One of the Six Hundred: A Novel
while her dark and sparkling eyes flashed a glance that made me forget
all. "Well, here are the cards of papa and mamma, with an express
invitation to Chillingham. You will dine with us this evening, won't
you?"
"With pleasure."
"Papa and mamma are to dine at the Priory, but on another day you shall
see them."
"And the hour?"
"Eight."
"Eight!" I repeated, for that was the very hour of my appointment with
Agnes Auriol, and the park lay in an opposite direction from the
barracks. Here was a dilemma! But I resolved, if possible, to keep
faith with both, and said--
"Excuse me, pray; but on reflection I find it impossible to be present
at that hour."
"Indeed!"
"But I shall present myself soon after in the drawing-room."
"What prevents you?" she asked, raising her dark eyebrows.
"Duty, unfortunately."
"In that case I must excuse you. Allegiance to me should not precede
that which you owe to the Queen. Till this evening, then, adieu."
She presented her hand, and bowed with inimitable grace. I took it in
mine, and lingering, would, I am sure, have kissed it, but for the troop
close by, and dozens of idlers who were lolling at the barrack windows
in their shell-jackets or shirt-sleeves. There was a glorious smile on
her bright face that contrasted strongly with the sad and wistful glance
of Cora's soft dark eyes; and, as the phaeton swept away from the
barrack-square, I forgot to bid adieu to Berkeley, though I wished him
in very warm quarters indeed. I forgot even to address Cora, or rejoin
the troop. I forgot all about Studhome's letter and its import; and,
leaving Jocelyn to finish the drill as he pleased, walked mechanically
to my quarters, filled by a great revulsion of feeling, and remembering
only that Louisa loved me--loved me still! Of that day's close could I
have foreseen the end! I counted the hours that intervened between the
time that I should be at the park. I resolved, if possible, to leave
nothing undone to gain the good opinion of the earl and countess; and,
on after thought, I regretted that I had excused my appearance at
dinner, and believed that I might have paid my last visit to the cottage
at the Reculvers an hour or so earlier, and performed my task of
philanthropy, even at the risk of being seen; though, sooth to say, I
rather dreaded that event, circumstanced as I was with Louisa; and since
the clouds that lowered upon my horizon were dispersed now, the
unfortunate victim of Berkeley could be of no further use to me.
Berkeley had been watching my interview with Louisa narrowly, and took
in our whole situation at a glance, or thought he did so.
He feared that Lady Louisa's gaiety was a little too spasmodic to be
real, in one who was usually calm and reserved; and, hence, that it
cloaked some deeper emotion than met the eye. My sensation at her
appearance, and during the whole interview, must have been apparent even
to a less interested spectator than Berkeley, and his whole soul became
stirred by emotions of jealousy, rivalry, and revenge!
Having had the full entree of Chillingham Park for the last month and
more, he had, as he conceived, made a fair lodgment, to use a military
phrase, in the body of the place--that he had the cards in his own
hands, and should lose no time in discovering how Lady Louisa was
affected towards him.
Cool, vain, insolent, and unimpassioned, this blase parvenu thought over
his plans while the phaeton rolled along the Canterbury Road; and the
aristocratic aspect of the coroneted gate and castellated lodge, the far
extent of green sward stretching under the stately elms, closely shorn
and carefully rolled--sward that had never been ploughed since the days,
perhaps, when the Scot and Englishman measured their swords at Flodden
and Pinkey, kindled brighter the fire of ambition with him, and made him
resolve at all hazards to supplant me.
One fact he had resolved on--that, though the days of bodily
assassination had gone out of English society, or existed only in the
pages of sensational romance, if he failed to obtain Louisa Loftus, that
I should never succeed.
*CHAPTER XX.*
Not thus the shade may pass,
That is upon thy heart,
There is no sun in earthly skies
Can bid its gloom depart;
For falsehood's stain is on it,
And cruelty and guile--
And these are stains that never pass,
And shades that never smile.
MISS LANDON.
The mansion of Chillingham is one of the stateliest in that part of
England.
It consists of a great central block and peristyle, with two wings
coming forward, forming a species of quadrangle. Detailed in the taste
that existed about 1680, and erected by the second peer of the house,
who had been created an earl at the Restoration, it was built entirely
of red brick, save the eight Corinthian columns of the peristyle, the
great flight of steps that ascended thereto, the elaborate cornices,
corners, balustrades, and vases, which were all of white freestone, and
in the style that is denominated Palladian.
Elaborately carved within the central pediment are the arms of the
Loftus family--a chevron engrailed between three trefoils, supported by
two eagles; the crest a hand grasping a battle-axe, with the motto,
"_Prend mot tel que je suis_," or "Take me as I am."
It occupies a gentle eminence in the centre of the spacious park, and
every embellishment has been added around to make the natural beauties
of the somewhat flat and peaceful scene to harmonize. Though equally
aristocratic in tone, it is very different in aspect from the bold and
quaint, gloomy, embattled, and romantic mansion of Calderwood, with its
turrets and loopholes for bullet or arrow; and is, in fact, a style of
edifice almost entirely peculiar to England and Holland.
Cora and Berkeley were as yet the only guests at the park, and on
handing the ladies from the phaeton, he begged a few minutes' interview
with Lady Louisa, in the library or the conservatory, whichever she
pleased, after luncheon.
She coloured deeply, almost with annoyance, at a request so odd, and
looking at her watch, said--
"We lunch at two. Papa and mamma are in Canterbury; I have letters to
write, but shall be in the library at six--that is, two hours before
dinner."
"Thanks; after we have tiffed then," said he, lifting his hat, and
passing after her and Cora into the marble vestibule, with a
self-satisfied smile.
"What on earth can the man have to say in such a solemn fashion, Cora?"
whispered Louisa.
"I cannot conceive," replied my cousin, thinking of something else.
The luncheon, at which those three were present, with a great
whiteheaded and white-waistcoated butler, and three powdered and
liveried servants in attendance, passed over almost in irksome silence,
for all were fully occupied by their own thoughts or plans.
Berkeley, who gazed at Louisa from time to time with ill-concealed
admiration and gratified vanity, felt that the absence of the earl and
countess at this interesting juncture boded well for his success,
opportunities for a tete-a-tete in that usually numerous and always
aristocratic household being few and far between.
Lady Louisa, who more than half divined her admirer's hopes, was full of
her brief and hurried interview with me, and, in anticipation of a
scene, felt bored and worried; while poor Cora's thoughts were all her
own; a little--no, it was a great sorrow, which none could know or
sympathize with, filled her heart in secret, for she was not
communicative, and thus, while she shared all the confidences and gossip
of my Lady Louisa, gave but little of her own in return.
So the progress of tiffin was "dooced slow," as Berkeley thought it, and
he felt somewhat relieved when Lady Louisa rose, and, with a smile, said
to Cora--
"Excuse me, I am now going to write my letters;" adding to him, "I shall
not forget," with another smile that, could he have read it aright,
boded but little success to his cherished plans.
Punctually to the time, Lady Louisa sailed into the library, where
Berkeley, whose courage had been alternately ebbing and flowing, was in
waiting. He handed her a seat, and, after a few deprecatory remarks, by
way of preface, took her right hand between his own, and, as she did not
immediately withdraw it, he assumed fresh courage, and made a formal
declaration of his love and admiration of her, and then, before she
could speak, he rambled on about his finances, his social habits, his
income--some six thousand per annum--his further expectations, and a
great deal more to the same purpose.
Lady Louisa remained perfectly silent, and this silence, as he had
nothing more to say, caused him infinite confusion.
"You do not speak--you do not answer, dear Lady Louisa. Do you not
understand me? I tell you that I love you with all the devotion of
which the human heart is capable, and I pray you to pardon the--aw,
aw--presumption of one in every respect so unworthy of you, in venturing
to address you in the language of love; but who can control
the--aw--emotions of the heart!"
Still she did not speak.
"Say that you pity--say that you--aw--understand me!" he urged.
"I understand, but cannot pity you," replied Louisa, calmly and without
betraying the slightest flutter or embarrassment. "And I beg to assure
you that--that, in this matter, you must----"
"Address the earl, your father, dearest Lady Louisa--aw, aw--in writing,
or verbally?" was the cool and rapid question.
"Neither verbally nor in writing," said she, rising, and assuming a
dignity of bearing that made Berkeley feel himself intolerably little.
"Aw, aw--the dooce! Then how?" he asked, having recourse to his
eyeglass.
"I was about to say that I thank you, Mr. Berkeley--thank you very much
indeed--for the great honour you do me in addressing me thus, and in
making me such an offer; but you must strive to dismiss all such
thoughts from your breast in future, as I could never, never love you!
Pardon me an avowal so very painful, and permit me to leave you."
Her coolness, and almost unmoved bearing, piqued Berkeley, and wounded
his self-esteem, which was inordinate.
"Your bridal flowers," said he, with a bitter smile, "must be blended
with the faded strawberry leaves of some Anglo-Norman line, I presume?"
"Not so, sir. I have hopes, I admit, but they are not quite so high,"
she replied, with a calm and steady glance, though her short upper lip
quivered with suppressed pride and anger.
"In--deed!" sneered Berkeley, as his habitual insolence came now
thoroughly to his aid; "and so you once and for all actually refuse me,
Lady Loftus?"
"I grieve to say, sir, that I do--once and for ever. Let us endeavour
to forget this very unpleasant scene, and, if possible, be as
before--friends."
"And for whom do you refuse me?" he demanded, as pride and jealousy
rendered him blind to all future consequences.
"For whom, sir, matters not to you."
"I think it matters very much to me."
"Perhaps; but permit me to remind you, Mr. Berkeley, that I am unused to
be questioned thus."
"Oh," said he, bowing low, "doocid good. I--aw--crave your pardon; but
if you will not tell me your preference, Lady Louisa, shall I have the
honour of telling you?"
"If you please," she replied, turning half away, and shrugging her
shoulders, while her colour deepened, and her dark eyes gleamed with
sudden anger.
"It is for one who is even now, perhaps, with a worthless creature,
whose society he prefers to yours--haw! haw! the cast-off mistress of a
brother officer!"
"It is false, sir!" she exclaimed, in an agitated voice, as she turned
her flashing eyes full upon him, and drew her tall and glorious figure