An important change took place in the management of the barracks at Norman Cross a few months after the event narrated in the preceding chapter. Captain Mortimer, the admiralty agent, resigned his position there on promotion to another charge. Whether the relations between him and Major Kelly became rather strained, or whether he himself was a little ashamed of the violent measures he had recommended to suppress the mutiny, and which certainly had made him more unpopular than ever, cannot be determined. But resign he did in the month of August, 1811, and was succeeded by Captain John Draper, R.N. The exchange was a blessed one for the prisoners: not because the important duties were done more punctually and exactly, but because the one was a sympathising man, and the other a mere machine. There was all the difference between the two men that there is between the music of a street piano that rattles through long runs with provoking correctness, and a sweet air played by the fair hands of one whose soul is in her music.

The prisoners felt the relief before they knew whence it came, as men breathing the close atmosphere of a crowded room may feel invigorated before they know that a supply of pure oxygen has been introduced therein. It was not that they fared any better than before. They had the same rations, though the new agent saw with his own eyes that they were good and sufficient. They had the same cramped-up sleeping bunks, only he never let a man be without proper covering, even if he punished him afterwards if he gambled it away. They were still prisoners, hard and fast; yet, somehow, the bondage was not so galling as it used to be. The agent’s manner was kind and friendly. He spoke cheerily to the prisoners. He asked questions. He took notice of the desponding, and there were many such. The sick he tenderly cared for. This was to the ordinary rank and file. To the officers he was all this and more. Not because he cared more for them, but because, as a rule, he could unbend to them more than to the others without risk of lowering his position. He frequently visited their quarters, chatted freely with them, played billiards with them, was pleased to see the English officers mix at proper times with them, admired heartily the beautiful handiwork of the common men. The only man he could not abide was the one who, whether officer or private, was a fraud or a sham.

And in this treatment of his unfortunate charge the Commandant entirely went along with him.

War was still raging. That in the Peninsula which so many now-a-days know nothing about, but prefer “Tit-Bits,” or the writings of sceptical ladies, but in which the most splendid generalship and indomitable bravery were displayed on both sides as in no other country, and which formed one of the hinges on which the fortune of Napoleon turned, the other being the ice-bound plains of Russia was pouring fresh prisoners into England (20,000 in ten months is the number once mentioned in a despatch of Wellington’s), and no doubt Norman Cross had its share. But for all who arrived there Captain Draper had a friendly look, and for many a word of kindness.

He had not been long at his post before he became acquainted with Captain Tournier; and his sympathy for him, quickly awakened, was all the more increased by what he heard from Major Kelly. They both soon had more reason than ever to be drawn to him.

There was a French agency in London, sanctioned by the English government, through which prisoners of war had under certain restrictions the means of communication with their friends abroad. Tournier had from the first, as we may be sure, availed himself of this privilege. From his mother’s letters he could not hide from himself the fact that his absence from her, under such melancholy circumstances, was prejudicially affecting her health. The dear old soul always tried to make the best of it, but nature would out, although it was more from indirect remarks than from any positive complaints, that Tournier gathered the true state of the case. Of course it grieved him exceedingly, and added fresh poignancy to his unhappiness. But there was one thing that, for the first two years, her letters always contained in one form or another, that made some sweet amends, and that was that she invariably added how his dear Elise soothed and comforted her. “Whenever I see her,” his mother would write, “I seem to see you; and she says the same of me.”

For the last few months, however, Tournier could not but observe, but most unwillingly, there had been a gradual cessation of these fond remarks in his mother’s letters, and, worse still, a corresponding chilliness in those of his Elise. At first, it was “How weary it is without you!” then, “How can I go on living without you?” then, “How long will it be before I shall see you?” This is not a romantic way of putting it; but the downward progress of a woman’s heart that is not true, does not deserve romantic description. The auctioneer’s formula is quite good enough, “Going going gone.”

Still the man who loved her with true and generous affection could not, and would not, believe evil. “Poor dear heart,” he would say; “she is indeed to be pitied! How can she help being weary of my absence so long?”

And here it must not fail to be recorded, that Tournier was no longer the same man that he had been when first he arrived at Norman Cross a proud, bitterly disappointed, sensitive, angry man, who had lost what little faith he ever had in God. He was still a faulty character, no doubt. Poor erring men do not leap into perfection at a bound. But the revolving light that first sent forth its rays into his mind, some two years ago, in Cosin’s house, had gone on revolving till it became a settled and influential conviction that God is good, and will help all who want Him, even in their direst need. How good and how mighty to save God was, he had yet to learn: but that He was good, and that He would help him, that he firmly believed. And who had done it for him this miracle, if you like to call it? God. By weak human instrumentality, by degrees: but yet God: for none else could have done it.

It made him stronger, much stronger, to bear the bitter trouble that yet oppressed him day by day. It made him hope on, even in the dark. It gave him an object in life, when all he once had lived for seemed swept away.

The reality of his belief was before long put to a very severe test. A letter from his mother arrived one day. The unusually shaky hand-writing of the address instantly struck him, and a horrible dread that something was wrong seized him. It might have turned out nothing after all, for where we remember one presentiment that turns out true, we forget twenty that turn out false. But in this case it possessed him. He had been very far from well for some time past. In fact, the three years of prison life, and its attendant anxieties, were telling on him. He was lying on a sofa, which his friend at the farm had sent to the prison for him, when the letter was put in his hand. “I cannot read this here,” he muttered, and hurried out of the room, and thence into the road. Taking the way towards Yaxley, he almost ran down a lane that turned towards Whittlesea mere to a favourite spot by the water, where he had often gone fishing with Cosin (for it was deep there), and was very secluded. He called it his sanctuaire. Flinging himself down, he tore open the letter with trembling hands, and began to read:

“Oh, my dear, dear son! How can I write what I have to say to you? The good God give you strength to bear it like a man. Elise has run away from her home. Your friend, Colonel Fontenoy, has been staying in our neighbourhood, having recovered from his wounds: and made love to her in spite of the opposition of her family (you know what a handsome man he is), and by this time they are married in Paris . . .”

Whether Tournier got as far as this, no one could say. He was found some hours after with the letter crumpled up in his hand, lying lifeless on the green turf.

But what had been going on during the interval between his beginning the letter and his swooning away? One thing was most certain: The footsteps leading to the brink of the water, again and again repeated, were signs of an awful struggle between the impulse to get free from the troubles of this life (though not of the next), and the determination to trust in God and do the right.

His fellow-prisoners had noticed his agitated manner and hasty departure after receiving the letter, and when he did not return to the barracks for some hours, they communicated with the officer of the guard, who lost no time in informing the Commandant. Major Kelly fancied Tournier might be with his friend at the Manor Farm, but, not being quite easy about it, he went there himself.

“Oh,” said Cosin, “I’ll be bound he is at his favourite haunt. The prison is not the place to read love-letters in. He always goes there when he wants to be alone. Shall we go and see, major?”

There, as has been said, they found him. The first impression was that he was dead. And no wonder: he looked so like it. But closer examination shewed that life was still in him. As quickly as possible they obtained a light cart, and tenderly placed the body in it Cosin supporting the head and gently drove away.

“I wish you would allow me to take him to my house,” said Cosin: “it is nearer than the barracks; and by the look of the poor, dear fellow, he will not bear much shaking, and I should so like to have him.”

The major thought a minute, and said, “Perhaps you are right. It is nearer and quieter than the barracks. I can authorise you to take charge of him, though Draper may be jealous of you.”

So they brought him to the Manor House, and carried him upstairs with utmost care, and placed him in Cosin’s own room, for none other was ready, and put him to bed.

He was still unconscious, and no restoratives they applied to the best of their ability had any effect. Would he ever wake up again?

Meanwhile, a doctor was sent for post-haste. Those at the barracks were all English, of whom Mr. Vise, of Stilton, was chief; and he, happening to be there at the time, instantly drove to the Manor House.

“Brain fever,” said the doctor, after careful examination of the patient: “and a very bad case too I fear. It is of course too early to speak positively as yet: but so far as I see at present, I should say it is extremely improbable that he will ever regain consciousness. Perfect quietude is all-essential to him. His life depends on it. He must have had intense irritation of the brain, and some shock must have supervened to bring him to the state in which I find him. What is that paper clutched so tightly in his hand?” he added. “It may explain something.” And then, with a doctor’s skill, he succeeded in disengaging from his grasp the fatal letter, and read it.

“There is the explanation, at least in part.”

Each of the others read the letter so far as was needful, but, like gentlemen, no further. And Cosin understood it all better than the others could.

Full directions were given by the doctor as to treatment, and his last words were, You must never leave him for a minute night nor day; and if he wake if he wake let nothing on any account excite him.”

No doubt the doctor was right in theory, but medical directions are sometimes more easy to give than to carry out.

The doctor then drove away with Major Kelly, having first ascertained that Alice Cosin had sent for the best nurse in the village, who, wonderful to say, was a very good one.

Soon after they had left, Villemet came hurrying to the house, having obtained leave from the major. He seemed to have run all the way.

“You are the very man I want,” said Cosin.

“Do let me see him,” cried the other, all out of breath.

“You shall directly, only you must restrain your feelings, and on no account disturb him. He is so ill, it would kill him outright if you did.”

And he told him why it was he was so glad he had come: because, if their friend chanced to arouse, it would not excite him so much to see Villemet, as it would to see any one else. “I only wish you could stop all night,” he added.

“So I can. The major said I might if you wanted me; but I did not like to intrude myself upon you.”

And they two kept watch all through the night, hearing the church-clock, close by, strike every hour; Cosin keeping out of sight, and Villemet sitting where the eyes of the patient might more easily see him, should they ever open again.

The fever increased. Restlessness began. Then a murmur, very faint, startled them; but it was nothing. Louder and articulate words came next; and delirium set in, lasting many weary hours. He was in France always in France. He spoke of his mother; was talking to her: called her by name. But he never once mentioned the name Elise.

A tear came into Villemet’s eye when he heard his poor friend express his joy at seeing his mother he thought of his own but he dashed it away. Why be ashamed, strong man? It becomes the brave to weep sometimes. Only noodles never do so. There must be brains to produce tears, and a heart too: and noodles have neither.

This went on for many hours. They wanted Villemet to take some rest, but he refused. He dosed in his chair, but the slightest sound awoke him: a sentinel at the shrine of friendship. At length, on the third day in the early morning, the eyes of the sick man opened, and fully rested on the familiar face of his friend. Instantly, but without any startling haste, Villemet was on his knee beside him, looking at him with a placid smile, as if nothing had happened.

“I have been so happy. I have been to France, and seen the old place and my mother. But is it not strange? I never saw her, E .” And the eyes closed again, and the voice sank out.

Some hours of unconsciousness followed, but with decreasing restlessness. The doctor gave hope. Only he again warned them that the next waking would be the critical one. “Whatever you do,” he said, “keep him, if you can, from reverting to the past as long as possible.”

Yet it so happened that the next time Tournier aroused, Villemet was out of the room, and Cosin had taken his place. The afternoon sun was lighting up his face with a slanting ray as he sat by the bedside and looked toward the window; and when he turned his eyes again on his friend, he could hardly refrain from starting. Tournier was gazing on him with a look of intense earnestness.

“Where am I?”

“You are on a visit to me, and have been very ill, and I want you to go to sleep again, and not think about anything.”

“But do you know,” said Tournier, making a feeble effort to put out his hand, which his friend gently took, “that when I first woke up, such horrid thoughts came into my mind! but I caught sight of your face, and they went away.”

“That’s right. Now take this nourishment, and try to sleep again. We shall have plenty of time to talk when you are stronger, and I shall be always close by.”

It would be wearisome to describe at any length the various stages of recovery: for recover he did, and became as strong and vigorous as ever. No little share had Alice Cosin in bringing this about, though in that unobtrusive, and often unknown, way in which dear, kind women work, for she was one of those who had the mark of the true lady in her household duties. She knew everything, and saw to everything, and did anything that would make the household comfortable.

And when Tournier got strong enough to think and converse without restraint, he told Cosin, with great emotion, the terrible nature of that struggle he had had beside the water of the mere before they found him, and what it was God had made use of to save him.

“I cannot describe,” he said, “the hell that rose up within me when I read that she was married. I rushed to the water (I knew it was deep there,) in furious passion, to fling myself in. It was not fear that stopped me never in my life was I afraid of anything it was a voice, not outside me, but within: a voice that was more distinct to me than a bell tolled close to my ear, and all the more because it never reached me through the ear; it reached my brain though, aye, and my heart. And it said, ‘God is good. God can help.’ Over and over again I rushed to the water to drown myself, and over and over again that voice within stopped me at the brink. Oh, it was frightful! but God was good, and God did help me.”

Many a time after this did the friends converse together, in their walks, when they rode out, and as they sat at the fire-side; and without any affectation of superior wisdom, yet, when Tournier at any time appeared to flag or grow weary in bearing up under his still severe trials, Cosin would cheer him by telling him, out of the fulness of his own heart, that all hopeless trouble came from trying to live without God, and that no one is really wise who thinks he knows better than He.

And when, on one occasion, Tournier was much depressed, because he had asked himself a question which every man must one day ask, if he means to be truly happy, though some, by God’s grace, learn the answer before they know the immensity of it.

“I cannot understand how it is that God can be so good to such imperfect, nay, I will out with the word, sinful creatures as we are? I am afraid I have made use of religious jargon, like many others.”

“My dear fellow,” replied Cosin, “God is good to all; but we have no right to claim any share in His goodness except through Christ. If we left that out it would be jargon indeed.”