THE CHAGRIN OF LOVE.
Lord Aberfeldie duly arrived at Dundargue with his three gentlemen
visitors, their approach being heralded by the pipes of Ronald Gair,
who was perched on a seat of the game-laden wagonette as it bowled up
the avenue.
On the first day of his return the peer was anxious to learn upon
what footing the cousins were--if Allan had made a proposal, or 'even
opened the trenches,' and if so, with what success. On these points
he was enlightened by Lady Aberfeldie, and, though not very much
surprised to find matters as they were, he trusted to propinquity and
cousinly feeling of intercourse, as trump cards in the game, and was
sure that all would come right in the end, and before Allan's leave
of absence was out.
There was no selfishness in this desire of Lord Aberfeldie. He had
no power to alter the matter as it stood, for if she did not marry
Allan if he was willing to marry her, 'then and in that case,' as the
will had it, her patrimony would be lost even to herself. Allan's
death alone would save it for her.
Great indeed, thought the girl with bitterness, must have been her
father's regard for the house of Aberfeldie!
'What friends--such lovers we might be but for the confounded plans
of that eccentric old fellow!' was the ever-recurring thought of
Allan.
'You are at least fond of her?' said the peer, as he and his son
smoked their cigars together on the terrace that overlooked the
far-stretching vista of the Carse of Gowrie, then bathed in the ruddy
splendour of the setting sun.
'Fond of Olive! Yes, as much as she will permit me to be. She is my
cousin, of course,' replied Allan.
'There is something evasive--doubtful--in your answer; but you must
at some time or other propose to her. You know precisely the terms
of her father's remarkable will.'
'Yes, and that it hangs like a millstone round the necks of us both,
rendering what may be the dearest wish of our hearts liable, perhaps,
to the grossest misconstruction. She has more than once told Eveline
that to gain freedom of action she would face poverty--anything.'
'Tuts! Romantic rant! Much she knows of what poverty is. But why
should she even think of facing it?'
'To be free and unfettered, as I have said.'
'Relinquishing to you all that portion of her fortune which does not
go to charitable institutions?'
'Yes.'
'Poor girl! A silly and impetuous threat. But she will think better
of it, Allan, by-and-by, and we have fully five years to count upon
yet.'
But it did not seem as if the fair Olive was likely to change her
mind soon, to judge by her bearing that evening, when, after dinner,
the guests and family at Dundargue assembled in the drawing-room.
The repast was over, and thereafter, ere the ladies withdrew, Ronald
Gair, with all his drones in order, his Crimean, Indian, and Ashanti
medals glittering on his breast, had marched thrice round the table,
according to his daily wont, in 'full fig,' looking as only a
Highland piper or a peacock can look; and, to the amazement of Sir
Paget Puddicombe and the disgust of Hawke Holcroft, winding up 'The
Birks of Aberfeldie' by several warlike skirls at the back of his
master's chair--the dinner, we say, was over, and the gentlemen had
joined the ladies in the stately drawing-room, which was lighted by
more than one glittering chandelier.
Lord Aberfeldie, his son, and Stratherroch, as they wore the kilt,
had, of course, substituted for their rough shooting-jackets others
of black cloth, with the irreproachable white vests and ties as
evening costume, and had also assumed their silver-mounted dirks;
while Holcroft and one or two more were _de rigueur_ in the funereal
attire, which a writer calls 'the butler-suit, the most hideous
clothing yet hit upon by our species.'
In that brilliant drawing-room, grouped with well-bred people, were
some curious elements of secret doubt and future discord that did not
quite meet the eye.
Holcroft hung over the chair of Olive so closely that, at times, the
tip of his long and waxed tawny moustache nearly touched her head,
while she played with her fan, opening and shutting it listlessly as
they conversed in low tones, he adopting a sentimental one, though it
was ever his boast that he 'was not one of those fools who hoard by
them dried flowers, locks of hair, and all that sort of thing.'
Quietly watched by Lady Aberfeldie, whose lips wore their set
expression, Evan Cameron was entirely occupied with her daughter,
while Allan seemed quite as intent on a new guest, Miss Logan of
Loganlee, a girl possessed of considerable personal attractions; and
his father talked politics with Loganlee himself, the parish
minister, and Sir Paget Puddicombe, a short, pompous, and squat, but
rather pleasant little man, with a prematurely bald head, which he
had a way of jerking forward from his neck like a turtle, a rubicund
face, two merry eyes, and whose age was rather doubtful, but too old
any way for a girl of Eveline Graham's years, though he affected
considerable juvenility of manner.
Lord Aberfeldie, who generally about that time, when at Dundargue,
was wont to enjoy a quiet little game of chess or bezique with Olive
or Eveline, was rather bored by the _empressement_ with which the
clergyman, Sir Paget, and Loganlee discussed politics and the
prospects of the ministry.
The latter, a sombre man, whose air of respectability was almost
oppressive, was one of a style of men common enough in Scotland. A
small landed proprietor, he had contrived to become M.P. in the
Liberal interest for a cluster of Scottish burghs (each of which, if
in England, would have had two members), and he was chiefly
noted--being 'Parliament House bred'--for neglecting Scottish
interests and toadying to the Lord-Advocate, and consequently
obtained the usual legal reward, a sheriffship, or something of that
kind, with a thousand a year or so.
He seldom opened his mouth, save to talk on politics; he was tall and
thin, with very square shoulders, grizzled, sandy, mutton-chop
whiskers, apple-green eyes, and nothing more about him remarkable,
save a curious air of perpetual self-assertion, combined, as we have
said, with an oppressive one of respectability.
His host began to change the tenor of the conversation by hoping that
Sir Paget found his quarters comfortable last night, adding that he
occupied 'the Johnson Room.'
'Why is it so called?' asked Sir Paget, jerking forward his bald head.
'Dr. Johnson slept a night in Dundargue when on his famous tour.'
'Of which Boswell makes no mention?' said Mr. Logan, inquiringly.
'Because my ancestor did not pay him sufficient deference; and,
indeed, I fear we should scarcely ever have heard of the literary
bear of Bolt Court and Fleet Street but for that Scotch toady of his.
Though he alleged that the most valuable piece of timber in Scotland
was his walking-stick, he might have seen some fine trees at the
Birks of Aberfeldy. We must ride over there, Sir Paget, and I will
show you the cradle of the Black Watch, my old regiment of immortal
memory.'
'How?'
'It was first mustered there on the 25th of October, 1739.'
'Ah!' said Sir Paget, who was not so much interested in the matter as
the speaker.
Sir Paget was a childless widower, and had been left a noble fortune
in many ways, including nearly the whole of Slough-cum-Sloggit, of
which his father rose by his own merits to be mayor. He had entered
the town a tattered lad, with only a sixpence in his pocket, and, in
due time, the sixpence became the basis of colossal wealth. He had
been made a baronet by the ministry of the day--no one knew precisely
for what; but the wealth he left behind him gave his son an interest
in the eyes of Lady Aberfeldie he was unlikely to attain in the soft
hazel orbs of her daughter.
Sir Paget generally stood with his chest puffed out, reminding one of
a pouter-pigeon, his little, fat hands interlaced behind his back,
and often as not under the tails of his coat, his round,
good-humoured face and twinkling eyes turned up to the faces of those
with whom he conversed, as most men, and women, too, had the
advantage of him in stature.
With a gold _pince-nez_ balanced on his very pug nose, he was what
young ladies described as 'an absurd little man' whose tender
speeches they laughed at--none more than Eveline--till matters took a
serious turn, though he failed to feel the truth of the aphorism,
'Let no lover cherish sanguine hopes when the object of his choice
has grown to look upon him in the light of the ridiculous.'
Evan Cameron, we have said, sighed for Eveline; hopeless as his
undeclared love had been, the presence of the wealthy English
baronet, in conjunction with certain rumours he had heard, made it
more hopeless than ever; and, unattractive though Sir Paget's years
and figure, he felt intuitively that in him he had a dangerous rival.
When he found that this most eligible _parti_ was again on the
_tapis_--one whose name had been associated with that of Eveline in
at least one 'society' paper during the last London season, poor
Stratherroch's heart sank down to zero. He felt and knew that, with
Lady Aberfeldie especially, he was literally 'nowhere' by his want of
wealth, though, like a true Highlander, he could trace his lineage
back into the misty times of Celtic antiquity; but, aristocratic
though she was, the peeress set little store on that.
Eveline Graham seemed as much beyond his reach as the moon. He felt
that, for his own peace of mind, he ought to quit Dundargue as soon
as possible, yet he clung desperately to the perilous delight of the
girl's society.
To all appearance, the pair were simply looking over, almost in
silence, a large book of clear-skied and strongly-shadowed photos of
Indian scenery brought home by Allan, yet both their hearts had but a
single thought, and, when the downward glance of his soft grey eyes
met hers, she felt that, in spite of herself, there was something in
it like a magnetic spell.
Passionate and pleading eyes they were, generous and loving in
expression, telling the tale his lips had not yet uttered, and might
never do so; and the girl lowered her white lids as if a weight
oppressed them, and the diamond locket on her white bosom sparkled as
a sigh escaped her.
A little way off, in something of the same pose, Hawke Holcroft, with
a glass in his pale, sinister eye, was hanging, as we have said, over
Olive Raymond, doing his utmost in _sotto voce_ to fascinate that
young lady, while pretending to translate, as suited the occasion and
himself, for the edification of his fair listener, the lettering of
one of the Chinese or Japanese fans that were strewed about the
tables.
Now, Mr. Hawke Holcroft knew nothing about the terms of Mr. Raymond's
will, or of the existence of any such document, and might never know.
He was only certain that Olive was undoubtedly an heiress; that he
himself was very impecunious, and ere long might be well-nigh
desperate; and so he did not see why he should not, to use his own
horsey phraseology, 'enter stakes as well as another.'
Rumour, certainly, had linked the names of the cousins together; 'but
if she is engaged to Graham,' thought the observant Holcroft, 'it is
strange that she wears no engagement ring.'
He knew not that, separated as the pair had been almost from
childhood, no such little formality as the presentation of a ring
could have been gone through; and now, as the Master did not see his
way to it as yet, Holcroft was 'scoring,'or thought so.
He was leaving nothing unsaid to enchain her attention. He seemed
very clever: at least he could converse fluently on many subjects;
seemed to have been everywhere and to have seen everything worth
seeing, or pretended to have done so, which was most likely.
'However they stand, her heart is not in it,' was his ever-recurring
thought; 'and if so, why the deuce shouldn't I try my hand? She has
a pot of money--indeed, no end of money, I hear; but, then, if her
noble aunt and uncle have made up their noble minds to pounce upon
her as a daughter-in-law, how is she to resist, unless she elopes, if
"Barkis" (meaning Allan) "is willin'"? They can make her life a
burden to her until she gives in, or--or I run away with her, and why
the devil should I not?'
Holcroft was an artful man, and well acquainted with every phase of
dissipated life; he had suave manners when he chose and an
unexceptionable appearance. With many debts and secret passions, he
was cold and selfish; a man who never made a move in any way without
forecast and calculation; and who might commit a crime if driven to
it, but never precisely a folly.
He was closely watching Olive while he conversed with her; he admired
her beautiful person, but still more her ample purse. She dared to
trifle with him at times, he thought; and then, even when looking
down upon her satin-like hair, her dazzling white shoulders and
innocent violet eyes, with a vengeful feeling he mentally vowed that
he would _compel_ her to love him, or accept him, he cared not which,
if human will and cunning failed him not!
He had a love--a passion for her--in a strange fashion of his own,
yet times there were when he almost hated her for fencing with him:
and little could the soft, bright beauty, who raised her fine eyes
from time to time to his and conversed so laughingly with him, have
conceived the conflicting emotions that were concealed in his breast
under a smiling exterior, or the shame and agony he was yet to cost
her.
Even when he attempted to look loving, there were a cold expression
and lack of colour in his eyes, and there was something very
significant of an iron will about his lips and powerful chin.
Olive had no warm feeling for Holcroft, and save for the obnoxious
will would infinitely have preferred her cousin Allan in the end; but
she affected just then to believe in Platonic friendship (blended
with a little judicious flirtation) so firmly that, to pique Allan,
she showed a great apparent preference for his would-be rival.
Olive and Holcroft knew that this seeming flirtation was perilous
work, and might compromise them both with Lord and Lady Aberfeldie,
and with Allan, too, if it attracted attention; but Holcroft had a
game to play. Olive's proud little heart was full of resentment and
pique, and then anything with a spice of danger in it is always
curiously fascinating.
More than all, Olive was beginning to feel conscious that, under the
circumstances, it was strangely awkward to be in the same house with
Allan Graham--the intended husband to whom her father had bequeathed
her. But whither could she go?
In more than one instance, in the drawing-room at Dundargue, that
night was illustrated the aphorism that language is given us to
conceal our thoughts, and much was exhibited of what the French not
inaptly term the chagrin or peevishness of love.