suddenly; “it is unmanly and ignoble both, and it is only a poor, selfish sick man could stoop to plead so abjectly.” He relinquished her hand as he spoke, and then, grasping it suddenly, he pressed it to his lips, and burst into tears. “A soldier should be made of better stuff, Sybella,” said he, trying to smile. “Goodbye,—good-bye.”
“It is too late to say so now,” said she, faintly; “I will not go.”
“Not go,—not leave me, Sybella?” cried he. “Oh that I may have heard you aright! Did you say you would remain with me, and for how long?”
“Forever!” said she, stooping down and kissing his forehead. The next moment she was gone.
“Come, Conway,” said the doctor, “cheer up, my good fellow; you 'll be all right in a week or so. You 've got something worth living for, too, if all accounts be true.”
“More than you think for, doctor,” said Conway, heartily,—“far more than you think for.”
“The lawyer talks of a peerage and a fine estate.”
“Far more than that,” cried Conway; “a million times better.”
The surgeon turned a look of half apprehension on the sick man, and, gently closing the shutters, he withdrew.
Dark as was that room, and silent as it was, what blissful hopes and blessed anticipations crowded and clustered around that low “sick-bed”! What years of happiness unfolded themselves before that poor brain, which no longer felt a pang, save in the confusion of its bright imaginings! How were wounds forgotten and sufferings unminded in those hours wherein a whole future was revealed!
At last he fell off to sleep, and to dream of a fair white hand that parted the hair upon his forehead, and then gently touched his feverish cheek. Nor was it all a dream; she was at his bedside.