“old Indians.” Beyond inquiries after their host’s daughter, no allusion was made to Miss Maitland. Marston listened for her name in vain. He had not known how his heart longed for it.
That night, even as they sat over their wine, in the luxurious dining-room, came the earthquake shock, that made the pulses of England’s great heart stand still for a moment;—the horror that made the firm earth reel, and Europe sicken and grow pale.
And after the first reverberating blow, in the awful hush arose clear and shrill, and ever gathering force, the trumpet call to arms! Justice and Mercy grasped one blade; every sword sprang from the sheath, and Britain’s sons went forth to avenge her slain.
The notes of the réveille kindled the yet hot blood in the veteran’s heart. He panted like a charger for the din of the battle-field. The next mail-steamer that left Southampton numbered General Maitland among her passengers. Oh! what anxious eyes and throbbing hearts watched that vessel leave the dock. Slowly at first, as if reluctantly following the little impetuous “tug;” then, in the broad water putting out her own vast energies and steaming on alone. What a priceless freight of brave hearts she carried; what love and prayers followed in her track, till the last cloudlet of her hot breath melted on the blue horizon! And a woman, gentle and brave, was with him.
“I have none but you, father,” she said; “take me.”
Fugitives flocked to the capital as boats to a harbour of refuge, from the black storm thundering in their rear. In that first agony of sorrow and dismay hearts and doors were opened wide. And then the shattered fragments of the wreck came drifting in.
Suffering and sorrowing, destitute and desolate they came: was ever such a lazar-house of human woe? And amongst them all, one of a self-devoted band, binding up their wounds, and pouring balm into their bleeding hearts, moved Marion Maitland.
The Indian moon shone broadcast on the deep river, flowing past the flowery lawns and sleeping country houses of Garden Reach, on to the city of palaces; lighting up Corinthian pillars, and sculptured architrave, where the adjutants stood in lines, motionless as sentinels; silvering the bayonets of the guard, and flooding with white light a lofty chamber in a stately mansion.
It glanced on polished mirrors and carved furniture, and on a woman kneeling—a letter in her hand.
The veteran’s sun had set in blood-red glory; and his daughter was left desolate.
She was urged to go home.
“I have no home,” she answered, sadly; “why should I hasten away from hence, where I can be of a little use to some more lonely than myself?”
So she stayed; and after the first bitterness of grief was past she returned to her self-appointed work. She remained at her post many long months. The nature of her work underwent a change, but it was still arduous, and such as not every woman could have undertaken.
About this time she wrote to Mrs. Wilmot:—“I often dwell on the memory of the tranquil life at Tremawr. Only last Christmas, and what a change! I think some of the mysteries of life have been solved to me since then. I now know why, to some of us is ordained that long, galling period of inaction, that seems to eat away the very pith and marrow of our prime. Is it not that there awaits such a moment, a mere spasm, perhaps, of such intense exertion, that the forces of a lifetime concentrated into that space are but sufficient to provide the vital energy requisite for that demand? How often do we chafe and fret to use our strength—we feel so strong and eager to be up and doing! But if we leave our stand till our name is called, when the bugle summons us to the work for which we are destined, our little force is spent, and we are useless. It is not flattering to our pride to learn that our boasted power is after all so weak, capable of so little endurance, good for so short a time. Give my love to Cissy. Tell her not to complain of her time as ‘lost in the school-room;’ not to ask again the ‘cui bono’ of music, German, Italian, and all other things that she may have the happy privilege of learning. Ah! that ‘cui bono!’ how have I wearied myself with that dreary question? I used to preach to Cissy of these things, but I fear I wrought little good; my texts were but theories then. Tell her I have proved them now. No knowledge, no experience is lost.
“Many a time in this sad year I have been, O! so thankful for my familiarity with German. So many sufferers of the middle class have come under my charge—poor creatures to whom the sound of their mother-tongue, and the liberty of expression it restored to them, worked almost a cure. Think of the pain of spelling out the griefs of a bereaved heart in a foreign, unfamiliar speech! And one Italian I shall never forget. He had been a cook in a great hotel; his wife and children had been barbarously murdered; his wife had spoken English, he knew no word of any language but his own beautiful Tuscan. O! if Cissy could have seen that poor man’s tears of joy, her hand have felt the kisses with which he strove to speak his gratitude for the little service I was able to render him, she would never begrudge the few hours’ trouble of preparing for poor old Signor Brizio’s lesson.
“I have arranged to leave India before the next hot season. It will be long before I see dear England again; shall I ever have the courage to return to Tremawr? Two friends with whom sorrow has united me very closely have persuaded me to spend some months with them in the south of Europe. The health of one will not bear our northern climate yet. I believe that with them I shall be in the path of duty. You shall hear of my further plans. Adieu!”
Towards the close of her residence abroad, Marion received from India a relic of her father’s, which she greatly valued—the General’s old camp-desk. It had been lost in the confusion of a campaign, and accidentally recovered by an officer