Tales of terror
nothing more to add further than, in such poor words as well up from my
stricken heart, to thank you for your hospitality.’
He had tried so hard to be strong and collected, and show no sign of
the awful despair that was crushing him. But is the man born who could
go through such an ordeal unmoved? His lips quivered, his voice grew
weak, and something like a spasm caught his breath.
My own eyes were filled with blinding, scalding tears, and my heart
fluttered like the wing of a bird in pain. Gliding over to where he
stood, I placed my arms about his neck, and laying my cheek against his
scarred face, I found voice to say to my father, who was also deeply
affected and moved:
‘Father, the man whom Herbert would have you choose for me need be
sought no further than this room. He is here. My heart beats to his
heart; my face is pressed to his.’
My father came to us. He laid one hand on Herbert’s shoulder, and the
other on my head; and thus he spoke:
‘A woman’s love that clings not to a man when calamity overtakes him is
worthless. Freely do I bestow her upon you, Herbert, if it is her wish
and your wish that you should be united.’
‘My husband,’ I murmured, as I clung closer to him, and it was my only
answer.
Herbert tried to persuade me that it was to my happiness and my
interest to abandon him; but he might as well have tried to convince
the winds of heaven that they should not blow. Externally the Herbert
as I had first known him had changed. His handsome face was handsome no
longer, and his wondrous eyes were sightless for ever. But his heart
was the same. What could change that--the bravest, truest, tenderest
that ever beat in man’s breast? And so ere the next Christmas had
dawned I was Herbert’s wife, and soon after that my father abandoned
the accursed Grange to the gloom and the silence and the melancholy
from which he had reclaimed it, and a little later it was burned to the
ground. We never knew how the fire originated; but it was generally
supposed that some of the superstitious people in the neighbourhood
wilfully set it alight, under the impression that a place that was
accursed by the spilling of human blood should no longer be allowed to
encumber the earth. When I heard of its destruction I confess that I
rejoiced, and I said to myself:
‘Never again will the White Raven bring calamity to a household as it
has brought to ours.’
For five years I walked with my husband in his darkness, and let
him see the world through my eyes. Two children blessed--literally
blessed--our union, a girl and a boy. But my beloved husband never
fully recovered from the shock of the awful accident on that dark and
memorable Christmas Day; and, though he uttered no moan, his blindness
preyed upon his mind, and a short, brief illness took him from me.
For long years the grass has waved over his grave. Other men have
praised my face and sought my hand; but to all I have turned a deaf
ear, for my love was buried in Herbert’s grave. But in my son the
father lives again, and when I gaze upon his handsome face and splendid
figure, I feel that God is very good, and that He chastens us to make
us more perfect in His sight.
VIII
WITH FIRE AND DEATH
A STORY OF A GREAT DEED.
What though the field be lost?
All is not lost; th’ unconquerable will,
And study of revenge, immortal hate,
And courage never to submit or yield.
The scene of this story is Meerut, the time May Day, 1857, a year in
which England’s hold on India was well nigh shaken off. Meerut is
situated on a plain, and lies forty miles or so to the north and east
of Delhi. It is bounded on the east by the Ganges and on the west by
the Jumna, and covers an area of, roughly speaking, about five miles
in circumference. In the fateful ’57 it was one of the most important
military stations, and the largest cantonment in British India. A great
wall, or esplanade, which in its turn was cut in two by a deep nullah,
divided the town into two separate parallelograms, one of which was
occupied by the European force, the other by the natives.
The hot day--and Meerut is hot--had closed, and the short Indian
twilight had given place to a night of exceeding beauty. A refreshing
breeze was blowing from the east, and the moon burnished with a sheen
that was almost dazzling the domes of the numerous mosques, and threw
into silhouette relief the palms and cocoa trees, and the masses of
native huts. The majority of the European population were taking their
airing as was customary after the sun had set, and the ‘Park Road’
was a scene of gaiety. Strings of vehicles, numberless horsemen, and
crowds of natives moved to and fro. The air was filled with the murmur
of many voices; the laughter of women, the sweet prattle of children,
and wafted on the breeze came the monotonous sounds of tom-toms, and
the wail-like singing of groups of natives as they prepared their
suppers over the open braziers of charcoal that scented the atmosphere
with its fumes. Abutting on the Park Road, and commanding a wide and
extensive view, was a handsome bungalow surrounded with a well kept
garden. On the verandah were a party of ladies and gentlemen. The men
were military men, and the ladies were their relatives, and playing
about on the verandah, under the care of an old ayah, was a sweet
English child, fragile, and white of face, as most English children
are who are born in India, but of an exquisite beauty that promised a
magnificent womanhood. But though well and hearty then, that dear child
was in a few days to be lying dead, gashed and hacked almost beyond
recognition. From the roof of the verandah a swinging lamp threw a soft
light over the little group seated in a semicircle, with small tables
before them, on which were glasses and the inevitable brandy pawnee.
Two silent khitmurgars stood like dusky statues ready to obey the
slightest order given by their master or mistress.
This bungalow was the home of an officer whom it is only necessary to
refer to as the colonel. The sweet child playing there was his only
daughter, and one of the ladies, whose beautiful face was clouded with
an expression that might be described as half fear, half anxiety, was
his wife. All the colonel’s male companions were officers, one of
them being Lieutenant George Willoughby, of the Ordnance Commissariat
Department. He was a young man, but was the officer in charge of the
great Delhi magazine. He looked every inch a soldier, and his face
expressed determination and force of character. Lounging there in
a large chair, toying with a fragrant cigar, and apparently deeply
interested in watching the little volumes of smoke curl upward as he
puffed them from under his moustache, his legs crossed, his head
thrown back, and one arm hanging listlessly over the rail of the chair,
he was the picture of a quiet, unobtrusive English gentleman. But a
slight study of the face would have convinced anyone that beneath that
calm exterior lay a tremendous latent power that once aroused could be
terrible and deadly to his enemies, and that this was really the case
was soon to be amply proved.
Another of the group was a still younger man, handsome as Apollo, and
with a frame that seemed to be knit with steel. Although younger his
military rank was equal to Willoughby’s, for he too was a lieutenant
of the Bengal Artillery, and was also stationed at Delhi. His name
was Richard Shelton, and, like his friend and colleague, he had a
pronounced soldierly bearing, and his fine bright blue eyes, of the
true English type, and his clear cut features and firm mouth, spoke of
a frank, open, loyal, and brave nature.
These two officers and friends had ridden over that afternoon from
Delhi on a visit to their friend, the colonel, with the object of
discussing the portentous signs of the times, for the air was filled
with rumours, and mutiny had displayed itself. Discontent was rampant
in the native regiments, and the question was to what extent would it
go? If there were those amongst the British who read the handwriting
on the wall with ill-concealed alarm, it is none the less true that
the majority of the officers in Upper India were rather disposed to
laugh these fears to scorn. For with the almost fatuous self-reliance
peculiar to the English, they believed they were powerful enough to
hold their own against any number of natives. With one exception,
perhaps, all the gentlemen there belonged to the first category. The
exception was Richard Shelton. He was young, and had but recently
received his promotion, and not only was he endowed with an unusual
share of animal spirits, but he was of a sanguine, almost enthusiastic
temperament, and moreover he was in love. On the first blush that may
seem a reason why he should have been more anxious, but love is ever
hopeful, and indisposed to look on the gloomy side of things. At any
rate, being full of the fire of youth, and not having yet acquired the
staid wisdom of his elders, young Shelton did not trouble himself much
about what the morrow or the next week might bring forth. Very likely,
if somebody had said to him--
‘I say, Shelton, old fellow, if the natives were to rise what would you
do?’ This answer would have come with a ringing laugh--‘Why, go for
them, and smash them. What else would you have me do?’
The young lady with whom Shelton was in love was the colonel’s niece,
Blanche Merton, an orphan girl of great beauty, and the colonel’s
ward. She had only come out to India a year before as governess to her
cousin--the colonel’s daughter. Blanche had been born and had spent
most of her life in one of the sweetest and breeziest of Hampshire
villages, and she had not resided long enough in India to become jaded
and enervated by the climate, which, in course of time, insidiously
undermines the constitutions of white women. A handsomer couple, and a
couple more suited to each other than Lieutenant Shelton and Blanche
Merton, could not have been found in the whole of British India. They
had known each other eight months, and been desperately in love nearly
the whole time. The conversation of the little party had flagged
somewhat, but suddenly Willoughby asked in a preoccupied way:
‘What is going to be the upshot of matters, colonel, do you think?’
This question had reference to the mutinous spirit that had shown
itself. There had been a parade on the 24th of April, when eighty-five
out of ninety men had mutinied, and that very week, beginning with the
1st of May, they were to be tried, and the cantonment was accordingly
greatly excited.
‘Well,’ answered the colonel, thoughtfully, as he stroked his moustache
and twirled his cigar between his long white fingers, ‘the prisoners
will be convicted on the clearest of evidence, and exemplary punishment
meted out to them.’
‘And what after that?’ asked Willoughby, significantly.
‘Ah, that remains to be seen. I think and hope we are strong enough to
hold our own, but if there was a general rising, that is about all we
could do, and might succumb unless succour was speedily sent to us.’
This remark had rather a depressing effect, and there was silence
again; but Blanche had gone into the house for something, and Shelton,
thinking only of her, and how entrancingly beautiful she looked in her
white gauze dress, and with the bunch of Indian roses in her dark hair,
had slipped away after her.
Presently Willoughby said: ‘Yes, we might hold our own for a time--a
short time, but it’s no use blinking the fact, we are weak in numbers.’
‘It seems to me,’ returned the colonel, with the same thoughtful air,
‘that you in Delhi are worse off than we are.’
‘True,’ said Willoughby, with a bitter little laugh, ‘for the first
thing the mutineers would do if they got the upper hand would be to