Friends I Have Made Part 14

"I'm not sure, but I think that was Mary Morris's face I saw, all pale and drawn, in one of the boats just pushed off; but it soon faded from sight as the steam-tug drew our great ship down the river; and then, as I turned away, heavy-hearted and dull at leaving the old country, I met the eyes of poor John Morris, when he must have thought of my words before his marriage, for he groaned, and, poor fellow, his head went down upon his arms on the bulwarks, and I could see his great, broad chest heaving as he sobbed and cried like a little child.

"Time went on, and up the country we had our work cut out. I'm no lover of butchery, but I'm a soldier by trade, and always tried to do my duty.

More than one battle I had been in, to come out scathless--the last time owing to a swinging sabre-cut given to a Sikh who was about to shoot me down, and it was not my hand that gave that sabre-cut, but the hand of John Morris.

Then came another fierce engagement, when, worn out with heat and thirst, the order came to charge. The moment before, the men were drooping and listless; but as the trumpet rang out, eyes lit up, bronzed faces flushed a deeper hue, and we trotted steadily, knee to knee, over the plain, nearing the enemy at every stride. John Morris was on my left, and I could not help smiling to think what a good man and true I had by my side; when the trumpet call again rang out `gallop,' and on we went until within a hundred yards of the foe, when again came the loud blast; spurs were used, and with a dash like a thunderbolt we were upon them. I recollect the sharp, ringing volley they gave us as we came down, and about the air bearing a strange, shrill cry; after which it was one wild, fierce struggle, till I found myself breathless and faint, trying to free myself from my horse, who was down, pinning me to the ground. A violent drag set me at liberty, just as the poor beast made its last effort to rise, and fell back dead.

"I will not sicken you with the scene around me, one that I tried to leave behind; but I had not limped many paces before a faint voice cried after me, `Sergeant!' and turning, there, raising himself upon his elbow, was poor John Morris, with a look that I shall never forget upon his face. There were plenty of horrors about, but I had eyes only for the poor fellow before me, and kneeling down, I supported his head and tried to stanch his wounds.

"`No good! no good!' he whispered. `I'm cut to pieces. Done my duty, sergeant, though it was hard work not to desert when I had to leave her.

Find her; tell her I was true to the last, and--Cowards!' he cried.

"At the same moment, almost, I started up, but half-a-dozen hors.e.m.e.n were upon me, and I was cut down and knew no more.

"It was years after when I saw England again, and tried to find out poor Mary--the weak, simple-hearted girl who had been left behind. I tried hard, but for a long time without any result, till one day I met by chance another woman who had been in the same plight.

"`Can I tell you where she is?' she said, `yes; come with me and I'll show you.'

"I hung back for a moment, thinking of the sad news I had to tell; but duty's duty, and I followed the woman from street to street, for quite half an hour, during which time I'd made up the words I meant to say, and was ready with my message, meaning, too, to tell poor Mary where she could draw the pay due to her husband. But I never delivered my message, for turning to the woman I said, `is it much farther?'

"`No,' she said, `close here; and I'd have been with her, but for the hope that my poor boy would some day come back.'

"I hung back again, but she took hold of my arm as she stopped by an iron gate, and pointed to a mult.i.tude of green mounds, saying--

"`They laid her there, somewhere, two years ago now, but I don't know which was the grave; for poor folks die fast, and people don't put stones up for soldiers' wives.'

"`Do you know what she died of?' I said, softly, for I was shocked and surprised.

"`Died of?' said the woman bitterly; `what I should have died of, only I was too hard--died because her husband was dragged away, and her little ones went one after the other: died of a broken heart! a poor, gentle thing, praying that they might meet again.'

"Yes; that mark was left when the Sikh cut me down, as I held poor John Morris's head; and now if you please, ma'am, we'll change the subject, for when I get talking about other people's sorrows that old wound begins to throb."

CHAPTER TEN.

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CHAPTER ELEVEN.

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"But I have," he said, "and she has gone home."

"Quite cured?" I said.

"Quite cured! Bah! It was easy enough. My doctoring was no good, what she wanted was to see the gentleman again whom she believed to have slighted her. I set people to work to find him. They found him, and the poor child has recovered rapidly and I don't believe she well can have a relapse. It was all a mistake or a misunderstanding that was all, and now matters are as happy as the day is long."

I could not help wishing then that he might as easily solve the cause of so many others' terrible state; but when I hinted at such a thing he shook his head.

"Such cases as hers are easy to manage, Miss Stoneleigh; I wish I could deal with my other patients as well."

CHAPTER TWELVE.

SOMEBODY DEAD.

Going about the streets of London on errands of mercy, naturally makes one observant of everything that seems in any way connected with trouble or sorrow. If I see a family moving, with all the discomforts of leaving one home for another, I immediately begin to wonder whether it is a voluntary affair or whether it is the result of misfortune. Again, a funeral always takes my attention and I find myself wondering whether the mourners could be helped or comforted by me, and I note whether the dead is young or old by the funeral trappings, and too often see that it is some tender child, though the grief is as great or greater when it is some dear wife or mother, or may be the father--the stay of some family.

My friends ought to consider me a doleful miserable person but they do not, and they never think it eccentric of me to take so much interest in houses with the window blinds drawn or shutters up, but rather give me their sympathy and help.

Noticing such matters it will be no cause for surprise that I had often marked the black c.r.a.pe band worn upon the arm of their uniform coats by soldiers and volunteers. The first time then that I saw driver after driver of the omnibuses along a busy line of route with a tiny black c.r.a.pe bow fastened on his whip I naturally became eager to know why this was, or rather who might be the important personage to whom the sign of respect was paid.

I felt as if I could give anything for an hour's chat with one of the drivers, but how was it to be obtained? I knew they were for long hours upon the box, and that during the short time they were at home it would be hard work to get either of them to tell me what I wanted, so I set to and pondered.

I don't know that I should have felt any compunction in taking a seat outside an omnibus, though now-a-days it would seem a very out of the way place for a lady in London streets. But I thought that if I could find one going out through the suburbs to some pleasant village it would be no more extraordinary than for a lady to take a seat upon a stage coach for a ride through one of the outlying districts beyond the reach of the rail.

The difficulty was solved, for I thought of the Richmond omnibuses, and making my way to the White Horse Cellar, in Piccadilly, I found no difficulty, for a ladder was placed for me, and I was able to climb to the vacant seat beside the driver, who looked at me askant as if suspicious of me. I saw him give a peculiar look at the conductor, and I smiled to myself as I nestled beneath the great tarpaulin ap.r.o.n, and watched the care with which he guided his two stout well-fed horses through the maze of conveyances, the c.r.a.pe bow like a strange black b.u.t.terfly seeming to flit to and fro before my eyes.

Nothing to him is the task, as through narrow channels he steers his way, pouncing upon a pa.s.senger here, another there; rarely using his whip, never in collision, but stopping short now in obedience to a "ting" from the conductor's bell; started again by the same means; and seeming to have that huge, heavily-laden vehicle, with twenty-eight people in and upon it, as much under control as if he sat a few inches from the ground in a pony-drawn basket carriage, driving in a country road.

But here it was again and again, a c.r.a.pe bow upon whip after whip, and many of those whip handles, and their holders' elbows, raised in the well-known salute to my driver, though it seems strange that when drivers salute each other they should always do it in that singular elbowish way, their eyes being all the while carefully inspecting their fellow's horses.

Somebody important must be dead for there to be so general a display of mourning, and I soon found out that I was right. Somebody of consequence had pa.s.sed away.

No one of the Royal Family, surely? No. Not an eminent statesman, or the papers would have recorded the fact. Man of science, philanthropist, preacher, teacher, author, actor, musician? No, none of these. Somebody of importance? Yes; somebody of importance.

To the world?

Yes, to his own little world.

Who might it be then?

An omnibus driver.

But you said a man of importance!

Yes; a man of importance--the father of a family, the man whose patient toil produced, Sat.u.r.day night by Sat.u.r.day night, the sum of money that should keep respectably his wife and six little ones;--the man who had no rest on Sundays; but seven days a week--hail, rain, sunshine, or bitter frost--goes on his monotonous journeys for fourteen, fifteen, sixteen hours per day, with hardly time allowed him to supply the wants of nature--a rough-looking, weather-stained, hoa.r.s.e-voiced, ignorant man; but a true, faithful husband, a loving father, and a patient toiler--the sole prop, stay, support of the weeping ones at home.

A man of importance called away from this busy, compet.i.tive, stirring world--somebody of importance dead, gainsay it who will.

So I found from my driver, who, after being exceedingly gruff and distant for a time, gradually seemed to thaw, and, as I asked question after question, became quite loquacious, as he made the black c.r.a.pe b.u.t.terfly flit from side to side in the act of caressing his horses with the whip. I did not see him lash them once; and at last he spoke out as if he had known me for years.

"Seems a sort of mark of respect for the poor chap, and we generally do it. Worth nothing, of course, for a kind thought and an honest tear in memory of an old friend's worth, to my way of thinking, all the c.r.a.pe and black feathers and velvet palls, and hea.r.s.es and mourning coaches, in the world. Don't say I'm right, ma'am; and though I talk of tears I don't say that I drop em. I leave that for the women to do, but I've had a few thoughts about poor Sam, who got off his box come Sunday three weeks dead beat, poor chap."

No, my driver did not seem at all the man given to tears, but in consequence of the cutting wind blowing right into our faces, there was a slight humidity in his eyes, and he sniffed twice very loudly, and then put his whip in the hand that held the reins, took off his hat, and fished out a red cotton handkerchief, with which he blew his nose loudly.