Chapter XII: In the Kongens Nytorv

'Married, at St. George's Church, Hanover Square, on Saturday, Sir Carnaby Collingwood, Bart., of Carnaby Court, to the Hon. Evelyn Desmond, only daughter of the Right Hon. Lord Bayswater..... The bride wore a dress composed of rich ivory-white Duchesse satin, the skirt,' &c., &c.

Such was the announcement which suddenly met the eye of startled Trevor Chute, as it was running leisurely and carelessly over the columns of a _Times_, nearly a fortnight old, as he lingered over his coffee one morning, when seated under the awning in front of the Hotel d'Angleterre, in the Kongens Nytorv of Copenhagen.

'Whew!' whistled Chute, as he read and re-read the paragraph, with all its details of the bride's elaborate costume, the uniform of the bridesmaids, the presents, and so forth, down to the shower of satin slippers, and the departure of the happy couple by the Great Western Railway.

This event was all the more startling to Chute, as he had been wandering from place to place, through Germany and the North of Europe, and thus few letters and no papers from England had reached him for some time past; and now it was the end of the first week of September, when the brown partridges would be learning to their cost that the tall waving wheat, amid which their little broods had thriven, was shorn on the uplands, and the sharp-bladed plough was turning up the barley-stubbles.

It may well be supposed that the contents of this paragraph among the fashionable intelligence gave our wanderer occasion for much thought; and from the bustle around him--for he had been taking his coffee at a little marble table placed literally on the pavement of the square, which, if not one of the handsomest places in Europe, is certainly the finest in the Danish capital, with its statue of Christian V., with its green plateau and flower-borders--he retired to the solitude of his own room; but even as he did so there were others, he found, who were near him, and took a gossiping interest in the paragraph.

There were several English people in the hotel, of course, for one must travel a long way to find solitude in these our days of universal locomotion. Among others there was young Charley Rakes, at whose house we have lately seen the Collingwoods--a fast youth of Belgravian breed, whom Chute did not like; and he had rather a way of keeping at full arm's-length those whom he viewed thus.

'So, so,' he heard him say to a friend; 'the old fellow is married at last, and to the Desmond. What the little birds said proves right, after all.'

'Poor Clare!' thought Chute, as a burst of laughter followed the reading of the paragraph, with great accentuation, aloud.

'Fancy Evelyn Desmond airing flannel bags for the gouty feet of old Collingwood, fomenting his bald pate--(he is bald, isn't he?)--putting his lovely teeth into a tumbler at night, unlacing his stays, and all that sort of thing, don't you know!'

From this rough jesting with names in which he had an interest so vital now, Trevor Chute, we say, gladly sought the privacy of his own room, where, stretched upon a sofa, he gave himself tip to the luxury of lonely thinking, while watching the pale blue wreaths evoked from his meerschaum bowl floating upward into the lofty ceiling overhead, while the drowsy hum of the city came through the green jalousies of the windows, which opened to the Kongens Nytorv, and faced the Theatre Royal.

Would this alliance mar for ever the chances of the Major, or redouble them, as he would be quite _en famille_ at Carnaby Court and the town mansion in Piccadilly?

He recalled the parting words of Clare, and thrust the speculation aside as unworthy the consideration of a second. He could awaken in the morning now with other thoughts than the dull ache of the bitter olden time; for though their prospects were vague and undefined, he had her renewed promise, and now more than ever did he recall it, with the delicious threat that accompanied the renewal.

'Clare, Clare!' he muttered aloud; and with all the passionate longing of a lad of twenty, the man's heart went out to her, the absent one.

She was his in spirit only; but oh, for Surrey's magic mirror, to bring her before him once again, that he might revel on the calm poses of her statuesque figure, her soft, yet aristocratic face, and the curve of her lips, that were exquisite as those of a Greuze--even as Surrey revelled on the beauties of Geraldine when conjured up by Cornelius Agrippa!

Again he was sunk in thoughts of her, as when far away amid the awful and undisturbed solitude of the Himalayan forests, where the pines that rose to the height of two hundred feet were tipped with sunshine, while all was night below; and where the torrents, with their ceaseless roar, that wearied the ear, when, swollen by the winter rains, they tore past the lonely cantonment of Landour, where the last home of Beverley and many more lie, rolling on and on to the plains and tea-gardens of Assam.

But his prospects were brighter now, and thus he had thought of her happily when idling from place to place, in the glittering Kursaal at Hamburg, the many gaieties of Berlin, and of more domestic Copenhagen; when among the lonely woods of Norway, and the countless isles of the Christiana Fiord, which the Norse packet had traversed when its waters were moonlit and luminous, when the dark violet-tinted waves of eve rolled on the green shores of the Jungfrau land, when he had seen the gorgeous sun setting redly beyond the bronze-like forests of Sweden, and flushing alike the sky above and the waters of the Sound below--her face was ever before him, and he had remembered its expressions and the tone of her voice in every hour he spent, especially when alone, by land and sea, in city, wood, or wilderness.

'I have Clare's promise and assurance that she loves me still,' he would think; 'but how long am I to drag on this absurd life, this separate existence? Surely we are not so hopeless now as in that time when I was broiling up country.'

With reference to her promise, he pondered, would she write to him? Scarcely. Should he write to her, and remind her of it--not that for a moment he ever believed it to be forgotten; but of, this policy he was doubtful, and so resolved to wait a little, as he would be certain to hear from Jerry Vane or some other friend.

But while waiting, Clare might be cast into the attractive influence of some one else, and he knew that she was surrounded by all the charms and allurements of rank and of wealth. Then he deemed himself a wretch to think of such things. Anon he became terrified lest she should be ill, as he knew how much this marriage would mortify, fret, and worry her.

From his reverie he was roused by the appearance of his valet, Tom Travers, standing close by at 'attention,' by pure force of old habit. He had neither heard him knock nor enter; neither had he heard his tread on the polished floor, which as usual in these countries, was uncarpeted.

'Letter for you, sir,' said he, presenting one on a salver.

'Thanks, Tom.'

He tore it open; it was from Jerry Vane, and dated from 'Carnaby Court.' This made Trevor's heart leap.

'Jerry must have been making his innings,' thought he, 'to be there. He has surely been seized with a most unusual _cacoethes scribendi_. I have not heard from the fellow for months, and now he sends me nearly sixteen pages. What can they all be about? Perhaps the marriage, but more likely that alluring _ignis fatuus_, Ida.'

And once more filling his pipe, he composed himself to peruse the letter of his old chum, Jerry, who ran on thus:--

'I suppose you have long since heard how Sir Carnaby Collingwood made a fool of himself at St. George's. He has now gone on his wedding tour, and I am thankful he is out of the way. It is ungracious to write these lines of one's host, and still more so of one I would fain be more nearly connected with; but it is the old story of Doctor Fell, and you know I never liked Sir Carnaby. How difficult it is to analyse sympathy. By Jove, Trevor, it is a thing that no fellow can understand, for it takes possession of us whether we will or no; hence it is that we are unconsciously attracted or repelled by some of those we meet at first sight. And why? No one can tell. Hence, a magnetic influence draws us sometimes even to those we should shun, or compels us to shun sometimes those whom, from policy, we should attract, and in whom we should confide.' ('Has Jerry had a sunstroke?' thought Trevor; 'what _is_ all this about?') 'And thus it was that a magnetic influence led me to love Ida at first sight, and at the same time to dislike Sir Carnaby, and I fear the feeling will never pass away, so far as he is concerned.

'I know not where this may find you; but any place is better than London at this season. You know what it is in August and September, with its pavement fit only for a salamander or a fireman. After Ascot, the Collingwoods--the three ladies, at least--left London in the height of the season, and went to Carnaby Court. I was with them--Ida and Clare, I mean--on Rakes' drag on the Royal Heath on the Cup day. Don't you envy me, old fellow? I am sure you do. We spoke much of you among ourselves, anyhow, and Clare looked her brightest and her best when we did so. By not starting early, we were delayed waiting for the young engaged couple; we lost the first two races, but that was nothing.

'It was with quiet anger the girls saw the half-concealed billing and cooing of the old baronet and the _fiancée_, and with what excellent grace he lost some heavy bets to her brother, the Guardsman, and others to the lady herself, which she entered in a dainty little book with a jewelled pencil, and laughing girlishly as she buried her pretty nose in a hot-house bouquet of the colours affected by Sir Carnaby.

'Desmond's animal was nowhere; but, perhaps, you won't be sorry for that. Some say he has lost a pot of money, and may have to leave the Brigade; anyway, it did not prevent him from returning with some dolls in his hat-band. For some reason--gout, it was whispered--the baronet did not go to the Derby, so the fair Evelyn agreed with him that it was only fit for boys, and declined to go either. Why should a gentleman go, to have his clothes covered by dust or flour, his hat, perhaps, banished by a cocoa-nut; and why a lady, to see and hear all the horrid things that were said or done? Yet, in times past, she had gone and faced all these things and more, so it suited her to play propriety on that Derby Day; but when Ascot came, she was there making bets, even 'ponies,' in full swing.

'I came here at first to have a shot or two at the birds for a week, by express invitation, as I told you, and then I may, perhaps, join you on the Continent after all. Ida matronises the household, and a lovely matron she makes, with her sweet, sad grace. Sir John and Lady Oriel are here, old Colonel Rakes and his wife, and that titled _parvenu_, Lord Brixton, with some others, to await the return of the "young couple" from Germany, whither they have gone to hide their blushes; and the tenantry are getting up an enormous triumphal archway at the avenue gate; the public-house at the village is getting a new signboard; the ringers are practising chimes in the old Saxon spire; the schoolmaster is composing an epithalamium, and the Carnaby volunteer artillery are to fire a salute on the lawn. But I wonder how I can write so frivolously, for something occurred on the third day after I came that has caused me much discomfort and perplexity.

'There is an arbour in the garden, one of many, but before this I mean there stands a marble Psyche.'

(How well Trevor Chute could remember that arbour--a kiosk--with all its iron lattice-work and gilded knobs, and the masses of roses and clematis, Virginia creeper and ivy, all matted and woven in profusion over it. Many a time had he sat there with Clare, and often in a silence that was not without its eloquence. 'Well; and what of the arbour?' thought he, turning again to the letter of Jerry.)

'When passing among the shrubberies, I saw Ida seated in that arbour, with a book in her lap, and, to all appearance, lost in thought. A flood of amber light, shed by the evening sun, poured aslant through an opening in the greenery upon her white neck and lustrous auburn hair, which shone like gold, as her hat was off and lay beside her. A great joy filled my heart as I thought of the hopes given me during the meeting at Rakes' house, and after watching her beauty for a minute or so in silence I was about to join her, when she looked upward, and then there appeared, what I had not before perceived, so absorbed had I been in her, a man, unknown to me, looking down upon her--a man with whom she seemed to be in close conversation.

'Some huge branches of roses concealed his figure from me, but his face was distinct enough, in closer proximity to hers than good breeding generally warrants. It was pale, very, with dark eyes and a black moustache--in detail, by Jove, Chute, the same fellow whom Colonel Rakes found eavesdropping in the conservatory!

'Startled, alarmed, and scarcely knowing what to think, I still resolved to join her. I could scarcely deem myself an intruder, considering the terms we had been on, and are on now, and approached the arbour, but in doing so had to make a circuit among the shrubberies. Half a minute had not elapsed when I reached the arbour; no one passed me on the walk, not a footfall was heard on the gravel, at least by me; but when I joined her she was alone, with her head stooped forward, her face buried in her hands, and when she looked up its pallor startled me; yet her grey-blue, changeful, and lustrous eyes looked, and with a smile, into mine.

'"Have I disturbed you?" I asked, scarcely knowing what to say.

'"Disturbed me? Oh, no; I was done reading."

'"But some one was with you."

'"When?"

'"Just now."

'"Impossible!"

'"I thought that some one was here," I said, in great perplexity.

'"Oh no--but sit down and let us talk," said she, frankly.

'I thought of the face I had just seen so near her own. I was rendered dumb, as I felt my tenure of favour was too slight to risk offending her by further remark on a subject so singular; but I was pained, grieved, and bewildered to a degree beyond what words can express. I looked at her earnestly, and seeing her so pale, said:

'"Are you not well, Ida?"

'"Only in so far that one of those mysterious shudders which I feel at times came over me a minute ago."

'I am aware that she has complained of this emotion or sensation before, and that the best medical skill in town has failed to make anything of it.

'"The odour of those flowers has perhaps affected you," said I, somewhat pettishly thrusting aside a bouquet tied by a white ribbon which lay near her.

'"Oh no," she replied, "their perfume has always been a favourite of mine."

'They were stephanotis, and I have often heard it was a favourite flower with Beverley.

'"From whom did you receive the bouquet?" I asked, but something indefinable in my tone attracted her.

'"Vane--Jerry!" she exclaimed. "It was brought me by the gardener," she added, and her calm face and serene eye all spoke of one to whom doubt or further question would have been intolerable, and the fear of anything unknown. Did she know what I had seen, or suspect what was passing in my mind? It would seem not; and still more was I perplexed and startled on perceiving, as we rose to join Clare, Violet, and others who were proceeding laughingly to the croquet lawn, a gentleman's glove lying on the seat which she had just quitted.

'"Some one has dropped this," said I, taking it up.

'"I never observed it," she replied, quietly; "is it not your own?"

'"No," said I, curtly, as I tossed it into the arbour, with the fear, the crushing conviction, that some fellow _had_ been there after all How he had effected his exit from the arbour unseen by me was a mystery; but how I enjoyed our croquet that afternoon you may imagine.

'In the course of our game I casually discovered that the lost glove belonged to Sir John Oriel, but you know that his personal appearance scarcely answers to that of the man I have described to you.

'I am loath to admit myself to be jealous; but there is a mystery in all this I cannot fathom. My visit here terminates at the end of a week, when I shall return to town more miserable in mind than I ever did before. I am to be at Carnaby Court for the Christmas festivities, but have a vague fear of what may happen in the meantime. _This fellow_----' (Jerry had drawn his pen through words, evidently as if checking some ebullition, and then continued).

'It was, perhaps, with the naturally kind and womanly desire to soothe the sorrow she had caused, and the wound she had inflicted, that when next day we met by chance in the same arbour--in fact, I followed her to it--she was more than usually affable and sweet with me, and I ventured in the plainest terms to speak of the subject that was nearest my heart.

'"Confident in my own unchanging love for you, Ida," said I, "honour for your feelings, tenderness and kindness have made me silent for long; but I think the better time has come when I might openly speak to you of love again, dear Ida."

'"Do not urge that subject on me now," she replied, with undisguised agitation. "You are a dear good and kind fellow--dear and good as--as--as when I first knew you; but I--I----" She paused and trembled.

'"What?" I whispered.

'"My heart is in the grave!"

'"This is absurd; it is morbid--it is irreligious!" I exclaimed.

'"Do not say so, Jerry Vane."

'I thought to myself, bitterly (excuse me, Chute), could not this confounded fellow Beverley die without bothering her with all his gloomy messages and mementoes?

'"If you do not marry me, I shall die an old bachelor. Let not the one love of my life be utterly hopeless--you, my first and last!"

'"Poor Jerry, what _can_ I say?" she exclaimed, interlacing her white, slender fingers.

'"That you will love me."

'"In time, perhaps--I will try--but cease to urge me now."

'"Bless you for those words, Ida."

'"I am glad to make you happy, Jerry," said she, with a bright smile in her beautiful eyes.

'"You do indeed cause my heart to swell with happiness--but--but why do you _shudder_?" I exclaimed.

'"Did I shudder?" she asked, growing very pale, and withdrawing her hand from mine. "Oh, let us cease this subject, Jerry, and--and excuse me leaving you."

'She glided away from my sight down the garden walk, quitting me with an abruptness unusual to her, which I observed on more than one occasion, and the cause of which I was unable to discover, or reconcile even with the rules of common politeness; but now she returned with a sad yet smiling and somewhat confused expression of face, and showed me the book she had been perusing on the preceding day. It was the Baron von Reichenbach's work on magnetism and vital force, and pointing to a passage wherein he details the effect produced on a girl of highly sensitive organization when influenced by a magnet, she said:

'"I feel when I start and leave you exactly what this girl describes her sensation to be, drawn from you by an irresistible attraction which I am compelled to follow unconditionally and involuntarily, and which, while the power lasts, I am obliged to obey, even against my own will. So do pardon me, Jerry; I am powerless, and not to blame."

'She spoke with quiet sweetness--with an infinite gentleness and sadness, but I saw the man's glove yet lying in the arbour--the tangible glove--and thought: "Good heavens! is all this acting--insanity, or what?"

'Anyway, I was filled with keen anxiety and deep sorrow to find that she whom I loved so tenderly was under influences so strange and accountable--so far beyond one's grasp.

'Could the figure of the man I had seen so near her, with his odious face so close--so very close--to hers, have been an illusion--a hallucination--a thing born of my own heated fancy, and the shifting lights and shadows of the arbour and its foliage?

'If so, it seemed very odd indeed that an appearance exactly similar should have been seen in his conservatory by such a sentimental and matter-of-fact old fellow as Colonel Rakes!'

Here ended Jerry's long and rambling letter, many items in which gave Trevor Chute food for long thought and reverie.

As for Ida's nervous illness, for such he deemed it beyond a doubt to be--an illness born of her grief for Beverley, and annoyance at her father's marriage--he believed the bracing country air would cure all that; and as for her magnetic fancies, he thought that the less she read of such far-fetched philosophy as that of the Baron the better.

The two stories of the man who had been seen were odd, certainly, and to some minds the bouquet, though alleged to be given by the gardener, and the glove might have seemed suspicious; but Ida, though she had jilted Jerry in time that was past, was not by nature a coquette; and knowing this, Trevor Chute, as a man of the world, dismissed the whole affair as some fancy or coincidence, and then his ideas went direct to Clare and Carnaby Court, and he envied Jerry.

The strange medley of foreign sounds in the vast space of the Kongens Nytorv were forgotten and unheard, for Chute's mind was revelling amid other scenes and places now. He was even thinking over the Derby to which Vane had alluded, and he recalled the days when he had been a species of pet in 'the Brigade,' when he looked forward to the Derby as the great event of the year, and his own delight when he first drove the regimental drag, the selection of the horses, the ordering of the luncheon, the colour of the veils, and the road along which all the world of London seemed pouring, the golden laburnums at Balham in all their glory, the hawthorn hedges at Ewell, the beeches and chestnuts that shaded the dusty way, the myriads on the course, the wonderful bird's-eye view from the grand-stand, the excitement of the races, the stakes and the bets, from thousands to pretty boxes of delicate gloves for Clare and others; all of which he should never enjoy as he had enjoyed them once. And now impatience made him peripatetic, so he rang for his valet, Travers.

'Pack up, Tom,' said he; 'we leave Copenhagen to-morrow.'

'All right, sir--for where?'

'Lubeck. Have a droski ready at ten; I shall take the morning train.'

Travers saluted and withdrew, without thinking or caring whether Lubeck was in Hanover, Hindostan, or the island of Laputa.

It was the merest whim or chance in the world that led to the selection of Lubeck as a place to be visited; but Trevor Chute could little foresee whom he was to meet there, or all that meeting led to.