SECOND TO NONE.

CHAPTER I.
BY THE WAYSIDE.

My adventures were my sole inheritance long before I thought of committing them to paper for the amusement of myself, and—may I hope—for the instruction of others.

Wayward has been my fate—my story strange; for my path in life—one portion of it at least—has been among perils and pitfalls, and full of sorrow and mortification, but not, however, without occasional gleams of sunshine and triumph.

On an evening in the month of February—no matter in what year, suffice it to say that it was long, long ago—I found myself near a little town on the Borders between England and Scotland, with a shilling in my hand, and this small coin I surveyed with certain emotions of solicitude, because it was my last one.

I sat by the wayside under an old thorn-tree whereon the barons of Netherwood had hung many a Border outlaw and English mosstrooper in the olden time; and there I strove to consider what I should do next; but my mind seemed a very chaos.

In this unenviable condition I found, myself on the birthday of my eighteenth year—I, the heir to an old title and to a splendid fortune—homeless, and well-nigh penniless, without having committed a crime or an error of which conscience could accuse me.

The rolling clouds were gathering in grey masses on the darkening summits of the Cheviot hills in the hollows of which the snows of the past winter lay yet unmelted. The cold wind moaned in the leafless woods, and rustled the withered leaves that the autumn gales had strewn along the highway. The dull February evening crept on, and the road that wound over the uplands was deserted, for the last wayfarer had gone to his home. The sheep were in their pen and the cattle in their fold; no sound—not even the bark of a dog—came from the brown sides of the silent hills, and, affected by the gloomy aspect of Nature, my heart grew heavy, after its sterner and fiercer emotions passed away.

The last flush of sunset was fading in the west; but I could see about three miles distant the gilt vanes and round turrets of Netherwood Hall shining above the strove of leafless trees that surrounded it, and I turned away with a sigh of bitterness, for adversity had not yet taught me philosophy. I was too young.

With the express intention of visiting Netherwood Hall, I had travelled several miles on foot; but now, when in sight of the place, my spirit failed and my heart sickened within me; and thus, irresolute and weary, I seated myself by the side of the way, and strove to arrange my thoughts.

To be brief, I shall describe in a few pages, who and what I am, and how on that sombre February evening I came to be on such unfortunate terms with old Dame Fortune.

My grandfather, Sir Basil Gauntlet, of Netherwood, had so greatly resented his eldest son's marriage with a lady who had no fortune save her beauty, that he withdrew all countenance and protection from him. So far did he carry this unnatural enmity, that by will he bequeathed all his property to the son of a brother, and, with great barbarity, permitted my father to be consigned to the King's Bench prison, by which his commission in the cavalry was forfeited; and there, though a brave and high-spirited officer, who had served under the Marquis of Granby, he died of despair!

My mother soon followed him to the land that lies beyond the grave; and thus in infancy I was left, as the phrase is, to the tender mercies of the world in general, and my old bruin of a grandfather in particular.

Yet this upright Sir Basil, who was so indignant at his son's penniless marriage, had been in youth one of the wildest rakes of his time. He had squandered vast sums on the lovely Lavinia Fenton—the original Polly Peachum—and other fair dames, her contemporaries; indeed, it was current in every green-room in London, that he would have run off with this beautiful actress, had he not been anticipated, as all the world knows, or ought to know, by his grace the Duke of Bolton, who made her his wife.

Sir Basil had been wont to drink his three bottles daily, as he said, "without a hair of his coat being turned." He had paraded three of his best friends, on three different occasions, for over-night insults of which he had a very vague recollection in the morning; but then "after what had occurred," what else could he do? and so after bathing his head and right arm in vinegar to make his aim steady, he winged them all at Wimbledon Common, or the back of Montagu House.

In London he was the terror of the watch, and would smash all the lamps in Pall Mall or elsewhere, when, after losing perhaps a thousand guineas at White's among blacklegs and bullies, or after carrying the sedan of some berouged fair one through the streets with links flaring before it, he came reeling home, probably with a broken sword in one hand, a bottle in the other, and his pockets stuffed with brass knockers and other men's wigs; consequently Sir Basil should have remembered the days of his youth, and have tempered the acts of his old age with mercy; but it was otherwise.

I do not mean to detain the reader by a long history of my earlier years; for if those of a Cæsar or an Alexander have but little in them to excite interest, still less must the boyhood of one who began the world as a simple dragoon in the king's service.

The good minister of Netherwood, and the English rector on the south side of the Border, frequently besought Sir Basil to be merciful to the orphan child of his eldest son.

"I pray you to recollect, Sir Basil," urged the rosy-faced rector, "that your own marriage was a love-match."

"It must have been so, if all you scandalous fellows at Oxford said truth."

"Why?"

"For there you said I loved the whole female sex."

The jolly rector laughed so much at the poor jest of the old rake, that the latter actually became commiserate; or it may be that my mother's death and my utter desolation, stirred some emotion of shame—pity he had none—in Sir Basil's arid heart; so, to keep me at a distance from himself, he consigned me on a pittance to the care of his country agent, a certain Mr. Nathan Wylie, who was exceedingly well-named, as he was a canting Scotch lawyer—in truth "a cunning wretch whose shrivelled heart was dead to every human feeling," and who by the sharpness of his legal practice was a greater terror on both sides of the Border than ever the mosstroopers were of old.

He was the person who had prepared and executed the will which transferred my heritage to my cousin, Tony Gauntlet—a will which he framed with peculiar satisfaction, as he hated my father for making free with his orchard in boyhood, and in later years for laying a horsewhip across his shoulders at the market-cross of Greenlaw, so in his sanctified dwelling I was likely to have a fine time of it!

For ten years I resided with the godly Nathan Wylie, a repining drudge, ill-fed, ill-clad, and poorly lodged, in one of those attics which he apportioned to Abraham Clod, his groom, his pigeons and myself—uncared for by all; and not unfrequently taunted with the misfortunes of my parents for whom I sorrowed, and the neglect of my grandfather whom I had learned to abhor and regard with boyish terror.

I picked up a little knowledge of law—at least such knowledge as one might learn in the office of a Scotch country agent in those days. I mastered, I believe, even "Dirlton's Doubts," and other equally amusing literature then in vogue; while Nathan Wylie took especial care that I should know all the shorter catechism, and other biblical questions by rote, that I might be able to repeat them when the minister paid us his periodical visit, though my elbows were threadbare, my shoes none of the best, and my eyes and brain ached with drudging at the desk far into the hours of the silent night, penning prosy documents, preparing endless processes, and not unfrequently writing to dictation such an epistle as the following, which I give verbatim as it actually appeared in a Border paper:—

"DEAR SIR,—I am directed to raise an action against you to-morrow for the sum of one penny, together with the additional sum of three shillings and fourpence, sterling, the expense of this notice, if both sums be not paid me before 9 a.m.

"Yours, faithfully in the Lord,
"NATHAN WYLIE.

"To Farmer Flail, &c."

In early life he had married an old and equally devout female client for the money which he knew well she possessed; and as that was all he wanted, after her death he never married again, but devoted himself manfully to the practice of the law and extempore prayer—an external air of great sanctity being rather conducive to success in life in too many parts of Scotland.

Poor Nathan has long been laid six feet under the ground; but in fancy I can still see before me his thin figure, with rusty black suit and spotless white cravat; his sharp visage, with keen, restless, and cat-like eyes, that peered through a pair of horn spectacles, and with shaggy brows that met above them. Moreover, he had hollow temples, coarse ears, and a tiger-like jaw, which he always scratched vigorously when a case perplexed him, or with satisfaction when some hapless client was floored in the field of legal strife.

As years stole on, that keen and honest sense of justice, which a boy seldom fails to feel, inspired me with indignation at the neglect with which my family treated me, and the story of my parents and their fate redoubled my hatred to my oppressors.

My cousin Tony, a harebrained fool, whose mad fox-hunting adventures formed the theme of all the Border side, and who, by my grandfather's lavish and misplaced generosity, was enabled to pursue a career of prodigality and extravagance, came in for a full share of my animosity, for he was wont to ride past me on the highway without the slightest recognition, save once, when, flushed with wine, he was returning from a hunting-dinner.

On that occasion he was ungenerous enough to draw the attention of his groom and whipper-in to the somewhat dilapidated state of my attire, as I was trudging along the highway on some legal message to Farmer Flail at the Woodland Grange.

On hearing their derisive laughter, my heart swelled with suppressed passion, and had a weapon been in my hand, I had struck them all from their saddles.

This crushing existence was not the glorious destiny my boyish ambition had pictured; but what could I do for a time, save submit? I had none to guide me—nor father, nor mother, nor kindred were there; and as a child, I often gazed wistfully at other children who had all these, and marvelled in my lonely heart what manner of love they had for one another.

I was conscious of possessing a fund of affection, of kindness and goodwill in my own bosom; but there it remained pent up for lack of an object whereon to lavish it, or rather it was thrust back upon me by the repulsive people by whom I was surrounded.

Business over, I would rush away to solitude. Sunk in reveries, vague and deep, I would stroll for hours alone in the starlight along the green and shady lanes, or by the silent shore, where the German sea rolled its creamy waves in ceaseless and monotonous succession on the shingles, or from whence it rippled in the splendour of the moonlight far away—reveries filled less with vain regrets than with visions of a brilliant future, for my heart was young, inspired by hope and thoughts that soared above my present condition, and sought a brighter destiny!

I could remember a time—alas! it seemed a dream to me now—when I used to repose in a pretty little bed, and when a lady, who must have been my mother, pale and thin and gentle-eyed, and richly-attired too, for her satin dress rustled, and her presence had a sense of perfume, was wont to draw back the curtains of silk and white lace to caress and to kiss me. Once a tear fell on my cheek—it was hot—and she brushed it aside with a tress of her gathered hair.

Was all this a reality, or a dream? I strove to conjure up when and where I had seen this; but the memory of it was wavering, and so indistinct, that at times the treasured episode seemed to fade away altogether.

In the long nights of winter I saved up my candles—no easy task in the house of a miser like Nathan Wylie—and, retreating to my attic, read far into the hours of morning; poring over such novels and romances as were lent me by the village milliner, a somewhat romantic old maiden, who had been jilted by a recruiting officer, and for whose memory she always shed a scanty tear, for he fell at the bombardment of Carthagena. These books I read by stealth, such literature being deemed trash and dangerous profanity in the godly mansion of Nathan Wylie.

Then when the wind, that tore down the rocky ravines of the Cheviots, howled in the chimneys, or shook the rafters above me, I loved to fancy myself at sea, for the life of a sailor seemed to embody all my ideas of perfect freedom—a bold buccaneer, like Sir Henry Morgan—a voyager, like Drake or Dampier—a conqueror, like Hawke or Boscawen—a wanderer, like dear old Robinson Crusoe, or worthy Philip Quarll; and then I went to sleep and to dream of foreign lands, of lovely isles full of strange trees and wondrous flowers, where scaly serpents crawled, and spotted tigers lurked; of cities that were all bannered towers, gilded cupolas and marble temples, glittering in the sunshine far beyond the sea.

A lonely child, I ripened into a lonely lad, and so passed my life, until the coming of Ruth Wylie, an event which fully deserves a chapter to itself.

CHAPTER II.
RUTH WYLIE.

Love occasioned my first scrape in life, and thus it came to pass.

About the period of my aimless existence, detailed in the last chapter, the mansion of Mr. Nathan Wylie received a new, and to him, in no way welcome inmate, in the person of an orphan niece from London, the daughter of a brother who had died in circumstances the reverse of affluent, bequeathing this daughter—then in her sixteenth year—to his care.

This brother's letter—one penned on his death-bed in an agony of anxiety for the future of his orphan Ruth—was deeply touching in its simple tenor; and some of the references therein to years that had long passed away, and to the pleasant days of their boyhood, should have been more than enough to soften even the heart of Nathan Wylie; but he read it unmoved, with a grimace on his thin mouth and his beetle brows knit.

Then he carefully folded and docketed it among others, with a gleam of irritation in his cat-like eyes; and equally unmoved by sympathy or compassion did he receive his charge, when she arrived by the stagecoach from London, pale with sorrow, weary with travel, and clad in cheap and simple mourning for the father she had lost.

One generally imagines a Ruth to be solemn, demure, and quiet—something between a little nun and a Quakeress; but Ruth Wylie sorely belied her name, being a merry, kind, and affectionate girl, with bewitching dark eyes, full of fun and waggery, especially when uncle Nathan was absent, for she failed to conceal that his hard, short, and dry manner, and his cold, immoveable visage chilled and saddened her.

New and strange thoughts came into my mind now; and soon I conceived a regard for Ruth, notwithstanding her hideous relation, the lawyer; for to me old Nathan was a bugbear—an ogre!

Despite his angry and reiterated injunctions, she frequently brought her workbasket or book into the room where we plodded with our pens, day after day, for she loved companionship, and Nathan's churlish old housekeeper bored her.

Then sometimes, when we would be writing, and she was sewing or reading near us, I might pause, for irresistible was the temptation to turn to the soft and downcast face of Ruth; and it was strange that however deeply interested in her book—however anxious about her needlework, by some hidden or magnetic influence, she, at the same time paused, and raised her eyelids with a bright inquiring smile, that never failed to thrill my heart with joy, to make my hand tremble, and every pulse to quicken, as our glances instantly met and were instantly withdrawn.

"Here is a little bit of romance at last!" thought I; "already our thoughts and aspirations draw towards each other."

So I resolved to fall in love—most desperately in love with Ruth Wylie—and did so accordingly.

In the full bloom of girlhood, she was at an age when all girls are pretty, or may pass for being so; but Ruth was indeed charming!

She had very luxuriant hair of a colour between brown and bright auburn; its tresses were wavy rather than curly, and her complexion was of the dazzling purity which generally accompanies hair of that description, while her eyes were dark, and their lashes black as night.

Our residence in the same house brought us constantly together, and my love ripened with frightful rapidity. In three days my case was desperate, and Ruth alone could cure it. I was sleepless by night—feverish and restless by day; yet I dared scarcely to address Ruth, for love fills the heart of a boy with timidity.

On the other hand, it endues a girl with courage, and so Ruth talked to me gaily, laughed and rallied me, while my tongue faltered, my cheek flushed or grew pale, and my heart ached with love and new-born joy.

There is a strange happiness in the first love of a boy and girl—the magnetic sympathy which draws heart to heart, and lip to lip, in perfect innocence, and without a thought of the future, or of the solemn obligations of life, and of the world—the weary world, which, with all its conventionalities, is more a clog to us than we to it.

However, I soon perceived that Ruth changed colour, too, when we met; and my heart leaped joyously, when playfully she kissed her hand to me at parting. I felt that I loved her dearly and deeply, but how was I to tell her so?

In all the romances lent to me by my friend, the milliner, the tall and handsome heroes, cast their plumed beavers and ample mantles on the ground, and flung themselves on their knees before their mistresses, beseeching them, in piercing accents, to make them the happiest of men, by giving them even the tips of their snowy fingers to kiss; but I lacked the courage to imitate these striking proceedings; moreover, I possessed neither velvet mantle nor ostrich plume.

One evening, old Nathan was absent on business, and Ruth and I were seated in the recess of a window, looking at a collection of Hogarth's prints. We sat close, very close together, for the window was narrow, and then the volume was so large that we both required to hold it. I felt Ruth's breath at times upon my cheek, and our hands touched every time we turned a leaf.

Her pretty bosom, that heaved beneath her bodice, which was cut square at the neck, and somewhat low in front; her snow-white arms, that came tapering forth from the loose falling sleeves of her black dress, and her delicate little hands so bewildered me, that I never saw the prints with which we were supposed to be engrossed. I saw Ruth—Ruth only, and felt all the joy her presence inspired.

I knew that we both spoke at random, and were somewhat confused in our questions and answers; still more confused in our long pauses. I would have given the world to have clasped this plump little Ruth to my breast; yet I dared scarcely to touch her hand.

As we stooped over the print of "Love à la Mode," her bent head, her white temple, and rich soft hair touched mine, and she did not withdraw.

For a few seconds we sat thus, head reclined against head; then I panted rather than breathed, as my arm stole round her waist, and my trembling lips were pressed upon her pure forehead.

Mr. William Hogarth was permitted to fall ignominiously on the carpet; and we sat thus entwined in each other's arms for a long time—I know not how long—till the twilight deepened round us, and we were roused from our dream of happiness by a harsh and croaking voice, which exclaimed:

"Fool that I am, not to have foreseen this!"

We started and found ourselves confronted by Mr. Nathan Wylie, whose grey eyes glared in the dusk like those of a polecat, through the rims of his horn spectacles.

Poor Ruth uttered a cry and fled; but I turned boldly and faced the enemy.

"So, sir," he exclaimed, in a voice that trembled with silly rage; "so, sir, this is the way you conduct yourself in the house of a God-fearing man, who has saved you from destruction, when your whole family abandoned you! Is this your gratitude, Master Philander—this the result of those pious lessons which I have sought to instil into you? But hark you, sirrah, so sure as I stand here—

"Mr. Wylie," I began, with all the coolness I could assume; "I beg that you——"

"Peace, you young villain, and don't attempt to bully me!" he thundered out; but, immediately adopting his usual whining tone, he added: "Peace I say, for I stand here as a rampart between you and destruction—as a watchman unto Israel. But what virtue or honour, piety or morality am I likely to find in one who bears the name of Basil Gauntlet? After what I have seen to-night, Ruth shall remain a prisoner in her own room, and I must consult with your grandfather about having you sent off to sea, or away from here on any terms."

This would have been welcome intelligence some time ago; but the presence of Ruth had altered the aspect of everything, and I retired to my attic, less to ponder over the rough manner in which we had been wakened from our dream of joy, than to repeat, react and dream it over and over again, with the sweet conviction that Ruth permitted me to love her, and loved me in return.

CHAPTER III.
THE SEQUEL.

Nathan Wylie was as wicked as his word; and a letter, rehearsing in forcible terms my sinful, ungracious, and godless conduct, was duly despatched to my grandfather, at Netherwood Hall.

Pending a reply thereto, Ruth was confined to her own room, and kept securely under lock and key, while I was all but chained to my desk, for Nathan Wylie had an old dread of the enterprising nature of the Gauntlets, and knew not what I might do next.

In our mutual loneliness of position, our hearts naturally drew together, and our love was strengthened by the very barriers her uncle raised between us; hence I resolved to see Ruth in her own room—her prison it seemed to me; but this could only be done by the window, and under cloud of night, as her door was locked, and the key was in old Wylie's pocket.

On coming to this resolution, I proceeded at once to put it in practice. Heaven knows, I had no desire but to circumvent old Wylie, and to see my pretty Ruth—to hear her gentle voice, and to be with her, for her smile was the first ray of light that had fallen across my hitherto dark and solitary path.

It was on a gloomy night, early in February, and when the little household were supposed to be all in bed, that by slipping from the window of my attic, I reached the roof of the stable, the ridge of which I knew to be immediately under the window-sill of Ruth's apartment.

My heart beat lightly, happily, and rapidly, when I saw the shadow of Ruth's figure thrown in a somewhat colossal outline, however, upon the curtains; and, fortunately, without disturbing Abraham Clod, the groom, I reached the window, before Ruth had either retired to rest or extinguished her light.

I know that this clandestine visit was rather a wrong proceeding; but in extenuation I have only to plead the rashness of youth on one hand, and Nathan Wylie's severity on the other; besides, at eighteen one does not value the opinion of the world much, or scan such matters too closely.

On peeping in I saw Ruth pinning up her bright brown hair, and beginning to unfasten the hooks of her bodice; then her dimpled elbows and tapered arms shone white as alabaster in the light of her candle; so I hastened to tap on the window.

"Good Heaven!" she exclaimed, starting round with alarm expressed in her pretty face, and her dark eyes dilated; "what is that—who is there?"

"I, I—don't you know me?" said I, with my nose flattened against a pane of glass.

"Basil—is it Basil?"

"Yes."

"At my window, and at this time of night!" said she, blushing and hastening forward to open the sash; "wait until I get a shawl—I was just about to undress. How very odd; but what do you want?"

"To see you—to speak with you—"

"But, Basil, consider——" said she, trembling.

"I consider nothing," I exclaimed, throwing my arms round her, and kissing her at the window.

"Mercy! take care lest you fall."

"This separation renders me miserable; for two whole days I have not seen you."

Her kiss, so tender and loving, agitated me so deeply that my voice was almost inarticulate.

"And mewed up here, I have been so wretched too, dear Basil," she murmured, while placing her arms caressingly round my neck, as I crept in and closed the window; "how cruel of uncle Nathan to treat us so."

"He has written to my grandfather, and in such harsh terms that more mischief will be in store for me," said I, bitterly.

"Take courage, dear Basil," whispered Ruth, as we sat with our arms entwined and cheek pressed against flushing cheek; "those wicked people would seem to have done you already all the harm that is possible."

"I know not; for your uncle spoke of having me sent to sea; and I have heard at times of people being kidnapped by the pressgang."

"The pressgang—you!" exclaimed Ruth, her fine eyes filling with pity and indignation; "they dare not think of such a thing. Are you not the heir to a baronetcy?"

"True—one of our oldest Nova Scotian baronetcies; but so is my cousin Tony, if—if——"

"What?"

"I were sent out of the way or disposed of for ever."

"Of that title, dearest Basil; neither your grandfather's wicked hatred, nor the cunning of my uncle—alas! that I should have to say so of one so near—can deprive you."

"Between them, however, they have willed away the estates to my cousin Tony Gauntlet, who bids fair to make ducks and drakes of them, even before his succession comes to pass, for he is deeply involved with jockeys and Jew money-lenders. But I care not what happens, if I am not separated, my sweet little love, from you."

I pressed her to my breast long and passionately.

For several nights I visited Ruth's window in this clandestine manner; and became so expert in the matter, that I actually rubbed the sash of my casement with soap, that it might run smoothly and noiselessly. As yet there came no reply from Sir Basil, but Abraham Clod brought a message from Netherwood, that "he had the gout in both feet, and consequently was unable to write."

Dear to us, indeed, were those stolen interviews, and wild and vague were the plans we began to form for the future, plans chiefly drawn from our romances; but one night we were roused from our happiness by an unlooked for catastrophe.

Just as I was approaching Ruth's window, a voice exclaimed—

"A thief—a thief! I see un—dang thee, tak that!"

Then followed a shriek from Ruth, with the explosion of a gun, and a bullet shattered the panes in both sashes, just above my head.

It was the voice of Abraham Clod our Yorkshire groom, who had been out in the evening crowshooting, and had his gun undischarged, and who in a moment of evil had seen me creeping along the roof of the stable, from his attic window, where I saw him peering forth, with a candle in one hand, and his gun in the other.

Fearing that if I attempted to return to my own room he might shoot me in earnest—for I saw the fellow was quickly reloading—fearing also to stay, lest I should place Ruth in a false position, I lingered for a moment irresolutely, and preferred being taken for the housebreaker which I have no doubt honest Clod believed me to be.

At that time I felt that I would rather die than the honour of Ruth should suffer!

I dropped on the roof of the stable just as a second shot broke the tiles under my feet, and confused by this incident, I tumbled heavily to the ground—luckily not into the stable-yard but into a ploughed field.

I rose unhurt, but found that to enter the house by the door, and to regain my attic window, were both impossible now. I struck across the fields, gained the high-road, and took my way into the open country with sorrow and rage in my heart—sorrow for Ruth, and rage at her uncle, whose drudge and fool I resolved no longer to be.

CHAPTER IV.
MY COUSIN TONY.

"Under the roof of his home," says a pleasing writer, "the boy feels safe; and where in the whole realm of life, with its bitter toils and its bitterer temptations, will he ever feel safe again?"

I had no roof-tree—I had never felt this charming safety or security—this sublime knowledge of home, and keenly came this conviction to my heart, as I walked on that dark February night along the solitary highway, with the rain plashing in my face; for now, as if to add to the misery of my situation, the clouds had gathered in heaven and the rain fell heavily.

An old fir-tree with its thick dark foliage sheltered me for a time. Towards daybreak the weather became fair, and after sleeping for some hours in a hayrick, I set forward again. I knew that I must present but a sorry figure, but cared not. I was always a lover of effect, and hoped it might aid me in my purpose, which was to urge Sir Basil to make some fitting provision for me.

Alas! I was ignorant that he had actually written to Nathan Wylie, desiring that the pittance allowed me should be withdrawn, and that he was to turn me adrift for ever. The old minister of Netherwood, who was with him when this severe answer was despatched, besought him to "be clement, and to remember that he too had once been young."

"Yes," growled the gruff baronet, "but it is so very long ago that I have forgotten all about it. Zounds!" he added, flourishing his crutch, and smashing a wine decanter, "I'll make that young dog smart for this, as I made his father smart before him!"

His orders Mr. Nathan Wylie would cheerfully have obeyed; but in the end I may show how the lawyer, even in the matter of the will, outwitted himself, as he might, but for his hatred of my father's memory, and his slavish obsequiousness to Sir Basil, have made little Ruth one day Lady of Netherwood, and me, perhaps, his friend for ever.

On that dull February eve I knew nothing of all this, and so trod on for several miles with hope in my breast—hope that I might stir some chord of sympathy in the withered heart of Sir Basil; but when I drew near Netherwood, and saw its copper vanes and antique turrets shining above the trees, my spirit failed me, and I thought with just indignation of my favoured cousin Tony, of his probable mockery at the sorry figure I presented, and the quiet insolence of the domestics; so I sat by the wayside inspired only by that bitterness and irresolution which I have described in the opening of my story.

To Nathan Wylie's house I would never return.

I sorrowed for poor Ruth, the sweet companion of so many stolen interviews—the secret love of my boyish heart. But to what end was this sorrow? Marriage and the responsibilities of life had never occurred to me. I felt, like a boy, that I loved Ruth dearly, and that was all.

I would go away somewhere—where, it mattered not; I would seek a path for myself; another time—a year hence, perhaps—I would come back and see Ruth again, if Fortune smiled on me. And with such thoughts as these, my sadness and dejection gave place to the springy and joyous conviction of a young heart—that I was free—absolutely FREE—the master of my own person—the arbiter of my own destiny!

The wide world was all before me, and to leave care and trouble behind should be now my task and duty.

How was this to be achieved? I was the possessor only of a shilling; but greater men than I have begun the world with less.

As these ideas occurred to me, I perceived in the twilight a gentleman with two valets in livery, all well mounted, coming along the road with their nags at a trot. He wore a green sporting suit, with large gilt buttons, yellow buckskin breeches, a jockey cap, and carried a heavy hunting-whip.

As the two valets were not riding behind, but were abreast with their master, and conversing with him in loud and noisy familiarity, I soon recognised my cousin Tony the Foxhunter, an interview with whom I would fain have avoided; but he knew me at once, and came brusquely up, checking his horse, with foam upon its bit, so close to me, that I was nearly knocked over.

"Zounds, cousin Basil!" said he, insolently, and in the hearing of his valets, "you are in a fine scrape now!"

"How, sir?" said I, sourly.

"So you have levanted from old Wylie's—or been turned adrift—'tis all one, for making love to his niece—eh—is this true?"

"I have no confidences to make to you, sir," said I, haughtily, for the idea that I had placed Ruth—she so innocent and pure—in a position so false, filled me with remorse and rage.

"No confidences," stammered Tony; "eh—damme?"

"None."

"Oh, it is of no use denying it; we have just ridden from old Wylie's this morning. We don't blame you for making love to the girl—she is deuced pretty, and we all agreed it was just what we should have done ourselves."

"We—who do you speak of?"

"Why, Tom, Dick, and myself," he replied, pointing to his servants; "and no bad judges either of the points and paces of a woman or a horse."

"Rein back from the footpath if you please, Mr. Gauntlet, and permit me to pass," I added, for he had me completely hemmed against a hedge.

"Well, but what are you going, to do now, for we can have no onhangers idling about Netherwood Hall?" he exclaimed, imperiously.

Instead of replying, I took his horse by the bridle, thrust its head aside, and passed disdainfully on, for I saw that he had been dining, and was flushed alike with wine and insolence. Anthony was four years older than I, and had seen much more of the world; yet, so far as education or accomplishments were concerned, this pet of my grandfather was nearly as ignorant as the grooms and stable-boys who were his constant companions and chosen friends, and who, in those capacities, fleeced him of large sums on the turf, in the tavern, and at the gaming-table.

"Did you hear me speak, fellow?" he thundered out, with an oath, while urging his horse close behind me, as if to ride me down.

Instead of turning, I quickened my pace; but he and his grooms put spur to their nags and followed me.

"S'blood!" exclaimed Tony, "but this will make you feel if you cannot hear me!" and he dealt me a heavy lash across the shoulders with his hunting-whip.

With all the strength and fury that a long sense of unmerited wrong, hardship, neglect, and opprobrium could inspire, I rushed upon this usurper of my patrimony, and in a moment he was torn from his saddle and stretched upon the highway. I wrenched away his whip, and, twisting the lash round my wrist, beat him soundly with the handle.

Being stronger than I, he scrambled up, with his green coat covered with dust and his features inflamed by rage; he closed with me, swearing frightfully, while his two mounted followers assailed me in the rear with their clubbed whips.

"Lay on, Dick! lay on, Tom!" he cried repeatedly; "d—n him, beat the beggarly rascal's brains out!"

I received several severe blows on the head and shoulders, while Tony actually strove to strangle me by twisting my necktie; and in a combat so unequal I must have been defeated and severely handled in the end, had not two men who were clad in long scarlet cloaks, and were mounted on grey horses, interposed, and one who had drawn his sword, exclaimed—

"Hold, fellows, hold! What the devil do you mean—is it murder? Back! on your lives, stand back! Why this cowardly attack of three upon one?"

On this the valets precipitately withdrew a little way; but Tony still grasped my collar, and on perceiving by their dress and accoutrements that the interposers were two Horse Grenadiers or Dragoons, he swore at them roundly, and said—

"What value do you put upon your ears that you dare to accost me upon the highway?"

"Dare?" repeated the soldier, contemptuously.

"Yes, dare!" exclaimed my cousin, foaming with rage. "Be off with you. Do you imagine that a scurvy trooper can scare me? I am Anthony Gauntlet of Netherwood Hall, and in the commission of the peace for this county; so begone I say, or d—n me I'll put you both in the stocks at the nearest market cross."

The dragoon laughed, and placed the bare blade of his sword so close to Tony's neck that he hastily released me and slunk back.

"If you are what you say, sir," observed the other dragoon, with a singular hauteur in his tone and manner, "a justice of the peace, you should not be brawling thus with people on the king's highway."

"Rascal, to whom do you presume to give advice, eh?" roared Tony, choking with passion.

"Double rascal, to you!" thundered out the soldier, as he wrenched away by a single twitch of his right hand one of the valets' whips, and lashed Tony and his fellows so soundly, and with such rapidity, that they scarcely knew whether they were on the highway or in the air.

He fairly drove them off, while his comrade, who had now sheathed his sword, sat in his saddle and laughed heartily as he looked on.

"Come with us, my lad," said he, "lest those cowardly curs return and fall on you again. There is an inn somewhere near this, I believe—or at least there was when last we marched into England."

"Yes, you mean the 'Marquis of Granby,'" said I, while applying my handkerchief to a cut on my left temple, which bled profusely.

"Ah! that is the place I mean; we must find our quarters there for the night. You will share a glass with us and tell us how this battle came to pass?"

And to this invitation I assented.

CHAPTER V.
THE INN.

My protectors proved to be two of the Second Dragoons, or Scots Greys—a corporal and a private—who had been escorting a couple of prisoners, captured smugglers, to the Tolbooth of Dunbar, and who were proceeding to rejoin their regiment, which was then quartered at the nearest market town on the English side of the Border.

"Kirkton, what did that fellow with the jockey cap call himself?" asked the corporal.

"I scarcely heard; but he said he was a justice of the peace."

"A rare one, certainly! But he cannot meddle with us, Tom, for we are on duty until we rejoin. Why did he attack you, my lad?" asked the corporal, turning to me; "were you poaching?"

"No," said I, angrily, though the state of my attire perfectly warranted the inference; "but here is the inn."

It was a common wayside hostelry, where the Berwick stages changed horses in those days—a two-storied house, with a large stable-yard behind and an ivy-clad porch in front; over the latter hung a square signboard that creaked in the wind on an iron rod, and bore a profile of the Marquis of Granby in a bright red coat and white brigadier wig, with the information beneath, that within was "good entertainment for man and beast."

The landlord knit his brows and muttered something surly, under his breath however, on seeing the two dragoons approach; but Jack Charters, the corporal, presented a slip of printed paper, saying—

"How are you, old boy? Here is our billet order."

"From whom?" growled Boniface.

"The billet master. To-morrow it will be from a constable, but then we shall be in England."

Perceiving that the host scowled at the document—

"It is quite correct, my dear friend," began the corporal, in a bantering tone, "and quite in the terms of the Billeting Act, which extends to all inns, livery stables, and houses of persons selling brandy, strong waters, cider and metheglin, whatever the devil that may be."

And then, laughing merrily, they rode straight into the stable-yard, where they unsaddled, stalled and groomed their horses with soldierlike rapidity, and taking care to stand by while each had its feed of corn, for they knew too much of the world to trust to an ostler's nice sense of honour.

Then we repaired to the bar of the inn, where the entrance of a couple of dashing dragoons in braided uniforms and high bearskin caps, with all their accoutrements rattling about them, created somewhat of a sensation.

The rosy-cheeked barmaid smiled with pleasure, the plump landlady curtsied twice, even the ungracious host pushed forward a couple of chairs—I was permitted to find one for myself—and several bumpkins took their long clay pipes from their mouths, and gazed with admiration, for the appearance of two scarlet coats in this peaceful quarter of Great Britain was quite an epoch in its history.

"Bustle, landlady, if you please," said the corporal, "and get us something to eat by way of supper."

"Supper for three," added the private, with a quick glance at me; "nay, no refusal, my lad," he added, interrupting some apology I was about to make, with an empty purse, an aching heart, and a burning cheek; "many a time I have known the pleasure of supping, yea, and dining too, at a friend's expense."

These dragoons were men who had an air, bearing, and tone far above their subordinate rank in the service, and there was a mystery about this that could not fail to interest me.

They were both bold and handsome fellows, with eyes that looked steadily at men, and saucily at women; slashing troopers, with long strides, huge spurs, and steel scabbards that made a terrible jingling.

The corporal pinched the landlady's chin, and then gave the landlord a slap on the back which nearly made him swallow a foot-length of his clay pipe, as they seated themselves.

"For shame!" said the barmaid, as our enterprising non-commissioned officer slipped an arm round her waist; "I fear you are a very bad fellow."

"I would rather be that than a sad fellow," said he; "but get us supper quick, my pretty one; we have had a long ride on a cold February day; but pray don't make a fuss, my dear—for me at least; I have long been used to take the world as it comes."

The landlord, who had not yet digested his mouthful of pipe, grumbled, as if to say that "private soldiers were not the kind of quests they were used to make a fuss about;" but he dared not speak aloud, for the aspect of his two unexpected visitors rather awed him, and the female portion of the household were all in their favour.

A piece of roasted beef, cold, some bread, and the materials for manufacturing whisky toddy, were rapidly laid for us within a snug recess that opened off the bar. A large fire which blazed within the wide arched fireplace, filled the whole apartment with a ruddy light, that was reflected from scores of plates in a rack, and rows of polished tin and pewter mugs and tankards; but I selected a seat that was in shadow, for Farmer Flail, who was seated in an arm-chair close by, and had wakened up at the noise of our entrance, had dozed off to sleep, and I had no wish to be recognised if he awoke again. Although I was scarcely a mile from the avenue of Netherwood, old Roger Flail was the only person in that district who knew me.

"The last time I was in this quarter, a strange affair happened," said the corporal.

"How?" I inquired.

"Our chaplain fought a duel."

"A duel—your chaplain?"

"Yes—with a cornet of Eland's Horse."

"About some point of scripture?"

"About a pretty girl, and the poor cornet was run through the body, and left dead, near the gate of a hall—Netherwood, I think 'tis called."

"Were you in the Greys, then?" I inquired.

"No—I was in the Dragoon Guards, and I had not the honour to be a corporal," he replied, while a dark expression stole over his handsome and sunburnt face.

"Have you seen service?" I asked.

The troopers laughed.

"Seen service!" repeated the corporal; "I have seen everything—the devil himself, I believe; but we have both smelt powder in Flanders, and hope to do so soon again. Another slice of the beef, my boy? No more, you say? At your age, I could have eaten a horse behind the saddle."

I begged to be excused; I had but little appetite.

"I hope you can drink, at all events," said Tom Kirkton, the private, pushing the jug of hot water and the whisky bottle towards me; "make your brewage and be jolly while you may."

Then while stirring his steaming punch, in a lull, deep, manly voice, he began to sing, while the corporal clanked his spurs and clinked his glass in tune to the favourite camp song of the day.

"How stands the glass around?
For shame, ye take no care, my boys!
How stands the glass around?
Let mirth and wine abound!
The trumpets sound,
And the colours flying are, my boys,
To fight, kill, or wound;
May we still be found,
Content with our hard fare, my boys,
On the cold ground!

"Why, soldiers, why
Should we be melancholy, boys?
Why, soldiers, why,
Whose business 'tis to die?
What, sighing?—fie!
Shun fear, drink on, be jolly, boys!
'Tis he, you, or I,
Cold, hot, wet, or dry,
We're always bound to follow, boys,
And scorn to fly.

"'Tis but in vain
(I mean not to upbraid you, boys)
'Tis but in vain
For soldiers to complain;
Should next campaign,
Send us to HIM who made us, boys,
We're free from pain;
But should we remain,
A bottle and kind landlady
Cures all again."

As he concluded, Kirkton kissed the hostess, and ordered another bottle.

"When I was in the Dragoon Guards, at the siege of Maastricht," said the corporal, with something sad in his tone, "six of us sang that song one night in my tent; before the noon of next day, there was but one alive of all the six—myself—who could better have been spared."

"You look downcast, my lad," said Kirkton to me.

"Ay," added the corporal; "what is the matter? have you done aught that is likely to make you seek a healthier atmosphere?"

"Don't jibe the poor fellow, Jack," said the other on perceiving a flush of annoyance cross my face.

"Is love at the bottom of it?"

"See how he reddens—of course it is."

"You mistake," said I, with a bitter sigh; "my funds are at zero."

"Is that all?" observed the corporal, laughing; "mine have been so many times, for Fortune is a fickle wench; but, egad! the dice-box, a little prize money, a present from a pretty woman, or something else, always made the silver rise again to blood heat. Well—and so your purse is empty?"

"As you see—there is but a shilling in it."

"When mine was thus, I took another in the king's name, and then I had two—by that stroke I exactly doubled my fortune. What is your profession?"

"I have none."

"Relations?"

"Yes," I replied, flushing to the temples with anger.

"Friends, I should have said."

"None."

"Right!" exclaimed Corporal Charters, bitterly; "friends and relations are often very different people."

"Come," added Kirkton, "be one of us—you are just a lad after old Preston's heart."

"Old Preston—who is he?"

"Zounds, man! don't you know? He is Colonel of the Greys—our idol! we all love the old boy as if he was our father—and a father he is indeed to the whole regiment. Come, then, I say, be one of us—the lads who are second to none."

"Second to none!" echoed the corporal, draining his glass with enthusiasm, for this is yet the proud motto of his regiment; "you have still your brave heart, boy—the king will give you a sword, and you will ride with us against the French as a Scots Grey dragoon."

The fumes of the potent alcohol I was imbibing had already mounted to my head; the idea of becoming a soldier had frequently occurred to me, and these troopers had only anticipated a proposal I was about to make them.

"I will—I will!" I exclaimed, and gave each my hand upon the promise. Another jorum of punch was ordered, and long before it was finished, I found myself wearing the corporal's grenadier cap and aiguilettes, girded with his comrade's sword and belt, seated on the table, and singing most lustily, I know not what.

Then I thought of Ruth, and becoming sad related to them my love affair, at which they shocked me very much by laughing loudly, and for their own amusement made me describe her hair, eyes, hands and voice again and again, as I had drunk too deeply to perceive how they quizzed me. However after a time, it seemed to me, that they too became maudlin, as they rehearsed several of their tender experiences.

"There was a time," said the Corporal, "when I too imagined I could love a girl for ever."

"For ever is a long time, Jack!"

"I still love with ardour—"

"For a day," suggested Kirkton, and then he added, with a tipsy air of sentimental sadness, "love sheds a halo over everything, and brings us nearer heaven."

"Indeed! By Jove, it nearly sent me the other way once, and almost brought me to a General Court Martial."

"Oh—you mean your scrape with—"

"The countess—yes—but silence on that matter, Tom," replied the corporal, whose face flushed, and he gave a bitter smile.

There was a pause during which, though very tipsy. I surveyed him with interest, for every line of his face expressed stern loftiness, and then something of sadness and mortification.

"Well—well," said Kirkton, "drink and forget."

"No—no more for me, and you, Tom, have had quite enough."

"Bah! another glass—for sobriety, there is not my equal in the service—in the Greys most certainly—"

"How stands the glass around?
For shame, ye take no care, my boys!"

Of this night I remember no more, than falling asleep—I am ashamed to say—across the table, during Kirkton's song, completely overcome by what I had imbibed; and thus ended the first episode of my new career.

CHAPTER VI.
ENLISTMENT.

Early morning brought sobriety, with a headache, a burning thirst, and deep reflection.

I had enlisted as a private dragoon: I, the heir to a baronetcy; but it was a baronetcy that would not bring with it an acre of land, and by the enmity of its present possessors, I was then on the verge of total want. What other path was open to me than this, which it seemed as if the hand of destiny now indicated?

"Yes—yes," thought I, "it is the dictum of fate!"

My position had been one of extreme difficulty. I could not dig, and to beg—even from Sir Basil—I was ashamed; besides, I had a spirit that revolted at the idea of eating bread that was won either by falsehood or servility.

"'Tis done!" said I, thinking aloud, "in the plain red coat of a trooper, none will ever discover Basil Gauntlet—the disinherited heir of Nether wood!"

"So you are still resolved to be one of us?" said Charters, when we met early in the morning.

"Yes."

"'Tis well; life is a lottery—let us go and draw," he observed, figuratively.

"I would rather go and drink," added Kirkton, who, after our late potations, looked rather red about the eyes.

"Try a dram—and then hey for the road; but we must have our new comrade attested. Landlord, where is a justice of the peace to be found?"

"Plague on them—they're thick as blackberries on both sides o' the Border," growled the host.

"For one, there is Nathan Wylie, the writer at—" began the hostess.

"No—no—I go not before him!" said I, with a pang of sorrow in my heart, as I thought of Ruth, whose sweet image came upbraidingly to my memory.

"Well—who next?" asked the corporal, while buckling on his sword.

"Sir Basil Gauntlet, at the hall—or his nephew, the young Laird that is to be."

"Worse still!" I exclaimed, passionately; "I shall not go before them either."

"Zounds, but you are hard to please," said Charters as he eyed me keenly, but with something of commiseration too. "What is your name?"

"That I shall tell the magistrate," I replied, evasively, not having yet thought of a nom de guerre. Then the corporal asked me—

"Is this Sir Basil a relation, a connection, or what?"

The landlord laughed while eyeing my scurvy appearance, as if he thought it very unlikely I could be either; my breast burned with suppressed mortification and rage, but I continued calmly,

"It matters little—I go not before him."

"You are regularly enlisted, my lad," said the corporal, soothingly, "and must go before some one."

"Try the rector," said I.

"We have no rectors in Scotland," said the landlord, bluntly.

"Well, there is one over the Border, a few miles from this——"

"On the road to Rothbury—good," said Charters.

"He is a justice of the peace, and such a one! Odsbud! he sent a child, four years old, to hard labour for having a tame pheasant for a pet."

"How?"

"As a poacher," added Boniface, with a rough malediction.

"Will he do?" asked the Corporal.

"Yes," said I, briefly; "and now let us begone."

"Bravo! Now, Kirkton—brandy and water—boot and saddle, and let us be off. Our new comrade shall share our horses alternately, for we have nearly twenty miles to travel to-day before we reach head-quarters."

As the troopers brought from the stable to the inn door their two stately grey chargers, in all the trappings of a heavy dragoon regiment, with saddle-cloth, scarlet valise, long holsters, powerful bits, and chain bridles, an old horse that was passing, heavily laden with the wares of an itinerant basket-maker, pricked up his ears, and switched his short shorn tail, and seemed to eye us wistfully.

Second to None: A Military Romance, Volume 1 (of 3)

SECOND TO NONE.

SECOND TO NONE.

CHAPTER I.BY THE WAYSIDE.

CHAPTER II.RUTH WYLIE.

CHAPTER III.THE SEQUEL.

CHAPTER IV.MY COUSIN TONY.

CHAPTER V.THE INN.

CHAPTER VI.ENLISTMENT.

CHAPTER I.
BY THE WAYSIDE.

CHAPTER II.
RUTH WYLIE.

CHAPTER III.
THE SEQUEL.

CHAPTER IV.
MY COUSIN TONY.

CHAPTER V.
THE INN.

CHAPTER VI.
ENLISTMENT.