Chapter XIX · SCHEMES.

Lady Ernescleugh, a large, showy, and fashionable-looking woman, had driven to Willowdean with her son Everard, the Master of Ernescleugh, who was a lieutenant in the Household Brigade, on hearing of the new arrival; and though the future lord was so wealthy that money was no particular object to him, the beauty of Gwenny, and the piquancy that was in all she did and said, impressed him favourably; and now a series of dinners, picnics, drives to various places of interest, and even a pleasure excursion in his yacht, were schemed out; but, to some of the former, and more especially the latter, Lady Wedderburn was decidedly opposed; and the too recent death of Sir John's only brother afforded her a good pretext for doing so, and keeping Gwenny at home, while Cyril's leave of absence lasted, at least.

Lady Ernescleugh urged her to take Gwenny to London, and have her presented at the very first Drawing Room next season; adding, that if Lady Wedderburn cared not about going to town, she would herself only be too happy to act as chaperon to a girl so beautiful and so certain to make a sensation; but the watchful mother had no desire that the wealthy heiress should be lost to her Cyril in the splendid whirlpool of London society, while he, perhaps, was fighting the Russians. Heaven alone knew when, for as yet the scene of the expected war was vague indeed.

Her whole aim was to "bring the young people together," and in this instance it was overdone. Cyril saw through her scheme, though Gwenny did not; and he was both amused and bored by it, for the master-thought evinced itself in many trifling ways.

"Gwenny, my darling," said she, one evening in the drawing-room, "I am sure your cousin longs to hear you sing and play. Don't you, Cyril?"

"Of course," replied Cyril, who had been furtively looking at the French clock on the white marble mantelpiece, and thinking it was almost time he was drawing near the stile at Lonewoodlee. "Of course, if she will so far favour us," he added, hastening to open the piano, set up the music-frame, and adjust the stool; devoutly hoping the while that the performance would be as short as possible.

"I play little, and sing less now," said Gwenny.

"Gwendoleyne!" exclaimed Lady Wedderburn, as she shook her lace lappets and diamond pendants.

"Besides, dearest Aunt, Horace Ramornie is a critic, and I dislike to play before critics."

"You played and sang to him yesterday," said Robert Wedderburn, before Horace, who was about to deprecate being deemed a critic, could speak.

"True; but he pressed me so," said Gwenny, with the faintest blush.

"Come, Horace, and press her again," urged Cyril, with a nonchalant laugh.

"Will you, then, favour me—us, I mean," whispered Horace, leading her to the piano, while his cheek reddened.

She seated herself at the instrument, spreading all her crape flounces over the stool, and began at once the prelude to some little air she had picked up abroad. Her voice was sweet and tender; but neither the words of the song nor her execution were brilliant; and Cyril, while he listened, admiring the while her ivory neck and pretty hands, was thinking of another whose fine voice, a glorious soprano, could thrill his heart to the core.

Lady Wedderburn often found her eldest son and his cousin in the conservatory—in the library, and even in the billiard-room; and always left them discreetly, little thinking that Gwenny was in the first instance merely expatiating on the superior flora of Madras and the Carnatic; in the second, perhaps selecting a book or so by Cyril's suggestion; and in the third, that he, so far from talking of love when looking into the soft dark eyes of Gwendoleyne, was discussing most learnedly, cue in hand, on the screw and side-twist; of losing and winning hazards; of what a famous stroke Probyn of ours was; of winning no end of scores off the red ball running; of pool and pyramid; all of which were as Sanscrit and Oordoo to the fair listener.

Busy with his steward or ground bailie, riding about one day, or rambling the next, with weeder in hand, his sturdy legs cased in brown leather gaiters, and his wide-awake garnished with hooks and flies, Sir John spent most of his time out of doors, looking after his estate, seeing where trees were to be cut down or others planted, water courses to be changed, or little bridges to be built; and only once did he speak to Cyril of Gwenny, and even then at Lady Wedderburn's suggestion.

"If you mean to propose for your cousin, Cyril, you have my free consent. Do so, and do it at once. You know our maxim in hunting——"

"Never crane if you mean to take a leap?"

"Exactly. And now I am off to see how the tile-draining gets on."

"Is she not handsome, Cyril?" said Lady Wedderburn on one occasion, passing her arm through that of her son, as he stood, abstractedly, looking from the library window on the gravelled terrace, where Gwenny and Horace were feeding the peacocks with crumbs of biscuit.

"Of course she is handsome," replied Cyril, twirling his mustache; "but——" and he paused.

"But what?"

"One sees so many handsome girls in every garrison town. At such places as Canterbury they are thick as blackberries."

"But few garrison hacks have three hundred thousand pounds."

"Few indeed," replied her gay Captain, laughing. "And as for loving them, fellows only go in for that, mother dear, till the route comes. It is a very limited liability after all; and then we leave them little pink notes—perhaps a lock of hair; or simply send our servants with our august bits of pasteboard, scribbled P.P.C., for Dublin or Delhi, Brighton or Beloochistan, as the case may be; the mess plate is packed, the colours are cased, and away we go with the band playing, 'Good-bye, sweetheart, good-bye.'"

"Cyril, you will drive Gwenny to Coldingham to-morrow, and show her the ruins of the Priory."

"I don't think that a girl who has seen the vast rock-hewn temples of the Buddhists and the Pyramids of Egypt will care much about our old Priory. Besides, she is to be driven there by Horace. He knows all about these old places more than I do; and can tell her the whole story of how Edgar, King of Scotland, built it in the eleventh century, and gave it to the monks of Durham, and all that sort of thing."

"Horace! It is always Horace," said his mother, with undisguised annoyance.

"Besides, I am engaged."

"How—where, and with whom?" she asked, while the gloom deepened on her fair and open brow.

"Three questions, mother dear. You worry me! How am I engaged? By a previous arrangement. Where? At Ernescleugh to dinner. With whom? The Master. And now you have it all," said he, kissing her, as he used to do in boyhood.

Still she was dissatisfied, and taking his hand in hers, led him into her beautiful little boudoir—that toy chamber, with the blue satin and silver hangings, where she kept all Cyril's Indian presents to herself.

"Come," said she, as she closed the door, "I must speak with you seriously on the subject that is nearest my heart."