CHAPTER III.
August 11th.—I returned from parade this morning tired, feverish, and with a weight upon my conscience as though I had committed an unpardonable crime. I felt as if I dared not face my injured wife, still less the woman who has usurped her place in my affections, or rather who holds the place in which the other should have reigned.
Yet I was not only obliged to encounter both of them, but to go through all the formalities of daily life, without which perhaps the trial would have proved too much for my endurance.
Janie was the first; for since her illness she has not risen to breakfast, and I have been in the habit of carrying in her tray for her. It was with a shaking hand thatI lifted it to-day; and the poor child noticed the difference in my demeanour, and asked me tenderly if I were ill or tired. I had not quite made up my mind, before that, whether I should inform Janie of her cousin’s propensity for somnambulism or not; but as I met the trusting glance of her blue eyes, I resolved to do so, not only because it was a thing which might occur again and frighten her as before, but also that by confiding even so far in my wife, I seemed voluntarily to place a wider barrier between Lionne and myself. Therefore I sat down on the bed, and first binding her to secrecy, I related to her how I had spent my late nights upon the roof of the house, and by that means arrived at a solution of the mystery which had alarmed the native servants and herself.
‘Didn’t I tell you that your ghost would prove to be nothing?’ I said, trying to speak gaily, in conclusion.
‘Oh, Robert dear,’ was her reply, ‘do you call poor Lionne walking in her sleep nothing? I think it is horrible—almost as bad as a real ghost; and if I had beenyou, I couldn’t have gone near her for worlds. I should have died of fright first.’
‘But, Janie, you see that I am not a silly little girl, ready to believe every idle tale which is repeated to her. And you must show yourself to be a wise woman on this occasion, and be very careful that the story does not reach your cousin’s ears, as the knowledge is likely to make her worse instead of better. I shall give the ayah orders to hold her tongue, and sleep outside the door in future, so that Miss Anstruther may not wander about again unobserved.’
‘And I mustn’t tell Lionne, then, that you caught her?’ said Janie, in a voice of disappointment.
‘Certainly not,’ I replied, decidedly; and I rose to leave her, only half-satisfied that my wishes would be respected. Janie would not disobey me knowingly for the world—she has never attempted such a thing; but her little tongue goes so fast, that she is apt to part with a secret before she knows that it has left her keeping.
When I returned to the breakfast-room, Lionne was already there, pale indeed andrather silent, as she has been for several weeks past, but showing no signs that she was aware of our nocturnal meeting. But as I took her hand in mine, I felt the blood rush up to my temples, and my morning greeting must have been nearly unintelligible to her.
Why did I behave so foolishly? She is in all respects the same woman whom I met yesterday with an ordinary salutation—her manner even has not altered towards me; and yet the mere consciousness that that of which I had been vaguely dreaming is reality, was sufficient to make me almost betray what I feel by the expression of my features.
Is this my boasted strength?
We took a silent meal, and altogether an unprofitable one. I had no appetite; Lionne only trifled with the eatables upon her plate; and I think we both felt relieved when the ceremony was concluded.
I did not see her for the remainder of the morning, for I made an excuse of business, and took my tiffin at the mess. When I returned home at five o’clock, however, I found Janie earnestly persuadingher cousin to take a ride on horseback.
‘Do make her go, Robert dear,’ she exclaimed, as soon as I came upon the scene of action. ‘She has not ridden for weeks past, and she does look so pale. I am sure it will be good for her; you know it will, Robert,’ with violent winks and blinks which were sufficient in themselves to make the uninitiated stop to inquire their reason.
‘I daresay it will,’ I answered, obliged to say something. ‘Won’t you be persuaded?’ addressing Lionne.
She hesitated a little, but had no good reason to advance for her hesitation; and after a little more pressing on Janie’s part, retired to put on her habit.
‘I amsoglad that she is going,’ exclaimed my poor little caged bird, clapping her hands at her success. ‘Take great care of her, Robert; she is so kind to me.’
‘I will take care of her, Janie,’ I answered, earnestly, ‘and of you too. You may trust me, my dear; at least I hope so.’
‘Of course you take care ofme, sir,’ she replied, with a pretty pretension of pouting,‘because I amyour wife; but I am not so sure about my poor cousin.’
‘Be sure, then, Janie, if you can. I shall try to do my duty by both of you.’
‘Who talked of duty?’ cried my wife, shrugging her shoulders. ‘I never saw any one grown so grave as you have, Robert; you never seem now to be able to take a joke.’
I defended myself from this accusation on the plea of having found several grey hairs in my moustache last week; and before Janie had done laughing at the idea, Miss Anstruther reappeared, and I lifted her on her horse as though she were an ordinary friend to me, and my hands did not tremble under the burden of the creature I loved best in the world.
We rode on in silence together for some moments, and then I turned my horse’s head towards the sandy plain which I have before mentioned as lying between us and the ocean, and told her that I was about to take her down to the beach, that she might derive a little benefit from the sea-breeze.
‘Colonel Anstruther will not think that we have been taking sufficient care of you,Margaret, if we send you to him with such pale cheeks as you have now. I am afraid you find the hot weather very trying.’
‘I never liked the hot weather, even in England,’ she answered vaguely, whilst the rich blood mounted to her cheek beneath the scrutinising glance which I had turned towards her.
Our beach at Mushin-Bunda is hardly to be called a beach; for it possesses scarcely any shingles, but is composed of hillocks of loose sand which never stay in one place two nights together, but are ever shifting quarters, and are about as treacherous footing for an animal as one could desire. We passed over these carefully, however, and then we found ourselves upon the lower sands, which are daily washed by the sea, and rendered firm and level. Here we halted; for it was low tide, and the refreshing salt breeze fanned our hot faces, whilst the horses we rode stretched out their necks, and dilated their nostrils as though to drink in as much of it as they could.
Still we were very silent, and under the knowledge which had come to me the nightbefore, the silence was even more oppressive than usual.
‘This is delicious!’ I exclaimed at last; ‘worth coming farther than three miles to enjoy. This will do you good, Margaret.’
‘Yes,’ she sighed. ‘What would one not give for a little of it occasionally during these hot nights!’
‘You do not sleep well,’ I said, struck by a sudden impulse.
She coloured as I addressed her; but that is nothing new.
‘I don’t think I sleep badly,’ she replied, after a pause. ‘I seldom lie awake for any length of time, but—’
‘But when you rise in the morning, you feel unrefreshed and tired.’
‘How do you know that?’ she demanded quickly.
‘I guessed it, Margaret. I guess it from your looks, your demeanour, your languor. I know that you do not rest properly at night, and that if you will not take seasonable advice you will be ill.’
‘I am not ill,’ she answered in a low voice.
‘But you will be, which, under present circumstances, would greatly distress Janie.Will you not consent to see a doctor—if not for your own sake, for ours?’
I thought that physical care might in some measure relieve the mental disturbance under which she labours, or, at all events, prevent a repetition of her somnambulistic tendencies by which her secret may, some day, be made patent to the world. I never imagined she would guess my meaning; but the next moment I saw the mistake which I had made.
‘What have I been doing?’ she exclaimed, turning round with a rapidity for which I was totally unprepared. ‘What have I been saying? Tell me at once, Captain Norton; don’t keep me in suspense.’ And her dark eyes blazed upon me as though they would search into my very heart.
I trembled beneath the look, and was dumb.
‘Why do you think I cannot rest—that I shall be ill?’ she re-demanded almost angrily; and then reading the truth, I suppose, in my confused demeanour, she added in a lower voice, a voice almost of terror,Have I been walking in my sleep?’
The ice was broken, then; and although I still felt very uncomfortable in speaking to her of the circumstance, I did not see any other course open to me than to tell her briefly of my endeavour to find out the reason of my wife’s alarm, and the consequences which had ensued from it.
‘I had not wished to mention this to you,’ I said apologetically, ‘and only the directness of your question should have drawn it from me. However, as it is, I daresay it is for the best; for though the occurrence is a common one, it is as well to guard against its repetition.’
‘What did I say?’ was the only reply which she made to my concluding observation.
I had so slurred over the fact of her speaking at all that I hoped it had escaped her notice; but the tone in which she put this question portended that she meant to have it answered.
‘What did I say to you, Captain Norton?’ she repeated firmly.
I began to mumble something about the words of sleep-walkers being always unintelligible, but she brought me back to the point.
‘You must have heard me; in fact, I can see by your face that youdidhear. What was it that I said?’
‘I was so sleepy, Margaret,’ I commenced, but I felt my voice shaking audibly,—‘so sleepy, and altogether so confused, and my memory not being of the best, that I—I—really I—’
She gazed at me for a minute earnestly, almost hungeringly—I could feel it, though I did not see it—but I kept my eyes fixed over the sea, and a dead silence ensued between us. A dead silence, until it was broken by the living sound of tears; and I turned to see her dear head bent to her saddle-bow, and her slight figure shaken with her grief.
‘Margaret, dear Margaret!’ I exclaimed, forgetting everything but herself, ‘it was nothing—indeed it was nothing; a few words spoken at random, of which no one in his senses would think twice, or be so presumptuous as to understand as the interpretation of your true feelings towards him.’
But in my anxiety and ardour I had blurted out far more than I intended.
‘Be silent!’ she cried, as she lifted anindignant burning face to mine—‘be silent, Captain Norton! if you do not wish to insult me, or make me hate myself and you.’ And with that she dashed her hand impetuously across her eyes, and gathering up her reins, turned her horse’s head away from the sea-beach and began to canter towards home. I followed her, of course; but we did not exchange another word, and she would not even condescend to meet the imploring glance which, as I took her from the saddle, I lifted towards her face, mutely entreating for forgiveness.
She behaved much the same as usual during the remainder of the evening; only that I saw she studiously avoided coming in contact with myself. What a fool I was to say as much as I did! I, who almost registered a vow this morning that nothing should tear the secret from my lips. And now I have betrayed her to herself. I see she shuns me; I know she fears me; I almost believe I have made her hate me. Well, I have brought it on myself, and I must bear it as best I may; it only proves how little we know when we think—as I did this morning—that theworld cannot hold a greater misfortune for us than the one we then endure.
Oh, Lionne, Lionne! what is to be the end of this?
August 12th.—I was scarcely surprised when Janie came to-day to tell me in a broken voice that her cousin had just informed her of her intention to leave Mushin-Bunda as soon as possible, and that she had already written to Mrs Grant to ask if she could receive her at Madras until her uncle’s wishes with respect to her movements should be made known. I was not surprised, because I felt convinced that, after what had passed between us yesterday afternoon, her proud spirit would forbid her remaining under the same roof with me, if any alternative were open to her; at the same time I felt deeply hurt to think that my imprudence should be the means of driving her from the shelter of it. Janie, on the other hand, innocent as to the cause, had no reason to feel hurt, except by the want of confidence reposed in her; but she was wonderfully astonished, and disposed to resent my not being so as an additional grievance.
‘Why, you don’t seem in the least surprised to hear it, Robert!’ she complained. ‘Has Margaret said anything about it to you before?’
‘The subject has never been broached between us; but Miss Anstruther has a right, of course, to follow her own inclinations, and we none to interfere with them.’
‘No; but what can be thereason?’
‘Did you not ask her, Janie?’
‘Of course; but she only says that she does not feel so well here as she did at Madras.’
‘I think that is quite sufficient to account for her desiring a change. Strength soon gives way in this country; and I don’t think your cousin has been looking well or strong lately. What we know of her sleep-walking propensity is a proof of that.’
‘Then I mustn’t persuade her to stop with us, Robert?’ continued Janie, pleadingly.
‘By no means, dear. Let her follow the bent of her own wishes; it will be best for all of us.’
‘But Uncle Henry will be so surprised; and I am afraid he will be angry—and—andI had so hoped she was going to stay with me, Robert; and I feel so ill—and—and—so nervous, and I can’tbearthat Margaret should go away.’ And here the poor girl was quite overcome by the prospect of her own weakness and her companion’s departure, and burst into a flood of childish tears.
I felt very sorry for Janie. She has so thoroughly enjoyed the society of her cousin, and she is not in a condition to be vexed and thwarted with impunity. And then again I thought of Lionne travelling all the way back to Madras by herself, to accept a home from strangers, with nothing but her present unhappiness and her future uncertainty to bear her company; and I felt that neither of these should be the one to suffer, and that if the circumstances required a victim, it should be myself. I did not particularly wish to leave my regiment, nor my wife, nor any one else; but if it is impossible for us to continue on the same footing with one another, I felt that I should be the one to go. So I did not hesitate; but telling Janie to keep her tears until she should be sure they wererequired, went in search of Margaret Anstruther.
She was neither in the drawing-room nor in the dining-room, but in a little antechamber which it pleases my wife to call her boudoir, but which is the dullest and most unfrequented apartment in the house. There I found her, lying on the sofa, shading her eyes with her hand, but making no attempt at work or reading.
‘Margaret, may I speak to you?’
I could not, because I had offended her, go back to the more formal appellation of ‘Miss Anstruther;’ it seemed so much as though we had quarrelled.
‘If it is of anything I should care to hear,’ she said languidly.
‘It is of something to which I much desire you should listen,’ I replied. ‘Janie has just been telling me that you purpose leaving us. Is that true?’
‘It is,’ she answered curtly, but not unkindly.
‘I will not ask you for what reason,’ I went on to say, ‘because your wishes are your own, and shall be sacred; but if your decision is not irrevocable, think twicebefore you inflict such a disappointment on poor Janie. You know how weak and ill she is at present.’
‘Captain Norton, I must go.’
‘Mustyou? If I leave the house myself—if I leave the cantonment, and do not return?’
‘You are not in earnest?’ she said, raising her eyes to mine, too weary to be called surprised.
‘I am. I have long intended going to Haldabad on a shooting excursion, which may detain me for two or three months. Inadvertently almost I have delayed it, your visit and Janie’s illness coming in the way; but now I am ready to start at twelve hours’ notice, if need be—indeed, I am anxious to be gone.’
‘And what will Janie say to that, Captain Norton?’ she demanded in a lowered voice.
‘At this moment I believe that my absence will affect Janie less than your departure would do. She is very much attached to you, and she feels the comfort of a woman’s presence. Added to which, Margaret, I am in a great measure responsibleto your uncle for your proceedings, and I shall not feel easy if you leave my house for a stranger’s without previously asking his consent. He will imagine I have proved unfaithful to my trust. Do you wish others to think as badly of me as I do of myself?’
As I uttered these words I dropped my voice almost to a whisper, but she heard them plainly.
‘Oh, let me go! let me go!’ she exclaimed wildly. ‘It will be better, far better, for all of us. I cannot, indeed I cannot, remain here; the air of this place stifles me.’
‘I have made you despise me,’ I said despondently.
‘No; oh no!’ and her dark eyes were fixed upon me for a moment with an expression which I would have kept in them for ever; ‘but—youknow, Captain Norton, that it is best—that, in fact, wemust part.’
‘I do know it,’ I replied; ‘and therefore I am going. By this time to-morrow I hope to have made all necessary preparations, and to be ready for a start. Meanwhile you will stay here—I knowyou will, because I ask you—to comfort and look after Janie until you receive your uncle’s consent to go to Madras. And when it arrives, and you have left Mushin-Bunda, I will return to it.’
‘And we shall never, never meet again!’ she said, in a voice so broken as to be almost inarticulate.
I dared not answer her; had I spoken, I must have poured out all my heart.
‘You have consented?’ were my next words.
‘Yes, since you think it best; only I am sorry to be the means of driving you from home.’
‘If you are—though you have no need to be—will you give me one recompense, Margaret?’
She lifted her eyes inquiringly; speech seemed almost lost to her.
‘Say you forgive me for what I told you yesterday. I have sorely reproached myself since.’
She stretched out her hand, and met mine in a grasp which, though firm, was cold as that of death.
‘Then we part friends?’
It was again myself who spoke; she nodded her head in acquiescence, and I felt my prudence evaporating, and rushed from the apartment.
Written down, this interview seems nothing; but to those who feel as we do, the misery of years may be compressed into an hour; and that small room, for both of us, was worse than a torture-chamber.
I have scarcely seen her since, except at meals; but, as I anticipated, my wife was so delighted to learn that she should retain her cousin’s company, that she thought next to nothing of my proposed shooting excursion, except to beg that I would take care of myself, and to wonder how I could like going after those ‘horrid bears’ and ‘awful tigers.’ Indeed, on the whole, I half suspect the little woman is rather glad to get rid of me, and pleased at the idea of having Margaret all to herself for a few weeks; for she has occasionally displayed the faintest touch of jealousy when I have broken up theirtête-à-têteconferences. So I have sent them word down to the Fort to lay my ‘dawk’ for me, andI shall start as soon as to-morrow’s sun goes down.
I almost think we shall have a storm first, which would pleasantly clear the air; for the sky has been indigo-colour all to-day, and there is a strange heaviness over everything as I write.
I have been packing my portmanteau and cleaning my weapons, until I have fairly tired myself out; but were I to stop to think, I could never summon courage enough to go. The household is asleep, and has been for hours; and I am sadly in want of rest; for I can hardly keep my eyes open or guide my pen upon the paper—and yet I feel as though I should never sleep again.
Bah! I must be mad or dreaming. I am only starting on an ordinary shooting excursion, and I feel as though I were going to my grave.
This is folly—monomania; I shall be thankful when the hour comes for me to leave.
Madras, October 20th.—It is more than two months since I transcribed a line inthis written record of my inmost thoughts—more than two months since that awful, horrible, and most unexpected catastrophe occurred, which I cannot now recall without a shudder, and which, for a time, seemed as if it must obliterate my reason or my life. But I am spared (though I cannot yet say, thank God that it is so); and were it not that my soul seems to die within me, and my energy to languish for want of some one or thing to which I may confide my sorrow, I should not have the courage even now to write the story down. But I must speak, even though it be but to a silent confidant, for my spirit fails for lack of sympathy; and therefore I draw out my old diary, and having read (shall I be ashamed to say with tears?) what I have written in these foregoing pages, proceed to bring the tale to a conclusion.
Let me try to collect my scattered thoughts, so apt to wander when I approach this miserable subject, and carry them back to the eventful moment when I last left off—to the night of the 12th of August.
I had sat up, packing my wardrobe andwriting my diary, until I had fairly tired myself out, and then, having put away my book and writing materials into the table-drawer, I locked it, and lighting a cigar, sat down to think; of what, and in what strain, I and these pages, to my misery, best know.
I had no intention of permitting myself to fall asleep; but it is my custom to smoke just before retiring to bed, and I should have anticipated a broken rest without the indulgence. At the same time my fatigue was greater than I thought, and after a little while drowsiness came over me, and before I knew that sleep was coming, I was in the land of dreams.
And such a land! Thank heaven, for those who are not destined in this world to know substantial happiness, that dreams remain to them.
I dreamt that I was with Margaret again on the sea-shore; not riding, but wandering hand-in-hand; not speaking coldly or with averted faces, but eyes to eyes, and heart to heart. I dreamt that I was watching the damask blush which mantled on her cheek, and listening to the low, mellowsound of her rich voice, and that mingled with my own reply came the hoarse murmur of the ocean as it swelled and surged upon the shore.
I dreamt that we were one; one not in the earthly acceptation of the word, but in that fuller sense by which spirits are united to each other, never more to part; and that as we strolled upon the beach together we knew that neither death nor injury could sever us again. And amidst it all I was listening to the hoarse murmur of the waves, which rolled up to our very feet, and broke away, but to return with an energy louder and more imperative than before. I dreamt that as I stood thus, enfolding my new-found treasure in my arms, I started to find that the sky was overcast, and that the tide had surrounded us, and was behind as well as before, and threatening to overwhelm my darling. I dreamt that in my fear and solicitude I drew her backwards, trembling for her safety, and that as I whispered words of love and reassurance, I woke—to dream no more.
I woke, at the bidding of a loud andterrified scream from the lips of my native servants, and springing to my feet, became first aware of a sensation of intense chillness, and next, as my remaining senses gradually returned to me, of a hoarse murmur somewhere near me, which recalled the memory of my dream.
The night was intensely dark; there seemed to be neither moon nor stars, and for one moment I stood, uncertain which way to move, and waiting to hear if the cry had only been my fancy, or would be repeated. Too soon it came again, this time louder, more terrified, more piercing than before; and its burden words of fearful import, too fearful to be at first believed. ‘Master! master!’ it said in Hindustani; ‘master, the sea is on us!’ And before I could scarcely realise the meaning of the words, the natives who slept in the verandah had rushed into my presence, and were immediately followed by a huge wave of water, which, with the hollow roar to which I had listened in my dreams, burst into the unprotected sitting-rooms, and washed over my feet.
‘Master!’ cried the natives, as theyclambered upon tables and chairs, ‘the sea has burst its bounds; the sea is coming on us; the whole cantonment will be under water!’
‘Close the doors and windows!’ I exclaimed loudly; but no one stirred, and I attempted to set them the example of doing as I said, but it was too late. I perceived a dark volume of water stealing stealthily upon us from all sides, and even as I advanced towards the verandah, a huge wave dashed against me, washing me to the middle, knocking me backwards on the drawing-room table, and carrying away a chair as it retreated. At the same moment, a scream from the women’s apartments told me that the sea had reached that quarter; and with no thought but for the safety of those dear to me, I dashed without ceremony into Miss Anstruther’s room. I found her pale and trembling, but just awakened, sitting on the side of her bed with her bare feet in a river of sea water.
‘Whatisthe matter?’ she gasped as I entered.
‘The sea has overflowed the cantonment,’ I replied hastily, as I quickly liftedher in my arms; ‘but trust tome, Lionne, and I will take you to a place of safety.’
She shuddered but made no resistance, until I had carried her to the dining-room, now half full of water, and was preparing to wade with her through the verandah, and place her on the roof of the house.
‘But where is Janie?’ she exclaimed, as she looked with horror on the advancing mass of water; ‘oh, where is Janie?’
At her question I nearly dropped my burden; for the moment I had entirely forgotten my poor wife, whose screams were patent from the adjoining room.
‘Go to her,’ said Lionne, as she struggled from my embrace, and slid down into the cold waves, against the violence of which she could hardly support herself. ‘Go at once! What were you thinking of? She will drown, if you do not take care.’
‘I am doing as much as I can,’ I answered hurriedly. ‘Let me place you in safety first, and then I will return for her. I cannot carry two at once.’
‘And you would leave her to the last?’ she said indignantly; ‘she, in whom twolives are wrapt in one! Oh, Robert! I did not think it of you.’
‘But, my beloved—’ I commenced, in an agony at her delay.
‘Go!’ she said authoritatively; and I left her to her fate, and went.
I found my poor little wife wet through and screaming for help; and lifting her in my arms, I carried her, buffeting with the water as I went, through the dining and drawing-rooms to the outer verandah.
‘Hold fast—take the greatest care of yourself,’ I exclaimed in an agony of fear, as I battled past the white-clad figure which was clinging to the door-posts. ‘I will return, Lionne, as soon as ever I can.’
‘I am not afraid; God will take care of me,’ was the calm reply; and I strode forwards into deeper and deeper water with each step. When I reached the verandah the struggle was severe, for there the waves were highest and strongest; but although much impeded by Janie’s terrified clasp, I managed to wade with her to the foot of the ladder, and as soon as I had accomplished two or three steps of that,the rest was easy. I toiled with my helpless burden up to the roof, despair lending strength to my limbs; and as soon as I had reached it, I found myself in a goodly company of natives, who, with a few unfortunate exceptions, had managed to gain the top of the house as soon as the flood had surprised them. Having delivered Janie to the care of the ayah, I rushed down again to the assistance of Lionne, my heart throbbing as though it would burst with the fear that my efforts might be made too late. The water was now higher than ever in the verandah, and I began to be afraid that I should have to swim back again. I dashed on as vigorously and quickly as I could towards the door, to the lintels of which I had left her clinging. She was not there!
The dark water was swaying and surging through the deserted rooms; the furniture was floating about in the most dire confusion; trunks, portmanteaus, and other trivial articles knocked up against me at every turn before they drifted out to sea; but my beloved I saw nowhere. In an agony I called upon her name, making thewalls resound with my voice, caring nothing who heard or listened to me.
‘Lionne, Lionne! my dearest, my beloved! where are you? Speak to me.’
But no voice answered mine, no moan or groan reached my ears; and I waded into the chamber which had been my wife’s.
Ah, what was that?—that helpless mass of white drapery clinging about delicately-moulded limbs, which swayed about in one corner, prevented by the wall—thank gracious heaven!—from floating out to sea with chairs and tables, but being knocked against that cruel wall with every motion of the waves, until no apparent life was left in it.
I took her senseless body in my arms, thankful even in that condition to have it there; and lifting the dear white face above the reach of the impetuous tide, laid my cheek against her own, although I believed that human warmth would never again visit it. It was no time for words or even thought. I pressed her to me as fondly as though the waves had been our bridal bed; and resenting the despair which urged meto let the cruel water carry us both away together then and there, battled with it once more, and bore my treasure to the place of safety. But it was with feelings such as no words of mine can describe, that I laid her beauteous form, cold, dripping, on the bare bricks with which the roof is paved. I had already stripped myself of coat and waistcoat for Janie; and there was nothing on which to lay the senseless body of my darling but the wet cloths which the natives could contribute, and an old piece of carpet which was kept up there.
Meanwhile the hoarse flood continued to roll and murmur below, becoming deeper and deeper with each surge of the mass of waters; and cries of distress were heard from the surrounding houses; and the articles of furniture which floated past us began to be mingled with a vision of dead faces turned sightlessly towards the moon, now beginning to struggle out from behind the canopy of dark clouds which had hitherto concealed her. And still I bent above the face which had become so unutterably dear to me, and prayed heavento let her know me once more, if but for a moment’s time.
Meanwhile poor Janie, exhausted by the fright she had undergone, and the grief she felt at the condition of her cousin, had fallen into a state which was half sleep and half syncope, and lay reclining with her head upon her ayah’s lap.
And brother officers shouted to me from the roofs of neighbouring houses, asking if we were all safe—all well; and I answered that I hoped, I trusted so; and prayed heaven again to let her know me once more before she died.
And God granted me my prayer. Towards morning she awoke to consciousness. Just as the grey dawn commenced to break, and that dreadful flood, which continued for forty-eight hours to pervade the devoted cantonment, began to show symptoms of being at its height, she opened her dark eyes and gazed at me.
‘Where am I?’ she said, faintly.
‘Here, dearest,’ I replied, all reserve vanished in the face of death,—‘here in my arms; in the arms of him who loves you better than his life.’
‘It is not hard to die so,’ she whispered; but as she spoke an expression of agony passed over her countenance.
‘Are you in great pain, Lionne?’
‘Yes,’ she replied with effort.
‘Where, dearest? tell me.’
‘Everywhere—all over. I was knocked down so often.’
‘Ah, my beloved! and I not there to help you.’
‘You were doing your duty, Robert; and it will soon be over now—all will be over soon—all pain—all—’
‘Not mine,’ I murmured in an agony. ‘Lionne, tell me—but once before we part—say that you love me!’
‘My legacy,’ she whispered, with a faint smile. ‘Yes, Robert; with all my heart—as my life, better than my life.’
‘O God, spare her!’ I cried aloud.
‘O God, take me!’ she said herself; ‘take me from misery and disappointment to where there are no tears.’
‘And how am I to live without you?’ I exclaimed.
Her dark eyes met mine reproachfully.
‘Janie—your child,’ she gasped. ‘I—I could have been—nothing.’
‘You are all the world to me!’ I exclaimed, passionately.
She lay quiet for a few moments, and then she opened her eyes wide, and fixed them upon mine.
‘Promise,’ she gasped—‘Janie—to love—to love—to comfort—to—’
She fell back in my arms, and for a few minutes I watched with inexpressible pain the convulsive working of her beautiful features.
‘Better—so much better—that I should go,’ she whispered, after a long pause; and as she said the words she went.
It was the corpse of Margaret Anstruther, and of all my earthly happiness, that I laid down upon the sodden rags and piece of carpet.
I have no heart to write down the details of what followed. For two days that cruel flood pervaded Mushin-Bunda before it showed symptoms of subsiding; and before that time arrived, several hundred lives (chiefly natives) had been sacrificed. Welost nearly all our furniture, though several pieces were left stranded in the compound when the waters retired; amongst others, the writing-table which held my diary.
But what avails it to speak of personal loss at such a time as this? My poor wife, from the combined effects of cold, fatigue, and terror, had a very serious illness, from which at one time I almost feared she might not recover; and on her return to health I brought her to Madras, from which place I write. She is now herself again; and I am in good health and tolerable spirits; and—and Margaret sleeps alone in a shady corner of the English burying-ground at Mushin-Bunda. No, not alone! God is my witness that my heart sleeps with her!
Note added ten years later.
I have been looking over my old diaries to-day, and burning most of them; but something within me seems to forbid that I should destroy these few pages which record the history of my brief acquaintanceship with Margaret Anstruther. They are the only remembrance I have left of her.
Ten years have waxed and waned since the dark night she died; what have they left me? A wife whom I love and in whom I trust; who, I may safely say, I would exchange for no woman living; who has brought me children, loving and docile as herself, and very dear to me; a happy peaceful home (no longer in the East); a moderate competence; and a name which I trust no man holds lightly.
And to these many blessings I add contentment, and wonder what more good on this earth a mortal could expect.
On this earth none; but whilst I ponder, I thank God that this earth is not the end of all things.
There was a time when I used to think and say that all my happiness lay buried in the grave of Lionne; but I have lived to learn and believe that at the Last Day it shall rise again, with her to bloom, ten thousand times renewed, in heaven!
THE END.