The M.P. bowed, and smiled deprecatingly, for he had long figured among the said courts as one who would joyfully have blacked the boots of the lord advocate or the ministry.
I felt almost sorry for Berkeley while my uncle spurred his hobby against the M.P.; the ugly cap fitted so exactly.
"I know," resumed Sir Nigel, "that in a nation of tuft-hunters like the British, whose Bible is the 'Peerage,' a man with a handle to his name, however small it may be, is a trump card indeed; hence the adoration of rank, which, as some one says, 'if folly in London, deepens into positive vice in the country.'"
"Then what do you say of your poor Scottish metropolis, whose aristocracy consists of a few psalm-singing--aw--bailies and young legal prigs of the bar, whose importance is only equalled by their necessities--boiled mutton and thin Cape Madeira?" said Berkeley, glad of an opportunity to sneer at something Scotch.
"I have known a few honest fellows--and men of first-rate ability, too--connected with the Scottish Parliament House," said Sir Nigel.
"But that, I suppose, was in the old Tory days, when all Edinburgh fell down in the mud to worship George IV., the first gentleman in Europe," said the M.P. as a retort, at which my uncle laughed loudly.
But thus, by his remarks at the fag end of some discussion, Sir Nigel had the effect of completely silencing, and unintentionally mortifying, Berkeley, who continued to sip his wine in silence, and with something of malevolence in his eye, till Binns announced coffee, and we repaired to the drawing-room.
*CHAPTER VI.*
No, tempt me not--love's sweetest flower Hath poison in its smile; Love only woos with dazzling power, To fetter hearts the while. I will not wear its rosy chain, Nor e'en its fragrance prove; I fear too much love's silent pain-- No, no! I will not love.
Through the cool and airy corridor, with its cabinets full of Sevres jars, Indian bowls, and sculptured marble busts--on one side the Marli horses in full career crowning a buhl pedestal; on the other a bronze Laocoon, with his two sons, in the coils of the brazen serpents--we proceeded to the drawing-room, a merry and laughing party, for it was impossible to resist the influence of a good dinner, good wines, and jovial company.
On entering we found the ladies variously engaged. A graceful group was about the piano; the Countess of Chillingham was half hidden in the soft arms of a vast velvet chair, where she was playing indolently with her fan, and watching her daughter; others were busy with books of engravings, and some were laughing at the pencil sketches of a local artist, who portrayed the wars of the Celts and Anglo-Saxons, and other nude barbarians, while old Binns and two powdered lacqueys served the tea and coffee on silver trays.
I had hoped to meet Lady Louisa's eye on entering, but the first smile that greeted me was the sweet one of Cora, who, approaching me, put her plump little arm through mine, and said, half reproachfully and half jestingly--
"How long you have lingered over that odious wine, and you have not been here for six years, Newton. Think of that--for six years."
"How many may elapse before I am here again? Do you reproach me, Cora?" I was beginning, for her voice and smile were very alluring.
"Yes, very much," she said, with playful severity.
"Your papa, my good uncle, is somewhat of a stickler for etiquette, consequently I could not rise before the seniors; and then this is the festive season of the year. But hush; Lady Louisa is about to sing, I think."
"A duet, too."
"With whom?"
"Mr. Berkeley. They are always practising duets."
"Always?"
"Yes; she dotes on music."
"Ah, and he pretends to do so, too."
Spreading her ample flounces over the carved walnut-wood piano stool, Lady Louisa ran her white fingers rapidly and with some brilliancy of execution--certainly with perfect confidence--over the keys of a sonorous grand piano; while Berkeley stood near, with an air of considerable affectation and satisfaction, to accompany her, his delicate hands being cased in the tightest of straw-coloured kid gloves; and all the room became hushed into well-bred silence, while they favoured us with the famous duet by _Leonora_ and the _Conde di Luna_, "Vivra! Contende il Guibilo."
Berkeley acquitted himself pretty well; so well, that I regretted my own _timbre_ tones. But I must confess to being enchanted while Louisa sang; her voice was very seductive, and she had been admirably trained by a good Italian master. I remained a silent listener, full of admiration for her performance, and not a little for the contour of her fine neck and snowy shoulders, from which her maize-coloured opera cloak had fallen.
"Lady Loftus," said Berkeley, "your touch upon the piano is like--like----"
"What, Mr. Berkeley? Now tax your imagination for a new compliment."
"The fingers--haw--of a tenth muse."
She uttered a merry laugh, and continued to run those fingers over the keys.
"Homely style of thing, the baronet's dinner," I heard him whisper, as he stooped over her, with a covert smile in his eyes.
"Ah, you prefer the continental mode we are adopting so successfully in England?"
"The dinner _a la Russe_; exactly."
"Ah, you will get dinners enough of that kind in the Crimea, more than you may have appetite for," she replied, with a manner so quiet, that it was difficult to detect a little satire.
"Most likely," drawled Berkeley, as he twirled his moustaches, without seeing the retort to his bad taste; and then, without invitation, the fair musician gave us a song or two from the "Trovatore;" till her watchful mother advancing, contrived to end her performance, and, greatly to my satisfaction, marched her into the outer drawing-room.
"Cora must sing something now," said I; "her voice has long been strange to me."
"I cannot sing after Lady Loftus's brilliant performance," she said, nervously and hurriedly. "Don't ask me, pray, Newton, dear."
"Nonsense! she shall sing us something. We were talking about snobbish people in the other room," said honest, old blundering Sir Nigel. "I have observed it is a peculiarity of that style of society in Scotland to banish alike national music and national songs. But such is not our _role_ in Calderwood Glen. A few of our girls certainly attempt with success such glorious airs as those we have just heard, or those from "Roberto il Diavolo" and "Lucia;" but I have heard men, who might sing a plain Scottish song fairly enough, and with credit, make absolute maniacs of themselves by attempting to howl like _Edgardo_ in the churchyard, or like _Manrico_ at the prison-gate--an affectation of operatic excellence with which I have no patience."
"To take out in fashion what we lose in genuine amusement and enthusiasm is an English habit becoming more common in Scotland every day," said the general.
"So, Cora, darling, sing us one of our songs. Give Newton the old ballad of 'The Thistle and the Rose.' I am sure he has not heard it for many a day."
"Not since I was last under this roof, dear uncle," said I.
This ballad was one of the memories of our childhood, and a great favourite with the old Tory baronet; so I led Cora to the piano.
"It will sound so odd--so primitive, in fact--to these people, especially after what we have heard, Newton," she urged, in a whisper; "but then papa is so obstinate."
"But to please me, Cora."
"To please you, Newton, I would do anything," she replied, with a blush and a happy smile.
I stood by her side while she sang a simple old ballad, that had been taught her by my mother. The air was plaintive, and the words were quaint. By whom they were written I know not, for they are neither to be found in Allan Ramsay's "Miscellany," or any other book of Scottish songs that I have seen. Cora sang with great sweetness, and her voice awakened a flood of old memories and forgotten hopes and fears, with many a boyish aspiration, for music, like perfume, can exert a wonderful effect upon the imagination and on the memory.
THE THISTLE AND THE ROSE.
It was in old times, When trees composed rhymes, And flowers did with elegy flow; In an old battle-field, That fair flowers did yield, A rose and a thistle did grow.
On a soft summer day, The rose chanced to say, "Friend thistle, I'll with you be plain; And if you'd simply be But united to me, You would ne'er be a thistle again."
The thistle said, "My spears Shield me from all fears, While you quite unguarded remain; And well, I suppose, Though I were a rose, I'd fain be a thistle again."
"Dearest friend," quoth the rose, "You falsely suppose-- Bear witness ye flowers of the plain!-- You'd take so much pleasure In beauty's vast treasure, You'd ne'er be a thistle again."
The thistle, by guile, Preferred the rose's smile To all the gay flowers of the plain; She threw off her sharp spears, Unarmed she appears-- And then were united the twain.