THE KING'S OWN BORDERERS.
A Military Romance.
BY
JAMES GRANT,
AUTHOR OF
"SECOND TO NONE," "THE ROMANCE OF WAR," "THE YELLOW FRIGATE,"
ETC. ETC.
"Memories fast are thronging o'er me,
Of the grand old fields of Spain;
How he faced the charge of Junot,
And the fight where Moore was slain.
Oh the years of weary waiting
For the glorious chance he sought,
For the slowly ripened harvest
That life's latest autumn brought."
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. III.
LONDON:
GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS,
BROADWAY, LUDGATE HILL.
1865.
LONDON:
SAVILL AND EDWARDS, PRINTERS, CHANDOS STREET,
COVENT-GARDEN.
CONTENTS
OF
THE THIRD VOLUME.
CHAP.
I. PLAYING WITH FIRE
II. THE POISONED WINE
III. PADRE FLOREZ
IV. THE ARMY MARCHES
V. HALT AT AZUMAR
VI. THE ADVANCE INTO SPAIN
VII. RETROGRESSION
VIII. A MESSAGE FROM THE ENEMY
IX. THE PRISONER
X. THE COURT-MARTIAL
XI. LOVE ME
XII. THE OLD BRIGADIER
XIII. THE RETREAT
XIV. FRESH DISASTERS
XV. A SMILE OF FORTUNE
XVI. PIQUE
XVII. THE COMBAT OF LUGO
XVIII. A WARNING
XIX. THE BATTLE OF CORUNNA
XX. THE BURIAL
XXI. TOO LATE
XXII. MADAME DE RIBEAUPIERRE
XXIII. THE "BIEN AIMÉ"
XXIV. MINDEN LODGE
XXV. THE REVELATIONS OF A NIGHT
THE KING'S OWN BORDERERS.
CHAPTER I.
PLAYING WITH FIRE.
"Fraught with this fine intention, and well fenced
In mail of proof--her purity of soul,
She, for the future of her strength convinced,
And that her honour was a rock or mole,
Exceeding sagely from that hour dispensed
With any kind of troublesome control;
But whether Julia to the task was equal,
Is that which must be gathered in the sequel."
BYRON.
For two other entire days the rain continued to pour as it only pours
in the Peninsula during the wet season, and our travellers were
compelled to keep close within the doors of the Villa de Maciera.
Could Quentin have lifted the veil that hides the future, and
foreseen the turmoil and danger in which this unexpected delay would
eventually involve him, he would certainly have made some vigorous
efforts to procure horses or mules at Salorino, to push on for
Portalegre, in spite of wind or rain; but what, then, was he to do
with Donna Isidora? In such a November deluge she could neither
travel on horse or foot, and "leathern conveyances" were not to be
had in Spanish Estremadura in those days, nor in the present either,
probably. To leave her alone in that deserted house was not to be
thought of.
So Quentin stayed.
Time did not pass slowly, however. They did not read, you may be
assured, though books were plentifully strewed about, as the French
had been lighting their pipes with them; but Isidora took to teaching
Quentin the language of the fan, as spoken or used at the bull-fight,
the theatre, on the prado, or elsewhere, and with such a pair of eyes
beaming on him, over, under, or through the sticks of the aforesaid
fan, he proved an apt scholar. Who would have been otherwise?
He taught her his name, at which she laughed very much, and thought
it an odd one.
Ere the noon of the second day, they had made great progress in their
friendship, and, circumstanced as they were, could they have failed
to do so? Isolated and without resource, save in each other's
dangerous society, they could scarcely be ever separate in that huge
deserted house, in which they were besieged by the weather.
That the impulsive Spanish girl had conceived a strong affection for
Quentin was evident from her occasional silence, her palpitation, her
changing look, and the half-suppressed fire of her dark eyes, when he
approached or spoke to her; then it would seem, that as he grew
bewildered and timid, she became bold and unconstrained.
It would be difficult to trace the workings and describe the
struggles of Donna Isidora's heart in the growing passion she felt
for Quentin--the mere result of accidents which she could not
control, and a propinquity which she could not avoid; or how rapidly
the brief self-delusion of sisterhood and platonic affection melted
away before the warm and impulsive nature of her character; how
reason weakened as passion grew strong, and how she resolved to bend
him to her will, for in mind and race, rather more than years, she
was much his senior.
She knew that Spain was almost lawless now; that ties were broken,
the bonds of society loosed, and that civil order, such as it was,
had disappeared amid the anarchy consequent to the French invasion:
hence a hundred wild schemes coursed through her busy brain. She
even hoped to lure him into the guerilla ranks, or to fly with her to
some remote part of the provinces, where they could never more be
traced; to the mountains of Estrella, the Sierra de Oca, or the dark
and wooded ranges of the Sierra Morena, where, forgotten alike by
friend and foe, they could live on unknown. Such were her vague
ideas for the future. For the present, it sufficed her that she
loved Quentin, and that he must be taught to love her in return.
On the other hand, it is difficult to define exactly the feeling
which Quentin entertained for his young Spanish friend. Of her
wonderful beauty he was by no means insensible. Was it platonic
regard that _he_ felt? We should not think so at his years, and more
especially as we are disinclined to believe in such love at all.
Then what the deuce was it? the reader may ask.
Flirtation, perhaps--"playing with fire," certainly.
Young though he was, Quentin could not forget Flora Warrender, and
that sweet evening by the Kelpie's Pool, and the first thrill of
boyish love, with all the anxious moments, the feverish hopes that
stirred his heart--the tender memories of his grande passion, for
such it was; and thus something of chivalry in his breast made him
struggle against the present tempter and her piquante charms, for
Flora's gentle image always seemed to rise up between him and her;
and yet--and yet--there was something very bewildering in the hourly
companionship, the complete isolation and reliance of this lovely
young girl with whom he was now wandering in solitude--a
companionship known to themselves alone. It was delightful but
perilous work, and Quentin could not analyse, even if he cared to do
so, the emotions she was exciting in his breast.
Where, when, and how was it all to end? He feared that he felt too
little anxiety for reaching Portalegre and delivering the reply to
Sir John Hope's despatch; and yet, if the storm abated, why tarry?
Quentin was soon assured that Isidora loved him; and as he was not
without that most useful bump on his occiput denominated self-esteem,
he felt flattered accordingly; yet, withal, he struggled manfully
against the passion, with which this dangerous knowledge and
Isidora's attractions, were both calculated to inspire him.
He was anxious to appear to advantage in her eyes. Why? She was
nothing to him, yet, for some time, she had been the object of all
his solicitude. In the course of conversation, she admitted that she
had many admirers, which, for a girl so attractive, was likely
enough. But why permit the development of a passion in her that
could lead to nothing good? Why respond to her growing tenderness?
Why--ay, there was the rub, the lure, and the peril.
His affections, such as a lad not yet twenty may possess, were
promised elsewhere. Was Flora true, and remembering him still? This
was rub number two.
Quentin Kennedy, I tremble for thee; and, if the truth must be told,
much more for the future peace and reputation of Donna Isidora de
Saldos, for neither a wholesome terror of Baltasar's wrath or the
Padre Trevino's knife may avail her much.
"What if she loves me--loves me as dear Flora did?" thought Quentin;
and when this pleasing but alarming idea occurred to him, he really
dreaded that her heart might be too far involved in those tender
passages, coquetries, and other little matters incident to their
hourly intercourse: white hands taken almost inadvertently or as a
matter of course; a soft cheek, at times so near his own; and
darkly-lashed eyes that looked softly into his, were rather alluring,
certainly.
In Spain, women do not shake hands with men; their dainty fingers
(dingy frequently) are kissed, or not touched at all; hence we may
suppose that Quentin and Isidora, when they began to sit hand-in-hand
looking out on the pouring rain as twilight deepened, had got a long
way on in lovemaking--in engineering parlance, that he had pushed the
trenches to the base of the glacis.
Some one remarks somewhere, that the fogs and sleet of England mar
many a ripening love; but that under the clear skies, in the balmy
air, in the long sultry days, the voluptuous evenings, and still more
in the gorgeous moonlights of Spain, the gentle passion is of more
rapid growth, and becomes more impulsive, heartfelt, and keen.
In the present instance, however, chance and a storm--such as that
which waylaid Dido and the Trojan hero--had been the inspirers of
Donna Isidora, who, sooth to say, found Quentin somewhat slow to
follow her example.
"Mi hermano--my brother--you will be and must be," she would whisper
at times, in a manner that, to say the least of it, was very
bewitching.
"I shall try, Donna Isidora."
"Try, say you? Wherefore only _try_?" she asked, with her eyes full
of fire and inquiry. "Is it a task so difficult to feel esteem or
love for me? Go! I shall hate you!" Then she would thrust aside
his hand, and pouting, half turn away her flushing face, only that
the little hand might be taken again, an explanation made, and
reconciliation effected.
On the evening of the second day, after one of those little poutings,
and after Isidora, in anger, had been absent from him nearly two
hours, she rejoined Quentin in the boudoir, which was their usual
apartment, and where he welcomed her reappearance so warmly, that her
face was overspread by happy and beautiful smiles.
Poor Quentin, who was at that age when a young man is apt to slide
rather than fall into a regular love fit, was gradually being
ensnared.
"The companionship of these few days I shall remember for ever," said
he. "You shall indeed be sorrowed for, hermana mia."
"Think only of the present, and not of parting," said she, letting
her cheek sink upon his shoulder, as they sat, hand in hand, in the
window of the little boudoir, the objects of which were half hidden
in the twilight.
Quentin felt his heart beat quickly, and his respiration become
thick, but he said with a tender smile--
"Isidora, I am almost afraid of you."
"Afraid--and of _me_?"
"Yes."
"But why, mi querido?"
"You carry a stiletto," said he, laughing, "and I don't like it."
"There--behold!" she exclaimed in a breathless voice, as she drew the
long steel bodkin from her hair, which fell in a dark and ripply
volume over her shoulders and bosom; "I am defenceless now," she
added, throwing it on the sofa; but Quentin was slow to accept the
challenge.
"Oh, Isidora, to what end is all this?" he asked, struggling with
himself, and almost remonstrating with her. "Why allure me to love
you, as love you I shall?"
As he said this, the dark and lustrous eyes of the Castilian girl
filled with half-subdued fire; her lashes drooped, and she heaved a
long sigh.
"You speak of love," she said, in a low voice, while her bosom
swelled beneath its scarlet corset and the thin muslin habit-shirt
that was gathered round her slender throat; "all men are alike to a
woman who is not in love; but in my heart I feel an emotion which
tells me that if I loved there would be to me but one only in the
world--he, my lover!"
Her calm energy, and the deep sudden glance she shot at Quentin,
quite bewildered the poor fellow.
"Tell me," she resumed, while his left hand was caressed in both of
hers, and her right cheek yet rested on his shoulder, while the
massive curls of her hair fell over him, "is there not something
delicious in the mystery and tremulousness of love; to feel that we
are no longer two, but one--ONE in heart and soul, in thought and
sympathy? Speak--you do not answer me--estrella mia--mi vida--mi
alma!" (my star--my life--my soul) she added, in a low but piercing
accent.
Trembling with deep emotion, Quentin pressed his lips to her burning
brow, and there ensued a long pause, during which she lay with her
forehead against his cheek.
"Listen to me, Quentin," said she, looking upward with swimming eyes;
"I would speak with you seriously, earnestly, from my heart."
"Niña de mi alma--about what?"
"Religion, love."
"You choose an odd time for it--but wherefore?"
"I would teach you mine," she whispered.
"Yours--and for what purpose?"
"That--that----"
"Nay, I have courage enough to hear anything, dearest; for what
purpose, mi querida?"
"That endearing term decides me--that we may be married, Quentin."
"I--senora!"
"You and I--what is there wonderful in that?"
Had a shell exploded between them, poor Quentin could not have been
more nonplussed than by this proposition.
"Flirtation is a very fine thing," says his Peninsular comrade,
Charles O'Malley, "but it's only a state of transition, after all;
the tadpole existence of the lover would be very great fun, if one
was never to become a frog under the hands of the parson."
Some such reflection occurred to Quentin, who stammered--
"But, Isidora, people require money to marry."
"Of course--sometimes."
"Well, I am not the heir of a shilling in the world."
"Nor am I the heiress of a pistole."
"Well, dearest Isidora----"
"Who should marry if we don't, whose circumstances are equal, and
whose position in the world is so exactly similar? Ah, that we had
the Padre Florez here!"
Though this was said with the sweetest of smiles, Quentin failed to
see the force of her reasoning; but it was impossible to refrain from
kissing the rounded cheek that lay so near his own.
Then an emotion of compunction stole into his heart, and rousing her
from the delicious trance into which she seemed sinking, he withdrew
a little (for he had never been made love to before, so surprise gave
him courage), and then said--
"Isidora, this must not be--be calm and listen to me: I promised your
brother--what was it that he said to me?--oh, Isidora, I must not
love you; moreover, I am pledged to love a girl who is far, far away,
and--but be calm, I beseech you, and think of the future!"
She now sprung from his side to snatch her stiletto from the sofa
where it lay. Whether she meant to use it against herself, or him,
or both, for a moment he could scarcely tell; her dark eyes were
filled with a lurid gleam, and her cheek was now deadly pale; one
little hand, white and tremulous, tore back her streaming and
dishevelled hair; the other clutched the hilt of the weapon. She
gave a keen glance at the blade, and then, as if to place the
temptation to destroy beyond her reach, she snapped it to pieces and
cast them from her.
Then snatching up a lamp which Quentin had lighted but a short time
before, she rushed from the room, leaving him alone, bewildered and
in darkness.
Quentin hurried after, and called to her repeatedly; but there was no
response. He heard a door closed with violence at a distance, and
then all became still--terribly still, save the now familiar sound of
the rain lashing the walls and windows of the villa in the darkness
without, and the howling of the wind, as it tore through the bleak
October woods.
Nearly an hour elapsed after this, and knowing her wild and impulsive
nature, his excitement and alarm for her safety became all but
insupportable.
"Oh heavens, if she should have destroyed herself! Her death will be
laid to my charge."
There seemed to be no length her fiery rashness was not capable of
leading her, and not unnaturally Congreve's well-known couplet
occurred to his memory:--
"Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turn'd,
Nor hell a fury like a woman scorn'd!"