CHAPTER XI.

So, bounding o'er the billows, ride our fleets, To reach the land that owns the sacred name Of _home_; and high among the shrouds brave hearts Beat towards that home with strong tumultuous joy.

_Unpublished Poems._

Lady Blanche and Lady Cumberworth were at opposite ends of the room. They were not acquainted with each other. Rubber after rubber was played by the elder people; some of the younger won and lost considerable sums at _écarté_. The evening wore away; Blanche's high-wrought expectations seemed likely to end in nothing. "After all," she thought, "what did I expect? What was to happen? How foolish I have been! Lady Cumberworth does not even turn her head my way." She might have seen that a very charming young man was in deep conversation with the fourth Miss De Molton; and Lady Cumberworth would not have moved an inch, or even looked as if she could ever wish to move, as long as this conversation lasted. When the charming young man had, however, taken his leave to grace some more splendid assembly with his presence, Lady Cumberworth changed her position, and crossed to the side of the room where Lady Blanche stood. She was slightly acquainted with Lady Westhope, and seated herself by her. Blanche's heart beat quick--something would surely occur now.

Presently Lady Cumberworth begged Lady Westhope to introduce her to her cousin, Lady Blanche; which common-place ceremony was performed in the most common-place manner: but Lady Blanche's eyes were full of tears, and she blushed to her very temples. Lady Cumberworth saw that her darling son was as truly loved as ever, and, though she knew it would be reckoned imprudent, she could not help ardently wishing to let her know that De Molton was neither faithless nor indifferent. "After all," thought she, in the good-natured weakness of her heart, "it is evident they are both so deeply attached, that they never can be happy if they are separated. Lord Falkingham is rich--he has no son; if he chose to provide for Lady Blanche, he could make them tolerably comfortable. I must give the poor girl pleasure by letting her know what are Frank's feelings; and then he will be so very happy if I tell him I have seen his Blanche, and that she is constant!" She took the opportunity of Lady Westhope's changing her position to draw nearer to Lady Blanche. "Now," thought Blanche, "something is coming; Lady Cumberworth looks as if she did not wish my cousin to hear."

Lady Cumberworth asked her "if she had been at the last ball at M. House." Lady Blanche answered "Yes," and felt disappointed at so unmeaning a question.

Lady Cumberworth did not know how to open the subject. "Were you much amused?" she inquired.

"No! I did not think it was very gay," was Blanche's reply.

"I had a letter from my son in India the other day," continued Lady Cumberworth, while Lady Blanche's heart seemed almost to stop its pulsations from excess of emotion, "and he tells me the society of Calcutta is very dull. He is gone up the country now, on an expedition against some native chiefs."

Lady Blanche changed colour, and her eyes turned fearfully and inquiringly on Lady Cumberworth, who proceeded:--"He soothes my maternal fears by telling me that it is not a service of much danger; but he adds, that while there is any active service to be expected, he cannot, in honour, follow his own inclination, which would be to return to England instantly. He seems very much to regret having gone to India at all."

This was enough. Hope again danced in the heart of Lady Blanche; but she dared not raise her eyes from the ground; she did not utter--she could not think of anything which would not too openly commit her to a person who was, in fact, a stranger. But Lady Cumberworth saw enough to convince her that Frank's devotion was amply requited, and she absolutely loved Lady Blanche. She was a kind, nay, a tender-hearted woman. She never could resist doing the thing which she saw wished by others, and many a lecture had she received from more sage and worldly matrons for allowing her daughters to flirt uselessly, and for permitting herself to be completely managed by them upon most subjects. Several very imprudent marriages had been in question for the girls, and had from her met with little discouragement. Fortunately Lord Cumberworth's heart was not so soft, while his head was somewhat harder.

From this time, whenever Lady Blanche and Lady Cumberworth met, a few words of cordial recognition passed between them. Lady Falkingham, to avoid the necessity of being introduced, was either affectedly engaged in earnest conversation with some one else, or statelily reared herself to her full height, her eyes looking over, or beyond, Lady Cumberworth. The greetings, consequently, became each evening shorter and more constrained; but still they were sufficient to keep Blanche's mind engaged with the idea of De Molton.

The letter which his mother wrote to him immediately after her conversation with Lady Blanche, found him one sultry day lying in his bungalow, exhausted both in body and mind. The expedition against the Pindarries was over. He had distinguished himself by his eager and ardent courage, and his previous study of the history and nature of the country had enabled him to be of essential service to his commanding officer. The novelty and excitement of this desultory warfare had assisted to divert his thoughts from dwelling exclusively on the subject of his unfortunate attachment; but that excitement was over. The regiment was at present established in bungalows, near the borders of the British possessions, and removed to a great distance from any European society.

The weather was so oppressively hot, that, except for some hours about sunrise, and for a few more in the evening, it was impossible that even any military duty could take place.

The intervening space of time was generally passed by the officers languidly stretched on mats, and gasping for breath. They were cut off from all communication with any of their countrymen, and the unhealthiness of the climate had wofully thinned the number of those who had originally formed their small society. The few books possessed by the party had been read and re-read a hundred times. An occasional tiger-hunt before daybreak,--the exhilarating intelligence of a crocodile having been seen on the bank of a neighbouring tank,--the punishment of some native discovered in one of the thefts, which were so often perpetrated and so seldom detected, or the death of another comrade,--were the only events which occurred to vary the monotony of De Molton's existence.

In the vacuity of such a life, the image of Blanche would rise before his mind, more beautiful, more fascinating than ever; and he would pass whole hours with his eyes fixed upon the blinds which the natives were constantly watering to preserve some freshness in the atmosphere, while his thoughts wandered far away from the melancholy and uninteresting sights around him, to the festive and brilliant saloons of Paris, or to the dimly-lighted stairs of the private-box entrance of Covent-Garden, or to the long dinner-table at Cransley, with the épergne and its projecting flowers,--or, dearer than all, to the library where he last beheld her,--where he caught the expression of her countenance when she said, "And do you then love me?"--to the library where she had uttered the few words which had changed the whole tenour of both their fates--"Why did you not tell me this sooner?"

He was feasting his memory on these precious recollections; he was wondering whether she still remembered him, whether he should ever return to England, whether he should find her free from any other engagement--whether there was a possibility that she might ever become his, or whether he was not flattering and deceiving himself in attaching so much importance to these few words;--when he was roused from his reveries by the arrival of despatches from Calcutta with English letters, and his eyes were greeted by the sight of many a well-known handwriting.

It is only those who have been in distant lands, far from all most dear to them, who can judge of the mingled emotions of joy and fear with which letters from home are received by the exile. The magic contained in that word Home!--the thousand tender, delightful, and painful feelings that crowd upon the soul! The anxiety with which the letters are hastily examined to see that they are not sealed with black,--the eagerness with which the one from the person nearest and dearest to the heart is selected from all the rest,--the sickening agitation with which it is torn open, and the nervous haste with which the eye glances to the top of the page to look for the accustomed "All well," and the glow of delight with which the comfortable words are hailed!

De Molton seized his mother's letter,--perused the assurances of the welfare of his father, his brothers, his sisters, his uncles, his aunts, his first cousins, and his second cousins! Nothing could be more satisfactory than the report his mother gave of every branch of the family, and yet he was not satisfied.

At length came the postscript; and there he found the name he had been longing to see. There he found that Blanche was still free and unfettered, that Blanche did not enjoy society, that Blanche still blushed when she heard his name.

His impatience to return home now exceeded all bounds. Two years had elapsed since he left England; there seemed little chance of any war in which his services would be useful to his country, or in which he could himself acquire fame.

He lost no time in negotiating his exchange into a regiment which was shortly to sail for his native land; and towards the end of the third spring from the time of his departure, he once more set foot on English ground, and hastened to his father's house, with all the trepidation and anxiety experienced by any one who arrives at a home from which the last intelligence is nearly a year old.