In going there now he would do so with a deadened sense of sorrow, disappointment, and bitterness in his heart and the wretched doubt as to whether he was wise to throw himself into the lure—was it snare?—of her society again; even with the intention of showing, as he thought, poor goose, how bravely he could resist it, and seek to convince her that he had effaced the past and forgotten to view her amid the halo in which he had once enshrined her. Were they, then, to meet in a state of antagonism?
Trevor Chute's brave rescue of Sir Carnaby Collingwood had, as a story, preceded his return to town, with many exaggerations; the clubs rang with it, and it actually stirred the blood in what 'Ouida' calls 'the languid, nil admirari, egotistic, listless pulses of high-bred society.'
But time was creeping on now, and the Christmas of the year drew near at hand.
CHAPTER XX.
CARNABY COURT.
The baronet's country seat was popular among his 'set,' and in the county generally. The ladies were attractive, Sir Carnaby was fond of society, and was undeniably hospitable: the preserves were good, the corn-fed pheasants were among the best in the land, and partridges abounded in the coverts and thickets; the stud and cellar were good, and his French cook was a genius. The oak-studded chase, where the deer lay deep amid the fern, showed trees that were of vast antiquity—remnants, perhaps, of the days when Bucks was all a forest, as old historians tell us.
The Collingwoods had been lords of Collingwood ever since tradition could tell of them. They were, it was said, old as the chalky Chiltern Hills and the woods of Whaddon Chase, and stories of their prowess had been rife among the people since the days when Edward was murdered at Tewkesbury, when 'bluff King Hal' burnt Catholics and Protestants together with perfect impartiality at Smithfield, when Mary spent her maudlin love on Philip, and Queen Bess boxed the ears of her courtiers: all had figured in history somehow; and everywhere, over the gateway half hidden by ivy, in the painted oriels, on the gables, and on the buttons of the livery servants, were three eels wavy on a bend, indicating a heraldic portion of the tenure by which they held their land, like the lord of Aylesbury in the same county—'By the sergentry of finding straw for the bed of the Defender of the Faith, with three eels for his supper, when he should travel that way.'
Built, patched, and repaired in various ages, the Court is one of the most picturesque old mansions in the county. In one portion, chiefly inhabited by crows and bats, there was a half-ruined remnant left by the Wars of the Roses, on which the present Tudor, or, rather, Elizabethan mansion, with its peaked gables, oriel windows, and clustered chimney-stacks—square, twisted, or fluted—had been engrafted. Hawthorn, holly, and ivy grew out of the clefts of the ruinous portion; and there in childhood had Clare and Ida made baby houses; and there they had devoured in secret many a fairy and ghost story, and thrilled with joy over that of the 'Ugly Duckling.' The terrace balustrades were mossy and green, and though Carnaby Court had an old and decayed aspect, there was a lingering grandeur about it.
The plate in the dining-hall was famous in the county for its value and antiquity, though many a goblet and salver had gone to the melting-pot when King Charles unfurled his standard at Nottingham.
We have said that stories had been rumoured about of a figure seen in the garden and elsewhere; and Sir Carnaby, who loathed scenes, excitement, worry, 'and all that sort of thing,' as he phrased it (though he had undergone enough and to spare), was intensely provoked when the old butler gave him some hint of the shadowy addition to the family at the Court.