LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume IX, Issue 1254, 14 March 1878, Page 3

LITERATURE.

A MYSTERIOUS VISITOR, By the Autu.oe of ‘JEast Lynne.” ( Concluded .) 4 Very badly. 'They cannot be worse. ’ ‘ Does be know anything of George ?’ continued she. ‘ I think he might spare just a minute from his fighting to write to me. What is the matter with you ? You have not brought bad news for me ?’ she added, her fears touched, and rising in excitement. Oh, surely not! Not for me !’ ‘James’s news is altogether very dispirit ing,’ returned Mrs Bethel”, at a loss how to proceed vfitft bar task. ‘My husband is gone ijo bring Dr. and Mrs Ling back. We thought you might like them to be at home.’ ‘ Has George fallen in battle ? Have those half caste rebels shot him down ? ’ * Pray be calm, Louisa!’ implored Mrs Beecher ; ‘ if ever you had need of calmness in your life, you have need of it now.’, ‘lr he wounded? Is he dead f interrupted Mrs Ordie, ft bitter shriek. ‘ Oh, Qeo,ige i ctoaro 't George ! and I have been i calling you hard names for not writing to : me! What is it ?’ ‘ There is a great deal to be told, my child. James Beecher was at Delhi in the midst of it.’ Louisa suddenly rose and fjew from the room, Mrs Beechs”, supposing she had gone to her chamber, Went after her; but could pot JVd her there. She had gone out of the '■house,*

A thin man, looking fearfully ill, fair once, but browned by an eastern sun, was lying on a sofa in the curate’s parlor, when a young, excited woman came flying in. t . ‘Mr James Beecher,’ she uttered, seizing, his hands imploringly, when did it happen? r&mMr'eOjrdie, 1

‘ Has my sister-in-law told you—anything ?’ he hesitated. ‘Yes, yes. I know the worst. I want particulars.’

He had risen to an upright posture, though he could scarcely support himself, and she sat down beside him. He was a church missionary, a widower with children, ‘ Are you sure that you can hear the details?’ he asked, believing, from her words, that she knew the general facts, *I am sure. Omit nothing. You were at Delhi.’

‘ I went there in the spring, to say farewell to some friends, ere I came home. At Delhi I was taken worse, and lay ill there.’ * But about the rising ?' ‘ I am coming to it. On the second Monday in May, after breakfast, bad news came in. The 3rd Light Cavalry had dashed in from Meerut, fully armed, and were slaughtering the Europeans. Eighty-five of this regiment had been tried by courtmartial at Meerut, for refusing to handle the greased cartridges, and sentenced to imprisonment. Their sentences were read out to them on parade on the previous Saturday, the 9th, and they were sent to gaol. On the 10th, Sunday, the regiment rose, released the prisoners, massacred the European officers, their wives and children, and on the 11th came to Delhi, in open revolt. I struggled up, dressed myself, joined the friends I was staying with, and we waited further news. It came too soon. The mutineers had gone towards Deriowgunge, shooting all the officers they encountered. The brigadier ordered out the 54th Native Infantry and two guns ; and, I believe, a detachment of another regiment; but accounts varied. Ihey met the rebels just outside the Cashmere gate, and it was all up, for the Sepoys deserted their officers, and shook hands with the Bowars. Every officer was killed. Treacherous, cowardly wretches ! they did not spare one.’ She was biting her lips, and striving for calmness, determined to hear all. * Did the officers make no resistance ?’

‘ All that they could make, but they were unarmed,’ he answered. 4 The next account that came in was that the natives had risen and joined the insurrection, were firing the bungalows at Deriowgunge, and ransacking the European residences. The troopers were raging about, destroying life; and when their work was done, the Goojours. who had collected in great numbers, as they were sure to do, followed in their wake, and pillaged everything, even to the matting. The bank was rifled.’

Mr Beecher paused, wondering whether he ought to proceed, but her studied calmness deceived him. *No one knew where to fly for refuge, or what to do: none knew where to put the officers’ wives and children. Many were taken to the Flagstaff Tower; but it was thought unsafe and had to be abandoned. Some escaped—fnany, I hope—in conveyances, or on horseback, or on foot. Some of the officers retreated to the cantonment, outside the gates ; but the troopers got there when night came, and killed them and their wives and children.’

‘ Were any of my family with them ?’ she asked, still with unnatural composure. ‘No. I will tell you. Before mid-day the ladies of our house, my host’s wife and her cousin, escaped to a close hut, or outhouse, and I managed to hobble there with them. I don’t know how I did it; but it is astonishing the ar ificial strength that fear brings out. Others also took refuge there, about half-a-dozen ladies, your two sisters being amongst them, three or four children, and a poor little ensign, as ill and weak as I was. We hoped we were in safety; that the rebels would not think of looking for us there ; and some old matting, well wetted, was hung up across the entrance, as if to dry. A Sepoy, who was really faithful (and there were many such in the city) sat before it to guard it; many a one, raging after prey, did he turn aside with a well-assumed story that his old mother was in there, dying-—let her die in peace.’ ‘ Was my husband there ? ’

* Not then. N;> one came near us all that day : they dared not come, for our sakes ; and we bore our suspense and apprehension as we best could, not knowing who was living or who dead, of those dearest to us. What a day was that. We had neither food nor drink ; the heat of the weather was fearful; and so many of us stowed together, and closely shut up, rendered the air fetid. W e thought it could not be less than 110 degrees, This was not the worst; there were the apprehensions of discovery. We rueu might brave it, at any rate to appearance, but the poor young women ! I believe they would have been glad to die as they cowered there, rather than live to encounter an uncertain fate. I strove to speak comfort to them all, but it was difficult; one or two bore bravely up, and cheered the rest. Tate at night, under cover of the darkness, Captain Ordie stole in. ’ She raised a faint cry at the name. *My husband ! ’

*He told ns what he could of the progress of the day—it was horribly bad, yet I believe ;he softened it for their ears—and then he began to talk of our own situation. It would be impossible, he said, to keep in the same place of concealment another clay, and that we had better join a party who were about to make their escape towards Knrnaul. All seized at idea eagerly, and wished to start without the delay of au instant, Mrs Holt, my friend’s wife, inquired after h er husband, whom she had not seen since morning. ‘ He is safe, and unharmed,’ replied Captain Ordie. ‘Y ou will see him when [we are fairly off; but it was not thought well for more than one of us to venture here. *

‘And my husband?-’ added Mrs Main, who had done nothing but clasp her baby to her breast all day, and weep silently. ‘ls he safe? ’ Captain Ordie answered evasively, ’ continued Mr Beecher, ‘ and I knew, by his words and by the turn of his face, that poor Main was gone.’ I Go on, ’ groaned Mrs Ordie, 4 George’s turn comes next.’ Mr Beecher hesitated. ‘ I will finish late* 1 , ’ he suggested. ‘ No, finish now. You cannot leave me in this suspense. It would be cruel. ’ ‘ Captain Ordie spoke of the plan of departure. The officers had but three, horses amongst them, and the ladies and invalids were to take it in turn to. ride j two, with a child, on each horse. All the party were to keep together. At that moment arose a horrible yell, which we knew proceeded from a Sowar, and one of them appeared at the entrance, tearing down the matting. All the light we had was a night-wick in some oil, but we saw his dark face. The children shrieked; the ladies also, and huddled themselves together in a corner ; and Cap tain Ordie advanced to the entrance, andj dealt the man a blow ou the temple with the butt-end of his pistol. ’

‘ 1 hope it hilled him 1- ’ she uttered, her eyes sparkling. think it did, for he lay motionless. Captain Ordie kicked him out of the way, and, throwing himself on his hands and knees, crawled out cautiously to reconnoitre. Alas ! we soon heard a struggle outside; two more were upon him.’ ‘And he was struck down! I know you are going to tell it me,’she uttered, in ft low, passionate wail. Mr Beecher sat silent, his countenance full of distress.

‘ louiaW, my darling, be composed,’ interrupted Mrs Beecher, who had come in seared of her. ‘ You know the worst now ’

‘Yes, I know the worst,’ she moaned. ‘ They killed him, there and Vpc.fi, '> ‘ They did,’ whispered Mr Beecher. ‘lt was instantaneous/' Shy, turned sick, and shook violently. But, by strong control, spoke again. ‘ Finish the history. What became of you, inside ? ’ ‘lt was all commotion in a moment, dreadf»l commotion. The poor terrified women attempted to fly; snpie spcceecled, and 1 hope escaped, Providentially there were only theso two troopers; had more beep upon uo. none would have been left. The first thing' I saw distinctly was, that one’of had caught Mrs Main’s iufaut, and was tossing it on the point of his bayonet. He next seized her.’

‘Constance ? panted Mrs Ordie. ‘Yes. And killed her. Killed her instantly. Be thankful.’ Mns Ordie pressed down her eyelids, as if she would shut out some unwelcome sight. ‘ Constance murdered,’ she moaned. ‘And you tell me to be thankful.’

‘Be ever thankful,’ impressively spoke the missionary. ‘Others met with a worse fate.’ ‘Sarah Ann?’ she shivered. What became of her ? ’

‘I am unable to tell you. I trust she escaped. At the moment of Mrs Main’s death, I fainted on the floor where I was lying, and that must have saved my life. When I recovered, not a creature—living—was to be seen. The children were lying about; they had been put out of their misery; two of the ladies, and the ensign. Poor young fellow, he had told us. in the day, that he had no parents or near friends to mourn him, so the loss of a little griff, if they did kill him, would not count for muck. ‘Bead? All?’ * All The two ladies were Mrs Holt and Mrs Main. Of the other hadies I saw no trace. I trust, ’ he added, clasping his hands fervently, * they escaped. We shall hear of many miraculous escapes : I pray that theirs may be of the number.’ ‘ Now, Louisa, let me take you home,’ urged Mrs Beecher. ‘You do know the worst. ’

‘I must hear all,’ was the answer, uttered in a tone of frenzy. ‘lf I thought there was a word, a recital, left untold to me, I must get up in the middle of the night, and come and ask for it. ’ ‘You have heard all,’ said Mr Beecher * all that I know. My own escape I will not trouble you with. It was wonderful: and I lost no time in coming home overland.’ She leaned back on the sofa and closed her eyes. Mrs Beecher was thinking of her random words—that she would rather lose everything in the world than her child. But her thoughts had not grasped the dreadful possibility of losing her husband. ‘ vVfien did this happen ? ’ Mrs Ordie suddenly asked. What date? ’

‘ 1 mentioned it,’ said Mr Beecher, ‘ Late on the night of the 11th May.’ Fhe leaned forward breathless, her eyes staring. ‘ How late ? The exact hour ? Speak ? ’ ‘ It must have been near half-past eleven. When Oapiain Ordia came in, we asked him the time (for, strange to say, in our hurried Hight, not one of us put a watch about us), and his watch said a quarter-past eleven; and we were taking, after that, perhaps ten minutes. It must have been about twenty five minutes after eleven when he was killed.’

‘ Listen to that I ’ shrieked Louisa Ordie, seizing Mrs Beecher by the arm. *lt was the very hour I saw and heard him. How was he dressed ? ’ she rapidly asked. ‘ln full regimentals.’

‘ There ! r l here 1 Do you believe me now, Mrs Beecher ? Ah! you all ridiculed me then ; but you hear it. It was my husband that came down the path—appearing to me in the moment of his death.’ t The reader must judge of this mystery as he pleases. It happened; at least, to the positive belief of the lady, here called Mrs Ordie; as her friends can testify. They reason with her in vain. They point out that twenty-five minutes after eleven in Delhi would not be twenty-five minutes after eleven here ; they believe that it was, and could have been nothing but her own vivid imagination, that her thoughts were probab'y running on her husband through the •‘George” in the “ Vicar(f Wakefield.” But Louisa Ordie nevertheless believes, and will believe to the end of time, that it was her husband in the spirit who showed himself to her that unhappy night,.