So the bells rung merrily at Dangerfield, and the rustics huzzaed for
their landlord and the comely village maidens envied the bride; and
Lucy was Lady Horsingham now, with new duties and a high position, and
a large, fine, gloomy house, and jewels in her hair, and an aching
heart in her bosom. Nevertheless, she determined to do her duty as a
wife; and every hour of the day she resolved _not_ to think of Cousin
Edward.
Years elapsed, and pretty Lucy became a gentle, handsome
woman--kindly, courteous, and beloved by all, timid, and shrinking
only with Sir Hugh. Her husband, wearied and discontented, mixed
himself fiercely in all the intrigues of the day--became a staunch
partisan of the House of Stuart, and sought for excitement abroad in
proportion as he missed congeniality of feeling at home. It was an
unhappy household. Their one child was the mother's sole consolation;
she scarcely ever let it out of her presence. They were a pretty
sight, that loving couple, as they basked in the sun of a fine
summer's morning on the terrace in front of the manor-house. The boy,
with his mother's blue eyes and his own golden curls and the arch,
merry smile that he never got from stern Sir Hugh; and the fair,
graceful woman, with her low, white brow and her soft brown hair and
her quiet gestures and gentle sorrowing face--that face that haunts
poor Cousin Edward still.
"Mamma!" says the urchin, pouting his rosy lips, "why don't you play
with me?--what are you thinking of?" and a shade passes over that kind
face, and she blushes, though there is no one with her but the child,
and catches him up and smothers him in kisses, and says "_You_, my
darling;" but, nevertheless, I do not think at that moment she was
thinking either of her boy or Sir Hugh.
And where was Cousin Edward all the time? Why, at that particular
instant, sword-point to sword-point with Colonel Bludyer of the
Dragoons, slightly wounded in two places--cool and wary, and seeming
to enjoy, with a sort of fierce pleasure, such a safety-valve for
excitement as a duel with one of the best fencers in Europe.
Cousin Edward was an altered man since he stood with the future Lady
Horsingham in the moonlight. "An evil counsellor is despair;" and he had
hugged that grim adviser to his heart. He had grown handsomer, indeed,
than ever; but the wild eye, the haggard brow, and the deep lines about
his mouth spoke of days spent in fierce excitement--nights passed in
reckless dissipation. He had never forgotten Lucy through it all, but
even her image only goaded him to fresh extravagances--anything to deaden
the sting of remembrance--anything to efface the maddening past. So
Cousin Edward too became a Jacobite; and was there a daring scheme to be
executed, a foolhardy exploit to be performed--life and limb to be risked
without a question--who so ready and so reckless as "handsome Ned
Meredith"?
In the course of their secret meetings and cabals he became slightly
acquainted with Sir Hugh Horsingham; and, with the inexplicable
infatuation peculiar to a man in love, he look a pleasure in being
near one so closely connected with Lucy, although that one was the
very person who had deprived him of all he valued on earth. So it fell
out that Sir Hugh Horsingham and Ned Meredith were supping at the Rose
and Thistle in close alliance, the table adjoining them being occupied
by those staunch Hanoverians, Colonel Bludyer and Mr. Thornton.
"Here's 'The Blackbird,'"* said Cousin Edward, tossing off a huge
goblet of Bordeaux, and looking round the room with an air of defiance
as he proposed so well-known a toast. Sir Hugh was a man of a certain
grim humour, and as he drained his goblet and nodded to his companion,
he added, "May the rats dance to his whistle, and the devil--that's
_you_, Ned--take the hindmost!"
* One of the many passwords by which the adherents of the Chevalier
distinguished that ill-fated Prince.
Colonel Bludyer rose from his chair, placed his cocked hat on his
head, and turned the buckle of his sword-belt in front. "The King!" he
shouted, raising his hat with one hand and filling a bumper with the
other. "The King!" he repeated, scowling fiercely at his two
neighbours.
"Over the water!" roared Ned Meredith; and the Colonel, turning
rapidly round and mistaking his man, flung his cocked hat right in Sir
Hugh Horsingham's face.
Swords were out in a second--thrust, parry, and return passed like
lightning, but the bystanders separated the combatants; and Meredith,
determining for the sake of Lucy that Sir Hugh should encounter no
unnecessary danger, took the whole quarrel on himself, and arranged a
meeting for the following morning with the redoubtable Colonel
Bludyer. Thus it was that while Lucy and her boy were basking in the
summer sunshine, Cousin Edward was exhausting all his knowledge of
swordsmanship in vain endeavours to get within that iron Colonel's
guard. The duel was fought on the ground now occupied by Leicester
Square, Sir Hugh and Mr. Thornton officiating as seconds, though, the
latter being disabled from the effects of a recent encounter, they did
not, as was usual in those days, fight to the death, merely "_pour se
désennuyer_." Stripped to their shirts--in breeches and silk
stockings, with no shoes--the antagonists lunged and glared and
panted, and twice paused for breath by mutual consent, with no further
damage than two slight wounds in Ned's sword-arm.
"Very pretty practice," said Mr. Thornton, coolly taking a pinch of
snuff, and offering his box to Sir Hugh. "I'm in despair at not being
able to oblige you this fine morning."
"Some other time," replied Sir Hugh with a grim smile; "d----ation,"
he added, "Ned's down!"
Sure enough Cousin Edward was on the grass, striving in vain to raise
himself, and gasping out that he "wasn't the least hurt." He had got
it just between the ribs, and was trying to stanch the blood with a
delicate laced handkerchief, in a corner of which, had he examined it
closely, Sir Hugh would have found embroidered the well-known name of
"Lucy." Poor Cousin Edward! it was all he had belonging to his lost
love, and he would have been unwilling to die without that fragment of
lace in his hand.
"A very promising fencer," remarked Colonel Bludyer, as he wiped his
rapier on the grass. "If he ever gets over it, he won't forget that
"_plongeant_" thrust in tierce. I never knew it fail, Thornton--never,
with a man under thirty." So the Colonel put his coat on, and drove
off to breakfast; while Sir Hugh took charge of Ned Meredith, and as
soon as he was recovered--for his wound was not mortal--carried him
down with him to get thoroughly well at Dangerfield Hall.
It is an old, old story. Love, outraged and set at defiance, bides his
time, and takes his revenge. Dangerfield looked like a different place
now, so thought Lucy; and her spirits rose, and the colour came back
to her cheek, and she even summoned courage to speak without
hesitating to Sir Hugh. When Cousin Edward was strong enough to limp
about the house, it seemed that glimpses of sunshine brightened those
dark oak rooms; and ere he was able to take the air, once more leaning
on Lucy's arm, alas! alas! he had become even dearer to the
impassioned, thoughtful woman than he ever was to the timid,
vacillating girl. There was an addition now to the party on the
terrace in the bright autumn mornings, but the little boy needed no
longer to ask mamma "what she was thinking of;" and the three would
have seemed to a careless observer a happy family party--husband,
wife, and child. Oh that it could but have been so!
In the meantime Sir Hugh was again as usual busied with his state
intrigues and party politics, and absented himself for weeks together
from the Hall; riding post to London night and day, returning at all
sorts of unexpected hours, leaving again at a moment's notice, and
otherwise comporting himself in his usual mysterious reserved manner.
Yet those who knew him best opined there was something wrong about Sir
Hugh. He was restless and preoccupied; his temper less easily excited
about trifles than was his wont, but perfectly ungovernable when once
he gave way to it. No man dared to question him. He had not a friend
in the world who would have ventured to offer him a word of advice or
consolation; but it was evident to his servants and his intimates that
Sir Hugh was ill at ease. Who can tell the struggles that rent that
strong, proud heart? Who could see beneath that cold surface, and read
the intense feelings of love, hatred, jealousy, or revenge that
smouldered below, stifled and kept down by the iron will, the
stubborn, indomitable pride? There is a deep meaning in the legend of
that Spartan boy who suffered the stolen fox to gnaw his very vitals,
the while he covered him with his tunic and preserved on his brave
face a smile of unconcern. Most of us have a stolen fox somewhere; but
the weak nature writhes and moans, and is delivered from its torment,
while the bold, unflinching spirit preserves a gallant bearing before
the world, and scorns to be relieved from the fangs that are draining
its very life away.
Whatever Sir Hugh saw or suspected, he said not a word to Lucy, nor
was it until surmise had become certainty that he forbade "Cousin
Edward" the house. To him he would not condescend to explain his
motives; he simply wrote to him to say that on his return he should
expect to find that his guest had departed, and that he had sufficient
reasons for requesting his visits might not be repeated. With his wife
he was, if possible, more austere and morose than ever; so once more
the Hall resumed its old aspect of cheerlessness and desolation, and
its mistress went moping about, more than ever miserable and
broken-hearted. Such a state of things could not long go on; the
visits forbidden openly took place by stealth; and the climax rapidly
approached which was to result in the celebrated Dangerfield tragedy.
At this period there was set on foot another of those determined plots
which during the first two reigns of the house of Hanover so
constantly harassed that dynasty. Sir Hugh of course was a prime mover
of the conspiracy, and was much in London and elsewhere gathering
intelligence, raising funds, and making converts to his opinions. Ned
Meredith, having, it is to be presumed, all his energies occupied in
his own private intrigues, had somewhat withdrawn of late from the
Jacobite party; and Sir Hugh heard, with his grim, unmoved smile, many
a jest and innuendo levelled at the absentee.
One stormy winter's evening the baronet, well armed, cloaked, and booted,
left his own house for the metropolis, accompanied by one trusty servant.
He was bearing papers of importance, and was hurrying on to lay them with
the greatest dispatch before his fellow-conspirators. As night was
drawing on, Sir Hugh's horse shied away from a wild figure, looming like
some spectre in the fading light; and ere he had forced the animal back
into the path, his bridle was caught by a half-naked lad, whom the rider
at once recognized as an emissary he had often before employed to be the
bearer of secret intelligence, and who, under an affectation of being
half-witted, concealed much shrewdness of observation and unimpeachable
fidelity to the cause.
"Whip and spur, Sir Hugh--whip and spur," said the lad, who seemed
flustered and confused with drink; "you may burst your best horse
betwixt this and London, and all to get there before you're wanted. A
dollar to drink, Sir Hugh, like handsome Ned gave me this morning--a
dollar to drink, and I'll save you a journey for the sake of the
'Bonny White Rose' and the 'Bird with the Yellow Bill.'"
Sir Hugh scrutinized the lad with a piercing eye, flung him a crown
from his purse, and bid him "out with what he had to say, for that he
himself was hurried, and must push on to further the good cause." The
lad was sobered in an instant.
"Look ye here, Sir Hugh," he said eagerly; "handsome Ned went down the
road at a gallop this morning. There's something brewing in London,
you may trust me, Sir Hugh, and I tried to stop him to learn his
errand; but he tossed me a crown and galloped on. He took the Hill
road, Sir Hugh, and you came up the Vale; but he's bound for
Dangerfield, I know, and mayhap he's got papers that will save your
journey to London. No offence, Sir Hugh," added the lad, for the
baronet's face was black as midnight.
"None, my good boy," was the reply in a hoarse, thick voice. "Hold,
there's another crown for you--drink it every farthing, you villain!
or I never give you a sixpence again;" and Sir Hugh rode on as though
bound for London, but stopped a mile farther forward, at a place where
two roads met; and entrusting his papers to his servant, bade him
hasten on with them, whilst he galloped back through the darkness in
the direction of his home.
Home, indeed! Had it ever been home to Sir Hugh? Would it be home
to-night? When he got back there, and skulked into his own house like
a midnight thief--what would he do?--why was he galloping so fast? Sir
Hugh set his teeth tight, and holding his powerful horse hard by the
head urged him on faster than before. The lights are all out in the
little village of which he is sole master, and his horse's hoofs
clattering through the street rouse the sleepy inmates for an instant
ere they return to their peaceful rest. Sir Hugh is not sleepy; he
feels as if he never should want to sleep again.
How dark it is in the Park under those huge old trees! He fastens his
horse to one of the drooping branches, and after removing his pistols
from their holsters spreads his cloak over the heaving flanks of the
heated animal. Habit is second nature, and he does not forget the good
horse. He strides through the shrubberies and across Lucy's garden,
crushing with his heavy boot-heel the last flower that had lingered on
into the winter. There is a light streaming from one of the windows in
the gallery. Ha!--he _may_ be right--he may not have returned in vain.
For an instant a feeling of sickness comes over him, and he learns for
the first time that he _had_ cherished a hope he might be deceived.
He can let himself in by the garden-gate with his own pass-key. Ere he
is aware, he is tramping up the corridor in his heavy horseman's
boots--his hand is on the door--there is a woman's shriek--and Sir
Hugh's tall, dark figure fills the doorway of Lucy's sitting-room,
where, alas! she is not alone, for the stern, angry husband is
confronted by Ned Meredith!
Lucy cowers down in a corner of the room with her face buried in her
hands. Cousin Edward draws himself up to his full height, and looks
his antagonist steadily in the face, but with an expression of calm
despair that seems to say fate has now done her worst. Sir Hugh is
cool, collected, and polite; nay, he can even smile, but he speaks
strangely, almost in a whisper, and hisses through his set teeth. He
has double-locked the door behind him, and turns to Cousin Edward with
a grave, courteous bow.
"You have done me the honour of an unexpected visit, Mr. Meredith," he
says. "I trust Lady Horsingham has entertained you hospitably! Pray do
not stir, madam. Mr. Meredith, we are now quits; you saved my life
when you encountered Colonel Bludyer; I forbore from taking yours when
I had proofs that it was my right. We have now entered on a fresh
account, but the game shall be fairly played. Mr. Meredith, you are a
man of honour--yes, it shall be fairly played." Ned's lip quivered,
but he bowed and stood perfectly still. "Lady Horsingham," continued
Sir Hugh, "be good enough to hand me those tables; they contain a
dice-box.--Nay, Mr. Meredith," seeing Ned about to assist the
helpless, frightened woman; "when _present_, at least, I expect my
wife to obey me." Lucy was forced to rise, and, trembling in every
limb, to present the tables to her lord. Sir Hugh placed the dice-box
on the table, laid his pistols beside it, and, taking a seat, motioned
to Cousin Edward to do the same. "You are a man of honour, Mr.
Meredith," he repeated; "we will throw three times, and the highest
caster shall blow the other's brains out." Lucy shrieked and rushed to
the door; it was fast, and her husband forced her to sit down and
watch the ghastly game.
"Good God, Sir Hugh!" exclaimed Cousin Edward, "this is too
horrible--for your wife's sake--any reparation I can make, I will; but
this is murder, deliberate murder!"
"You are a man of honour, Mr. Meredith," reiterated Sir Hugh. "I ask
for no reparation but this--the chances are equal if the stakes are
high. You are my guest, or rather, I should say, _Lady Horsingham's
guest_. Begin." Cousin Edward's face turned ghastly pale. He took the
box, shook it, hesitated; but the immovable eye was fixed on him, the
stern lips repeated once more, "You are a man of honour," and he
threw--"Four." It was now Sir Hugh's turn. With a courteous bow he
received the box, and threw--"Seven." Again the adversaries cast, the
one a six, the other a three; and now they were even in the ghastly
match. Once more Cousin Edward shook the box, and the leaping dice
turned up--"Eleven." Lucy's white face stood out in the lamplight, as
she watched with stony eyes that seemed to have lost the very power of
sight.
"For God's sake, forego this frightful determination, Sir Hugh,"
pleaded Cousin Edward; "take my life in a fair field. I will offer no
resistance; but you can hardly expect to outdo my throw, and nothing
shall induce me to take advantage of it. Think better of it, Sir Hugh,
I entreat you."
"You are a man of honour, Mr. Meredith, and so am I," was the only
reply, as Sir Hugh brandished the box aloft, and thundered it down on
the table--"Sixes!" "Good casting," he remarked; and at the same
instant cocking the pistol nearest to him, discharged it full into his
antagonist's bosom. The bullet sped through a delicate lace
handkerchief, which he always wore there, straight and true into
Cousin Edward's heart. As he fell forward across the table, a dark
stream flowed slowly along the carpet, till it dyed the border of
Lucy's white dress with a crimson stain. She was on her knees,
apparently insensible; but one small hand felt the cold, wet contact,
and she looked at it, and saw that it was blood. Once more she uttered
a shriek that rang through those vast buildings, and rushed again to
the door to find it locked. In sheer despair she made for the window,
threw open the casement, and ere Sir Hugh could seize or stop her
flung herself headlong into the court below. When the horrified
husband looked down into the darkness, a wisp of white garments, a
bruised and lifeless body, was all that remained of Lady Horsingham.
That night one half of Dangerfield Hall was consumed by fire. Its
mistress was said to have perished in the flames. The good neighbours,
the honest country people, pitied poor Sir Hugh, galloping back from
London, to find his house in ruins and his wife a corpse. His gay
companions missed "Ned Meredith" from his usual haunts; but it was
generally supposed he had obtained a mission to the court of St.
Germains, and there was a rumour that he had perished in a duel with a
French marquis. A certain half-witted lad, who had followed Sir Hugh
back to Dangerfield on that fearful night, might have elucidated the
mystery; but he had been kidnapped, and sent to the plantations. After
many years he returned to England, and on his deathbed left a written
statement, implicating Sir Hugh in the double crime of arson and
murder. But long ere this the culprit had appeared before a tribunal
which admits of no prevarication, and the pretty boy with the golden
curls had become lord of Dangerfield Hall. The long corridor had been
but partially destroyed. It was repaired and refurnished by successive
generations; but guests and servants alike refused to sleep again in
that dreary wing after the first trial. Every night, so surely as the
clock tolled out the hour of twelve, a rush of feet was heard along
the passage--a window looking into the court was thrown open--a
piercing scream from a woman's voice rang through the building--and
those who were bold enough to look out averred that they beheld a
white figure leap wildly into the air and disappear. Some even went so
far as to affirm that drops of blood, freshly sprinkled, were found
every morning on the pavement of the court. But no one ever doubted
the Dangerfield ghost to be the nightly apparition of Lucy, Lady
Horsingham. At length, in my grandfather's time, certain boards being
lifted to admit of fresh repairs in the accursed corridor, the
silver-mounted guard of a rapier, the stock and barrel of a pistol,
with a shred of lace, on which the letter "L" was yet visible, were
discovered by the workmen. They are in existence still. Whatever other
remains accompanied them turned to dust immediately on exposure to the
air. That dust was, however, religiously collected and buried in a
mausoleum appropriated to the Horsinghams. Since then the ghost has
been less troublesome; but most of the family have seen or heard it at
least once in their lives. I confess that if ever I lie awake at
Dangerfield till the clock strikes twelve I invariably stop my ears
and bury my head under the bedclothes for at least a quarter of an
hour. By these means I have hitherto avoided any personal acquaintance
with the spectre; but nothing on earth would induce me to walk down
that corridor at midnight and risk a private interview with the
Dangerfield ghost!