General Bounce Part 16

He dresses as though he kept a horse, yet is his gait that of a man who is continually on his legs, active as a cat, and of no mean pedestrian powers. He remains with Mr. Hardingstone about an hour, during which time much shuffling of feet is heard, and much hard breathing, with occasional expectoration on the part of the visitor.

The windows are invariably thrown wide open during the interview; and at its conclusion, the stranger being supplied with beer, for which fluid he entertains a remarkable predilection, wipes his mouth on his sleeve, and expresses his satisfaction at the hospitality of his entertainer, and the warmth of his reception, by stating, in reprehensibly strong language, that he has had "a--something--good bellyful." This too is a professor, and a scientific man; but his profession is that of pugilism, his science the n.o.ble one of self-defence. So the waiter is again all abroad: but when Mary Delaval puts up her veil, and taking out a plain card with her name written thereon, requests the astonished functionary to "take it up to Mr.

Hardingstone, and tell him a lady wishes to see him," even a waiter's self-command is overcome, and he can only relieve his feelings by the execution of an infinity of winks for his own benefit, and the frequent repet.i.tion of "Well, this beats c.o.c.k-fighting!" as he ushers the lady up the hotel stairs, and points out to her the rooms occupied by the mysterious guest.

Most people would have considered Frank hardly prepared to receive visits from a lady, both in respect of his costume and the general arrangement of his apartment. He was sitting in his shirt-sleeves, unbraced, and with his neck bare; his large loose frame curled up on a short, uncomfortable sofa, in anything but a graceful position, and his broad manly countenance gathered into an expression of intense, almost painful attention. A short pipe between his strong white teeth filled the room with odours only preferable to that of _stale_ tobacco-smoke, with which its atmosphere was generally laden; and the book on his knee was a ponderous quarto, to the full as heavy as it looked, and fit for even Frank's large intellect to grapple with. The furniture was simple enough; most of that which belonged to the hotel had been put away, and a set of boxing-gloves, two or three foils, a small black leather portmanteau, and a few books of the same stamp as that on the owner's knee, comprised almost the only objects in the apartment. The morning paper was lying unopened on the window-sill.

When he saw who it was, Frank started up with a blush, s.n.a.t.c.hed the short pipe out of his mouth, set a chair for his visitor, and sitting bolt upright on the short sofa, stared at her with a ludicrous expression of mingled shyness and surprise. He was glad to see her, too--for why?--she belonged in some sort to Blanche.

"Have you seen the morning paper?" began Mary, in her low, measured tones, though her voice shook more than usual. "Have you seen those disastrous tidings from the Cape? Oh, Mr. Hardingstone, we are all in despair! Charles Kettering has, in all probability, been"--she could not bring herself to say it--"at least he is missing--missing, gracious Heaven! in that fearful country!--and we have only heard of it this morning. The General is incapable of acting; he is completely paralysed by the blow; and I have come--forgive me, Mr.

Hardingstone--I have come to you as our only friend, to ask your advice and a.s.sistance; to entreat you to--to----" Poor Mary broke down, and went into a pa.s.sionate fit of weeping, all the more violent from having been so long restrained.

Frank was horrified at the intelligence; he made a grasp at the paper, and there, sure enough, his worst fears were confirmed. But this was no time for the indulgence of helpless regret; and when Mary was sufficiently composed, he asked her with a strange, meaning anxiety, "How Blanche bore the fatal tidings?" Heart of man! what depths of selfishness are there in thy chambers! At the back of all his sorrow for his more than brother, at the back of all his anxiety and horror, he hated himself to know that there was a vague feeling of relief as if a load had been taken off, an obstacle removed. He would have laid down his life for Charlie; had he been with him in the bush, he would have shed the last drop of his blood to defend him; yet now that his fate was ascertained, he shuddered to find that his grief was not totally unqualified; he loathed himself when he felt that through the dark there was a gleam somewhere that had a reflection of joy.

"Blanche's feelings you may imagine," replied Mary, now strangely, almost sternly composed; "she has lost a more than brother" (Frank winced); "but of feelings it is not the time to talk. You may think me mad to say so, but something tells me there may still be a hope. He is not reported killed, or even wounded; he is 'missing'; there is a chance yet that he may be saved. These savages do not always kill their prisoners" (she shuddered as she spoke); "there is yet a possibility that he may have been taken and carried off to the mountains. An energetic man on the spot might even now be the means of preserving him from a hideous fate. These people must surely be amenable to bribes, like the rest of mankind. Oh, it is possible--in G.o.d's mercy it is possible--and we may get him back amongst us, like one from the dead."

Frank grasped at her meaning in an instant; and even while he did so, he could not help remarking how beautiful she was--her commanding sorrow borne with such dignity and yet such resignation. He drew down his brows, set his teeth firm, and the old expression came over his face which poor Charlie used to admire so much--an expression of grim, unblenching resolve.

"You're right, Mrs. Delaval, it might be done," he said, slowly and deliberately. "How long has the mail taken to come to England--twenty-eight days?--the same going out. It is a desperate chance!--yet would it be a satisfaction to know the worst. Poor boy!--poor Charlie!--game to the last, I see, in the general order.

What think ye, Mrs. Delaval; would it be any use?"

"If I was a man," replied Mary, "I should be in the train for Southampton at this moment."

Frank rang the bell; the waiter appeared with an alacrity that looked as if he had been listening at the keyhole. "Bring my bill," said Frank to that astonished functionary, "and have a cab at the door in twenty minutes."

"You are going, Mr. Hardingstone?" said Mary, clasping her hands; "G.o.d bless you for it!"

"I am going," replied Frank, putting the short pipe carefully away, and pulling out the small black portmanteau.

"You will start to-day?" asked Mary, with an expression of admiration on her sorrowing countenance for a decision of character so in accordance with her own nature.

"In twenty minutes," replied Frank, still packing for hard life; and he was as good as his word. His things were ready; his bill paid; his servant furnished with the necessary directions during his master's absence; and himself in the cab, on his way to his bankers, and from thence to the railway station, in exactly twenty minutes from the moment of his making up his mind to go.

"Tell Blanche I'll bring him back safe and sound," said he, as he shook hands with Mary on the hotel steps; "and--and--tell her," he added, with a deeper tint on his bronzed, manly cheek, "tell her that I--I had no time to wish her good-bye."

We question whether this was exactly the message Frank intended to give; but this bold fellow, who could resolve at a moment's notice to undertake a long, tedious voyage, to penetrate to the seat of war in a savage country, and, if need were, to risk his life at every step for the sake of his friend, had not courage to send a single word of commonplace gallantry to a timid, tender girl. So it is--Hercules is but a cripple in sight of Omphale--Samson turns faint-hearted in the lap of Delilah--nor are these heroes of antiquity the only champions who have wittingly placed their brawny necks beneath a small white foot, and been surprised to find it could spurn so fiercely, and tread so heavily. Mary should have loved such a man as Frank, and _vice versa_--here was the _beau ideal_ that each had formed of the opposite s.e.x. Frank was never tired of crying up a woman of energy and courage, one who could dare and suffer, and still preserve the queenly dignity which he chose to esteem woman's chiefest attraction; and so he neglected the gem, and set his great, strong heart upon the flower.

Well, we have often seen it so; we _admire_ the diamond, but we _love_ the rose. As for Mary, she was, if possible, more inconsistent still.

As she walked back to Grosvenor Square she thought over the heroic qualities of Mr. Hardingstone, and wondered how it was possible he should yet remain unmarried. "Such a man as that," thought Mary, revolving in her own mind his manifold good qualities, "so strong, so handsome, so clever, so high-minded, he has all the necessary ingredients that make up a great man; how simple in his habits, and how frank and unaffected in his manner; a woman might acknowledge _him_ as a superior indeed! Mind to reflect; head to plan; and energy to execute! She would be _proud_ to love him, to cling to him, and look up to him, and worship him. And Blanche has known him from a child, and never seen all this!" and a pang smote Mary's heart, as she recollected _why_, in all probability, Blanche had been so blind to Frank Hardingstone's attractions; and how _she_, of all people, could not blame her for her preference of another: and then the fair young face and the golden curls rose before her mind's eye like a phantom, and she turned sick as she thought it might even now be mouldering in the earth. Then Mary pulled a letter from her pocket, and looked at it almost with loathing, as the past came back to her like the shade of a magic-lantern. She saw the gardens at Bishops'-Baffler; the officers in undress uniform, and the grey charger; the evening walks; the quiet summer twilight; the steeple-chase at Guyville; and her eyes filled with tears, and she softened to another's miseries as she reflected on her own. "Selfish, unprincipled as he is," thought Mary, "he must love me, or he never would make such an offer as this. And what am I, that I should spurn the devotion of any human being? Have not I, too, been selfish and unprincipled, in allowing my mind to dwell alone on him who in reality belonged to another? Have I not cherished and encouraged the poison?--have I not yielded to the temptation?--do I wish even now that it was otherwise?--and am I not rightly punished?--have I not suffered less than I deserve?--and yet how miserable I am--how lonely and how despairing!--there is not another being on earth as miserable as I am!"

"By your leave, ma'am," said a rough, coa.r.s.e voice; and Mary stepped aside to make way on the pavement for a little mournful procession that was winding gloomily along, in strange, chilling contrast to the bustle and liveliness of the street. It was a little child's funeral.

The short black coffin, carried so easily on one man's shoulder, seemed almost like a plaything for Death. It was touching to think what a tiny body was covered by that scanty pall--how the little thing, once so full of life and laughter, all play and merriment and motion, could be lying stiff and stark in death! It seemed such a contradiction to the whole course of nature--a streamlet turning back towards its source--a rosebud nipped by the frost. Had the grim Reaper no other harvest whitening for his sickle? Was there not age, with its aches and pains and burdens, almost asking for release? Was there not manhood, full of years and honours, its appointed task done on earth, its guerdon fairly earned, itself waiting for the reward? Was there not crime, tainting the atmosphere around it, that to take away would be a mercy to its fellow-men, and a deserved punishment to its own hardened obstinacy, having neglected and set aside every opportunity of repentance and amendment? Was there not virtue willing to go, and misery imploring to be set free? And must he leave all these, and cut off the little creeping tendril that had wound and twisted itself round its mother's heart? There was the mother first in the slow procession--who had so good a right to be chief mourner as that poor, broken woman? Who can estimate the aching void that shall never be quite filled up in that sobbing, weary breast? She is not thinking of the funeral, nor the pa.s.sers-by, nor the c.r.a.pe, nor the mourning; she does not hear rough condolences from neighbours, and well-meant injunctions "to keep up," and "not to give way so," from those who "are mothers themselves, and know what a mother's feelings _is_." She is thinking of her child--her child shut down in that deal box--yet still hers--she has got it still--not till it is consigned to the earth, and the dull clods rattle heavily on the lid, will she feel that she has lost it altogether, when there will come a fearful reaction, and paroxysms of grief that deaden themselves by their own violence; and then the wound will cicatrise, and she will clean her house, and get her husband's dinner, and sit down to her st.i.tching, and neighbours will think that she has "got over her trouble," and she will seem contented, and even happy. But the little one will not be forgotten. When the flowers are blooming in the spring--when the voices of children are ringing in the street--when the strain of music comes plaintively up the noisy alley--when the sun is bright in heaven--when the fire is crackling on the hearth--then will her lost cherub stretch its little arms in Paradise, and call its mother home.

As Mary made way for the poor afflicted woman, who for an instant withdrew from her mouth the coa.r.s.e handkerchief that could not stifle her sobs, she recognised Blanche's former maid, poor Gingham. Yes, it was Mrs. Blacke, following her only child, her only treasure, her only consolation, to the grave. Poor thing! her sin had been too heavy for her to bear; with her husband's example daily before her eyes, what wonder that she strove to stifle her conscience in intoxication? Then came "from bad to worse, from worse to worst of all"; the child was neglected, and a rickety, sickly infant at all times, soon pined away, and sickened and died. The mother was well-nigh maddened with the thought that it _might_ have been saved. Never will she forgive herself for that one night when she left it alone for two hours, and coming back, found the fever had taken it. Never will she drive from her mind the little convulsed limbs, and the rolling eyes that looked upward, ever upward, and never recognised her again. And now her home is desolate, her husband is raving in the hospital, and her child is in that pauper-coffin which she is following to the grave. Mary Delaval, do you still think you are the most miserable being on the face of the earth?

CHAPTER XX

DAWN IN THE EAST

MILITARY CRITICISMS--GARE LES FEMMES!--THE MAJOR AT HOME--A BITTER PILL--"I'M A-WEARY"--VERY NEAR THE BORDER--DAY DAWNS IN THE EAST--THE BETTER ANGEL--A BRAIN FEVER--A SICK-NURSE IN SPURS

"'Gad, I thought the Major was very crusty this morning," remarked Cornet Capon, as he removed a large cigar from his lips, and watched its fragrant volume curling away into the summer air. "How he gave it you, Clank, about leading the column so fast, and about riding that old trooper instead of your own charger! I can't help thinking D'Orville's altered somehow; used to be such a cheery fellow."

"_You_ needn't talk, my boy," retorted Captain Clank to his subaltern; "I heard him tell you that if you would attend a little more to your _covering_, and less to your _overalls_, you would be quite as ornamental, and a good deal more useful to the regiment; but I agree with you--he _is_ altered. He's like all the rest of 'em--a capital fellow till you get him in command, and then he's crotchety and cantankerous and devilish disagreeable. Give us another weed."

These young officers were not very busy; they were occupied in, perhaps, the most wearisome of all the duties that devolve on the dragoon, and their task consisted of lounging about a troop-stable, attired in undress uniform, to watch the men cleaning and "doing up"

their respective horses. They could but smoke, and talk over the morning's field-day to while away the time. Neither of them was enc.u.mbered with an undue proportion of brains--neither of them could have engaged in a much deeper discussion than that which they now carried on; yet they did their duty scrupulously, they loved the regiment as a home, and looked upon the B Troop as their family; and although their thoughts ran a little too much on dress, fox-hunting, driving, and other less harmless vanities, they were, after all, good comrades and tolerably harmless members of society. Cornet Capon's ideas oozed out slowly, and only under great pressure, so he smoked half a cigar in solemn silence ere he resumed, with a wise look--

"There's something at the bottom of all this about the Major, Clank.

Did you notice where he halted us after the charge--all amongst that broken ground at the back of the Heath? We shall have half the horses in the troop lame to-morrow."

"Old 'Trumpeter' was lame to-day," returned Clank, with a grim smile, "and that's why D'Orville was so savage with me for riding him. You're right, Capon. The Major's amiss--there's a screw loose somewhere, I'm sure of it, and I'm sorry for it."

"He lost 'a cracker' at Newmarket last week, I _know_," said Capon, thoughtfully; "I shouldn't wonder if he was obliged to go--let me see--Lipstrap'll get the majority, and I shall get my lieutenancy.

Well, I shall be sorry to lose him, though he _does_ blow me up."

"Pooh! man, it's not _that_," rejoined Clank, who was a man of sentimental turn of mind, and kept Tommy Moore in his barrack-room.

"You young ones are always thinking about racing. I've known D'Orville hit a deal harder than that, and never wince. Why, I recollect he played a civilian, at Calcutta, for his commission and appointments against the other's race-horses and a bungalow he had up in the hills.

'Gad, sir, he won the stud and the crib too--and not only that, but I landed a hundred gold mohurs by backing his new lot for the Governor-General's Cup, and went and stayed a fortnight with him at his country-house besides--best billet _I_ ever had--furniture and fittings and fixings all just as t'other fellow left them.

No--D'Orville's as game as a pebble about money--it isn't _that_."

Cornet Capon opened his eyes, smoked sedulously for about five minutes, and then asked Clank, "What the devil there was to bother a fellow, if it wasn't money?"

"Women!" replied the Captain, looking steadily at his companion; "women, my boy. I've watched the thing working now ever since I was a cornet, and I never knew a good fellow thoroughly broke down that there wasn't a woman at the bottom of it. Now, look at Lacquers; when Lacquers came to us, there wasn't such another cheery fellow in the Hussar Brigade--it did me good to see Lacquers drink that '34 we finished in Dublin--and as for riding, there wasn't another heavy-weight in that country could see _the way he went_--and now look what he's arrived at. Never dines at mess--horses gone to Tattersall's--sits and mopes in his barrack-room, or else off to London at a moment's notice--and closeted all day with agents and men-of-business--and what is it that's brought him to this pa.s.s? Why, that girl he wants to marry, who won't have anything to say to him--and why she won't is more than I can tell, unless she's got a richer chap in tow somewhere else. Capon, my boy, you're younger than me, and you've got most of your troubles to come. Take my advice, and stick to the regiment, and horses and hunting and that; but keep clear of women; they're all alike--only the top-sawyers are the most mischievous--you keep clear of 'em all, for if you don't you'll be sorry for it--mark my words if you're not."

This was a long speech for the Captain, and he was quite out of breath at its conclusion; but the Cornet did not entirely agree with him. He had got a _tendresse_ down in the West--a saucy blue-eyed cousin, whose image often came before the lad's eyes in his barrack-room and his revelry and his boyish dissipation; so he contented himself with remarking profoundly that "Women were so different, it was impossible to lay down any general rule about them any more than horses;" and expressing his conviction that, whatever might be the secret grief preying upon the Major's spirits, it could have nothing to do with the fair s.e.x, "for you know, Clank, D'Orville's a devilish _old_ fellow--why, he must be forty if he's a day."

So the pair jingled into the mess-room to have some luncheon, and ordered their buggy, to drive up to London afterwards, and spend the rest of the day in the delights of the metropolis--since this it is which makes Hounslow such a favourite quarter with these light-hearted sons of the sword.

The Major was altered certainly, not only in temper, but even in appearance. He had got to look quite aged in the last few weeks. How strange it is that time, so gradual in its effects on the rest of creation, should make its ravages on man by fits and starts, by sudden a.s.saults, so to speak, and _coups-de-main_, instead of the orderly and graduated process of blockade! We see a "wonderfully young-looking man"--we watch him year by year, still as fresh in colour, still as upright in figure and as buoyant in spirits as we recollect him when we were boys--we admire his vigour--we envy him his const.i.tution, and we make minute inquiries as to his daily habits and mode of life--"he never drank anything but sherry," perhaps, and forthwith we resolve that sherry is the true _elixir vitae_. All at once something happens--he loses one that he loves--or he has a dangerous illness--or, perhaps, only meets with severe pecuniary losses and disappointments. When we see him again, lo! a few weeks have done the work of years. The ruddy cheek has turned yellow and wrinkled--the merry eye is dim--the strong frame bent and wasted--the man is old in despite of the sherry; and Youth, when once she spreads her wings, comes back no more to light upon the withered branch.

Hair has turned grey in a single night. We ourselves can recall an instance of a young girl whose mother died suddenly, and under circ.u.mstances of touching pathos. Her daughter, who was devotedly attached to her, was completely stupefied by the blow. All night long she sat with her head resting on her hand, and her long black tresses falling neglected over the arm that supported her throbbing temples.

When the day dawned she moved and withdrew her hand. One lock of hair that had remained pressed between her unconscious fingers had turned as _white as snow_. That single lock never recovered its natural hue.

Like the Eastern virgins, it mourned in white for a mother.

Well, the Major looked old and worn as he sat in his lonely barrack-room, surrounded by many a trophy of war-like triumph or sporting success. Here was the sabre he had taken from the body of that Sikh chief whom he cut down at the critical moment when, six horses' length ahead of the squadron he was leading, he had been forced to hew his way single-handed through his swarming foes. There, spread out on a rocking-chair, was the royal tiger-skin perforated by a single bullet, that vouched for the cool hand and steady eye which had stretched the grim brute on the earth as he crouched for his fatal bound. On the chimney-piece those enormous tusks recalled many a stirring burst over the arid plains of the Deccan, when the boldest riders in India thought it no shame to yield the "first spear" to the "Flying Captain," as they nicknamed our daring hussar. Nor were these exploits confined to the East alone. On the verdant plains of merry England had not Sanspareil, ridden by his owner, distanced the cream of Leicestershire in a steeple-chase, never to be forgotten whilst the Whissendine runs down from its source; and did not that spirited likeness of the gallant animal hang worthily above the cup that commemorated his fame? Yes, the Major had earned his share of the every-day laurels men covet so earnestly, and truly it was only opportunity that was wanting to twine an undying leaf or two amongst the wreath. Yet did he look haggard, and _old_, and unhappy. His hair and moustaches had become almost grey now, and as he sat leaning his head upon his hand, with an open letter on his knee, the strong fingers would clench themselves, and the firm jaw gnash ever and anon, as though the thoughts within were goading him more than he could bear. Like some gallant horse that feels the armed heel stirring his mettle the while he champs and frets against the light pressure of the restraining bit, a touch too yielding for him to face, too maddening for him to overcome, so the Major chafed and struggled, and while he scorned himself for his weakness, submitted to the power that was stronger than he; and though he strove and sneered, and bore it with a grim, sardonic smile, was forced to own the pang that ate into his very heart.

"And this is what you have come to at last," he said, almost aloud, as he rose and paced the narrow room, and halted opposite the looking-gla.s.s that seemed to reflect the image of his bitterest enemy; "this is what you have come to at last. Fool--and worse than fool!

After chances such as no man ever so threw away--after twenty years of soldiering, not without a certain share of distinction--with talents better than nine-tenths of the comrades who have far outstripped you in the race--with a brilliant start in life, and wind and tide for years in your favour--with luck, opportunities, courage, and above all, experience, what have you done? and what have you arrived at?

Three words in a dispatch which is forgotten--a flash or two of the spurious, ephemeral fame that gilds a daring action or a sporting feat--the reputation of being a moderately good drill in the field--and a chance word of approbation from fools, whom you know that you despise. Truly a fair exchange--a most equal barter. This proud position you have purchased with a lifetime of energy spent in vain, and that thorough self-contempt which is now your bitterest punishment. Money, too; what sums you have wasted, lavished upon worse than trifles!--but let that pa.s.s. Had you the same fortune and the same temptations you would spend it all again. The dross is not to be regretted; but oh! the time--the time--the buoyancy of youth, the vigour of manhood that shall never come again. Fool! fool!" and the Major groaned aloud. "And what have I lived for?" he added, as he sat himself down and leaned his head once more upon his hand, looking into his past life as the exile looks down from a hill upon the lights and shades of the cherished landscape he shall see no more. "I have lived for self, and I have my reward. Have I ever done one single action for a fellow-creature, save to indulge my own feelings? have I not schemed and flattered, and worked and dared all for self? and this is the upshot. The first time I try to do a disinterested action--the first time I strive to break from the fetters of a lifetime, to be free, to be _a man_, I am foiled, and scouted, and spurned. Refused!--refused!

by a poor governess--ha! ha!--it is, indeed, too good a joke. Gaston D'Orville on his knees, at forty, a grey old fool--on his knees to a wretched, dependent governess, and she refuses him. By all the demons in h.e.l.l--if there _is_ a h.e.l.l--it serves him right. Laugh! who can help laughing? And yet what a woman to lose--a woman who could write such a letter as this--a woman who knows me better, far better, than I know myself; she would have shared with me every dream of ambition--she would have appreciated and encouraged the few efforts I have ever made to be good--she would have understood me, and with her I could have been happy even in a cottage--but no! forsooth. Her mightiness, doubtless, thinks the poor major of hussars, pretty nearly ruined by this time, no such great catch. And is she not right? What am I, after all, that I should expect any human being to give up everything for _me_? Broken-down, old, worn-out, if not in body, at least utterly out-wearied and used-up in mind, why should I c.u.mber the earth? Gaston, my boy, you have played out your part--you have got to the end of your tether--'tis time for the curtain to drop--'tis time to lie down and go to sleep--there is not much to regret here--you have seen everything this dull world has to show. Now for 'fresh fields and pastures new'--at all events the waking will be glorious excitement--to find out the grand secret at last--where will it be, and how? I might know in ten minutes--many an old friend is there now--not badly off for company at any rate--there was poor Harry, the night before we were engaged at Chillianwallah he thought he was _there_. How well I remember him, as he told me his dream just before we went into action! He thought he was disembodied--floating, floating away through the blue night sky--hovering over the sea--bathing in the moonlight--flitting amongst the stars, and ever he got lighter and lighter, and ever he rose higher and higher, till he reached a cool, quiet garden, without a breeze or a sound, and there he saw his mother walking, as he remembered her before she died, when he was yet a child. And she placed her hand upon his brow, and the thin transparent hand clove through him--for he, too, was a spirit--till it struck chill like ice around his heart, and he awoke. Poor Harry, I saw him go down with a musket-shot through his temples; and he knows all about it, too, now. Pain! the pain is nothing. A dislocated ankle is far more acute agony than it would take to kill an elephant--'tis but a touch to a trigger, and the thing's done."

D'Orville got up coolly, and calmly walked across the room, took a certain oblong mahogany box from under his writing-table, and quietly unlocking it, drew his hand along the smooth, shining barrel of a pistol. He examined it well, p.r.i.c.ked the touch-hole, shook the powder well up into the nipple, and then, having wiped the weapon almost caressingly, laid it down on the table at his elbow, and pursued his reflections, more at ease now that he had prepared everything for his escape.

"Well, it can be done in a moment, so there need be no hurry about it.

In the meantime, let me see--I should like to leave some remembrances to the fellows in the regiment. There's that sabre--how game the old white-bearded chief died!--I almost wish I hadn't cut him down.

'Faith, I shall see him too. I expect he won't give me so warm a welcome as Harry--it's a pity I can't take him his sword back again.

Well, Lacquers always admired it, and I'll leave it him. Poor Lacquers, he's a good fellow, though a fool. I'll leave a note, too, asking him to take care of the white horse, and shoot him when he's done with him: let him follow his master, poor old fellow! Yes; there's very little to arrange--one advantage in having got through a good property. I don't think there'll be much quarrelling over _my_ will. And now, to consider the journey. I must have been very near it often before; and yet, somehow, I never looked at it in that light.

'Tis a different thing in action, with the excitement of duty, and watching the enemy, and keeping the men in hand, and that confounded smoke preventing one from seeing what is going on. No, I've never been _quite_ so near as now; but I must some day, even if I should put it off--I _must_ go at last--and why not now? What matter whether at forty or seventy? Time is not to be reckoned by years. I am old, and fit for nothing else. When the fruit is ripe, it had better be plucked; why should people let it hang and rot, till it drops off the tree, all spoilt and decayed? How do I know I may not want some of my manly energy where I am going? _Going_--how strange it sounds! Well, now to ticket the sabre, and write a line to poor Lacquers"--(D'Orville indited a few words in his firm, bold hand; if anything, firmer and bolder than usual)--"and now for 'a leap in the dark'--face the Styx, if there be such a place, just like any other _yawner_; and so, steady, steady!"