Sword in hand we burst, with the weight and fury of a landslip, among the French cavalry, and drove them back, not so much by dint of edge or point, as by the sheer weight of our men and horses. So sudden was the shock, so irresistible our charge, that they scarcely made any resistance, but were thrust pell-mell into the town, in the narrow streets of which they were so intermingled with our men and the Inniskillings that in many instances neither of us could use our swords. For some minutes, at this crisis, I found myself completely isolated and wedged among the French, some of whom actually laughed at the whole affair.
Captain Cunninghame, of our first troop, in consequence of a blow which had penetrated the back of his grenadier cap, fell backward on his horse's crupper insensible, but could fall no further so dense was the living press around him; and thus he remained until the place surrendered.
Colonel Preston, whose horse was possessed of great spirit and fire, pressed far beyond any of us; but before he could reach the town-gate, it sprang over the bridge with him into the ditch—where the brave old boy remained up to his thighs in mud, swearing and sputtering, but in safety, until we extricated him about daybreak.
Some of the houses being set on fire lit up by their lurid glare the horrors of the night attack. Taken completely by surprise, many of the French were fighting in their shirts and breeches, and were mingled in wild mêlée with the 20th and Highlanders, using their bayonets and clubbed muskets, without time to load or fire, so closely were they wedged together; but some who were in the houses opened an indiscriminate fusilade on friends and foes. This so greatly exasperated the nimble Highlanders, that in several instances they stormed these mansions, and with dirk and claymore slew without mercy all within.
Every inch of ground was disputed by death and blood. The yells, cries, and hurrahs of the opposing combatants mingled with the clash of weapons that glittered in the fires around them—fires that reddened all the air; but the shouts of the French grew weaker as the cheers of the British increased.
"Hurrah lor the Inniskillings!" cried we.
"Hurrah for the Scots Greys!" cried the Irish.
"Hurrah for Bulow's wild Jagers!" cried both regiments.
A French officer, minus hat, wig, and coat, was dragged roughly out of a house by two furious Celts, who were jabbering and swearing in their native Gaelic, as if they had not made up their minds whether to kill or capture him, when he clung to my stirrup-leather, and without attempting to use the sword in his hand, breathlessly implored quarter.
I regarded his pale face with sudden and stern interest, for this despairing suppliant was the commandant of the town, the Comte de Bourgneuf.
I lost no time in disarming him, by snappinghissword across my saddle-bow, contemptuously as he had snapped mine, and desired the Highlanders to keep him prisoner. He was dragged away, and I never saw him again. It was enough; he hadrecognised me!
His whole force, being completely surrounded and hemmed in, capitulated, but so many had perished in the attack that we brought off only forty officers and four hundred rank and file, with the colours of the regiments of Dauphiné and Bretagne, one of which I captured in the count's quarters. These trophies we lodged in the camp at Warburg, after losing but few men in the whole affair.
It was on that night's duty that Ilastsaw powder burned in the Seven Years' War.
Our infantry were encamped under canvas in the immediate vicinity of Warburg, the quaint old German streets of which presented a lively picture of campaigning life, for every house had been converted into a barrack; soldiers in British or Hanoverian uniforms appeared at all the windows, lounging, laughing, and smoking, or pipeclaying their belts or gaiters. Piles of muskets stood in long rows upon the pavements. Here and there a sentinel trod to and fro upon his post, indicating the quarters of a colonel or where the colours of a regiment were lodged.
In the church were stalled our horses, and there stable duty and religious service went on together; for, as wounded men died every day in our hands, one seldom passed without a body being laid before the altar muffled in a cloak, greatcoat, or rug, prior to interment in the trench outside the gates.
After our return from the night attack at Zierenberg, I slept profoundly on the bare floor of my billet, which was in an empty house. I think one does generally sleep sound after enduring great excitement or great calamity, for it is thewakingalone that brings back the sense of grief or danger. Prior to that came dreams, and again I seemed to hear the bayonet and sabre clashing, the shouts and the wild work of last night: but from these I was roused about raid-day by Tom Kirkton, our adjutant, who as yet was still accoutred.
"Well, Gauntlet, old friend," said he, with a peculiar smile; "so you and I are to part at last?"
"How—what do you mean, Tom?"
"You have been chosen by the Commander-in-chief, on Colonel Preston's recommendation (a dear old fellow, isn't he?) to convey to London, and to the king's own hand, his despatches and the colours taken last night; and his orders say, you must start in an hour."
"And I am to proceed—"
"By our rear. See, here is your route; by Arensburg to Wesel, and thence down the Rhine to Nimeguen on the Waal; thence by boat to the mouth of the West Scheldt, where some of our gun-brigs are sure to be lying."
"Zounds! Tom—a long and tiresome journey; alone too! and the money?"
"Old Blount, the Paymaster-General, furnishes that. So come, rouse thee, friend Basil—let us have a parting glass ere you go, my dear boy."
There was an unmistakeable moisture and sad expression in Tom's clear and usually merry eye as he spoke, for we had ever been the best of friends and comrades.
Within an hour after this I had packed my valise, secured the French colours and the Prince's despatches in a large saddlebag—had bade adieu to our good old colonel,* to Tom Kirkton, Douglas, and others, and departed with sincere regret. Hob Elliot and many of the Greys—braver good, honest fellows—accompanied me to the town gate, and the farewell cheer they gave me as I passed through the Infantry camp rings yet in my ear and in my heart, as it did then when I waved my cap, and said "God bless you!"
* He died at Bath, in 1785, a Lieutenant-General, and still Colonel of the Scots Greys.—Regimental Record, p. 127.
Before I reached England, some changes had taken place of which we had as yet heard nothing in our camps and cantonments in Germany.
The king had died in October; his grandson had been proclaimed by the title of George III., and already the Court was out of mourning, for the new monarch had succeeded a father who had been hated by the late king, and whomhewas never known to name or to speak of during the whole of his long life; no one knowswhy, but so it is, that the memory of Frederick Lewis, Prince of Wales, was speedily committed to oblivion.
After a narrow escape from a French privateer, I was landed by a returned transport at Portsmouth, and travelled post to the English metropolis, halting for a night at the Red Lion at Guildford, where the landlord perfectly remembered the affair of the highwayman in the chimney, and insisted on my sharing with him a crown bowl of punch in the good old fashion, while I fought all my battles over again.
Next evening, without encountering a breakdown of the ricketty vehicle, an overturn on the wretched roads, a masked highwayman, or other adventure, I saw before me mighty London, with the double domes and peristyles of Greenwich shining in the sun, and the old battered fellows who had fought under Anson, Hawke, and Boscawen enjoying their pipes on the terrace; then the glorious Thames, with its myriad shipping, and the flags of all the world (France excepted) flying over them; the vast façade of St. Paul's—the great square mass of the Tower, which made me think of the jewels, the crown, the chains and dungeons of tyrants long since gone to their account, and of that long line of Norman and English kings whom we may still see there, with their wax faces and dusty armour, ranged rank and file in the Armoury.
Anon I was amid the roar and bustle of Fleet-street and the Strand, and had passed under Temple Bar, whereon were still, white, bleached, and bare, the skulls of those who perished for principle and their king, though the brothers of some of them led the ranks of our Scottish corps at Minden.
I put up at the King George in Pall Mall, where, for the first night for many, many months, I could take mine ease in mine inn, and where from the windows I could see the flaring links and flambeaux, the sedans and coaches, of those who were proceeding to the theatres, opera, balls, or elsewhere.
I thought of the time when I had been last in London, under such different circumstances—when I had come with the despatch concerning the French spies—I, a simple orderly dragoon—concerning that wretch Hautois, before we sailed from Portsmouth for Brittany, and ages seemed to have elapsed since then.
After all I had seen of war, I agreed to the full with my Lord Clarendon, in all his views and remarks on the virtues and blessings of peace.
At the George I felt myself apparently amid lavish luxury! Yet even carpets were almost unknown in English bedrooms during the early part of George III.'s reign; but it seemed to me that a comfortable home, a blazing sea-coal fire, soft hearthrugs, warm curtains, a smoking dinner and singing tea-urn, a pretty English wife, with her true domestic love (and a most becoming dress of course), to do the honours of one's house and table, a tranquil life, and all that kind of thing, were a thousand times better than pipeclay and glory, after all; better than turning out by drumbeat or bugle-call in a dark rainy morning, to march fasting, to shoot or be shot at; better than to hear the winter sleet rattling on the wet tent, or to endure it in the wetter bivouac; and so indeed thought I, Basil Gauntlet, when on that night of December I tucked myself cosily in a warm bed at the George in Pall Mall, and went off to sleep, with the "drowsy hum" of London in my ears.
Next day I presented my credentials at the Horse Guards, obtained six months' leave of absence, and was informed that there would be a royal drawing-room at Kensington Palace in two days after; and the commander-in-chief kindly added that he would arrange for my presentation by his Grace the Duke of Argyle, who was full colonel of my own Regiment, and was then in town. So, for two days I was free to roam about the streets in search of amusement.
Ignorant of London, I stumbled first into the wooden house in Marylebonefields, and saw a couple of sword-players slashing each other with rapiers on a platform to the sound of French horns and a tenor drum; then followed a game at quarterstaff, while the boxes and galleries were crowded by men of the first position, betting-book in hand, sword at side, and the hat cocked knowingly over the right eye. From these I rambled to Don Saltero's Museum, to see his stuffed rhinoceroses, tigers, and monsters; thence to an auction in Cornhill, where, among other effects of a bankrupt shipbroker, a young negro woman was put up to sale, and bought by a Newmarket gentleman for 32l.
As a soldier I could not resist going to see the home battalions of the Foot Guards exercised at the King's Mews, near Charing Cross. Then I dined at a chocolate-house, summoned a chair, and was swung off at a trot to the opera, where I heard one of Mr. Handel's performances hissed down, as quite unequal to the "Beggar's Opera."
Next day I found a card waiting me at my hotel. The Duke expected me to dine with him on that day, if not otherwise engaged.
I found his Grace and the Duchess waiting to receive me with great kindness and affability.
He was John Campbell of Mamore, who had lately succeeded to the dukedom, after long service in Flanders and Germany; he was now a Lieutenant-general, Governor of Limerick, and a Scottish representative Peer; she was Mary, daughter of John, Lord Bellenden of Auchinoule, a handsome and stately woman, but now well up in years.
He asked me many questions about the regiment, and inquired if "auld Geordie Preston still adhered to his buff coat." He also made a few queries, but with reserve, about the Cavalry movements at Minden, and the charges brought against Lord George Sackville. On such matters the gentle Duchess was silent; moreover, she always shrunk from military matters, as she had never recovered the loss of her second son, Lord Henry Campbell, who had been killed at the battle of Lafeldt.
Perceiving how threadbare my fighting-jacket was—(it was the sergeant's coat I had procured at Osnaburg)—I proposed to get a court dress, or a new suit of regimentals for the presentation to-morrow.
"Nay, nay," said the Duke; "come as you are—we shall drive to the Palace in my coach, and believe me, the ladies will like you all the better in your purple coat. It looks like work—zounds! yes. And, by-the-by, if you want any franks for the North, or to hear a debate in the Upper House, don't forget to command me."
A presentation at Court may be a very exciting thing to those who are unused to such scenes; but to me, nothing whatever could prove a source of excitement yet, for no man is more self-possessed, less interested in a mere spectacle, or in whom the feeling of curiosity is so dead, for a time at least, as one who has served a campaign or two.
During the reign of the late king and the early part of his successor's, drawing-rooms occurred very frequently, and royalty presented itself to the nobility and gentry at least twice weekly; but from various circumstances—perhaps the recent mourning, so hastily laid aside—on this occasion the attendance was unusually great, and when the carriage of the Duke, who wore the uniform of Colonel of the Greys, with the star and dark green ribbon of the Thistle, reached Kensington Palace-gate, we found it quite blocked up by brilliant equipages, sedan chairs, and livery servants, having huge cocked hats, long canes, and in some instances bouquets of artificial flowers.
From the portico of the Palace to the presence chamber, the Yeomen of the Guard, under Viscount Torrington, and the Gentlemen Pensioners, under the Lord Berkeley of Stratton, lined all the corridors and guarded the entrances, their showy uniforms contrasting powerfully with my patched and war-worn suit of harness, which, sooth to say, seemed odd enough, for my silver epaulettes were reduced to mere tufts of black wire; my once crimson sash to dingy fritters, my jack-boots were of no particular tint, and my spurs, like my scabbard, were a mass of rust.
But I carried over my left arm the standards of the regiments of Dauphiné and Bretagne; and they secured me some interest, in the eyes of the ladies at least—the beauty and fashion of the first court in the world—as they thronged past, in hoops and brocades, their fine hair dredged with powder, and their soft cheeks obscured by rouge and patches.
My grandfather had disinherited me; true! I had nothing in the world but my sword and my wretched pay as a sub; I was not the Lord of Netherwood, moor and hill, hall and river; but I was Basil Gauntlet, of Minden and Zierenberg—and they, at least, were something to be heir to.
As we entered the gallery which leads to the black marble staircase, two gentlemen, one of whom was dressed in scarlet richly embroidered with gold, and who wore a very full perriwig—the other, who was attired in a purple velvet suit corded with silver, and who had on a sword of unusual length, and a bag wig, entered into conversation with the Duke, who presented me to them as an officer of his regiment.
The first was the groom of the stole, the famous Earl of Bute, the future premier, the foe of Wilkes and the London mob; the other was my Lord Huntingdon, Master of the Horse, and both were pleased to say many handsome things concerning our regiment and its services during the war. Moreover, the Lord Bute was pleased to manifest his friendship for me, by presenting his snuff-box of light-blue sevres china, which he always carried in the flap-pocket of his waistcoat.
The heat and crowd were great; many had already been presented, and some were withdrawing as we passed slowly through several rooms of the old summer palace, the walls of which were hung with rich tapestry and ornamented by many pictures and busts on pedestals. Among others, my Lord Bute and his Grace pointed out to me the Venus of Titian and the Infant Saviour by Rubens, the dark Holbeins, some works of Albert Durer, and the full-lengths of Orange William and Mary Stuart, his queen—the former all nose and white wig, the latter with a mass of frizzled locks and a very bare bosom; and so, by gently pressing onward, we found ourselves in the presence-chamber, amid all the glitter and splendour of the court.
At the further end, on a chair of state under a rich canopy of crimson velvet, heavily laced, sat a fair-complexioned and smooth-faced young man, of a mild but most undignified and somewhat flabby aspect, who wore the uniform of the Foot Guards, with the magnificent collar and order of the Garter sparkling on his breast, and who had his powdered hair brushed back, queued, and simply tied with a black ribbon.
"'Tis the king!" whispered the Duke of Argyle and my Lord Bute at the same time.
I had never been in a palace or stood in such a presence before, and, until now, had been more occupied by the beauty of the ladies and the splendour of their jewels and dresses; but I felt a strange thrill in my heart—blaséas it was by the excitement of campaigning—when I looked on the mild face of this same young king, who was then in his twenty-third year, who had a threefold ball and treble sceptre to wield, and who had declared it to be his proudest boast that he was the FIRST of his race who had drawn breath on British soil, and that he gloried in it!
Many presentations went forward before it came to my turn. I saw Carolina, Countess of Ancrum, a stately woman, in a dress of white satin, superbly spangled with gold, and drawn up in festoons by cords of gold, to display an under-petticoat of scarlet velvet, studded with seed-pearls, advance towards the throne. Her hair was powdered white as snow, and tied over a cushion about five inches high. With a low courtesy she was presenting to his majesty, who bowed graciously, a very graceful girl, whose back, unfortunately, was towards us; but I could admire the wonderful fairness of her neck and shoulders, over which some heavy ringlets fell from the high cushion or pad, above which her golden hair, all undisguised by powder, was dressed and tied with knots of scarlet ribbon. Her dress was of scarlet and white striped satin, embroidered with gold on all the seams, and as they withdrew, courtesying backward—
"Gauntlet, 'tis our turn now," said the Duke, while he took me by the left hand and led me forward to the steps of the throne, which were covered with crimson cloth.
"Permit me," said he, "to present to your majesty Sir Basil Gauntlet, of my regiment, the 2nd Dragoons—an officer who, by his personal bravery, has contributed not a little to maintain their old historic character of beingSecond to None.
"Good!—second to none—good, very good!" said the young king, bowing very pleasantly, and presenting his hand, which I suppose I was expected to kiss; but which, in my ignorance, I shook very cordially, to the amusement of many fine lords and macaronies who stood by. I coloured, but said confidently—
"Commissioned by his Serene Highness Prince Ferdinand of Brunswick, General of the allies, I have been sent from our camp at Warburg in Westphalia, to lay at your majesty's feet these trophies, the standards of the regiments of Dauphiné and Bretagne, captured in our late attack on Zierenberg."
From my hands the king took the colours, which were of blue silk, with the royal crown and cypher of France. One bore the silver fleurs-de-lys; the other the golden dolphin of Dauphiné in a field ermine, and both exhibited the holes where many a bullet had passed. He thanked me in a very handsome manner, while all the brilliant groups which crowded that magnificent apartment drew near to observe and to listen.
Something of my story, perhaps of my early misfortunes, my unmerited wrong, and my enlistment, with a hundred fables tacked thereto, had been buzzed or whispered about; thus I found many bright eyes and well-powdered personages in fashionable pasteboard skirts regarding me with well-bred interest.
"Good!" said the king, whose eloquence seldom overflowed; "this is very good, and your services shall be duly appreciated. Did you serve at Minden?"
"I had the honour."
"In the cavalry?"
"Yes, sire—in the Scots Greys."
At those words, a gentleman in a brigadier wig and suit of grey, corded with silver, turned abruptly and surveyed me with a louring eye. He was no other than my Lord George Sackville, who hated the Scots—as he afterwards did the Americans—because ten of the sixteen generals who found him guilty of misconduct at Minden were born north of the Tweed; and so blindly did he hate that portion of Britain, that for a time he was universally believed to be the author of "Junius' Letters;" thus, at the mention of the Greys, 'tis no wonder that he started as if a wasp had stung him.
The king gave the standards to my Lord Huntingdon, and bowed to us again, as we now withdrew to make way for others. In retiring, I then perceived near the throne one who had good reason to remember with gratitude and respect the uniform of a Scots Grey, the little Prince Edward Augustus, Duke of York, whom Jack Charters had saved from drowning when the man-o'-war's boat was smashed by a cannon shot near Querqueville Point at Cherbourg.
I was mentioning this episode to the Duke of Argyle, who felt an interest in everything that related to his regiment, when suddenly a charming voice said, "Basil!" in my ear, a hand was laid softly and timidly on my arm, two smiling blue eyes looked calmly into mine, and I found before me the fair girl, she with the golden-hair, the scarlet-striped dress and blue crape petticoat—my cousin, Aurora!
She now presented me to her chaperone, the Countess of Ancrum, who had been Lady Caroline d'Arcy, only daughter of the Earl of Holderness. She in turn presented me to several ladies, who plied me with the usual simple and silly questions about the war and certain officers who were serving with the army, until Aurora passed her arm through mine and we began to converse about ourselves.
Aurora was indeed very beautiful, and when I looked on her delicate skin and brilliant English complexion, "how," thought I, "could I ever admire a dark Frenchwoman, or any but a blue-eyed girl!"
"I was so proud when I saw you led forward to the king!" said Aurora, "and to see you looking so well and gallant, Basil. Do you know that all the ladies here quite envy my cousinship?"
"Aurora, how you flatter! One would think that you had been among the French and not I."
"And what think you of the young king?"
"I am charmed by his condescension."
"Yet scandal says he is married to a pretty quakeress named Hannah Lightfoot, though about to espouse the Princess of Mecklenburg-Strelitz," whispered Aurora. "What think you of that forsooth?"
"I wish you would not say such things, cousin."
"Your loyalty is shocked, is it? Well, I shall not whisper treason, even in your ear," replied Aurora, who proceeded to point out several persons to me, and to make remarks on them that were witty enough at times.
"Who is that tall man with the blue ribbon?"
"He with the military stride, who seems to go right, left—right, left, head up, and queue straight?"
"Yes," said I, laughing.
"That is the gallant old Earl of Crawford, who led the Scottish Horse Guards in Flanders."
"And that dapper little man in the orange-coloured suit, whom he is now presenting?"
"The Chevalier Chassegras de Lery, thefirstof his Majesty's new Canadian subjects that has appeared in London, where, I can assure you, he is greatly run after. He was wounded in the siege of Quebec, and assisted to bury the Marquis of Montcalm. But look you, cousin, look!" continued Aurora, laughing and blushing behind her large scarlet fan; "do you see that grim-looking old gentlewoman in green brocade?"
"Whom a bishop is presenting—yes."
"The late king died in her arms. She is the Countess of Yarmouth."
"Sophia de Walmoden!"
"Yes. Listen!—she is returning thanks for her pension of 4000l. per annum, for services rendered to his Majesty's royal grandfather. For all his victories over the French the brave Sir Edward Hawke gets exactlyhalfthat sum."
With some interest I surveyed this old personage in paint, patches, and brocade; she who had wrought poor Charters such mischief in his youth when he was about eighteen, and she perhaps six and thirty.
But now the dusk was setting in; I missed his grace of Argyle, or perhaps he thought his duty to me ended at the foot of the throne, and it was an odd coincidence that Aurora also lost her chaperone, Lady Ancrum; thus I had to escort her to the Palace-gate.
"You must come to Netherwood for the shooting, Basil," said she, as we traversed the long corridors of the palace; "at the Hall I keep a strange souvenir of you," she continued, laughing—"an old blunderbuss—do you remember it?"
"No."
"You cannot have forgotten that night on Wandsworth Common, and the old blunderbuss which so terrified John Trot?"
"How could I forget the first time I met you, Aurora!—but here is your chair."
Two yeomen of the guard made way for us with their partisans; John Trot was in attendance with cane and link, as I handed Aurora into her sedan, hooped-petticoat, skirt,toupéeand all.
"While in London, Basil, remember that you make our house in Piccadilly your home."
"Our!" thought I in perplexity, as two soft hands held mine during this speech, and two blue eyes looked kindly into mine. I was becoming a timid fellow again, or I know not what privilege of cousinship I might have claimed had we been elsewhere than amid that crowd at Kensington Palace-gate.
"I live in Piccadilly with an old lady-friend, or rather, I should say she lives with me—my companion, an officer's widow. You will lunch with us to-morrow—two is the hour, and we shall expect you. Adieu."
She was borne off at a trot by her chairmen in the Gauntlet livery, while I set out on foot to return to "mine inn," the King George the Third, in Pall Mall.
I felt pleased and flattered by the whole events of the day; especially by the beauty, the charming frankness of Aurora, and the decided preference she showed for me; the more so that she was an object of no little attraction to the powdered beaux who crowded the court of the young king. And to think that my poor red coat eclipsed all their finery.
Betimes next day I had my hair dressed by a fashionable perruquier; I took a promenade in Pall Mall, and left a card for a friend at White's Chocolate House. He was a brother of Douglas of ours, and belonged to the Scots Foot Guards, but was absent recruiting in Edinburgh. About mid-day, I presented myself at my cousin's mansion, old Sir Basil Gauntlet's town residence, in Piccadilly. It was one of the largest and best style of houses in that fashionable quarter. Master John Trot appeared at the door in answer to my summons, and opened it wide enough and with a sufficiently low bow, as I had exchanged my old, weather-beaten and bloodstained fighting-jacket, for a fashionable suit of French grey velvet, laced with silver.
I found Aurora in the drawing-room, with her companion, a pleasing old gentlewoman in a toweringtoupée, high red-heeled shoes and black lace mittens—Madam Blythe (as she was named in the old Scoto-French fashion) a widow of the captain-lieutenant of Lord Ancrum's dragoons, who had been killed in action, so the poor woman's heart warmed towards me as a gentleman of the cloth.
After a few of the ordinary remarks about the weather, followed by a few more about the ceremony of yesterday, luncheon was announced by John Trot, and we descended by a splendid staircase, hung with effigies of departed Gauntlets, depicted by Lely and Kneller, in wigs and corslets, to the dining-room, past a line of servants in livery, aiguiletted and covered with braid, like state trumpeters.
Over the carved marble mantelpiece hung a portrait of an old gentleman, in a square-skirted coat, corded with gold, a voluminous wig and wide riding-boots, in the act of grasping the reins of a roan charger.
"'Tis dear old grandpapa's portrait, painted by Mr. Joshua Reynolds." (He had not been knighted yet.)
"One of the most rising artists in London," added Madame Blythe, in an explanatory tone.
"'Tis very like you, Basil," said Aurora, laying kindly on my shoulders a plump white hand that glittered with turquoise and diamond rings.
I did not feel flattered, as "dear old grandpapa's" Bardolph's snout was somewhat like an over-ripe peach; but altogether, in his jolly obesity he in no way resembled the oldursa-majorI had pictured him—perhaps Mr. Reynolds flattered. However, I could scarcely refrain from frowning at it when Aurora did not observe me, and when I thought of the will which he and old Nathan Wylie had concocted between them; and then of the handsome legacy—one shilling sterling coin of this realm—bequeathed to me when quartered at Portsmouth.
"My brother Tony—poor unfortunate Tony!—hangs opposite in his green hunting dress—another of Mr. Reynolds' efforts," said Aurora.
"Ah, indeed!" said I, attending to my ham and chicken, and turning my back upon the portraiture of Cousin Tony, who looked out of the gilded frame very much as he did on that afternoon when he and his grooms Dick and Tom laid their whips across my shoulders near Netherwood Hall.
"What length of time do you mean to spend in London?" asked Aurora, amid our desultory conversation. "Your health, cousin, and welcome home," she added, as John Trot filled my glass.
"I shall spend my six months' leave. I have no friends to visit, and nowhere to go, cousin, unless back to my regiment."
"Six months—delightful! Now, Basil, with your figure and pretensions, I am sure we shall find a charming if not a rich wife for you. Shall we not, Madame Blythe?"
"Thanks, Aurora. A rich one I would need, with my poor sub's pay," said I, with a smile.
I glanced involuntarily round me, and the splendour and luxury, the evidence of ample wealth—wealth of which I had cruelly been deprived—galled and fretted me. Furtive though the glance, it was so expressive that Aurora coloured, and but said, smiling—
"What think you of the Lady Louisa Kerr, the Countess of Ancrum's eldest daughter? She spoke much about you, and was at the drawing-room, in blue, flowered with silver."
"Nay, I have no idea of casting my eyes so high."
"Or sofar off," added Madame Blythe, archly.
"Perhaps you have left your heart in Germany?"
"On the contrary, I have brought it back safe and sound, cousin. More wine—thank you, yes."
"'Tis some of the last of dear old grandpapa's favourite port," said Aurora, making a sign to Mr. Trot.
"But there is time enough yet for me to think of marrying, Aurora."
"Perhaps you agree with Shakespeare, that
"'A young man married, is a man marrèd,'"
"Nay, dear cousin; I am not so ungallant; butàproposof Shakespeare, shall we go to the play to-night?"
"In that I am your servant; but you shall dine with us; a drive in the park, and then the play after."
Aurora was charming; and it was impossible not to be guided by her wishes in everything.
At that time I was in excellent funds. I had my pay as lieutenant of dragoons (not that it was much, Heaven knows! to cut a figure upon); but I had a good share of prize-money, and a share in brass guns taken in the affairs of Emsdorff and Zierenberg, with a fair slice of a military chest that found its way quietly, sans report, into the pockets of the Scots Greys, all enabled me to take Aurora and Madame Blythe to Vauxhall, Ranelagh, the tea-gardens, the opera, the play, and always with a fair escort of flambeaux to dine with his Grace of Argyle, or to a drum at my Lady Ancrum's; to turn a card at White's when I felt so disposed, and to throw vails to those greedy vultures—the servants—a folly at that time in excess.
As we issued from the house to the carriage for our drive in the park, Aurora responded to the profound bow of a gentleman who rode past.
"That is a young Irishman who was known about town as the Penniless Adventurer," said she; "yet he wrote a charming book on 'The Sublime and Beautiful.'"
"Edmund Burke," I exclaimed, looking after him with admiration; "is that the great Edmund Burke?"
"Even so, with his hair all frizzed up. How oddly he wears it," said Aurora, as we seated ourselves, and Mr. Trot, after shutting the door, perched himself on the footboard behind.
At night Drury Lane Theatre presented a scene of brilliance and splendour to which I had long been unaccustomed. Aurora was exceedingly gay and sparkling with youth, beauty, and jewels—bowing to people of good fashion in almost every box—always happy and with considerable readiness of wit, remarking several turns of the play and peculiarities of personages who were present, and in whom, she thought, I might feel interested.
The first piece, I grieve, my prudish friends, to state was Howe's tragedy of "The Fair Penitent," which drew tears from all the brocaded dames in the boxes.
Mr. David Garrick, the manager, appeared as Lothario in a full-bottomed perriwig, square-cut blue coat with buttons in size like saucers, white rolled stockings and square toed shoes. Mrs. Pritchard was the frail Lavinia; and sarcastic old Macklin, who hated the Scots so much, made up by pads and paint as a youth, played the part of Horatio to the great admiration of the pit, and particularly of one group, among whom Aurora pointed out to me a poet named Churchill and Dr. Johnson the great Lexicographer.
Mr. Garrick's laughable farce of the "Lying Valet" followed. A sentinel of the Foot Guards, with bayonet fixed and musket shouldered, stood at the end of the proscenium during the whole performance, at the conclusion of which, the manager and pretty Mrs. Pritchard, were called before the curtain amid a storm of applause.
At the door of the box-lobby we had some confusion; a hundred voices were shouting "Chair! chair!—coach, coach!" at once, and an irritable old gentleman with a very red face, drew his sword to clear the way before his party of ladies.
"Who is this passionate personage?" I inquired.
"'Tis Admiral Forbes," said Madame Blythe, "the only Lord of the Admiralty whorefusedto sign poor Admiral Byng's death warrant."
"A Scotsman, like yourself, Basil," said Aurora smiling.
I escorted the ladies home to Piccadilly, and assisted them to alight from their sedan chairs. As the links were extinguished, and Aurora's cheek was very near mine, I—but as it is wrong to kiss and tell, I shall close this chapter, and with it my third day in London.
I found in Aurora an inexpressibly charming friend and companion; thus at times, in my heart, and before my funds waxed low, I completely forgave her for being the holder, the golden-haired usurper of all that was mine by right of inheritance.
But there were other times when the old emotions of pique and anger—the old memories of wrong inflicted, and of mortifications endured by my parents and myself, blazed up within me, and made me resolve to tear myself away from London and from the silken toils that were netting round me, and vow to rejoin my regiment, which was now at winter quarters at Barentrup, in Germany.
Still I hovered between Pall Mall and Piccadilly, and when we were not at some place of amusement (whither we sometimes venturedwithoutthe matronage of Madame Blythe), Aurora's drawing-room was my evening resort; for after dining at White's or at the George in the Mall I always dropped in to take "a dish of tea," as the Londoners phrased it, at that littleguéridon, or tripod table, with its oval teaboard of mahogany, its diminutive cups of eggshell china, filled with that fragrant, and then expensive beverage, the honours of which old Madame Blythe, in her hoop petticoat, black mittens, and toupee, dispensed so gracefully.
So passed the time swiftly in amusements and gaiety. My exchequer I have said was waxing low. My share in the value of his Most Christian Majesty's brass guns and mortars had all vanished at Vauxhall, Ranelagh, and elsewhere, and my leave of absence was drawing to a close. The latter tidings I communicated to Aurora, and she seemed to be disturbed by them—so much so, that I felt quite pleased and flattered by her affectionate friendship. Had she wept I would have been delighted.
How strange was this tie of cousinship! Here was Aurora, one of the loveliest girls in London (which, my good reader, is saying a good deal), treating me like a friend—a brother; and she was nearer and dearer to me than friend or sister could be, so far as regard and propinquity went; yet withal, she was little more than a recent acquaintance.
It was perilous work, those daily visits to Piccadilly, and yet so pleasing; and so—and so the reader may begin to perceive the end of all this; but not exactly how it came about.
I own that I fell in love with my beautiful cousin; so had many others—among them Shirley; and I could pardon him now.
I am sure that dear old Madame Blythe, who loved me like a son, for no better reason than that I was a lieutenant of dragoons, as her husband had been in their lover-days, suspected what was going forward. She was discreet—oh, very discreet! She never opened the drawing-room door too suddenly if we were within, but always lingered without and loudly issued an order to the cook, or to John Trot; or dropped something noisily; called to her French poodle, or played nervously with the door-handle, until Aurora and I laughed at her policy or politeness, which you will. However, when she entered, I was generally to be found on the side of the room opposite to that occupied by Aurora.
When in the dining-room, the sight of Sir Basil's portrait, and Squire Tony's too, always roused my secret anger; thus, when Aurora one day said to me playfully—
"Cousin Basil, what do you think Lady Ancrum tells me gossips say?"
"Don't know, really," replied I, briefly.
"That I am setting my cap at you!"
"Zounds! at a poor devil like me!" I exclaimed, almost gruffly. "Nonsense, Aurora! Besides, you don't wear a cap."
Aurora coloured, and her sweet face became clouded by my brusque manner.
But her remark set me thinking seriously. I had undergone some quiet quizzing from Madame Blythe, who believed in her heart that we were made for each other, and that no two young people could play a game of picquet, ombre, or chess, or dance a minuet together, without falling straightway in love; so this and my Lady Ancrum's gossip set me, I say, to think angrily, and when in such a mood, Sir Basil's insulting last will and testament, like the handwriting on the wall at Belshazzar's feast, always seemed to flame before me.
I was conscious too that my cousinship and constant appearance in public with Miss Gauntlet had scared away a score of danglers and admirers, who being most of them mere macaronies, or "pretty fellows," were weak enough to leave me entire possession of the field. One or two, indeed, threatened to invite me to breathe the morning air at the back of Montague House, but somehow never put their war-like threat into execution.
I loved Aurora dearly; but the regard I bore her was quite unlike the wild and romantic passion with which the artful Jacqueline had so suddenly inspired me, for it was based upon friendship and a knowledge of each other—upon strong confidence and thorough esteem. Could more than these four ingredients be wanted to make any marriage happy?
It was not a passion likely to expend itself, and leave rosy little Cupid's wings, bows, arrows and all, insolvent at the end of the first year; yet withal, pride and a sense of injury rankled deeply in my heart.
I had never told Aurora that I loved her, but she knew it well, and that she loved me I was vain enough to believe; still the idea stung me to the soul that gossips might say that I, the disinherited and penniless cousin married the rich one to regain my lost patrimony.
"I shall not endure it," thought I, "and so shall pack my traps and be off to the regiment!"
One evening I was seated alone by the library fire in Piccadilly, full of loving, of angry, and of doubtful thoughts which tormented me, when Aurora entered gently, and leaning over the back of my chair placed her pretty hands over my forehead and eyes in sport.
"How you stare into the fire, Basil! You will quite spoil your eyes. What do you see there?"
"I am reflecting—thinking——"
"Of the fancied battles you see among the embers—the value of coals, or what?" she asked, laughing. "Now tell me, about what were your precious thoughts?"
"They were ofyou, Aurora," said I, in a troubled voice, while taking her dear hands in mine; "my leave of absence——"
"Again, that horrid leave—well, Basil?"
"Is nearly at an end, and I must quit London, rejoin, tear myself from this," I replied, impetuously, and then added, with sudden softness; "I love you, dear Aurora—you know well that I do; but never shall it be said by the world that I married you for your fortune—as——"
"The world!" said she, interrupting me, with an air of extreme annoyance, while casting down her eyes and withdrawing her hands; "but am I then so plain—so unattractive—that no one would marry for anything else, save for this unlucky Netherwood—eh, cousin?" she added, smiling with a charming air of coquetry.
"Oh, Aurora—I wish you could see into my heart!"
"And you love me?" said she, in a low and tremulous voice.
"Dearly—most dearly!"
"Then if I married you, cousin Basil," she resumed, looking smilingly into my eyes, "might not the world say it was for your title?"
"Am I then so plain and unattractive," I was beginning, when she playfully put her hand on my mouth; "Aurora, of the baronetcy I cannot divest myself."
"But I candivestmyself of Netherwood," she exclaimed, and sprung from my side with flashing eyes. Then with tremulous hands she unlocked an ebony cabinet, and after a rapid search, came to me with a folded document, saying, "Look, Basil, do you know this handwriting?"
"It is that of old Nathan Wylie, our grandfather's solicitor; I should know it well."
"Then read this paper, which he prepared and drew up a few weeks ago, at my especial request."
I perused it with astonishment!
It was what is legally or technically termed a "Disposition," by which Aurora divested herself of Netherwood, lands, estate, and everything, bestowing them upon me during her lifetime, with remainder to me and my heirs at her decease.
I had learned enough of law during my residence with old Nathan Wylie, the framer of this new document, to know how full, ample, and generous it was, and while I rapidly scanned it from the preamble at the beginning to the signature of Aurora at the end, she stood near me with her cheeks flushing, her eyes full of tears, and her poor little hands trembling.
"Oh, Aurora!" I exclaimed in bewilderment.
"Now cousin, do you believe me—now do you deem me sincere in wishing, at every risk, to soothe your angry pride?" she asked, with a shower of nervous tears. "None can now say that you wedded me to recover a lost patrimony, for yours it was, and is, most justly."
"Dearest Aurora, I would rather owe its restoration in another fashion, but still, my beloved, to you. Behold!" and I put the deed in the fire, where it shrivelled and was consumed in a moment.
I had no more words for the occasion, but pressed Aurora to my breast. I felt that she was indeed my own—all my own; that we should be all the world to each other, and that our future would be a life of love.
My lips could not express the debt of joy and gratitude I owed to this dear girl; but though silent, friend reader, they were not perhaps idle.
Thus, without any tremendous effort of romance, but in the most ordinary and matter-of-fact way in the world, my marriage came about with cousin Aurora. She was to be my wife, and no Frenchwoman, after all.
* * * * *
And now, leaving Aurora and Madame Blythe deep in all the mystery of paduasoy skirts, calimanco petticoats, satin sacques, solitaires and négligées, head-cushions and red-heeled shoes, furbelows and flounces, bracelets, neckets, étui and appendages, long stomachers, clocked stockings, and other things which I need not enumerate—in short, arranging the full wardrobe of a wealthy and beautiful bride, while I depart to arrange all about the special licence and extended leave (taking the Horse Guardsen route), I shall bid my friend, the reader, who has accompanied me to this happy conclusion, for a time, perhaps, a kind adieu.
THE END.
LONDON:SAVILL AND EDWARDS, PRINTERS, CHANDOS STREET,COVENT GARDEN.