Second to None: A Military Romance, Volume 3 (of 3) by James Grant - HTML preview

CHAPTER XXII.
 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.