Page:Once a Week Volume V.djvu/401

 394 These things were brought under the care of an old friend and comrade of Temple, Captain Milton, who had been present at his death.

The Temple family had the deepest interest in seeing Captain Milton, for although they had received several letters of condolence from friends in India, Captain Milton’s letters had unfortunately failed to reach them, and he alone was capable of giving a minute account of all that had occurred at the last.

Captain Milton greatly regretted the loss of his letters: he had written also, he said, to Mr. Westby—had they heard whether Mr. Westby had received the letter?

“He would no doubt have told us had he heard from you,” replied Lilian. “We have not seen him lately, but he is perfectly aware how very anxious we have been to receive accounts from you.”

Captain Milton appeared particularly disappointed that Westby had not received his letter: he expressed himself to that effect, and frequently reverted to the subject. Rather unnecessarily, indeed, as both Lilian and her mother thought, because, after all, the letter which they had lost was far more important.

Lilian hung with breathless interest on every word of Captain Milton’s narrative; the whole sad scene arose before her eyes in vivid colours, created by her sympathetic heart: he spoke, indeed, with the utmost feeling, but with the plain, unaffected language of everyday life, carrying intense reality in every syllable.

There was a great contrast to be observed in the effect of the narrative on the two women who listened to it. Mrs. Temple strove against sorrow bursting into violent outward manifestation; with Lilian, though tears stood in her eyes, sorrow was half merged in a higher feeling—admiration.

It was in truth a very noble eulogy which Captain Milton pronounced on Frederick Temple. How his nature had been tested to the full by the difficulties and privations of the campaign, and how his generosity and self-denial had been eminent through all the trial.

“I have known many a man,” said Captain Milton, “who was generous enough and open-handed when his generosity cost him no personal sacrifice; but your brother was always ready to share or give up any comforts which he might possess to others who oftentimes really wanted them in no greater degree than he did himself.”

And as Lilian listened, strange new thoughts arose in her mind; the events of life wore a new aspect, her old estimate of human things looked poor and mean—nothing seemed worth caring for which had not some greatness for its object, some sacrifice needful for its attainment.

Then Captain Milton spoke of Frederick Temple’s bravery; how he was ever ready to face danger calm and undaunted; how he strove against bodily weakness to hold his post. From the time he received the wound at Delhi he was changed, no longer his old spirits—only when he was at the head of his men did the brightness of his nature return. He had become very weak and had been ordered home by the doctors, but nothing could stop his joining that desperate expedition at the last as a volunteer.

It was the old story which Captain Milton told; a handful of Englishmen outmatched by hundreds, yet crowned with victory; the old story which we in quiet England have heard many a time, thank God for it, who has given such mighty power to our race.

“When the doctor told me that nothing could be done to save him, I couldn’t help expressing a regret that he should have joined us in his weak state instead of going down to Calcutta as he had been ordered by the medical board, for no doubt his previous weakness was the great bar to his recovery—”

“No, no, old boy,” he answered, raising his voice with effort. “I had my commands from head-quarters, and I was forced to obey. As I was lying ill before Delhi a crowd of new thoughts crept into my head—strange thoughts: it was a call from God, that’s what it was. I was never much of a hand at praying, I was not told to do that,—I should have made a bad business of it. I was called to the work I was best fitted for. It was my sword God wanted, I was told that as plainly as I’m telling you. Didn’t we want cavalry, and somebody to lead those fellows? Could we have spared a single man? I felt quite strong again as I rode along, something supported me all through the day; I know what that was. Nothing could harm me till the work was over. My work was done when we had taken those guns. I wasn’t wanted after that.”

Frederick Temple had directed that his sword should be given to Lilian.

“He told me to give it to you in your own hands,” said Captain Milton, “and I promised him faithfully to do so.”

Captain Milton unsheathed the sword, and, coming to where Lilian sat, placed the sword in her hands, hilt and blade.

She felt a cold tremor as she touched the steel, and a feeling of solemnity gathered round her,—a solemnity deep beyond all church experiences, though they were sitting in their well-ordered drawing-room, and the narrative to which they listened was couched in ordinary language, without the slightest affectation of Scriptural phraseology. Surrounded by all the associations of pleasant worldly existence, and yet as Lilian pressed her lips to the steel, the old world seemed to sink from her gaze, and those ideas of duty and effort which had been little more than dreamy abstractions in the back-ground of her thoughts burst forward into solid existence.

It only needed some one, clothed with authority, to stand before her and pronounce that such an act was right to be done, and such a sacrifice endured, and she would have obeyed.

She felt armed for a great effort, but nothing was asked of her—every-day life, with its pleasantly-ordered arrangements, circled her existence; heroism in any shape seemed a useless element. The carriage would be waiting their pleasure, if