Great emotions, like those excited by the affair of Agnes Auriol, seldom can remain long, and must subside; Louisa was quite subdued, and sunk in softness and love to-night. She was all that I could desire--my own Louisa.
The gentlemen soon joined the ladies in the drawing-room, and I drew at once near Louisa, who was again seated on the same ottoman with Cora. Lady Chillingham was idling in an easy-chair, half asleep, near the fire, with her feet placed on the velvet fender-stool, and a silky lapdog on her knee; but she roused herself on the approach of Lord Slubber to whisper one of his old-fashioned compliments, coined in the age when gallantry was a study.
"And you think the cavalry will not go through France?" said Louisa, taking up, after a time, the thread of some of her former remarks, while Cora fixed her tender and beautiful eyes kindly on my face.
"It is extremely doubtful," said I.
"And why so, Newton?" asked Cora.
"Because, cousin, it is feared that the red coats will not be popular in France; and then there are the Scots Greys, who are literally covered with trophies of Waterloo;[*] they especially would prove a very unpalatable spectacle to the men of the Second Empire."
[*] This circumstance delayed for a time the appearance of the Greys in the ranks of the allied army. They departed from Nottingham in July, 1854, with their band playing "Scots wha hae," &c.
"Your route will be a long but very pleasant one, by classic seas and classic shores," said Louisa. "Shall we trace it on the map of the Mediterranean, in the library? Come, Cora."
There was a tremulous change in her voice, and a glance in her eye that I could not mistake.
Quitting the drawing-room unnoticed by our seniors, we stepped into the library, the oak shelves of which were loaded with books of all sizes in glittering bindings, more seemingly for show than use, and approaching the large stand of maps on horizontal rollers, we drew down that of the Mediterranean, while Cora, whose good little heart forboded that we needed not her geographical aid, eyed us wistfully for a second, and passed out by a door beyond.
The library had green-shaded lamps, which were half lighted; thus we were almost concealed in shadow, and the huge cloth-mounted map we affected to examine hung before us like a friendly screen. We had but a few stolen moments for conversation, and one impulse animated us.
I turned to Louisa; her face drew closer to mine, and our lips met in one long, long passionate kiss--such a kiss as if our souls were there.
"You understand all, now, Louisa?" said I.
"All," she said, in the same breathless voice.
"And forgive all--about that poor girl, I mean. How appearances were against me!"
"Oh yes, dear, dear Newton."
"And you love me?"
"Oh, Newton!"
"You love me still?"
"Can you ask me while petting me thus? You have felt our separation since those few happy days at Calderwood?"
"As a living death, Louisa. Worse than anticipations of the greater separation that is to come."
"With all its dangers!" she said, with her eyes now full of tears.
"Yes; for whatever happens I shall feel assured----"
"That your poor Louisa loves you still--loves you dearly, Newton; and ere you go to-night you must give me a lock of your hair."
Her head on my shoulder; her pale brow against my cheek, her lips were close to mine.
"Till we are both in our graves, dear Newton, you can never, never know how much I love you, and the agony that Berkeley's cunning cost me."
These were blessed words to hear--blessed words to treasure in the distant land to which I was going; and in a silence more eloquent than words, I could but press her to my heart.
This was indeed a moment of reunion, never to be forgotten, but to be treasured in the secret recesses of the soul, and recalled only at times; and times there were when I recalled it, when far, far away, in the lonely watches of those dark nights, when the chafing of the Black Sea was heard afar off on the rocks of Fort Constantine, and the thunder of Sebastopol was close and nigh; and then the vague, undefined memory of the place, the time, her voice, her eyes, and her kiss, would come gradually back, filling my heart with intense melancholy, and my eyes with tears.
In my doubt of the future, in my fear of ensnarements, and the exercise of parental authority (a power of which we stand in such awe in Scotland), and lest, by an unforeseen chance or circumstance, I should lose her, I actually besought her, in what terms it is impossible to remember now, to consent to a private marriage; and strange ideas of written promises and protestations, of blood mingled with wine, and many other melodramatic absurdities, occurred to me.
"Ah, no, no," said she, rousing herself to the occasion. "There will be time enough when you return."
"If I ever do return," said I, impetuously, thinking of the chances of war, and my certain hostile meeting with Berkeley.
"You must return, dear Newton--you shall, and I feel it in my heart."
"And there will be time----"
"For me," she interrupted, "to be cried, as Lydia Languish says, 'three times in a parish church', and have an enormously fat parish clerk ask the consent of every butcher in the parish to join in lawful wedlock Newton Calderwood Norcliff, bachelor, and Louisa Loftus, spinster; unless we have a special licence, St. George's, Hanover Square, and the Bishop of London in his lawn sleeves, and so forth."
This sudden change of manner at such a time startled and distressed me.
"It is her way--a mistaken lightness of manner," thought I.
But, alas! I was yet to learn some terrible lessons in the treachery of the human heart!
Another brief and mute embrace, and we had just time to veil our mutual agitation and turn our attention to the outspread map of the Mediterranean, affecting to trace the distance from Cagliari to Malta, when we heard the voice of Lord Chillingham saying to Sir Nigel--
"Here they are, reviving their geography apparently. Captain Norcliff," he added, "here is a note for you which has just been brought by an orderly dragoon."
"Thanks, my lord. Is he waiting?"
"No, sir," said the servant, who presented it to me on a chased silver salver; "he immediately wheeled round his horse and galloped off."
"Permit me," said I, tearing it open.
It had been hurriedly pencilled by Frank Jocelyn, and ran thus:--
"MY DEAR NORCLIFF,--The lieutenant-colonel in command of the consolidated depots here informs me that the route for ours is at Maidstone, for which place the troop must march by daybreak to-morrow. Sorry to disturb your dinner-party; but now the word is 'Eastward ho!'"
I handed it first to Louisa, and for a moment my voice failed me; but rallying, I said--"I have to apologize for a hasty departure, and shall thank you, my lord, to order my horse."
Much that followed was confusion. I can remember my good uncle shaking me repeatedly by the hand, and patting me on the epaulettes (we were like officers then, and had epaulettes on our shoulders). Cora wept a great deal; Louisa was quite silent and very pale. Our parting scene passed away like a dissolving view; but the bitterness was somewhat taken from it by the whole party promising to "drive or ride over to Maidstone and see us march out;" and so, with a kind adieu from all, I sprang on my horse, quitted Chillingham Park, and soon reached the barracks, where I found Jocelyn in my quarters awaiting me, and Willie Pitblado, who had already relinquished his livery for his lancer uniform, whistling vigorously as he packed and buckled up my traps.
Away from Louisa, I had no relief now for my mind but intense activity.
In the dull grey light of the next morning I quitted Canterbury with my troop for Maidstone, into which we were played by our own band, which came a mile or two on the Rochester Road to meet us.
There I learned from Colonel Beverley that, on the following day, we should march to join the expedition destined for the defence of Turkey.
*CHAPTER XXIV.*
Now, brave boys, we're bound for marchin', Both to Portingale and Spain; Drums are batin', colours flyin', And the divil a back we'll come again. So, love, farewell, we're all for marchin'!
Eighty-eighth and Inniskillin', Boys that's able, boys that's willin'; Faugh-a-ballagh and County Down, Stand by the harp, and stand by the crown. So, love, farewell, we're all for marchin'!
The colonel cries, "Boys, are yee's ready?" "We're at your back, sir, firm and steady; Our pouches filled with balls and poulther, And a firelock sloped on every shoulther." So, love, farewell, we're all for marchin'!
Such was the doggrel ditty--some camp song of the brave old Peninsular days--with which I heard my Irish groom, Larity O'Regan, solacing himself in the grey light of the early morning, as he rubbed down my charger, and buckled his gay trappings, in the dawn of the, to me, eventful 22nd of April. How I envied that man's lightness of heart! Perhaps he had a mother in a thatched cabin in some brown Irish bog far away; sisters, too; it might be a sweetheart--some grey-eyed and black-haired Biddy, or Nora. If so, they occasioned him but little regret then; and light-hearted Lanty's queer song and jovial bearing went far to rouse my own spirit as I mounted the gallant dark horse that was to bear me in the fields of the future.