One of the Six Hundred: A Novel

or arches. The leaves of the apricot, the purple plum and greengage trees, rustled pleasantly in the passing breeze, and pleasantly, too, there came to my ear the plashing of a marble fountain that stood in the shaded verandah without. Around that white marble fountain grew the great scarlet pumpkin and the golden-coloured water-melon, their gaudy brilliance contrasting with the green leaves amid which they nestled. The garden was an epitome of Turkey, for there the blood-red ilex of Italy, the rose tree of Persia, the palm of Egypt, the Indian fig, and the African aloe, with the tall, solemn cypress, all grew side by side in the lovely parterres, through which the sunshine fell aslant in golden flakes. The kiosk in which I lay was floored with marble slabs. Its walls were painted gaily with a panoramic view of Constantinople. I could recognise the heights of Pera, and all the Propontis, from the Seraglia point to the Seven Towers, with all the glories of the Golden Horn, Sophia's shining cupola, the Serai Bournou, and the cypress groves, where the dead of ages lie. I was reposing in a pretty bed, with spotless white hangings, and lace all so charmingly arranged, that it reminded me of a baby's cradle. A divan of yellow silk cushions surrounded the apartment on three sides. On the fourth it was entirely open to the verandah and garden. On this divan I saw my undress uniform, neatly folded, with my forage-cap, sword, and cartridge-box placed above it. My watch and purse, Louisa's miniature and ring--I felt for the latter involuntarily--were all lying on a little white marble tripod table by my side, together with a beautiful china drinking vessel, which seemed familiar to me. A sigh of thankfulness that I was conscious, free of pain, and at comparative ease, escaped me, and I turned to survey again the other side of my chamber, when a remarkable female figure met my eye. She was seated on the low divan, quite motionless. She was reading intently, and by her costume I knew at once that she was a French sister of charity--one of those pure in heart, great in soul, and unflinching in purpose, who, on their saint-like mission of mercy and humanity, had followed the allies from France. Her dress was a plain black serge gown, with a spotless white coif, which fell in soft folds upon her shoulders, pure as the feathers of a dove. In her gentle face, which seemed familiar--for doubtless it had often been before me in the intervals of suffering and delirium--there was a kind, a peaceful, and divine expression, that underlay the lines of premature care, suffering, and privation. She was young; but among the dark brown hair that was braided smoothly and modestly over her pale, serene brow, I could detect already a silver thread or two. So perfectly regular were her features, so straight the lines of eyebrow and nose, that the dark, speaking eyes, and that drooping form of eyelid peculiar to the south of Europe, alone relieved them from tameness, for I had seen more sparkling beauty in a somewhat irregular face; but in those dark eyes there ever shone the steady light of a soul devoted to one great purpose; and yet at times, as I afterwards found, her manner could become merry, almost playful. Slight though the motion of simply turning my head, she heard it, arose anxiously, and, coming forward, handed to me a cooling drink. "Mademoiselle, I thank you!" said I, gratefully. "You must not thank me, monsieur. I am simply your nurse." "And I have disturbed you----" "At my office--merely, monsieur, at my office, which I can read at any time within the twenty-four hours." "And how often do you do this?" "Every day--all these pages--see!" Her voice was so very silvery, her eyes so calm and lustrous, her hands so white and small, that it was impossible not to see that she had been highly bred, delicately nurtured, and came of some good French family. "How long have I been here, mademoiselle?" I asked, after a pause. "I do not know. Monsieur was here when I came." "And who brought you to nurse me?" "Lieutenant Jolicoeur, of the 2nd Zouaves, heard somehow that you were here, suffering under a perilous illness. An Italian surgeon chanced to mention it at the Restaurant de l'Armee d'Orient, and they brought me here. We are in the house of a rich Armenian trader--a good Christian, after his own fashion; but, O Sacre Coeur! what an odd fashion it is!" "Ah! mademoiselle----" "I am Archange, of the Order of Charity." "Well, Sister Archange, you are really an angel!" "Oh, fie! don't say so! You must think very poorly, very meanly, of me to give me a title I dare not hope to merit, even by a thousand actions such as attending you." "Pardon me; I did but--but say what I thought." "You are a child, and thought wrong," she replied, with playful asperity. "But you have already spoken too much for one who is only beginning to recover; so try to sleep, _mon frere_." And, waving her hand with a pretty gesture of authority, she resumed her missal, and read on in silence. I slept for a time--I know not how long--it might have been an hour, or perhaps two: but, when I looked up, she was still seated, motionless and reading. "_Ma soeur!_" said I, as our eyes met, and my heart swelled with gratitude for her generous watchfulness; and she came hastily towards me. "_Mon frere_, what do you want?" "You mistook my meaning when I called you an angel, and were angry with me." "Angry?--I? Ah, no! no! Don't say so--I am never angry; it would not do for me to be so now." "But I think you quite a saint to watch me thus." "You must not say that either." "You are so good, and I so unworthy." "Good I may be thought, monsieur; but I shall never be a saint, like Father Vincent de Paul--I am too wicked for that," she added, laughing merrily; "but I try to be as good as I can." "Have any letters come here for me?" "Letters!" she said, with alarm in her fine eyes, and withdrawing a pace. "Yes; I am so anxious for them." "Ah! now you are beginning to rave again. In your pain and delirium you always raved about letters." "There are, then, none?" said I, with a groan. "I shall see, _mon frere_," and, in the kindness of her heart, after pretending to search for what she too well knew were not to be found, she came again to my bedside, and said there would, perhaps, be some to-morrow. "Still no letter!" I exclaimed, sadly, with tears in my eyes. She laid a soft hand caressingly on my brow. I besought her, in the most moving terms, to inquire if there were any letters for me at our cantonments in the vale of Aladyn, heedless of the distance and of the trouble I gave her; for I thought only of Louisa Loftus, and that her answer to my Gallipoli missive might have reached the regiment during my illness and absence. "Monsieur, then, belongs to the English service?" "No." "The Osmanli army, then?" "No, mademoiselle; I belong to the British," said I. "Ah! true. But your uniform is not red?" "All our light cavalry wear blue. Ah, _ma soeur_, seek the quarters of the lancers serving in the Light Brigade, and see if there is a letter for me. It will do me more good than all the doses of our Italian doctor." "Ah! you will be dosed by him no more." "I am truly glad to hear it. Some of his messes were vile enough." "Do not speak so ungratefully; but you know not what I mean or what has happened." "How?" "Poor _monsieur le docteur_ is dead." "Dead!" "He died of cholera in the cavalry camp yesterday. He had volunteered to attend the sick soldiers in the vale of Aladyn, and perished at his post among them." I was greatly shocked by this intelligence, which perhaps, it was not wise in my little nurse to afford me at such a time. When again I woke from sleep the shadows of evening were darkening the room; the trellis-work and Venetian lattices that had opened to the sunlit garden were closed now, and the sun had set. Sister Archange was seated in her usual place upon the low divan, but looking pale and exceedingly fatigued. She had been at the British cavalry camp, and she had seen my friends, but no letters had arrived for me, of that she was assured, as she had taken one of my cards from its case to show the commanding officer. "No letters?" I repeated, in a hollow tone. "No; but, _monsieur mon frere_, must take courage. Many, many ships have perished in a recent storm in the Black Sea and the Sea of Marmora, and your letters may have gone to the bottom with the mail steamer. Monsieur Estoodome--_monsieur l'adjudant_ he is, I think, of your regiment--and _monsieur le colonel_, too, will ride over here to-morrow to see you. And now there must be no more talking, but to sleep, _mon ami_--to sleep. I must take care of you now, for _la soeur_ Archange will not be with you always." "What are you doing?" "Making the sign of the cross on your forehead, _mon frere_. To-morrow I shall tell you what it means, if you will remind me; but, for to-night, adieu." *CHAPTER XXXIII.* O fondest memories! come and go, Shine on sad times which are no more, As sunbeams gladden waters of snow, As wavelets kiss a barren shore: And light with love and tenderness The happy days which still are ours; Whose influence, rich in April showers, Casts round us love and tenderness. The clatter of spurs and scabbards, and the firmer tread of feet than one usually hears among the slipshod or slippered Moslems, next forenoon, announced the arrival of my friends, and most welcome to me was the appearance of Colonel Beverley, Studhome, Wilford, and Jocelyn of ours, all fearless of cholera, as they came through the verandah of the kiosk where I lay; and there, too, lingering without, I saw my faithful follower, Pitblado. They were all in full uniform and accoutred, for it was the day of a great review; and all bowed with politeness to the sister of charity, who immediately withdrew to the shadow of the verandah. "I rejoice to see you, my dear boy," said the colonel; "we had all given you up as lost to us and to the regiment." "Lost, colonel?" I repeated. "Faith, did we, Newton," said Studhome. "We concluded that you had been waylaid--cut off in the flower of your youth and day-dawn of ambition, as the novels have it--by some Bulgarian footpads or rascally Bashi Bazooks, for I presume you know that no one can go beyond the advanced posts with safety without a revolver." "A rumour reached us of a British cavalry officer being conveyed seriously ill to the house of an Armenian gentleman," resumed Beverley. "We strongly suspected that you were the person, and the presumption became a certainty when yesterday this young lady brought your card to my tent at the cavalry camp." "She is a good little saint," said I, with enthusiasm. "And so, Norcliff, you have actually had cholera--that foul pest which is destroying our noble army piece-meal?" "I am recovering, as you see; but pray don't linger here, colonel. There is danger by my side." "Norcliff, the air we breathe is full of cholera," said Beverley, impatiently twisting his grizzled moustache; "our poor fellows are dying of it like sheep with the rot!" "If the Emperor of Russia had planned the whole affair himself, he could not have taken better measures to weaken and decimate us than this useless camp at Varna." "You are right, Studhome--to decimate us before the war begins," added Jocelyn. "When do we take the field, colonel?" "No one knows." "Then how long are we to remain here?" "No one can tell. Satisfactory, isn't it? In fact, no one knows anything."