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Henry Ancrum: A Tale of the Last War in New Zealand, Volume 2

Chapter XI

page 142

Chapter XI.

Wont you dance the next dance with me?" said Malcolm Butler, as he seated himself beside Edith Mandeville.

"You know I never dance."

"But why not? Let me speak to you as a friend. You know how I respected, I may say loved my cousin; but now, when so long a time has elapsed, I think that——"

"You think that I ought to be like the rest of the world—that I ought to forget him; but that could never be. Indeed, I could not talk on the subject to any one but page 143yourself; but then he—he—was your cousin, and he always spoke so highly of you (Malcolm Butler shuddered), and you have been so kind a friend to me since—since. Oh! I cannot speak of it (and the tears came into her eyes). Have you—have you heard anything of the soldier you mentioned?"

"Yes," said Malcolm Butler, "I have. As you know, I have spoken to a great many men who remembered having seen Henry Ancrum at the end of the action at Koheroa, but none of them could speak as to having actually seen him fall. At last I heard of this man, who, it was said, must have been close to him at the time. I wrote to the Colonel of his regiment about him, and heard that he had been sent to Auckland sick. I went to-day to the hospital, and spoke to him. He says that he was close to Henry Ancrum when he was page 144wounded, that he saw him fall, and did not see him move afterwards; that the enemy came down upon them in great force at the time, and that he was obliged to retire to his comrades."

"But," said Edith, "he may have been only wounded,"

"No," replied Malcolm Butler, "I think not. But can you bear the truth?"

"Yes. Months of dread and sorrow have, I think, schooled me into bearing to hear any intelligence without showing outwardly what I feel."

"Well, then, I grieve to say that the man says that he thinks—nay, he is certain that Henry Ancrum was killed on the spot."

"But how should he know? He himself says he was obliged to fly for his own life."

"Because he did not see him move after page 145he fell. But I distress you—I trust you know how unwillingly; but I think it better that you should know the truth. You do know how I mourn the sad fate of my dear deceased cousin. No one could have admired him more than I did—no one can more deplore his loss."

"Yes—yes, I know," said Edith; "but why—oh, why will you shut out all hope?"

"Because all hope is vain—because, in fact, there is no hope; that is why I wish to make you think less of the past and more of the present. You know that our immortal bard (the man who knew more of human nature than any other mortal who ever lived, of human nature as it was, is, and ever will be) has said:—

"'Moderate lamentation is due to the dead;
Excessive grief is the enemy of the living.'

You know yourself how true this is; you know your grief has been an enemy even page 146to your health. Your father, mother, myself, all who love you, are most anxious about you. Let me implore you to forget the past—let me."

The dark feeling had been gathering round Edith for some time past. The funereal shapes were hovering very close, but the emphasis on the word "me" startled her—it awoke her, as it were, out of a dream.

"Oh," she said, "I cannot, I will not forget." And then, as if to stop all further conversation on the topic on which they had been talking, she added, "I suppose papa has told you that he intends to take us all to his house near Drury in a few days?"

"Yes, he has. Well, my duties often take me to the camp at Drury, so I shall frequently have an opportunity of seeing you."

page 147

"Oh, indeed," said Edith; "now I must go to mamma." And she left him.

The house in which, as has been previously mentioned, Mr. and Mrs. Mandeville had formerly lived for so many years was situated a few miles beyond Drury, on the great south road, on the right side of it as the traveller proceeds southward. It had been erected on a beautiful grassy knoll. A stream, which in the old country would have been called a river, coming from the southward had been interrupted in its course by this knoll, and turning to the eastward had swept round three sides of it, continuing on its course from the northern extremity, thus leaving the house situated on a sort of peninsula, the isthmus of which was occupied by a well-kept garden, behind which on the level land came a clearing of considerable extent, and beyond all was page 148a range of high hills clothed with the primeval forest of New Zealand, as yet untouched by the hand of man.

The house itself was large and commodious, although constructed entirely of wood, and had (as is very common in New Zealand) a verandah in front of its first story running the entire length of the house. It faced towards the road, and had the stream above mentioned in its front, and on its right and left sides.

The Mandevilles at the time when we revisit them had been settled for some time in their new and also their old abode. Mr. Mandeville in the intervals of business took a great interest in all the concerns of his farm. Mrs. Mandeville, who greatly preferred the quiet of a country life to the bustle of towns, was happy in assisting him, and even Edith evinced some return of animation when busied in her garden and page 149the cultivation of her favourite flowers; at other times a settled melancholy had taken possession of her, she moved about like one in whom all hope was dead. So long a time had now elapsed since Henry Anucrum's disappearance that even she despaired of ever seeing him again; in fact she had begun, with all the calm strength of her character, to try and look her situation boldly in the face, and to lay out a path for her future life. Henry she thought was dead, and all her hopes of happiness buried with him; but it was the will of Heaven, and she must submit. What was left? A calm life, a life of devotion to the service of God, of usefulness to her fellow-creatures, of employment in her favourite studies and occupations, and in the end time's softening hand might make her—what?—happy? Oh, no! that could never be, but contented and at peace.

page 150

There must be very few, either of men or women, who cannot vividly recall some period in their lives when a loved one has left them, if it were only for a time. How changed has everything seemed, how dull the landscape looks, the very light of the joyous sun seems dimmed. The town that looked so bright with its gay shops and animated crowds is now a mere mass of bricks and mortar, filled with stupid people always getting in your way. So it was with Edith; to her the world was indeed changed; the bright, brilliant, beautiful world whilst Henry lived in it, was a dreary, blank, colourless desert now. He had left her for ever, and yet she had so schooled herself, she had so subdued all outward appearance of grief, her manner was so calm and placid, that the outward world was deceived by it, and even her parents thought that she might gradually return to her former self.

page 151

Malcolm Butler was a constant visitor at the house: it was very easy to pretend that duty brought him to the camp at Drury, and then to come on to Forest Lodge, as Mr. Mandeville called his place. For months and months his conduct to Edith was merely that of a friend; no symptom of affection was allowed to appear. Malcolm Butler was too keen an observer not to have perceived that on the one occasion when he had appeared to manifest too deep an interest in her welfare, and had urged her to try and forget the past, she had shrunk from him with a sort of loathing: he felt that time alone could soften her grief for the loss of Henry Ancrum and give him any chance of succeeding in his suit for her hand, even with the powerful aid of her father and mother, on which he calculated; but in addition to this there was another reason: Malcolm Butler, page 152although as much in love with Edith as his selfish nature would permit him to be, was not a man who would ever for a minute lose sight of his own immediate interests.

Now he well knew that if he married without his uncle's consent that old gentleman might seriously change his prospects in life by altering his will; as soon therefore as he had made up his mind that he would marry Edith Mandeville, if she would take him, he wrote to his uncle, mentioning the family in England to which Mr. Mandeville belonged, which was one of the oldest amongst the untitled aristocracy, that he (Mr. Mandeville) was now a rich man, who would probably give a good fortune with his only daughter, and that the young lady herself was very beautiful and accomplished; in fact painting the proposed connexion in the most glowing colours, at the same time pointing out that he himself, page 153although over head and ears in love, had not made any proposals whatever to the Mandeville family until he had asked his dear uncle's consent to his marriage.

Answers to letters from New Zealand take a long time in coming; but an answer to this one did come at last.

Malcolm Butler's uncle felt that he was getting old; he would like to hear of his nephew being well married before he himself "shuffled off this mortal coil;" in fact he gave his free and frank consent to the marriage. But Malcolm Butler's letter produced other results besides those we have mentioned—results on which he himself never calculated, and which produced a serious influence on his fate, as will be seen in the sequel.