Before the nurse could reply I was in my saddle, and had closed the iron gate; but just as I rode off, I nearly trod down a man who was muffled in a poncho cloak, and who leant against the gate pillar—whether listening or asleep, I knew not; yet, had I looked more closely, I might have detected the moustached face of my quondam friend, Mr. De Warr Berkeley. For this loiterer, or eavesdropper, proved in the sequel to be no other than he.
To outflank me, and to place himself, his fortune (and his debts), at the complete disposal of Lady Louisa Loftus, was now the plan—the game—of my friendly brother officer; and with what success we shall see ere long.
I was full of thought while riding slowly home to the barracks on the Thanet Road; I longed for Cora's coming to unravel the mystery of Louisa's conduct, and yet dreaded to face my cousin or broach the matter to her. I was inspired with sympathy for the poor lost creature I had just quitted, and full of indulgence for her mode of life, and excuses for her fate and fall. Her singular beauty greatly aided emotions such as these, for the morbid state of her health lent a wondrous lustre to her dark blue eyes, and marvellous transparency to her lovely complexion; and I felt extreme satisfaction that it was in my power to gratify a wish that was, perhaps, her last one—to pay a pilgrimage to the resting-place of her parents.
The sweet verse of honest Goldsmith occurred to me—
The only art her guilt to cover,
To hide her shame from every eye,
To give repentance to her lover,
And wring his bosom is—to die!
At the same time I thought it very doubtful whether any such catastrophe would wring the padded bosom of Berkeley.
Had Agnes Auriol been a wrinkled crone, it may be a matter for consideration whether I—a young officer of lancers—would have been so exceedingly philanthropic in her cause. I hope I should.
On arriving at the barracks, my first task was to despatch Pitblado by the night train to head-quarters, with a note to M'Goldrick, the paymaster, for at least fifty pounds, saying I wanted the money, and must have it by noon to-morrow.
CHAPTER XIX.
But the spite on't is, no praise
Is due at all to me;
Love with me hath made mad no staies
Had it any been but she.
Had it any been but she,
And that very face,
There had been at least ere this
Twelve dozen in her place.
SIR JOHN SUCKLING.