One of the Six Hundred: A Novel
spent on your cousins, had they lived. So, thank fate and the fortune
of war, not me, boy, not me. But there are times, especially when I am
alone, that it grieves me to think that instead of leaving an heir to
the old title, one boy lies in his grave in the old kirk yonder; and the
other, far, far away on the battle-field of Goojerat."
He shook his white head, and his voice became tremulous, his chin sank
on his breast, and he added--
"My poor Nigel!--my bonnie Archie!"
The baronet was a handsome man, above six feet in height, and, though he
stooped a little now, had been erect as a pike. He possessed fine
aquiline features, a ruddy and healthy complexion; clear, and bright
dark grey eyes; a well-shaped, though not very small, mouth; and a
Scottish chin, of a curve that evinced perseverance and decision. His
hair was nearly white, but there was plenty of it; his hands, though
browned by exposure and seldom gloved--for the gun, the rod, the
riding-whip, and the curling stone were ever in them by turns--were well
shaped, and showed by their form and nails that he was a gentleman of
good blood and breeding. His plain costume I have described, and he was
without ornament, save a silver dog-whistle at his button-hole, and a
large gold signet-ring, which belonged to his grandfather, Sir Alexander
Calderwood, who commanded a frigate under Admiral Hawke, in the fleet
which, in 1748, fought and vanquished the Spanish galleons between
Tortuga and the Havannah.
A sturdy old Fifeshire laird, proud of a long line of warlike Scottish
ancestors, uncrossed by any taint of foreign blood, he was fond of
boasting that neither Dane nor Norman--the Englishman's strange vaunt
and pride--could be found among them; but that he came of a race,
which--as our Highlanders forcibly phrase it--had sprung from the soil,
and were indigenous to it.
But, indeed, the alleged foreign descent of nearly the whole Scottish
aristocracy is a silly sham, existing in their own imagination, having
arisen from the ignorance of the monkish Latin writers, who in rolls and
histories prefixed the Norman _de_ or _le_, in many instances, to the
most common Celtic patronymics and surnames.
Sir Nigel had "paraded," to use a barrack phrase, more than one man in
his youth, and enjoyed the reputation of being an unpleasantly good shot
with his pistol. He could remember sharing in the rage of the
high-flying Tory party among the Fife lairds, when Sir Alexander
Boswell, of Auchinleck, was shot by James Stuart, of Dunearn, in a
solemn duel, where personal and political rancour were combined, at
Balmuto, for which the victor had to fly to England, and from thence to
France.
"It seemed strange on reflection, Newton," I have frequently heard Sir
Nigel, say, "that poor Boswell was the first to propose in Parliament
the repeal of our old Scottish statutes anent duelling, and that, after
all, he should fall by the pistol for a mere newspaper squib, in which
Sir Walter Scott was, perhaps, as much to blame as he."
*CHAPTER III.*
Sing on, thou sweet mavis, thy song to the ev'ning,
Thou'rt dear to the echoes of Calderwood Glen;
Sae dear to this bosom, sae heartless and winning,
Is charming young Jessie, the flower o' Dunblane.
TANNAHILL.
"Here is the old house, and here we are at last, Newton," said my uncle,
as an abrupt turn of the private path through the woodlands brought us
suddenly in front of the ancient mansion, in which, after the early
death of my father, I had spent my boyhood.
It stands in a well-wooded hollow, or glen, overlooked by the three
Lomonds of Fife--a county which, though not renowned for its picturesque
scenery, can show us many peaceful and beautiful landscapes.
Calderwood is simply an old manor-house, or fortalice, like some
thousand others in Scotland, having a species of keep, with adjacent
buildings, erected during quieter or more recent periods of Scottish
history than the first dwelling, which had suffered severely during the
wars between Mary of Guise and the Lords of the Congregation, when the
soldiers of Desse d'Epainvilliers blew up a portion of it by
gunpowder--an act terribly revenged by Sir John Calderwood of the Glen,
who had been chamberlain of Fife and captain of the castle of St.
Andrew's for Cardinal Beaton. Overtaking a party of the Bandes
Francaises in Falkland Woods, he routed them with considerable
slaughter, and hung at least a dozen of them on the oak trees in the
park of the palace.
The latest additions had been made under the eye of Sir William Bruce of
Kinross, the architect of Holyrood--the Scottish Inigo Jones--about a
hundred and ninety years before the present period, and thus were
somewhat florid and Palladian in their style, their fluted pilasters and
Roman cornices and capitals contrasting singularly with the grim
severity and strongly-grated windows of the old tower, which was founded
on a mass of grey rock, round which a terraced garden lies.
Within this, the older portion, the rooms were strange and quaint in
aspect, with arched roofs, wainscoted walls, and yawning fireplaces,
damp, rusty, cold, and forlorn, where the atmosphere felt as if the dead
Calderwoods of other times visited them, and lingered there apart from
the fashionable friends of their descendants in the more modern mansion;
and within the tower Sir Nigel treasured many old relics of the palace
of Dunfermline, which, when its roof fell in, in 1708, was literally
plundered by the people.
Thus, in one room, he had the cradle of James VI., and the bed in which
his son, Charles I., had been born; in another, a cabinet of Anne of
Denmark, a chair of Robert III., and a sword of the Regent Albany.
The demesne (Scotice, "policy") around this picturesque old house was
amply studded with glorious old timber, under which browsed herds of
deer, of a size, strength, and ferocity unknown in England. The stately
entrance-gate, bearing the palm-tree of the Calderwoods, a crusading
emblem, and the long avenue, of two Scottish miles, and the
half-castellated mansion which terminated its leafy vista, well befitted
the residence of one whose fathers had ridden forth to uphold Mary's
banner at Langside, and that of James VIII. at the battle of Dunblane.
Here was the well where the huntsman and soldier, James V., had slaked
his thirst in the forest; and there was the oak under which his
father--who fell at Flodden--shot the monarch of the herd by a single
bolt from his crossbow.
In short, Calderwood, with all its memories, was a complete epitome of
the past.
The Eastern Lomond (so called, like its brothers, from Laomain, a Celtic
hero), now reddened by the setting sun, seemed beautiful with the green
verdure that at all seasons covers it to the summit, as we approached
the house.
Ascending to the richly-carved entrance-door, where one, whilom of oak
and iron, had given place to another of plate-glass, a footman,
powdered, precise, liveried, and aiguilletted, with the usual amplitude
of calf and acute facial angle of his remarkable fraternity, appeared;
but ere he could touch the handle it was flung open, and a handsome
young girl, with a blooming complexion, sparkling eyes, and a bright and
joyous smile, rushed down the steps to meet us.
"Welcome to Calderwood, Newton," she exclaimed; "may our new year be a
happy one."
"Many happy ones be yours, Cora," said I, kissing her cheek. "Though I
am changed since we last met, your eyes have proved clearer than those
of uncle, for, really, he did not know me."
"Oh, papa, was it so?" she asked, while her fine eyes swam with fun and
pleasure.
"A fact, my dear girl."
"Ah! I could never be so dull, though you have those new dragoon
appendages," said she, laughingly, as I drew her arm through mine, and
we passed into a long and stately corridor, furnished with cabinets,
busts, paintings, and suits of mail, towards the drawing-room; "and I am
not married yet, Newton," she added, with another bright smile.
"But there must be some favoured man, eh, Cora?"
"No," she said, with a tinge of hauteur over her playfulness, "none."
"Time enough to think of marrying, Cora; why, you are only nineteen, and
I hope to dance at your wedding when I return from Turkey."
"Turkey," she repeated, while a cloud came over her pure and happy face;
"oh, don't talk of that, Newton; I had forgotten it!"
"Yes; does it seem a long, or a doubtful time to look forward to?"
"It seems both, Newton."
"Well, cousin, with those soft violet eyes of yours, and those black,
shining braids (the tempting mistletoe is just over your head), and with
loves of bonnets, well-fitting gloves and kid boots, dresses ever new
and of every hue, you cannot fail to conquer, whenever you please."
She gave me a full, keen glance, that seemed expressive of annoyance,
and said, with a little sigh--
"You don't understand me, Newton. We have been so long separated that I
think you have forgotten all the peculiarities of my character now."
"What the deuce can she mean?" thought I.
My cousin Cora was in her fullest bloom. She was pretty, remarkably
pretty, rather than beautiful; and by some women she was quite eclipsed,
even when her cheek flushed and her eyes, a deep violet grey, were most
lighted up.
She was fully of the middle height, and finely rounded, with exquisite
shoulders, arms, and hands. Her features were small, and perhaps not
quite regular. Her eyes were alternately timid, inquiring, and full of
animation; but, in fact, their expression was ever varying. Her hair
was black, thick, and wavy; and while I looked upon her, and thought of
her present charms and of past times--and more than all of my uncle's
fatherly regard for me--I felt that, though very fond of her, but for
another I might have loved her more dearly and tenderly. And now, as if
to interrupt, or rather to confirm the tenor of such thoughts as these,
she said, as a lady suddenly approached the door of the drawing-room,
which we were about to enter--
"Here is one, a friend, to whom I must introduce you."
"No introduction is necessary," said the other, presenting her hand. "I
have had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Norcliff before."
"Lady Louisa!" I exclaimed, in a breathless voice, and a heart that
trembled with sudden emotion, as I touched her hand.
"I am so glad you have come before we leave. I shall have so much to
ask you about our mutual friends--who are engaged, and who have
quarrelled; who have come home, and who gone abroad. We have been no
less than four months in Scotland. Meantime," she added, glancing at
her tiny watch, "we must dress for dinner. Come, Cora; we have barely
half an hour, and old General Rammerscales is so impatient--he studies
'military time,' and with a 'military appetite.'"
And with a bow and smile of great brightness and sweetness she passed
on, taking with her Cora, who playfully kissed her hand to me as they
glided up the great staircase into which the long corridor opened.
Lady Louisa was taller and larger in person than Cora. Her features were
singularly beautiful, and clearly cut; her forehead was low; and her
nose had the gentlest approach to the aquiline. She was without colour,
her complexion being pale, perhaps creamy; while in strange contrast to
this aristocratic pallor of delicacy, her thick, wavy hair, her long
double eyelashes, and her ever-sparkling eyes, were black as those of a
Spanish gitano or a Welsh gipsy.
To this pale loveliness was added a bearing alternately haughty and
playful, but at all times completely self-possessed; an exquisite taste
in dress and jewellery; a very alluring voice; a power of investing even