Oswald Hastings; or, the adventures of a Queen's Aide-de-camp

Chapter I. Orange Blossoms And Thorns

During the period which elapsed be fore his wedding day, Oswald had little time for reflection or examining into the real state of his feelings. There were all the arrangements of their married life to be made, the been se to be got, the wedding be settled about, &c, which fully occupied his attention. With a kindly consideration for Oswald's straitened circumstances, the Franklands had insisted that after the honeymoon — which was on this occasion to be limited to a week, and to be passed at a little cottage, about a quarter of a mile out of the settlement, belonging to a brother officer whose wife was daily expected VOL. II. b from England — the newly-married couple should pay them a visit till matters were a little more settled. Another seasonable diversion fix)in too much thought also took place.

A grand con ference was to take place between Sir Hector Brown and some of the Kaffir chiefs, the principal of whom was Pato. The rendezvous was about thirty miles distant, and thither Sir Hector pro ceeded with an escort, and attended by all his staff, among whom was Oswald. The interview was opened by Sir Hec tor, who, through an interpreter, informed the assembled chiefs that, not from any fear of what they could do, but of his own accord, and with a desire that none of Her Majesty's subjects should plead as an excuse for their conduct that their complaints had not been listened to, he had come to hear them state their grievances. Should these turn out to be well founded, he was willing to redress them ; but he was equally prepared to punish most severely those chiefs who could offer no excuse for their rebellion, and who were not disposed to submit the matters in dispute to his decision, and confide in the justice of the representative of their great mother.

Some of the chiefs now stepped for ward, and half defended, half palliated their acts. They had, they said, suffered numerous wrongs at the hands of the settlers, for which they had obtained no redress ; consequently they had sought to obtain justice for themselves, and no one could blame them for so doing. They knew, they said, that their great mother was wise and good, and that the mighty chief she had sent to rule over them wished to do them justice, but he was often too far off for their cry to reach him. He had many people to rule over, and much business to do, so, as they were certain he did not wish them to b be exterminated and robbed, they concluded from his not preventing the settlers front injuring them that he was either unable, or had no leisure to protect his Kaffir children.

Now he had come to visit them, they were quite willing, for their part, to submit to his decision, but they could not answer for their tribes, who were much exasperated. A little water, would, they remarked, put out a fire at first, but when that fire had burnt long, the sea itself was hardly sufficient. When this was translated to Sir Hec tor he became purple with rage ; and after giving utterance to a volley of oaths, which, if they had been grape shot, would have annihilated every Kaffir in the colony, he burst out into an harangue full of thunder, lightning, and bad English. Omitting some portions of vague declamation, as well as a few of the more blasphemous oaths, it ran somewhat as follows : " Tell those d — d rascals that their complaint is an infernal lie. As to the settlers using them ill, it serves them d — d right, for a more plunder ing set of rascals I never saw.

I've plenty of time to look after them, but I'm not going to be bulbed into doing it till I choose to. I've come here with the olive branch in one hand" — here he plucked a sprig off a bush, which, whatever it might be, certainly was not an olive tree, and waved it in the air — "and the sword in the other" — here he drew the latter and flourished it so violently that his staff started back several paces for fear of being struck. " If they don't choose to accept the one, I'll blow them off the face of the earth with the other, for I've heaps of warriors and guns, and could eat them up as easily as potatoes." It will be evident from the simile that the gallant general came from the Emerald Isle. " As to the treaties, if they do not mend their ways I will tear them up as I do — " Here the speaker felt in all his pockets for a piece of paper to operate upon, but not finding any, turned hastily round to a laughing aide-de-camp at his side, with a "what the h — 1 are you laughing at, you d — d jackanapes, give me a piece of paper, you fool !"

The officer thus addressed turned rather red, and hastily putting his hand into his pocket pulled out a bill of some garrison theatricals which had lately taken place, and tremblingly presented it to the general, who when he saw what it was, looked as if he would have knocked him down, but think ing better of it continued his speech. " Tell them that if they don't at once submit, I will tear up their treaties as I do this bit of paper," which with great action he tore up to the great be wilderment of his listeners. " They think that they are many, and we few, but one of my warriors is a match for a dozen of their lousy Kaffirs. I'm not going to stand any of their d — -d shilly-shally ing and nonsense, they don't know who they have got to deal with, but they ought, for I've thrashed them before pretty often.

Tell the chiefs, tell Pato to tremble, tell him that their great mother, the Queen of England, says through me that she'll be, I mean, I'll be d — d if I don't make them curse the day they were born; tell Pato that Brown's come." After this extraordinary address, which the interpreter took care to translate into more conciliatory language, the meeting broke up without having effected anything, and Sir Hector returned with his party to Fort Brown. The evening before his marriage, the officers of the 155th, with whom Oswald was very popular, gave him a dinner at mess to celebrate as they said his last day of bachelorhood. Several guests were invited, and amongst others a some what vulgar but very good-hearted captain of. the ship which had brought a portion of the regiment from Cape Town. He had shown every desire to make the officers as comfortable as possible in his very crowded and ill-found vessel.

They were therefore anxious to show him a little attention in return. Another of the guests was Lord Charles Sotherby, a captain in a regiment a detachment of which had just been hurried up front Cape Town in case of more extended operations being required. The mer chant captain, who was quite ignorant of the rank of the person whom he was addressing, was seated opposite Lord Charles, and in the course of conver sation made several chaffing and free and easy remarks, which the other took in very good part. The horror of the sailor may be imagined when a Little later the Colonel called out, " Lord Charles, the pleasure of a glass of wine with you," and he found out to whom he had been so familiar. Turning as red as a poppy, he said to his neighbour, " You don't mean to say that the officer I've been making so free with is a lord ?"

"Yes, that's Lord Charles Sother by, one of the Marquis of Dillwater's sons." " Good heavens, you don't say so, and I've been chaffing away as cool as if he'd been my mate. I hope he's not offended, but I never came across any of that sort of cattle before, and how was I to know he was a lord ? He doesn't look a bit different from any one else, and is as pleasent and affable as if he was no better than a common mister. I've seen lots of plain misters OSWALD HASTINGS. in my time as was ten times as proud as he." " Oh, never mind, he's a very good fellow and doesn't mind a joke." The story in the course of five minutes circulated in whispers all round the table, to the great amusement of all present, hardly one of whom could help bursting out laughing at the puzzled, deprecatory, penitent air with which the sailor kept his eyes fixed on Lord Charles.

At last it came to the latter's ears, and he, anxious to reassure the worthy man, called out to him in a cheery voice : " A glass of champagne with you." "With the greatest pleasure, your grace — my lord, I mean." The waiter at once filled Lord Charles's glass, but the bottle being then emptied, some little delay took place before he could supply the sailor. The latter hap pened to have his glass half full of champagne, but to wait for more would, he felt, be an additional piece of dis respect to the person whom he had already treated so improperly. There fore hastily seizing the sherry bottle, he poured its contents into the half-filled glass — the other had some light claret in it — and was about to carry it to his lips. His neighbour interposed, and begged him to stop a minute for the cham pagne, and not to drink such a mix ture.

"No, no," said he, "I'm not going to act rude a second time. This will do very well, and it would never do to keep his lordship waiting." On which with a " My lord, I look towards you," he conscientiously drained his glass to the last drop. Oswald's marriage was a most quiet, unpretending affair. Neither bridesmaids, bridesmen, wedding cake, favours, nor four horses assisted, as the French say, on the occasion. Without these ingredients OSWALD HASTINGS. in the ceremony, no reasonable person can hope to be happy, yet Mary on that eventful morning did not look as if she dreaded the future. As to Oswald, when the time drew near, he began to feel that heart conflict which he had hitherto to some extent succeeded in stifling. Did he after all still love Ellen ? He feared he did. Did be love Mary as a man should love the girl who is about to be his wife, and as Mary deserved ?

Alas, he had very serious misgivings to the contrary. He called himself a fool, a drivelling, mean spirited idiot, and many similar hard names, for allowing any thoughts of one who had so easily forgotten him to obtrude themselves. He protested loudly to himself that Mary was charming, amiable, good, and above all, that she loved him. He repeated over and over again that he was a most fortunate man. It was of no use practising these self deceptions. Ellen's image, as he last saw her, would present itself, and whether she deserved his love or not, she had it. He knew he ought to congratulate himself on having won Mary; but — in short, he could not. Sometimes he almost resolved, cost what it might, to break off the marriage. Then he abused himself for ever contemplating such cruel rascality, and determined that, whatever effort it might cost him, whatever pain he might suffer, he would do his best to prevent Mary front suspecting his secret.

Surely, when the happiness, perhaps the life, of so good, so affectionate a girl was at stake, it would be but a venial offence against truth, were he to pretend the love which he could not then, but might perhaps afterwards, feel. As we have said, the wedding was quiet in the extreme. The party consisted, in addition to the bride and bridegroom, of only Captain and Mrs. Frankland. The ladies will also be scandalized to learn that Mary's dress was nothing more than a simple walking costume. After church, they returned to lunch at the Franklands, and then drove quietly off in a phaeton to the little cottage mentioned in our last chapter as having been lent them for their honey week. How Mary did grudge the shortness of their seclusion ! She was fully convinced that she was the object of envy to every unmarried lady in the place, and thanked God a dozen times a day for having granted her so good, so noble a husband.

Oswald was true to his resolution of striving to the utmost to make Mary's life bright and happy. In deed the task was not hard. She was one of those trusting spirits who suspect nothing in those they love, and give the object of their adoration credit for return ing the feelings which they themselves are conscious of possessing in such strength. Sometimes Oswald yielded to the quiet fascination of his bride, but when, as occasionally happened, she gave vent to her love and happiness in a wealth of endearing words and caresses, he felt a pang that almost made him hate her. To conceal this effect of her demonstrative affection, he redoubled his own terms of endearment, and Mary, wishing to believe him, did so. Poor girl, her wedded bliss was not des tined to endure long. The very day following their return to the Franklands, the Eng lish mail arrived, and with it a whole pile of newspapers for Captain Frankland.

Idly turning these papers over as the party was sitting together in the drawing-room after breakfast, Oswald suddenly threw down the paper he was reading, and exclaiming "Good God!" immediately left the room with a face as white as a sheet. In great alarm, Mary, who had received no answer to her anxious inquiry as to what was the matter, hastily seized the paper which her husband had been reading. She hunted diligently, but could find nothing at all hkely to have excited Oswald's emotion but the following passage, which, with a woman's instinct, she conjectured must have been the one which caused his agitation. She knew, moreover, that Oswald's native place was Puddlecombe, and, with a saddened heart, felt convinced that she was about to turn over a leaf in the record of his past life, which would cast a baneful shadow over her own.

The paragraph ran as follows : " We are authorised to contradict a report which, on what we deemed good authority, was recently inserted in this paper. We are given to understand that there is no truth in the rumour which stated that the Honourable Captain de Moreton was about to be united in marriage to the beautiful daughter of John Kirkman Esq., of Hastings Park, Puddle combe, Chalkshire." Yes, she knew it all at a glance, but to confirm her suspicions, she whispered an eager question to Mrs. Frankland. The latter would have dissimulated if she could, but Mary's inquiries were too direct, too much to the point, to be evaded, and she was obliged to confess that Oswald had once loved, and been engaged to, Miss Kirkman. " It's all over now, my dear, so you need not distress yourself. It could not have been that which agitated him just now ; it must have been something else.

Perhaps he's ill, poor fellow !" " Oh, dear, I hope not, but I'll go and see," said Mary, who, if the truth were known, would have been but too glad to find that mere illness of body, provided it was not very serious, was her husband's only ailment. She found him walking up and down his dressing-room in a most agitated state of mind. On seeing her, he endeavoured to appear calm, but without success. VOL. II. c " Oswald, darling, you are unhappy. It's no use trying to hide it from me, I know you are. Tell your wife what your sorrow is. Perhaps she can comfort you ; at all events tell her, for we must have no secrets between us, dear hus band." " It's nothing, dear Mary, at least nothing you can help me in. You only distress me by your kindness. Don't ask me. I shall be all right soon." " Oswald, dear Oswald, you know how dearly I love you, and what misery it would cause me to know that your heart was not wholly mine, yet anything is better than suspense, and I would sooner know for certain that another girl held my place in your affections than go on doubting you.

God knows that I love you as much as ever wife loved, yet a man cannot always command his feelings, and if another holds my place in your heart, tell me. I would sooner learn the worst at once than pine in doubt and distrust. Answer me truly. Did you not once love Miss Kirkman, and was not that para graph in the paper the cause of your agitation?" Oswald hung his head, more touched by her sad and gentle tone than he would have been by the most vehement re proaches. She looked earnestly in his face, and getting no reply, exclaimed in a sad despairing voice which made his heart bleed. " Oh, Oswald, you do not answer me. Indeed you need not, for I see, alas, that my guess is true ! You loved her, you love her still, and you never loved me, but only married me out of compassion. Ah, why did you do so ?

Better far would it have been if I had nursed my love in secret, than to have avowed it only to awake thus terribly from my dream of happiness. I ought, I suppose, to talk about my pride, but true, deep love overc comes all pride, and I can only mourn my sad fate in silence, and if the Almighty pleases, with patience." As she spoke, her eyes seemed gradually to dissolve, her figure drooped, and a soft rain of tears fell to the ground. No re proach, no anger, was apparent in her face, only a wistful loving sadness which was inexpressibly affecting. Oswald felt touched to the heart, and casting for the moment all thought of his own sorrow on one side, endeavoured in a shame-faced guilty manner to alleviate hers. "You are partly right, partly wrong, dear Mary. It is true I did love Miss Kirkman most deeply ; and to be one day her husband was the aim of my life.

You see I deal frankly with you. When circumstances threw us together, I often found myself thinking of you instead of her, yet I knew she came first. At last I saw a paragraph in the paper sayinoshe was engaged. That nearly maddened me ; then that morning, when Marsden came, it seemed as if fate was determined to unite us, and I yielded. I always have been very fond of you, I thought even that I loved you as you deserved, and but for that accursed paper which came this morning, I think that Miss Kirkman's image would have faded away; but now the past and its feelings spring up again in spite of myself, and I am helpless. Mary, my poor dear Mary, you deserve a better lot, but I . Good Heavens! what a miserable wretch I am ! Don't let us speak of what has happened. Perhaps it is a brief madness and will pass away ; anyhow, in spite of it all, I do love you, Mary !

I do know what a treasure my wife is ! and please God I will make you happy yet ; but have pity, have patience, Mary, with your miserable husband. God knows I want pity !" So saying, he seized Mary's hand, pressed it hurriedly to his lips, and rush ing out of the room spent the rest of the day wandering about the neighbouring bush, a prey to a maddening remorse of which the subject was now Ellen, now Mary. Mary's state was scarcely less pitiable, though in her grief remorse had no part. Locking the door of her room, she threw herself on the bed, and with her face buried in the pillow, wept till, utterly exhausted, she fell into a profound, dreamless sleep. Mrs. Frankland thought it best to leave her alone, but at last becoming alarmed, knocked at the door and insisted on being let in. Aroused at the sound, Mary awoke once more to her misery.

Mrs. Frankland was quite alarmed at the haggard appearance of the sorrow-stricken bride, and not being able to think of any comfort to administer, threw herself into Mary's arms and wept with her friend. When their composure was a bttle restored, Mrs. Frankland tried, but in vain, to persuade Mary to come down and have some luncheon. " At all events, Mary darling, let me bring you up some broth. You will be ill if you don't take something, I'm sure you will." Shaking her head sadly, Mary replied : " How kind you are ; but I really couldn't take anything, I should choke if I were to try, I'm sure." " Make the attempt at all events, dear, if it's only for my sake. You really must, there's a good girl ; I shall bring it up, at all events." " Well, to please you, I'll try ; but please don't let Captain Frankland know about what has happened.

Say I've got a head-ache, or anything you like." The broth was accordingly brought up, but, not even to gratify her kind hostess, could Mary manage to swallow more than a mouthful. In order, however, to persuade her that she had finished it, the rest was thrown out of the window.

Chapter II

A SKELETON IN THE CUPBOARD. Mary took no notice of the flight of time, her thoughts were too absorbing. Towards evening, however, she became sufficiently calm to reflect on her position, and the course of action she should pursue. She determined, after much reflection, that it would be best that Oswald and she should for the present be man and wife only in name. To live together on the old terms, would, she felt, be but torture to both. She would try hard, and she knew he would second her efforts, to win his love, but they must start afresh ; the past must be buried in oblivion. Henceforth they must meet but in public, and for the future occupy separate rooms. With time, a change might come over his feelings, and the consciousness that he had no right to her love might make him prize it. It would be most distressing, and it might excite remark, to order a bed to be made up for Oswald in his dressing-room, but it must be done.

Accordingly, when Mrs. Frankland next came to her, bringing with womanly thoughtfulness that grand female panacea for all griefs, a cup of tea, she remarked with averted head and blushing cheek that she did not feel very well, and would be glad if a separate bed could be made up for Oswald. Mrs. Frankland understood, and asking no questions, promised that it should be done. How Mary blessed her in her heart for the tact she displayed ! Through all the storm of feeling which she had had undergone she never once reproached Oswald. " Poor fellow, I don't blame him. He is more to be pitied even than I am, for to his sufferings remorse is added. Yet he acted from kindness, I know he did. He is so good, so tender-hearted and com passionate. Poor, poor fellow, how wicked of those newspapers to say what they did !

I wonder if she loves him as much as I do. Oh, if he would only love me as I love him still, for I do love him in spite of all, how fiappy we should be !" Thus soliloquising, she knelt down at the bedside to pray that the blow might be softened to both of them, and that he at all events might not suffer so very much. She rose much comforted, and proceeded to see that the fire in his room burnt brightly, and that everything Was comfortable for him. With wife-like thoughtfulness she, with her own hands, put his dressing-gown on a chair, and his slippers and night-gown by the fire, so that they might be aired. She also caused a tray with some supper to be placed on the table. These preparations made, she sat down in an arm-chair to wait wearily for her husband's arrival. After many hours of watching, of long ing, yet dreading to meet him again, he came at last.

He started on seeing Mary, and still more when his eye fell on the change in the arrangements of the room. She did not give him time to speak, but quietly taking his hat from his hand said, " Oswald, I have been thinking a great deal since this morning, and I don't reproach you. My feelings are the same as ever, but I think it will be better for both of us if for the future we cease to be husband and wife, and instead are merely friends." " Let it be as you like, my poor girl. You alone have a right to dictate the terms on which we shall live." " Good night, Oswald, and may God grant you comfort !" So saying she quietly withdrew to her own room, leaving Oswald in admiration of her gentle yet dignified behaviour ! He was still more touched when he saw how careful she had been to provide for his comfort.

Such was the state of his feelings, at that moment, that for a single instant he felt half-inclined to follow his wife and say that it had been only a momentary delusion, and that in reality he loved but her. Ere, however, he had time to act on this impulse, the recollection of Ellen swept across his mind, withering up all gentle thoughts, as thoroughly as the simoom withers up all green herbage with which it comes in contact. In his despair he almost cursed the fair, loving girl who had been the innocent cause which had erected an insurmountable barrier between him and Ellen. Then with rapid incon sistency he would inveigh against himself for such childish, such unjust, such cruel wrath, and would swear that, as far as lay in his power, the blow should be felt by him alone. We are glad to be able to say that this phase of feeling was the one which ultimately prevailed, and weary with his walk, worn out by so many emotions, he fell asleep, his last waking exercise of thought being to invoke a blessing on her who loved him so generously and well.

Their life from that day began, as Mary determined it should, afresh. They never met save before others, but they were wanting in none of the little attentions and kindnesses which the world expects to take place between newly-married people. To the casual observer they were a model couple, but to those who looked more closely, there was evidently a sad mystery. The very exactitude and punc tiliousness of their conduct towards each other showed that something was wrong. None of those little endearing looks and gestures which even the most reserved • lovers — provided they are really lovers — unconsciously practise towards each other were exchanged by them. She never with bride-like pride hung upon his words when conversing with others, he never was seen gazing with egotistical exultation on the beautiful face of her to wfiom his devotion was due.

There was a remarkable dif ference, however, between them, when they fancied they were unobserved. She would often steel looks of sad but ardent affection at him, while he, when unre strained, was ordinarily plunged in deep abstraction, and nervously averted his eyes from hers. Captain and Mrs. Frankland were fully alive to this wretched state of affairs, and grieved much over it. They felt, however, that they were helpless, and wisely avoided interference. Day after day passed away in this fashion without any signs of amend ment. No cavaliere servente could have been more attentive than Oswald, no British husband more punctual in walking and driving with his wife. To the world they were a united, happy pair ; but the world only judged by their actions. It did not know, as did the Franklands, that a canker was in the hearts of both, that they felt more awkward when together than the most uncongenial acquaintances, that not a word of love passed between them, that their conversation was of the most bald description, and that their feelings and prospects were subjects never men tioned by either.

Often and often did Oswald strive against the deadness of heart which he felt was so cruel an offence to her who had given him the abundant wealth of a young girl's first love. He strove hard to banish the past from his mind, and to subject his affection to his duty. Once or twice he caught a pleading glance from Mary, a glance which was furtively given and hastily withdrawn. His heart smote him for the obduracy with which he received these unintentional appeals ; but con science, with compassion combined, though all-powerful in most things, is powerless where the affections are concerned. He could not love her. In course of time, however, the influences we have named, assisted by propinquity to her who loved him, and absence from her whom he loved, began insensibly to produce an effect. But the process was slow, and scarcely noticed by himself.