Chapter XIX: The Tangled Web Unwoven (3)

The soul of Hendrik died within him! Even if he had committed this crime in frenzy--and he felt certain that he did not do so--why should he have sought to rob his uncle? He then thought of Lenora, and of the sorrow and shame that would come upon her now; he reeled and fell senseless on the floor. The cries of the old housekeeper speedily brought aid; Hendrik was arrested, charged with assassination and robbery, and was at once consigned, as already described, to the Palais de Justice, where all the weird story came to light. The hatred and horror he had expressed of his dead uncle were now remembered fatally by all who had heard them; but the knife he had in his hand was, singularly enough, found to be the property of a soldier of the 2nd Belgian Infantry.

To the last Hendrik asserted his innocence, when tried and convicted for that which was, not unnaturally, deemed a most cruel and ungrateful crime; and his advocate, Père Baas, who, singularly enough, was also a dabbler in mesmerism, laboured hard in his cause, but in vain. When brought to the scaffold in the Grande Place, Hendrik, attended by Brother Eusebius, had all the bearing of a martyr, as he fully believed that the crime committed, if by his hand, was at least by the dictate of another spirit.

Lenora visited him in the dreary cell the night before he died, and, according to "La Patrie," as they parted, Hendrik said:

"Death, even on the scaffold, has no terror for me now. I know where my spirit will go, and that none on earth can recall it. You will come to me, beloved Lenora," he added, pointing upwards; "you will come to me there in heaven, where there can be no parting, no death, and no sorrow."

And, with one long embrace, they parted for ever.

The editor of "La Patrie," writing of these things next day, said, not without truth, "Hendrik Van Gansendonck was, too probably, crazed; and if so, should not have been executed."

AGNES SOREL, "THE LADY OF BEAUTY."

This celebrated favourite of Charles VII. of France--one who has inherited from her own time to ours, after a lapse of more than four centuries, the distinctive sobriquet of "the beautiful Agnes"--was the daughter of M. Soreau (vulgarly called Sorel, according to De Mezerai), the Seigneur de St. Geran, a noble gentleman of Touraine, and not the child of a humble house, _de petite basse maison_, as George Chastelain, her personal enemy, would have us to believe in his "Chronique des Ducs de Bourgogne."

She was born in 1409, and in 1431, when in her two-and-twentieth year, received the appointment of attendant or lady of honour to Isabella, queen of Naples and Sicily, from whose court and service she passed into that of Mary, daughter of Louis II., Duke of Anjou, afterwards queen of Charles VII., where her rank, education, and more than these, her marvellous beauty, all conspired to win her the perilous attention of a king who was younger than herself. Agnes was _not_ seventeen, as the fair authoress of the "Histoire des Favorites," asserts she was, at this time; but had attained the more mature age of at least twenty-eight--perhaps thirty, as Oliver de la Marche, a contemporary, when recording some event which took place in 1444, tells us that "the king had just then elevated a poor lady, a pretty woman, called Agnes Sorel, and placed her in such triumph and power that her state was comparable to that of the greatest princess of the realm."

Her features were beautiful, and expressive of extreme gentleness; her skin has been described as being of the hue of alabaster, and her hair was marvellously golden in its brightness. She was then in the full bloom and beauty of womanhood, and possessed a vivacity of manner which "spread an air full of charm on the least of her actions, so that the most insensible souls could not resist her" ("Histoire des Favorites"). "Heaven," says this authoress, "had not only endowed Agnes with the charms of face; she had an air full of grace, an admirable figure, more wit than any other woman in the world, and the most delicate and finely turned, with a certain greatness of soul which led her naturally to generosity; all her inclinations were noble; she was attentive, compassionate, ardent in friendship, discreet, sincere, and, in short, altogether fitted to make herself beloved to distraction" (p. 102).

De Mezerai writes of her as "a very agreeable and generous lady, who, by setting herself up as the equal of the greatest princesses, became the envy of the court and the scandal of France." With all her errors, Agnes was admitted to be lavish to the poor, to be pious, generally humble, and always patriotic and full of public spirit. The majority of historians have written most favourably of her, and never did the mistress of a king--especially a king who was her junior--make so wise a use of her perilous power, which she ever employed only for the good of others. Pride, and an extreme love of dress, are the chief errors alleged against her; but to her influence over Charles VII. must be attributed all the good that ever appeared in him, and the effort to which he was roused--that essay by which, at last, the invading English were driven from the soil of France; for he had been a lover of pleasure, "and of the fair sex, which never can be a vice," adds Voltaire, "save when it leads to vicious actions."

Charles was neither a warlike nor a high-spirited king. The influence of England in France after the death of its conqueror, Henry V., was so nobly sustained by his brother, the Duke of Bedford, that after the demise of Charles VI., his successor had been crowned at Poictiers, Rheims being then in possession of the foe; and he was but the monarch of a nominal kingdom, France having greatly aided the English invaders, as she was rent by two rival factions, one led by the Duke of Burgundy and the other by the Duke of Orleans. Charles VI. had been alternately the prisoner of each, and the dauphin was the scoff of both--often a fugitive, and always in danger of destruction.

When the latter became Charles VII., aided by an alliance with Scotland--the usual "cat's-paw" of the French in their English wars--and by a body of Scottish troops under the Earl of Buchan, who was constable of France, he made some show of resistance, when all hope seemed at an end, and to this unwonted activity he was roused by Agnes Sorel.

He had already conceived the feeble idea of retiring into Languedoc or Dauphiny, and contenting himself with the defence of these minor provinces, which must, eventually, have been wrested from him. Mary of Anjou, a princess of great prudence and merit, vehemently opposed this measure, which she saw would lead to a general desertion of his cause by the French people.

"The fair Agnes Sorel," says Hume, "who lived in entire amity with the queen, seconded all her remonstrances, and threatened that if he (Charles) thus pusillanimously threw away the sceptre of France, she would seek at the court of England a fortune that was correspondent to her wishes." Thus, the love of her on one hand, and dread of losing her on the other, roused in the breast of Charles VII. a glow of courage which neither just ambition, nor pure patriotism, could kindle, and he resolved to dispute every inch of French soil with his imperious enemies, rather than yield ingloriously to an evil fortune, and to the loss of his crown and mistress. And thus, in urging him to the field, Mary of Anjou was forced to seek the assistance of that fair rival who had supplanted her; and she seems at all times to have borne with singular sweetness of temper--with a resignation that some might think savoured of indifference or stupidity--the alienation of the king's love for herself; and neither by action or word does she seem ever to have reproached the reigning favourite.

But now a new ally came, in the person of Joan of Arc; victory attended her banners, and in two months Charles VII. was crowned again, a step considered necessary after the double coronation of young Henry of England at Westminster and Paris. The loss of the latter city soon followed. The maid of Orleans perished at the stake, but her mission was accomplished: France was free, and England was glad to sign the treaty of Arras.

After this consummation, Charles abandoned himself entirely to the society of Agnes Sorel; "ease and prosperity," according to De Mezerai, "plunged him into dalliance and effeminate softness." She was his greatest passion, states Duclos, and was the most worthy of it; she loved Charles tenderly for himself, and had no other object in her conduct than the glory of her somewhat soft lover and the good of the state. Agnes Sorel, he adds, distinguished herself by qualities preferable to those which are usually found in her sex--a rather obscure phrase. But, despite what some allege of her humility, ostentation and a love of splendour are said by others to have been among her weaknesses; but such are pardonable enough in a beautiful woman.

At court she appeared in all the state of a royal princess; her apartments were more expensively decorated with hangings of silk and taffeta, with furniture and tapestries, than those of the queen, Mary of Anjou; she had a larger and more splendid retinue of servants than her royal mistress, and had quite as much reverence shown her. Her couches, her linen, her vessels of gold and silver, her rings and other jewelry, all surpassed in beauty and in value those of the queen. Even her kitchen surpassed that of the neglected wife; "for with this woman, called Agnes, whom I have seen and known," says the author of the "Chronique des Ducs de Bourgogne," "the king was terribly besotted."

Her robes were more costly, and her trains were longer, than those worn by any of the royal princesses; and it was remembered that to show the extreme fairness of her skin and beautiful contour of her bust, she had all her dresses more _décolletées_, or cut lower in front, than had ever been the custom at the court of France. Enguerand de Monstrelet, in his "Chronicles," corroborates the statements of Chastelain concerning her love of finery. "This fair Agnes had been five years in the service of the queen," he writes, "during which time she enjoyed all the pleasures of life, in wearing rich clothes, furred robes, golden chains, and precious stones."

But what young and pretty woman, in any age of the world, has ever been quite careless of such accessories to enhance her natural charms? And in being somewhat _décolletée_, Agnes might perhaps only have followed others, for the same was said of Isabella of Bavaria, queen of Charles VI., whose love of dress was carried to a length so fantastic, that the doors of the palace of Vincennes had to be altered to permit her and the ladies of her suite to pass with their lofty horned headdresses.

In some burst of temper, Agnes has been accused of having so arrogantly disregarded the feelings of the queen, that she was struck on the mouth by the son of the latter, the dauphin, afterwards the cruel, subtle, and savage Louis XI., in whose whole character there was but one undeniably redeeming point--a love for his mother, with a tender reverence for her memory.

Alain Chartier, secretary to Charles VII., and author of a history of that king--a writer whom Pasquin compares to Seneca--extols the "perfect purity" of Agnes and the unsullied love which she had for her royal master; which sounds comical enough, when we know that she bore him three daughters during the few years she held his heart in undivided sway. De Mezerai asserts that these three daughters of Charles were by three different ladies of the court.

Agnes died in the year 1450, as many historians have affirmed, of poison, a common suspicion in those days, and for long after. De Mezerai states the circumstance broadly and clearly, that when the king was at Jumièges, fourteen miles from Rouen, where there was then a vast and famous abbey containing no less than two thousand four hundred monks and lay brethren, "they (_i.e._ the courtiers) poisoned his dear Agnes de Soreau, without whom he could not live one moment."

No one was ever punished for this alleged poisoning, which scandal hinted to have been the work of Louis the dauphin; but the mutual ill-will they bore each other, and the old quarrel and affront, might readily serve to fix such a stigma and suspicion on one who was so crafty and so cruel by nature.

Her illness was violent and spasmodic, and carried her off in her fortieth year, while she was still in the bloom of her wonderful beauty. In her last hours she was attended by the Sieur de la Trimouille, the lady of the seneschal of Poitou, and M. Gouffier, an equerry of Charles VII., to all of whom she spoke eloquently and pathetically of the littleness of human life and human vanity. "She was very contrite," records Monstrelet, "and sincerely repented her sins. She often remembered Mary Magdalen, who had been a great sinner, and devoutly invoked God and the Blessed Virgin Mary to her aid."

She distributed alms and gifts to the value of sixty thousand crowns; she begged her confessor to give her absolution for all her sins and wickedness, conformable to an absolution which she said had been accorded to her at Loches; and the confessor thereupon absolved her. After receiving the last sacraments, she called for a missal, in which she had, with her own hand, written "the little prayer of St. Bernard," which ends, "O Mother of the Eternal Word, adopt me as thy child and take upon thee the care of my salvation. Do not let it be said that I have perished, when no one ever found but grace and salvation."

With a loud shriek she called once more "on the mercy of God and support of the Blessed Virgin Mary, and gave up the ghost on Monday, the 9th February, about six o'clock in the afternoon. May God have mercy on her soul and admit it into Paradise!" adds the old chronicler Monstrelet, who never showed her any particular favour.

Then we are told that the fair and tender body of Agnes was interred in the abbey church of Our Lady at Loches, which had been often enriched by her liberality. A black marble tomb was placed over it, surmounted by an effigy the size of life, and of the purest white marble. Two kneeling angels supported the pillow on which the head of this recumbent statue reclined, and, in allusion to her name, a lamb was carved at its feet.

Her heart was sent to the church of St. Philibert the Abbot, at Jumièges, and deposited near the high altar, a circumstance to which we may attribute the attachment of her lover Charles for that place, where he had an apartment in the abbey fitted up for his especial use, when he chose to come thither for meditation.

In a valley of the forest of Loches, there are still traceable the remains of a hunting lodge, or "rendez-vous de chasse," built by Charles VII., and where he spent many a day in the society of Agnes. Beneath it is a cave, in which lies a prodigious treasure, according to tradition, but watched by the usual guardian of such things in Touraine--a fiery dragon.

It is stated that Francis I., who lived about a century after her, believed in the gentleness and patriotism of "the Lady of Beauty," as she was named, and, finding a picture of her, among others, he wrote the following lines under it:--

"Gentille Agnès! plus d'honneur tu mérites,
La cause étant de France recouvrée,
Que ce que peut dans un cloître ouvrer
Close nonnain, ou bien dévote hermite."

At the period of the Revolution a band of ruffians, when desecrating the church of Loches, broke open the tomb of Agnes Sorel; rent the coffin asunder, and scattered her bones in the streets.

"The rancour of her own sex has long ceased to persecute the memory of Fair Rosamund, and even of the more guilty Jane Shore," says a clever but sneering writer; "and the most harshly virtuous of the sex in the present day are good enough to hope that both the one and the other have found that grace which was given to Mary Magdalen and Rahab. Under the notion, which is the prevailing one in the present day, that Agnes Sorel was an extremely amiable sinner, a lover of her country and her country's glory, a set of quadrilles bearing her name is admitted to a place on virtuous pianos; just as Nell Gwynne is at this day introduced on the stage in decent comedies."

Charles survived her seven years, and died literally of hunger, in his nervous dread of poison from the dauphin, and not knowing from what hand to take his food without peril; but his days of mourning for his lost Agnes would seem to have been few; and there is something curiously ironical in the manner in which De Mezerai dismisses the subject of his sorrow.

"To comfort him, Antoinette de Maignelais, Dame de Villequier, cousin of the deceased, took her place; but she was not the sole mistress." Others followed this Lady of Beauty in rapid succession, and the last who was taken into the favour of the most Christian king was the daughter of a pastry-cook!

Prior to the outrage committed at the Revolution, we have an interesting account of the remains of Agnes Sorel, as described in a French work, entitled "Amours et Galanteries des Rois de France," by M. Saint-Edme.

He tells us that in 1777, Louis XVI., in compliance with reiterated requests of the canons of Loches, consented to the removal of the tomb of Agnes Sorel from the choir to the nave of the church, with the express injunction that no part of the body which it contained should be disturbed; but curiosity is often destructive of the feelings of humanity.

Of the remains found in the tomb, nothing was in a state of preservation but the head, and alas! for human beauty--of that little more than the bones. On attempting to raise it, the hair remained in the hand, together with the two maxillary bones, which, as well as the lower jaw, were furnished with all the teeth.

The hair _crêpé_, from four or five inches in height, and from nine to ten inches in width, formed the upper part of the head-dress of Agnes, while on each side were two flowing curls. The hair at the back of the head, in tresses of from eighteen to twenty inches in length, was gathered up and fastened under the _crêpé_. The hair was of a light brown or ash colour (_brun clair, ou cendré_). At this point of exhumation only one tress of Agnes's hair was purloined; but under the _régime_ of the convention the remainder of the hair was stolen, the jaws were broken up for the extraction of her beautiful teeth, and her remains were scattered as we have described.

THE VEILED PORTRAIT.

It has been asserted that one cannot hold intercourse with that which is generally called the Unseen World, or behold anything supernatural, and live; but these ideas, from my own experience, I am inclined to doubt.

In the year subsequent to the great Bengal mutiny, I found myself at home on sick leave. My health had been injured by service in India, and by our sufferings consequent on the revolt; while my nervous system had been so seriously shaken by a grape-shot wound received at Lucknow, that it was completely changed, and I became cognisant of many things so utterly new to me, and so bewildering, that until I read Baron Reichenbach's work on magnetism and crystalism, I feared that I was becoming eccentric. I was sensible of the power of a magnet over me, though it might be three rooms distant, and twice, in darkness which seemed perfect to others, my room became filled with light; but the Baron holds that darkness is full of light, and that to increase the sensitiveness of the visual organs is to render that rare and dissipated light susceptible, with all that it may contain.

I was now compelled to acknowledge the existence of that new power in nature which the Baron calls the Odic Light, and of many other phenomena that are described in "Der Geist in der Natur," of Christian Oersted--the understanding that pervades all things.

But to my story.

Nearly a year had elapsed since the mutiny. The massacres at Delhi, Lucknow, Cawnpore, and elsewhere had been fearfully avenged by that army of retribution which marched from Umballah, and I found myself in London, enfeebled, enervated, and, as the saying is, "weak as a child." The bustle of the great capital stunned and bewildered me; thus I gladly accepted a hearty invitation which I received from Sidney Warren, one of "ours," but latterly of the Staff Corps, to spend a few weeks--months if I chose--at his place in Herts; a fine old house of the Tudor times, approached from the London road by an avenue that was a grand triumphal arch of nature's own creation, with lofty interlacing boughs and hanging foliage.

Who, thought I, that was lord of such a place could dream of broiling in India--of sweltering in the whitewashed barrack at Dumdum, or the thatched cantonments of Delhi or Meerut!

My friend came hurrying forth to meet me.

"How goes it, old fellow? Welcome to my new quarters," he exclaimed.

"Well, Sidney, old man, how are you?"

Then we grasped each other's hands as only brother soldiers do.

I found Warren, whom I had not seen since the commencement of the revolt, nearly as much changed and shattered in constitution as myself; but I knew that he had lost those whom he loved most in the world amid the massacre at Meerut. He received me, however, with all the warmth of an old comrade, for we had a thousand topics in common to con over; while the regiment, which neither of us might see again--he certainly not, as he had sold out--would prove an endless source of conversation.

Sidney Warren was in his fortieth year, but looked considerably older. His once dark hair and coal-black moustache were quite grizzled now. The expression of his face was one of intense sadness, as if some secret grief consumed him; while there was a weird and far-seeing expression that led me to fear he was not fated to be long in this world. Yet he had gone through the storm of the Indian war without receiving even a scratch! Why was this?

Before I had spent two days with Sidney, he had shown me all the objects of interest around the Warren and in it--the portrait gallery, with its courtiers in high ruffs, and dames in the long stomachers of one period and _décolletée_ dresses of another; his collection of Indian antiquities, amassed at the plundering of Delhi; and those which were more interesting to me, ponderous suits of mail which had been hacked and battered in the wars of the Roses, and a torn pennon unfurled by Warren's troop of horse, "for God and the King," at Naseby.

But there was one object which he would neither show nor permit me to look upon, and which seemed to make him shiver or shudder whenever it caught his eye, and this was a picture of some kind in the library--a room he very rarely entered. It was the size of a life-portrait, but covered closely by a green-baize hanging. Good taste compelled me to desist from talking to him on the subject, but I resolved to gratify my curiosity on the first convenient occasion; so one day when he was absent at the stable court, I drew back the hanging of this mysterious picture.

It proved to be the full-length portrait of a very beautiful girl--a proud and stately one, too--bordering on blooming womanhood. Her features were clearly cut and classic; she had an olive-coloured complexion, that seemed to tell of another land than England, yet the type of her rare beauty was purely English. Her forehead was broad and low; her dark eyes, that seemed to haunt and follow me, were deeply set, with black brows well defined; her chin was rather massive, as if indicating resolution of character, yet the soft, ripe lips were full of sweetness; while the gorgeous coils of her dark hair were crisp and wavy. Her attire was a green riding-habit, the skirt of which was gathered in her left hand, while the right grasped the bridle of her horse.

It was not a portrait of his wife, whom I remember to have been a fair-haired little woman; so who was this mysterious lady? I cannot describe the emotion this portrait excited within me; but I started and let fall the curtain, with a distinct sensation of some one, or something I could not see, being close beside me; so I hurried from the shady library into the sunshine. Lovely though the face--I can see it yet in all its details--it haunted me with an unpleasant pertinacity, impossible either to analyse or portray. But I was a creature of fancies then.

"Herein," thought I; "lurks some mystery, which may never be cleared up to me." But in this surmise I was wrong, for one night--the night of Sunday, the 10th May, _the first anniversary_ of the outbreak at Meerut, after we had discussed an excellent dinner, with a bottle or two of Moselle, and betaken us to iced brandy _pawnee_ (for so we still loved to call it), and to the "soothing weed," on the sofas of the smoking-room, Warren became suddenly seized by one of those confidential fits which many men unaccountably have at such times, and, while he unsparingly and bitterly reproached himself for the part he had acted in it, I drew from him, little by little, the secret story of his life.

Some ten years before those days of which I write, when in the Guards, and deeply dipped in debt by extravagance, he had, unknown to his family, married secretly a beautiful girl who was penniless, at the very time his friends were seeking to retrieve his fortune by a wealthy alliance. An exchange into the Line--"the sliding scale"--became necessary, thus he was gazetted to our regiment in India, at a period when his young wife was in extremely delicate health; so much so that the idea of her voyaging round the Cape--there were no P. and O. Liners then--was not to be thought of, as it was expressly forbidden by the medical men; so they were to be separated for a time; and that time of parting, so dreaded by Constance, arrived inexorably.

The last fatal evening came--the last Sidney was to spend with her. His strapped overlands and bullock-trunks, his sword and cap, both cased, were already in the entrance hall; the morrow's morning would see him off by the train for Southampton, and his place would be vacant; and she should see his fond hazel eyes no more.

"Tears again!" said he, almost impatiently, while tenderly caressing the dark and glossy hair of his girl-wife; "why on earth are you so sad, Conny, about this temporary separation?"

"Would that I could be certain it is only such!" she exclaimed. "Sad; oh, can you ask me, Sidney, darling? The presentiment of a great sorrow to come is hanging over me."

"A presentiment, Constance! Do not indulge in this folly."

"If I did not love you dearly, Sidney, would such a painful emotion rack my heart?"

"It is the merest superstition, darling, and you will get over it when I am fairly away."

Her tender eyes regarded him wistfully for a moment, and then her tears fell faster at the contemplation of the coming loneliness.

After a pause, she asked:

"Are there many passengers going out with you?"

"A few--in the cuddy," he replied carelessly.

"Do you know any of them?"

"Yes; one or two fellows on the staff."

"And the ladies?" she asked, after another pause.

"I don't know, Conny dear; what do they matter to you or me?"

"I heard incidentally that--that Miss Dashwood was going out in your vessel."

"Indeed; I believe she will."

Constance shivered, for with the name of this finished flirt that of her husband had been more than once linked, and his change of colour was unseen by her as he turned to manipulate a cigar. So for four, perhaps six months, these two would be together upon the sea.

Constance knew too well the irritable nature of her husband's temper to say more on the subject of her secret thoughts; and deeply loth was she that such ideas should embitter the few brief hours they were to be together now; so a silence ensued, which, after a time, she broke, while taking between her slender fingers a hand of Sidney, who was leaning half moodily, half listlessly against the mantelpiece, twisting his moustache with a somewhat mingled expression of face.

"Sidney, darling," said she entreatingly; "do forgive me if I am dull and sad--so _triste_--this evening."

"I do forgive you, little one."

"You know, Sidney, that I would die for you!"

"Yes; but don't, Conny--for I hate scenes," said he, playfully kissing her sweetly sad, upturned face; and the poor girl was forced to be contented with this matter-of-fact kind of tenderness.

So the dreaded morrow came with its sad moment of parting.

To muffle the sound of the departing wheels she buried her head, with all its wealth of dark, dishevelled hair, among the pillows of her bed, and some weeks--weeks of the most utter loneliness, elapsed, ere she left it, with the keen and ardent desire to recover health and strength, to the end that she might follow her husband over the world of waters and rejoin him; but the strength and health, so necessary for the journey, were long of coming back to her.

She had hoped he would write her before sailing from Southampton--a single line would have satisfied the hungry cravings of her heart; but, as he did not do so, she supposed there was not time; yet the transport lay three days in the docks after the troops were on board. He would write by some passing ship, he had said, and one letter, dated from Ascension, reached her; but its cold and careless tone struck a mortal chill to the sensitive heart of Constance, and one or two terms of endearment it contained were manifestly forced and ill-expressed.

"He writes me thus," she muttered, with her hand pressed upon her heaving bosom; "thus--and with that woman, perhaps, by his side!"

She consulted the map, and saw how far, far away on the lonely ocean was that island speck. Months had elapsed since he had been there; so she knew that he must be in India now, and she had the regular mails to look to with confidence--a confidence, alas! that soon faded away. Long, tender, and passionate was the letter she wrote in reply; she fondly fixed the time when she proposed to leave England and rejoin him, if he sent her the necessary remittances; but mail after mail came in without any tidings from Sidney, and she felt all the unspeakable misery of watching the postman for letters that never, never came!

Yet she never ceased to write, entreating him for answers, and assuring him of unswerving affection.

Slowly, heavily, and imperceptibly a year passed away--a whole year--to her now a black eternity of time!

"Could Sidney be dead?" she asked herself with terror; but she knew that his family (who were all unaware of _her_ existence) had never been in mourning, as they must infallibly have been in the event of such a calamity; and in her simplicity she never thought of applying to the Horse Guards for information concerning him--more information than she might quite have cared to learn.

Her old thoughts concerning Miss Dashwood took a strange hold of her imagination now; a hundred "trifles light as air" came back most gallingly to memory and took coherent and tangible shapes; but a stray number of the "Indian Mail" informed her of the marriage of Miss Dashwood--her _bête-noire_--to a Major Milton; and also that the regiment to which Sidney belonged "was moving up country," a phrase to her perplexing and vague.

Her funds were gone--her friends were few and poor. Her jewels--his treasured presents--were first turned into cash; then the furniture of her pretty villa, and next the villa itself with its sweet rose-garden, had to be exchanged for humbler apartments in a meaner street; and, ere long, Constance Warren found, that if she was to live, it must be by her own unaided efforts; and for five years she maintained a desperate struggle for existence--five years!

A lady going to India "wanted a young person as a governess and companion."

To India--_to India!_ On her knees Constance prayed that her application might prove successful; and her prayer was heard, for out of some hundred letters--from a few which were selected--the tenor of hers suited best the taste of the lady in question. She said nothing of her marriage or of her apparent desertion; but as her wedding ring, which, with a fond superstition of the heart, she never drew from her finger, told a tale, she had to pass for a widow.

So in the fulness of time she found herself far away from England, and duly installed with an Anglo-Indian family in one of the stately villas of the European quarter of Calcutta--a veritable palace in the city of palaces, overlooking the esplanade before Fort William--in charge of one sickly, but gentle little pale-faced girl.

She had been a month there when her employer's family proposed to visit some relatives at Meerut, where she heard that Sidney's regiment was cantoned! To her it seemed as if the hand of Fate was in all this. O the joy of such tidings! Some one there must be able to unravel the horrible mystery involving his fate; for by this time she had ascertained that his name was out of the corps; but her heart suggested that he might have exchanged into another.

"If alive, is he worth caring for?" She often asked this of herself, but thrust aside the idea, and pursued with joy the long journey up country by river steamers, dawk-boats, and otherwise, on the Ganges to Jehangeerabad, from whence they were to travel by carriages to the place of their destination, some fifty miles distant.

On the way Constance had an addition to her charge in the person of a little boy, who, with his _ayah_, was going to join his parents at Meerut. This little boy was more than usually beautiful, with round and dimpled cheeks, dark hazel eyes, curly golden hair, and a sweet and winning smile. Something in the child's face or its expression attracted deeply the attention of Constance, and seemed to stir some memory in her heart. Where had she seen those eyes before?

She drew the boy caressingly towards her, and when kissing his fair and open forehead, her eyes fell involuntarily on a ring that secured his necktie, a mere blue riband. It was of gold, and on it were graven the initials C. and S. with a lover's knot between. These were those of herself and her husband, and the ring was one she had seen him wear daily. Constance trembled in every limb; she felt a deadly paleness overspread her face, and the room in which she sat swam round her; but on recovering her self-possession, she said:

"Child, let me look at this ring."

The wondering boy placed in her hand the trinket, which she had not the slightest doubt of having seen years before in London.

"Who gave you this, my child?" she asked.

"My papa."

"Your papa!--what is your name?"

"Sidney."

"What else?" she asked, impetuously.

"Sidney Warren Milton."

"Thank God! But how came you to be named so? There is some mystery in this--a mystery that must soon be solved now. Where were you born, dear little Sidney?"

"In Calcutta."

"What is your age, child?"

"Next year, I shall be seven years old."

"Seven--how strange it is that you have the name you bear!"

"It is my papa's," said the boy, with a little proud irritability of manner.

"Where did your papa live before he came to Calcutta?"

"I don't know--in many places--soldiers always do."

"He is a soldier?"

"My papa is Major Milton, and lives in the cantonments at Meerut."

"A little time, and I shall know all," replied poor Constance, caressing the boy with great tenderness.

On arriving at Meerut, however, she found herself ill--faint and feverish--so that for days she was confined to her bed, where she lay wakeful by night, watching the red fire-flies flashing about the green jalousies, and full of strange, wild dreams by day. She had but one keen and burning desire--to see Major Milton, and to learn from his lips the fate of her husband. On the evening of the fifth day--the evening of the 10th of May--she was lying on her pillow, watching the red sunshine fading on the ruined mosques, and Abu's stately tomb, when just as the sunset gun pealed over the cantonments, the _ayah_ brought her a card, inscribed, "Major Milton--Staff Corps."

"Desire the Major to come to me!" said Constance, in a broken voice, and terribly convulsed emotion; for now she was on the eve of knowing all.

"Here to the _mehm sahib's_ bedside?" asked the astonished _ayah_.

"Here instantly--go--go!"

Endued with new strength, as the woman withdrew, she sprang from her bed, put on her slippers, threw round her an ample cashmere dressing robe, and seated herself in a bamboo chair, trembling in every fibre. In a mirror opposite she could see that her face was as white as snow. The door was opened.

"Major Milton," said a voice that made her tremble, and attired in undress uniform, pith-helmet in hand, her husband, looking scarcely a day older, stood gazing at her in utter bewilderment. He gave one convulsive start, and then stood rooted to the spot; but no expression or glance of tenderness escaped him. His whole aspect bore the impress of terror.

Years had elapsed as a dream, and they were again face to face, those two, whom no man might put asunder. Softness, sorrow, and reproach faded from the face of Constance. Her broad, low forehead became stern; her deep-set, dark eyes sparkled perilously, her full lips became set, and her chin seemed to express more than ever, resolution.

"Oh, Constance--Constance," he faltered; "I know not what to say!"

"It may well be so, Sidney" (and at the utterance of his name her lips quivered). "So _you_ are Major Milton, and the supposed husband of Miss Dashwood?"

There was a long pause, after which she said:

"I ask not the cause of your most cruel desertion, but whence this name of Milton?"

"A property was left me--and--but, of course, you have long since ceased to love me, Constance?"

"_You_ actually dare to take an upbraiding tone to me!" she exclaimed, her dark eyes flashing fire. Then looking upward appealingly, she wailed, "Oh, my God! my God! and _this_ is the man for whom, during these bitter years, I have been eating my own heart!"

"Pardon me, Constance; you may now learn that there is no gauge to measure the treachery of which the human heart in its weakness is capable. Yet there has been a worm in mine that has never died."

She wrung her hands, and then said, with something of her old softness of manner:

"You surely loved me once, Sidney?"

"I did." He drew nearer, but she recoiled from him.

"Then whence this cruel change?"

"Does not some one write, that we love, and think we love truly, and yet find another to whom one will cling as if it required these two hearts to make a perfect whole?"

"Most accursed sophistry! But if you have no pity, have you not fear?"

"I have great fear," said he, in a broken voice; "thus, Constance, by the love you once bore me, I beseech you to have pity, not on me, but on my little boy, and his poor mother--preserve their happiness----"

"And sacrifice my own?" said she, in a hollow voice.

"Spare, and do not expose me--my commission--my position here----"

"Neither shall be lost through me," she replied, in a voice that grew more and more weak; "but leave me--leave me--the air is suffocating--the light has left my eyes. Farewell, Sidney--kiss your child, for my sake."

He drew near to take her hand, but she repulsed him with a wild gesture of despair, and throwing up her arms, fell back in her seat, with a gurgle in her throat, her head on one side, and her jaw fallen.

"Dead--quite dead!" was his first exclamation, and with his terror was blended a certain selfish emotion of satisfaction and relief at his escape. The blood again flowed freely in his veins, and he was roused by the cantonment _ghurries_ clanging the hour of nine.

"Help--help!" cried he; but no help came, and as he hurried away, the sudden din of musket-shots, of shrieks and yells, announced that the great revolt had begun at Meerut, and that the expected massacre of the Europeans had commenced. In that butchery, those he loved most on earth perished, and midnight saw him, wifeless and childless, lurking in misery and alone in a mango tope, on the road to Kurnaul.

* * * *

While listening to the narrative of my friend Sidney, whom I had always known as Warren, rather than Milton, the clock on the mantelpiece struck nine, and he said, in a broken voice:

"It was at this very hour, twelve months ago, that my boy and his mother were murdered by the 3rd Cavalry, at the moment that Constance was dying!"

As he spoke, a strange white light suddenly filled one end of the smoking-room, and amid it there came gradually, but distinctly to view, two figures, one was a little boy with golden hair, the other a woman whose left arm was around him--a beautiful woman, with clearly-cut features, masses of dark hair curling over a low, broad forehead, lips full and handsome, with a massive chin and classic throat--the woman of the veiled picture, line for line, but to all appearance living and breathing, with a beautiful smile in her eyes, and wearing, not the riding-habit, but a floating crape-like white garment, impossible to describe. There was a strange, weird brightness in her face--the transfigured brightness of great joy and greater love.

"Constance--Constance and my child!" cried Sidney, in a voice that rose to a shriek; and like a dissolving view, the light, and all we looked on with eyes transfixed, faded away!

I was aware of an excess of sensitiveness, and that my heart was beating with painful rapidity. I did not become insensible, but some time elapsed before I became aware that lights were in the room, and that several servants, whom my friend's cry had summoned in haste and alarm, were endeavouring to rouse him to consciousness from a fit that had seized him; but from that fit he never recovered. His heavy stertorous breathing gradually grew less and less, and ere a doctor came, he had ceased to respire.

His death--sudden as hers on that eventful night, but a retributive one--was declared to be apoplexy; but I knew otherwise. Since then, though the effect of the grape-shot wound on my nervous system has quite passed away, I feel myself compelled to agree with the hackneyed remark of Hamlet, that "there are more things in heaven and earth, than are dreamt of in our philosophy."

A LEGEND OF THE OLD 55TH;
OR, THE REGIMENT OF FLANDERS.

For the truth of the following remarkable story, which is much more fact than fiction, we must refer the reader to the quarto "History of the Mauritius," privately printed in London in 1801, from the papers of the late Governor thereof, under Louis XVI., Baron Grant, Maréchal of France, and edited by his son, Charles Grant, "Vicomte de Vaux sur Seule, Normandie," who knew well the family of the hero, and of his father, M. de Grenville, with whom he had become intimate at the house of another Scoto-French gentleman (whom he styles M. Grant d'Anelle, then in the Isle of France), and of whom he writes thus, page 219:--

"This gentleman (M. de Grenville, of an ancient family in Normandy) is an old officer who has served with honour both in France and India; and may, with truth, be represented as superior to the generality of mankind, from his understanding, his knowledge, and the qualities of his character. He is distinguished here, by the title of the Philosopher, and he deserves it. In the early part of his life, the vivacity of his temper, heightened by the military spirit of the period, engaged him in frequent affairs of honour; and the last having taken place with a nobleman in the service of the Court, in the Garden of Versailles, and under the very windows of the king's apartment, it threatened the most serious consequences. But M. de Maupou, then in high office, to whom he was related, procured him a commission in India, where he served with distinction.

"If it were consistent with the objects of this work, it would be a delightful circumstance to dwell on the virtues and extraordinary qualities of this family. I must, however, confine myself to one, M. de Grenville de Forval, the second son of M. de Grenville.

"Some events relative to him are so connected with the manners of these islands, and are so remarkable (and romantic) in themselves, that they will at the same time heighten the interest, as well as add to the information of this work (_i.e._ the History of the Mauritius).

"In these islands there is not a single example of a deformed or crooked shape, which must arise from the natural and unrestrained mode of education which prevails there. To these advantages, Forval united a martial air, blended with a slight appearance of severity, and an approved courage, to the most noble and generous sentiments that are to be found in the human heart."

But to quote the gossipping old Baron at greater length, would be only to anticipate the legend to which we refer.

At the time when the Comte de Malartic was first appointed commander-in-chief and governor-general for the most Christian king of the Isles of France and Bourbon, and over all the French establishments eastward of the Cape of Good Hope, there was stationed in the Mauritius (as we now name the Isle of France) a battalion of the old French Regiment de Flandre, then numbered as the 77th of the monarchy, and afterwards as the 55th regiment of the line, under Napoleon III.--the same corps in which the father of Victor Hugo, author of "Notre Dame" and "Les Misérables," served with honour as a captain.

Among the officers who came with a detachment from France to join this famous regiment were the Chevalier René d'Esterre and Captain Forval de Grenville, the representative of one of the oldest families in Normandy, the same stock from whence spring the English Dukes of Buckingham and Chandos.

Forval was a gay and handsome man, and in the prime of life. Baron Grant, the Vicomte de Vaux, in his history of the island, records as stated, that he had a martial air, with a slight appearance of severity, and that he was a man of the most approved courage. He was always attired in the height of fashion when not in uniform; but he generally preferred the latter, as the costume of the Regiment de Flandre was very handsome, and became his dark complexion well, being white, faced with light blue, and laced with gold.

Whether in uniform or out of it, he was never known to be without his sword, in the use of which he excelled, and with which he had fought many a duel, sometimes about the powdered and jewelled ladies of the court, and quite as often about ballet-girls and actresses--all were the same to Forval de Grenville.

His reckless career in France was, however, brought suddenly to a close by a flirtation with a _chanoinesse_--the famous Comtesse de V----, which by its scandal and extravagance drove him to seek shelter in the distant Isle of France from the rage of the noble families of Segonzac, Sainte-Croix, and Cressi, with whom she was allied.

His affair with the high-born countess might have had a perilous end--the Bastille St. Antoine, perhaps--but for his acceptance of foreign service, and the aid given him by his friend, René d'Esterre, who, as he had pursued a similar career of folly and extravagance, had a fellow-feeling for him, and we all know that a fellow-feeling makes us wondrous kind.

The monotonous pleasures of the island soon palled upon the _blasé_ Forval and his friend, and they sighed for the gaieties of Paris, or rather to be anywhere but where they were.

"Morbleu!" exclaimed Forval, as he and D'Esterre sat over their wine one evening at an open window in a _café_ of Port Louis, after being long silent, and gazing dreamily on the sea, whose waves were rippling in gold and purple against the rocks and bastions of the little Isle aux Tonneliers, which lies before the harbour, and while the red rays of the sun, now sinking in the Indian Sea, lingered on the rocky and fantastic Tête de Peter Bott. "Morbleu, chevalier! but this atrocious Isle of France does grow irksome."

"Yet it is the land of Paul and that sweet little Virginia, for another such as whom we have sought over all the isle."

"And have sought in vain. Diable, yes! Such miracles--such sphinxes--exist only in the pages of Bernardin St. Pierre and such like fellows."

"Perhaps so," sighed D'Esterre, as he emptied his glass. "However, I am sick unto death of this island and its utter monotony. Paris----"

"Ah, dear, dear Paris! when shall we see it again?"

"When our debts are paid, perhaps."

"Don't speak of impossibilities, please. How strange to think that the tide of life flows there--that the great world rolls on all the same as when we mounted guard at the Louvre, and not content with that, sighed to be on duty at Versailles or the dear little Trianon."

"You always preferred the latter," said D'Esterre. "The Comtesse de V----, that dazzling little creature, was always about the queen."

"Don't speak of her now, when all those thousand miles of bridgeless sea are rolling between us," exclaimed Forval, with knitted brows. "That hulking fellow, Baron Zurlerben, of the Gardes Suisses, will no doubt be on her staff now. She could never exist without an affair of the heart. Well, I am at one with you--sick indeed of duty here."

"The comtesse was devoted to the chevaliers of the army," said René d'Esterre, musingly.

"All the girls in Paris favoured us immensely."

"All the girls in France, you mean," said the chevalier, complacently.

"How comes it to pass, René? Is it the handsome uniform or the risk we run in war that gives us such an advantage over the mere bourgeoisie?"

"I don't know what it is; but the interest is very pleasant, and I trust it will never cease. So 'Vive le Regiment de Flandre! Vive la ligne!'" cried René, draining a bumper of wine.

"Stop! A thought strikes me," said Forval. "Suppose that for a little temporary excitement one of us should get married?"

"Agreed," cried D'Esterre. "Here is a golden louis; we shall toss up for who is to marry the first pretty Creole girl we meet. The losing man shall dance at the other's wedding."

"What if the pretty girl refuse?"

"Refuse one of the Regiment de Flandre! My dear fellow, such an outrage on good taste is not to be anticipated. She shall be married after a month's engagement."

"Ah, likely enough. People do strange things in the Indian isles."

"Is it a low state of finances?"

"No, a high state of the thermometer. A month may see us ordered off to Pondicherry; but you must be the victim, chevalier. I have an affianced in France."

"And I have three! Parbleu!"

"Well, to kill time, we have nothing for it but to volunteer for the next slave-hunting expedition to the Isle Dauphine. What say you, chevalier--will you go?"

"Think of the distance--by sea, too!"

"Something less than five hundred miles."

"And the feeding----"

"Will not be up to the Parisian mark; but; then, we shall have some excitement."

"A little fighting?" said René.

"Yes; and I had better be shot with honour than shoot myself."

"Very well, I shall go with you. Let the war support the war. We shall feed ourselves at the bayonet's point among the Madagasees."