THE LAST.
I found in Aurora an inexpressibly charming friend and companion;
thus at times, in my heart, and before my funds waxed low, I
completely forgave her for being the holder, the golden-haired
usurper of all that was mine by right of inheritance.
But there were other times when the old emotions of pique and
anger--the old memories of wrong inflicted, and of mortifications
endured by my parents and myself, blazed up within me, and made me
resolve to tear myself away from London and from the silken toils
that were netting round me, and vow to rejoin my regiment, which was
now at winter quarters at Barentrup, in Germany.
Still I hovered between Pall Mall and Piccadilly, and when we were
not at some place of amusement (whither we sometimes ventured
_without_ the matronage of Madame Blythe), Aurora's drawing-room was
my evening resort; for after dining at White's or at the George in
the Mall I always dropped in to take "a dish of tea," as the
Londoners phrased it, at that little _guéridon_, or tripod table,
with its oval teaboard of mahogany, its diminutive cups of eggshell
china, filled with that fragrant, and then expensive beverage, the
honours of which old Madame Blythe, in her hoop petticoat, black
mittens, and toupee, dispensed so gracefully.
So passed the time swiftly in amusements and gaiety. My exchequer I
have said was waxing low. My share in the value of his Most
Christian Majesty's brass guns and mortars had all vanished at
Vauxhall, Ranelagh, and elsewhere, and my leave of absence was
drawing to a close. The latter tidings I communicated to Aurora, and
she seemed to be disturbed by them--so much so, that I felt quite
pleased and flattered by her affectionate friendship. Had she wept I
would have been delighted.
How strange was this tie of cousinship! Here was Aurora, one of the
loveliest girls in London (which, my good reader, is saying a good
deal), treating me like a friend--a brother; and she was nearer and
dearer to me than friend or sister could be, so far as regard and
propinquity went; yet withal, she was little more than a recent
acquaintance.
It was perilous work, those daily visits to Piccadilly, and yet so
pleasing; and so--and so the reader may begin to perceive the end of
all this; but not exactly how it came about.
I own that I fell in love with my beautiful cousin; so had many
others--among them Shirley; and I could pardon him now.
I am sure that dear old Madame Blythe, who loved me like a son, for
no better reason than that I was a lieutenant of dragoons, as her
husband had been in their lover-days, suspected what was going
forward. She was discreet--oh, very discreet! She never opened the
drawing-room door too suddenly if we were within, but always lingered
without and loudly issued an order to the cook, or to John Trot; or
dropped something noisily; called to her French poodle, or played
nervously with the door-handle, until Aurora and I laughed at her
policy or politeness, which you will. However, when she entered, I
was generally to be found on the side of the room opposite to that
occupied by Aurora.
When in the dining-room, the sight of Sir Basil's portrait, and
Squire Tony's too, always roused my secret anger; thus, when Aurora
one day said to me playfully--
"Cousin Basil, what do you think Lady Ancrum tells me gossips say?"
"Don't know, really," replied I, briefly.
"That I am setting my cap at you!"
"Zounds! at a poor devil like me!" I exclaimed, almost gruffly.
"Nonsense, Aurora! Besides, you don't wear a cap."
Aurora coloured, and her sweet face became clouded by my brusque
manner.
But her remark set me thinking seriously. I had undergone some quiet
quizzing from Madame Blythe, who believed in her heart that we were
made for each other, and that no two young people could play a game
of picquet, ombre, or chess, or dance a minuet together, without
falling straightway in love; so this and my Lady Ancrum's gossip set
me, I say, to think angrily, and when in such a mood, Sir Basil's
insulting last will and testament, like the handwriting on the wall
at Belshazzar's feast, always seemed to flame before me.
I was conscious too that my cousinship and constant appearance in
public with Miss Gauntlet had scared away a score of danglers and
admirers, who being most of them mere macaronies, or "pretty
fellows," were weak enough to leave me entire possession of the
field. One or two, indeed, threatened to invite me to breathe the
morning air at the back of Montague House, but somehow never put
their war-like threat into execution.
I loved Aurora dearly; but the regard I bore her was quite unlike the
wild and romantic passion with which the artful Jacqueline had so
suddenly inspired me, for it was based upon friendship and a
knowledge of each other--upon strong confidence and thorough esteem.
Could more than these four ingredients be wanted to make any marriage
happy?
It was not a passion likely to expend itself, and leave rosy little
Cupid's wings, bows, arrows and all, insolvent at the end of the
first year; yet withal, pride and a sense of injury rankled deeply in
my heart.
I had never told Aurora that I loved her, but she knew it well, and
that she loved me I was vain enough to believe; still the idea stung
me to the soul that gossips might say that I, the disinherited and
penniless cousin married the rich one to regain my lost patrimony.
"I shall not endure it," thought I, "and so shall pack my traps and
be off to the regiment!"
One evening I was seated alone by the library fire in Piccadilly,
full of loving, of angry, and of doubtful thoughts which tormented
me, when Aurora entered gently, and leaning over the back of my chair
placed her pretty hands over my forehead and eyes in sport.
"How you stare into the fire, Basil! You will quite spoil your eyes.
What do you see there?"
"I am reflecting--thinking----"
"Of the fancied battles you see among the embers--the value of coals,
or what?" she asked, laughing. "Now tell me, about what were your
precious thoughts?"
"They were of _you_, Aurora," said I, in a troubled voice, while
taking her dear hands in mine; "my leave of absence----"
"Again, that horrid leave--well, Basil?"
"Is nearly at an end, and I must quit London, rejoin, tear myself
from this," I replied, impetuously, and then added, with sudden
softness; "I love you, dear Aurora--you know well that I do; but
never shall it be said by the world that I married you for your
fortune--as----"
"The world!" said she, interrupting me, with an air of extreme
annoyance, while casting down her eyes and withdrawing her hands;
"but am I then so plain--so unattractive--that no one would marry for
anything else, save for this unlucky Netherwood--eh, cousin?" she
added, smiling with a charming air of coquetry.
"Oh, Aurora--I wish you could see into my heart!"
"And you love me?" said she, in a low and tremulous voice.
"Dearly--most dearly!"
"Then if I married you, cousin Basil," she resumed, looking smilingly
into my eyes, "might not the world say it was for your title?"
"Am I then so plain and unattractive," I was beginning, when she
playfully put her hand on my mouth; "Aurora, of the baronetcy I
cannot divest myself."
"But I can _divest_ myself of Netherwood," she exclaimed, and sprung
from my side with flashing eyes. Then with tremulous hands she
unlocked an ebony cabinet, and after a rapid search, came to me with
a folded document, saying, "Look, Basil, do you know this
handwriting?"
"It is that of old Nathan Wylie, our grandfather's solicitor; I
should know it well."
"Then read this paper, which he prepared and drew up a few weeks ago,
at my especial request."
I perused it with astonishment!
It was what is legally or technically termed a "Disposition," by
which Aurora divested herself of Netherwood, lands, estate, and
everything, bestowing them upon me during her lifetime, with
remainder to me and my heirs at her decease.
I had learned enough of law during my residence with old Nathan
Wylie, the framer of this new document, to know how full, ample, and
generous it was, and while I rapidly scanned it from the preamble at
the beginning to the signature of Aurora at the end, she stood near
me with her cheeks flushing, her eyes full of tears, and her poor
little hands trembling.
"Oh, Aurora!" I exclaimed in bewilderment.
"Now cousin, do you believe me--now do you deem me sincere in
wishing, at every risk, to soothe your angry pride?" she asked, with
a shower of nervous tears. "None can now say that you wedded me to
recover a lost patrimony, for yours it was, and is, most justly."
"Dearest Aurora, I would rather owe its restoration in another
fashion, but still, my beloved, to you. Behold!" and I put the deed
in the fire, where it shrivelled and was consumed in a moment.
I had no more words for the occasion, but pressed Aurora to my
breast. I felt that she was indeed my own--all my own; that we
should be all the world to each other, and that our future would be a
life of love.
My lips could not express the debt of joy and gratitude I owed to
this dear girl; but though silent, friend reader, they were not
perhaps idle.
Thus, without any tremendous effort of romance, but in the most
ordinary and matter-of-fact way in the world, my marriage came about
with cousin Aurora. She was to be my wife, and no Frenchwoman, after
all.
* * * * *
And now, leaving Aurora and Madame Blythe deep in all the mystery of
paduasoy skirts, calimanco petticoats, satin sacques, solitaires and
négligées, head-cushions and red-heeled shoes, furbelows and
flounces, bracelets, neckets, étui and appendages, long stomachers,
clocked stockings, and other things which I need not enumerate--in
short, arranging the full wardrobe of a wealthy and beautiful bride,
while I depart to arrange all about the special licence and extended
leave (taking the Horse Guards _en route_), I shall bid my friend,
the reader, who has accompanied me to this happy conclusion, for a
time, perhaps, a kind adieu.
THE END.
LONDON:
SAVILL AND EDWARDS, PRINTERS, CHANDOS STREET,
COVENT GARDEN.