Mr. Compton accompanied his son on board, and stayed as long as it was possible. The anchors of the fleet were a-peak, their topsails loosed, when they arrived on board; and when the men were somewhat settled, and order restored, the signal was made for sailing; soon the anchors were at the cat-heads, the topsails sheeted home, and the vast fabrics began their march over the deep, to be continued through storm or calm to the end. But as sail after sail was set, the vessels began to move the faster, until it was no longer possible to retain the boat which was towing astern, in which he was to return; he was aware that every indulgence had been shown him in having been allowed to remain so long, and he could make no opposition to its being ordered alongside.
‘May He who alone is able to protect you, Herbert,’ he said, as he wrung his hand, ‘keep you in health! You go, I am well aware, to many dangers, but I leave you in confident hope that we may meet again; and my most fervent supplications shall ever be for you. Be careful of yourself; you are strong, active, temperate—blessings which you cannot prize too highly. And now embrace me, my dear boy—I dare speak no more.’
He left the deck: Herbert watched him down the side safely into the boat; the rope was cast off, and in another instant it was dancing in the wake of the vessel astern; the boatmen set their sail, and soon the tiny bark was dancing merrily along over the waters. Herbert gazed till it became a speck, and then disappeared; but Mr. Compton saw the tall vessels, which had spread every sail to court a gentle and favourable wind, longer, and he watched the last faint glitter of their white canvas with straining eyes and an aching heart, till he could see them no longer upon the blue horizon.
We must now return to a point in our narrative from which we have very widely digressed, in order to put our readers in possession of what we have detailed of the history of Herbert Compton; and we will return to the happy party which was assembled round the cheerful fire at Alston Rectory.
Besides the family, Amy was there; and, since the events we have detailed, she was often at Alston for days together: she was bright and joyous as ever, indeed much improved in personal appearance. Little more than a year had elapsed since Herbert had left them, but the letters he had written had been so regularly received, that the miserable apprehensions which all had indulged on his departure were completely dispelled; they knew that he was happy, and enjoyed excellent health, that he had formed pleasant friendships, and liked the country, which he described with eloquence. Still, as he had gone on service soon after his arrival, they were anxious, and looked eagerly for news.
‘Come, let us have a glee, girls,’ said Mr. Compton, after a game of forfeits had been played with all its pleasant, noisy fun, which seems now to have abandoned us; ‘come, we must have some music. Get you to the harpsichord, Amy, and I will help out my own bass with my violoncello.’
‘What shall we sing, sir?’ answered Amy, gaily, going at once to the instrument; ‘here are all kinds—comic, lively, and grave. Ah! I have hit at once upon Herbert’s favourite—“When winds breathe soft.” ’
‘Very good; you could not have anything better; and we all know that your heart will be in your song;—but, let us see.’
The parts were soon arranged; Amy led the glee, the delicious harmony of which appeared to float in the air above their heads, so perfectly was it sung by voices, excellent in themselves, and attuned by constant practice. Others followed; for as they had begun with glees, so they agreed to continue.
At last, after a pause, Mr. Compton, patting her cheek, said—‘Well, you have sung so well, Amy, that I think I shall have a letter for my pet to-night.’
‘A letter!—for me? Ah, sir, from whom? not from Herbert?’
‘Indeed I hope so, my darling,’ added Mrs. Compton; ‘you know we were disappointed by the last packet, and Mr. Compton heard yesterday from his London agent, saying that a Bombay vessel had arrived with letters, and that he would forward ours the next day.’
‘I am so happy! dear, dear Mrs. Compton,’ cried the joyful girl, throwing her arms around her, and kissing her; ‘I feel so very happy! And when will the letters come?’
‘I expect the boy every moment with the bag,’ she replied; ‘he should have been here before this; but perhaps the post is late at—— to-day, on account of the weather.’
‘Then we shall have a delightful evening, indeed,’ said Amy; ‘shall we not, boys and girls? Herbert’s letters to all of you shall be read first, and then I will read just such scraps of mine as I please. You know how I love to tyrannise over you, and tempt you with a great deal that you must not see.’
‘Well, here is the bag!’ cried Edward, taking it from the servant, who just then entered. ‘Now we shall see!’ and he opened it. ‘What! only one?—that is a disappointment! It is for you, father.’
‘Ah, from my agents I see; perhaps the letters have not been delivered; but we shall hear all about it.’ They crowded round him, but poor Amy’s heart sunk within her; she almost sickened lest there should be no news of Herbert.
‘Dear Sir,’ read Mr. Compton, ‘we are sorry to inform you that there were no letters for you or for Miss Hayward, per Ocean from Bombay, and we are sorry to add that the general news is not so favourable as we could wish—’
‘Look to Amy! look to Amy!’ cried Mrs. Compton, suddenly and anxiously.
It was indeed necessary—for she had fainted. It was long ere she recovered; she had naturally a powerful mind, but it had been suddenly, perhaps unadvisedly, excited; and when such disappointment ensued, she had not been able to bear up against it, the more so as this was the second she had experienced within a short time, and there was no doubt from the previous public information, that severe fighting had been apprehended, in which Herbert’s regiment must take a part.
In vain was it that Mr. and Mrs. Hayward tried to console her—they had felt the disappointment as keenly as Amy; for the time, therefore, all were sad, and the evening which had begun so cheerfully, was concluded in painful and almost silent apprehension; nor did the accounts which appeared in the newspapers some days afterwards convey to them any alleviation of their fears.
CHAPTER XII.
It is now necessary to revisit Abdool Rhyman Khan and his party, whom we left at a small village in the pass leading behind Pencondah, and in their company to travel awhile through those districts which lay between them and the city whither they were bound.
There were no dangers now in their path, no attacks from the Mahrattas to be apprehended, nor was there the irksome heat which oppressed and wearied them before. A few showers had already fallen, the earth had put on its verdant covering, and travelling was now a pleasure more than a fatigue. The Khan had intended proceeding by easy stages, but the news he had heard of rumours of fresh wars, of the personal activity of Tippoo among the army, which was always the forerunner of some campaign, made him more than usually solicitous to press forward.
So on the fifth day they were at Balapoor; and leaving the lady to the care of the servants to rest for awhile, the Khan, accompanied by Kasim, rode forward to the town and fort of Nundidgroog, where he knew some of his own men were stationed.
‘Do you see that pile of rocks yonder?’ said the Khan to Kasim, as they rode along.
‘I do; why do you ask?’
‘Because,’ he replied, ‘that is a place well worth seeing, and one which was a rare favourite of Hyder Ali’s—may his memory be honoured!’
‘Why? Had he a summer-house there?’
‘Yes, there is a sort of a house there, to be sure,’ returned the Khan laughing; ‘but not one of pleasure, I should think. Many a poor wretch has been in it, who would have given the wealth of the world, had he possessed it, to have got out again.’
‘It is