NEWS FROM THE SEAT OF WAR.
It was a soft and breezy April morning. The young leaves had
scarcely burst their husk-like sheaths in the alternate showers and
sunshine; the lambs were bleating in the meadows, the birds sang on
bush and tree, the white clouds were floating in the azure sky, and
the ivy rustled on the old walls of turreted Craigengowan, when there
came some tidings that found a sharp echo in the hearts of Dulcie and
Finella.
Arm-in-arm, as girls will often do, they were idling and talking of
themselves and their own affairs in all the luxury of being together
alone, near a stately old gateway of massive iron bars, hung on solid
pillars, surmounted by time-worn wyverns, and all around it, without
and within, grew tall nettles, mighty hemlock, and other weeds; while
the avenue to which it once opened had disappeared, and years upon
years ago been blended with the lawn, for none had trod it for 146
years, since the last loyal Laird of Craigengowan had ridden forth to
fight for King James VIII., saying that it was not to be unclosed
again till his return; and he returned no more, so it remains closed
unto this day.
And it has been more than once averred by the peasantry that on the
13th of November, the anniversary of the battle in which he fell,
when the night wind is making an uproar in the wintry woods of
Craigengowan, the low branches crashing against each other, a weird
moon shines between rifts in the black flying clouds, and the
funeral-wreaths of the departed harvest flutter on the leafless
hedges, a spectred horseman, in the costume of Queen Anne's time, his
triangular hat bound with feathers, a square-skirted coat and gilded
gambadoes--a pale, shimmering figure, through which the stars
sparkle--can be seen outside the old iron gate, gazing with wistful
and hollow eyes through the rusty bars, as if seeking for the
vanished avenue down which he had ridden with his cuirassed troop to
fight for King James VIII.; for sooth to say, old Craigengowan is as
full of ghostly legends as haunted Glamis itself.
Finella had just told this tale to Dulcie when a valet rode past the
gate and entered the lawn by another with the post-bag for the house.
From this Finella took out a newspaper--one of the many it
contained--and with eager eyes the two girls scanned its columns for
the last news from Zululand, and simultaneously a shrill exclamation,
which made the man turn in his saddle as he rode on, escaped them
both.
The paper contained a brief telegraphic notice of the conflict at the
laager of Ginghilovo, and with it the following paragraph:
'Captain Vivian Hammersley, of the unfortunate 24th Regiment, led a
squadron of Barrow's Mountain Infantry; and having, with the most
brilliant gallantry, pressed the flying foe much too far, had his
horse shot under him, and was in danger of being instantly assegaied
by several infuriated savages, who were driven off and shot down in
quick succession by Sergeant Florian MacIan, who mounted the wounded
officer on his own horse and brought him safely into the lines, for
which noble act of humanity and valour he is, we believe, recommended
for promotion by Captain Barrow, of the 19th Hussars, commanding the
Mounted Infantry, and by Lord Chelmsford. The fatal day of
Isandhlwana has made many commissions vacant in the unfortunate 24th
Foot; and we have no doubt that one of them will be conferred upon
this gallant young sergeant.'
'Oh, Dulcie, let me kiss you--I can't kiss your Florian just now!'
exclaimed the impulsive Finella, embracing her companion, whose eyes,
like her own, were brimming with tears of joy and sympathy.
Hammersley had received a wound of which no details were given; and
that circumstance, by its vaguity, filled the heart of Finella with
the keenest anxiety. Oh, if he should die believing what he did of
her, when she had been and was still so true and loyal to him!
The intelligence rather stunned her; and for some minutes she
remained paralyzed with dismay. She was powerless, with all her
wealth, to succour in any way her suffering lover, and no resolution
could shape itself in her mind. He might be dying, or already dead,
for the fight had taken place some days ago--dying amid suffering and
misery, while she remained idly, lazily, and in comfort amid the
luxuries of Craigengowan. Even Dulcie failed to console her; and
declining to appear at the breakfast-table, she took refuge in her
own room, with the usual feminine plea of a headache.
'Florian, poor dear Florian! so good, so brave, so fearless!' said
Dulcie to herself aloud; 'how glad I am he has achieved this, for
_her_ sake!'
How sweet and soft grew her voice as she uttered the name of the
lost, the absent one, while an hysterical lump was rising in her
throat, and Shafto, who had seen the paper and knew the source of
this emotion, looked grimly in her face, with twitching lips and
knitted brows.
'I have no chance,' thought he, 'with these two girls--either Dulcie
the poor or Finella the rich. Yet why should I not contrive to bend
_both_ to my purpose?' was his evil afterthought. 'Well,' said he
aloud; 'you have seen the news, of course?'
'Yes, Shafto,' replied Dulcie in a low voice, while her tears fell
fast.
'So--he is not killed yet!'
She regarded him with bitter reproach.
'Don't cry, Dulcie!' said Shafto, with a little emotion of shame, 'or
you will make me feel like a brute now.'
'I always thought you must have felt like one long ago,' retorted the
girl, as she swept disdainfully past him.
As Lord and Lady Fettercairn had no desire to bring the name of
Captain Hammersley on the _tapis_, no reference whatever to the
affair of Ginghilovo, or even to the Zulu War, was made in the
presence of Finella.
Even if the latter had not been engaged, as she still could not help
deeming herself, to Hammersley, and had she not a decided, repugnance
to Shafto, her pride and her whole soul must have revolted against a
_mariage de convenance_. She had formed, girl-like, her own
conceptions of an ideal man, and beyond all whom she met, in London
or elsewhere, Vivian Hammersley was her 'Prince Charming;' and in a
day or two her mind was partially set at rest when she read a
description of his wound, a flesh one, inflicted by an assegai, and
which was then healing fast, but, as she knew, only to enable him to
face fresh perils.
To be bartered away to anyone after being grotesquely wooed did not
suit her independent views, and ere long her grandparents began to
think with annoyance that they had better let her alone; but Lady
Fettercairn was impatient and irrepressible.
Not so Shafto.
He had a low opinion of the sex, picked up perhaps in the bar-parlour
of the inn at Revelstoke, if not inherent in his own nature. He had
read somewhere that 'women love a judicious mixture of hardihood and
flattery--the whole secret lies in that;' also, that if their hearts
are soft their heads are softer in proportion.
Lady Fettercairn was somewhat perplexed when watching the young folks
at Craigengowan.
She shrewdly suspected, of course, that Finella's coldness to Shafto
was due to the influence of their late guest Hammersley, though she
never could have guessed at the existence of the wedding-ring and
diamond keeper he had entrusted to her care; but she failed to
understand the terms on which her 'grandson' was with her companion,
Miss Carlyon, and, though there was nothing tangible or
reprehensible, there was an undefined something in their bearing she
did not like.
Sometimes when talking of Devonshire, of Revelstoke, of the old town
of Newton Ferrars, the dell that led to Noss, of the Yealm, the Erme,
and the sea-beat Mewstone as safe and neutral topics, the girl seemed
affable enough to him, for memories of her English home softened her
heart; but when other topics were broached she was constrained to him
and icy cold.
Was this acting?
To further the interests of Shafto by keeping him and Finella
isolated and as much together as possible, Lady Fettercairn did not
go to London and thus seek society. Fashionable folks--unless
Parliamentary--do not return to town till Easter; but Lord
Fettercairn, though a Representative Peer, cared very little about
English and still less about Scottish affairs, or indeed any
interests but his own; so, instead of leaving Craigengowan, they had
invited a few guests there--men who had come for rod-fishing in the
Bervie, the Carron and the Finella, with some ladies to entertain
them, thus affording the girl means of avoiding Shafto whenever she
chose.
The stately terrace before the house often looked gay from the number
of guests promenading in the afternoon, or sitting in snug corners in
wicker chairs covered with soft rugs--the ladies drinking tea, the
bright colours of their dresses coming out well against the grey
walls of the picturesque old mansion.
Among other visitors were the vinegar-visaged Lady Drumshoddy, and
Messrs. Kippilaw, senior and junior, the latter a dapper little
tomtit of a Writer to the Signet, intensely delighted and flattered
to be among such 'swell' company, believing it was the result of his
natural brilliance and attractions, and not of respect for his worthy
old father, Kenneth Kippilaw.
The latter--a _rara avis_, scarce as the dodo and his kindred--was
intensely national--a lover of his country and of everything
Scottish; an enthusiast at Burns' festivals, and singularly patriotic
to be what is locally termed a 'Parliament House bred man.' Thus the
anti-nationality or utter indifference of Lord Fettercairn was a
frequent bone of contention between them; and so bitterly did they
sometimes argue about Scotland and her neglected interests, that it
is a marvel the Peer did not seek out a more obsequious agent.
'Like his uncle, the late Master of Melfort, Mr. Shafto must go into
Parliament,' said old Mr. Kippilaw; 'but I hope he will make a better
use of his time.'
'What do you mean?' asked Lord Fettercairn coldly.
'By attending to Scottish affairs, and getting us equal grants with
England and Ireland for public purposes.'
'Stuff--the old story, my dear sir. Who cares about Scotland or her
interests?'
'Ay, who indeed!' exclaimed old Kippilaw, growing warm.
'She is content to be a mere province now.'
'The more shame for her--a province that contributes all her millions
to the Imperial Exchequer and gets nothing in return.'
'A sure sign she doesn't want anything,' replied the peer, with one
of his silent laughs. 'I wish you would not worry me with this
patriotic "rot," Kippilaw--excuse the vulgarity of the phrase; but so
long as I can get my rents out of Craigengowan and Finella, I don't
care a jot if all the rest, Scotland with all its rights and wrongs,
history, poetry and music, was ten leagues under the sea!'
So thus, for two reasons, political and personal, the 'Fettercairns'
just then did not go to 'town.'
On the terrace this very afternoon Lady Fettercairn was watching
Finella and Dulcie, linked arm in arm conversing apart from all, and
her smooth brow clouded; for she knew well that the fact of
Hammersley owing his life to Florian MacIan would make--as it did--a
new tie between the two girls.
'You see, Shafto,' said she, 'how more than ever does Finella put
that girl out of her place. Though most useful as she is to me,
always pleasant and irreproachably lady-like, I think I must get rid
of her.'
'Not yet--not yet, grandmother,' said Shafto, who did not just _then_
wish this climax; 'do give her another chance.'
'To please you, I will, my dear boy; but I fear I am rash.'
'I wish Finella were not so beastly rich!' he exclaimed.
'Do not use such shocking terms, Shafto! But why?'
'It makes me look like a fortune-hunter, being after her.'
'"After her"? Another vulgarism--impossible--you--you--the heir of
Fettercairn!'
'Well, it gives one no credit for disinterested affection,' said this
plausible young gentleman.
We have said that Lady Fettercairn was irrepressible in seeking to
control Finella.
'How quiet and abstracted you seem! Why don't you entertain our
friends?' said she, as the girl drew near her in an angle of the
terrace, where they were alone.
'I am thinking, grandmamma,' said Finella wearily.
'You seem to be for ever thinking, child; and I wonder what it can
all be about.'
'I don't believe, grandmamma, it would interest you,' said Finella, a
little defiantly.
'There you are wrong, Finella; what interests you, must of necessity
interest me,' said Lady Fettercairn, haughtily yet languidly, as she
fanned herself.
'Not always.'
'Is it something new, then? I suspect your thoughts,' she continued
with some asperity. 'Finella, listen to me again. You and Shafto
are the only two left of the Melfort family; we wish the two branches
united, for their future good--the good of the name and the title;
and if Shafto goes into Parliament, I do not see why he should not
perhaps become Viscount or Earl of Fettercairn.'
'The old story! I have no ambition, grandmamma,' shrugging her
shoulders, 'and certainly none to be the wife of Shafto, even were he
made a duke. So please to let me alone,' she added desperately, 'or
I may tell you that of--of--Shafto you may not like to hear.'
And in sooth now, Lady Fettercairn, like her lord, had heard so much
evil of Shafto lately that she abruptly dropped the subject for the
time.
And now Shafto began once more to persecute poor Dulcie--a
persecution which might have a perilous effect upon her future.