CHAPTER I.

A HAUNTED LIFE

BY

JAMES GRANT

AUTHOR OF 'THE ROMANCE OF WAR'

LONDON

GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS

BROADWAY, LUDGATE HILL

NEW YORK: 9, LAFAYETTE PLACE

1883

JAMES GRANT'S NOVELS,

_Price 2s. each, Fancy Boards._

The Romance of War

The Aide-de-Camp

The Scottish Cavalier

Bothwell

Jane Seton: or, the Queen's Advocate

Philip Rollo

The Black Watch

Mary of Lorraine

Oliver Ellis: or, the Fusileers

Lucy Arden: or, Hollywood Hall

Frank Hilton: or, the Queen's Own

The Yellow Frigate

Harry Ogilvie: or, the Black Dragoons

Arthur Blane

Laura Everingham: or, the Highlanders of Glenora

The Captain of the Guard

Letty Hyde's Lovers

Cavaliers of Fortune

Second to None

The Constable of France

The Phantom Regiment

The King's Own Borderers

The White Cockade

First Love and Last Love

Dick Rooney

The Girl he Married

Lady Wedderburn's Wish

Jack Manly

Only an Ensign

Adventures of Rob Roy

Under the Red Dragon

The Queen's Cadet

Shall I Win Her?

Fairer than a Fairy

One of the Six Hundred

Morley Ashton

Did She Love Him?

The Ross-shire Buffs

Six Years Ago

Vere of Ours

The Lord Hermitage

The Royal Regiment

Duke of Albany's Own Highlanders

The Cameronians

The Scots Brigade

Violet Jermyn

Jack Chaloner

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER

I. THE MEET OF THE COACHING CLUB

II. TREVOR CHUTE'S REVERIE

III. HIS VISIT TO CLARE

IV. IDA

V. HOW WILL IT END?

VI. SIR CARNABY COLLINGWOOD

VII. A PROPOSAL

VIII. 'THE DESIRE OF THE MOTH FOR THE STARS'

IX. DOUBTS DISPELLED

X. FOR WHOM THE JEWELS WERE INTENDED

XI. A ROMANCE OF THE DRAWING-ROOM

XII. IN THE KONGENS NYTORV

XIII. BY THE EXPRESS FOR LUBECK

XIV. AN IMBROGLIO

XV. 'LOVE IS STRONG AS DEATH'

XVI. 'JEALOUSY CRUEL AS THE GRAVE'

XVII. A QUARREL

XVIII. THE EMEUTE AT LUBECK

XIX. SIR CARNABY'S GRATITUDE

XX. CARNABY COURT

XXI. CHRISTMAS EVE

A HAUNTED LIFE.

CHAPTER I.

THE MEET OF THE COACHING CLUB.

'Be patient, Trevor Chute; they are sure to be here to-day, old

fellow, for Ida told me so.'

'Ida?'

'Yes, Mrs. Beverley; does that surprise you?' asked the other, with a

singular smile--one that was rather sardonic.

'No, Jerry, I have long ceased to be surprised at anything. As I

have told you, my special mission in town is a visit to her; but--so

you and she are good friends still?'

'Yes, though she has been six months a widow, we are on the same

strange terms in which you left us last--friends pure and simple.'

'And nothing more?'

'As yet,' replied Jerry Vane, lowering his voice, with something of

despondency perceptible in his tone, and to a close observer it might

have been apparent that he, though by nature frank, jovial, and

good-humoured, had, by force of habit, or by circumstances, a

somewhat cynical mode of expression and gravity of manner.

The time was the noon of a bright and lovely day in May, when the

newly-opened London season is at its height; and it was the first

meet of the Coaching Club in Hyde Park, where the expectant crowd,

filling all the seats under the pleasant trees, or in occupation of

handsome carriages, snug barouches, dashing phaetons and

victorias--in everything save hackney cabs--covered all the wide

plateau which stretches from the Marble Arch to the somewhat prosaic

powder magazine beside the Serpentine, and waited with the

characteristic patience and good-humour of Londoners for the

assembling of the coaches, though some were seeking to while away the

time with a morning paper or the last periodical.

The speakers, though young men, were old friends, who had known each

other since boyhood in the playing-fields of Rugby.

Jervoise, or, as he was familiarly called, Jerry Vane, was a

curly-pated, good-looking young fellow of the genuine Saxon type,

with expressive, but rather thoughtful eyes of bluish grey, long fair

whiskers, and somewhat the bearing of a 'man about town;' while the

other, perhaps in aspect the manlier of the two, Trevor Chute, in

figure compact and well set-up, was dark-haired, hazel-eyed, and had

a smart moustache, imparting much decision of expression to a

handsome and regular face, which had been scorched and embrowned by a

tropical sun; and where the white flap of the puggaree had failed to

protect his neck and ears, they had deepened to a blister hue.

He had but the day before come to town, on leave from his regiment

(which had just returned from India), on a special errand, to be

detailed in its place.

In front was the great bend of the blue Serpentine rippling and

sparkling in the sunshine, with its tiny fleet of toy-ships; beyond

it was the leafy background of trees, and the far stretch of emerald

lawn, chequered with clumps of rhododendron in full flower, and

almost covered with sight-seers, some of whom gave an occasional

cheer as a stately drag passed to the meeting-place, especially if

its driver was recognized as a personage of note or a public

favourite.

'I don't know what you may have seen in India, Trevor,' said Jerry

Vane, 'but I am assured that the gayest meetings on the continent of

Europe can present nothing like this. I have been in the Prater at

Vienna on the brightest mornings of summer, and on gala days at the

Bois de Boulogne, and seen there all the _élite_ of Paris wending its

way in equipages, on horse or on foot, but no scene in either place

equals this of to-day by the Serpentine!'

To this his friend, who had so recently returned from military exile,

in the East, warmly assented, adding:

'The day is as hot as my last Christmas was in the Punjaub.'

'Christmas in the Paunjaub, by Jove!' exclaimed Jerry Vane, with a

laugh. 'Eating ices and fanning oneself under a punkah, with the

thermometer at 90 in the shade, eh?'

Captain Chute laughed in turn at this idea; but as he stood at that

time by the inner railings in Hyde Park, waiting anxiously to see the

fair occupants of a certain drag, he could foresee, as little as his

friend, where they were to spend their coming Christmas, or on its

eve to hear, through the stillness thereof, the sweet evensong coming

over a waste of snow from an old chapel, amid a group of

crystal-shrouded trees, where many soft voices, with _hers_ among

them, told again of the angels' message, given more than eighteen

hundred years ago to the shepherds of Chaldea, as they watched their

fleecy flock by night.

'It seems but yesterday that I last stood here, Jerry,' said Trevor

Chute, thoughtfully, almost sadly; 'and how much has come and gone to

us both since then!'

'Yes; and here, as of old, Trevor, are the last new beauties who have

come out, and the overblown belles of seasons that are past, and, of

course, all those great folks whom everybody knows, and others of

whom no one knows anything, save that they have swell equipages, and

are "like magnificent red and purple orchids, which grow out of

nothing, yet do so much credit to their origin."'

'You grow cynical, Jerry.'

'Perhaps; but there was a time when I was not wont to be so. And

you, Trevor, are not without good reason for being so too. Why, man

alive! when in the Guards, how popular you were with all the mammas

of unmarried daughters; a seat in the carriage, a box at the opera, a

balcony at the boat-race, whenever you felt disposed. By Jove! there

was no man in town I envied more than you in those days.'

'And what has it all come to now, Jerry? I feel quite like a fogey,'

exclaimed Trevor Chute.

'Yet this was but four years ago.'

'Only four years, old fellow, and _she_ is not married yet! But here

come the party, and on Desmond's drag; he has the "lead," it seems.'

It was now the hour of one; the procession had started, and the eyes

of all the onlookers were eagerly engaged in critically examining the

various drags, so magnificently horsed and brilliantly appointed, as

they passed in succession, with all their silver harness shining in

the sun.

About thirty drove from the well-known rendezvous of the Coaching

Club along the pretty drive which skirts the Serpentine and ends with

the bridge that divides the Park from Kensington Gardens; and though

some of the drivers adhered to the Club uniform--blue, with gilt

buttons--many appeared in the perfection of morning costume; and as

team after team went by, chestnut, white, or grey, with satin-like

skins, murmurs of applause, rising at times to a cheer, greeted the

proprietors.

The costumes of the ladies who occupied the lofty seats were as

perfect as, in many instances, was their beauty; and no other capital

in Europe could have presented such a spectacle as Trevor Chute saw

then, when the summer sun was at its height in the heavens, gilding

the trees with brilliant light, and showing Hyde Park in all its

glory.

The leading drag was the one which fascinated him, and all the other

twenty-nine went clattering past like same phantasmagoria, or a

spectacle one might seem to behold in a dream.

Several ladies were on the drag, including the owner's somewhat

_passé_ sister, the Hon. Evelyn Desmond; but Chute saw only

two--Clare and Violet Collingwood--or one, rather, the elder, who

riveted all his attention.

Both girls were remarkable for their beauty even then, when every

second female face seemed fair to look upon; but the contrast was

strong in the opposite styles of their loveliness, for Clare was a

brilliant brunette, while Violet was even more brilliant as a blonde;

and as the drag swept past, Trevor Chute had only time to remark the

perfect taste of Clare's costume or habit, that her back hair was a

marvel of curious plaiting, and that she was laughingly and hastily

thrusting into her silver-mounted Marguerite pouch a note that

Desmond had handed to her, almost surreptitiously it seemed; and

then, amid the crowd and haze, she passed away from his sight, as

completely as she had done four years before, when, by the force of

circumstances--a fate over which he had no control--they had been

rent asunder, when their engagement was declared null, and they were

informed that thenceforward their paths in life must be far apart.

'Clare Collingwood is the same girl as ever, Trevor,' said Jerry

Vane, breaking a silence of some minutes. 'You saw with what

imperial indifference she was receiving the admiration of all who

passed, and the attention of those who were about her.'

'Is she much changed, Jerry, since--since I left England?' Trevor

asked.

'Oh, no,' replied the other, cynically; 'she and her sisters--Violet,

at least--have gone, and are still going, over the difficult ways of

life pleasantly, gracefully, and easily, as all in their "set"

usually do. In her fresh widow's weeds Ida Beverley could not be

here to-day, of course.'

'I have an express and most melancholy mission to her on the morrow,'

said Captain Chute. 'But why is Collingwood _père_ not with his

daughters on this occasion?'

'Though girls that any man might be proud of escorting in any

capacity, the old beau, with his dyed hair and curled whispers, is

never seen with them, nor has been since their mother's death.

Though sixty, if he is a day, he prefers to act the _rôle_ of a young

fellow on his preferment, and doesn't like to have these young

women--one of them a widow, too--calling him "papa." He knows

instinctively--nay, he has overheard--that he is called "old

Collingwood," and he doesn't like the title a bit,' added Vane,

laughing genuinely, for the first time that forenoon, as they made

their way towards the nearest gate of the Park, which the glittering

drags were all leaving by the Marble Arch, and setting forth, _viâ_

Portman Square, for luncheon at Muswell Hill or elsewhere.

'And has Clare had no offers since my time?' asked Trevor Chute,

almost timidly.

'Two; good ones, also.'

'And she refused them?'

'So Ida told me.'

'Ida again; you and Mrs. Beverley seem very good friends.'

'Yes, though she used me shockingly in throwing me over for Beverley.'

'And why did--Clare refuse?'

'Can't say, for the life of me; women are such enigmas; unless a

certain Trevor Chute, then broiling in the Punjaub, wherever that may

be, had something to do with it.'

'I can pardon much in you, Jerry Vane,' said Chute, gravely; 'for we

have been staunch friends ever since I was a species of big brother

to you at Rugby; but please not to make a jest of Clare and me. And

what of pretty Violet?'

'Oh, Violet is all right,' replied Vane, speaking very fast, and

reddening a little at his friend's reproach. 'She has those

graceful, taking, and pretty ways with her and about her that will be

sure to do well for her in the end; thus, sooner or later, Violet's

fortune is certain to be made in a matrimonial point of view.'

'I have heard of this fellow, Harvey Desmond, before,' said Chute,

musingly. 'I remember his name when I was in the Household Brigade.

He was lately, I think, gazetted a C.B.'

'Of course.'

'For what?'

'In consideration of his great services at Wormwood Scrubs and on

Wimbledon Common.'

To see Clare on _his_ drag, even with his sister, the Hon. Evelyn, to

play propriety, stung Trevor Chute, and, as if divining his very

thoughts, Jerry Vane said, let us hope unintentionally:

'All the clubs have linked their names together for some time past.'

'Well,' replied Trevor, with something like a malediction, as he

proceeded in a vicious manner to manipulate a cigar, and bite off the

end of it. 'What the deuce does that matter to me?'

His expression of face, however, belied the indifference he affected

for the moment, and feeling that he had caused pain by his remark,

Jerry Vane said, as they walked arm and arm along Piccadilly, by the

side of the Green Park:

'Neither of us have been very successful in our love affairs with the

Collingwoods; and with me even more than you, Trevor, it was a case

of "love's labours lost." Yet, when I think of all that Ida

Collingwood was in the past time to me, I cannot help feeling maudlin

over it. We had, time to me, I cannot help feeling maudlin over it.

We had, as you know well, been engaged a year when, unluckily,

Beverley, of your corps, became a friend of the family. I know not

by what magic he swayed her mind, her heart, and all her thoughts,

but, from the first day she knew him, I felt that I was thrown over

and that she was lost to me for ever! And on that day when she

became Beverley's wife----'

In the bitterness of his heart Vane paused, for his voice became

tremulous.

'The friend equally of you and of poor Jack Beverley, whom I laid in

his grave, far, far away, I felt all the awkwardness of my position

when that bitter rivalry arose between him and you about Ida

Collingwood,' said Trevor Chute, and the usually lively Jerry, who

seemed lost in thoughts which the voice and presence of his friend

had summoned from the past, walked slowly forward in moody silence.

He was recalling, as he had too often done, the agony of the time

when he first began to learn--first became grimly conscious--that the

tender eyes of Ida sought to win glances from other eyes than his,

and ask smile for smile from other lips too! And when desperately

against hope he had hoped the game would change, and oblivion would

follow forgiveness--but the time never came.

Jerry could recall, too, the sickly attempts he had made to arouse

her pique and jealousy by flirting with Evelyn Desmond and other

girls, but all in vain, as the sequel proved.

She had become so absorbed in Beverley as to be oblivious of every

action of the discarded one, and almost careless of what he thought

or felt.

But now, though Beverley was dead and had found his grave on a

distant and a deadly shore, it was scarcely in human flesh and blood

for Vane--even jolly Jerry Vane--to forgive, and still less to regret

him as Trevor Chute did, though he affected to do so, on which the

soldier shook his hand, saying:

'You are indeed a good-hearted fellow!'

But Vane felt that the praise was perhaps undeserved, and to change

the subject, said--

'She has been to a certain extent getting over Beverley's death.'

'Getting over it?'

'Of course.'

'How?'

'By becoming more composed and settled; no grief lasts for ever, you

know,' replied Vane, a little tartly; 'but now your return, your

special visit to her, and the mementoes you bear, will bring the

whole thing to the surface again, and--and--even after six months of

widowhood--may----'

'Will make matters more difficult for you?' interrupted Trevor Chute,

smiling.

'Precisely. I am a great ass, I know; but I cannot help loving Ida

still.'

'You will accompany me to the Collingwoods' to-morrow, Jerry?' urged

the soldier, after a pause.

'No, old fellow, decidedly not. Ida's grief would only worry me and

make me feel _de trop_. What the deuce do you think I am made of,

Trevor, to attempt to console the woman I love when she is weeping

for _another_?'

'Dine with me at the club this evening, then--sharp eight--and we'll

talk it over.'

'Thanks; and then we shall have a long "jaw" together about all that

is and all that _might_ have been; so, till then, old man, good-bye.'