“This way,” said he, after a violent effort which brought the cob broadside on across Scrub, whose recognition, however, his excited friend disdained to acknowledge.

“From the brow of this hill you can see for miles. If we don’t find here—how d’ye mean, don’t find here? If there’s no fox in the gorse I’ll eat this hunting-whip!” eyeing his own iron-handled one as he spoke. “If you keep along the—(Stand still, you brute!)—if you keep along the brow, Mrs. Delaval—(Zounds! will you stand still?)—you’ll be able to—Tally-ho! he’s away, d’ye see him, yonder by the oak! now they have it. Forward! forward!!” Charlie could not resist a prolonged screech of delight, though he coughed for five minutes afterwards, and the General went off at score, as eager for a start as if he had been riding the best horse in England, and bumped, and thumped, and scuttled, and slid down the hill, towards a friendly hand-gate, as only an elderly gentleman can, who has survived all his passions save this one alone! What a scurry there was over the vale below! Immediately in the foreground a group of foot-people, a keeper in velveteen, and a labourer with a terrier in his arms, laughed and gazed and vociferated, and made sundry uncomplimentary remarks on the sportsmen whose prowess they could so effectually overlook. Lower down careful grooms on second horses, a steady-going dark-coated array, had diverged nearly at right angles to the line of chase, and keeping studiously together, seemed to be holding perseveringly for some point of their own, well down-wind. At the bottom of the hill, a horse-breaker, on a four-year-old rearing straight on end, was endeavouring to make the passage of a white gate that had slammed to, unpropitiously, just in front of him. As the man had dropped his whip and did not dare get off, he was likely to remain there some little time longer. Just in front of him again came the Field, a motley mass of colours, red predominating—streaming like a flight of wild-fowl, as they crossed the enclosures, but huddling confusedly together as often as they reached the fence, under the mistaken notion that there is safety in numbers.

Amongst them were men of all sorts and ages, ranks, weights, and sizes—some plying elbows and legs as they shot occasionally to the front, only to drop back to their native obscurity when the fatal necessity of jumping should arrive—-some holding steadily on, satisfied to be in good company, with no more idea of where the hounds were than if they had been in the next county—discreet spirits breaking the hearts of valorous horses by keeping them back—eager enthusiasts rapidly finishing their too sorry steeds by urging them forward—but still one and all convinced that they were distinguishing themselves by their prowess, and prepared to swear over their wine that they had been all day in the front rank. To the right of these might be seen the General in a line of his own, leading him through a deep ridge and furrow field, in which he laboured like a boat in a heavy sea—already its inequalities had brought him to a slack rein, and even at that distance the rider’s heels could be plainly distinguished in convulsive persuasion.

Five minutes more at that pace would unquestionably reduce the black cob to a walk. A field farther forward than these, and released from the turmoil and confusion in their rear, struggled a devoted band, the forlorn hope of the chase—those adventurous spirits who “mean riding,” but “don’t know how”—though small in number, great in hairbreadth ’scapes and thrilling casualties. There a rood and a half of fence was seen tumbling into a field with a crash like the falling of a house, followed by a headlong biped describing a parabola in the air, and closely attended by a huge dark object which resolved itself into a rolling steed. Farther on again a crashing of rails was heard, and a reckless pair seen balanced across a strong piece of field-upholstery, only to subside dully into a fatal ditch gaping to receive them, not in vain—

A wisp of scarlet lying motionless on the greensward, and a loose horse galloping furiously to the front, completed this ill-fated portion of the panorama, and carried the eye forward to where some half-dozen detached cavaliers were gradually diminishing till they looked like red balls bouncing over a billiard-table, as independent and nearly abreast each sped his own line across the distant fields. These were indeed the “chosen few”—the deacons of the craft, quick, quiet, wary, and resolute—they had surmounted all the obstacles of the commencement, all the struggle for a start, and were now enjoying their reward. Each man as he took his horse well by the head settled himself in his saddle, and scanning his ground with keen and practised eye, crashed through the impervious bullfinch or faced the uncompromising timber, enjoying a deep thrilling ecstasy totally incomprehensible to the rational portion of mankind. A Frenchman once remarked to us, anent this particular form of lunacy, “Monsieur, nous ne cherchons pas nos émotions, nous Français, à nous casser le cou.” But deep and stirring were the émotions of our English enthusiasts as they strained after the fleeting pack, now diminished to a few white, scattered dots, glancing over the green surface a field ahead even of these.

“Happy fellows!” exclaimed Charlie, watching the first flight, where his own place should have been, with straining eyes. “It looks uncommonly like a run!—but where’s Frank? he ought to be forward with the hounds. Oh! he’s philandering there on the right with Blanche;” and Charlie’s mouth drew itself down into an expression of intense disgust—although in love himself, he could not understand Venus being allowed to interfere with Diana. “If we keep down this lane,” exclaimed he, still bending his gaze on the disappearing pack, “we shall come in upon them again, to a certainty, with this wind. Wilmington Copse is his point, I’ll lay my life. Go along, Scrub!” and the pony-carriage was again set in motion, not without flagellation of Blanche’s favourite, bumping and swaying down an extremely bad road at the best speed it could muster. Ever and anon the drivers cast a look over the vale at the fast-disappearing chase, but the excitement was rapidly subsiding. All the reds had by this time vanished, save one extremely cautious sportsman in a lane; the more sober colours were gradually fading into the distance. The horse-breaker was gone, the keeper in velveteen shouldered his gun, the labourer put down his terrier, and the pedestrians were lounging home to dinner. After two miles or so of severe exertion the panting Scrub was again pulled up at Stoney Cross, a place where four byroads met, commanding an extensive view of the surrounding country. Mary was almost as keen about the run as her companion, so catching is excitement, particularly hunting excitement. “Listen,” said she, intently eyeing the distance, “can you hear anything?”

“Nothing but Scrub blowing,” replied Charlie; “no, they’re having an extraordinary run—we shall never see them again!”

Both strained their eyes till they watered. Profound silence reigned over the landscape, save when the wintry wind moaned softly through the boughs of some leafless poplars overhead. The sun had disappeared; a dark grey haze was creeping over the distance; even Nature seemed to be suffering a reaction after the excitement of the last half-hour, and Charlie too felt despondent and melancholy; the air was moist and chill, the sky dark and lowering; it was the last day of the year—would he ever see another? Must he leave this pleasant world, pleasant even in the subdued melancholy of winter’s russet garb, and lie in the damp, cold earth, whilst his friends and comrades were full of life and hope and energy? The last time—was this indeed the last time for him of the sport he loved so passionately? No more to back his gallant steeds, and feel his life-blood thrill as they bounded beneath him in the real ecstasy of motion; no more to join the jovial scarlet throng, with bit and bridle ringing round him, and laugh and jest and cordial greeting passing from lip to lip in that merriest of merry meetings at the covert side; no more to stand in the deep fragrant woodland and cheer that chiming music to the echo, sweeter to him than the very symphony of heaven; and when silence, startling from its suddenness, succeeded to those maddening sounds, and warned him they were away! others would race with the racing pack, and revel in the whirlwind of pace, glancing over pastures like hawks upon the wing, but his place would be vacant in the front rank, and he—where would he be? Hard! hard! now that life was so sweet and sparkling, now that the cup was crowned with that last drop that bid it brim with happiness—the consciousness of love. And must it be put untasted by? Hard—hard, yet perhaps better so!

“I hear them, I’m certain,” said Mary, raising her taper hand in the air; “that must be the horn. We shall see the finish after all!”

“Not yet,” cried Charlie, all his melancholy reflections dispelled on the instant. “See, they’ve checked on the plough yonder. Now they acknowledge it. Well hunted, my beauties! Look! look! did you see him?—there, in the middle of that large field, beyond the spinney!”

Mary looked and looked, and at length made out a dark speck stealing away in the distance too slowly for a crow, too smoothly for a dog; had she not been told she never would have suspected that minute object was the fox.

“He’s not killed yet,” observed Charlie; “there’ll be some grief before he’s in hand! See, he’s pointing straight for the forest—by Jove! they’ll have to swim the Gushe. What a capital fox!” And now, once more, the pageant passed in full view of the pony-carriage; but oh! how altered! Despite the check there were but two men near the hounds, and even these were a full field behind them (after dinner they acknowledged to twenty yards); then came one solitary individual in a cap, who was indeed the huntsman, and who was now riding in the combined enjoyment of a horse completely exhausted, and a morbid dread lest the more fortunate twain in his front should press too much on his treasures—a needless fear, could he but have seen the mode in which these treasures were increasing the distance between themselves and their pursuers. Behind him again was a gentleman (clerical) standing by his horse, apparently investigating his stirrup-irons with minute interest. He never could be got to explain clearly why he had stopped at this exciting moment. Gaining gradually upon the latter came another red-coat, making the most of an extremely slow canter; and not a soul besides was to be seen on the line of the hounds. What had become of them all? Where was the Field? Why, pounding down the very lane in which the pony-carriage had drawn up, pulling and hustling, and grinning and clattering—coat-tails flying, neck-cloths streaming, the leaders’ faces bathed in perspiration, the rearward horsemen plastered with mud, all riding like grim Death, all frantic with hurry and excitement—the General and his black cob not the least furious of the throng. Few noticed the carriage, all were intent on some object in the extreme distance, possibly the bridge at Deep-ford, inasmuch as the hounds were now pointing straight for the Gushe.

It was quite a relief to watch Frank Hardingstone’s unmoved face as he cantered quietly by, and smiled and spoke to them, without, however, relaxing in his vigilant care of Blanche. That young lady looked prettier than ever—her violet eyes dancing with excitement, and her long fair curls floating over her riding-habit.

“He’s going to have it,” screamed Charlie, in a state of tumultuous excitement, as they watched Frank turn away from his charge, and leaping the fence out of the lane, take a direct line for the calm, deep, silent river, and consequently for the hounds, who were already struggling in the stream, throwing their tongues occasionally as they were swept along by its force, to land considerably lower down than they had calculated. One of the foremost sportsmen went gallantly in with them, but his horse was already exhausted, and, after sinking twice, rider and steed emerged separately on the hither side, glad to get off with a ducking.

“Blanche, you foolish girl, stop! I desire you to stop!” exclaimed the General, foaming with excitement, and himself with difficulty pulling the black cob across the road. But Blanche either would not or could not stop: Water King’s mettle was excited; he had been following Frank Hardingstone’s horse all day, and true to his name, he was not to be deterred by the perils of a swim. Taking the bit between his teeth, he bounded out of the lane at the spot where his leader had jumped the fence, and tore away over the level water-meadows, regardless of the volley of imprecations which the General sent after him as of the feeble grasp which strove to check him in vain.

Frank meanwhile, all unconscious, sped steadily down to the stream. Already his cool resolute eye had marked the safest place at which to land. “If I can only get out,” thought Frank, “there’s never much difficulty about getting in.” Already had he gathered his horse well up on his haunches, turned his stirrup-irons over his saddle-bow, knotted the thong of his whip to his rein in case of dissolving partnership on emergency, and sliding quietly down the bank, was immersed in deep water, laying his weight as much as possible along his horse’s neck, when a faint scream, a rushing sound close behind him, and a tremendous splash by his side, made him turn wildly round and well-nigh pull his unfortunate steed over him in the water. How shall we describe his sensations at what he saw? Water King plunging and rearing himself above the surface; Blanche clinging helplessly to her horse’s neck, her white face glancing on him for an instant with an expression of ghastly terror; another furious plunge, a faint, bubbling scream, and the limp skirt of a riding-habit disappearing beneath the whirling wave. The horror-stricken sportsmen in the lane saw a lady’s hat floating on the stream some fifty yards lower down. But assistance was near at hand; twenty men were soon gathered on the bank. People never know how these things are done. Frank was away from his horse in an instant; he believes he dived for her twice; but two minutes had scarcely elapsed before he was hanging over her exhausted form on the bank, regardless of the surrounding crowd, regardless of his usual self-command and reserved demeanour, pouring forth the torrent of his feelings, so long dammed up, in words that were but little short of madness.

It was fortunate, indeed, that Scrub’s fatigue had prevented the pony-carriage from going any farther on the line of the crowd, who were by this time blocking up the narrow passage of Deep-ford Bridge, as Blanche, despite her wet clothes, was too much exhausted to attempt riding home, and was accordingly placed by Mary in her own little equipage. The pony made small difficulty about retracing his steps towards his stable, and the cavalcade proceeded rapidly to Newton-Hollows; Frank riding alongside in his dripping garments, with an expression of unspeakable joy on his manly features never seen there before or since; Mary praying inwardly with heart-felt gratitude, and the General sobbing like a child. As they turned in at the gates, Charlie was the only one of the party who retained his composure sufficiently to observe, with an expression of deep interest, “I wish we knew whether they’ve killed their fox.”

CHAPTER XXVIII
“THE SAD SEA WAVE”

THE HONEYMOON—OUTWARD-BOUND—A FULL REPORT—THE HOPES OF SPRING—THE BLIGHT OF AUTUMN—ALL ALONE

And of all places in the world, where did they choose to spend their honeymoon? Why, at St. Swithin’s; there they had first met—there the girl had first seen her young ideal of manly perfection—there Frank had first surrendered the self-control he held so dear. When at the end of a twenty-seventh chapter the gentleman saves from drowning the lady after whom he has been hankering through the previous twenty-six, it is needless to specify how “bride-cake must be the issue.” “Hot water” after cold is a fair conclusion; so the dressmaker in Old Bond Street was written to—and the man-of-business came down from Lincoln’s Inn—and there was a gathering of friends and relatives—a breakfast to the grandees—a dinner to the tenants—a ball to the labourers—and the bells of Newton ringing almost without cessation for eight-and-forty hours—the bridesmaids smiled and sparkled—the bride wept and trembled—the bridegroom looked like a fool—everything was strictly orthodox, save the interference of the General, who wanted to set the clergyman right during the sacred ceremony, and very properly received a rap over the knuckles from that dignitary, which was no less than he deserved—the county paper devoted a column and a half to its description of the ceremony—the Morning Post dismissed it in three lines under the head of “Fashionable Intelligence”; and so the knot was tied, and Frank Hardingstone, M., took Blanche Kettering, N., and they became man and wife.

We must now shift the scene to where we first introduced the characters of our somewhat lengthened narrative; nor will we, after the fashion of sundry eminent divines, prolong our “in conclusion” to an indefinite abusing of the listener’s patience and the Queen’s English. The honeymoon is over—they never last more than a week now-a-days—and the relatives of the principal performers have broken up the tête-à-tête, and joined the happy pair at St. Swithin’s. It is a mild sunny afternoon about the middle of February. At the sea-side, where there are no bare trees and leafless hedges to destroy the illusion, it might be midsummer, so soft and balmy is the air, so bright the beams glinting on the Channel, so hushed and peaceful the ripple of the ebbing tide; the fishing-boats seem asleep upon the waters; a large square-rigged vessel looms almost motionless in the offing; and a group of five persons are congregated about an invalid’s couch on the beach. As Mary Delaval moves round it to place a cushion more comfortably at his back, we recognise the delicate features and waving moustaches of our young lancer. It is indeed the wasted face of Cousin Charlie, attenuated to an unearthly beauty, and wearing the calm, gentle expression of those who are ere long to be summoned home.

“Outward-bound,” says a stout seaman-like man, shutting up the glass with which he has been diligently conning the distant ship. “Outward-bound, and an Indiaman, as I make her, Miss Blanche; I beg your pardon.” Hairblower never can call her by her matronly title.

“If that’s an Indiaman, I’ll eat her,” exclaims the General; “don’t tell me—I should know something of that class of ship at any rate. Look at her spars! She’s bound for the Baltic; I can take my oath. Indiaman!—if she’s not a Dutchman, I am.”

The General’s appearance indeed gave weight to this assertion. His stout, short frame enveloped in a jacket and trousers—for, out of compliment to the locality, he thought it necessary to appear in nautical costume—possessed that well-filled appearance which custom has chosen to consider indigenous to the Hollander. The General’s love-making did not progress very rapidly, but he had still a hankering to stand well in the opinion of Mrs. Delaval; and when he considered the care and attention with which she tended poor Charlie, administering to all his wants and fancies as only a woman can, he thought that such a wife would indeed be a treasure for an elderly gentleman who was beginning to experience sundry twinges at the extremities, reminding him most unpleasantly of good things long since consumed, and claret bottles emptied in life’s thirsty noon.

“What do you think, darling?” says Blanche, sidling up to her husband, and placing her arm confidingly within his. Like all newly-married women she is a little gauche, and wears her happiness with too demonstrative an air, appealing on all occasions to her lord, and hanging on his every word and look as if there were no one else in the universe. To do the sex justice, however, this is a fault of which they are invariably cured in less than a twelvemonth, and radically too—we cannot call to mind a single instance of a relapse.

“How should I know, my dear?” replies Frank, awaking from deep thought; “yet stay, may it not be the very ship in which your old friend D’Orville was to sail?” with a malicious glance at Blanche, who looked up at him with such an open smile as showed how little impression the handsome Major’s attentions had ever made on her young heart. “Let me see, what day was he to start? I’ve got his letter in my pocket.”

“Pocket!—letter!—what? read it!” exclaimed the General—“that will prove the thing at once—you’ll see she’s a Dutchman.”

Blanche glanced at Mary; and even that grave face brightened into a smile—while Frank, seating himself on the shingle, drew a letter from his pocket and began to read.

“Cannot resist—hem—congratulations—hem—blessings in store—hem—leaving this country for a long absence.” (“Ah! here it is.”) “As I am going out in command of troops, I shall have the pleasure of once more rubbing up my seamanship by a voyage round the Cape. We embark at Gravesend on the —th, and shall probably sail when the tide suits the following day.” (“’Gad—I believe it is the Indiaman!”) “Lacquers accompanies me, having got the majority in my corps, and has become a great soldier—perhaps thanks to your success in the attack on which I now write to congratulate you.” (“Here’s a long story about you, Blanche—shall I read it?”) Blanche passed her little hand over his mouth, and Frank proceeded. “As I shall probably not have another opportunity of writing to my English friends for four or five months, I will not apologise for the length of my present epistle, but give you all the news I can to enliven your honeymoon—a piece of presumption which, I conclude, is like refining refined gold or painting the lily. London is not very full, although Parliament has brought its regular quantum of members who stand in awe of their constituents—no small number in these reformed and reforming days. I recollect, my dear Frank, though you don’t, when all the electors for a county met in the Justices’ room, and returned the Lord-Lieutenant’s nominee with as little discussion as my orderly-sergeant will make this afternoon when he reports ‘the officers’ baggage gone on board.’ However, they won’t stand that kind of thing now. Talking of Parliament, you read Mount Helicon’s speech on the Tallow question, of course. It quite took the House by storm. Honourable members expected something from the author of ‘Broadsides from the Baltic,’ and they were not disappointed. Not a word, however, taken from that exceedingly clear and voluminous pamphlet; and where he can have picked up such an additional store of information is a mystery to every one. The speech, however, has floored his party. Its whole tone, every sentiment it breathed, was so diametrically opposite to their policy, that they found themselves at its conclusion without a leg to stand on. Having selected him for their mouthpiece, they were furious, and no wonder. What can he be at? We soldiers are plain-dealing men, and cannot understand all this mining and counter-mining. His lady-mother, I understand, is still at Bubbleton. You must have seen something of her in the winter, unless you had only eyes and ears for one—particularly as I hear she gives out everywhere that she has refused General Bounce. If your abrupt uncle is the man I take him for, she never had an opportunity.” (Frank was here obliged to pause, the General’s delight at this portion of the letter venting itself in a series of chuckles that threatened to choke him. It was with difficulty he restrained himself from relating the whole story of the widow at Cheltenham, as a narrative bearing irresistibly on the case in point. He swallowed it, however, and Frank proceeded.) “We never thought her ladyship a great beauty, but they tell me now she is dreadfully altered—disappointed about her son—disappointed in her winter campaign—dreadfully sore at the slights she fancies she has received from the Dinadams, who passing through Bubbleton on their way to Wassailworth, had no time to return the visit she paid them at their hotel—and conscious of growing old, without having done the slightest good in her generation. No wonder the worn-out fine lady is sick of her wretched world, such as it is—no wonder she is startled to discover that she has spent a lifetime of illusions, and never found out the real world after all. You will smile, my dear Frank, at my moralities, but I do begin to see things a little clearer than I used; and if I have reason so bitterly to regret the forty years I have spent in selfish uselessness, what must be the feelings of threescore years and odd, with the world slipping from under its feet, the waking moment rapidly approaching, and the feverish dream leaving not one solid reality behind it—not one satisfactory reflection to gild the past—not one well-grounded hope to hold a beacon through the dark cold voyage of the future?”

Hairblower, who had been listening attentively with a puzzled expression of countenance, brightened up considerably at a metaphor which had reference to his own daily occupations, and muttered something about “ballast aboard,” and the “anchor apeak”; whilst Mrs. Delaval stole a longing, lingering look at poor Charlie, who had closed his eyes as if wearied out and half asleep. Frank read on.

“Tell young Kettering I have many inquiries after his health from his friends here, amongst others an old fellow-campaigner in Kaffirland whose tent he shared, and who is full of Kettering’s famous attack in support of the Rifles. He says it was one of the most dashing things of the war, and the service can ill afford to lose so gallant an officer. He sends his own and his terrier’s kindest remembrances.”

Charlie’s eyes opened wide; he did not seem drowsy now. The long wasted fingers of his right hand closed as if upon the handle of his sword, and a light stole over his countenance as if the sun had just gleamed athwart it—the soldier-spirit was stirring in that powerless frame. He looked handsomer than ever, poor boy, poor boy!

“His admiring well-wisher,” the letter went on to say, “who, by the way, is one of the best-looking fellows in London, got his promotion in that very action, and is now on leave, making up for past privations by every kind of dissipation which the village affords. I do not see much of him; but dining last night at the ‘Peace and Plenty,’ he told me that our mutual friend, Sir Ascot, was going to be married. Mrs. Hardingstone will be amused to hear this. The fortunate lady is a Miss Deeper, who threw over young Cashley, as in duty bound, for the baronet. Laurel, too, has carried off pretty Kate Carmine at last; they are the poorest couple in Christendom, and the happiest. I met Sir Bloomer Buttercup yesterday at the ‘Godiva.’ He and Mulligatawney were, as usual, discussing the matrimonial question; the latter more ‘Malthusian’ than ever, since Mrs. M. has taken up the Rapping theory. Sir Bloomer thinks that now he can only pretend to a widow, but is still determined to marry as soon as his affairs can be put ‘on a footing.’ We are all of opinion if he waits till then he will die a bachelor. You are aware I have got my promotion, and am going out to take the command of one of the smartest regiments in the service. I trust it will not deteriorate in any way whilst in my hands. Lacquers unites with me in congratulations and cordial good wishes to the whole of your party. If Mrs. Delaval is with you, remember me most kindly to her, and believe me,” etc.

“Well done the Colonel,” said Frank, folding up his letter and putting it in his pocket. “I never saw a man so changed and so improved. Blanche, don’t you regret now?—eh?” Blanche laughed, and called him “a goose”; but Mary applied herself more assiduously than ever to the invalid’s cushions; and whatever may have been her thoughts, she kept them most carefully to herself. We can guess, however, that notwithstanding the many good qualities developing themselves in her old admirer, she never for an instant thought of comparing him with that poor helpless boy whom they were now obliged to carry into the house, lest even the soft evening breeze should strike too chill upon his lacerated lungs. Next to Mary, however, perhaps none tended the sufferer with such patience and gentleness as Hairblower—that worthy’s view of the malady and its cause was peculiar to himself, and he clung to it with heroic obstinacy. “It all came of making him a soger,” said the seaman, with a tear running down his weather-beaten cheek; “goin’ about half-dressed in them monkey-jackets and sleepin’ out o’ nights without a dry thread to bless theirselves—it’s enough to kill a cat, let alone a gentleman. Now, if he’d had a dry plank above and below, and a hammock to swing in, and watches to keep all regular and ship-shape, he’d have lived to be an admiral—see if he wouldn’t. But he’s better, is Master Charlie, much better, now the salt’s gettin’ into him. Oh, he’ll be well in no time now, will Master Charlie—not a doubt of it!”

“Not a doubt of it,” echoed the General, the illness of whose favourite was a sad cause of grief and anxiety, which vented themselves in a more than customary abruptness and irritation. “Better? How d’ye mean? Zounds, sir, don’t talk to me of doctors! I tell ye the lad’s rallying—rallying, sir. What? If that boy’s not a-horseback in June, I’ll——” And here the warm-hearted old General’s courage invariably gave way, and as he thought of the alternative he would burst into tears, and stump hastily off to hide his emotion.

There never was such a February as that. Even inland people congratulated themselves on enjoying at last a really mild winter; and in such a sheltered, sunshiny situation as St Swithin’s, the weather would have borne comparison with any boasted climate of the warm Mediterranean. Like some poor, draggled, pining bird, the invalid seemed to drink in health and strength from the very sunbeams; and as he lay full-length upon his couch, drawn as near the waves as the tide would allow, and basked in the warmth, and inhaled the soft fresh breezes of the Channel, he looked so composed, so happy—and the cough, though frequent, became so much less violent, that all agreed there never was “anything so providential as bringing him down to St. Swithin’s”—“these illnesses are only fatal when not taken in time”—“positively it was the very saving of the boy’s life.” But Mary looked very pale, and shook her head. She seldom spoke much now.

One evening, just at sundown, Charlie begged to speak to Uncle Baldwin alone. He was lying as usual close to the open window, and as the breeze fanned his cheek he seemed to drink in its fragrance with a keener zest than he had shown for days. He felt better and stronger, too; he was able to sit up, and his voice was steadier and fuller than it had been since he came home. He spoke almost jestingly of his present state; but the words of hope which he thought it right to affect, in consideration of his uncle’s feelings, were belied by the topic on which he sought an interview.

“Uncle,” said he, “you’ve been a father to me, and I’ve never been strong enough to thank you till to-day.”

“Stronger, my boy—to be sure you are—virtually, you’re quite well. Don’t tell——” There was something in Charlie’s smile that checked the General, and the boy went on—

“Life’s very uncertain, uncle, and if—you know I only say if—I should not get over this business, I want you to arrange two or three little matters for me. This is a beautiful world, uncle, and a pleasant one; but I sometimes think I’d rather not live now. I—I don’t mind going. No, I don’t seem as if I belonged so much to this earth—I can’t tell why, but I feel it, I’m sure I do. Well, dear Uncle Baldwin, when I’m gone, I want you to give as much of my money to poor Gingham as will enable her to go out and join her husband in Australia. I know she wishes it, and I think it would come better from me than any one. If I get well, I mean to do it myself; but I like to make sure; and—and—uncle”—a deep blush spread over Charlie’s face—“all the rest I wish to go to Mrs. Delaval; but don’t let her find out it’s from me. Promise me, dear Uncle Baldwin—promise me this.”

The General started. He began to see what he now thought himself very blind not to have seen long ago, but he promised faithfully enough; and Charlie, lying back as if a weight had been taken off his mind, added, with a placid smile, “One thing more, uncle, and I will not trouble you any more—take care of poor Haphazard, and never let him run in a steeple-chase again.” The General’s heart was in his eyes, but he concealed his feelings from the invalid; and this too he promised, much to Cousin Charlie’s satisfaction, who talked on so cheerfully, and avowed himself to feel so much better, that when at last Uncle Baldwin left him he joined the rest of the party more sanguine than any of them of his ultimate recovery, and vowed “he could not have believed what the sea-air would do.” “You may sigh, Mrs. Delaval, and shake your head, but he’s as strong to-day as ever he was in his life. Lungs!—his lungs are as good as mine. What?—he’s only outgrown his strength—don’t tell me, the lad’s six feet high. Why, I saw Globus this very day, and he assures me confidently that he thinks Charlie will be quite well by the spring.”

Spring bloomed into summer and summer faded into autumn. When London became empty—that is to say, when some thousand or two of its millions took their departure from the swarm—we went, as is our custom, to court health and sea-breezes at St. Swithin’s. Though we follow blindly the example of our kind, rushing tumultuously to crowded resorts and overflowing watering-places, yet do we love solitude in the abstract as do most men who have outlived their digestions, and consequently we were not disappointed to find the day after our arrival so gusty, gloomy, and disagreeable, that the fair-weather visitors were compelled to remain indoors, and we had the beach pretty well to ourselves. There was a thick haze over the Channel, and a small drizzling rain beat in our face. We may be peculiar, but we confess we have no objection to a fog, and rather like a drizzling rain; so we breasted the breeze, and walked boldly on till we got clear of the town, and keeping steadily along “high-water mark,” could enjoy our humour of sulking undisturbed.

But one figure shared our solitude—a tall, handsome woman, dressed in the deepest mourning, short of widow’s weeds, that we ever saw. As we passed her, she was gazing steadily to seaward, and we caught but one glimpse of her countenance; yet that face we never have forgotten. Care had hollowed the eyes and wasted the pale cheek, and streaked the masses of dark hair with many a silver line, but the deep expression of holy beauty that sat on those marble features was that of an angel—some spirit sorrowing for the spirit-band from which it was parted, and yearning for its home. She was listening intently to the regular and monotonous gush of the Channel waves as they poured in their steady measured music, like a requiem for the dead. A well-beloved voice spoke to her on the sighing breeze, an old familiar strain was borne upon the rolling waters: she was communing with another world, and we left her, but not alone.

Mary Delaval has never quitted St. Swithin’s. Marble, wrought to warlike trophies, blazons in a lengthened inscription the blighted fame and early death of a blooming warrior, who dragged his sinking frame hither to gaze upon the shining waters, and so to die. But it is not in the stately aisle or over the speechless stone that Mary weeps for her lost hopes, and mourns her buried love. No, she had rather wander by the lonely shore and listen to the “sad sea waves,” as they murmur their mournful tale of the unforgotten Past. Day by day, ay, night by night, she glides about amongst the poor, ever on errands of mercy—ever eager but for one thing on earth—to do good—to fulfil her destiny—to die here where he died—and so to go to him. By the bed of sickness, in the abode of misery—ay, in the very den of vice, if it be but hallowed by grief, that pale sad face is as well known as the High Church curate’s or the parish doctor’s; but the poor respect her sorrows; and the rough fishermen, the busy artisans, the very careless romping children will turn out of the path, and forbear to intrude upon the presence of the “dark lady,” as she sits looking wistfully to seaward, or wanders dejectedly along the beach. They seem to feel that she is with them, but not of them—a sojourner here, but not for long.

We love to gaze on the blooming merry faces of the young—we can admire the bright, hopeful girl—the contented, happy matron—childhood—prime—and old age. All have their beauties, all reflect more or less vividly the image of their Creator; but never in mortal features have we seen such a heavenly expression as that borne by Mary Delaval with her aching heart; deeper than hope, holier than joy, it hallows those alone whose every tie to lower earth is torn asunder, whose treasure is not here, whose home is beyond the grave—of whom Infinite Mercy has said, “Blessed are those that mourn, for they shall be comforted.”