"Yes; open your heart! be glad,
Glad as the linnet on the tree:
Laugh, laugh away—and merrily
Drive away every dream that's sad.
Who sadness takes for joy is mad—
And mournful thought
Will come unsought."
After the climax recorded in our last chapter, events succeeded each other with great rapidity at the castle of Rohallion.
At that period of our story, Flora Warrender had attained her full stature—the middle height. In form, she was round, firm, and well developed—plump, to speak plainly—yet she was both symmetrical and graceful. Her eyes, we have said, were a kind of violet grey, clear, dark and exquisitely soft. Long lashes, and the remarkable form of her white lids, doubtless gave them this expression. Her forehead was low and broad, rather than high; her smile won all, and there was a charming air of delicacy and refinement in her manner, over all her person, and in all she said or did. The form of her hand and foot alone sufficed to indicate her station, family and nurture.
"There is a mysterious character, heightened, indeed, by fancy and passion, but not without foundation in reality and observation, which lovers have ever imputed to the object of their affections," says Charles Lamb; and viewed through this most favourable medium, to the mind of Quentin Kennedy, young and ardent as he was, Flora Warrender, in all the bloom of her beauty and girlhood, seemed indeed something "exceeding nature."
Thus it was with a heart filled with painful anticipations of coming trouble, that he heard Lord Rohallion, one morning at breakfast, when Jack Andrews emptied the contents of the letter-bag before him, exclaim,—
"A letter from Cosmo! It is for you, Winny—the careless young dog, he has not written here for six months—not even to thank me for paying that precious gambling debt of his, lost among those popinjays of the 10th Hussars. Then there was that devilish scrape with the French dancer, whom he took down to Brighton with Uxbridge's son, Paget of the 7th, and that set——"
"Hush—remember Flora!" whispered Lady Rohallion.
"And the duel, too," persisted the old lord; "pah! in my time we didn't fight about such trumpery ware as French dancers. But what says Cosmo?"
"He comes home by the next mail," replied Lady Rohallion, a bright and motherly smile spreading like sunshine over her face; "how I shall rejoice to see him—the dear boy!"
"A dear boy, indeed!" said his lordship; "his Guards' life has cost me ten thousand guineas, if it has cost me a sixpence, Winny."
"Cosmo is coming," said Lady Rohallion, pointedly; "do you hear, Flora?"
"Yes, madam," replied Flora, colouring, and casting a furtive glance at Quentin, who appeared to be solely occupied with his coffee and kippered salmon.
"Cosmo writes that he has succeeded, by a death-vacancy, to the majority of his battalion of the Guards, which, of course, gives him the rank of Lieutenant-Colonel in the army."
"As captain he has enjoyed that for some years."
"He has therefore applied for the command of a line regiment."
"That will be simple enough, as so many second battalions are being raised just now for this projected expedition to Spain."
"The Duke of York has promised that his wish shall be gratified, and he has obtained a few months' leave, to come down here and see us—to have, as he says, a shot at the birds and a day's fly-fishing with John Girvan, in the Doon, before he returns to active service."
"And we shall see him, then——"
"In three days—three days at furthest, Flora," she added, with a glance at Miss Warrender.
"Bravo! you shall see something like a soldier, Flora, when Cosmo returns—something like what I was, about the time of Saratoga; eh, Jack Andrews?"
"Yes, my lord," responded Andrews, "coming to attention," as well as a man might with a hissing tea-urn in his hand.
"Send up the housekeeper, Andrews," said Lady Rohallion, "we must have the Master's rooms put in order, and also one for his valet; for I suppose he comes here with him."
"If so fine a knight of the shoulder-knot can tolerate Rohallion," said his lordship, laughing.
"Come with me, Flora; I know, child, how glad you will be to assist me," added Lady Winifred taking Miss Warrender's hand, and leading her away, while Quentin, whose heart beat painfully, appeared to be busy with a newspaper. It detailed how forty thousand Frenchmen were being foiled before Zaragoza's walls of mud, yet it seemed all a maze to poor Quentin, and he saw not how Flora's rich colour deepened as she withdrew.
The Master was coming to Rohallion!
Quentin remembered that gentleman's cold and haughty manner, and the half-concealed dislike which he ever manifested towards himself. He remembered what Flora had more than once told him two years ago of Lady Rohallion's intentions or hopes regarding her, and his heart grew sick with apprehension of a rival so formidable. He thought perhaps Cosmo might have formed an attachment elsewhere; but that would not prevent him from making love to Flora, were it only to kill time; and in her lover's eyes, she seemed so beautiful, that the Master would certainly find it impossible to oppose the desire of his mother; and Quentin dreaded her yielding; to the united influence of the family, and the advantages a suitor of such rank, experience and position could offer.
He saw it all, and considered Flora lost to him!
Pride made him silent on the subject, and Flora, who with female acuteness divined what was passing in his mind, deemed it unnecessary or unwise to speak of it. She pitied Quentin, for she soon perceived how pale and miserable he looked; while he misconstrued her reserve and became fretful, even petulant with her.
As if to add to his trouble, with that obtuseness of intellect (shall we call it petty malice?) peculiar to their order, some of those same persons, who long ago were wont to annoy Flora and make Quentin blush, by jestingly calling them "man and wife," now taunted him with his too probable loss on the arrival of the Master, a boy's love being almost deemed, beyond any other, a legitimate subject for banter.
These stinging remarks made Quentin's heart swell with pride and jealousy, doubt and alarm, for now he heard the matter referred to daily in the course of conversation.
"So, my dear lady," he heard the parish minister say, when paying his periodical visit, "local rumour says that the Master is coming home to obtain a final answer from a certain young lady, before rejoining the army."
Lady Rohallion merely bowed and smiled, as much as to say that local rumour was right.
"They have an old man's blessing," he added blandly, as he departed on his barrel-bellied Galloway cob, and thought of an augmented stipend in futurity.
"The Master's coming home to enter for the heiress, and have a shy at the grouse and ptarmigan," the gamekeeper said, while cleaning the arms in the gunroom.
"He'll walk the course—won't he, Mr. Quentin?" added the groom, while preparing the stables for more horses.
"To carry the fortress, and leave you to march off with the honours of war," said the quartermaster at one time.
"A braw day will it be for Rohallion!" remarked the dominie at another. "There shall be dancing and feasting, scattering of nuts as we find in Pliny, with shooting of cannon, and shouts of Io Hymen Hymenæe!"
"My puir Quentin," said Elsie Irvine, while, pondering on such rumours, he wandered moodily enough "by the sad sea wave," "so you're gaun to lose your wee wifie at last?"
Thus every one seemed to discuss the affair openly and laughingly, and their remarks and mock condolences, were as so many pins, needles, daggers, what you will, in the poor lad's heart, so that his doubts and fears became a veritable torture.
So great was the bustle of preparation in the castle, that the evening of the third day—the day so dreaded by Quentin—drew nigh without him obtaining a suitable opportunity of conversing with Flora; for so much did Lady Rohallion occupy that young lady's time, that he scarcely met her, save at meals, or in the presence of others. But on this evening he suddenly saw her walking before him in the avenue, and hastening forward, he joined her in silence.
Flora seemed weary, but rosy and smiling. Quentin was nervously excited, but pale and unhappy in expression. Neither spoke, as they walked slowly forward, and he did not take her hand, nor did she take his arm, according to their usual custom, and the omission stung Quentin most. Frankness seemed at an end between them, as if three days had changed alike their nature and the relation that existed between them.
Flora looked very beautiful and piquante in her gipsy hat wreathed with roses, with her hair dark and wavy floating over her shoulders, while a blush mantled from time to time in her soft cheek, and her dark liquid eyes stole furtive glances from under their long lashes at her young lover, fond glances of pity mingled with coquetry, but all unseen by him, for Quentin's gaze was fixed on vacancy.
At length they reached the lower end of the avenue near the Lollard's Linn, where there still stands a sombre thicket of very ancient thorn trees, that were coeval, perhaps, with the first tower of Rohallion.
According to local tradition, this place was haunted by a spectre-hound, which no one could attempt to face or trace with safety, even if they had the courage to attempt it. Its form, that of a great, lean, lanky staghound, black as jet, was usually visible on clear nights, gazing wistfully at the moon; and in storms of wind and rain, its melancholy baying would be heard to mingle with the blast that swept through the ancient sycamores. It molested none; but if assailed, it became terrible, swelling up to nearly double its usual size, with back and tail erect like those of a pole-cat, its jaws red as blood, and its eyes shooting fire.
Those who saw the dog-fiend in this state became idiots, and sickened or died soon after. Tradition went farther, and asserted that the spectre-hound was nothing else than the spirit of Lady Jean of Rohallion (whose grim portrait by Vandyke, with a hawk on her wrist and a gold cross at her girdle, hung in the ancient hall), a high-flying cavalier dame, by whose order, after the battle of Kilsythe, several fugitive Covenanters had been shot down in cold blood, and buried in that thicket, where her unquiet soul was condemned to guard their remains in this canine form until the day of doom.
At all events, the old thorn trees where the spectre was wont to appear, looked particularly gloomy on this evening, and as the lovers passed near it, Flora drew closer to Quentin, and then she perceived that his eyes were full of tears.
"Quentin—Quentin dear!" she exclaimed in a tone of earnest question and expostulation. It was the first time, almost, that she had addressed him since Cosmo's letter came, and now her voice thrilled through him. He threw his left arm round her, and clasping her right hand within his own, pressed it to his heart, which beat tumultuously, and while the long avenue seemed whirling round them, he said,—
"So Lady Rohallion has made up her mind that—that—you shall marry the Master, Flora?"
"So it is the fear of this that distresses you?"
Pride sealed Quentin's lips.
"My poor Quentin," resumed Flora, looking tenderly and innocently into his eyes, "you love me very much, don't you?"
"Love you—love you, Flora!" he stammered.
"Yes."
"I love you better than my life!" he exclaimed passionately.
"Well," said she, with a beautiful smile and a gaiety of manner that he did not quite relish; "I will never marry any man but he whom I choose myself—certainly not he who is chosen by others."
"Darling Flora!"
"There—there—stop—and perhaps, Quentin, I mayn't marry you. 'Tis said people change when they grow older, and we are very young, you know; but Quentin, dear, I love you very, very much, be assured of that."
Her head dropped on his shoulder, and he kissed her passionately—the LAST time he was ever to do so in the old avenue of Rohallion.
At that moment the clatter of hoofs was heard, and ere they could part or regain their composure, two horsemen, one in advance of the other, both riding fast, with brown leather saddle bags and long holsters—the first in a fashionable riding-coat with a cape, the latter in livery, and both in top-boots and spotless white breeches, passed up the avenue at a hand-gallop.
Both had seen our lovers near the thorn thicket, and the first horseman, whom Quentin's heart rightly foreboded to be the dreaded Master of Rohallion, turned in his saddle, and said something to his groom, indicating the pair with his whip. They both looked back and laughed immoderately, as they dashed through the ivy-clad arch of the haunted gate.
Separating in haste and confusion, Quentin and Flora hurried away to calm their excitement and seek the drawing-room.