Chapter XVII
Oh, for the wings we used to wear,
When the heart was like a bird,
And floated through the summer air,
And painted all it looked on fair,
And sung to all it heard!
When fancy put the seal of truth
On all the promises of youth!
HERVEY.
To have introduced myself abruptly to Mr. De Warr Berkeley’s wedded wife, if he had one, might be explained away satisfactorily enough; but to present myself to Miss Auriol, related as she was to him, there could be no palliation whatever, and in duelling days could have led to but one result—the pistol!
Something of what passed in my mind, together with an air of bewilderment, must have been apparent in my face, for the young lady, after gazing at me earnestly, as if her clear and bright, but dark blue eyes would read my very soul, looked suddenly down, and said, while her colour came and went, and her bosom heaved painfully—
“I can perceive, Captain Norcliff, that my name explains much to you; but not all—oh no! not all. There are secrets in my short but wretched life that you can never learn—secrets known to God and to myself alone!”
“It really explains nothing to me, Miss Auriol,” I replied with a smile, being willing to relieve her embarrassment, by affecting ignorance of that which the whole mess knew—her ambiguous position; “for I am not aware that—that we ever met before.”
“But you have heard, perhaps—you know Mr. Berkeley?”
“Of ours—yes; he was in Scotland with me a few weeks ago.”
“That I know too well for my own peace,” said the girl, coughing spasmodically, and applying her handkerchief to her mouth.
“He is frequently in this quarter, is he not?”
“Yes.”
“At this pretty cottage, perhaps?”
“No, sir.”
“Where then—the Reculvers?”
“At Chillingham Park. Since he has begun to visit there he scarcely ever comes here. Have you not heard—have you not heard,” she repeated, making a fearful effort at articulation, “that he is to be married to the only daughter and heiress of Lord Chillingham?”
I felt that I became nearly as pale as herself, while replying—
“I certainly have not heard of such an alliance; it is probably the silly humour of a gossiping neighbourhood.”
She shook her head sadly, and seated herself with an air of lassitude.
“Are you sure that Mr. Berkeley was not here after I escorted you home last night?”
“I am, unfortunately, but too sure. Why do you ask?” she inquired, looking up, while her eyes dilated.
“Because I could have sworn that I passed him on horseback in the dusk.”
“Riding in this direction?”
“No, towards Canterbury.”
“Ah, towards Chillingham Park, no doubt—there shines his loadstar now!”
“And mine too,” thought I, bitterly.
This girl’s intelligence, whether false or true, crushed my heart more than I can describe.
Aware, however, of the imperative necessity for retiring, I took up my hat and bade her adieu; but for the purpose of learning more of Berkeley’s movements, I promised, when riding that way, to call again, and inquire for her health.
“The locket you have just restored was Mr. Berkeley’s gift to me upon a fatal day,” said she; “and, believe me, sir, that—that, whatever you may have heard of me, or whatever you may think, I have been ‘more sinned against that sinning.’”
In another minute I was in the saddle, and on my way back to Canterbury.
Though she did not know it, nor could she know it, this unfortunate girl had been planting thorns in my breast. I could not believe in the reality of such perfidy on the part of Louisa—of such facility on the part of the haughty Countess, her mother—or of such rapid progress on the part of Berkeley with all his wealth, the hard-won thousands of the late departed brewer.
How I longed now for the arrival of Cora, who might solve or explain away some of the doubts that surrounded me!
My heart swelled with rage; and yet I felt that I loved Louisa with a passion that bade fair to turn my brain!
As Miss Auriol would be certain to know something of Berkeley’s movements and as she and her faithful follower, old Mrs. Goldsworthy, might prove invaluable in acquainting me with what passed at Chillingham Park, for they had jealousy to spur on their espionage, I resolved to visit once or twice again the cottage at the Reculvers, when I could do so unseen. This I did, little knowing how greatly the poor girl would interest me in her sad fate, and still less foreseeing that the course I pursued was a perilous one. But the agony of my anxiety, the bitterness of my suspicions, and my love for Louisa, overcame every scruple, and blinded me to everything else.
She, on the other hand, was naturally anxious to learn the movements of Berkeley, whom, notwithstanding his cold desertion, she loved blindly and desperately. Thus we could be useful to each other.
My heart recoiled at times from such a mode of working; but I could have no other recourse till my cousin Cora came.
As I rode up to the door of the hotel, my heart leaped on seeing Willie Pitblado awaiting me there.
“A letter at last!” I exclaimed, as he came forward.
“From the colonel, sir,” said he, touching his cockaded hat.
“The colonel?” I repeated in disappointment and surprise, as I tore open the note, the contents of which ran briefly thus:—
“MY DEAR NORCLIFF,—As the barracks here are becoming uncomfortably crowded, by the Indian depôts and so forth, your troop is detached to Canterbury for a week or two, to share the quarters of the hussars. You will remain there, probably, till the route comes. You need not return to head-quarters, unless you choose; but may report yourself to the lieutenant-colonel commanding the consolidated cavalry depôt at Canterbury. This is a stranger-day at mess. We are to have an unusual number of guests, and the band. Wish you were with us.
Believe me, &c., &c.,
LIONEL BEVERLEY, Lieut.-Col.
“P.S.—You will drill the troop once daily to the sword and lance exercise on horseback.”
“How lucky!” thought I. “I shall have Canterbury for the basis of my operations, and the Reculvers for an advanced post; quartered here, and Chillingham close by!—When does the troop march in, Willie.”
“To-morrow forenoon, sir, under Mr. Jocelyn.”
“Good. You will take my card to the barrack-master, and my horses to the stables, and receive over my quarters. I shall remain at the hotel until the troop comes in.”
I did not ride to the Reculvers on that afternoon, though I scoured every road in the vicinity of the city, by Sturry, Bramling, and Horton.
Next morning I went for a mile or two in the direction of Ospringe, and soon saw the troop advancing leisurely, with their horses at a walk, along the dusty Kentish highway, their keen lance-heads glittering with all their bright appointments in the sunshine, their scarlet and white banneroles, and the long plumes in the men’s square-topped caps dancing in the wind, as I trotted up and joined them, though in mufti.
My lieutenant, Frank Jocelyn, and the cornet, Sir Harry Scarlett, were both pleasant and gentlemanly young men, and would have been a most welcome addition to my residence in Canterbury, but for the hopes, the fears, and plans which occupied me. They asked me how I liked the cathedral city, and there was a smile on their faces, which, when taken in conjunction with my secret thoughts, galled and fretted me. Yet I could not notice it.
Accompanied by a multitude of the great “unwashed,” we proceeded straight to those spacious barracks which are erected for cavalry, artillery, and infantry, on the road that leads to the Isle of Thanet, and there the lancers were rapidly “told off” to their quarters, the horses stabled, corned, and watered.
We dined that evening with a hussar corps, of whose mess we were made honorary members while we remained in Canterbury, and from Jocelyn I learned incidentally that for the last three days Berkeley had scarcely been in barracks. The hope that I had harrassed myself in vain passed away now, and fear alone remained.
While the first set of decanters were traversing the table, I slipped away unnoticed, and without changing my uniform, took the road at a rasping pace direct for the Reculvers. The moon was just rising from the sea, and the last notes of the curfew were dying away, as I drew up at the door of Miss Auriol’s cottage.
She was alone, and sitting at tea, to which she bade me welcome, in a manner that showed she half doubted the honesty of my visit, and betrayed such emotions of shame, confusion, and awkwardness, I felt myself quite an intruder. But I simply asked if she had heard more of Berkeley.
She admitted that she had, and stated mournfully that for the last three days he had been constantly at the park, thus confirming what Frank Jocelyn had told me.
In the course of another visit or two, I gradually learned piecemeal all the poor girl’s unhappy history, and how she became the victim, first of evil fortune, and afterwards of a cold-blooded man of the world like De Warr Berkeley.