'Everyone who said "Lord, Lord!" two hundred years ago was deemed a Christian,' says Charles Reade; 'but there are no earnest men now.'
However, Mahmoud Shah and his Ghilzies, like the Mahdi and his followers in Egypt, were terribly in earnest about their work of religion and slaughter.
Shouting 'Allah! Allah! Allah!' they resisted with juzail and tulwar, shield, pistol, and charah, till they were all shot down, and lay over each other piled in one great heap, all clad in white, but gashed and bloody, and among the last who fell was Mahmoud Shah, who was last seen, with his back to the holy tomb of Baba Issah, standing across the dead body of his favourite white Arab, with eight of the 5th Ghoorkas dead at his feet, an empty horse-pistol in his left hand, a blood-dripping tulwar in his right, and six bayonet wounds in his body,
'The least a death to nature!'
By this time there had been hanged in Cabul more than sixty Afghans for complicity in the slaughter of the Embassy.
The European troops were now quartered in the barracks of Yakoub Khan's late army in the adjacent cantonments at Sherpore, and soon after an amnesty was granted to all who had fought against us, while a proclamation was issued by Sir Frederick Roberts to the effect that, in consequence of the abdication of the Ameer, 'and of the outrage at the British embassy, the British government were now compelled to occupy Cabul and other parts of Afghanistan, and he invited the Afghan authorities, chiefs, and sirdirs to assist him to enforce order in the districts under their control, and to consult with him conjointly. The population of the occupied districts would—it was added—be treated with justice and benevolence; their religion and customs would be respected, and loyalty and good service to the British crown would be suitably rewarded. On the other hand, all offenders against the new administration would be severely punished.'
'We have restored order in Cabul, and punished all the guilty,' wrote Leslie Colville to Mary. 'I have resigned my appointment on the staff, deeming that I have done enough for honour, darling; and now I am coming home!'
And now we must return to Ellinor and her fate, while Colville is speeding homeward as quickly as steam could carry him over land and sea.
We left Ellinor smarting keenly under the memory of how Lord Dunkeld and the two ladies of his family ignored all recognition of her presence in the Jungfernsteig, and the despairing mood of mind in which she was brought back by Gaiters and the Erau Wyburg to the gloomy house by the Bleichen Fleet.
The expression of her face at that time seemed to tell simply of one who endured life till death might come.
'Escape from this—oh, how to escape!' she wailed, as she wrung her slender hands in bitter helplessness.
Her windows were always fastened beyond her power of opening them, and the water of the Fleet was fully twenty feet below them, so escape in that direction was not to be thought of.
The evening of the fourth day of her intolerable captivity was drawing to a close when Ellinor made a discovery by the merest chance.
That which appeared to be the back of the antique wardrobe in her room proved in reality to be a door, though partially concealed by garments hung on pegs screwed into it.
A door! Whither did it lead? To ask Lenchen would at once excite suspicion, and perhaps deprive her of the power of utilising it if possible. This discovery excited her alarm more than hope or curiosity, for though she was able as yet to secure her chamber-door on the inside at night—or was permitted to do so—her privacy might, she naturally thought, be violated at any time by this new and unexpected avenue, which she resolved to explore.
The door-handle yielded to her touch; it fell backward, and she found a comfortable, but narrow, old oak stair, the steps of which were mouldy, damp, and worm-eaten. It descended at an angle, within the thickness of the solid wall, some forty steps or so, and ended in an opening that was without any door, and immediately overhung the canal. Rusty hinges in the jambs showed that a door had once closed this entrance to the house, but it had probably fallen to pieces and never been replaced.
In short, it was simply one of the many back entrances from the water, of which the mercantile community in many parts of Hamburg still avail themselves, and showed that at one time, and before that of its declension, the house of Herr Wyburg had been the residence of some wealthy trader, whose boats had been rowed or pulled up to his private door from the Brandenburger Hafen and under the Scharstein Bridge.
Here was a source of escape suddenly found, and of which she might avail herself; but the only boats she had ever seen pass that way were those of the Vierlander vegetable dealers, and how was she to make known to these people her peril and her wishes?
Frau Wyburg had said to her more than once, 'When in tribulation there is nothing like keeping your mind easy and trusting in the unexpected.'
And now the unexpected had come.
Dusk was closing—almost darkness—as she stood there looking at the gloomy and turbid water of the Fleet, across which lights from the house windows were already casting dim and tremulous lines of radiance, while she felt her heart beating wildly as prayer and agony mingled in her soul together; but the former was responded to, for even while she stood there she saw a boat approaching, pulled along by four seamen, and containing about a dozen soldiers, to whom she called aloud for succour. They responded by banter, and were about to push past on their way when a cry of despair escaped her, and then she heard the voice of one who seemed to be in authority issue an order.
The boat was steered in close to the entrance, and she sprang on board to find herself among a party of Uhlans, who were all armed with their carbines, and were under the command of him who had just spoken—the fair-haired young Baron Holandsburg—and were a patrol of the picket from the Dammthor Barracks in pursuit of two conscript deserters.
Overcome by the intensity of her agitation, Ellinor was about to sink down in a kind of heap, as it were, when his arm went round her in support.
'My God!' he exclaimed; 'my God, it is the Fraulein Ellinor!'
He gave a wild, inquiring glance at the house from which she had come, but its sombre mass gave him no information; he then took her death-cold hands in his caressingly, and looked entreatingly—encouragingly—into her drawn and tragic face.
To him a great pity and horror, with much of blank wonder, were emphasised by its haggard expression, and her dazed, sunken eyes, as she clung to him, and he felt he had no time then—as military duty sternly required him to proceed—to inquire into the what, the wherefore, and the how she came to be there!
He felt only sorrow and intense dismay, he knew not of what, but was only certain that she had escaped death, or that something else very dreadful must have occurred.
He felt thankful, however, that he had saved her in this sudden and unexpected manner from some of the 'perils of nineteenth century civilisation,' as the author of 'Altiora Peto' calls them.
By his order, the boat's head was put round, and pulled away for the nearest landing-place—the Pulverthbrugge, from whence he could have her conveyed at once to Altona.
When again he saw her on the following day in the pretty drawing-room of the villa, with her head resting on Mary's shoulder and Mary's arm round her, and Mrs. Deroubigne hovering near, though colourless as a lily, she was scarcely like the same ghastly and hunted creature he had rescued in the boat, from whom he had so much to learn, and whose adventures had been so perilous.
She looked so pretty—so beautiful indeed—in her simple cotton morning dress, with its delicate crisp puffs and frillings, with her gentle eyes and pure, perfect face, that the young baron sighed to think she was not, and never might be, his!
And yet she owed him, by the chance of fate, a mighty debt of gratitude.
Her story was barely concluded when, with something that sounded very naughty on his lips in his anger, he put his sword under his arm and departed to look after that schelm Sleath and the Wyburgs too.
'Poor foolish Ellinor,' thought he, as he galloped his horse towards the Rathhaus Strasse, 'if she could not love, she always had a look of passionless affection for me—warm friendship shall I call it? Yet her bright face was somewhat delusive, for she would never love, nor flirt, nor even chatter nonsense with me.'
Ellinor knew not exactly the names of those who had been in league with Sleath against her, nor could she describe the exact locality of the house in which they had detained her, but the baron knew where he had found her, and with the police and some of the Uhlans who had been with him on the preceding night, proceeded by boat up the Bleichen Fleet; but, just as they were about to penetrate by the open back entrance, a loud explosion was heard high over head, and a quantity of bricks, tiles, and old timber came tumbling down to splash in the canal.
'Der Teufel! what is this!' exclaimed the baron, 'are we at the siege of Paris again?'
But, though the house was closely examined, the mingled tragedy and catastrophe which Herr Wyburg's revengeful scheme had brought about was never quite explained.
Mr. John Gaiters heard betimes of a dead and mangled body, answering to the description of his master, being discovered in the half-blown-up house; and found himself without a place and also without a character.
He applied a cambric handkerchief—one of Sir Redmond's—to his eyes, and then anathematised them. He then took possession of his late master's portmanteaux at the 'Hotel Russie,' lit a cigarette, and went leisurely on board the London steamer at the Hafenbasin, and Hamburg knew him no more.
The public prints had made all interested therein, aware that Leslie Colville and another, described variously as Taimar of the Guide Corps, and Corporal Wodrow of the 10th Hussars, had escaped the massacre and were safe.
Colville safe and living still! What an awful burden was now doubly lifted from the heart of Mary—a heart too full for words.
It was natural for her to have hope at her years; but the tidings of the slaughter at the Residency seemed to crush all hope for ever.
A telegram first came from Colville, and ere long there was actually a letter from Robert Wodrow.
'Forgive me, beloved Ellinor, as I have forgiven and forgotten a portion of our past,' he wrote, gently and humbly. 'Because that fellow Sleath was a rascal, you do not mean to go through life "a maiden all forlorn." And so you still stick to me alone, in spite of what people may say—a poor corporal of Hussars as yet. When I think of you sought after, admired, and doubtless loved by dozens of fellows, better a thousand degrees than luckless Bob Wodrow; I can but trust to your heart holding the memory of me against them all—for a memory it may be, Ellinor, as I am not out of this perilous Afghanistan yet—and a year ago I never thought to be here.
"The poison is yet in my brain, love,
The thorn in my flesh, for you know
'Twas only a year ago, love,
'Twas only a year ago."
And Ellinor wept as she read the words his hands had traced.
A few more references to history.
A clasp for Charasiah was ordered to be worn with the war medal, but ere he saw Ellinor, Robert Wodrow had yet to win the bronze star awarded to all who shared in Roberts's famous march to Candahar.
'After all the peril faced and glory won, are we to give up Candahar—after all?' was the ever-recurring question among the soldiers of our army, as they marched back to India, and felt that, though Roberts had restored our prestige, all the honour gained in battle would be lost if we failed to retain Candahar.
Through the gates of that city have all the great conquerors of India come—Alexander and Timor, Genghis Khan and Nadir Shah; it bars the approach to India from the north and west, and the power that holds it—as one day Russia will—commands both Cabul and Herat.
The facilities for attacking India from it are innumerable, and, as Sir Edward Hamley has it, 'I believe the concurrent testimony of all Indians is that there is no territory on which it would be more perilous to give our enemy the chance of winning a battle than our Indian Empire.'
General Roberts, in a minute to the Government, 29th May, 1880, urged 'that our grasp on Candahar should never be loosened,' and that its military retention was of vital importance to us in all wars connected with the Afghans or Russians in Central Asia. Lord Napier of Magdala, Sir George Lawrence, Sir Henry Rawlinson, and all other high authorities on Indian military affairs, have spoken or written in the same tone on this all-important subject; yet, in defiance of their opinions, Candahar was handed over to the Ameer, and since then the Russian eagle has laid its talons on Merv!
'Home at last!' exclaimed Leslie Colville, aloud but to himself in the excess of his joy, as his train from Dover went clanking in to crowded and busy Charing-Cross Station. 'Home at last! How jolly it is to see the English faces, the familiar sights and hear the familiar sounds again—and to be once more in mufti!'
'Globe—Graphic—'Lustrated News—Punch!' He listened to the calls of the newsboys as if they sang sweet music; and for days past he had thought of, whistled, and hummed the burden of an old Scottish song he had heard his nurse sing long ago—
'Hame, hame, hame, oh, fain wad I be;
Hame, hame, hame, in my ain countrie!'
And the desire had become a realization—a fact.
'And now to meet my darling!' he thought, as he plunged into a well-horsed hansom, and, leaving his luggage to follow, was driven at a tearing pace towards Grosvenor Square, for which the residence at Altona had been gladly quitted by Mrs. Deroubigne and her two charges,
'Journeys of a few hundred miles are no longer described in these days of ours,' says Charles Reade; nor those of thousands at the rate we travel, so we have not detailed the journey of Colville.
At last it was ended, and he was with her.
Mary's pulses were leaping with excitement when they met, and she felt herself in his tender and prolonged embrace, though it all seemed a delicious and delirious dream, from which she might waken and again weep for him as dead, or as still expecting him.
It was well-nigh a year since they had parted, a year of many startling events, months since a line had been exchanged between them; and who could blame them if, for a little time, they forgot all the world, and everything else, but each other?
'How strange to think that this is the last walk we shall have together as lovers,' said Mary, in a soft, cooing tone, as they loitered by the Serpentine one evening.
'Yes, when next we promenade thus it will be as sober married folks,' said Colville, with his brightest smile.
'Dear—dear Leslie!'
'Our courtship days have been chequered certainly, but the end is a happy one.'
'Happy we have been from the moment we had perfect faith in each other, with one dreadful interval,' said Mary, with a little sob in her throat, as she thought of the first tidings from Cabul; 'could I but see my pet Ellinor even half so happy!'
'Her days for fullest happiness will come in time—and, dearest Mary, if all these lawyer fellows, Horning and Tailzie, tell me is true, I shall put a coronet on your golden hair, and you shall be my Lady Colville of Ochiltree,' said he, laughingly.
'Oh, to go home again!' said Mary, who was thinking more of Birkwoodbrae than a peerage and a house in Tyburnia. 'I was always a great knitter at odd times, Leslie, and half the old people at Kirktoun-Mailler benefited thereby. I was born among my old people, and long so much—amid my own great happiness—to see them once again. It seems ages since I came away.'
'And see them you shall in a little time now, darling, for there we shall spend our honeymoon.'
And then that season, so important in human life and human love, was spent as Colville had promised, and to Mary supreme was the delight of wandering over all the old familiar places again and again with him—the trout-pool where they had first met and he had lifted her off the stone; the Linn; the Holyhill; the Miller's Acre; under the old gate with the legend on its lintel, and where again she could train her flowers, and feed her chickens that looked like balls of golden fluff, while the 'siller birks'—the Birks of Invermay—cast their shadows over her again.
She was back again in her old groove as if she had never left it—to train her roses and clematis, to sow mignonette and sweet-scented stocks, and plant white lilies for Ellinor to paint from; and, with Jack by her side, with a solid silver collar (though one with spikes would better have suited his pugnacious propensities), to wander when dewy evening was falling, when the sheep were nibbling the grass briskly and monotonously; and a gleam came from the old ingle-lum of the kitchen, where Elspat was rolling out barley-meal cakes, and where everything spoke of home—now more than ever home!
'You see, Leslie darling,' said she, 'I feel for this place—we feel, Ellinor and I—as no one else ever could, having always, during the lifetime of papa and ever after, looked upon it as our own.'
'And your own it is, pet Mary.'
'And no other place, however grand or beautiful, could be like a home to us.'
The luxuries with which Colville could surround her—luxuries too great for a mansion so small then—her carriage-horses, her pair of ponies, her white Arab pad (all stabled as yet at the 'Dunkeld Arms'), her set of sables, her jewellery, and Parisian toilettes, her retinue of servants were the topics of 'the countryside,' and were duly descanted on by Mademoiselle Rosette Patchouli for the edification of her ladies; and the Honourable Blanche Gabrielle, with her elevated eyebrows, foreign tricks of manner, and incipient little French moustache, thought with anger of all she had lost.
The pompous old lord, with his facial angle à la Louis XIV., and his cold-blooded yet perfectly aristocratic lady, would gladly have shed the light of their countenances over Birkwoodbrae, but there Mary's Christianity ended; and she would have nothing of them, despite all good old Dr. Wodrow could urge.
Robert was returning an officer, with a well-earned cluster of medals on his breast, and he was coming straight to Kirktoun-Mailler and to her. So Ellinor often seated herself on a mossy bank, and, leaning her head of rich brown hair against the white stem of a silver birch, would give herself up to memory, and many a happy and repentant thought; while tears fell from her eyes—she was so happy!
A little time ago it would have been torture for Ellinor to look upon scenes so associated with Robert Wodrow, the lover she had wronged and lost and mourned for; and it was painful still to do so, though her heart throbbed with hope and joy, as he was returning to her with the rank and position he had predicted to his mother.
So Robert Wodrow will win the one woman of his heart! Hand and hand they will go forward together into that new existence—that new world of tame, married life, as it is deemed; but to them, a world of trust and love it will be; while explanations and memories of the sweet and bitter and perilous past will come in due course with the current of their own happy and mutual thoughts.
THE END.
LONDON: PRINTED BY DUNCAN MACDONALD, BLENHEIM HOUSE.