Kate Coventry Part 4

Oh, those solemn, heavy, silent, stupid dinners, with the ma.s.sive plate and the dark oak wainscoting, and the servants gliding about like ghosts at a festival in Acheron! What a relief it would have been even to have had a clownish footman spill soup over one's dress, or ice-cream down one's back, or anything to break the monotony of the entertainment! But, no; there we sat, Aunt Horsingham remarking that the "weather was dull" and the "crops looking very unpromising;" Aunt Deborah with her eyes fixed on a portrait of the late Mr. David Jones as a boy, opposite which she invariably took her place, and on which, though representing an insignificant urchin in a high frill and blue jacket, she gazed intently during the whole repast; Cousin Amelia looking at herself in the silver dish-covers, and when those were removed relapsing into a state of irritable torpor; and as for poor me, all I could do was to think over the pleasures of the past season, and dwell rather more than I should otherwise have done on the image of Frank Lovell, and the very agreeable acquisition he would have been to such a party. And then the evenings were, if possible, worse than the dinners--work, work, work--mum, mum, mum--till tea. And after tea Aunt Horsingham would read to us, in her dry harsh voice, long pa.s.sages from the _Spectator_, very excellent articles from the _Rambler_, highly interesting in their day no doubt, but which lose some of their point after an interval of nearly a century; or, worse than all, Pope's "Homer" or Cowper's "Task," running the lines into each other, so as to avoid what she called "the sing-song of the rhymes," till the poet's effusions sounded like the most extraordinary prose, cut into lengths, as we ladies should say, for no earthly purpose but to make nonsense of the whole thing. Her ladyship never went to bed till eleven; so there, having dined at half-past six to a minute, we were forced to sit three mortal hours and a half, swallowing yawns and repressing that inexplicable disorder termed the "fidgets" till the welcome bed-candles arrived. No wonder men drink and smoke and commit all sort of enormities to fill up those dreadful hours after dinner. I think if ever I take to tobacco it will be at Dangerfield.

Then of course the Hall was haunted; and of course _my_ pa.s.sage was the one which the ghost particularly affected. It was a sad story that of "the Dangerfield ghost." I have got it all out of Aunt Deborah at different times; and though I don't exactly believe in the spectre, I can't help sometimes crying over the incidents. The fact is, the Horsinghams were quite as proud of their ghost as they were of their hand; and although not a very creditable tale to any of the family, Aunt Deborah would never forgive me if I were not to relate the tragedy which conferred on Dangerfield the honour of being a haunted house.

In the reign of George II, the head of the house, Sir Hugh Horsingham, married a young wife, and brought her home to Dangerfield with the usual demonstrations and rejoicings peculiar to such an event. Sir Hugh was a dark, morose man, considerably older than his bride; stern and forbidding in his manners, but possessing deep feelings under a reserved exterior, and a courage and determination not to be daunted or subdued. Such a man was capable of great things for good or for evil; and such was the very nature on which a woman's influence might have produced the most beneficial results. But, unfortunately, young Lady Horsingham had but one feeling for her lord, and that was intense terror of his anger. She never sought to win his confidence; she never entered into his political schemes, his deeper studies, or even his country amus.e.m.e.nts and pursuits. All she thought of was how to avoid offending Sir Hugh; and ere long this one idea grew to such a pitch that she quite trembled in his presence, could scarcely answer distinctly when he spoke to her, and seemed hardly to draw breath in freedom save when out of his sight. Such a state of things could have but one ending--distrust and suspicion on one side, unqualified aversion on the other. A marriage, never of inclination, as indeed in those days amongst great families few marriages were, became an insupportable slavery ere the first year of wedded life had elapsed; and by the time an heir was born to the house of Horsingham, probably there was no unhappier couple within fifty miles of Dangerfield than dark Sir Hugh and his pretty, fair-haired, gentle wife. No; she ought never to have married him at all. It was but the night before her wedding that she walked in the garden of her father's old manor-house with a bright, open-hearted, handsome youth, whose brow wore that expression of acute agony which it is so pitiable to witness on a young countenance--that look almost of _physical_ pain, which betokens how the iron has indeed "entered the sufferer's soul." "Ah, you may plead, 'Cousin Edward;' but we women are of a strange mixture, and _the weakest_ of us may possess _obstinacy_ such as no earthly consideration can overcome." "Lucy! Lucy! for _the last_ time, think of it; for the love of Heaven, do not drive me mad; think of it once more; it is the last, _last_ chance!" The speaker was white as a sheet, and his hollow voice came in hoa.r.s.e, inarticulate whispers as he looked almost fiercely into that dear face to read his doom. Too well he knew the set, fixed expression of her delicate profile. She did not dare turn towards him; she could not have looked him in the face and persevered; but she kept her eyes fastened on the horizon, as though she saw her future in the fading sunset; and whilst her heart seemed turning to very stone she kept her lips firmly closed; she repressed the tears that would have choked her, and so for _that_ time she conquered.

Lucy had a great idea of duty; hers was no high-principled love of duty from the n.o.blest motives, but a morbid dread of self-reproach.

She had not _character_ enough to do anything out of her own notions of the beaten track. She had promised her father she would marry Sir Hugh Horsingham--not that he had the slightest right to exact such a promise--and she felt bound to fulfil it. She never remembered the injury she was doing "Cousin Edward," the _right_ which such devotion as _his_ ought to have given him. She _knew_ she loved him better than any one in the world; she knew she was about to commit an act of the greatest injustice towards Sir Hugh; but she had "promised papa," and though she would have given worlds to avoid fulfilling her compact, she had not strength of mind to break the chain and be free.

Cousin Edward! Cousin Edward! you should have carried her off then and there; she would have been truly grateful for the rest of her life, but she would have died sooner than open her lips. He was hurt--reckless--almost savage. He thought her sullen. "Once more, Lucy," he said, and his eye glared fiercely in the waning light--"once more, _will_ you give me one word, or _never_ set eyes on me again?"

Her lip never moved. "I give you till we pa.s.s that tree"--he looked dangerous now--"and then"--he swore a great oath--"I leave you for ever!" Lucy thought the tree looked strange and ghastly in the rising moon, she even remarked a knot upon its smooth white stem; but she held out whilst one might have counted ten; and when she turned round, poor girl, Cousin Edward was gone!

CHAPTER IX.

So the bells rung merrily at Dangerfield, and the rustics huzzaed for their landlord and the comely village maidens envied the bride; and Lucy was Lady Horsingham now, with new duties and a high position, and a large, fine, gloomy house, and jewels in her hair, and an aching heart in her bosom. Nevertheless, she determined to do her duty as a wife; and every hour of the day she resolved _not_ to think of Cousin Edward.

Years elapsed, and pretty Lucy became a gentle, handsome woman--kindly, courteous, and beloved by all, timid, and shrinking only with Sir Hugh. Her husband, wearied and discontented, mixed himself fiercely in all the intrigues of the day--became a staunch partisan of the House of Stuart, and sought for excitement abroad in proportion as he missed congeniality of feeling at home. It was an unhappy household. Their one child was the mother's sole consolation; she scarcely ever let it out of her presence. They were a pretty sight, that loving couple, as they basked in the sun of a fine summer's morning on the terrace in front of the manor-house. The boy, with his mother's blue eyes and his own golden curls and the arch, merry smile that he never got from stern Sir Hugh; and the fair, graceful woman, with her low, white brow and her soft brown hair and her quiet gestures and gentle sorrowing face--that face that haunts poor Cousin Edward still.

"Mamma!" says the urchin, pouting his rosy lips, "why don't you play with me?--what are you thinking of?" and a shade pa.s.ses over that kind face, and she blushes, though there is no one with her but the child, and catches him up and smothers him in kisses, and says "_You_, my darling;" but, nevertheless, I do not think at that moment she was thinking either of her boy or Sir Hugh.

And where was Cousin Edward all the time? Why, at that particular instant, sword-point to sword-point with Colonel Bludyer of the Dragoons, slightly wounded in two places--cool and wary, and seeming to enjoy, with a sort of fierce pleasure, such a safety-valve for excitement as a duel with one of the best fencers in Europe.

Cousin Edward was an altered man since he stood with the future Lady Horsingham in the moonlight. "An evil counsellor is despair;" and he had hugged that grim adviser to his heart. He had grown handsomer, indeed, than ever; but the wild eye, the haggard brow, and the deep lines about his mouth spoke of days spent in fierce excitement--nights pa.s.sed in reckless dissipation. He had never forgotten Lucy through it all, but even her image only goaded him to fresh extravagances--anything to deaden the sting of remembrance--anything to efface the maddening past. So Cousin Edward too became a Jacobite; and was there a daring scheme to be executed, a foolhardy exploit to be performed--life and limb to be risked without a question--who so ready and so reckless as "handsome Ned Meredith"?

In the course of their secret meetings and cabals he became slightly acquainted with Sir Hugh Horsingham; and, with the inexplicable infatuation peculiar to a man in love, he look a pleasure in being near one so closely connected with Lucy, although that one was the very person who had deprived him of all he valued on earth. So it fell out that Sir Hugh Horsingham and Ned Meredith were supping at the Rose and Thistle in close alliance, the table adjoining them being occupied by those staunch Hanoverians, Colonel Bludyer and Mr. Thornton.

"Here's 'The Blackbird,'"* said Cousin Edward, tossing off a huge goblet of Bordeaux, and looking round the room with an air of defiance as he proposed so well-known a toast. Sir Hugh was a man of a certain grim humour, and as he drained his goblet and nodded to his companion, he added, "May the rats dance to his whistle, and the devil--that's _you_, Ned--take the hindmost!"

* One of the many pa.s.swords by which the adherents of the Chevalier distinguished that ill-fated Prince.

Colonel Bludyer rose from his chair, placed his c.o.c.ked hat on his head, and turned the buckle of his sword-belt in front. "The King!" he shouted, raising his hat with one hand and filling a b.u.mper with the other. "The King!" he repeated, scowling fiercely at his two neighbours.

"Over the water!" roared Ned Meredith; and the Colonel, turning rapidly round and mistaking his man, flung his c.o.c.ked hat right in Sir Hugh Horsingham's face.

Swords were out in a second--thrust, parry, and return pa.s.sed like lightning, but the bystanders separated the combatants; and Meredith, determining for the sake of Lucy that Sir Hugh should encounter no unnecessary danger, took the whole quarrel on himself, and arranged a meeting for the following morning with the redoubtable Colonel Bludyer. Thus it was that while Lucy and her boy were basking in the summer sunshine, Cousin Edward was exhausting all his knowledge of swordsmanship in vain endeavours to get within that iron Colonel's guard. The duel was fought on the ground now occupied by Leicester Square, Sir Hugh and Mr. Thornton officiating as seconds, though, the latter being disabled from the effects of a recent encounter, they did not, as was usual in those days, fight to the death, merely "_pour se desennuyer_." Stripped to their shirts--in breeches and silk stockings, with no shoes--the antagonists lunged and glared and panted, and twice paused for breath by mutual consent, with no further damage than two slight wounds in Ned's sword-arm.

"Very pretty practice," said Mr. Thornton, coolly taking a pinch of snuff, and offering his box to Sir Hugh. "I'm in despair at not being able to oblige you this fine morning."

"Some other time," replied Sir Hugh with a grim smile; "d----ation,"

he added, "Ned's down!"

Sure enough Cousin Edward was on the gra.s.s, striving in vain to raise himself, and gasping out that he "wasn't the least hurt." He had got it just between the ribs, and was trying to stanch the blood with a delicate laced handkerchief, in a corner of which, had he examined it closely, Sir Hugh would have found embroidered the well-known name of "Lucy." Poor Cousin Edward! it was all he had belonging to his lost love, and he would have been unwilling to die without that fragment of lace in his hand.

"A very promising fencer," remarked Colonel Bludyer, as he wiped his rapier on the gra.s.s. "If he ever gets over it, he won't forget that "_plongeant_" thrust in tierce. I never knew it fail, Thornton--never, with a man under thirty." So the Colonel put his coat on, and drove off to breakfast; while Sir Hugh took charge of Ned Meredith, and as soon as he was recovered--for his wound was not mortal--carried him down with him to get thoroughly well at Dangerfield Hall.

It is an old, old story. Love, outraged and set at defiance, bides his time, and takes his revenge. Dangerfield looked like a different place now, so thought Lucy; and her spirits rose, and the colour came back to her cheek, and she even summoned courage to speak without hesitating to Sir Hugh. When Cousin Edward was strong enough to limp about the house, it seemed that glimpses of sunshine brightened those dark oak rooms; and ere he was able to take the air, once more leaning on Lucy's arm, alas! alas! he had become even dearer to the impa.s.sioned, thoughtful woman than he ever was to the timid, vacillating girl. There was an addition now to the party on the terrace in the bright autumn mornings, but the little boy needed no longer to ask mamma "what she was thinking of;" and the three would have seemed to a careless observer a happy family party--husband, wife, and child. Oh that it could but have been so!

In the meantime Sir Hugh was again as usual busied with his state intrigues and party politics, and absented himself for weeks together from the Hall; riding post to London night and day, returning at all sorts of unexpected hours, leaving again at a moment's notice, and otherwise comporting himself in his usual mysterious reserved manner.

Yet those who knew him best opined there was something wrong about Sir Hugh. He was restless and preoccupied; his temper less easily excited about trifles than was his wont, but perfectly ungovernable when once he gave way to it. No man dared to question him. He had not a friend in the world who would have ventured to offer him a word of advice or consolation; but it was evident to his servants and his intimates that Sir Hugh was ill at ease. Who can tell the struggles that rent that strong, proud heart? Who could see beneath that cold surface, and read the intense feelings of love, hatred, jealousy, or revenge that smouldered below, stifled and kept down by the iron will, the stubborn, indomitable pride? There is a deep meaning in the legend of that Spartan boy who suffered the stolen fox to gnaw his very vitals, the while he covered him with his tunic and preserved on his brave face a smile of unconcern. Most of us have a stolen fox somewhere; but the weak nature writhes and moans, and is delivered from its torment, while the bold, unflinching spirit preserves a gallant bearing before the world, and scorns to be relieved from the fangs that are draining its very life away.

Whatever Sir Hugh saw or suspected, he said not a word to Lucy, nor was it until surmise had become certainty that he forbade "Cousin Edward" the house. To him he would not condescend to explain his motives; he simply wrote to him to say that on his return he should expect to find that his guest had departed, and that he had sufficient reasons for requesting his visits might not be repeated. With his wife he was, if possible, more austere and morose than ever; so once more the Hall resumed its old aspect of cheerlessness and desolation, and its mistress went moping about, more than ever miserable and broken-hearted. Such a state of things could not long go on; the visits forbidden openly took place by stealth; and the climax rapidly approached which was to result in the celebrated Dangerfield tragedy.

At this period there was set on foot another of those determined plots which during the first two reigns of the house of Hanover so constantly hara.s.sed that dynasty. Sir Hugh of course was a prime mover of the conspiracy, and was much in London and elsewhere gathering intelligence, raising funds, and making converts to his opinions. Ned Meredith, having, it is to be presumed, all his energies occupied in his own private intrigues, had somewhat withdrawn of late from the Jacobite party; and Sir Hugh heard, with his grim, unmoved smile, many a jest and innuendo levelled at the absentee.

One stormy winter's evening the baronet, well armed, cloaked, and booted, left his own house for the metropolis, accompanied by one trusty servant.

He was bearing papers of importance, and was hurrying on to lay them with the greatest dispatch before his fellow-conspirators. As night was drawing on, Sir Hugh's horse shied away from a wild figure, looming like some spectre in the fading light; and ere he had forced the animal back into the path, his bridle was caught by a half-naked lad, whom the rider at once recognized as an emissary he had often before employed to be the bearer of secret intelligence, and who, under an affectation of being half-witted, concealed much shrewdness of observation and unimpeachable fidelity to the cause.

"Whip and spur, Sir Hugh--whip and spur," said the lad, who seemed fl.u.s.tered and confused with drink; "you may burst your best horse betwixt this and London, and all to get there before you're wanted. A dollar to drink, Sir Hugh, like handsome Ned gave me this morning--a dollar to drink, and I'll save you a journey for the sake of the 'Bonny White Rose' and the 'Bird with the Yellow Bill.'"

Sir Hugh scrutinized the lad with a piercing eye, flung him a crown from his purse, and bid him "out with what he had to say, for that he himself was hurried, and must push on to further the good cause." The lad was sobered in an instant.

"Look ye here, Sir Hugh," he said eagerly; "handsome Ned went down the road at a gallop this morning. There's something brewing in London, you may trust me, Sir Hugh, and I tried to stop him to learn his errand; but he tossed me a crown and galloped on. He took the Hill road, Sir Hugh, and you came up the Vale; but he's bound for Dangerfield, I know, and mayhap he's got papers that will save your journey to London. No offence, Sir Hugh," added the lad, for the baronet's face was black as midnight.

"None, my good boy," was the reply in a hoa.r.s.e, thick voice. "Hold, there's another crown for you--drink it every farthing, you villain!

or I never give you a sixpence again;" and Sir Hugh rode on as though bound for London, but stopped a mile farther forward, at a place where two roads met; and entrusting his papers to his servant, bade him hasten on with them, whilst he galloped back through the darkness in the direction of his home.

Home, indeed! Had it ever been home to Sir Hugh? Would it be home to-night? When he got back there, and skulked into his own house like a midnight thief--what would he do?--why was he galloping so fast? Sir Hugh set his teeth tight, and holding his powerful horse hard by the head urged him on faster than before. The lights are all out in the little village of which he is sole master, and his horse's hoofs clattering through the street rouse the sleepy inmates for an instant ere they return to their peaceful rest. Sir Hugh is not sleepy; he feels as if he never should want to sleep again.

How dark it is in the Park under those huge old trees! He fastens his horse to one of the drooping branches, and after removing his pistols from their holsters spreads his cloak over the heaving flanks of the heated animal. Habit is second nature, and he does not forget the good horse. He strides through the shrubberies and across Lucy's garden, crushing with his heavy boot-heel the last flower that had lingered on into the winter. There is a light streaming from one of the windows in the gallery. Ha!--he _may_ be right--he may not have returned in vain.

For an instant a feeling of sickness comes over him, and he learns for the first time that he _had_ cherished a hope he might be deceived.

He can let himself in by the garden-gate with his own pa.s.s-key. Ere he is aware, he is tramping up the corridor in his heavy horseman's boots--his hand is on the door--there is a woman's shriek--and Sir Hugh's tall, dark figure fills the doorway of Lucy's sitting-room, where, alas! she is not alone, for the stern, angry husband is confronted by Ned Meredith!

Lucy cowers down in a corner of the room with her face buried in her hands. Cousin Edward draws himself up to his full height, and looks his antagonist steadily in the face, but with an expression of calm despair that seems to say fate has now done her worst. Sir Hugh is cool, collected, and polite; nay, he can even smile, but he speaks strangely, almost in a whisper, and hisses through his set teeth. He has double-locked the door behind him, and turns to Cousin Edward with a grave, courteous bow.

"You have done me the honour of an unexpected visit, Mr. Meredith," he says. "I trust Lady Horsingham has entertained you hospitably! Pray do not stir, madam. Mr. Meredith, we are now quits; you saved my life when you encountered Colonel Bludyer; I forbore from taking yours when I had proofs that it was my right. We have now entered on a fresh account, but the game shall be fairly played. Mr. Meredith, you are a man of honour--yes, it shall be fairly played." Ned's lip quivered, but he bowed and stood perfectly still. "Lady Horsingham," continued Sir Hugh, "be good enough to hand me those tables; they contain a dice-box.--Nay, Mr. Meredith," seeing Ned about to a.s.sist the helpless, frightened woman; "when _present_, at least, I expect my wife to obey me." Lucy was forced to rise, and, trembling in every limb, to present the tables to her lord. Sir Hugh placed the dice-box on the table, laid his pistols beside it, and, taking a seat, motioned to Cousin Edward to do the same. "You are a man of honour, Mr.

Meredith," he repeated; "we will throw three times, and the highest caster shall blow the other's brains out." Lucy shrieked and rushed to the door; it was fast, and her husband forced her to sit down and watch the ghastly game.

"Good G.o.d, Sir Hugh!" exclaimed Cousin Edward, "this is too horrible--for your wife's sake--any reparation I can make, I will; but this is murder, deliberate murder!"

"You are a man of honour, Mr. Meredith," reiterated Sir Hugh. "I ask for no reparation but this--the chances are equal if the stakes are high. You are my guest, or rather, I should say, _Lady Horsingham's guest_. Begin." Cousin Edward's face turned ghastly pale. He took the box, shook it, hesitated; but the immovable eye was fixed on him, the stern lips repeated once more, "You are a man of honour," and he threw--"Four." It was now Sir Hugh's turn. With a courteous bow he received the box, and threw--"Seven." Again the adversaries cast, the one a six, the other a three; and now they were even in the ghastly match. Once more Cousin Edward shook the box, and the leaping dice turned up--"Eleven." Lucy's white face stood out in the lamplight, as she watched with stony eyes that seemed to have lost the very power of sight.

"For G.o.d's sake, forego this frightful determination, Sir Hugh,"

pleaded Cousin Edward; "take my life in a fair field. I will offer no resistance; but you can hardly expect to outdo my throw, and nothing shall induce me to take advantage of it. Think better of it, Sir Hugh, I entreat you."

"You are a man of honour, Mr. Meredith, and so am I," was the only reply, as Sir Hugh brandished the box aloft, and thundered it down on the table--"Sixes!" "Good casting," he remarked; and at the same instant c.o.c.king the pistol nearest to him, discharged it full into his antagonist's bosom. The bullet sped through a delicate lace handkerchief, which he always wore there, straight and true into Cousin Edward's heart. As he fell forward across the table, a dark stream flowed slowly along the carpet, till it dyed the border of Lucy's white dress with a crimson stain. She was on her knees, apparently insensible; but one small hand felt the cold, wet contact, and she looked at it, and saw that it was blood. Once more she uttered a shriek that rang through those vast buildings, and rushed again to the door to find it locked. In sheer despair she made for the window, threw open the cas.e.m.e.nt, and ere Sir Hugh could seize or stop her flung herself headlong into the court below. When the horrified husband looked down into the darkness, a wisp of white garments, a bruised and lifeless body, was all that remained of Lady Horsingham.

That night one half of Dangerfield Hall was consumed by fire. Its mistress was said to have perished in the flames. The good neighbours, the honest country people, pitied poor Sir Hugh, galloping back from London, to find his house in ruins and his wife a corpse. His gay companions missed "Ned Meredith" from his usual haunts; but it was generally supposed he had obtained a mission to the court of St.

Germains, and there was a rumour that he had perished in a duel with a French marquis. A certain half-witted lad, who had followed Sir Hugh back to Dangerfield on that fearful night, might have elucidated the mystery; but he had been kidnapped, and sent to the plantations. After many years he returned to England, and on his deathbed left a written statement, implicating Sir Hugh in the double crime of arson and murder. But long ere this the culprit had appeared before a tribunal which admits of no prevarication, and the pretty boy with the golden curls had become lord of Dangerfield Hall. The long corridor had been but partially destroyed. It was repaired and refurnished by successive generations; but guests and servants alike refused to sleep again in that dreary wing after the first trial. Every night, so surely as the clock tolled out the hour of twelve, a rush of feet was heard along the pa.s.sage--a window looking into the court was thrown open--a piercing scream from a woman's voice rang through the building--and those who were bold enough to look out averred that they beheld a white figure leap wildly into the air and disappear. Some even went so far as to affirm that drops of blood, freshly sprinkled, were found every morning on the pavement of the court. But no one ever doubted the Dangerfield ghost to be the nightly apparition of Lucy, Lady Horsingham. At length, in my grandfather's time, certain boards being lifted to admit of fresh repairs in the accursed corridor, the silver-mounted guard of a rapier, the stock and barrel of a pistol, with a shred of lace, on which the letter "L" was yet visible, were discovered by the workmen. They are in existence still. Whatever other remains accompanied them turned to dust immediately on exposure to the air. That dust was, however, religiously collected and buried in a mausoleum appropriated to the Horsinghams. Since then the ghost has been less troublesome; but most of the family have seen or heard it at least once in their lives. I confess that if ever I lie awake at Dangerfield till the clock strikes twelve I invariably stop my ears and bury my head under the bedclothes for at least a quarter of an hour. By these means I have hitherto avoided any personal acquaintance with the spectre; but nothing on earth would induce me to walk down that corridor at midnight and risk a private interview with the Dangerfield ghost!

CHAPTER X.