When next he paid his devoirs at the residence of the Napiers, Lilian fairly blushed with pleasure to see him looking so gallant and handsome; for, to a young girl's eye, a nodding plume, a golden scarf, and jewelled rapier, were considerable additions to an exterior otherwise extremely prepossessing.
The paleness resulting from his confinement had quite passed away; his olive cheek was suffused with the rich warm glow of health; while buoyant spirits, new hopes, and high aspirations, lent a lustre to his eye and a grace to his actions, which was not visible before, when he felt himself to be the mere object of patronage and dependence—the poor private gentleman with a brass-hilted whinger and corslet of black iron.
Again and again he visited the old turretted house on the Burghmuir, and drank deeper draughts of that intoxicating passion which, from its hopelessness, he dared hardly acknowledge to himself. Every day he became more and more in love, and felt that it would be impossible (with all his awe of Lady Grisel's fardingale and cane) to keep it long a secret from the being who inspired it.
CHAPTER II.
THE GLOVE.
Distrust me not, but unreserved disclose
The anxious thought that in thy bosom glows;
To impart our griefs is apt to mitigate,
And social sorrows blunt the darts of fate.
EVENING, a Poem.
A month had passed away, and the summer came; it was a month of unalloyed happiness to Walter Fenton, who, at the somewhat solitary mansion of Bruntisfield, was a frequent and always a welcome guest; and there he spent every moment he could spare from his military duties, which chiefly consisted of being on guard at the Palace Porch or Privy Council Chamber, a review on Leith Links before old Sir Thomas of Binns practising King James's new mode of exercise by flam of drum, or 'worrying' various unhappy old women to say 'God save the King,' pronounce the rising at Bothwell a rebellion, Archbishop Sharpe a martyr, and Peden an impostor.
Notwithstanding the early season of the year, the game in the woods had particularly taken his fancy; so had the herons, eels, teals, and trout of the Loch; and rabbit-warrens, and foxes that lurked among the great quarries; and with Finland he generally contrived to finish the day's loitering at the Hall fire, where Lady Grisel, with the birr of her silver-mounted wheel, performed a burden to the long and monotonous tales she inflicted, of the splendours of King Charles's court, the terrors of the wars of Montrose, and the spells and charms of sorcerers and witches—warnings, ghosts, and Heaven knows what more; but all of which proved much more interesting to her hearers in that age, than it could to my readers in this.
Walter loved better to hear the wiry tinkling of Lilian's cittern or virginals after the old lady had fallen fast asleep, and then Annie Laurie joined her clear merry voice to the deeper notes of Douglas; and they were ever a happy evening party when the pages of Cassandra, or The Banished Virgin, and other romantic folios of the day—luxury, music, and conversation, free and untrammelled as any lover could wish—made the hours fleet past on silken wings. Ever joyous and ever gay, it was a circle from which Walter departed with regret, and counted one by one the long and weary hours until he found himself there again.
Notwithstanding her violent prejudice against the obscurity of his birth, Lady Grisel warmly admired the young man for the frankness and courage he displayed, his general high bearing, and above all, for a certain strong resemblance which she averred he bore to her youngest son, Sir Archibald Napier, who was slain in the unfortunate battle of Inverkeithing, when Cromwell forced the passage of the Forth.