Let us now turn to the Knight of Gwynne, who, wounded and bleeding, was carried along in the torrent of the retreat. Poor fellow, he had witnessed the total slaughter or capture of the gallant band he had so bravely led into action but a few hours before, and now, with one arm powerless, and a sabre-cut in the side, could barely keep up with the hurried steps of the flying army.
From the few survivors among his followers, not one of whom was unwounded, he received every proof of affectionate devotion. If they were proud of the gallant old officer as their leader, they actually loved him like a father. The very last incident of their struggle was an effort to cut through the closing ranks of the French, and secure his escape; and although one of the Volunteers almost lifted him into the saddle, from which he had torn the rider, Darcy would not leave his comrades, but cried out, “What signifies a prisoner more or less, lads? The victory is ours; let that console us.” The brave fellow who had perilled his life for his leader was cut down at the same instant. Darcy saw him bleeding and disarmed, and had but time to throw him his last pistol, when he was driven onward, and, in the mingled confusion of the movement, beheld him no more.
The exasperation of a defeat so totally unlooked for had made the French almost savage in their vindictiveness, and nothing but the greatest efforts on the part of the officers could have saved the prisoners from the cruel vengeance of the infuriated soldiery. As it was, insulting epithets, oaths, and obnoxious threats met them at every moment of the halt; and at each new success of the British their fury broke out afresh, accompanied by menacing gestures that seemed to dare and defy every fear of discipline.
Darcy, whom personal considerations were ever the last to influence, smiled at these brutal demonstrations, delighted at heart to witness such palpable evidence of insubordination in the enemy; nor could he, in the very midst of outrages which perilled his life, avoid comparing to his followers the French troops of former days with these soldiers of the Republic. “I remember them at Quebec,” said he, “under Montcalm. It may be too much to say that the spirit of a monarchy had imparted a sense of chivalry to its defenders, but certainly it is fair to think that the bloody orgies of a revolutionary capital have made a ruffian and ruthless soldiery.”
Nor was this the only source of consolation open; for he beheld on every side of him, in the disorder of the force, the moral discouragement of the army, and the meagre preparations made for the defence of Alexandria. Wounded and weary, he took full note of these various circumstances, and made them the theme of encouragement to his companions in captivity. “There is little here, lads,” said he, “to make us fear a long imprisonment. The gallant fellows, whose watch-fires crown yonder hills, will soon bivouac here. All these preparations denote haste and inefficiency. These stockades will offer faint resistance, their guns seem in many instances unserviceable, and from what we have seen of their infantry to-day, we need never fear the issue of a struggle with them.”
In the brief intervals of an occasional halt, he lost no opportunity of remarking the appearance of the enemy's soldiery,—their bearing and their equipment,—and openly communicated to his comrades his opinion that the French army was no longer the formidable force it had been represented to be, and that the first heavy reverse would be its dismemberment. In all the confidence a foreign language suggests, he spoke his mind freely and without reserve, not sparing the officers in his criticisms, which now and then took a form of drollery that drew laughter from the other prisoners. It was at the close of some remark of this kind, and while the merriment had not yet subsided, that a French major, who had more than once shown interest for the venerable old soldier, rode close up to his side, and whispered a few words of friendly caution in his ear, while by an almost imperceptible gesture he pointed to a group of prisoners who accompanied the Knight's party, and persisted in pressing close to where he walked. These were four dragoons of Hompesch's regiment, then serving with the British army, but a corps which had taken no part in the late action. Darcy could not help wondering at their capture,—a feeling not devoid of distrust, as he remarked that neither their dress nor accoutrements bore any trace of the fierce struggle, while their manner exhibited a degree of rude assurance and effrontery, rather than the regretful feelings of men taken prisoners.
Darcy's attention was not permitted to dwell much more on the circumstance, for at the same instant the column was halted, in order that the wounded might pass on; and in the sad spectacle that now presented itself, all memory of his own griefs was merged. The procession was a long one, and seemed even more so than it was, from the frequent halts in front, the road being choked up by tumbrels and wagons, all confusedly mixed up in the hurry of retreat. Night was now falling fast, but still there was light enough to descry the ghastly looks of the poor fellows, suffering in every variety of agony. Some sought vent to their tortures by shouts and cries of pain; others preserved a silence that seemed from their agonized features an effort as dreadful as the very wounds themselves; many were already mad with suffering, and sang and blasphemed, with shrieks of mingled recklessness and misery. What a terrible reverse to the glory of war, and how far deeper into the heart do such scenes penetrate than all the triumphs the most successful campaign has ever gathered! While Darcy still gazed on this sad sight, he was gently touched on the arm by the same officer who had addressed him before, saying, “There is an English soldier here among the wounded, who wishes to speak with you; it is against my orders to permit it, but be brief and cautious.” With a motion to a litter some paces in the rear, the officer moved on to his place in the column, nor waited for any reply.
The Knight lost not a second in profiting by the kind suggestion, but in the now thickening, gloom it was some time before he could discover the object of his search. At length he caught sight of the well-known uniform of his corps,—the blue jacket slashed with silver,—as it was thrown loosely over the figure, and partly over the face of a wounded soldier. Gently removing it, he gazed with steadfastness at the pale and bloodless countenance of a young and handsome man, who with half-closed eyelids lay scarcely breathing before him. “Do you know me, my poor fellow?” whispered Darcy, bending down over him,—“do you know me? For I feel as if we should know each other well, and had met before this.” The wounded man met his glance with a look of kind acknowledgment, but made no effort to speak; a faint sigh broke from him, as with a tremulous hand he pushed back the jacket and showed a terrible bayonet-stab in the chest, from which at each respiration the blood welled out in florid rivulets.
“Where is the surgeon?” said Darcy, to the soldier beside the litter.
“He is here, Monsieur,” said a sharp-looking man, who, without coat and with shirt-sleeves tucked up, came hastily forward.
“Can you look to this poor fellow for me?” whispered Darcy, while he pressed into the not unwilling hand of the doctor a somewhat weighty purse.
“We can do little more thau put a pad on a wounded vessel just now,” said the surgeon, as with practised coolness he split up with a scissors the portions of dress around the wound. “When we have them once housed in the hospital—Parbleu!” cried he, interrupting himself, “this is a severe affair.”
Darcy turned away while the remorseless fingers of the surgeon probed the gaping incision, and then whispered low, “Can he recover?”
“Ah! mon Dieu! who knows? There is enough mischief here to kill half a squadron; but some fellows get through anything. If we had him in a quiet chamber of the Faubourg, with a good nurse, and all still and tranquil about him, there 's no saying; but here, with some seven hundred others,—many as bad, some worse than himself,—the chances are greatly against him. Come, however, we'll do our best for him.” So saying, he proceeded to pass ligatures on some bleeding arteries; and although speaking rapidly all the while, his motions were even still more quick and hurried. “How old is he?” asked the surgeon, suddenly, as he gazed attentively at the youth.
“I can't tell you,” said Darcy. “He belonged to my own corps, and by the lace on his jacket, I see, must have been a Volunteer; but I shame to say I don't remember even his name.” “He knows you, then,” replied the doctor, who, with the shrewd perception of his craft, watched the working of the sick man's features. “Is't not so?” said he, stooping down and speaking with marked distinctness. “You know your colonel?”
A gesture, too faint to be called a nod of the head, and a slight motion of the eyebrows, seemed to assent to this question; and Darcy, whose laboring faculties struggled to bring up some clew to the memory of a face he was convinced he had known before, was about to speak again, when a mounted orderly, with a led horse beside him, rode up to the spot, and looking round for a few seconds, as if in search of some one, said,—
“The English colonel, I believe?” The Knight nodded. “You are to mount this horse, sir,” continued the orderly, “and proceed to the head-quarters at once.”
The doctor whispered a few hasty sentences, and while promising to bestow his greatest care upon the sick man, assured Darcy that at the head-quarters he would soon obtain admission of the wounded Volunteer into the officers' hospital. Partly comforted by this, and partly yielding to what he knew was the inevitable course of fortune, the Knight took a farewell look of his follower, and mounted the horse provided for him.
Darcy was too much engrossed by the interest of the wounded soldier's case to think much on what might await himself; nor did he notice for some time that they had left the high-road by which the troops were marching for a narrower causeway, leading, as it seemed, not into, but at one side of Alexandria. It mattered so little to him, however, which way they followed, that he paid no further attention, nor was he aware of their progress, till they entered a little mud-built village, which swarmed with dogs, and miserable-looking half-clothed Arabs.
“How do they call this village?” said the Knight, speaking now for the first time to his guide.
“El Etscher,” replied the soldier; “and here we halt” At the same moment he dismounted at the door of a low, mean-looking house; and having ushered Darcy into a small room dimly lighted by a lamp, departed.
The Knight listened to the sharp tramp of the horses' feet as they moved away; and when they had gone beyond hearing, the silence that followed fell heavily and drearily on his spirits. After sitting for some time in expectation of seeing some one sent after him, he arose and went to the door, but there now stood a sentry posted. He returned at once within the room, and partly overcome by fatigue, and partly from the confusion of his own harassed thoughts, he leaned his head on the table and slept soundly.
“Pardon, Monsieur le colonel,” said a voice at his ear, as, some hours later in the night, he was awakened from his slumbers. “You will be pleased to follow me.” Darcy looked up and beheld a young officer, who stood respectfully before him; and though for a second or so he could not remember where he was, the memory soon came back, and without a word he followed his conductor.
The officer led the way across a dirty, ill-paved courtyard, and entered a building beyond it of greater size, but apparently not less dilapidated than that they had quitted. From the hall, which was lighted with a large lamp, they could perceive through an open door a range of stables filled with horses; at the opposite side a door corresponding with this one, at which a dragoon stood with his carbine on his arm. At a word from the officer the soldier moved aside and permitted them to enter.
The room into which they proceeded was large, but almost destitute of furniture. A common deal table stood in the middle, littered with military cloaks, swords, and shakos. In one corner was a screen, from behind which the only light proceeded; and, with a gesture towards this, the officer motioned Darcy to advance, while with noiseless footsteps he himself withdrew.
Darcy moved forward, and soon came within the space enclosed by the screen, and in front of an officer in a plain uniform, who was busily engaged in writing. Maps, returns, printed orders, and letters lay strewed about him, and in the small brazier of burning wood beside him might be seen the charred remains of a great heap of papers. Darcy had full a minute to contemplate the figure before him ere he was noticed. The Frenchman was short and muscular, with a thick, bushy head of hair, bald in the centre of the head. His features were full of intelligence and quickness, but more unmistakably denoted violence of temper, and the coarse nature of one not born to his present rank, which seemed, at least, that of a field officer. His hands were covered with rings, but their shape and color scarcely denoted that such ornaments were native to them.
“Ha,—the English colonel,—sit down, sir,” said he to Darcy, pointing to a chair without rising from his own. Darcy seated himself with the easy composure of one who felt that in any situation his birth and breeding made him unexceptionable company.
“I wished to see you, sir. I have received orders, that is,” said he, speaking with the greatest rapidity, and a certain thickness of utterance very difficult to follow, “to send for you here, and make certain inquiries, your answers to which will entirely decide the conduct of the Commander-in-Chief in your behalf. You are not aware, perhaps, how completely you have put this in our power?”
“I suppose,” said Darcy, smiling, “my condition as a prisoner of war makes me subject to the usual hardships of such a lot; but I am not aware of anything, peculiar to my case, that would warrant you in proposing even one question which a gentleman and a British officer could refuse to answer.”
“There is exactly such an exception,” replied the Frenchman, hastily. “The proofs are very easy, and nearer at hand than you think of.”
“You have certainly excited my curiosity, sir,” said the Knight, with composure; “you will excuse my saying that the feeling is unalloyed by any fear.”
“We shall see that presently,” said the French officer rising and moving towards the door of an apartment which Darcy had not noticed. “Auguste,” cried he, “is that report ready?” The answer was not audible to the Knight. But the officer resumed, “No matter; it is sufficient for our purpose.” And hastily taking a paper from the hands of a subaltern, he returned to his place within the screen. “A gentleman so conversant with our language, it would be absurd to suppose ignorant of our institutions. Now, sir, to make a very brief affair of this, you have, in contravention to a law passed in the second year of the Republic, ventured to apply opprobrious epithets to the forces of France, ridiculing the manner, bearing, and conduct of our troops, and instituting comparison between the free citizens of a free state and the miserable minions of a degraded monarchy. If a Frenchman, your accusation, trial, and sentence would have probably been nigh accomplished before this time. As a foreigner and a prisoner of war—”
“I conclude such remarks as I pleased to make were perfectly open to me,” added Darcy, finishing the sentence.
“Then you admit the charge,” said the Frenchman eagerly, as if he had succeeded in entrapping a confession.
“So far, sir, as the expressions of my poor judgment on the effectiveness of your army, and its chances against such a force as we have yonder, I am not only prepared to avow, but if you think the remarks worth the trouble of hearing, to repeat them.”
“As a prisoner of war, sir, according to the eighty-fourth article of the Code Militaire, the offence must be tried by a court-martial, one-half of whose members shall have the same rank as the accused.”
“I ask nothing better, sir, nor will I ever believe that any man who has carried a sword could deem the careless comments of a prisoner on what he sees around him a question of crime and punishment.”
“I would advise you to reflect a little, sir, ere you suffer matters to proceed so far. The witnesses against you—”
“The witnesses!” exclaimed the Knight, in amazement.
“Yes, sir, four dragoons of a German regiment, thoroughly conversant with your language and ours, have deposed to the words—”
“I avow everything I have spoken, and am ready to abide by it.”
“Take care, sir,—take care.”
“Pardon me, sir,” said Darcy, with a look of quiet irony, “but it strikes me that the exigencies of your army must be far greater than I deemed them, or you had never had recourse to a system of attempted intimidation.”
“You are in error there,” said the Frenchman. “It was the desire to serve, not to injure you, suggested my present course. It remains with yourself to show that my interest was not misplaced.”
“Let me understand you more clearly. What is expected of me?”
“The answers to questions which doubtless every countryman of yours and mine could reply to from the public papers, but which, to us here, remote from intercourse and knowledge, are matters of slow acquirement.” While the French officer spoke, he continued to search among the papers before him for some document, and at length, taking up a small slip of paper, resumed: “For instance, the 'Moniteur' asserts that you meditate sending a force from India to cross the Red Sea and the Desert, and menace us by an attack in the rear as well as in the front. This reads so like a fragment of an Oriental tale, that I can forgive the smile with which you hear it.”
“Nay, sir; you have misinterpreted my meaning,” said the Knight, calmly. “I am free to confess I thought this intelligence was no secret. The form of our Government, the public discussions of our Houses, the freedom of our press, are little favorable to mystery. If you have nothing to ask of me more difficult to answer than this—”
“And the expedition of Acre,—is this also correct?”
“Perfectly so. A combined movement, which shall compel you to evacuate the country, is in preparation.”
“Parbleu, sir,” said the Frenchman, stamping his foot with impatience, “these are somewhat bold words for a man in your situation to one in mine.”
“I fancy, sir, that circumstance affects the issue I allude to very slightly indeed; even though the officer to whom I address myself should be General Menou, the Commander-in-Chief.”
“And if I be, sir, and if you know it,” said Menou,—for it was he,—his face suffused with anger, “is it consistent with the respect due to my position and to your own safety, to speak thus?”
“For the first, sir, although a mere surmise on my part, I humbly hope I have made no transgression; for the last, I have very little reason to feel any solicitude, knowing that if you hurt a hair of my head, a heavy reprisal will await such of your own officers as may be taken, and the events of yesterday may have told you that a contingency of this sort is neither improbable nor remote.”
Menou made no answer to this threatening speech, but with folded arms paced the apartment for several minutes. At length he turned hastily round, and fixing his eyes on the Knight, said, with a rude oath, “You are a fortunate man, sir, that you did not hold this language to my predecessor in the command. General Kleber would have had you in front of a peloton of grenadiers within five minutes after you uttered it.”
“I have heard as much,” said the Knight, with a slight smile.
Menou rang a bell which stood beside him, and an aide-de-camp entered.
“Captain le Messurier,” said he, in the ordinary tone of discipline, “this officer is under arrest. You will take the necessary steps for his safe keeping, and his due appearance when summoned before a military tribunal.”
He bowed to Darcy as he spoke, and, reseating himself at the table, took up his pen to write.
“At the hazard of being thought very hardy, sir,” said the Knight, as he moved towards the door, “I would humbly solicit a favor.”
“A favor!” exclaimed Menou, staring in surprise.
“Yes, sir; it is that the services of a surgeon should be promptly rendered—”
“I have given orders on that score already. My own medical man shall attend to you.”
“I speak not of myself, sir. It is of a Volunteer of my corps, a young man who now lies badly wounded; his case is not without hope, if speedily looked to.”
“He must take his chance with others,” said the general, gruffly, while he made a gesture of leave-taking; and Darcy, unable to prolong the interview, retired.
“I am sorry, sir,” said the aide-de-camp, as he went along, “that my orders are peremptory, and you must, if the state of your health permit, at once leave this.”
“Is it thus your prisoners of war are treated, sir?” said Darcy, scornfully, “or am I to hope—for hope I do—that the exception is created especially for me?”
The officer was silent; and although the flush of shame was on his cheek, the severe demands of duty overcame all personal feelings, and he did not dare to answer.
The Knight was not one of those on whom misfortune can press, without eliciting in return the force of resistance, and, if not forgetting, at least combating, the indignities to which he had been subjected; he resigned himself patiently to his destiny, and after a brief delay set forth for his journey to Akrish, which he now learned was to be the place of his confinement.
The interests of our story do not require us to dwell minutely on the miserable system of intrigue by which the French authorities sought to compromise the life and honor of a British officer. The Knight of Gwynne was committed to the charge of a veteran officer of the Republic, who, though dignified with the title of the Governor of Akrish, was, in reality, invested with no higher functions than that of jailer over the few unhappy prisoners whom evil destiny had thrown into French hands.
By an alternate system of cruelty and concession, efforts were daily made to entrap Darcy either into some expression of violence or impatience at this outrage on all the custom of war, or induce him to join a plot for escape, submitted to him by those who, apparently prisoners like himself, were in reality the spies of the Republic. Sustained by a high sense of his own dignity, and not ignorant of the character under which revolutionized France accomplished her triumphs, the Knight resisted every temptation, and in all the gloom of this remote fortress, ominously secluded from the world, denied access to any knowledge of passing events, cut off from all communication with his country and his comrades, he never even for a moment forgot himself, nor became entangled in the perfidious schemes spread for his ruin. It was no common aggravation of the miseries of imprisonment to know that each day and hour had its own separate machinery of perfidy at work. At one moment he would be offered liberty on the condition of revealing the plans of the expedition; at another he would be suddenly summoned to appear before a tribunal of military law, when it was hinted he would be arraigned for having commanded a force of liberated felons,—for in this way were the Volunteers once designated,—in the hope that the insult would evoke some burst of passionate indignation. If the torment of these unceasing annoyances preyed upon his health and spirits, already harassed by sad thoughts of home, the length of time, to which the intrigues were protracted showed Darcy that the wiles of his enemies had not met success in their own eyes; and this gleam of hope, faint and slender as it was, sustained him through many a gloomy hour of captivity.
While the Knight continued thus to live in the long sleep of a prisoner's existence, events were hastening to their accomplishment by which his future liberty was to be secured. The victorious army of Abercrombie had already advanced and driven the French back beneath the lines of Alexandria. The action which ensued was terribly contested, but ended in the complete triumph of the British, whose glory was, however, dearly bought by the death of their gallant leader.
The Turkish forces now joined the English under General Hutchinson, and a series of combined movements commenced, by which the French saw themselves so closely hemmed in, that no course was open save a retreat upon Cairo.
Whether from the changed fortune of their arms,—for the French had now sustained one unbroken series of reverses,—or that the efforts to entrap the Knight had shown so little prospect of success, the manner of the governor had, for some time back, been altered much in his favor, and several petty concessions were permitted, which in the earlier days of his captivity were strictly denied. Occasionally, too, little hints of the campaign would be dropped, and acknowledgments made “that fortune had not been as uniformly favorable to the 'Great Nation' as was her wont.” These significant confessions received a striking confirmation, when, at daybreak one morning, an order arrived for the garrison to abandon the fort of Akrish, and for the prisoners, under a strong escort, to fall back upon Damanhour.
The movements indicated haste and precipitancy; so much so, indeed, that ere the small garrison had got clear of the town, the head of a retreating column was seen entering it by the road from Alexandria; and now no longer doubt remained that the British had compelled them to fall back.
As the French retired, their forces continued to come up each day, and in the long convoy of wounded, as well as in the shattered condition of gun-carriages and wagons, it was easy to read the signs of a recent defeat. Nor was the matter long doubtful to Darcy; for, by some strange anomaly of human nature, the very men who would exaggerate the smallest accident of advantage into a victory and triumph, were now just as loud iu proclaiming that they had been dreadfully beaten. Perhaps the avowal was compensated for by the license it suggested to inveigh against the generals, and, in the true spirit of a republican army, to threaten them openly with the speedy judgments of the Home Government.
Among those who occasionally halted to exchange a few-words of greeting with the officer in conduct of the prisoners, the Knight recognized with satisfaction the same officer who, in the retreat from Aboukir, had so kindly suggested caution to him. At first he seemed half fearful of addressing him, to speak his gratitude, lest even so much might compromise the young captain in the eyes of his countrymen. The hesitation was speedily overcome, however, as the young Frenchman gayly saluted him, and said,—
“Ah, mon General, you had scarcely been here to-day if you had but listened to my counsels. I told you that the Republic, one and indivisible, did not admit criticism of its troops.”
“I scarcely believed you could shrink from such an order,” said the Knight, smiling.
“Not in the 'Moniteur,' perhaps,” rejoined the Frenchman, laughing. “Yours, however, had an excess of candor, which, if only listened to at your own head-quarters, might have induced grave errors.
“I comprehend,” interrupted Darcy, gayly catching up the ironical humor of the other,—“I comprehend, and you would spare an enemy such an injurious illusion.”
“Just so; I wish your army had been equally generous, with all my heart,” added he, as coolly as before; “here we are in full retreat on Cairo.”
“On Damanhour, you mean,” said Darcy.
“Not a bit of it; on Cairo, General. There's no need of mincing the matter; we need fear no eavesdropper here. Ah, by the by, your German friends were retaken, and by a detachment of their own regiment too. We saw the fellows shot the morning after the action.”
“Now that you are kind enough to tell me what is going forward, perhaps you could let me know something of my poor comrades whom you took prisoners on the night of the 9th.”
“Yes. They are with few exceptions dead of their wounds, two men exchanged about a week since; and then, what strange fellows your countrymen are! They sent us back a major of brigade in exchange for a wounded soldier who, when he left our camp, did not seem to have life enough to bring him across the lines!”
“Did you see him?” asked Darcy, eagerly.
“Yes; I commanded the escort. He was a young fellow of scarcely more than four-and-twenty, and must have been good-looking too.”
“Of course you could not tell his name,” said the Knight, despondingly.
“No; I heard it, however, but it has escaped me. There was a curious story brought back about him by our brigade-major, and one which, I assure you, furnished many a hearty laugh at your land of noble privileges and aristocratic forms'.”
“Pray let me hear it.”
“Oh, I cannot tell you one-half of it; the finale interested the major most, because it concerned himself, and this he repeated to us at least a dozen times. It would seem, then, that this youth—a rare thing, I believe, in your service—was a man of birth, but, according to your happy institutions, was a man of nothing more, for he was a younger son. Is not that your law?”
Darcy nodded, and the other resumed.
“Well, in some fit of spleen at not being born a year or two earlier, or for some love affair with one of your blond insensibles, or from weariness of your gloomy climate, or from any other true British cause of despair, our youth became a soldier. Parbleu! your English chivalry has its own queer notions, when it regards the service as a last resource of the desperate! No matter, he enlisted, came out here, fought bravely, and was taken prisoner in the very same attack with yourself; but while Fortune dealt heavily with one hand, she was caressing with the other, for, the same week she condemned him to a French prison, she made him a peer of England, having taken off the elder brother, an ambassador at some court, I believe, by a fever. So goes the world; good and ill luck battling against each, and one never getting uppermost without the other recruiting strength for a victory in turn.”
“These are strange tidings, indeed,” said the Knight, musing, “and would interest me deeply, if I knew the individual.”
“That I am unfortunate enough to have forgotten,” said the Frenchman, carelessly; “but I conclude he must be a person of some importance, for we heard that the vessel which was to sail with despatches was delayed several hours in the bay, to take him back to England.”
Although the whole recital contained many circumstances which the Knight attributed to French misrepresentation of English habitudes, he was profoundly struck by it, and dwelt fondly on the hope that if the young peer should have served under his command, he would not neglect, on arriving in England, to inform his friends of his safety.
These thoughts, mingling with others of his home and of his son Lionel, far away in a distant quarter of the globe, filled his mind as he went, and made him ponder deeply over the strange accidents of a life that, opening with every promise, seemed about to close in sorrow and uncertainty. Full of movement and interest as was the scene around, he seldom bestowed on it even a passing glance; it was an hour of gloomy reverie, and he neither marked the long train of wagons with their wounded, the broken and shattered gun-carriages, or the miserable aspect of the cavalry, whose starved and galled animals could scarcely crawl.
The Knight's momentary indifference was interpreted in a very different sense by the officer who commanded the escort, and who seemed to suspect that this apathy concealed a shrewd insight into the real condition of the troops and the signs of distress and discomfiture so palpable on every side. As, impressed with this conviction, he watched the old man with prying curiosity, a smile, faint and fleeting enough, once crossed Darcy's features. The Frenchman's face flushed as he beheld it, and he quickly said,—
“They are the same troops that landed at the Arabs' Tower, and who carry such inscriptions on their standards as these.” He snatched a flag from the sergeant beside him as he spoke, and pointed to the proud words embroidered there: “Le Passage de la Scrivia,” “Le Passage de Tisonzo,” “Le Pont de Lodi.” Then, in a low, muttering voice, he added, “But Buonaparte was with us then.”
Had he spoken for hours, the confession of their discontent with their generals could not have been more manifest; and a sudden gleam of hope shot through Darcy's breast, to think his captivity might soon be over.
There was every reason to indulge in this pleasing belief; disorganization had extended to every branch of the service. An angry correspondence, in which even personal chastisement was broadly hinted at, passed between the two officers highest in command; and this not secretly, but publicly known to the entire army. Peculation of the most gross and open kind was practised by the commissaries; and as the troops became distressed by want, they retaliated by daring breaches of discipline, so that at every parade men stood out from the ranks, boldly demanding their rations, and answering the orders of the officers by insulting cries of “Bread! bread!”
All this while the British were advancing steadily, overcoming each obstacle in turn, and with a force whose privations had made no inroad upon the strictest discipline; they felt confident of success. The few prisoners who occasionally fell into the hands of the French wore all the assurance of men who felt that their misfortunes could not be lasting, and in good-humored raillery bantered their captors on the British beef and pudding they would receive, instead of horseflesh, so soon as the capitulation was signed.
The French soldiers were, indeed, heartily tired of the war; they were tired of the country, of the leaders, whose incompetency, whether real or not, they believed; tired, above all, of absence from France, from which they felt exiled. Each step they retired from the coast seemed to them another day's journey from their native land, and they did not hesitate to avow to their prisoners that they had no wish or care save to return to their country.
Such was the spirit of the French army as it drew near Cairo, than which no greater contrast could exist than that presented by the advancing enemy. Let us now return to the more immediate interests of our story; and while we beg to corroborate the brief narrative of the French officer, we hope it is unnecessary to add that the individual whose suddenly changed fortune had elevated him from the ranks of a simple volunteer to that of a peer of England was our old acquaintance Dick Forester.
From the moment when the tidings reached him, to that in which he lay, still suffering from his wounds, in the richly furnished chamber of a London hotel, the whole train of events through which he had so lately passed seemed like the incoherent fancies of a dream. The excited frame of mind in which he became a volunteer with the army had not time to subside ere came the spirit-stirring hour of the landing at Aboukir. The fight, in all its terrible but glorious vicissitudes; the struggle in which he perilled his own life to save his leader's; the moments that seemed those of ebbing life in which he lay upon a litter before Darcy's eyes, and yet unable to speak his name; and then the sudden news of his brother's death, overwhelming him at once with sorrow for his loss, and all the thousand fleeting thoughts of his own future, should life be spared him,—these were enough, and more than enough, to disturb and overbalance a mind already weakened by severe illness.
Had Forester known more of his only brother, it is certain that the predominance of the feeling of grief would have subdued the others, and given at least the calm of affliction to his troubled senses. But they were almost strangers to each other; the elder having passed his life almost exclusively abroad, and the younger, separated by distance and a long interval of years, being a complete stranger to his qualities and temper.
Dick Forester's grief, therefore, was no more than that which ties of so close kindred will ever call up, but unmixed with the tender attachment of a brother's love. His altered fortunes had not thus the strong alloy of heartfelt sorrow to make them distasteful; but still there was an unreality in everything,—a vague uncertainty in all his endeavors at close reasoning, which harassed and depressed him. And when he awoke from each short disturbed sleep, it took several minutes before he could bring back his memory to the last thought of his waking hours. The very title “my Lord,” so scrupulously repeated at each instant, startled him afresh at each moment he heard it; and as he read over the names of the high and titled personages whose anxieties for his recovery had made them daily visitors at his hotel, his heart faltered between the pleasure of flattery and a deeper feeling of almost scorn for the sympathies of a world that could minister to the caprices of rank what it withheld from the real sufferings of the same man in obscurity. His mother he had not seen yet; for Lady Netherby, much attached to her eldest son, and vain of abilities by which she reckoned on his future distinction, was herself seriously indisposed. Lord Netherby, however, had been a frequent visitor, and had already seen Forester several times, although always very briefly, and only upon the terms of distant politeness.
Although in a state that precluded everything like active exertion, and which, indeed, made the slightest effort a matter of peril, Forester had already exchanged more than one communication with the Horse Guards on the subject of the Knight's safety, and received the most steady assurances that his exchange was an object on which the authorities were most anxious, and engaged at the very moment in negotiations for its accomplishment. There were two difficulties: one, that no officer of Darcy's precise rank was then a prisoner with the British; and secondly, that any very pressing desire expressed for his liberation would serve to weaken the force of that conviction they were so eager to impress, that the campaign was nearly ended, and that nothing but capitulation remained for the French.
Forester was not more gratified than surprised at the tone of obliging and almost deferential politeness which pervaded each answer to his applications. He had yet to learn how a vote in the “Lords” can make secretaries civil, and Under-Secretaries most courteous; and while his few uncertain lines were penned with diffidence and distrust, the replies gradually inducted him into that sense of confidence which a few months later he was to feel like a birthright.
How far these thoughts contributed to his recovery it would be difficult to say, nor does it exactly lie in our province to inquire. The likelihood is, that the inducements to live are strong aids to overcome sickness; for, as a witty observer has remarked, “There is no such manque dre savoir vivre as dying at four-and-twenty.”
It is very probable Forester experienced all this, and that the dreams of the future in which he indulged were not only his greatest but his pleasantest aid to recovery. A brilliant position, invested with rank, title, fortune, and a character for enterprise, are all flattering adjuncts to youth; while in the hope of succeeding where his dearest wishes were concerned, lay a source of far higher happiness. How to approach this subject again most fittingly, was now the constant object of his thoughts. He sometimes resolved to address Lady Eleanor; but so long as he could convey no precise tidings of the Knight, this would be an ungracious task. Then he thought of Miss Daly, but he did not know her address; all these doubts and hesitations invariably ending in the resolve that as soon as his strength permitted he would go over to Ireland, and finding out Bicknell, obtain accurate information as to Lady Eleanor's present residence, and also learn if, without being discovered, he could in any way be made serviceable to the interests of the family.
Perhaps we cannot better convey the gradually dawning conviction of his altered fortune on his mind than by mentioning that while he canvassed these various chances, and speculated on their course, he never dwelt on the possibility of Lady Netherby's power to influence his determination. In the brief note he received from her each morning, the tone of affectionate solicitude for his health was always accompanied by some allusive hint of the “duties” recovery would impose, and each inquiry after his night's rest was linked with a not less anxious question as to how soon he might feel able to appear in public. Constitutionally susceptible of all attempts to control him, and from his childhood disposed to rebel against dictation, he limited his replies to brief accounts of his progress or inquiries after her own health, resolved in his heart that now that fortune was his own, to use the blessings it bestows according to the dictates of affection and a conscientious sense of right, and be neither the toy of a faction nor the tool of a party. In Darcy—could he but see him once more—he looked for a friend and adviser; and whatever the fortune of his suit, he felt that the Knight's counsels should be his guidance as to the future, reposing not even more trust on unswerving rectitude than the vast range of his knowledge of life, and the common-sense views he could take of the most complex as of the very simplest questions.
It was now some seven weeks after his return, and Forester, for we would still desire to call him by the name our reader has known him, was sitting upon a sofa, weak and nervous, as the first day of a convalescent's appearance in the drawing-room usually is, when his servant, having deposited on the table several visiting-cards of distinguished inquirers, mentioned that the Earl of Netherby wished to pay his respects. Forester moved his head in token of assent, and his Lordship soon after entered.
Stepping noiselessly over the carpet, with an air at once animated and regardful of the sick man, Lord Netherby was at Forester's side before he could arise to receive him; and pressing him gently down with both hands, said, in a voice of most silvery cadence,—
“My dear Lord—you must not stir for the world—Halford has only permitted me to see you under the strict pledge of prudence; and now, how are you? Ah! I see—weak and low. Come, you must let me speak for you, or at least interpret your answers to my own liking. We have so much to talk over, it is difficult where to begin.”
“How is Lady Netherby?” said Forester, with a slight hesitation between the words.
“Still very feeble and very nervous. The shock has been a dreadful one to her. You know that poor Augustus was coming home on leave—when—when this happened.”
Here his Lordship sighed, but not too deeply, for he remembered that the law of primogeniture is the sworn enemy to grief.
“There was some talk, too, of his being sent on a special embassy to Paris,—a very high and important trust,—and so really the affliction is aggravated by thinking what a career was opening to him. But, as the Dean of Walworth beautifully expressed it, 'We are cut down like flowers of the field.' Ah!”
A sigh and a slight wave with a handkerchief, diffusing an odor of eau-de-Portugal through the chamber, closed this affecting sentiment.
“I trust in a day or two I shall be able to see my mother,” said Forester, whose thoughts were following a far more natural channel. “I can walk a little to-day, and before the end of the week Halford promises me that I shall drive out.”
“That 's the very point we are most anxious about,” said Lord Netherby, eagerly: “we want you, if possible, to take your seat in 'the Lords' next week. There is a special reason for it. Rumor runs that the Egyptian expedition will be brought on for discussion on Thursday next. Some malcontents are about to disparage the whole business, and, in particular, the affair at Alexandria. Ministers are strong enough to resist this attack, and even carry the war back into the enemy's camp; but we all think it would be a most fortunate moment for you, when making your first appearance in the House, to rise and say a few words on the subject of the campaign. The circumstances under which you joined—your very dangerous wound—have given you a kind of prerogative to speak, and the occasion is most opportune. Come, what say you? Would such an effort be too great?”
“Certainly not for my strength, my Lord, if not for my shame' sake; for really I should feel it somewhat presumptuous in me, a man who carried his musket in the ranks, to venture on a discussion, far more a defence, of the great operations in which he was a mere unit; one of those rank and file who figured, without other designation, in lists of killed and wounded.”
“This is very creditable to your modesty, my dear Lord,” said the old peer, smiling most blandly; “but pardon me if I say it displays a great forgetfulness of your present position. Remember that you now belong to the Upper House, and that the light of the peerage shines on the past as on the future.”
“By which I am to understand,” replied Forester, laughing, “that the events which would have met a merited oblivion in Dick Forester's life are to be remembered with honor to the Earl of Wallincourt.”
“Of course they are,” cried Lord Netherby, joining in the laugh. “If an unlikely scion of royalty ascends the throne, we look out for the evidences of his princely tastes in the sports of his boyhood. Nay, if a clever writer or painter wins distinction from the world, do we not 'try back' for his triumphs at school, or his chalk sketches on coach-house gates, to warrant the early development of genius?”
“Well, my Lord,” said Forester, gayly, “I accept the augury; and as nothing more nearly concerns a man's life than the fate of those who have shown him friendship, let me inquire after some friends of mine, and some relations of yours,-the Darcys.”
“Ah, those poor Darcys!” said Lord Netherby, wiping his eyes, and heaving a very profound sigh, as though to say that the theme was one far too painful to dwell upon, “theirs is a sad story, a very sad story indeed!”
“Anything more gloomy than the loss of fortune, my Lord?” asked Forester, with a trembling lip, and a cheek pale as death. Lord Netherby stared to see whether the patient's mind was not beginning to wander. That there could be anything worse than loss of fortune he had yet to learn; assuredly he had never heard of it. Forester repeated his question.
“No, no, perhaps not, if you understand by that phrase what I do,” said Lord Netherby, almost pettishly. “If, like me, you take in all the long train of ruin and decay such loss implies,—pecuniary distress, moneyed difficulties, fallen condition in society, inferior association—”
“Nay, my Lord, in the present instance, I can venture to answer for it, such consequences have not ensued. You do your relatives scarcely justice to suppose it.”
“It is very good and very graceful, both, in you,” said Lord Netherby, with an almost angelic smile, “to say so. Unfortunately, these are not merely speculative opinions on my part. While I make this remark, understand me as by no means imputing any blame to them. What could they do?—that is the question,—what could they do?”
“I would rather ask of your Lordship, what have they done? When I know that, I shall be, perhaps, better enabled to reply to your question.”
In all likelihood it was more the manner than the substance of this question which made Lord Netherby hesitate how to reply to it, and at last he said,—
“To say in so many words what they have done, is not so easy. It would, perhaps, give better insight into the circumstances were I to say what they have not done.”
“Even as you please, my Lord. The negative charge, then,” said Forester, impatiently.
“Lord Castlereagh, my Lord!” said a servant, throwing open the door; for he had already received orders to admit him when he called, though, had Forester guessed how inopportune the visit could have proved, he would never have said so.
In the very different expressions of Lord Netherby and the sick man's face, it might be seen how differently they welcomed the new arrival.
Lord Castlereagh saluted both with a courteous and cordial greeting, and although he could not avoid seeing that he had dropped in somewhat mal-à-propos, he resolved rather to shorten the limit of his stay than render it awkward by any expressions of apology. The conversation, therefore, took that easy, careless tone in which each could join with freedom. It was after a brief pause, when none exactly liked to be the first to speak, that Lord Netherby observed,—
“The very moment you were announced, my Lord, I was endeavoring to persuade my young friend here to a line of conduct in which, if I have your Lordship's co-operation, I feel I shall be successful.”
“Pray let me hear it,” said Lord Castlereagh, gayly, and half interrupting what he feared was but the opening of an over-lengthy exposition.
Lord Netherby was not to be defeated so easily, nor defrauded of a theme whereupon to expend many loyal sentiments; and so he opened a whole battery of arguments on the subject of the young peer's first appearance in the House, and the splendid opportunity, as he called it, of a maiden speech.
“I see but one objection,” said Lord Castlereagh, with a well-affected gravity.
“I see one hundred,” broke in Forester, impatiently.
“Perhaps my one will do,” rejoined Lord Castlereagh.
“Which is—if I may take the liberty—” lisped out Lord Netherby.
“That there will be no debate on the subject. The motion is withdrawn.”
“Motion withdrawn!—since when?”
“I see you have not heard the news this morning,” said Lord Castlereagh, who really enjoyed the discomfiture of one very vain of possessing the earliest intelligence.
“I have heard nothing,” exclaimed he, with a sigh of despondency.
“Well, then, I may inform you, that the 'Pike' has brought us very stirring intelligence. The war in Egypt is now over. The French have surrendered under the terms of a convention, and a treaty has been ratified that permits their return to France. Hostages for the guarantee of the treaty have been already interchanged, and”—here he turned towards Forester, and added—“it will doubtless interest you to hear that your old friend the Knight of Gwynne is one of them,—an evidence that he is not only alive, but in good health also.”
“This is, indeed, good news you bring me,” said Forester, with a flashing eye and a heightened complexion. “Has any one written? Do Colonel Darcy's friends know of this?”
“I have myself done so,” said Lord Castlereagh. “Not that I may attribute the thoughtful attention to myself, for I received his Royal Highness's commands on the subject I need scarcely say that such a communication must be gratifying to any one.”
“Where are they at present?” said Forester, eagerly.
“That was a question of some difficulty to me, and I accordingly called on my Lord Netherby to ascertain the point. I found he had left home, and now have the good fortune to catch him here.” So saying, Lord Castlereagh took from the folds of a pocket-book a sealed but un-addressed letter, and dipping a pen in the ink before him, prepared to write.
There were, indeed, very few occurrences in life which made Lord Netherby feel ashamed. He had never been obliged to blush for any solecism in manner or any offence against high breeding, nor had the even tenor of his days subjected him to any occasion of actual shame, so that the confusion he now felt had the added poignancy of being a new as well as a painful sensation.
“It may seem very strange to you, my Lord,” said he, in a broken and hesitating voice; “not but that, on a little reflection, the case will be easily accounted for; but—so it is—I—really must own—I must frankly acknowledge—that I am not at this moment aware of my dear cousin's address.”
If his Lordship had not been too much occupied in watching Lord Castlereagh's countenance, he could not have failed to see, and be struck by, the indignant expression of Forester's features.
“How are we to reach them, then, that's the point?” said Lord Castlereagh, over whose handsome face not the slightest trace of passion was visible. “If I mistake not, Gwynne Abbey they have left many a day since.”
“I think I can lay my hand on a letter. I am almost certain I had one from a law-agent, called—called—”
“Bicknell, perhaps,” interrupted Forester, blushing between shame and impatience.
“Quite right,—you are quite right,” replied Lord Netherby, with a significant glance at Lord Castlereagh, cunningly intended to draw off attention from himself. “Well, Mr. Bicknell wrote to me a very tiresome and complicated epistle about law affairs,—motions, rules, and so forth,—and mentioned at the end that Lady Eleanor and Helen were living in some remote village on the northern coast.”
“A cottage called 'The Corvy,'” broke in Forester, “kindly lent to them by an old friend, Mr. Bagenal Daly.”
“Will that address suffice,” said Lord Castlereagh, “with the name of the nearest post-town?”
“If you will make me the postman, I 'll vouch for the safe delivery,” said Forester, with an animation that made him flushed and pale within the same instant.
“My dear young friend, my dear Lord Wallincourt!” exclaimed Lord Netherby, laying his hand upon his arm. He said no more; indeed he firmly believed the enunciation of his new title must be quite sufficient to recall him to a sense of due consideration for himself.
“You are scarcely strong enough, Dick,” said Lord Castlereagh, coolly. “It is a somewhat long journey for an invalid; and Halford, I 'm sure, wouldn't agree to it.”
“I 'm quite strong enough,” said Forester, rising and pacing the room with an attempted vigor that made his debility seem still more remarkable: “if not to-day, I shall be to-morrow. The travelling, besides, will serve me,—change of air and scene. More than all, I am determined on doing it.”
“Not if I refuse you the despatches, I suppose?” said Lord Castlereagh, laughing.
“You can scarcely do that,” said Forester, fixing his eyes steadfastly on him. “Your memory is a bad one, or you must recollect sending me down once upon a time to that family on an errand of a different nature. Don't you think you owe an amende to them and to me?”
“Eh! what was that? I should like to know what you allude to,” said Lord Netherby, whose curiosity became most painfully eager.
“A little secret between Dick and myself,” said Lord Castlereagh, laughing. “To show I do not forget which, I 'll accede to his present request, always provided that he is equal to it.”
“Oh, as to that—”
“It must be 'Halfordo non obstante,' or not at all,” said Lord Castlereagh, rising. “Well,” continued he, as he moved towards the door, “I 'll see the doctor on my way homeward, and if he incline to the safety of the exploit, you shall hear from me before four o'clock. I 'll send you some extracts, too, from the official papers, such as may interest your friends, and you may add, bien des choses de ma part, in the way of civil speeches and gratulation.”
Lord Netherby had moved towards the window as Lord Castlereagh withdrew, and seemed more interested by the objects in the street than anxious to renew the interrupted conversation.
Forester—if one were to judge from his preoccupied expression—appeared equally indifferent on the subject, and both were silent. Lord Netherby at last looked at his watch, and, with an exclamation of astonishment at the lateness of the hour, took up his hat. Forester did not notice the gesture, for his mind had suddenly become awake to the indelicacy, to say no worse, of leaving London for a long journey without one effort to see his mother. A tingling feeling of shame burned in his cheek and made his heart beat faster, as he said, “I think you have your carriage below, my Lord?”
“Yes,” replied Lord Netherby, not aware whether the question might portend something agreeable or the reverse.
“If you 'll permit me, I 'll ask you to drive me to Berkeley Square. I think the air and motion will benefit me; and perhaps Lady Netherby will see me.”
“Delighted—charmed to see you—my dear young friend,” said Lord Netherby, who having, in his own person, some experience of the sway and influence her Ladyship was habituated to exercise, calculated largely on the effect of an interview between her and her son. “I don't believe you could possibly propose anything more gratifying nor more likely to serve her. She is very weak and very nervous; but to see you will, I know, be of immense service. I 'm sure you 'll not agitate her,” added he, after a pause. If the words had been “not contradict,” they would have been nearer his meaning.
“You may trust me, for both our sakes,” said Forester, smiling. “By the by, you mentioned a letter from a law-agent of the Darcys, Mr. Bicknell; was it expressive of any hope of a favorable termination to the suit, or did he opine that the case was a bad one?”
“If I remember aright, a very bad one,—bad, from the deficiency of evidence; worse, from the want of funds to carry it on. Of course I only speak from memory; and the epistle was so cramp, so complex, and with such a profusion of detail intermixed, that I could make little out of it, and retain even less. I must say that as it was written without my cousin's knowledge or consent, I paid no attention to it. It was, so to say, quite unauthorized.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed Forester, in an accent whose scorn was mistaken by the hearer, as he resumed.
“Just so; a mere lawyer's ruse, to carry on a suit. He proposed, I own, a kind of security for any advance I should make, in the person of Miss Daly, whose property, amounting to some three or four thousand pounds, was to be given as security! There always is some person of this kind on these occasions—some tame elephant—to attract the rest; but I paid no attention to it. The only thing, indeed, I could learn of the lady was, that she had a fire-eating brother who paid bond debts with a pistol, and small ones with a horsewhip.”
“I know Mr. Daly and his sister too. He is a most honorable and high-minded gentleman; of her I only needed to hear the trait your Lordship has just mentioned, to say that she is worthy to be his sister in every respect.”
“I was not aware that they were acquaintances of yours.”
“Friends, my Lord, would better express the relationship between us,—friends, firm and true, I sincerely believe them. Pray, if not indiscreet, may I ask the date of this letter?”
“Some day of June last, I think. The case was to come on for trial next November in Westport, and it was for funds to carry on the suit, it would seem, they were pressed.”
“You did n't hear a second time?”
“No, I 've told you that I never answered this letter. I was quite willing, I am so at this hour, to be of any service to my dear cousin, Lady Eleanor Darcy, and to aid her to the fullest extent; but to prosecute a hopeless lawsuit, to throw away some thousands in an interminable Equity investigation,—to measure purses, too, against one of the richest men in Ireland, as I hear their antagonist is,—this, I could never think of.”
“But who has pronounced this claim hopeless?” said Forester, impatiently.
A cold shrug of the shoulders was all Lord Netherby's reply.
“Not Miss Daly, certainly,” rejoined Forester, “who was willing to peril everything she possessed in the world upon the issue.”
The sarcasm intended by this speech was deeply felt by Lord Netherby, as with an unwonted concession to ill-humor, he replied,—
“There is nothing so courageous as indigence!”
“Better never be rich, then,” cried Forester, “if cowardice be the first lesson it teaches. But I think better of affluence than this. I saw that same Knight of Gwynne when at the head of a princely fortune; and I never, in any rank of life, under any circumstances, saw the qualities which grace and adorn the humblest more eminently displayed.”
“I quite agree with you; a more perfectly conducted household it is impossible to conceive.”
“I speak not of his retinue, nor of his graceful hospitalities, my Lord, nor even of his generous munificence and benevolence; these are rich men's gifts everywhere. I speak of his trusting, confiding temper; the hopeful trust he entertained of something good in men's natures at the moment he was smarting from their perfidy and ingratitude; the forgiveness towards those that injured, the unvarying kindness towards those that forgot him.”
“I declare,” said Lord Netherby, smiling, “I must interdict a continuance of this panegyric, now that we have arrived, for you know Colonel Darcy was a first love of Lady Netherby.”
Nothing but a courtier of Lord Netherby's stamp could have made such a speech; and while Forester became scarlet with shame and anger, a new light suddenly broke upon him, and the rancor of his mother respecting the Knight and his family was at once explained.
“Now to announce you,” said Lord Netherby, gayly; “let that be my task.” And so saying, he lightly tripped up the stairs before Forester.