The firing which we had heard on coming in sight of the yacht was caused by Sir Horace, who, to soothe his impatience, had been discharging his carronades. Moreover, from an old Greek pilot, who dwelt on the little isle of Coudouri, he had received some hints, that unless the yacht was speedily got to sea, she might be attacked some night and plundered.
In this affair several of the yachts-men were killed, and several severely wounded; but all the Highlanders escaped, save Donald Roy, who had one of his bare legs slashed by a yataghan; the son of old Ian Mac Raonuil, who received a pistol-shot through the left shoulder, and another lad from my glen, a son of Alisdair Mac Gouran, who was bruised by a musket-butt; but the surgeon of the Mahmoudieh, the Turkish steamer, which came in a day or two after, and who proved to be a clever Milanese, soon put all our cuts and scars right, and pronounced me out of danger, though two of my ribs were broken on the left side, and I was weak as a child from over-excitement and loss of blood. His injunctions moreover were, that I was not to be removed; but there was no chance of that, while Laura and Fanny hovered like guardian angels near my cabin-door, and while the burst of gratitude that swelled the heart of Sir Horace, on finding himself rescued by Her Majesty's troops, and by my personal exertions, remained in his bosom—all aristocratic, externally frigid, and exclusive as it was.
'Removed!' he reiterated, 'no, no—he shall make my yacht his home—and every Highlander shall make it his home. They must remain on board till the schooner returns to Constantinople (she had left it three weeks ago, on her return to England), and I will be accountable for them all to their commanding officer. I am an M.P., as well as a Lieutenant-Colonel—yes, Lieutenant-Colonel of the gallant South Peddlington Yeomanry, or Prince Alfred's Own Carbineers, the terror of the mining districts.'
Jack Belton and Sergeant Mac Ildhui with twenty men had a hunt—a regular stalking-match—over the island for the fugitive pirates; but not one was to be found; they had all vanished like the three hundred and sixty idols of Mecca, when the prophet waved his enchanted lance. Then Jack conceiving that it would be much more pleasant to proceed to Stamboul in the yacht of Sir Horace, when there were two charming young ladies on board, with the best of good living, prime port, and 'no end' of pink champagne and hermetically-sealed provisions, than to march on foot from Rodosdchig to Heraclea, and from thence to the Golden Horn, warmly seconded the baronet's grateful invitation, and sent a despatch to Major Catanagh, detailing Sir Horace's wish, and warmly commending his zeal for Her Majesty's service. He also sent the pinnace of the Mahmoudieh for our men's knapsacks, squadbags, and baggage; and while the lubberly Believers, who formed the crew of that imperial steamer, were endeavouring, with all the force of their paddles, engines, and hawser, to drag the yacht into deep water when the tide flowed, Jack was quietly seated in the cabin—about a month after all these troubles—beside Fanny at the piano, turning over the leaves of her music, and gazing sentimentally on her glossy tresses and white hands, while she warbled away, and in a low voice told him how 'she dared not seek to offer him, a timid love like hers;' till our matter-of-fact Jack was quite overcome, and the merry Fanny, already recovering from the shock of late events, was filled with laughter at the triumph of her own beauty, and the success of her brilliant coquetry.
She had already forgotten poor Snobleigh, who, after doing his duty bravely in the trenches before the Sedan, was found one morning cold and stiff, with his sword and a half-finished cigar beside him. He had been slain in the night by the splinter of a 'whistling-dick,' i.e., a ten-inch shell, and was now taking his eternal rest with the gallant Blair, and eleven other officers of the Household Brigade, on Cathcart's Hill.
At last the yacht was got fairly afloat, and was anchored in the stream. Her sails were bent anew, her running rigging rove, and the testy old baronet longed for the time that should find him under weigh to lay his grievances personally before our ambassador.
Beating against a head-wind, that blew straight from the Bosphorus, the Fairy Bell was close-hauled on the starboard tack. It was evening now; the wind was light; a warm glow bathed all the shore, and tinted with amber and crimson the waves that rolled upon the beach from Ogia to the Point of St. Stephen.
I had been insensible, or weak and dozing, for many days and many nights—in short, I must have been feverish and delirious for some time previous; and on this evening, when the cool sea-breeze from the open cabin-window fanned my cheek, and the bright waves ran merrily past in the setting sunshine, I first became aware of existence; the painful phantasmagoria of sickness passed away, and I felt conscious of the rippling water, the warm sun, and the flowers that stood in vases near me. I had dreams of Laura Everingham, and of her pretty face prying into mine—that face, the soft features of which were almost fading from my memory like a dream of other years. I remembered sounds of music that had come to me in sleep; soft perfumed hands that had touched me; subdued lights, and whispering voices, and then long, dull, and monotonous silences. I started and awoke to life! Laura's well-remembered voice was in my ear, and speaking to me—every accent was painfully yet delightfully distinct.
The voice of Laura—could it be? Was the tender memory of Iola—were all the events of the past year—but a dream? Or was the hope that had brightened other days coming back to me again?
Who has not felt the nameless, the indescribable thrill, amounting almost to a pang of joy, that shoots through the heart after a long, and it might be, hopeless separation, when the old familiar voice of one beloved—a friend, relation, or lover falls upon the ear?
I drew back the curtain—there was a light step on the carpet; a little hand was placed in mine, and two blue eyes looked kindly and tenderly on my face with a sad smile, such as Laura alone could give.
'Oh, Laura!' I whispered, in a breathless voice, 'I have suffered much—very much since we last met.'
'And I, too, have suffered,' said she, weeping.
'You?—oh—I remember now.' I added, pressing a hand upon my brow, and endeavouring to rally all my thoughts; 'did not some one die—and then we had some fighting?'
But my brain became giddy and I closed my eyes, yet I still felt the pressure of Laura's little hand, as it lay trembling in mine. My heart vibrated to its pulses, for in this there was a dangerous and alluring novelty that bewildered me. Sleep seemed to come upon me again, and of that interview I remember no more.
Again it was evening, and the sun, as he set behind the faint blue hills of Roumelia, shed a blaze of yellow glory over the vast extent of Constantinople, gilding its embattled towers, its tall white galleried minarets, topped with glittering crescents, its gilded domes of dazzling brightness, and its dense masses of terraced roofs, filling every casement apparently with lamps of burnished gold. The green foliage of the Seraglio Garden and of the Prince's Island; the white walls of Scutari, the strong tower of Galata, Pera, the residence of the Franks, were all sparkling in light; and the forest of masts and gay ensigns that crowded the Golden Horn seemed to be countless as the light caiques that shot over the ripples of the Bosphorus.
Long and black rows of cypresses cast their shadows to the east, lengthening, as the sun departs; then, hark! the red evening guns peal from the strong tower of the Seraskier; the ships of war reply, and the muezzins, from a thousand mosques, shout the shrill cry 'to prayer!' while over tower and temple, cypress-grove and guarded ship, over the Seven Towers, the giant façade of the Seraglio, and over all the sparkling sea the sunlight dies away.
We were at anchor off the city, and stretched upon a cushioned sofa, I gazed languidly at all this from the stern windows, as the yacht swung round with the stream.
Laura was beside me; Sir Horace had gone ashore to confer with the ambassador; Fanny was with Jack Belton in the outer cabin, as the tinkling of a piano informed me—and, as Laura timidly seated herself by my side, Callum Dhu, my constant, my kind and faithful attendant, retired on deck.
I felt happy; for after a separation so long and so hopeless, and having the certainty of a separation before us again, to be with her was to enjoy perfect happiness.
'Laura,' said I, 'I feel as if in a dream—while addressing you, and when uttering your name.'
'A dream?'
'From which I fear to waken.'
'Dream on, then, dear Allan, if it delights you.'
'My life at home was all an agony of suspense and continued mortifications, even while hope, however faint and slender, lasted; but how shall I describe the torture that life became, after hope itself faded away, and I lost you—lost you for ever!'
Laura answered only with her tears, and a long pause, filled up by tender smiles and mute caressing glances or a pressure of the hand ensued. All was forgiven and forgotten.
My letter from Dumbarton she had never received. So this imaginary neglect, which had stung me so deeply, was at once explained away.
And what of poor Iola? Was my love for her forgotten quite?
Here, in my own extenuation, I cannot do better than quote a paragraph from one of the most pleasing of our female writers—one alike charming for the brilliancy of her style and the beauty of her person, when referring to a man's first and other loves:—
'He spoke no more than truth when he told you that you were his ideal of love and loveliness. The woman who is so beloved may have successors, as she may have had predecessors; but rivals—properly so called—she can have none. Lone and different as the moon in a heaven full of stars, she remains in the world of that man's heart. He has known other women and he has known HER. It may be the love of his youth, or the wife of his old age—first love, or last love—it matters not. The love—the one love that fulfils all the exigencies of illusion, all the charms of sense, and all the pleasures of companionship, comes but once in a man's life-time. The rest are substitutes, make-shifts for love. To them in vain he shall affirm or deny that which they desire or dread to hear. In his heart a shadow sits enthroned, who for ever bends down to listen—to watch those who would approach him—and bar them out, with whispers of sorrowful comparison, and the delight of remembered days.'
During my passion for Iola I believed that Laura's marriage had freed me from every tie to her—a bitter freedom certainly.
The story of Clavering's horrid fate had been told to her long since by Jack Belton, and on my recovery, her natural sorrow was one of the first things that piqued and galled me, the more so as poor Tom's miniature, done in Thorburn's best style, seemed to be constantly winking at me out of a brooch on Laura's breast. I referred to this, and she gave me a sad smile.
'Poor Clavering was well worthy of all my esteem,' said she; 'that sentiment he possessed to the full, Allan, but my love—never! Oh, never! for it was yours, and yours only, dear Allan,' she added, sobbing on my shoulder. 'He knew that he possessed my purest esteem when he married me, and hoped that love would follow the marriage into which papa's impetuosity hurried me—a vain and too often a wicked hope. Advised by some, cajoled by others, quizzed by a few, seriously urged by the many, and overawed by papa, I consented to become his wife, and no time was given for reflecting or retracting. You were lost to me, and other love I had none; so the day came at last which was to make your Laura Everingham his Laura Clavering—the fatal day came and the hour! The vows were said; the mute assent was given; this gold ring was placed upon my finger—there was a kissing of friends to undergo—a murmur of voices, and a hum of congratulation. I heard the marriage-bells jangling overhead and felt myself lifted into a carriage. I had fainted, and remember no more of that day—but that poor Clavering was all tenderness and kindness.'
I sighed bitterly at this description; and then felt something of joy and triumph as Laura placed her cheek caressingly to mine, while with her sweet eyes the very sunshine seemed to brighten as she smiled with the same smile that first shed a light upon my path in life, and taught me that I had a heart to lose.
'Ah, Laura,' I exclaimed, 'I have but one request to make of heaven.'
'And it is——'
'That you will love me as of old.'
'Dearest Allan, my heart never wavered in its love for you; though my affections were forced upon another, my soul was ever with you. Take courage, Allan, you will soon recover, and all will yet be well.'
'I have no wish to recover!' I exclaimed, with a sudden burst of renewed bitterness.
'Allan!'
'None. I wish that Zahroun's shot had pierced my heart; I can never win you, for your father hates me, and will never consent to our marriage!'
'He does not hate you, my dear boy,' exclaimed the hearty voice of old Sir Horace, as he started forward from a corner of the cabin, where he had been for some time an unknown observer of this scene; 'he does not hate you—but he loves and regards you, as you deserve to be loved and regarded, for he owes you a debt of eternal gratitude; he owes you life and more than life—the safety and honour of his dear little Laura. Take her, Allan Mac Innon, and with her take your old ancestral glen, wood and water, rock and mountain—and may God bless you both, and make you happy as you deserve to be!'