Berkeley sat on her other side, but I could perceive that she was politely reserved with him; so the art of impudence, an art which he had studied carefully, had availed him but little after the use to which he had put it last night.
"And you go to the East with pleasure?" she asked, casually, after a pause.
"With pleasure, and yet with one great regret," said I, as I lightly touched her hand.
"And this regret, is it a secret?"
"It cannot be spoken of here; and yet a little explanation--one word, it may be--shall send me away the happiest fellow in the Crimean expedition."
"Take courage," she said, in a low voice, that made my heart leap with hope and anticipation.
"Newton, what are you and Lady Loftus talking about so impressively? But, perhaps, I should not inquire," said my uncle, as he carved the cold grouse, and a faint shade of annoyance flitted over the pale face of my companion.
"Well, Sir Nigel," I replied, "I was simply about to say that ere we see such a breakfast as this again, we shall have had a rough turn with the Russians, and talked polyglot-wise with fellows of all nations in the allied camp; have drunk sherbet, perhaps, with the Sultan, ogled his ladies at the gilded lattices, and smoked a _chibouque_ with Giafar, Mesrour, and other friends of the Commander of the Faithful."
The flow of my spirits contrasted somewhat with the ebb of Berkeley's. He sat silent, and pulled from time to time his long moustaches and whiskers, which were mingled together--the envy of our apple-cheeked cornets.
But now Mr. Binns came in with the household letter-bag--a leather case, which bore Sir Nigel's name and arms on a brass plate, and its contents (always so welcome at a country breakfast-table) were distributed amongst us.
There were newspapers and letters for all present but me, luckily. I say luckily, for I was hourly in fear of having my short leave cancelled, and receiving a summons from the colonel to head-quarters.
"Lord Slubber de Gullion expresses great surprise that we are staying so long in Scotland," said the Countess of Chillingham, as she rapidly read over a letter written in a large, round-text hand.
"An old bore, mamma."
"Don't say so, Louisa."
The name, which is as near the original as I dare give it, sounded oddly; but there came a time when it was to prove a sad name to me.
"You know Slubber?" said Berkeley, in a low voice, to me.
I shook my head. On which he resumed--
"He is an old peer of a good Anglo-Norman line, as the name imports; rich as a Jew, and sails one of the best yachts that ever loosed canvas at Cowes; a house in Piccadilly; a box at the opera; another of a different kind in the Highlands; a moor in Ireland--bog, some people call it; an excellent stud, and pack of hounds; a glorious cellar. Rich old fellow, indeed; a great chum of my father's. His dinners are said to be--haw--perfection, from the caviare on sliced bread, _a la Russe_, to the coffee and curacoa, the mocha and maraschino."
The ladies were all busy with their crossed and recrossed epistles from friends, gossips, and correspondents. My uncle was put in excellent humour by a missive from a meeting of the heritors and others interested in the county hunt, assigning to him the mastership of the hounds, with a couple of thousands per annum towards his expenses, and the defray of damages, if he undertook to hunt the country between the Firths of Forth and Tay.
"You have some jolly good hunters in the--haw--stables, Sir Nigel," said Berkeley, who was somewhat of a sporting man.
"Yes, fairish."
"Dunearn is a clean-limbed animal," said the general.
"Yes; but he was not improved by your gallop among the melon beds," replied Sir Nigel, laughing. "Cost me four hundred and fifty pounds, that horse did. Saline, the grey, with the dark fetlocks, is a better hunter for clearing fences, and crossing a stiff country, and yet cost me only two hundred and ten pounds."
After opening his third or fourth letter, Berkeley evidently received news that was not pleasant, for I heard him mutter almost an oath, as he said, uneasily--
"Jockeyed! Sold by the jockey, Trayner! A cheque on his bank for the amount; about as good as one on the Banks of Newfoundland."
"No bad news, Berkeley, I hope," said my uncle.
"Oh--haw--nothing, Sir Nigel," said he, and retiring into an oriel, he drew forth a memorandum book, and proceeded to consider the weights for a forthcoming race; and so absorbed was he that Cora laughed aloud on hearing him mutter in this fashion, pulling his long moustaches the while--
"Mail-train, five years, eight stone two pounds. Swish-tail, three years, six stone four pounds. Queen Victorina, aged, rather, six stone four pounds," and so on.
As we rose from the breakfast-table, and broke into groups, he dropped a letter in a female handwriting. I picked it up, and followed him. It was open, and the signature, "_Agnes Auriol_," caught my eye.
By that name I knew the writer, and could have crushed Berkeley's chances, perhaps, for ever; but as no such use could be honourably made of it, I touched him on the shoulder, simply saying--
"Pardon me, you have dropped this."
He changed colour painfully as he received the letter, walked to the fire, cast it in, and carefully waited until it was consumed.
I was not without hopes of luring Lady Louisa into the library, the conservatory, or some quiet nook, as a ride or a ramble out of doors was not to be thought of; but my uncle destroyed my chances, by suddenly announcing, with one of his loud and merry laughs, that the glass was rising, the day would yet be fine, and that gentlemen must kill their next day's dinner or go without. He was going to beat the thickets for a few birds, and he had guns for all the party.
The old general grumbled an unmistakable dissent, and Berkeley pocketed his betting-book, drawling out, as he looked at the snowy landscape and left the room--
"A horrid bore!"
"Come, general," said my hearty old uncle, who had not heard Berkeley's uncivil response, "don't think yet of substituting flannel bags for top-boots; Ascension turtle and pink champagne for patience and water gruel; hot fomentations for hot whisky-toddy! Come! put on your shot-belt; the gout is a long way off yet."
"Gad! I am not so sure of that, Sir Nigel; and then there is this cursed jungle-fever, which I got when up the country with the 3rd Bengal, and I have a horror of toast and water, even when flavoured with pale dry sherry."
"Where is Mr. Berkeley loitering; what is he about?"
"Making up his mind, papa, or what he considers to be such," said Cora.
"Fie, Cora," said the old baronet, "you should never quiz a guest."
Berkeley, re-entering, urged that he had letters to write, and so must remain behind; so said Mr. Spittal, the M.P. Thus the shooting party was reduced to Sir Nigel, the keeper, and myself.
Cora brought us each a flask of brandy, then a little packet of sandwiches cut by her own pretty hands in the housekeeper's pantry. These she stuffed into our pockets, and away we went to the keeper's lodge, I, for cogent reasons of my own, most unwillingly, though Lady Louisa smilingly kissed her hand twice to me from the drawing-room window; but as Cora and all the ladies did so at the same time, and waved their handkerchiefs, I could gather but little from that mark of her attention.
Pitblado's cottage was more than a mile distant. The snow was thawing fast, in the sunshine; but we were accoutred in stout leather leggings, and thick, warm shooting coats and caps.
My uncle's manner was fidgety, as we walked onward. He had evidently something on his mind, which he could not express in words, and I could give him no aid. After a pause--
"Newton, lad," said he, "I don't think that you take to your gun very willingly to-day."
"What leads you to think so, uncle?"
"You continued to look back at the house, as long as even the vanes of it were in view, as if the game there had more attractions than the birds out of doors."
"I merely looked back to bow to Lady Loftus and the others," said I, laughing.
"There it is! Why do you put Lady Loftus first?"
"Perhaps because her figure was tallest--I don't know--perhaps I should have named Cora, as the Lady of Calderwood," said I laughing, to hide my growing confusion.
"Newton Norcliff, you have a tenderness for Lady Chillingham's daughter," said Sir Nigel, gravely.
"Have I? Don't know that I have, sir," I repeated, actually flushing.
"Of course you have, and you know it," said he, emphatically.
"But who told you of this?"
"Cora."
"Cora?"
"Yes, with tears in her eyes, this morning."
"Tears! This is incomprehensible. I have only been a single night under the same roof with Lady Loftus."
"Yet Cora has discovered your secret. Girls are quick-sighted in such matters, I can tell you."
"But why had Cora tears?"
"Don't for the life of me know, unless it be that she fears your love will be but moonshine in the water. They are a cold, calculating, and ambitious family, Lord Chillingham's, and will fly their hawk at higher game than mere landed gentry."