CHAPTER XXXV.

The great apothecary's shop of Human Vanity is filled with "flattering unctions;" and there is not a sore spot upon the heart or mind of man, which cannot there find its unguent--whether the disease proceed from a self-generated canker, or from a blow inflicted by others. The greatest, the wisest, the healthiest, the soundest-minded of mankind have all occasion to apply to this shop; and they do so now and then, under the sores of regret, and failure, and disappointment, or the wounds of superciliousness, forgetfulness, or neglect. Oh,

"The insolence of office, and the spurns That patient merit of the unworthy takes,"

how often do they drive the iron into the flesh which requires that apothecary's shop to heal it!

Yet, let us not look too curiously into the motives which induced Mr. Prevost, after some hesitation and some reluctance, to accept the appointment offered to him by the government through Lord H----. It was pleasing to him to think that his merits, and the services of which he was conscious--though, be it said, not too conscious--had only been so long overlooked, not from being unapparent or forgotten, but because, in some of his views, he had differed from the ministers lately dismissed. He knew not--or, at least, he did not recollect--how easy it is to forget when one is not willing to remember; how rarely qualities are brought before the public gaze, except by interest, accident, or position--unless by impudence, arrogance, and self-sufficiency. One in ten thousand men of those who rise, rise by merit alone; though there must be some merit in almost all who rise. But the really great are like fixed stars; few of the greatest are ever near the eye; one requires a telescope to see them, and that telescope is Time.

Putting aside military chiefs, who write their names in fire, many of the greatest men of all ages have been overlooked by Fame. The author of Job is unknown; the builders of almost all great buildings of antiquity are nameless: the sculptor of the one Venus, and the one Apollo--doubtful, doubtful--never recorded in history. Then look at the fate of others. Behold Friar Bacon and Galileo, in their dungeons; Dante proscribed and banished; Shakspeare, a mere yeoman at Stratford; Homer and Milton, blind and poor; Virgil, Petrarch, Verulam, the flatterers of a court; Newton, the Master of the Mint! Heaven and earth! what a catalogue of black spots upon the great leopard! To hardly one of them did contemporary fame ascribe a place pre-eminent. Why, it is a salve and a comfort to every fool and every driveller. No spawner of a penny pamphlet--with vanity enough--can be sure that he is not twin brother to the blind beggar of Greece.

But Mr. Prevost forgot all this. He was conscious of having laboured well and diligently in what he believed, the right path: there was in him a sense and an experience of intellectual power: he had felt, and had exercised, the capability of guiding and directing others aright; and, more than all, he had seen many a time the schemes which he had devised, the words which he had written or spoken, adopted--appropriated--filched--by others, and lauded, making the fame and the fortune of a weak, impudent, lucky charlatan, supported by interest, family, or circumstances, while the real author was forgotten, and would have been hooted had he claimed his own. This gave him some confidence in himself, independent of vanity; and be it not for us to assay the metal too closely.

He accepted the office tendered, and at once set about preparing for its duties. There was but one impediment--his anxiety for his son; for, notwithstanding every assurance, he felt that quivering doubt and fear which can only be felt by a parent when a beloved child's fate is in the balance--which all parents worthy of the name have felt, and no child can comprehend.

When Edith rose, on the day following the visit of poor Captain Brooks--somewhat later than was her custom (for the first half of the watches of the night had known no comforter)--Woodchuck was gone. He had waited for no leave-taking, and was on his road towards the mountains before the dawn of day.

It was better for all, indeed, that he should go; and he felt it: not that there was any chance of his resolution being shaken; but, as he had himself said, he wished to forget that resolution as far as possible--to think no more of his coming fate than the dark remembrance of it within his own heart forced him to think; and the presence of Mr. Prevost and his daughter--the very absence of Walter from their fireside--would have reminded him constantly of the rock on which his bark was inevitably steering. With Mr. Prevost and Edith, his presence would have had the effect of keeping up the anxious struggle between affection for Walter and a kindly sense of justice towards him. His every look, his every word, would have been a source of painful interest; and the terrible balancing of very narrowly-divided equities, when life was in the scale, and affection held the beam, would have gone on, in the mind at least, continually.

When he was gone, the agitating feelings gradually subsided. His self-sacrifice presented itself to the mind as a thing decided: the mind was relieved from a greater apprehension by a less; and a quiet melancholy, whenever his coming fate was thought of, took the place of anxious alarm. In some sort, the present and the past seemed to transpose themselves; and they almost looked upon him as already dead.

True, all fear in regard to Walter was not completely banished. There was nothing definite; there was no tangible object of apprehension; they felt perfectly certain that Woodchuck would execute his resolution; yet the heart, like an agitated pendulum, vibrated long after the momentum had ceased. It grew quieter and quieter by degrees, however, on the part of Mr. Prevost: a change of thought and of object did much. All his preparations had to be made for the proper execution of the office he had undertaken; he had more than once to go to Albany, and on each occasion he took his daughter with him. Each change had some effect; and both he and Edith recovered a certain degree of cheerfulness, at least in general society. It was only in the quiet and the silent hours, when either was left alone--when those intervals took place during which sleep refuses to visit the eye--when all external sounds are still--when all external sights are absent, and the mind is left alone with thought, and nothing but thought, for its companion,--it was only then that the fears, and the anxiety, and the gloom returned.

Every moment that could be spared from military duties was passed by Lord H---- at Edith's side, whether in her own home or in the city. People remarked his attentions, and commented on them as usual; for no publicity had been given to their engagement, and the good-humoured world thought fit to judge it strange that a young nobleman of such distinction should be so completely captivated by the daughter of a simple gentleman like Mr. Prevost.

Their comments affected the two lovers little, however. They were thinking of themselves, and not of the world; and though the happiest hours of Lord H---- were those in which, at her father's quiet hermitage, he could pass a brief space in wandering with her alone through the beautiful scenery round, or sitting with her under the verandah, gazing out upon the prospect and watching the advance of summer over the forest world, still he was happy by her side anywhere; and her demeanour in society, her grace, her beauty, as compared with others, only served to render him proud and happy in his choice.

Thus passed nearly three weeks; by which time the bustle of active preparation, the marching of several regiments towards the north, and signs of activity in every department, gave notice to the inhabitants of Albany that some important military movement was about to take place. The fife and drum, and the lumbering roll of the cannon, were daily heard in the quiet streets. Boats were collecting on the river; parades and exercises occupied the greater part of every day; scouts and runners were seen hurrying about in different directions; and clouds of Indians, painted and feathered for the war-path, hovered round the city, and often appeared in the streets.

Lord H---- had advanced with his whole regiment to the neighbourhood of Sandy Hill; other bodies of troops were following; and the Commissary-General, whose active energy and keen intelligence surprised all who had only known him as a somewhat reserved and moody man, had advanced to a spot on the Hudson where a small fort had been built at the commencement of what was called the King's Road, to see with his own eyes the safe delivering and proper distribution of the stores he had collected. Long ranges of huts were gathered round the fort, which was judged so far within the English line as to be a place of perfect security; and many a lady from Albany, both young and old, had gathered together there to see the last of husband, brother, or father, before they plunged into the forest and encountered the coming strife.

Here everything was done as usual to smooth the front of war, and conceal its ugly features; and certainly after the arrival of Lord H----, with his regiment and the wing of another, the scene was brilliant and lively enough. Bright dresses, glittering arms, military music, fluttering flags, and prancing chargers were beheld on every side; and gay and lively talk, only interrupted now and then by the solemn words of caution or direction from anxious heart to anxious heart, hid, in a great degree, the deeper, stronger, sterner feelings that were busy underneath.

In all such expeditions, amidst the bustle and excitement, there come lapses of quiet inactivity, especially before the first blow is struck. Some accident causes a delay; some movements have not been combined with sufficient accuracy; one party has to wait for another, and is left unoccupied. Thus was it in the present instance. A small but important division of the army, to be accompanied by a large body of Indians, was retarded by a deficiency of boats; and the news arrived that two days must elapse before they could reach the fort.

A superior officer was now present; and both Lord H---- and Mr. Prevost felt that it would be no dereliction of duty to seek leave of absence in order to visit once more the house of the latter, and personally escort Edith to the place where she was to remain till the object of the expedition was accomplished.

The same day it was first made known what the object of that expedition was. The word "Ticonderoga" was whispered through the encampment, running from the general's quarters through every rank down to the private soldier. A strange sort of feeling of joy spread throughout the force; not that many knew either the importance of the object or the state of the place, but simply that all were relieved from an uncertainty.

The comment of Lord H---- was very brief. He had, indeed, long known the fact now first published; but, as he told it to Edith while seating her on her horse to set out, he said--

"The place is luckily near; and the business will soon be brought to an end, my love." A something indefinable in his heart made him add, mentally, "one way or another."

But he gave no utterance to the gloomy doubt; and the little party rode away.