Chapter LXI: Weary Waiting

"Nothing yet," said Sir Denzil to Eager, on his twentieth anxious call after further news of the boys. "I am surprised Denzil has not written. But so many things may happen out there. His letter may have gone astray. There may be difficulty in communicating with Sebastopol. He may be wounded himself. He may be dead. We can do nothing but wait. I will send you word the moment I have any news. Miss Gracie well?"

"Quite well, sir, but sorely troubled about the boys."

"Ay, ay! That is the woman's part--to sit at home and nurse her fears."

"No news, Charlie?" asked the Little Lady hopelessly, from her chair by the fire.

"No news yet, dear. Sir Denzil promises to send round the moment he gets anything."

"I'm beginning to fear they're all lying dead in that horrible Crimea. This waiting, waiting, waiting, is terrible."

"Yes, it's hard work, the hardest work in the world. But we can only wait and hope, dear. Whatever is is best, and we cannot alter it."

It was a weary time for all of them, and all over Britain and France and Russia the same black cloud lay heavily. The only ones who were happy were those whose warriors had come home maimed, so long as the maiming was not absolute and irretrievable. For such were at all events safe from further harm.

So the slow dark days dragged on until at length one night, when Eager had just got in from his rounds and the usual fruitless call at Carne, there came the long-expected knock on the door, and Gracie ran to answer it.

"Is it you, Kennet?"

"Me, miss. Sir Denzil would like to see Mr. Eager."

"He has got some news at last?"

"Ay, some papers just come in. But I don't know what it is. Bad, I should say, from the looks of him--he was so mortal quiet."

"We will come at once. Let me go alone, Charlie. You're tired out."

"Not a bit of it, my dear. I feel like a hound on the scent at the word 'news.' Don't you think you'd better wait here till I bring you word?"

"I can't wait," she said breathlessly. And they went along together.

Sir Denzil met them with ominous impassivity.

"I trust Kennet did not raise your hopes," he said, with the corners of his mouth drawn down somewhat more even than usual, and a glance that never wavered for a moment. "This arrived just after you left, Mr. Eager. It explains, of course, to some extent----"

It was a letter from General Canrobert, informing Sir Denzil, with many complimentary phrases as palliatives to the blow, that Colonel Carron had met his death while gallantly repelling a sortie on the night of the 12th January. He had left instructions, in case of need, for word to be sent to Sir Denzil and it was in pursuance thereat etc. etc.

"That, of course, explains why he has been unable to pursue his inquiries after the boys," said Sir Denzil, in an absolutely unmoved voice.

"I need not say our deepest sympathies are yours, sir----"

"It is the boys I am concerned for," said Sir Denzil, with an impatient double wave of the hand, whose finger and thumb held his pinch of snuff. "Denzil put himself out of the running twenty years ago. This is only an incident. But"--and he snuffed very deliberately--"it may not be without its consequences in the other matter. There is no one out there now who has any special interest in them, you see. And, under present circumstances, they may quite easily be overlooked and lost track of. Personally, I should not be in the least surprised to learn that they are both dead. This war seems to me to be carried on in quite unusually wasteful fashion."

Gracie never said a word. The callousness of the old heathen chilled her heart, though it was boiling with many emotions. If she opened her mouth she feared it' would all come out in a torrent that would astonish him for the rest of his life.

"We can only go on hoping for the best," said Eager quietly. "Sir George is making inquiries for us----"

"He is quite outside things," said Sir Denzil brusquely, and gazed at Eager with thoughtful intensity for a moment, as though on the point of offering some other suggestion. "However," he said abruptly, at last, "at the moment, as you say, we can only wait, and see what comes of it all. If I hear anything I will send you word at once." And they left him and went soberly home, feeling death still a little nearer their dear ones in this new loss.

"What a terrible old man he is!" said Gracie. "I think he must have been born without a heart."

"It is mostly assumed, I think. Inside, I have no doubt he is feeling his loss bitterly, but he prides himself on not letting it be seen. It is the old fashion. Thank God, we have come to recognise the fact that a man may be a strong man and yet have a heart! It makes for a better world."

And as the slow weeks dragged on, and still brought them no news of the missing ones, their hearts were heavy with fears.