Chapter VI: The Chagrin of Love

Lord Aberfeldie duly arrived at Dundargue with his three gentlemen visitors, their approach being heralded by the pipes of Ronald Gair, who was perched on a seat of the game-laden wagonette as it bowled up the avenue.

On the first day of his return the peer was anxious to learn upon what footing the cousins were--if Allan had made a proposal, or 'even opened the trenches,' and if so, with what success. On these points he was enlightened by Lady Aberfeldie, and, though not very much surprised to find matters as they were, he trusted to propinquity and cousinly feeling of intercourse, as trump cards in the game, and was sure that all would come right in the end, and before Allan's leave of absence was out.

There was no selfishness in this desire of Lord Aberfeldie. He had no power to alter the matter as it stood, for if she did not marry Allan if he was willing to marry her, 'then and in that case,' as the will had it, her patrimony would be lost even to herself. Allan's death alone would save it for her.

Great indeed, thought the girl with bitterness, must have been her father's regard for the house of Aberfeldie!

'What friends--such lovers we might be but for the confounded plans of that eccentric old fellow!' was the ever-recurring thought of Allan.

'You are at least fond of her?' said the peer, as he and his son smoked their cigars together on the terrace that overlooked the far-stretching vista of the Carse of Gowrie, then bathed in the ruddy splendour of the setting sun.

'Fond of Olive! Yes, as much as she will permit me to be. She is my cousin, of course,' replied Allan.

'There is something evasive--doubtful--in your answer; but you must at some time or other propose to her. You know precisely the terms of her father's remarkable will.'

'Yes, and that it hangs like a millstone round the necks of us both, rendering what may be the dearest wish of our hearts liable, perhaps, to the grossest misconstruction. She has more than once told Eveline that to gain freedom of action she would face poverty--anything.'

'Tuts! Romantic rant! Much she knows of what poverty is. But why should she even think of facing it?'

'To be free and unfettered, as I have said.'

'Relinquishing to you all that portion of her fortune which does not go to charitable institutions?'

'Yes.'

'Poor girl! A silly and impetuous threat. But she will think better of it, Allan, by-and-by, and we have fully five years to count upon yet.'

But it did not seem as if the fair Olive was likely to change her mind soon, to judge by her bearing that evening, when, after dinner, the guests and family at Dundargue assembled in the drawing-room.

The repast was over, and thereafter, ere the ladies withdrew, Ronald Gair, with all his drones in order, his Crimean, Indian, and Ashanti medals glittering on his breast, had marched thrice round the table, according to his daily wont, in 'full fig,' looking as only a Highland piper or a peacock can look; and, to the amazement of Sir Paget Puddicombe and the disgust of Hawke Holcroft, winding up 'The Birks of Aberfeldie' by several warlike skirls at the back of his master's chair--the dinner, we say, was over, and the gentlemen had joined the ladies in the stately drawing-room, which was lighted by more than one glittering chandelier.

Lord Aberfeldie, his son, and Stratherroch, as they wore the kilt, had, of course, substituted for their rough shooting-jackets others of black cloth, with the irreproachable white vests and ties as evening costume, and had also assumed their silver-mounted dirks; while Holcroft and one or two more were _de rigueur_ in the funereal attire, which a writer calls 'the butler-suit, the most hideous clothing yet hit upon by our species.'

In that brilliant drawing-room, grouped with well-bred people, were some curious elements of secret doubt and future discord that did not quite meet the eye.

Holcroft hung over the chair of Olive so closely that, at times, the tip of his long and waxed tawny moustache nearly touched her head, while she played with her fan, opening and shutting it listlessly as they conversed in low tones, he adopting a sentimental one, though it was ever his boast that he 'was not one of those fools who hoard by them dried flowers, locks of hair, and all that sort of thing.'

Quietly watched by Lady Aberfeldie, whose lips wore their set expression, Evan Cameron was entirely occupied with her daughter, while Allan seemed quite as intent on a new guest, Miss Logan of Loganlee, a girl possessed of considerable personal attractions; and his father talked politics with Loganlee himself, the parish minister, and Sir Paget Puddicombe, a short, pompous, and squat, but rather pleasant little man, with a prematurely bald head, which he had a way of jerking forward from his neck like a turtle, a rubicund face, two merry eyes, and whose age was rather doubtful, but too old any way for a girl of Eveline Graham's years, though he affected considerable juvenility of manner.

Lord Aberfeldie, who generally about that time, when at Dundargue, was wont to enjoy a quiet little game of chess or bezique with Olive or Eveline, was rather bored by the _empressement_ with which the clergyman, Sir Paget, and Loganlee discussed politics and the prospects of the ministry.

The latter, a sombre man, whose air of respectability was almost oppressive, was one of a style of men common enough in Scotland. A small landed proprietor, he had contrived to become M.P. in the Liberal interest for a cluster of Scottish burghs (each of which, if in England, would have had two members), and he was chiefly noted--being 'Parliament House bred'--for neglecting Scottish interests and toadying to the Lord-Advocate, and consequently obtained the usual legal reward, a sheriffship, or something of that kind, with a thousand a year or so.

He seldom opened his mouth, save to talk on politics; he was tall and thin, with very square shoulders, grizzled, sandy, mutton-chop whiskers, apple-green eyes, and nothing more about him remarkable, save a curious air of perpetual self-assertion, combined, as we have said, with an oppressive one of respectability.

His host began to change the tenor of the conversation by hoping that Sir Paget found his quarters comfortable last night, adding that he occupied 'the Johnson Room.'

'Why is it so called?' asked Sir Paget, jerking forward his bald head.

'Dr. Johnson slept a night in Dundargue when on his famous tour.'

'Of which Boswell makes no mention?' said Mr. Logan, inquiringly.

'Because my ancestor did not pay him sufficient deference; and, indeed, I fear we should scarcely ever have heard of the literary bear of Bolt Court and Fleet Street but for that Scotch toady of his. Though he alleged that the most valuable piece of timber in Scotland was his walking-stick, he might have seen some fine trees at the Birks of Aberfeldy. We must ride over there, Sir Paget, and I will show you the cradle of the Black Watch, my old regiment of immortal memory.'

'How?'

'It was first mustered there on the 25th of October, 1739.'

'Ah!' said Sir Paget, who was not so much interested in the matter as the speaker.

Sir Paget was a childless widower, and had been left a noble fortune in many ways, including nearly the whole of Slough-cum-Sloggit, of which his father rose by his own merits to be mayor. He had entered the town a tattered lad, with only a sixpence in his pocket, and, in due time, the sixpence became the basis of colossal wealth. He had been made a baronet by the ministry of the day--no one knew precisely for what; but the wealth he left behind him gave his son an interest in the eyes of Lady Aberfeldie he was unlikely to attain in the soft hazel orbs of her daughter.

Sir Paget generally stood with his chest puffed out, reminding one of a pouter-pigeon, his little, fat hands interlaced behind his back, and often as not under the tails of his coat, his round, good-humoured face and twinkling eyes turned up to the faces of those with whom he conversed, as most men, and women, too, had the advantage of him in stature.

With a gold _pince-nez_ balanced on his very pug nose, he was what young ladies described as 'an absurd little man' whose tender speeches they laughed at--none more than Eveline--till matters took a serious turn, though he failed to feel the truth of the aphorism, 'Let no lover cherish sanguine hopes when the object of his choice has grown to look upon him in the light of the ridiculous.'

Evan Cameron, we have said, sighed for Eveline; hopeless as his undeclared love had been, the presence of the wealthy English baronet, in conjunction with certain rumours he had heard, made it more hopeless than ever; and, unattractive though Sir Paget's years and figure, he felt intuitively that in him he had a dangerous rival.

When he found that this most eligible _parti_ was again on the _tapis_--one whose name had been associated with that of Eveline in at least one 'society' paper during the last London season, poor Stratherroch's heart sank down to zero. He felt and knew that, with Lady Aberfeldie especially, he was literally 'nowhere' by his want of wealth, though, like a true Highlander, he could trace his lineage back into the misty times of Celtic antiquity; but, aristocratic though she was, the peeress set little store on that.

Eveline Graham seemed as much beyond his reach as the moon. He felt that, for his own peace of mind, he ought to quit Dundargue as soon as possible, yet he clung desperately to the perilous delight of the girl's society.

To all appearance, the pair were simply looking over, almost in silence, a large book of clear-skied and strongly-shadowed photos of Indian scenery brought home by Allan, yet both their hearts had but a single thought, and, when the downward glance of his soft grey eyes met hers, she felt that, in spite of herself, there was something in it like a magnetic spell.

Passionate and pleading eyes they were, generous and loving in expression, telling the tale his lips had not yet uttered, and might never do so; and the girl lowered her white lids as if a weight oppressed them, and the diamond locket on her white bosom sparkled as a sigh escaped her.

A little way off, in something of the same pose, Hawke Holcroft, with a glass in his pale, sinister eye, was hanging, as we have said, over Olive Raymond, doing his utmost in _sotto voce_ to fascinate that young lady, while pretending to translate, as suited the occasion and himself, for the edification of his fair listener, the lettering of one of the Chinese or Japanese fans that were strewed about the tables.

Now, Mr. Hawke Holcroft knew nothing about the terms of Mr. Raymond's will, or of the existence of any such document, and might never know. He was only certain that Olive was undoubtedly an heiress; that he himself was very impecunious, and ere long might be well-nigh desperate; and so he did not see why he should not, to use his own horsey phraseology, 'enter stakes as well as another.'

Rumour, certainly, had linked the names of the cousins together; 'but if she is engaged to Graham,' thought the observant Holcroft, 'it is strange that she wears no engagement ring.'

He knew not that, separated as the pair had been almost from childhood, no such little formality as the presentation of a ring could have been gone through; and now, as the Master did not see his way to it as yet, Holcroft was 'scoring,'or thought so.

He was leaving nothing unsaid to enchain her attention. He seemed very clever: at least he could converse fluently on many subjects; seemed to have been everywhere and to have seen everything worth seeing, or pretended to have done so, which was most likely.

'However they stand, her heart is not in it,' was his ever-recurring thought; 'and if so, why the deuce shouldn't I try my hand? She has a pot of money--indeed, no end of money, I hear; but, then, if her noble aunt and uncle have made up their noble minds to pounce upon her as a daughter-in-law, how is she to resist, unless she elopes, if "Barkis" (meaning Allan) "is willin'"? They can make her life a burden to her until she gives in, or--or I run away with her, and why the devil should I not?'

Holcroft was an artful man, and well acquainted with every phase of dissipated life; he had suave manners when he chose and an unexceptionable appearance. With many debts and secret passions, he was cold and selfish; a man who never made a move in any way without forecast and calculation; and who might commit a crime if driven to it, but never precisely a folly.

He was closely watching Olive while he conversed with her; he admired her beautiful person, but still more her ample purse. She dared to trifle with him at times, he thought; and then, even when looking down upon her satin-like hair, her dazzling white shoulders and innocent violet eyes, with a vengeful feeling he mentally vowed that he would _compel_ her to love him, or accept him, he cared not which, if human will and cunning failed him not!

He had a love--a passion for her--in a strange fashion of his own, yet times there were when he almost hated her for fencing with him: and little could the soft, bright beauty, who raised her fine eyes from time to time to his and conversed so laughingly with him, have conceived the conflicting emotions that were concealed in his breast under a smiling exterior, or the shame and agony he was yet to cost her.

Even when he attempted to look loving, there were a cold expression and lack of colour in his eyes, and there was something very significant of an iron will about his lips and powerful chin.

Olive had no warm feeling for Holcroft, and save for the obnoxious will would infinitely have preferred her cousin Allan in the end; but she affected just then to believe in Platonic friendship (blended with a little judicious flirtation) so firmly that, to pique Allan, she showed a great apparent preference for his would-be rival.

Olive and Holcroft knew that this seeming flirtation was perilous work, and might compromise them both with Lord and Lady Aberfeldie, and with Allan, too, if it attracted attention; but Holcroft had a game to play. Olive's proud little heart was full of resentment and pique, and then anything with a spice of danger in it is always curiously fascinating.

More than all, Olive was beginning to feel conscious that, under the circumstances, it was strangely awkward to be in the same house with Allan Graham--the intended husband to whom her father had bequeathed her. But whither could she go?

In more than one instance, in the drawing-room at Dundargue, that night was illustrated the aphorism that language is given us to conceal our thoughts, and much was exhibited of what the French not inaptly term the chagrin or peevishness of love.