So while Jack and Maude were absent on their brief honeymoon Roland bade adieu to Hester, his old uncle Sir Harry, and to pleasant Merlwood ere turning his steps to the East.
As he looked on the refined face of the girl, with her long-lashed gentle eyes, for the last time, something of the old tenderness that Annot had clouded, warped, or won away, came into his heart again, and he longed to take her kindly in his arms ere he went, but stifled the desire, and simply held forth his hand when she proffered her pale and half-averted cheek. He dared not kiss away the quiver he saw upon her lips.
'Good-bye, dear Hester,' said he. 'Have you not a word or two that I may take with me—such as a dear sister might give?'
But her still quivering lips were voiceless; the forced smile on them was gone, and the soft light of her violet-blue eyes was quenched as if by recent tears; sweet eyes they were, dreamy and languid, their white lids fringed by lashes long and dark.
Roland noted this with a heavy heart, and thought his gentle cousin never looked so beautiful or attractive as then, when her little hand, which trembled, was clasped for the last time in his, and she withdrew to the end of the room.
'Good-bye, nephew,' said Sir Harry, propping himself on a stout Indian cane. 'God keep you from harm, and may every good attend you; but,' he added, his keen eyes glistening angrily through the film that spread over them, 'does your conscience quite absolve you?'
'In what, uncle?'
'What? Why, your conduct to my girl—your cousin Hester,' said Sir Harry, in a low voice.
'Uncle?'
'Did you make no effort when last at Merlwood here to win her admiration, her regard, her love? Did you not simply play with her heart, and deem it perhaps flirting?—hateful word! In all her anguish—and I have seen it—she has never had a word of reproach for you, whatever her thoughts, poor child, may be; but please to think another time, Roland, and not attempt your powers of fascination and to act the lady-killer, lest you crush a heart that might be a happy one.'
Roland felt himself grow pale as he listened wistfully, half mournfully, to these merited but most unexpected remarks from the abrupt old gentleman, to whom he was sincerely attached. Knowing their truth, an emotion of shame, with much of reproach or compunction, gathered in his heart, and he muttered something apologetic—that he had no longer the position or prospects he once had—that Earlshaugh was no longer his—and felt in some haste to be gone, though he was shocked to see that the old man appeared to be suddenly and sorely broken down in health. The Jhansi bullet had worked its way out at last, but left a wound that would neither heal nor close; and hence, perhaps, the irrepressible irritability that led to these reproaches, some part of which reached the ear of Hester, and covered her with the deepest confusion, and made her welcome the moment of Roland's final departure; and then she said:
'Oh, papa, how could you speak as you did? Roland made me no proposal, asked me for no regard, and I gave him—no promise. I have known him, you are aware, all my life, and I do love him very dearly—but as a brother—nothing more,' added poor Hester with a very unmistakable sob in her slender throat. 'You do him injustice—he has not wronged me; but you know well how others have wronged him.'
But her father only resumed the amber mouthpiece of his. hookah, and continued to smoke in uncomfortable silence.
So Roland was gone, and apparently out of her life more than ever now.
Notwithstanding that he certainly had not treated her well at Merlwood, Hester was for a time quietly inconsolable for his departure, which he had taken in a mood of mind rendered so stern and reckless by the episode of Annot, that she pitied him.
He would, she knew, court danger and wounds; seek perhaps every chance of being killed—dying far away from friends and kindred—dying a soldier's death without getting, perchance, even a grave in the hot sands of the desert.
He would, she feared, rush on his fate; 'but men often make their own fate; they are weak who are blindly guided by circumstances,' she had read. 'It is given us to distinguish right from wrong; and if men persist in wrong when the right is before them, then be the consequences on their own head.'
The necklet—the gift he had given her at Merlwood—was clasped lovingly round her throat now, and its pendant nestled in her breast.
'The future is vague!' thought Hester; 'but one thing is sure, we shall never be as we have been—what we were to each other at one time—he and I. Shall we ever meet again—who can say? The sea is treacherous with its storms and other perils—the war is too dreadful to think of! We may never, never see each other more, and the last hour he passed here may have been the last we shall have spent together in this world.'
If he survived everything and came back again, could she be like the Agnes of 'David Copperfield'? She feared not. Therein she had read the story of a noble woman who had secretly loved a man all her life—even as she had loved Roland, and who yet showed no sign of sorrow when he married another woman. Agnes was David's counseller and friend until he was nearing middle age, and it was only when he asked her to be his wife that she made the simple confession of her lifelong love.
She pondered over all these things as she wandered alone by the wooded Esk, the placid murmur of whose flow as it lapped among the pebbles was the only sound that broke the silence of the rocky glen, while at the same hour Roland was amid a very different scene—one of high excitement, noise, and bustle, almost uproar.
Alongside a great jetty in Portsmouth Harbour H.M. troopships Bannockburn and Boyne were taking troops and stores on board for Alexandria, and on the poop of the former, a floating castle of 6,300 tons, Roland stood amid a group of officers, whose numbers were augmenting every few minutes, and the interest and excitement were increasing fast, as it was known that when the great white-hulled trooper cleared out the Queen had sent special orders that the ship was to keep well to the westward, that she might meet her in her own yacht and pay farewell to the troops on board, mustering about six hundred men of various arms of the service, and a host of staff and other officers, including some of Roland's regiment.
A handsome fellow the latter looked in his blue braided patrol-jacket, and white tropical helmet, with his sword clattering by his side.
'When shall I be again in mufti?' thought he with a laugh (using that now familiar term that came back from Egypt of old with the soldiers of Abercrombie), and hearty greetings met him on every hand.
'Lindsay—it is! I didn't know you were rejoining,' exclaimed a brother officer, whose wounded arm was still in a sling. 'I thought your leave was not up till March.'
'I have resigned more than two months of it, Wilton,' replied Roland.
'What an enthusiast, by Jove!'
'Not more than yourself, whose wound must be green yet.'
'Welcome—Roland,' cried another, a cheery young sub. with a hairless chin like an apple; 'you are just the man we want for the work before us.'
'That is right—jolly to see you again!' said a third.
'We missed you awfully, old fellow!' exclaimed a fourth.
Flattering were the greetings on every side as he stood amid the circle of Hussars, Lancers, Artillery, and others, neither perhaps the handsomest nor the tallest amid that merry and handsome group, but looking a soldier every inch in his somewhat frayed and faded fighting kit, which had seen service enough a short time before.
'Here comes Mostyn of ours,' said Wilton, as a very devil-may-care-looking young fellow, in the new khakee uniform, with a field-glass slung over his shoulder, came up. 'How goes it, Dick?—heard you had committed matrimony.’
'We heard you were rather gone with that elderly party at Dover—the lass with all the rupees,' he added in a would-be sotto voce.
'On the War Office principle that an old girl makes a young widow? No, Wilton, my boy,' said Mostyn as he lit a cigarette, 'I leave these little lollies for such as you. Her rupees were all moonshine, and her poudre de riz was a little too plain; but I shouldn't like to have a wife who pays her milliner's bills out of her winnings at Ascot.'
'Ah, Lindsay,' said an officer of another corps who had just marched his little detachment on board, and gave Roland, familiarly, a slap on the shoulder, 'how are you—going out again to the land of the Pyramids? Just keep your eye on my fellows for a minute, will you, while I get some tiffin below—hungry as a hawk—tore through London to reach the Anglesea Barracks to-day; had only time to get a glass of sherry and a caviare sandwich at the Rag, then to get goggles and gloves, etc., in Regent Street—ta-ta—will be on deck in a minute.'
The old familiar rattling society was delightful again, even with its rather exaggerated gaiety and banter, and all about him were so heedless, so happy, and full of the highest spirits, that it was impossible not to feel the contagion.
The bustle, though orderly, was incredible, and the shipment of stores of all kinds seemed endless, including ammunition, carts and waggons, draught and battery horses, with thousands upon thousands of rounds of Martini-Henry ball-cartridges, and innumerable rounds of filled shells for thirteen and sixteen-pounder guns.
As senior officer of the mixed command going out, Roland certainly found that he had work cut out for him just then, and no time for farther regretting or thinking of the past, amid all the details consequent on embarkation for foreign service.
The medical examinations were over elsewhere; but there were 'returns,' endless, as useless apparently, to be made up and signed in duplicate; inspection of equipments; extra kits at sea to be seen to, and dinner provided for the embarking soldiers, the arms racked and two men per company told off to look after them, extra dogs on the upper deck to be pursued, caught, and sent ashore despite the remonstrances of owners, with the excess of baggage; chests piled upon chests were being sent down below, with bedding, valises, uniform cases, bullock trunks, and tubs; the knapsacks to be stowed away over the mess-tables, sentries posted on the baggage-room and elsewhere.
Amid all this a buzz of conversation was in progress at the break of the poop among soldiers and their friends, some of whom had contrived to get on board, and to one of these in which there was something absurd he could not help listening.
'Sorr, is Tim Riley aboord?' asked a young Irish labourer, looking anxiously and with a somewhat scared look about him.
'Who the devil is Tim Riley?' asked a petty officer in charge of the gangway.
The Irishman slunk back and addressed a somewhat insouciant-looking English recruiting sergeant, with ribbons fluttering from his cap, and whose business then could only be to get a few stray 'grogs' before the bell sounded for 'shore.'
'Sergeant, dear, may be you know Tim Riley who inlisted into the sogers?'
'Tim Riley? How do you spell his name?'
'Devil a one of me knows, but he was a boy from Dublin.'
'Oh, I knewed him well. He's a colonel now,' replied the sergeant.
'A colonel—oh, glory be to God! Is it Tim, whose ears I've warmed many a time for stealing the ould man's Scotch apples? Where is the shilling, sergeant?'
'Now be off and make an omadhaun of yourself,'said one of the 18th. 'I knew Thady Boyle; he 'listed as a captain—devil a less—in the Royal County Down, and when he joined he was put in the black-hole by a spalpeen of an English corporal.'
The bustle of the embarkation seemed endless, but at last the bugle sounded, and a bell clanged for all visitors to quit the ship; the various gangways were run ashore, the screw began to revolve, and H.M.S. Bannockburn was off.
While the air seemed to vibrate with cheers, the great white trooper, slowly and stately in aspect, came out of the harbour between the Blockhouse Fort and the Round Tower, and steamed abreast of the crowded Clarence Esplanade, which was gay with people even at that season, and there the soldiers, as they clustered like red bees on the vessel's side and in the lower rigging, could see the troops of jolly children with frocks and trousers tucked up paddling in the water, so far as they dared venture, or making breakwaters and fortifications of sand as actively as if they had to defend the shores of old England.
Portsmouth, its spires, batteries, and ultramural line of magnificent, but now obsolete, batteries and casemates, its masts and shipping, was becoming shrouded in the golden haze of evening, and the farewell greetings of the women on board the harbour craft and those of the youthful tars of the old St. Vincent had died away astern; but cheers rose in volleys, if we may use the term, when the Bannockburn neared Cowes, where the Queen—the Queen herself—was known to be in the Alberta yacht, which had the Royal Standard floating at her mainmast head, and every heart beat high as the vessels neared each other, and the Queen—a small figure in black—was seen amid a group waving her handkerchief.
Roland had only two buglers on board, but these poured forth the Royal Anthem with right good will from their perch in the foretop, while instead of the boatswain's shrill whistle the steam siren was sounded. The Royal yacht steamed round the towering trooper, which slackened speed, and the signal fluttered out, 'You may proceed.'
Once more the hearty cheers responded to each other over the water; again the little white handkerchief was seen to wave as the yacht led the way down the Solent and through Spithead, that famous reach and roadstead, the rendezvous of our fleets in time of war.
'Farewell, God speed you!' came the signal from the yacht once more, and the Bannockburn stood out to sea under the lee of the beautiful Isle of Wight.
The boats were all finally secured; the anchors hauled close up to the cat-heads by the cat-fall; the forecourse and maintopsail were set to accelerate her speed, and the troop-ship stood on her voyage down the Channel.
The high excitement of the last few hours had now completely passed away. On deck the half-hushed groups of soldiers in their gray greatcoats were lingering, watching the occasional twinkling of the shore lights, taking their last look of old England; and when night had completely fallen, and the bugles had blown tattoo, the Mother of Nations had faded out in the distance as the ship gave the land a wide berth.
Weary with the unintermitting toil and bustle of the day, Roland, after mess, betook himself with a cigar to his own little cabin; a small substitute certainly for the luxuries of Earlshaugh, as was his sole retinue now, for the staff there; his single soldier-servant by this time had made his bed, arranged his toilette and sea-going kit, and put the entire place in the most perfect order; and of old, Roland knew well how invaluable a thorough soldier-servant is.
'What cannot he do with regulation pipe-clay?' it has been asked. 'In his hands it is omnipotent over cloth. He can charm stains and grease-spots thereout, even as an Indian juggler charms snakes; and what sleight of hand he exercises over your garments generally. The tunic, grimed and mud-bespattered, he can switch and cane, and, when folded away, it comes out as from a press. Trousers baggy at the knees as the historical parachute of old Mrs. Gamp, are manipulated into their former shape. Compared to the private valet, always expensive and frequently mutinous, he is a pearl of the greatest price. His cost is a dole, and, thanks to the regimental guard-room, he can always be kept within control.'
In the great cabin, which was brilliantly lighted still, Roland heard the loud hum of many voices where the jovial fellows he had left were lingering over their wine and talking unlimited 'shop'—discussing everything, from Lord Wolseley's supposed plan of the Soudan campaign to the last fashion in regimental buttons.
How he envied the jollity and lightheartedness of his brother-officers—Dick Mostyn in particular.
Dick had not lost an inheritance nor a false love to boot, certainly; but it was nothing to him that his pockets were well-nigh empty, his banker's account over-drawn, and that he had debts innumerable, all but paid by the proverbial 'a roll on the drum;' his talent for soothing irate tailors had failed him; still his wardrobe was faultless; he still wore priceless boots and irreproachable lavender kids as steadily as he retained his step in the waltz and his seat in the saddle, which would be of good service to him if he joined the Mounted Infantry. He could take nothing deeply to heart, and even now, leading the van in Bacchanalian noise and jollity—a verse of his song—it was from poor 'Tilbury Nogo,' ran through the cabin, and just then it seemed exactly to suit Roland's frame of mind as he lounged on a sofa with his uniform jacket unbuttoned:
'I sigh not for woman, I want not her charms—
The long waving tress, the melting black eye—
For the sting of the adder still lurks in her arms,
And falsehood is wafted in each burning sigh;
Such pleasure is poisoned, such ecstasy vain—
Forget her! remembrance shall fade in champagne!'