Under the Red Dragon: A Novel (2024)

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(Cornell University Library)

UNDER THE RED DRAGON.

A Novel.

By JAMES GRANT,

AUTHOR OF "THE ROMANCE OF WAR," "ONLY AN ENSIGN," ETC.

LONDON:
GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS,
THE BROADWAY, LUDGATE.
NEW YORK: 416, BROOME STREET.
1873.

UNDER THE RED DRAGON.

CHAPTER I.--THE INVITATION.

"And she is to be there--nay, is there already; so one more chanceis given me to meet her. But for what?--to part again silently, andmore helplessly bewitched than ever, perhaps. Ah, never will she learnto love me as I love her!" thought I, as I turned over my old friend'sletter, not venturing, however, to give utterance to this aloud, asthe quizzical eyes of Phil Caradoc were upon me.

"A penny for your thoughts, friend Harry?" said he, laughing; "tryanother cigar, and rouse yourself. What the deuce is in this letter,that it affects you so? Have you put a pot of money on the wronghorse?"

"Been jilted, had a bill returned, or what?" suggested Gwynne.

"Neither, fortunately," said I; "it is simply an invitation from SirMadoc Lloyd, which rather perplexes me."

At this time our regiment was then in the East, awaiting with the restof the army some movement to be made from Varna, either towardsBessarabia or the Crimea--men's minds were undecided as to which,while her Majesty's Ministers seemed to have no thought on thesubject. Our depôt belonged to the provisional battalion atWinchester, where Caradoc, Gwynne, two other subalterns, and I, withsome two hundred rank and file, expected ere long the fiat of thefates who reign at the Horse Guards to send us forth to win ourlaurels from the Russians, or, what seemed more probable, a gravewhere the pest was then decimating our hapless army, in the beautifulbut perilous vale of Aladdyn, on the coast of Bulgaria. We hadjust adjourned from mess, to have a quiet cheroot and glass ofbrandy-and-water in my quarters, when I received from my man, OwenEvans, the letter the contents of which awakened so many new hopes andtantalising wishes in my heart, and on which so much of my fate in thefuture might hinge.

The bare, half-empty, or but partially-furnished single room accordedby the barrack authorities to me as a subaltern, in that huge squareedifice built of old by Charles II. for a royal residence, seemed byits aspect but little calculated to flatter the brilliant hopes inquestion. Though ample in size, it was far from regal in itsappurtenances--the barrack furniture, a camp-bed, my baggage trunkspiled in one corner, swords and a gun-case in another, books, emptybottles, cigar-boxes, and a few pairs of boots ostentatiouslydisplayed in a row by Evans, making up its entire garniture, and byvery contrast in its meagreness compelling me to smile sadly at myselffor the ambitious ideas the letter of my old friend had suggested; andthus, for a minute or so ignoring, or rather oblivious of, thepresence of my two companions, my eye wandered dreamily over thefar-extended mass of old brick houses and the gray church towers ofthe city, all visible from the open window, and then steeped in thesilver haze of the moonlight.

Sipping their brandy-and-water, each with a lighted cheroot betweenhis fingers, their shell-jackets open, and their feet unceremoniouslyplanted on a hard wooden chair, while they lounged back upon another,were Phil Caradoc and Charley Gwynne. The first a good specimen of ahandsome, curly-haired, and heedless young Englishman, who shot,fished, hunted, pulled a steady oar, and could keep his wicket againstany man, while shining without effort in almost every manly sport, wasmoreover a finished gentleman and thorough good fellow. Lessfashionable in appearance and less dashing in manner, though by nomeans less soldier-like, Gwynne was his senior by some ten years. Hewas more grave and thoughtful, for he had seen more of the service andmore of the world. Already a gray hair or so had begun to mingle withthe blackness of his heavy moustache, and the lines of thought weretraceable on his forehead and about the corners of his keen dark-grayeyes; for he was a hard-working officer, who had been promoted fromthe ranks when the regiment lay at Barbadoes, and was every inch asoldier. And now they sat opposite me, waiting, with a half-comicalexpression, for farther information as to their queries; and though wewere great friends, and usually had few secrets from each other, Ibegan to find that I had one now, and that a little reticence wasnecessary.

"You know Sir Madoc's place in North Wales?" said I.

"Of course," replied Caradoc; "there are few of ours who don't. Halfthe regiment have been there as visitors at one time or other."

"Well, he wishes me to get leave between returns--for even longer if Ican--and run down there for a few weeks. 'Come early, if possible,' headds; 'the girls insist on having an outdoor fête, and a lot of nicefolks are coming. Winny has arranged that we shall have a regimentalband--the Yeomanry one too, probably; then we are to have a Welshharper, of course, and an itinerant Merlin in the grotto, to tellevery one's fortune, and to predict your promotion and the C.B., ifthe seer remains sober. While I write, little Dora is drawing up aprogramme of the dances, and marking off, she says, those which shemeans to have with you.'"

Here I paused; but seeing they expected to hear more, for the writerwas a friend of us all, I read on coolly, and with an air of as muchunconsciousness as I could assume:

"Lady Estelle Cressingham is with us--by the way, she seems to knowyou, and would, I think, like to see more of you. She is a very finegirl, though not pure Welsh; but that she cannot help--it is hermisfortune, not her fault. We have also a fellow here, though I don'tquite know how he got introduced--Hawkesby Guilfoyle, who met herabroad at Ems, or Baden-Baden, or one of those places where one meetseverybody, and he seems uncommonly attentive--so much so, that Iwonder her mother permits it; but he seems to have some special poweror influence over the old lady, though his name is not as yet, or everlikely to be, chronicled by Burke or Debrett. In lieu of the goatwhich your regiment lost in Barbadoes, Winifred has a beautiful petone, a magnificent animal, which she means to present to the WelshFusileers. Tell them so. And now, for yourself, I will take norefusal, and Winny and Dora will take none either; so pack your traps,and come off so soon as you can get leave. You need not, unless youchoose, bring horses; we have plenty of cavalry here. Hope you will beable to stay till the 12th, and have a shot at the grouse. Meanwhile,believe me, my dear Hardinge, yours, &c., Madoc Meredyth Lloyd.'"

"Kindly written, and so like the jolly style of the old Baronet," saidGwynne. "I have ridden with him once or twice in the hunting-field--ona borrowed mount, of course," added poor Charley; who had only hispay, and, being an enthusiast in his profession, was no lounger in theservice.

"But what is there in all this that perplexes you?" asked Caradoc,who, I suppose, had been attentively observing me. As he spoke, Icoloured visibly, feeling the while that I did so.

"The difficulty about leave, perhaps," I stammered.

"You'll go, of course," said Caradoc. "His place--CraigaderynCourt--is one of the finest in North Wales; his daughters are indeedcharming; and you are certain to meet only people of the best stylethere."

"Yet he seems to doubt this--what is his name?--Guilfoyle, however,"said I.

"What of that? One swallow--you know the adage. I should go, if I hadthe invitation. His eldest daughter has, I have heard, in her ownright, no end of coal-mines somewhere, and many grassy acres of dairyfarms in the happy hunting-grounds of the midland counties."

"By Jove," murmured Gwynne, as he lit a fresh cigar; "she should bethe girl for me."

"But I have another inducement than even the fair Winny," said I.

"Oho! Lady--"

"Sir Madoc," said I hastily, "is an old friend of my family, andhaving known me from infancy, he almost views me as a son. Don'tmistake me," I added, reddening with positive annoyance at the heartylaugh my admission elicited; "Miss Lloyd and I are old friends too,and know each other a deuced deal too well to tempt the perils ofmatrimony together. We have no draughts ready for the East, nor willthere be yet awhile; even our last recruits are not quite licked intoshape."

"No," sighed Gwynne, who had a special charge of the said "lickinginto shape."

"And so, as the spring drills are over, I shall try my luck with oldR----."

The person thus bluntly spoken of was the lieutenant-colonel of thedepôt battalion--one who kept a pretty tight hand over us all ingeneral, and the subalterns in particular.

"Stay," I exclaimed suddenly; "here is a postscript. 'Bring Caradoc ofyours with you, and Gwynne, too, if you can. Winny has mastered theduet the former sent her, and is anxious to try it over with him."

"Caradoc will only be too happy, if the genius who presides over us inthe orderly-room is propitious," said Phil, colouring and laughing.

"Thank Sir Madoc for me, old fellow," said Gwynne, half sadly. "Tellhim that the Fates have made me musketry instructor, and that daily Ihave that

'Delightful task! to rear the tender thought,
To teach the young idea how to shoot'--

to set up Taffy and Giles Chawbacon in the Hythe position, and drillthem to fire without closing both eyes and blazing in the air."

"'In the lawn,' adds Sir Madoc, 'we are to have everything--fromwaltzing to croquet (which, being an old fellow, and being aboveinsteps and all that sort of thing, I think the slowest game known),and from cliquot and sparkling hock to bottled stout and bitterbeer--unlimited flirtation too, according to that wag, Dora.'"

"A tempting bill of fare, especially with two such hostesses," saidGwynne; "but for me to quit Winchester is impossible. Even the staledodge of 'urgent private affairs' won't serve me. Such droll ideas ofthe service old Sir Madoc must have, to think that three of us couldleave the depôt, and all at once too!"

"I shall try my luck, however."

"And I too," rejoined Caradoc. "I am entitled to leave. Price of ourswill take my guards for me. Wales will be glorious in this hot month.I did all the dear old Principality last year--went over every footof Snowdonia, leaving nothing undone, from singing 'Jenny Jones' todancing a Welsh jig at a harvest-home."

"But you didn't go over Snowdonia with such a girl as Winifred Lloyd?"

"No, certainly," said he, laughing, and almost reddening again."Nature, even in my native Wales, must be more charming under suchbright auspices and happy influence. So Wales be it, if possible.London, of course, is empty just now, and all who can get out of itwill be yachting at Cowes, shooting in Scotland, fishing in Norway,backing the red at Baden-Baden, climbing the Matterhorn, or, it maybe, the Peter Botte; killing buffaloes in America, or voyaging up theNile in canoes. Rotten-row will be a desert, the opera a place ofsilence and cobwebs; and the irresistible desire to go somewhere andbe doing something, no matter what, which inspires all young Britonsabout this time, renders Sir Madoc's invitation most tempting andacceptable."

"Till the route comes for the East," said I.

"Potting the Ruskies, and turning my musketry theory into practice,are likely to be my chief relaxations and excitement," said Gwynne,with a good-natured laugh, as he applied his hand to the brandybottle. "At present I have other work in hand than flirting withcountesses, or visiting heiresses. But I envy you both, and heartilywish you all pleasure," he added, as he shook hands and left us early,as he had several squads to put through that most monotonous of alldrill (shot drill perhaps excepted)--a course of musketry--betimes inthe morning.

We knew that Gwynne, who was a tall, thin, close-flanked, and squareshouldered, but soldier-like fellow, had nothing but his pay; andhaving a mother to support, he was fain to slave as a musketryinstructor, the five shillings extra daily being a great pecuniaryobject to him. He was very modest withal, and feared that, nathlesshis red coat and stalwart figure, his chances of an heiress, even inCottonopolis, were somewhat slender.

CHAPTER II.--THE MOTH AND THE CANDLE.

Philip Caradoc, perceiving that I was somewhat dull and disposed toindulge in reverie, soon retired also, and we separated, intending tomature our plans after morning parade next day, as I knew thatsecretly Caradoc was very much attached to Winifred Lloyd, though thatyoung lady by no means reciprocated his affection. But I, seized by anirresistible impulse, could not wait for our appointed time; so, themoment he was gone, I opened my desk, wrote my application for leave,and desiring Evans to take it to the orderly-room among his firstduties on the morrow, threw open a second window to admit the softbreeze of the summer night, lit another cigar, and sat down to indulgein the train of thought Sir Madoc's unexpected letter had awakenedwithin my breast.

Yet I was not much given to reflection--far from it, perhaps; and itis lucky for soldiers that they rarely indulge much in thought, orthat the system of their life is apt to preclude time or opportunityfor it. I had come home on a year's sick-leave from the West Indies,where the baleful night-dews, and a fever caught in the rainy season,had nearly finished my career while stationed at Up Park Camp; andnow, through the friendly interest of Sir Madoc, I had been gazettedto the Welsh Fusileers, as I preferred the chances of the coming warand military service in any part of Europe to broiling uselessly inthe land of the Maroons. Our army was in the East, I have said,encamped in the vale of Aladdyn, between Varna and the sea. Therecamp-fever and the terrible cholera were filling fast with graves thegrassy plain and all the Valley of the Plague, as the Bulgarians soaptly named it; and though I was not sorry to escape the perilsencountered where no honour could be won, I was pretty weary of thedaily round at Winchester, of barrack life, of in-lying pickets,guards, parades, and drill. I had been seven years in the service, anddeemed myself somewhat of a veteran, though only five-and-twenty. Iwas weary too of belonging to a provisional battalion, wherein, beyondthe narrow circle of one's own depôt, no two men have the slightestinterest in each other, or seem to care if they ever meet again, thewhole organisation being temporary, and where the duties of such abattalion--it being, in effect, a strict military school for trainingrecruits--are harassing to the newly-fledged, and a dreadful bore tothe fully-initiated, soldier. So, till the time came when the orderwould be, "Eastward, ho!" Sir Madoc had opportunely offered me alittle relaxation and escape from all this; and though he knew it not,his letter might be perhaps the means of doing much more--of openingup a path to happiness and fortune, or leaving one closed for everbehind me in sorrow, mortification, and bitterness of heart.

Good old Sir Madoc (or, as he loved to call himself, Madoc ap MeredythLloyd) had in his youth been an unsuccessful lover of my mother, thenthe pretty Mary Vassal, a belle in her second season; and now, thoughshe had long since passed away, he had a strong regard for me. For hersake he had a deep and kindly interest in my welfare; and as he had noson (no heir to his baronetcy, with all its old traditional honours,)he quite regarded me in the light of one; and having two daughters,desired nothing more than that I should cut the service and become onein reality. So many an act of friendship and many a piece of stampedpaper he had done for me, when in the first years of my career, I gotinto scrapes with rogues upon the turf, at billiards, and with thosecurses of all barracks, the children of Judea. Had I seen where my owngood fortune really lay, I should have fallen readily into the snareso temptingly baited for me, a half-pennyless sub.; for Winifred Lloydwas a girl among a thousand, so far as brilliant attractions go, and,moreover, was not indisposed to view me favourably (at least, so myvanity taught me). But this world is full of cross purposes; peopleare too often blind to their profit and advantage, and, as Jaques hasit, "thereby hangs a tale."

All the attractions of bright-eyed Winny Lloyd, personal andpecuniary, were at that time as nothing to me. I had casually, whenidling in London, been introduced to, and had met at several places,this identical Lady Cressingham, whom my friend had mentioned soincidentally and in such an offhand way in his letter; and thatsentence it was which brought the blood to my temples and quickenedall the pulses of my heart.

She was very beautiful--as the reader will find when we meet herby-and-by--and I had soon learned to love her, but without quiteventuring to say so; to love her as much as it was possible for onewithout hope of ultimate success, and so circ*mstanced as I was--apoor gentleman, with little more in the world save my sword andepaulettes. Doubtless she had seen and read the emotion with which shehad inspired me, for women have keen perceptions in such matters; andthough it seems as if it was on her very smile that the mainspring ofmy existence turned, the whole affair might be but a source of quietamusem*nt, of curiosity, or gratified vanity to her. Yet, by everyopportunity that the chances and artificial system of society in townafforded, I had evinced this passion, the boldness of which my secretheart confessed. Her portrait, a stately full-length, was in theAcademy, and how often had I gazed at it, till in fancy the limner'swork seemed to become instinct with life! Traced on the canvas by nounskilful hand, it seemed to express a somewhat haughty consciousnessof her own brilliant beauty, and somehow I fancied a deuced deal moreof her own exalted position, as the only daughter of a deceased butwealthy peer, and as if she rather disdained alike the criticism andthe admiration of the crowd of middle-class folks who thronged theAcademy halls.

Visions of her--as I had seen her in the Countess's curtained box atthe opera, her rare and high-class beauty enhanced by all theaccessories of fashion and costume, by brilliance of light and thesubtle flash of many a gem amid her hair; when galloping along theRow on her beautiful satin-skinned bay; or while driving afterin the Park, with all those appliances and surroundings that wealthand rank confer--came floating before me, with the memory of wordshalf-uttered, and glances responded to when eye met eye, and told somuch more than the tongue might venture to utter. Was it mere vanity,or reality, that made me think her smile had brightened when she metme, or that when I rode by her side she preferred me to the manyothers who daily pressed forward to greet her amid that wonderfulplace, the Row? Her rank, and the fact that she was an heiress, had noreal weight with me; nor did these fortuitous circ*mstances enhanceher merit in my eyes, though they certainly added to the difficulty ofwinning her. Was it possible that the days of disinterested andromantic love, like those of chivalry, were indeed past--gone with thedays when

"It was a clerk's son, of low degree,
Loved the king's daughter of Hongarie?"

With the love that struggled against humble fortune in my heart, I hadthat keenly sensitive pride which is based on proper self-respect.Hope I seemed to have none. What hope could I, Harry Hardinge, a meresubaltern, with little more than seven-and-sixpence per diem, have ofobtaining such a wife as Lady Estelle Cressingham, and, more than all,of winning the good wishes of her over-awing mamma? Though "love willventure in when it daurna weel be seen," I could neither be hanged norreduced to the ranks for my presumption, like the luckless CaptainOgilvie; who, according to the Scottish ballad, loved the Duke ofGordon's bonnie daughter Jean. Yet defeat and rejection might cover mewith certain ridicule, leaving the stings of wounded self-esteem torankle all the deeper, by thrusting the partial disparity of ourrelative positions in society more unpleasantly and humiliatinglybefore me and the world; for there is a snobbery in rank that is onlyequalled by the snobbery of wealth, and here I might have both toencounter. And so, as I brooded over these things, some very levellingand rather democratic, if not entirely Communal, ideas began to occurto me. And yet, for the Countess and those who set store upon suchempty facts, I could have proved my descent from Nicholas Hardinge,knight, of King's Newton, in Derbyshire; who in the time of Henry VII.held his lands by the homely and most sanitary tenure of furnishingclean straw for his Majesty's bed when he and his queen, Elizabeth ofYork, passed that way, together with fresh rushes from the margin ofthe Trent wherewith to strew the floor of the royal apartment. Butthis would seem as yesterday to the fair Estelle, who boasted of anancestor, one Sir Hugh Cressingham, who, as history tells us, wasdefeated and flayed by the Scots after the battle of Stirling; whileold Sir Madoc Lloyd, who doubtless traced himself up to Noah apLamech, would have laughed both pedigrees to scorn.

Leaving London, I had striven to stifle as simply absurd the passionthat had grown within me, and had joined at Winchester in the honestand earnest hope that ere long the coming campaign would teach me toforget the fair face and witching eyes, and, more than all, thewinning manner that haunted me; and now I was to be cast within theirmagic influence once more, and doubtless to be hopelessly lost. Tohave acted wisely, I should have declined the invitation and pleadedmilitary duty; yet to see her once, to be with her once again, withoutthat cordon of guardsmen and cavaliers who daily formed her mountedescort in Rotten-row, and with all the chances our quiet mutualresidence in a sequestered country mansion, when backed by all theinfluence and friendship of Sir Madoc, must afford me, proved atemptation too strong for resistance or for my philosophy; so, likethe poor moth, infatuated and self-doomed, I resolved once more torush at the light which dazzled me.

"She seems to know you, and would like to see more of you," ran theletter of Sir Madoc. I read that line over and over again, studying itminutely in every way. Were those dozen words simply the embodiment ofhis own ideas, or were they her personally expressed wish putliterally into writing? Were they but the reflex of some casualremark? Even that conviction would bring me happiness. And so, aftermy friends left me, I sat pondering thus, blowing long rings ofconcentric smoke in the moonlight; and on those words of Sir Madocraising not only a vast and aerial castle, but a "bower of bliss," asthe pantomimes have it at Christmas time.

But how about this Mr. Hawkesby Guilfoyle? was my next thought. Couldhis attentions be tolerated by such a stately and watchful dowager asthe Countess of Naseby? Could Sir Madoc actually hint that such as hemight have a chance of success, when I had none? The idea was tooridiculous; for I had heard whispers of this man before, in London andabout the clubs, where he was generally deemed to be a species ofadventurer, the exact source of whose revenue no one knew. One factwas pretty certain: he was unpleasantly successful at billiards and onthe turf. If he--to use his own phraseology--was daring enough toenter stakes for such a prize as Lord Cressingham's daughter, whyshould not I?

Thus, in reverie of a somewhat chequered kind, I lingered on, whilethe shadows of the cathedral, its lofty tower and choir, the spire ofSt. Lawrence, and many other bold features of the view began to deepenor become more uncertain on the city roofs below, and from amid whichtheir masses stood upward in a flood of silver sheen. Ere long thefull-orbed moon--that seemed to float in beauty beneath its snow-whiteclouds, looking calmly down on Winchester, even as she had done agesago, ere London was a capital, and when the white city was the seat ofEngland's Saxon, Danish, and Norman dynasties, of Alfred's triumphsand Canute's glories--began at last to pale and wane; and the solemnsilence of the morning--for dewy morning it was now--was broken onlyby the chime of the city bells and clocks, and by the tread of feet inthe gravelled barrack-yard, as the reliefs went round, and thesentinels were changed.

The first red streak of dawn was beginning to steal across the east;the bugles were pealing reveilles, waking all the hitherto silentechoes of the square; and just about the time when worthy andunambitious Charley Gwynne would be parading his first squad for"aiming drill" at sundry bull's-eyes painted on the barrack-walls, Iretired to dream over a possible future, and to hope that if the starswere propitious, at the altar of that somewhat dingy fane, St.George's, Hanover-square, I might yet become the son-in-law of thelate Earl of Naseby, Baron Cressingham of Cotteswold, in the county ofNorthampton, and of Walcot Park in Hants, Lord-lieutenant, custosrotulorum, and so forth, as I had frequently and secretly read in themess-room copy of Sir Bernard Burke's thick royal octavo; "theEnglishman's Bible" according to Thackeray, and, as I greatly feared,the somewhat exclusive libro d'oro of Mamma Cressingham, who was aptto reverence it pretty much as the Venetian nobles did the remarkablevolume of that name.

CHAPTER III--By EXPRESS.

Leave granted, our acceptance of Sir Madoc's invitation dulytelegraphed--"wired," as the phrase is now--our uniforms doffed andmufti substituted, the morning of the second day ensuing saw Caradocand myself on the Birmingham railway en route for Chester; theexclusive occupants of a softly cushioned compartment, where, by theinfluence of a couple of florins slipped deftly and judiciously intothe palm of an apparently unconscious and incorruptible official, wecould lounge at our ease, and enjoy without intrusion the Times,Punch, or our own thoughts, and the inevitable cigar. Though inmufti we had uniform with us; we believed in it then, and in itsinfluence; for certain German ideas of military tailoring subsequentto the Crimean war had not shorn us of our epaulettes, and otherwisereduced the character of our regimentals to something akin to thelivery of a penny postman or a railway guard.

Somehow, I felt more hopeful of my prospects, when, with the brightsunshine of July around us, I found myself spinning at the rate offifty miles per hour by the express train--the motion was almost asimperceptible as the speed was exhilarating--and swiftly passed thescenes on either side, the broad green fields of growing grain, thegrassy paddocks, the village churches, the snug and picturesquehomesteads of Warwick and Worcestershire. We glided past Rugby, whereCaradoc had erewhile conned his tasks in that great Elizabethan pilewhich is built of white brick with stone angles and cornices, andwhere in the playing fields he had gallantly learned to keep hiswicket with that skill which made him our prime regimental bat andbowler too. Coventry next, where of course we laughed as we thought of"peeping Tom" and Earl Leofric's pretty countess, when we saw itsbeautiful and tapering spires rise over the dark and narrow streetsbelow. Anon, we paused amid the busy but grimy world of Birmingham,which furnishes half the world with the implements of destruction;Stafford, with its ruined castle on a well-wooded eminence; and erelong we halted in quaint old Chester by the Dee, where the stately redstone tower of the cathedral rises darkly over its picturesquethoroughfares of the middle ages. There the rail went no farther then;but a carriage sent by Sir Madoc awaited us at the station, and we hadbefore us the prospect of a delightful drive for nearly thirty milesamid the beautiful Welsh hills ere we reached his residence.

"This whiff of the country is indeed delightful!" exclaimed Caradoc,as we bowled along on a lovely July evening, the changing shadows ofthe rounded hills deepening as the sun verged westward; "it makes onehalf inclined to cut the service, and turn farmer or cattle-breedingsquire--even to chuck ambition, glory, and oneself away upon a landedheiress, if such could be found ready to hand."

"Even upon Winifred Lloyd, with her dairy-farms in the midlandcounties, eh?"

Phil coloured a little, but laughed good-humouredly as he replied,

"Well, I must confess that she is somewhat more than my weakness--atpresent."

At Aber-something we found a relay of fresh horses, sent on by SirMadoc, awaiting us, the Welsh roads not being quite so smooth as abilliard-table; and there certain hoarse gurgling expletives, utteredby ostlers and stable-boys, might have warned us that we were in theland of Owen and Hughes, Griffiths and Davies, and all the men of theTwelve Royal Tribes, even if there had not been the green mountainstowering into the blue sky, and the pretty little ivy-covered inn, atthe porch of which sat a white-haired harper (on the watch for patronsand customers), performing the invariable "Jenny Jones" orAr-hyd-y-nos (the live-long night), and all the while keeping asharp Celtic eye to the expected coin.

Everything around us indicated that we were drawing nearer to theabode of Sir Madoc, and that ere long--in an hour or so, perhaps--Ishould again see one who, by name as well as circ*mstance, was astar that I feared and hoped would greatly influence all my future.The Eastern war, and, more than all, the novelty of any war afterforty years of European peace, occupied keenly the minds of allthinking people. My regiment was already gone, and I certainly shouldsoon have to follow it. I knew that, individually and collectively,all bound for the seat of the coming strife had a romantic and evenmelancholy interest, in the hearts of women especially; and I was notwithout some hope that this sentiment might add to my chances offinding favour with the rather haughty Estelle Cressingham.

It was a glorious summer evening when our open barouche swept alongthe white dusty road that wound by the base of Mynedd Hiraethrog, thatwild and bleak mountain chain which rises between the Dee and itstributaries the Elwey and the Aled. Westward in the distance toweredblue Snowdon, above the white floating clouds of mist, with all itssubordinate peaks. In the immediate foreground were a series ofbeautiful hills that were glowing, and, to the eye, apparentlyvibrating, under a burning sunset. The Welsh woods were in all thewealth of their thickest foliage--the umbrageous growth of centuries;and where the boughs cast their deepest shadows, the dun deer and thefleet hare lurked among the fragrant fern, and the yellow sunlightfell in golden patches on the passing runnel, that leaped flashingfrom rock to rock, to mingle with the Alwen, or crept slowly andstealthily under the long rank grass towards Llyn-Aled.

That other accessories might not be wanting to remind us that we werein the land of the Cymri, we passed occasionally the Carneddau, orheaps of stones that mark the old places of battle or burial; andperched high on the hills the Hafodtai or summer farms, whereenormous flocks of sheep--the boasted Welsh mutton--were pasturing.Then we heard at times the melancholy sound of the horn, by whichinmates summon the shepherds to their meals, and the notes of which,when waking the echoes of the silent glen, have an effect so weird andmournful.

"By Jove, but we have a change here, Phil," said I, "a strikingchange, indeed, from the hot and dusty gravelled yard of Winchesterbarracks, the awkward squads at incessant drill with dumb-bell, club,or musket; the pipeclay, the pacing-stick, and the tap of the drum!"

Through a moss-grown gateway, the design of Inigo Jones, we turneddown the long straight avenue of limes that leads to Craigaderyn; afine old mansion situated in a species of valley, its broad lawnoverlooked by the identical craig from which it takes its name, "theRock of Birds," a lofty and insulated mass, the resort of innumerablehawks, wood-pigeons, and even of hoarse-croaking cormorants from thecliffs about Orme's Head and Llandulas. On its summit are the ruins ofan ancient British fort, wherein Sir Jorwerth Goch (i. e. Red Edward)Lloyd of Craigaderyn had exterminated a band of Rumpers and Roundheadsin the last year of Charles I., using as a war-cry the old Welsh shoutof "Liberty, loyalty, and the long head of hair!" On either side ofthe way spread the lawn, closely shorn and carefully rolled, theturf being like velvet of emerald greenness, having broad windingcarriage-ways laid with gravel, the bright red of which contrasted sostrongly with the verdant hue of the grass. The foliage of the timberwas heavy and leafy, and there, at times, could be seen the livelysquirrel leaping from branch to branch of some ancient oak, in thehollow of which lay its winter store of nuts; the rabbit boundingacross the path, from root to fern tuft; and the bela-goed, oryellow-breasted martin (still a denizen of the old Welsh woods), withrounded ears and sharp white claws, the terror of the poultry-yard,appeared occasionally, despite the gamekeeper's gun. In one place aherd of deer were browsing near the half-leafless ruins of a mightyoak--one so old, that Owen Glendower had once reconnoitred an Englishforce from amid its branches.

We had barely turned into the avenue, when a gentleman and two ladies,all mounted, came galloping from a side path to meet us. He and one ofhis companions cleared the wire fence in excellent style by a flyingleap; but the other, who was less pretentiously mounted, adroitlyopened the iron gate with the handle of her riding switch, and came afew paces after them to meet us. They proved to be Sir Madoc and histwo daughters, Winifred and Dora.

"True in the direction of time, 'by Shrewsbury clock'!" said he,cantering up; "welcome to Craigaderyn, gentlemen! We were just lookingfor you."

He was a fine hale-looking man, about sixty years old, with a ruddycomplexion, and a keen, clear, dark eye; his hair, once of ravenblackness, was white as silver now, though very curly or wavy still;his eyebrows were bushy and yet dark as when in youth. He was a Welshgentleman, full of many local prejudices and sympathies; a man of theold school--for such a school has existed in all ages, and stillexists even in ours of rapid progress, scientific marvels, andmoneymaking. His manners were easy and polished, yet without anythingeither of style or fashion about them; for he was simple in all histastes and ways, and was almost as plainly attired as one of his ownfarmers. His figure and costume, his rubicund face, round merry eyes,and series of chins, his amplitude of paunch and stunted figure, hisbottle-green coat rather short in the skirts, his deep waistcoat andlow-crowned hat, were all somewhat Pickwickian in their character andtout-ensemble, save that in lieu of the tights and gaiters of ourold friend he wore white corded breeches, and orthodox dun-colouredtop-boots with silver spurs, and instead of green goggles had a goldeyeglass dangling at the end of a black-silk ribbon. Strongriding-gloves and a heavy hammer-headed whip completed his attire.

"Glad to see you, Harry, and you too, Mr. Caradoc," resumed Sir Madoc,who was fond of remembering that which Phil--more a man of theworld--was apt to forget or to set little store on--that he wasdescended from Sir Matthew Caradoc, who in the days of Perkin Warbeck(an epoch but as yesterday in Sir Madoc's estimation) was chancellorof Glamorgan and steward of Gower and Helvie; for what true Welshmanis without a pedigree? "Let me look at you again, Harry. God bless me!is it possible that you, a tall fellow with a black moustache, can bethe curly fair-haired boy I have so often carried on my back andsaddle-bow, and taught to make flies of red spinner and drakes' wings,when we trouted together at Llyn Cwellyn among the hills yonder?"

"I think, papa, you would be more surprised if you found him acurly-pated boy still," said Miss Lloyd.

"And it is seven years since he joined the service; what a fine fellowhe has grown!"

"Papa, you are quite making Mr. Hardinge blush!" said Dora, laughing.

"Almost at the top of the lieutenants, too; there is luck for you!" hecontinued.

"More luck than merit, perhaps; more the Varna fever than either, SirMadoc," said I, as he slowly relinquished my hand, which he had heldfor a few seconds in his, while looking kindly and earnestly into myface.

It was well browned by the sun and sea of the Windward Isles,tolerably well whiskered and moustached too; so I fear that if thegood old gentleman was seeking for some resemblance to the sweet MaryVassal of the past times, he sought in vain. Our horses were allwalking now; Sir Madoc rode on one side of the barouche, and his twodaughters on the other.

"You saw my girls last season in town," said he; "but when you werelast here, Winifred was in her first long frock, and Dora little morethan a baby."

"But Craigaderyn is all unchanged, though we may be," said Winifred,whose remark had some secret point in it so far as referred to me.

"And Wales is unchanged too," added Dora; "Mr. Hardinge will find theodious hat of the women still lingers in the more savage regions; theitinerant harper and the goat too are not out of fashion; and we stillwear our leek on the first of March."

"And long may all this be so!" said her father; "for since thosepestilent railways have come up by Shrewsbury and Chester, with theirtides of tourists, greed, dissipation, and idleness are on theincrease, and all our good old Welsh customs are going to Caerphillyand the devil! Without the wants of over-civilisation we werecontented; but now--Gwell y chydig gait rad, na llawr gan avrard,"he added with something like an angry sigh, quoting a Welsh proverb tothe effect that a little with a blessing is better than much withprodigality.

CHAPTER IV.--WINNY AND DORA LLOYD.

Both girls were very handsome, and for their pure and brilliantcomplexion were doubtless indebted to the healthful breeze that sweptthe green sides of the Denbigh hills, together with an occasionalsoupçon of that which comes from the waters of the Irish Sea.

It is difficult to say whether Winifred could be pronounced a brunetteor a blonde, her skin was so exquisitely fair, while her splendid hairwas a shade of the deepest brown, and her glorious sparkling eyes wereof the darkest violet blue. Their normal expression was quiet andsubdued; they only flashed up at times, and she was a girl thatsomehow every colour became. In pure white one might have thought herlovely, and lovelier still, perhaps, in black or blue or rose, or anyother tint or shade. Her fine lithe figure appeared to perfection inher close-fitting habit of dark-blue cloth, and the masses of her hairbeing tightly bound up under her hat, revealed the contour of herslender neck and delicately formed ear.

Dora was a smaller and younger edition of her sister--more girlish andmore of a hoyden, with her lighter tresses, half golden in hue,floating loose over her shoulders and to beneath her waist from undera smart little hat, the feather and fashion of which imparted intensepiquancy to the character of her somewhat irregular but remarkablypretty face and--we must admit it--rather retroussé nose.

Pride and a little reserve were rather the predominant style of theelder and dark-eyed sister; merriment, fun, and rather noisyflirtation were that of Dora, who permitted herself to laugh at timeswhen her sister would barely have smiled, and to say things on whichthe other would never have ventured; but this espièglerie and acertain bearing of almost rantipole--if one may use such a term--werethought to become her.

Winifred rode a tall wiry nag, a hand or two higher than her father'sstout active hunter; but Dora preferred to scamper about on abeautiful Welsh pony, the small head, high withers, flat legs, andround hoofs of which it no doubt inherited, as Sir Madoc would havesaid, from the celebrated horse Merlin.

"Hope you'll stay with us till the twelfth of next month," said he."The grouse are looking well."

"Our time is doubtful, our short leave conditional, Sir Madoc,"replied Phil Caradoc, who, however, was not looking at the Baronet,but at Winifred, in the hope that the alleged brevity of his visitmight find him some tender interest in her eyes, or stir some chord byits suggestiveness in her breast; but Winny, indifferent apparently toseparation and danger so far as he was concerned, seemed intent ontwirling the silky mane of her horse with the lash of her whip.

"Then, in about a fortnight after, we shall be blazing at thepartridges," resumed Sir Madoc, to tempt us. "But matters are lookingill for the pheasants in October, for the gamekeeper tells me that thegapes have been prevalent among them. The poults were hatched early,and the wet weather from the mountains has made more havoc than ourguns are likely to do."

"Long before that time, Sir Madoc, I hope we shall be making havocamong the Russians," replied Phil, still glancing covertly at MissLloyd.

"Ah, I hope not!" said she, roused apparently this time. "I lookforward to this most useless war with horror and dismay. So many dearfriends have gone, so many more are going, it makes one quite sad! O,I shall never forget that morning in London when the poor Guardsmarched!"

This was addressed, not to Phil Caradoc, but to me.

"We knew that we should meet you," said she, colouring, and adding alittle hastily, "We asked Lady Estelle to accompany us; but--"

"She is far too--what shall I call it?--aristocratic orunimpressionable to think of going to meet any one," interrupted hersister.

"Don't say so, Dora! Yet I thought the loveliness of the evening wouldhave tempted her. And Bob Spurrit the groom has broken a new padexpressly for her, by riding it for weeks with a skirt."

So there was no temptation but "the loveliness of the evening,"thought I; while Dora said,

"But she preferred playing over to Mr. Guilfoyle that piece of Germanmusic he gave her yesterday."

All this was not encouraging. She knew that I was coming--a friend inwhom she could not help having, from the past, rather more than acommon interest--and yet she had declined to accompany those frank andkindly girls. Worse than all, perhaps she had at that moment this Mr.Hawkesby Guilfoyle hanging over her admiringly at the piano, while sheplayed his music, presented to her doubtless with some suggestive,secret or implied, meaning in the sentiment or the title of it.Jealousy readily suggested much of this, and a great deal more. ThatLady Estelle was at Craigaderyn Court had been my prevailing idea whenaccepting so readily my kind friend's invitation. Then I should seeher in a very little time now! I had been resolved to watch well howshe received me, though it would be no easy task to read the secretthoughts of one so well and so carefully trained to keep all humanemotions under perfect control, outwardly at least--a "Belgravianthoroughbred," as I once heard Sir Madoc term her; but if she changedcolour, however faintly, if there was the slightest perceptible tremorin her voice, or a flash of the eye, which indicated that which, underthe supervision of the usually astute dowager her mother, she daredscarcely to betray--an interest in one such as me--it would prove atleast that my presence was not indifferent to her. Thus much only didI hope, and of such faint hope had my heart been full until now, whenI heard all this; and if I was piqued by her absence, I was still moreby the cause of it; though had I reflected for a moment, I ought tohave known that the very circ*mstances under which I had last partedfrom her in London, with an expected avowal all but uttered andhovering on my lips when leading her to the carriage, were sufficientto preclude a girl so proud as she from coming to meet me, even in theavenue, and when accompanied by Winifred and Dora Lloyd.

"Is Mr. Guilfoyle a musician?" I asked.

"A little," replied Dora; "plays and sings too; but I can't helplaughing at him--and it is so rude."

"He says that he is a friend of yours, Harry Hardinge; is he so?'asked Sir Madoc, with his bushy brows depressed for a moment.

"Well, if losing to him once at pool mysteriously, also on a certainhorse, while he scratched out of its engagements another on which Istood sure to win, make a friend, he is one. I have met him at hisclub, and should think that he--he--"

"Is not a good style of fellow, in fact," said Sir Madoc in a lowtone, and rather bluntly.

"Perhaps so; nor one I should like to see at Craigaderyn Court." Icared not to add "especially in the society of Lady Cressingham,"after whom he dangled, on the strength of some attentions or friendlyservices performed on the Continent.

"And so you lost money to him? We have a Welsh proverb beginning,Dyled ar bawb--"

"We shall have barely time to dress, dear papa," said Miss Lloyd,increasing the speed of her horse, as she seemed to dread the Welshproclivities of her parent; "and remember that we have quite adinner-party to-day."

"Yes," added Dora; "two country M.P.s are coming; but, O dear! theywill talk nothing but blue-book with papa, or about the crops, fatpigs, and the county pack; and shake their heads about ministerialpolicy and our foreign prestige, whatever that may be. Then we have anIndian colonel with only half a liver, the doctor says, and two Indianjudges without any at all."

"Dora!" exclaimed Miss Lloyd in a tone of expostulation. "Well, it iswhat the doctor said," persisted Dora; "and if he is wrong can I helpit?"

"But people don't talk of such things."

"Then people shouldn't have them."

"A wild Welsh girl this," said Sir Madoc; "neither schooling inSwitzerland nor London has tamed her."

"And we are to have several county gentlemen who are great in thematters of turnips, top-dressing, and Welsh mutton; four young ladies,each with a flirtation on hand; and four old ones, deep in religionand scandal, flannel and coals for the poor; so, Mr. Hardinge, you andMr. Caradoc will be quite a double relief to us--to me, certainly."

"O, Dora, how your tongue runs on!" exclaimed Winifred.

"And then we have Lady Naseby to act as materfamilias, and playpropriety for us all in black velvet and diamonds. Winny, eldestdaughter of the house, is evidently unequal to the task."

"And the coming fête," said I, "is it in honour of anything inparticular?"

"Yes, something very particular indeed," replied Dora.

"Of what?"

"Me."

"You!"

"My birthday--I shall be eighteen," she added, shaking back the heavymasses of her golden hair.

"And she has actually promised to have one round dance with LordPottersleigh," said Winny, laughing heartily.

"I did but promise out of mischief; I trust, however, the Viscountwill leave off his goloshes for that day, though we are to dance onthe grass, or I hope he may forget all about it. Old Potter, I callhim," added the young lady in a sotto-voce to me, "at least, whenthe Cressinghams are not present."

"Why them especially?"

"Because he is such a particular friend of theirs."

This was annoyance number two; for this wealthy but senile old peerhad been a perpetual adorer of Lady Estelle, favoured too, apparently,by her mother, and had been on more than one occasion a bête noireto me; and now I was to meet him here again!

"Papa has told you that I mean to part with my poor pet goat--CarneyddLlewellyn, so called from the mountain whence he came. He is to besent to the regiment--in your care, too."

"Why deprive yourself of a favourite? Why deprive it of such care asyours? Among soldiers," said I, "the poor animal will sorely miss thekindness and caresses you bestow upon it."

"I shall be so pleased to think that our Welsh Fusileers, in the landsto which they are going, will have something so characteristic toremind them of home, of the wild hills of Wales, perhaps to make themthink of the donor. Besides, papa says the corps has never beenwithout this emblem of the old Principality since it was raised in theyear of the Revolution."

"Most true; but how shall I--how shall we--ever thank you?"

I could see that her nether lip--a lovely little pouting lip itwas--quivered slightly, and that her eyes were full of strange light,though bent downward on her horse's mane; and now I felt that, forreasons apparent enough, I was cold, even unkind, to this warm-heartedgirl; for we had been better and dearer friends before we knew theCressinghams. She checked her horse a little abruptly, and began toaddress some of the merest commonplaces to Phil Caradoc; who, with histhick brown curly hair parted in the middle, his smiling handsome faceand white regular teeth, was finding great favour in the eyes of thelaughing Dora. But now we were drawing near Craigaderyn Court. Thescenery was Welsh, and yet the house and all its surroundings were incharacter genuinely English, though to have hinted so much might havepiqued Sir Madoc. The elegance and comfort of the mansion wereEnglish, and English too was the rich verdure of the velvet lawn andthe stately old chase, the trees of which were ancient enough--some ofthem at least--to have sheltered Owen Glendower, or echoed to thebugle of Llewellyn ap Seisalt, whose tall grave-stone stands amid thebattle-mounds on grassy Castell Coch.

At a carved and massive entrance-door we alighted, assisted the ladiesto dismount, and then, gathering up their trains, they swept merrilyup the steps and into the house, to prepare for dinner; while SirMadoc, ere he permitted us to retire, though the first bell had beenrung, led us into the hall; a low-ceiled, irregular, and oak-panelledroom, decorated with deers' antlers, foxes' brushes crossed, andstuffed birds of various kinds, among others a gigantic golden eagle,shot by himself on Snowdon. This long apartment was so cool that,though the season was summer, a fire burned in the old stonefireplace; and on a thick rug before it lay a great, rough, red eyedstaghound, that made one think of the faithful brach that savedLlewellyn's heir. The windows were half shaded by scarlet hangings; ahunting piece or two by Sneyders, with pictures of departedfavourites, horses and dogs, indicated the tastes of the master of thehouse and of his ancestors; and there too was the skull of the lastwolf killed in Wales, more than a century ago, grinning on an oakbracket. The butler, Owen Gwyllim, who occasionally officiated as aharper, especially at Yule, was speedily in attendance, and Sir Madocinsisted on our joining him in a stiff glass of brandy-and-water, "asa whet," he said; and prior to tossing off which he gave a hoarseguttural toast in Welsh, which his butler alone understood, and atwhich he laughed heartily, with the indulged familiarity of an oldservant.

I then retired to make an unusually careful toilette; to leave nothingundone or omitted in the way of cuffs, studs, rings, and so forth, inall the minor details of masculine finery; hearing the while from adistance the notes of a piano in another wing of the house comefloating through an open window. The air was German;--could I doubtwhose white fingers were gliding over the keys, and who might bestanding by, and feeling himself, perhaps, somewhat master of thesituation?

CHAPTER V.--CRAIGADERYN COURT.

Apart from Welsh fable and tradition, the lands of Craigaderyn hadbeen in possession of Sir Madoc's family for many ages, and for moregenerations of the line of Lloyd; but the mansion, the Court itself,is not older than the Stuart times, and portions of it were much morerecent, particularly the library, the shelves of which were repletewith all that a gentleman's library should contain; the billiard-roomand gun-room, where all manner of firearms, from the oldlong-barrelled fowling-piece of Anne's time down to Joe Manton andColt's revolver, stood side by side on racks; the kennels, where manya puppy yelped; and the stable-court, where hoofs rang andstall-collars jangled, and where Mr. Bob Spurrit--a long-bodied,short-and-crooked legged specimen of the Welsh groom--reigned supreme,and watered and corned his nags by the notes of an ancient clock inthe central tower--a clock said to have been brought as spoil from thechurch of Todtenhausen, by Sir Madoc's grandfather, after he led theWelsh Fusileers at the battle of Minden. Masses of that "rare oldplant, the ivy green," heavy, leafy, and overlapping each other,shrouded great portions of the house. Oriels, full of small panes andquaint coats of arms, abutted here and there; while pinnacles andturrets, vanes, and groups of twisted, fluted, or garlanded stonechimney stacks, rose sharply up to break the sky-line and many a paneland scutcheon of stone were there, charged with the bend, ermine, andpean of Lloyd--the lion rampant wreathed with oak, and armed with asword--and the heraldic cognizance of many a successive matrimonialalliance.

Some portions of the house, where the walls were strong and the lowerstorey vaulted, were associated, of course, with visits from Llewellynand Owen Glendower; and there also abode--a ghost. The park, too, wasnot without its old memories and traditions. Many of its trees weredescendants of an ancient grove dedicated to Druidic worship; andbones frequently found there were alleged by some to be the relics ofhuman sacrifice, by others to be those of Roman or of Saxon warriorsslain by the sturdy Britons who, under Cadwallader, Llewellyn of theTorques, or some other hero of the Pendragonate, had held, in defianceof both, the caer or fort on the summit of Craigaderyn. But thewoodlands on which Sir Madoc mostly prided himself were those of theold acorn season, when Nature planted her own wild forests, and sowedthe lawn out of her own lawns, as some writer has it. They wereunquestionably the most picturesque, but the trim and orderly chasewas not without its beauties too, and there had many grandEisteddfoddiau been held under the auspices of Sir Madoc, and oftenfifty harpers at a time had made the woods ring to "The noble Race ofShenkin," or "The March of the Men of Harlech."

The old Court and its surroundings were such as to make one agree withwhat Lord Lyttelton wrote of another Welsh valley, where "themountains seemed placed to guard the charming retreat from invasions;and where, with the woman one loves, the friend of one's heart, and agood library, one might pass an age, and think it a day."

The ghost was a tall thin figure, dressed somewhat in the costume ofHenry VIII.'s time; but his full-skirted doublet with large sleeves,the cap bordered with ostrich feathers, the close tight hose, andsquare-toed shoes, were all deep black, hence his, or its, aspectwas sombre in the extreme, shadowy and uncertain too, as he was onlyvisible in the twilight of eve, or the first dim and similarlyuncertain light of the early dawn; and these alleged appearances havebeen chiefly on St. David's day, the 1st of March, and were precededby the sound of a harp about the place--but a harp unseen. He wasgenerally supposed to leave, or be seen quitting, a portion of thehouse, where the old wall was shrouded with ivy, and to walk or glideswiftly and steadily, without casting either shadow or foot-mark onthe grass, towards a certain ancient tree in the park, where hedisappeared--faded, or melted out of sight. On the wall beneath theivy being examined, a door--the portion of an earlier structure--wasdiscovered to have been built up, but none knew when or why; andtradition averred that those who had seen him pass--for none daredfollow--towards the old tree, could make out that his figure and facewere those of a man in the prime of life, but the expression of thelatter was sad, solemn, resolute, and gloomy.

The origin of the legend, as told to me by Winifred Lloyd, referred toa period rather remote in history, and was to the following effect.Some fifteen miles southward from Craigaderyn is a quaint and singularvillage named Dinas Mowddwy, situated very strangely on the shelf of asteep mountain overlooking the Dyfi stream--a lofty spot commanding aview of the three beautiful valleys of the Ceryst; but this place wasin past times the abode and fortress of a peculiar and terrible tribe,called the Gwylliad Cochion, or Red-haired Robbers, who made all NorthWales, but more particularly their own district, a by-word andreproach, from the great extent and savage nature of the outrages theycommitted by fire and sword; so that to this day, we are told, theremay be seen, in some of the remote mountain hamlets, more especiallyin Cemmaes near the sea, the well-sharpened scythe-blades, which wereplaced in the chimney-corners overnight, to be ready for them in caseof a sudden attack. They were great crossbowmen, those outlaws, andnever failed in their aim; and so, like the broken clans upon theHighland border, they levied black mail on all, till the night of the1st of March, 1534; when, during a terrific storm of thunder,lightning, and wind, Sir Jorwerth Lloyd of Craigaderyn, John Wynne apMeredydd, and a baron named Owen, scaled the mountain at the head oftheir followers, fell on them sword in hand, and after slaying a greatnumber, hung one hundred of them in a row. One wretched mother, ared-haired Celt, begged hard and piteously to have her youngest sonspared; but Sir Jorwerth was relentless, so the young robber perishedwith the rest. Then the woman rent her garments, and laying bare herbosom, said it had nursed other sons and daughters, who would yet washtheir hands in the blood of them all. Owen was waylaid and slain bythem at a place named to this day Llidiart-y-Barwn, or the Baron'sGate, and Meredydd fell soon after; but for Lloyd the woman, who was areputed witch, had prepared another fate, as if aiming at thedestruction of his soul as well as his body; for after his marriagewith Gwerfyl Owen, he fell madly in love with a golden-haired girlwhom he met when hunting in the forest near Craigaderyn; and as heimmediately relinquished all attendance at church and all forms ofprayer, and seemed to be besotted by her, the girl was averred to bean evil spirit, as she was never seen save in his company, and thenonly (by those who watched and lurked) "in the glimpses of the moon."

On the third St. David's eve after the slaughter at Dinas Mowddwy, hewas seated with Gwerfyl in her chamber, listening to a terrific stormof wind and rain that swept through the valley, overturning the oldesttrees, and shaking the walls of the ancient house, while the lightningplayed above the dim summits of Snowdon, and every mountain stream andrhaidr, or cataract, rolled in foam and flood to Llyn Alwen or theConway.

On a tabourette near his knee she sat, lovingly clasping his handbetween her own two, for he seemed restless, petulant, and gloomy, andhad his cloak and cap at hand, as if about to go forth, though theweather was frightful.

"Jorwerth," said she softly, "the last time there was such a storm asthis was on that terrible night--you remember?"

"When we cut off the Gwylliad Cochion--yes, root and branch, sparing,as we thought, none, while the rain ran through my armour as through awaterspout. But why speak of it, to-night especially? Yes, root andbranch, even while that woman vowed vengeance," he added, grinding histeeth. "But what sound is that?"

"Music," she replied, rising and looking round with surprise; but histremulous hand, and, more than that, the sudden pallor of his face,arrested her, while the strains of a small harp, struck wildly andplaintively, came at times between the fierce gusts of wind that shookthe forest trees and the hiss of the rain on the window-panes without.Louder they seemed to come, and to be more emphatic and sharp; and, ashe heard them, a violent trembling and cold perspiration came over allthe form of Sir Jorwerth Lloyd.

"Heaven pity the harper who is abroad to-night!" said Gwerfyl,clasping her white hands.

"Let Hell do so, rather!" was the fierce response of her husband, ashis eyes filled with a strange light.

At that moment a hand knocked on the window, and the startled wife, asshe crouched by her husband's side, could see that it was small anddelicate, wondrously beautiful too, and radiant with gems orglittering raindrops; and now her husband trembled more violently thanever.

Gwerfyl crossed herself, and rushed to the window.

"Strange," said she; "I can see no one."

"No one in human form, perhaps," replied her husband gloomily, as helifted his cloak. "Look again, dear wife."

The lady did so, and fancied that close to the window-pane she couldsee a female face--anon she could perceive that it was small andbeautiful, with hair of golden red, all wavy, and, strange to say,unwetted by the rain, and with eyes that were also of golden red, butwith a devilish smile and glare, and glitter in them and over all herfeatures, as they appeared, but to vanish, as the successive flashesof lightning passed. With terror and foreboding of evil, she turned toher startled husband. He was a pale and handsome man, with an aquilinenose, a finely-cut mouth and chin; but now his lips were firmlycompressed, a flashing and fiery light seemed to sparkle in his eyes,his forehead was covered with lines, and the veins of his temples wereswollen, while his black hair and moustache seemed to have actuallybecome streaked with gray. What unknown emotion caused all this? Therewere power and passion in his bearing; but something strange, anddark, and demon-like was brooding in his soul. The white dropsglittered on his brow as he threw his cloak about him, and then thenotes of the harp were heard, as if struck triumphantly and joyously.

"Stay, stay! leave me not!" implored his wife on her knees, in asudden access of terror and pity, that proved greater even than love.

"I cannot--I cannot! God pardon me and bless you, dear, dear wife, butgo I must!"

("Exactly like Rudolph, as we saw him last night in the opera,breaking away from his followers when he heard the voice of Lurlinesinging amid the waters of the Rhine," added Winifred in aparenthesis, as she laid her hand timidly on my arm.)

She strove on her knees to place in his hand the small ivory-boundvolume of prayers which ladies then carried slung by a chain at theirgirdle, even as a watch is now; but he thrust it aside, as if itscorched his fingers. Then he kissed her wildly, and broke away.

She sprang from the floor, but he was gone--gone swiftly into theforest; and with sorrow and prayer in her heart his wife stealthilyfollowed him. By this time the sudden storm had as suddenly ceased;already the gusty wind had died away, and no trace of it remained,save the strewn leaves and a quivering in the dripping branches; thewhite clouds were sailing through the blue sky, and whiter still, insilvery sheen 'the moonlight fell aslant in patches through thebranches on the glittering grass. Amid that sheen she saw the darkfigure of her husband passing, gliding onward to the old oak tree, andGwerfyl shrunk behind another, as the notes of the infernal harp--forsuch she judged it to be--fell upon her ear.

"You have come, my beloved," said a sweet voice; and she saw the samestrangely-beautiful girl with the red-golden hair, her skin ofwondrous whiteness, and eyes that glittered with devilish triumph,though to Jorwerth Du they seemed only filled with ardour and thelight of passionate love, even as the beauty of her form seemed allround and white and perfect; but lo! to the eyes of his wife, who wasunder no spell, that form was fast becoming like features in adissolving view, changed to that of extreme old age--gray hairs andwrinkles seemed to come with every respiration; for this mysteriouslove, who had bewitched her husband, was some evil spirit or demon ofthe woods.

"How long you have been!" said she reproachfully, for even thesweetness of her tone had suddenly passed away; "so long that alreadyage seems to have come upon me."

"Pardon me; have I not sworn to love you for ever and ever, thoughneither of us is immortal?"

"You are ready?" said she, laying her head on his breast.

"Yes, my own wild love!"

"Then let us go."

All beauty of form had completely passed away, and now Gwerfyl saw herhandsome husband in the arms of a very hag; hollow-cheeked, toothless,almost fleshless, with restless shifty eyes, and grey elf-locks likethe serpents of Medusa; a hag beyond all description hideous: and herlong, lean, shrivelled arms she wound lovingly and triumphantly aroundhim. Her eyes gleamed like two live coals as he kissed her wildly andpassionately from time to time, the full blaze of the moonlightstreaming upon both their forms.

Gwerfyl strove to pray, to cry aloud, to move. But her tongue refusedits office, and her lips were powerless; all capability of volitionhad left her, and she was as it were rooted to the spot. A momentmore, and a dark cloud came over the moon, causing a deeper shadowunder the old oak tree. Then a shriek escaped her, and when again themoon shone forth on the green grass and the gnarled tree, Gwerfylalone was there--her husband and the hag had disappeared. Neither wasever seen more. North Wales is the most primitive portion of thecountry, and it is there that such fancies and memories still lingerlongest; and such was the little family legend told me by WinifredLloyd. I was thinking over it now, recalling the earnest expression ofher bright soft face and intelligent eyes, and the tone of herpleasantly modulated voice, when she, half laughingly and halfseriously, had related it, with more point than I can give it, whilewe sat in a corner and somewhat apart from every one--on the firstnight I met the Cressinghams--in a crowded London ballroom, amid theheat, the buzz, and crush of the season--about the last place in theworld to hear a story of diablerie; and "the old time" seemed tocome again, as I descended to the drawing-room, to meet her and LadyEstelle.

CHAPTER VI.--THREE GRACES.

Already having met and been welcomed by my host and his daughters, myfirst glances round the room were in search of Lady Estelle and hermother. About eighteen persons were present, mostly gentlemen, and Iinstinctively made my way to where she I sought was seated, idlingover a book of prints. Two or three gentlemen were exclusively inconversation with her; Sir Madoc, who was now in evening costume, forone.

"Come, Harry," said he, "here is a fair friend to whom I wish topresent you."

"You forget, Sir Madoc, that I said we had met before; Mr. Hardingeand I are almost old friends--the friends of a season, at least,"said Lady Estelle, presenting her hand to me with a bright butcalm and decidedly conventional smile, and with the most perfectself-possession.

"It makes me so very happy to meet you again," said I in a low voice,the tone of which she could not mistake.

"Mamma, too, will be so delighted--you were quite a favourite withher."

I bowed, as if accepting for fact a sentiment of which I was extremelydoubtful, and then after a little pause she added,--

"Mamma always preferred your escort, you remember."

Of that I was aware, when she wished to leave some more eligibleparti--old Lord Pottersleigh, for instance--to take charge of herdaughter.

"I am so pleased that we are to see a little more of you, ere youdepart for the East; whence, I hear, you are bound," said she after alittle pause.

Simple though the words, they made my heart beat happily, and Idreaded that some sharp observer might read in my eyes the expressionwhich I knew could not be concealed from her; and now I turned to lookfor some assistance from Winifred Lloyd; but, though observing us, shewas apparently busy with Caradoc; luckily for me, perhaps, as therewas something of awkwardness in my position with her. I had flirtedrather too much at one time with Winny--been almost tender--butnothing more. Now I loved Lady Estelle, and that love was indeeddestitute of all ambition, though the known difficulties attendant onthe winning of such a hand as hers, added zest and keenness to itscourse.

When I looked at Winifred and saw how fair and attractive she was, "acreature so compact and complete," as Caradoc phrased it, with suchbrilliance of complexion, such deep violet eyes and thick dark wavyhair; and when I thought of the girl's actual wealth, and her kind oldfather's great regard for me, it seemed indeed that I might do well inoffering my heart where there was little doubt it would be accepted;but the more stately and statuesque beauty, the infinitely greaterpersonal attractions of Lady Estelle dazzled me, and rendered me blindto Winny's genuine goodness of soul The latter was every way a mostattractive girl Dora was quite as much so, in her own droll and jollyway; but Lady Estelle possessed that higher style of loveliness andbearing so difficult to define; and though less natural perhaps thanthe Lloyds, she had usually that calm, placid, and unruffled orsettled expression of features so peculiar to many Englishwomen ofrank and culture, yet they could light up at times; then, indeed, shebecame radiant; and now, in full dinner dress, she seemed to lookpretty much as I had seemed to see her in that haughty full-length bythe President of the R.A., with an admiring and critical crowd aboutit.

The three girls I have named were all handsome--each sufficiently soto have been the belle of any room; yet, though each was different intype from the other, they were all thoroughly English; perhaps SirMadoc would have reminded me that two were Welsh. The beauty ofWinifred and Dora was less regular; yet, like Lady Estelle, in theirfaces each feature seemed so charmingly suited to the rest, and all soperfect, that I doubt much the story that Canova had sixty models forhis single Venus, or that Zeuxis of Heraclea had even five for hisHelen. Lady Estelle Cressingham was tall and full in form, with a neckthat rose from her white shoulders like that of some perfect Greekmodel; her smile, when real, was very captivating; her eyes were darkand deep, and softly lidded with long lashes; they had neither theinquiring nor soft pleading expression of Winifred's, nor the saucydrollery of Dora's, yet at times they seemed to have the power ofboth; for they were eloquent eyes, and, as a writer has it, "couldlight up her whole personnel as if her whole body thought." Hercolour was pale, almost creamy; her features clearly cut and delicate.She had a well-curved mouth, a short upper lip and chin, thatindicated what she did not quite possess--decision. Her thick hair,which in its darkness contrasted so powerfully with her paleness, camesomewhat well down, in what is called "a widow's peak," on a foreheadthat was broad rather than low. Her taste was perfect in dress andjewelry; for though but a girl in years, she had been carefullytrained, and knew nearly as much of the world--at least of theexclusive world in which she lived--as her cold and unimpressionablemamma, who seemed to be but a larger, fuller, older, and more statelyversion of herself; certainly much more of that selfish world than I,a line subaltern of seven years' foreign service, could know.

A few words more, concerning my approaching departure for the East,were all that could pass between us then; for the conversation was, ofcourse, general, and of that enforced and heavy nature which usuallyprecedes a dinner-party; but our memories and our thoughts werenevertheless our own still, as I could see when her glance met mineoccasionally.

War was new to Britain then, and thus, even in the society atCraigaderyn Court, Caradoc and I, as officers whose regiment hadalready departed--more than all, as two of the Royal WelshFusileers--found ourselves rather objects of interest, and at a highpremium.

"Ah, the dooce! Hardinge, how d'you do, how d'you do? Not off to theseat of war" (he pronounced it waw), "to tread the path of glorythat leads to--where does old Gray say it leads to?" said a thinwiry-looking man of more than middle height and less than middle age,his well-saved hair carefully parted in the centre, a glass in hiseye, and an easy insouciance that bordered on insolence in his toneand bearing, as he came bluntly forward, and interrupted me whilepaying the necessary court to "Mamma Cressingham," who received mewith simple politeness, nothing more. I could not detect the slightestcordiality in her tone or eye. Though in the Army List, my name wasunchronicled by Debrett, and might never be.

I bowed to the speaker, who was the identical Mr. Hawkesby Guilfoyleof whom I have already spoken, and with whom I felt nettled forpresuming to place himself on such a footing of apparent familiaritywith me, from the simple circ*mstance that I had more than once--Iscarcely knew how--lost money to him.

"I am going Eastward ere long, at all events," said I; "and I cannothelp thinking that some of you many idlers here could not do betterthan take a turn of service against the Russians too."

"It don't pay, my dear fellow; moreover, I prefer to be one of thegentlemen of England, who live at home at ease. I shall be quitesatisfied with reading all about it, and rejoicing in your exploits."

I smiled and bowed, but felt that he was closely scrutinising methrough his glass, which he held in its place by a muscularcontraction of the left eye; and I felt moreover, instinctively andintuitively, by some magnetic influence, that this man was my enemy,and yet I had done him no wrong. The aversion was certainly mutual. Itwas somewhat of the impulse that led Tom Brown of old to dislike Dr.Fell, yet, in my instance, it was not exactly without knowing "why."

I had quickly read the character of this Mr. Guilfoyle. He had cold,cunning, and shifty eyes of a greenish yellow colour. They seldomsmiled, even when his mouth did, if that can be called a smile whichis merely a grin from the teeth outwards. He was undoubtedlygentlemanlike in air and appearance, always correct in costume, suaveto servility when it suited his purpose, but daringly insolent when hecould venture to be so with impunity. He had that narrowness of mindwhich made him counterfeit regret for the disaster of his best friend,while secretly exulting in it, if that friend could serve his purposesno more; the praise or success of another never failed to exciteeither his envy or his malice; and doating on himself, he thought thatall who knew him should quarrel with those against whom he conceivedeither spleen or enmity. A member of a good club in town, he wasfashionable, moderately dissipated, and rather handsome in person. Noone knew exactly from what source his income was derived; but vaguehints of India stock, foreign bonds, and so forth, served to satisfythe few--and in the world of London few they were indeed--who cared ajot about the matter. Such was Mr. Hawkesby Guilfoyle, of whom thereader shall hear more in these pages.

"And so you don't approve of risking your valuable person in theservice of the country?" said I, in a tone which I felt to be asneering one.

"No; I am disposed to be rather economical of it--think myself toogood-looking, perhaps, to fill a hole in a trench. Ha, ha! Moreover,what the deuce do I want with glory or honour?" said he, in a lowertone; "are not self-love or interest, rather than virtue, the truemotives of most of our actions?"

"Do you think so?"

"Yes, by Jove! I do."

"A horrid idea, surely!"

"Not at all. Besides, virtues, as they are often called, are too oftenonly vices disguised."

"The deuce!" said Caradoc, who overheard us; "I don't understand thisparadox."

"Nor did I intend you to do so," replied the other, in a tone that,to say the least of it, was offensive, and made Phil's eyes sparkle."But whether in pursuit of vice or virtue, it is an awkward thing whenthe ruling passion makes one take a wrong turn in life."

"The ruling passion?" said I, thinking of the money I had lost to him.

"Yes, whether it be ambition, avarice, wine, or love," he replied, hiseyes going involuntarily towards Lady Estelle; "but at all times thereis nothing like taking precious good care of number one; and so, wereI a king, I should certainly reign for myself."

"And be left to yourself," said I, almost amused by this avowedcynicism and selfishness.

"Well, as Prince Esterhazy said, when he did me the honour to presentme with this ring," he began, playing the while with a splendidbrilliant, which sparkled on one of his fingers.

But what the Prince had said I was never fated to know; for theaphorisms of Mr. Guilfoyle were cut short by the welcome sound of thedinner-gong, and in file we proceeded through the corridor and hall tothe dining-room, duly marshalled between two rows of tall liverymen inpowder and plush, Sir Madoc leading the way with the Countess on hisarm, her long sweeping skirt so stiff with brocade, that, as Caradocwhispered, it looked like our regimental colours.

Lady Estelle was committed to the care of a stout old gentleman, whowas the exact counterpart of our host, and whose conversation, as itevidently failed to amuse, bored her. Miss Lloyd was led by Caradoc,and Dora fell to my care. Of the other ladies I took little heed;neither did I much of the sumptuous dinner, which passed away as otherdinners do, through all its courses, with entrées and relays ofvarious wines, the serving up of the latter proving in one sense anuisance, from the absurd breaks caused thereby in the conversation.The buzz of voices was pretty loud at times, for many of the guestswere country gentlemen, hale and hearty old fellows some of them, wholaughed with right good will, not caring whether to do so was goodton or not. But while listening to the lively prattle of Dora Lloyd,I could not refrain from glancing ever and anon to where EstelleCressingham, looking so radiant, yet withal "so delicately white" inher complexion, her slender throat and dazzling shoulders, her thickdark hair and tiny ears, at which the diamond pendants sparkled, satlistening to her elderly bore, smiling assents from time to time outof pure complaisance, and toying with her fruit knife when the dessertcame, her hands and arms seeming so perfect in form and colour, and onmore than one occasion--when her mamma was engrossed by courteous oldSir Madoc, who could "talk peerage," and knew the quartering of armsbetter than the Garter King or Rouge Dragon--giving me a brightintelligent smile, that made my heart beat happily; all the more sothat I had been afflicted by some painful suspicion of coldness in herfirst reception of me--a coldness rather deduced from her perfectself-possession--while I had been farther annoyed to find that hersomewhat questionable admirer, Guilfoyle, was seated by her side, witha lady whose presence he almost ignored in his desire to be pleasingelsewhere. Yet, had it been otherwise, if anything might console a manfor fancied coldness in the woman he loved, or for a partialseparation from her by a few yards of mahogany, it should be thelively rattle of a lovely girl of eighteen; but while listening andreplying to Dora, my thoughts and wishes were with another.

"I told you how it would be, Mr. Hardinge," whispered Dora; "that thestaple conversation of the gentlemen, if it didn't run on the countypack, would be about horses and cattle, sheep, horned and South Down;or on the British Constitution, which must be a very patchedinvention, to judge by all they say of it."

I confessed inwardly that much of what went on around me was soprovincial and local--the bishop's visitation, the--parish poor,crops and game, grouse and turnips--and proved such boredom that, butfor the smiling girl beside me, with her waggish eyes and pretty ways,and the longing and hope to have more of the society of Lady Estelle,I could have wished myself back at the mess of the depôt battalion inWinchester. Yet this restlessness was ungrateful; for Craigaderyn wasas much a home to me as if I had been a son of the house, and timesthere were when the girls, like their father, called me simply"Harry," by my Christian name.

The long and stately dining-room, like other parts of the house, waswell hung with portraits. At one end was a full-length of Sir Madoc inhis scarlet coat and yellow-topped boots, seated on his favourite baymare, "Irish Jumper," with mane and reins in hand, a brass horn slungover his shoulder, and looking every inch like what he was--the M.F.H.of the county, trotting to cover. Opposite, of course, was hislady--it might almost have passed for a likeness of Winifred--doneseveral years ago, her dress of puce velvet cut low to show herbeautiful outline, but otherwise very full indeed, as she leaned inthe approved fashion against a vase full of impossible flowers besidea column and draped curtain, in what seemed a windy and draughtystaircase, a view of Snowdon in the distance. "Breed and blood," asSir Madoc used to say, "in every line of her portrait, from the bridgeof her nose to the heel of her slipper;" for she was a linealdescendant of y Marchog gwyllt o' Cae Hywel, or "the wild Knight ofCaehowel," a circ*mstance he valued more than all her personal meritsand goodness of heart.

Some of Dora's remarks about the family portraits elicited anoccasional glance of reprehension from the Dowager of Naseby, whothought such relics or evidences of descent were not to be treatedlightly. On my enquiring who that lady in the very low dress with thesomewhat dishevelled hair was, I had for answer, "A great favourite ofCharles II., Mr. Hardinge--an ancestress of ours. Papa knows her name.There was some lively scandal about her, of course. And that is herbrother beside her--he in the rose-coloured doublet and black wig. Hewas killed in a duel about a young lady--run clean through the heartby one of the Wynnes of Llanrhaidr, at the Ring in Hyde Park."

"When men risked their lives so, love must have been very earnest inthose days," said Lady Estelle.

"And very fearful," said the gentler Winny. "It is said the lady'sname was engraved on the blade of the sword that slew him."

"A duel! How delightful to be the heroine of a duel!" exclaimed thevolatile Dora.

"And who is that pretty woman in the sacque and puffed cap?" askedCaradoc, pointing to a brisk-looking dame in a long stomacher. She waswell rouged, rather décolletée, had a roguish kissing-patch in thecorner of her mouth, and looked very like Dora indeed.

"Papa's grandmother, who insisted on wearing a white rose when she waspresented to the Elector at St. James's," replied Dora; "and hermarriage to the heir of Craigaderyn is chronicled in the fashion ofthe Georgian era, by gossipping Mr. Sylvanus Urban, as that of'Mistress Betty Temple, an agreeable and modest young lady with50,000l. fortune, from the eastward of Temple Bar.' I don't thinkpeople were such tuft-hunters in those days as they are now. Do youthink so, Mr. Guilfoyle? O, I am sure, that if all we read in novelsis true, there must have been more romantic marriages and much morehonest love long ago than we find in society now. What do you say tothis, Estelle?"

But the fair Estelle only fanned herself, and replied by a languidsmile, that somehow eluded when it might have fallen on me. So whilewe lingered over the dessert (the pineapples, peaches, grapes, and soforth being all the produce of Sir Madoc's own hothouses), Doraresumed:

"And so, poor Harry Hardinge, in a few weeks more you will be far awayfrom us, and face to face with those odious Russians--in a realbattle, perhaps. It is something terrible to think of! Ah, heavens, ifyou should be killed!" she added, as her smile certainly passed awayfor a moment.

"I don't think somehow there is very much danger of that--at least Ican but hope--"

"Or wounded! If you should lose a leg--two legs perhaps--"

"He could scarcely lose more," said Mr. Guilfoyle.

"And come home with wooden ones!" she continued, lowering her voice."You will look so funny! O, I could never love or marry a man withwooden stumps!"

"But," said I, a little irritated that she should see anything so veryamusing in this supposed contingency, "I don't mean to marry you."

"Of course not--I know that. It is Winny, papa thinks--or is itEstelle Cressingham you prefer?"

Lowly and whispered though the heedless girl said this, it reached theears of Lady Estelle, and caused her to grow if possible paler, whileI felt my face suffused with scarlet; but luckily all now rose fromthe table, as the ladies, led by Winifred, filed back alone to thedrawing-room; and I felt that Dora's too palpable hints must have donemuch to make or mar my cause--perhaps to gain me the enmity of bothher sister and the Lady Estelle.

Sir Madoc assumed his daughter's place at the head of the table, andbeckoned me to take his chair at the foot. Owen Gwyllim replenishedthe various decanters and the two great silver jugs of claret andburgundy, and the flow of conversation became a little louder in tone,and of course less reserved. I listened now with less patience to allthat passed around me, in my anxiety to follow the ladies to thedrawing-room. Every moment spent out of her presence seemed doublylong and doubly lost. The chances of the coming war--where ourtroops were to land, whether at Eupatoria or Perecop, or were to awaitan attack where they were literally rotting in the camp upon theBulgarian shore; their prospects of success, the proposed bombardmentof Cronstadt, the bewildering orders issued to our admirals, the inaneweakness and pitiful vacillation, if not worse, of Lord Aberdeen'sgovernment, our total want of all preparation in the ambulance andcommissariat services, even to the lack of sufficient shot, shell, andgunpowder--were all freely descanted on, and attacked, explained, ordefended according to the politics or the views of those present; andGuilfoyle--who, on the strength of having been attaché at the pettyGerman court of Catzenelnbogen, affected a great knowledge ofcontinental affairs--indulged in much "tall talk" on the Europeansituation till once more the county pack and hunting became the chieftopic, and then too he endeavoured, but perhaps vainly, to take thelead.

"You talk of fox-hunting, gentlemen," said he, raising his voice aftera preliminary cough, "and some of the anecdotes you tell of wonderfulleaps, mistakes, and runs, with the cunning displayed by reynard onvarious occasions, such as hiding in a pool up to the snout, feigningdeath--a notion old as the days of Olaus Magnus--throwing dogs off thescent by traversing a running stream, and so forth, are all remarkableenough; but give me a good buck-hunt, such as I have seen in Croatia!When travelling there among the mountains that lie between Carlstadtand the Adriatic, I had the good fortune to reside for a few weekswith my kind friend Ladislaus Count Mosvina, Grand Huntsman to theEmperor of Austria, and captain of the German Guard of Arzieres, andwho takes his title from that wine-growing district, the vintage ofwhich is fully equal to the finest burgundy. The season was winter.The snow lay deep among the frightful valleys and precipices of theVellibitch range, and an enormous rehbock, or roebuck, fully fivefeet in height to the shoulder, with antlers of vast size--five feet,if an inch, from tip to tip--driven from the mountains by the stormand la bora, the biting north-east wind, took shelter in a thicketnear the house. Several shots were fired; but no one, not even I,could succeed in hitting him, till at last he defiantly and coollyfed among the sheep, in the yard of the Count's home farm, where, bythe use of his antlers, he severely wounded and disabled all whoattempted to dislodge him. At last four of the Count's farmers orforesters--some of those Croatian boors who are liable to receivetwenty-five blows of a cudgel yearly if they fail to engraft at leasttwenty-five fruit-trees--undertook to slay or capture the intruder.But though they were powerful, hardy, and brave men, this devilof a rehbock, by successive blows of its antlers, fractured theskulls of two and the thigh-bones of the others, smashing them liketobacco-pipes, and made an escape to the mountains. A combined huntwas now ordered by my friend Mosvina, and all the gentlemen andofficers in the generalat or district commanded by him set off,mounted and in pursuit. There were nearly a thousand horsem*n; but thecavalry there are small and weak. I was perhaps the best-mounted manin the field. We pursued it for twenty-five miles, by rocky hills andalmost pathless woods, by ravines and rivers. Many of our people fell.Some got staked, were pulled from their saddles by trees, or tumbledoff by running foul of wild swine. Many missed their way, grew weary,got imbogged in the half-frozen marshes, and so forth, till at lastonly the Count and I with four dogs were on his track, and when on it,we leaped no less than four frozen cataracts, each at least a hundredfeet in height--'pon honour they were. We had gone almost neck andneck for a time; but the Grand Huntsman's horse began to fail him now(for we had come over terrible ground, most of it being uphill), andultimately it fell dead lame. Then whoop--tally-ho! I spurred onwardalone. Just as the furious giant was coming to bay in a narrow gorge,and, fastening on his flanks and neck, the maddened dogs were tearinghim down, their red jaws steaming in the frosty air, the Count came upon foot, breathless and thoroughly blown, to have the honour ofslaying this antlered monarch of the Dinovian Alps. But I was tooquick for him. I had sprung from my horse, and with my unsheathedhanshar or Croatian knife had flung myself, fearlessly andregardless of all danger, upon the buck, eluding a last and desperatebutt made at me with his pointed horns. Another moment saw my knifeburied to the haft in his throat, and a torrent of crimson bloodflowing upon the snow, then I courteously tendered my weapon by thehilt to the Count, who, in admiration of my adroitness, presented mewith this ring--a very fine brilliant, you may perceive--which hisgrandfather had received from the Empress Maria Theresa, and the puregold of which is native, from the sand upon the banks of the Drave."

And as he concluded his anecdote, which he related with considerablepomposity and perfect coolness, he twirled round his finger thisremarkable ring, of which I was eventually to hear more from time totime.

"So, out of a thousand Croatian horsem*n, you were the only one in atthe death! It says little for their manhood," said an old fox-hunter,as he filled his glass with burgundy, and pretty palpably winked toSir Madoc, under cover of an épergne.

"This may all be true, Harry, or not--only entre nous, I don'tbelieve it is," said Phil Caradoc aside to me; "for who here knowsanything of Croatia? He might as well talk to old Gwyllim the butler,or any chance medley Englishman, of the land of Memnon and thehieroglyphics. This fellow Guilfoyle beats Munchausen all to nothing;but did he not before tell something else about that ring?"

"I don't remember; but now, Phil, that you have seen her," said I, ina tone of tolerably-affected carelessness, "what do you think of labelle Cressingham?"

"She is very handsome, certainly," replied Phil, in the sameundertone, and luckily looking at his glass, and not at me, "asplendid specimen of her class--a proud and by no means a bashfulbeauty."

"Most things in this world are prized just as they are difficult ofattainment, or are scarce. I reckon beauty among these, and no womanholds it cheap," said I, not knowing exactly what to think ofCaradoc's criticism. "There is Miss Lloyd, for instance--"

"Ah," said he, with honest animation, "she is a beauty too, but agentle and retiring one--a girl that is all sweetness and genuinegoodness of heart."

"With some dairy-farms in the midland counties, eh?"

"The graces of such a girl are always the most attractive. We men areso constituted that we are apt to decline admiration where it isloftily courted or seemingly expected--as I fear it is in the case ofLady Cressingham--and to bestow it on the gentle and retiring."

I felt there was much truth in my friend's remarks, and yet theypiqued me so that I rather turned from him coldly for the remainder ofthe evening.

"Her mother is haughty, intensely ambitious, and looks forward to atitle for her as high, if not higher, than that her father bore," Iheard Sir Madoc say to a neighbour who had been talking on the samesubject--the beauty of Lady, Estelle; "the old lady is half Irish andhalf Welsh."

"Rather a combustible compound, I should think," added Guilfoyle, as,after coffee and curaçoa, we all rose to join the ladies in thedrawing-room.

CHAPTER VII.--PIQUE.

The moment I entered the drawing-room, where Winifred Lloyd had beendoing her utmost to amuse her various guests till we came, and whereundoubtedly the ladies' faces grew brighter when we appeared, I feltconscious that the remark of the hoydenish Dora had done me somelittle mischief. I could read this in the face of the haughty Estelle,together with her fear that others might have heard it; thus,instead of seating myself near her, as I wished and had fullyintended, I remained rather aloof, and leaving her almost exclusivelyto the industrious Guilfoyle, divided my time between listening toWinifred, who, with Caradoc, proceeded to perform the duet he had senther from the barracks, and endeavouring to make myself agreeable tothe Countess--a process rather, I am sorry to say, somewhat of a taskto me. Though her dark hair was considerably seamed with gray, herforehead was without a line, smooth and unwrinkled as that of achild--care, thought, reflection, or sorrow had never visited her.Wealth and rank, with a naturally aristocratic indolence andindifference of mind, had made the ways of life and of the world--atleast, the world in which she lived--easy, soft, and pleasant, and allher years had glided brilliantly but monotonously on. She had marriedthe late earl to please her family rather than herself, because he wasundoubtedly an eligible parti; and she fully expected their onlydaughter to act exactly in the same docile manner. Her mien and airwere stately, reserved, and uninviting; her eyes were cold, inquiring,and searching in expression, and I fancied that they seemed to watchand follow me, as if she really and naturally suspected me of "views,"or, as she would have deemed them, designs.

Amid the commonplaces I was venturing to utter to this proud, cold,and decidedly unpleasant old dame, whose goodwill and favour I wassedulously anxious to gain, it was impossible for me to avoid hearingsome remarks that Sir Madoc made concerning me, and to her daughter.

"I am so glad you like my young friend, Lady Estelle," said the bluffbaronet, leaning over her chair, his rubicund face beaming with smilesand happiness; for he was in best of moods after a pleasant dinner,with agreeable society and plenty of good wine.

"Who told you that I did so?" asked she, looking up with freshannoyance, yet not unmixed with drollery, in her beautiful face.

"Dora and Winny too; and I am so pleased, for he is an especial friendof ours. I love the lad for his dead mother's sake--she was an oldflame of mine in my more romantic days--and doesn't he deserve it?What do you think the colonel of his old corps says of him?"

"Really, Sir Madoc, I know not--that he is quite a ladykiller,perhaps; to be such is the ambition of most young subalterns."

"Better than that. He wrote me, that young Hardinge is all that aBritish officer ought to be; that he has a constitution of iron--couldsleep out in all weathers, in a hammock or under a tree--till thefever attacked him at least. If provisions were scanty, he'd share hislast biscuit with a comrade; on the longest and hottest march he neverfell out or became knocked up; and more than once he has been seencarrying a couple of muskets, the arms of those whose strength hadfailed them. 'I envy the Royal Welsh their acquisition, and regretthat we have lost him'--these were the colonel's very words."

Had I fee'd or begged him to plead my cause, he could not have beenmore earnest or emphatic.

"For heaven's sake, Sir Madoc, do stop this overpowering eulogium,"said I; "it is impossible for one not to overhear, when one's own nameis mentioned. But did the colonel really say all this of me?"

"All, and more, Harry."

"It should win him a diploma of knight-bachelor," said Lady Estelle,laughing, "a C.B., perhaps a baronetcy."

"Nay," said Sir Madoc; "such rewards are reserved now for toad-eaters,opulent traders, tuft-hunters, and ministerial tools; the days whentrue merit was rewarded are gone, my dear Lady Estelle."

The duet over, Phil Caradoc drew near me, for evidently he was notmaking much progress with Miss Lloyd.

"Well, Phil," said I, in a low voice, "among those present have youseen your ideal of woman?"

"Can't say," said he, rather curtly; "but you have, at all events,old fellow, and I think Sir Madoc has done a good stroke of businessfor you by his quotation of the colonel's letter. I heard him allthrough our singing--the old gentleman has no idea of a sotto voce,and talks always as if he were in the hunting-field. By Jove, Harry,you grow quite pink!" he continued, laughing. "I see how the land lieswith you; but as for 'la mère Cressingham,' she is an exclusive ofthe first water, a match-maker by reputation; and I fear you have notthe ghost of a chance with her."

"Hush, Caradoc," said I, glancing nervously about me "remember that weare not at Winchester, or inside the main-guard, just now. But see,Lady Estelle and that fellow Guilfoyle are about to favour us," Iadded, as the pale beauty spread her ample skirts over thepiano-stool, with an air that, though all unstudied, seemed quiteimperial, and ran her slender fingers rapidly over the white keys,preluding an air; while Guilfoyle, who had a tolerable voice and anintolerable amount of assurance, prepared to sing by fussily placingon the piano a piece of music, on the corner of which was written in alarge and bold hand, evidently his own--"To Mr. H. Guilfoyle, fromH.S.H. the Princess of Catzenelnbogen."

"You must have been a special favourite with this lady," said Estelle,"as most of your German music is inscribed thus."

"Yes, we were always exchanging our pieces and songs," said he,languidly and in a low voice close to her ear, yet not so low as to beunheard by me. "I was somewhat of a favourite with her, certainly; butthen the Princess was quite a privileged person."

"In what respect?"

"She could flirt farther than any one, and yet never compromiseherself. However, when she bestowed this ring upon me, on the day whenI saved her life, by arresting her runaway horse on the very brink ofthe Rhine, I must own that his Highness the Prince was the reverse ofpleased, and viewed me with coldness ever after; so that ultimately Iresigned my office of attaché, just about the time I had thepleasure--may I call it the joy?--of meeting you."

"O fie, Mr. Guilfoyle! were you actually flirting with her?"

"Nay, pardon me; I never flirt."

"You were in love then?"

"I was never in love till--"

A crash of notes as she resumed the air interrupted whatever he wasabout to say; but his eye told more than his bold tongue would perhapshave dared to utter in such a time or place; and, aware that they hadmet on the Continent, and had been for some time together in theseclusion of Craigaderyn, I began to fear that he must have farsurpassed me in the chances of interest with her.. Moreover, Dora'sfoolish remark might reasonably lead her to suppose that I was alreadyinvolved with Winifred; and now, with a somewhat cloudy expression inmy face (as a mirror close by informed me), and a keen sense of piquein my heart, I listened while she played the accompaniment to hispretty long German song, the burden of which seemed to be ever andalways--

"Ach nein! ach nein! ich darf es nich.
Leb wohl! Leb' wohl! Leb' wohl!"

Sir Madoc, who had listened with some secret impatience to this mostprotracted German ditty, now begged his fair guest to favour him withsomething Welsh; but as she knew no airs pertaining to the locality,she resigned her place to Winifred, whom I led across the room, and bywhose side I remained. After the showy performances of Lady Estelle,she was somewhat reluctant to begin: all the more so, perhaps, thather friend--with rather questionable taste, certainly--was wont, in aspirit of mischief or raillery--but one pardons so much in lovelywoman, especially one of rank--to quiz Wales, its music andprovincialism; just as, when in the Highlands, she had laughed at thenatives, and voted "their sham chiefs and gatherings as delightfullyabsurd." Finding that his daughter lingered ere she began, and halfsuspecting the cause, Sir Madoc threatened to send for Owen Gwyllim,the butler, with his harp. Owen had frequently accompanied her withhis instrument; but though that passed well enough occasionally amonghomely Welsh folks, it would never do when Lady Naseby and certainothers were present.

"It is useless for an English girl to sing in a foreign language, orattempt to rival paid professional artists, by mourning like Mariofrom the turret, or bawling like Edgardo in the burying-ground, or togive us 'Stride la vampa' in a fashion that would terrify Alboni,"said Sir Madoc, "or indeed to attempt any of those operatic effusionswith which every hand organ has made us familiar. So come, Winny, aWelsh air, or I shall ring for Owen."

This rather blundering speech caused Lady Estelle to smile, andGuilfoyle, whose "Leb' wohl" had been something of the style objectedto, coloured very perceptibly. Thus urged, Winifred played and sangwith great spirit "The March of the Men of Harlech;" doubtless as muchto compliment Caradoc and me as to please her father; for it was thenour regimental march; and, apart from its old Welsh associations, itis one of the finest effusions of our old harpers. Sir Madoc beattime, while his eyes lit up with enthusiasm, and he patted hisdaughter's plump white shoulders kindly with his weather-brown buthandsome hands; for the old gentleman rather despised gloves, indoorsespecially, as effeminate.

Winifred had striven to please rather than to excel; and thoughtremulous at times, her voice was most attractive.

"Thank you," said I, in a low and earnest tone; "your execution isjust of that peculiar kind which leaves nothing more to be wished for,and while it lasts, Winny, inspires a sense of joy in one's heart."

"You flatter me much--far too much," replied Miss Lloyd, in a lowerand still more tremulous tone, as she grew very pale; for some girlswill do so, when others would flush with emotion, and it was evidentthat my praise gave her pleasure; she attached more to my words thanthey meant.

An undefinable feeling of pique now possessed me--a sensation ofdisappointment most difficult to describe; but it arose from a senseof doubt as to how I really stood in the estimation of the fairEstelle. Taking an opportunity, while Sir Madoc was emphaticallydiscussing the points and pedigrees of certain horses and harrierswith Guilfoyle and other male friends, while the Countess and otherladies were clustered about Winifred at the piano, and Dora andCaradoc were deep in some affair of their own, I leaned over herchair, and referring--I forget now in what terms--to the last time wemet, or rather parted, I strove to effect that most difficult of allmoves in the game of love--to lead back the emotions, or the pasttrain of thought, to where they had been dropped, or snapped bymischance, to the time when I had bid her lingeringly adieu, afterduly shawling and handing her to the carriage, at the close of a laterout in Park-lane, when the birds of an early June morning weretwittering in the trees of Hyde Park, when the purple shadows werelying deep about the Serpentine, when the Ring-road was a solitude,the distant Row a desert, and the yawning footmen in plush and powder,and the usually rubicund coachmen, looking weary, pale, and impatient,and when the time and place were suited neither for delay nordalliance. Yet, as I have elsewhere said, an avowal of all she hadinspired within me was trembling on my lips as I led her through themarble vestibule and down the steps, pressing her hand and arm thewhile against my side; but her mother's voice from the depths of thecarriage (into which old Lord Pottersleigh had just handed her)arrested a speech to which she might only have responded by silence,then at least; and I had driven, viâ Piccadilly, to the Junior U.S.,when Westminster clock was paling out like a harvest moon beyond theGreen Park, cursing my diffidence, that delayed all I had to say tillthe carriage was announced, thereby missing the chance that nevermight come again. And then I had but the memory of a lovely face,framed by a carriage window, regarding me with a bright yet wistfulsmile, and of a soft thrilling pressure returned by an ungloved hand,that was waved to me from the same carriage as it rolled awaywestward. The night had fled, and there remained of it only the memoryof this, and of those glances so full of tenderness, and those softattentions or half endearments which are so charming, and soimplicitly understood, as almost to render language, perhaps, unnecessary.

"You remember the night we last met, and parted, in London?" Iwhispered.

"Morning, rather, I think it wash" said she, fanning herself; "butnight or morning, it was a most delightful ball. I had not enjoyedmyself anywhere so much that season, and it was a gay one."

"Ah, you have not forgotten it, then," said I, encouraged.

"No; it stands out in my memory as one night among many happy ones.Day was almost breaking when you led me to the carriage, I remember."

"Can you remember nothing more?' I asked, earnestly.

"You shawled me most attentively--"

"And I was whispering--"

"Something foolish, no doubt; men are apt to do so at such times," shereplied, while her white eyelids quivered and she looked up at mewith her calm, bright smile.

"Something foolish!" thought I, reproachfully; "and then, as now, mysoul seemed on my lips."

"Do you admire Mr. Guilfoyle's singing?" she asked, after a littlepause, to change the subject probably.

"His voice is unquestionably good and highly cultured," said I,praising him truthfully enough to conceal the intense annoyance herunexpected question gave me; "but, by the way, Lady Estelle, how doesit come to pass that he has the honour of knowing you--to be here,too?"

"How--why--what do, you mean, Mr. Hardinge?" she asked, and I couldperceive that after colouring slightly she grew a trifle paler thanbefore. "He is a visitor here, like you or myself. We met him abroadfirst; he was most kind to us when mamma lost all her passports at theBerlin Eisenbahnhof, and he accompanied us to the Alte LeipzigerStrasse for others, and saw us safely to our carriage. Then, by themost singular chances, we met him again at the new Kursaal of Ems, atGerolstein, when we were beginning the tour of the Eifel, and atBaden-Baden. Lastly, we met him at Llandudno, on the beach, quitecasually, when driving with Sir Madoc, to whom he said that he knewyou--that you were quite old friends, in fact."

"Knew me, by Jove! that is rather odd. I only lost some money to him;enough to make me wary for the future."

"Wary?" she asked, with dilated eyes.

"Yes."

"An unpleasant expression, surely. Sir Madoc, who is so hospitable,asked him here to see the lions of Craigaderyn, and has put a gun athis disposal for the twelfth."

"How kind of unthinking Sir Madoc! A most satisfactory explanation,"said I, cloudily, while gnawing my moustache. Guilfoyle had tooevidently followed them.

"If any explanation were necessary," was the somewhat haughtyresponse, as the mother-of-pearl fan went faster than ever, and shelooked me full in the face with her clear, dark, and penetrating eyes,to the sparkle of which the form of their lids, and their thick fringeof black lash, served to impart a softness that was indeed required."Do you know anything of him?" she added.

"No; that is--"

"Anything against him?"

"No, Lady Estelle."

"What then?" she asked, a little petulantly.

"Simply that I, pardon me, think a good deal."

"More than you would say?"

"Perhaps."

"This is not just. Mamma is somewhat particular, as you know; and ourfamily solicitor, Mr. Sharpus, who is his legal friend also, speaksmost warmly of him. We met him in the best society--abroad, of course;but, Mr. Hardinge, your words, your manner, more than all, your tone,imply what I fear Mr. Guilfoyle would strongly resent. But please goand be attentive to mamma--you have scarcely been near her to-night,"she added quickly, as a flush of anger crossed my face, and sheperceived it. I bowed and obeyed, with a smile on my lips and intenseannoyance in my heart. I knew that the soft eyes of Winifred Lloyd hadbeen on us from time to time; but my little flirtation with her wasa thing of the past now, and I was reckless of its memory. Was she so?Time will prove. I felt jealousy of Guilfoyle, pique at Lady Estelle,and rage at my own mismanagement. I had sought to resume the tenor ofour thoughts and conversation on the occasion of our parting afterthat joyous and brilliant night in Park-lane, when my name on herengagement card had appeared thrice for that of any one else; but if Ihad touched her heart, even in the slightest degree, would she havebecome, as it seemed, almost warm in defence of this man, a waifpicked up on the Continent? Yet, had she any deeper interest in himthan mere acquaintanceship warranted, would she have spoken of him soopenly, and so candidly, to me?

Heavens! we had actually been covertly fencing, and nearlyquarrelling! Yet, if so, why should she be anxious for me to win theestimation of "mamma"? Lady Naseby had been beautiful in her time, andthe utter vacuity and calm of her mind had enabled her to retain muchof that beauty unimpaired; and I thought that her daughter, thoughwith more sparkle and brilliance, would be sure to resemble her verymuch at the same years. She was not displeased to meet with attention,but was shrewd enough to see, and disdainful enough to resent, itsbeing bestowed, as she suspected it was in my instance, on account ofher daughter; thus I never had much success; for on the night of thatvery rout in London my attentions in that quarter, and their apparentgood fortune, had excited her parental indignation and aristocraticprejudices against me.

After all the visitors had withdrawn (as horses or carriages wereannounced in succession), save one or two fox-hunters whom Guilfoylehad lured into the billiard-room for purposes of his own, when theladies left us at night Lady Estelle did not give me her hand. Shepassed me with a bow and smile only, and as she swept through thegilded folding doors of the outer drawing-room, with an arm roundDora's waist, her backward glances fell on all--but me. Why was this?Was this coldness of manner the result of Guilfoyle's influence, fearof her mamma, her alleged engagement with old Lord Pottersleigh, piqueat myself caused by Dora's folly, or what? It was the old story of"trifles light as air." I felt wrathful and heavy at heart, andrepented bitterly the invitation I had accepted, and the leave I hadasked; for Lady Estelle seemed so totally unconcerned and indifferentto me now, considering the empressem*nt with which we had parted inLondon.

The "family solicitor," too! He had been introduced as a mutual friendin the course of affairs--in the course of a friendship that hadripened most wonderfully. Was this Hawkesby Guilfoyle a fool, or acharlatan, or both? His various versions of the diamond ring wouldseem to show that he was the former. What fancy had the Countess forhim, and why was he tolerated by Sir Madoc? Familiar though I was withmy old friend, I felt that I could not, without a violation of goodtaste, ask a question about a guest, especially one introduced by theCressinghams. His voice was soft in tone; his manner, when he chose,was suave; his laugh at all times, even when he mocked and sneered,which was not unfrequent, silvery and pleasing; yet he was evidentlyone who could "smile and smile and be"--I shall not exactly say what.While smoking a cigar, I pondered over these and other perplexingthings in my room before retiring for the night, hearing ever and anonthe click of the billiard-balls at the end of the corridor. Had I notthe same chance and right of competition as this Guilfoyle, thoughunknown to the "family solicitor"? How far had he succeeded insupplanting me, and perhaps others? for that there were others I knew.How far had he gone in his suit--how prospered? How was I to construethe glances I had seen exchanged, the half speech so bluntly made, andso adroitly drowned at the piano? Who was he? what was he? The attachéof the mock embassy at a petty German Court! Surely my position insociety was as good, if not better defined than his; while youth,appearance, health, and strength gave me every advantage over an "oldfogie" like Viscount Pottersleigh.

As if farther to inflame my pique, and confirm the chagrin andirritation that grew within me on reflection, Phil Caradoc, smoothinghis moustache, came into my room, which adjoined his, to have, as hesaid, "a quiet weed before turning in." He looked ruffled; for he hadlost money at billiards--that was evident--and to the object of myjealousy, too.

"That fellow Guilfoyle is a thorough Bohemian if ever there was one!"said he, as he viciously bit off the end of his cigar prior tolighting it, "with his inimitable tact, his steady stroke atbilliards, his scientific whist, his coolness and perfect breeding:yet he is, I am certain, unless greatly mistaken, a regularfree-lance, without the bravery or brilliance that appertained to thename of old--a lawless ritter of the gaming-table, and one that can'teven act his part well or consistently in being so. He has beenspinning another story about that ring, with which I suppose, likeClaude Melnotte's, we shall hear in time his grandfather, the Doge ofVenice, married the Adriatic I am certain," continued Caradoc, who wasunusually ruffled, "that though a vainglorious and boasting fellow, heis half knave, half fool, and wholly adventurer!"

"This is strong language, Phil. Good heavens! do you really think so?"I asked, astonished to find him so boldly putting my own thoughts intowords.

"I am all but convinced of it," said he, emphatically. "But how insuch society?"

"Ah, that is the rub, and the affair of Sir Madoc, and of Lady Naseby,and of Lady Estelle, too, for she seems to take rather more than aninterest in him--they have some secret understanding. . By Jove! Ican't make it out at all."

Caradoc's strong convictions and unusual bluntness added fuel to mypique and chagrin, and I resolved that, come what might, I would endthe matter ere long; and I thought the while of the song ofMontrose--

CHAPTER VIII.--SUNDAY AT CRAIGADERYN.

The following day was Sunday; and ere it closed, there occurred alittle contretemps which nearly lost me all chance of putting to theissue whether I was "to gain or lose it all" with Estelle Cressingham.

I felt that it was quite possible, if I chose, to have my revengethrough the sweet medium of Winifred Lloyd; yet, though Lady Estelle'ssomewhat pointed defence of Guilfoyle rankled in my memory, andCaradoc's hints had added fuel to the flame, I shrunk from such adouble game, and hoped that the chances afforded by propinquity ingeneral, and the coming fête in particular, would soon enable me tocome to a decision. My mind was full of vague irritation against her;yet when I rose in the morning, my one and predominant thought wasthat I should see her again. Carriages and horses had been orderedfrom the stable for our conveyance to Craigaderyn church, a threemiles' drive through lovely scenery, and I resolved to accompany thesisters in the barouche, leaving whom fate directed to take charge ofLady Estelle; yet great was my contentment when she fell to the careof Sir Madoc in the family carriage. Lady Naseby did not appear, herFrench soubrette, Mademoiselle Babette Pompon, announcing that she wasindisposed. Guilfoyle and Caradoc rode somewhat unwillingly together,and I sat opposite Winny, who insisted on driving, and was dulyfurnished with the smartest of parasol whips--pink, with a whitefringe. Quitting the park, we skirted a broad trout stream, the steepbanks of which were clad with light-green foliage, and nameNant-y-belan, or the "Martens' dingle." At the bottom the riverfoamed along over broken and abutting rocks, or flowed in dark andnoiseless pools, where the brown trout lurked in the shade, and wherethe overarching trees and grassy knolls were reflected downward inthe depth.

Hawkesby Guilfoyle sat his horse--one of Sir Madoc's hunters, fullysixteen hands high--so well, and looked so handsome and gentlemanly,his riding costume was so complete, even to his silver spurs,well-fitting buff gloves, and riding switch, that I felt regret in theconviction that some cloud hung over the fellow's antecedents, andpresent life too, perhaps; but with all that I could not forgive himhis rivalry and, as I deemed it, presumption, with the strong beliefthat he was, in his secret heart; my enemy. He and Caradoc rode behindthe open carriage; we led the way in the barouche; and a very merryand laughing party we were, as we swept by the base of the green hillsof Mynedd Hiraethrog, and over the ancient bridge that spans LlynAled, to the church of Craigaderyn, where the entrance of Sir Madoc'sfamily and their visitors caused periodically somewhat of a sensationamong the more humble parishioners who were there, and were wont toregard with a species of respectful awe the great square pew, whichwas lined with purple velvet, and had a carved-oak table in thecentre, and over the principal seat the lion's head erased, and theshield of Lloyd per bend sinister, ermine and pean, a lion rampant,armed with a sword.

With a roof of carved oak, brought from some other place (theinvariable account of all such roofs in Wales), and built by Jorwerthap Davydd Lloyd, in 1320, the church was a picturesque old place,where many generations of the Craigaderyn family had worshipped longbefore and since the Reformation, and whose bones, lapped in lead, andeven in coffins of stone, lay in the burial vaults below. The oakenpews were high and deep, and were covered with dates, coats-of-arms,and quaint monograms. In some places the white slabs indicated wherelay the remains of those who died but yesterday. Elsewhere, withhelmet, spurs, and gloves of steel hung above their stony effigies,and covered by cobwebs and dust, lay the men of ages past and gone,their brasses and pedestal tombs bearing, in some instances, howstoutly and valiantly they had fought against the Spaniard, theFrenchman, and the Scot. One, Sir Madoc ap Meredyth Lloyd, whose swordhung immediately over my head, had wielded it, as his brass recorded,"contra Scotos apud Flodden et Musselboro;" and now the spiders werebusy spinning their cobwebs over the rusted helmet through which thisold Welsh knight had seen King James's host defile by the silver Till,and that of his fated granddaughter by the banks of the beautiful Esk.In other places I saw the more humble, but curious Welsh mode ofcommemorating the dead, by hanging up a coffin-plate, inscribed withtheir names, in the pews where they were wont to sit. Coats-of-armsmet the eye on all sides--solid evidences of birth and family, whichmore than once evoked a covert sneer from Guilfoyle, who to his otherbad qualities added the pride and the envy of such things, that seeminseparable from the character of the parvenu. There were twoservices in Craigaderyn church each Sunday, one in Welsh, the other inEnglish. Sir Madoc usually attended the former; but in courtesy toLady Estelle, he had come to the latter to-day.

Over all the details of the village fane my eyes wandered from time totime, always to rest on the face of Estelle Cressingham or of WinifredLloyd, who was beside me, and who on this day, as I had accompaniedher, seemed to feel that she had me all to herself. We read off thesame book, as we had done years before in the same pew and place; everand anon our gloved fingers touched; I felt her silk dress rustlingagainst me; her long lashes and snowy lids, with the soft pale beautyof her downcast face, and her sweetly curved mouth, were all mostpleasing and attractive; but the sense of Estelle's presence renderedme invulnerable to all but her; and my eyes could not but roam towhere she stood or knelt by the side of burly Sir Madoc, her fine facedowncast too in the soft light that stole between the deep mullionsand twisted tracery of an ancient stained-glass window, her noble andequally pure profile half seen and half hidden by a short veil ofblack lace; her rounded chin and lips rich in colour, and beautiful incharacter as those of one of Greuze's loveliest masterpieces. There,too, were the rich brightness of her hair, and the proud grace thatpervaded all her actions, and even her stillness.

Thus, even when I did not look towards her, but in Winifred's face, oron the book we mutually held, and mechanically affected to read, aperception, a dreamy sense of Estelle's presence was about me, and Icould not help reverting to our past season in London, and all thathas been described by a writer as those "first sweet hours ofcommunion, when strangers glide into friends; that hour which, eitherin friendship or in love, is as the bloom to the fruit, as thedaybreak to the day, indefinable, magical, and fleeting;" the hourswhich saw me presented as a friend, and left me a lover. The day wasintensely hot, and inside the old church, though some of the archedrecesses and ancient tombs looked cool enough, there was a blaze ofsunshine, that fell in hazy flakes or streams of coloured lightathwart the bowed heads of the congregation. With heat and languor,there was also the buzz of insect life; and amid the monotonous tonesof the preacher I loved to fancy him reading the marriage service forus--that is, for Estelle and myself--fancied it as an enthusiasticschool-girl might have done; and yet how was it that, amid theseconceits, the face and form of Winifred Lloyd, with her pretty hand inthe tight straw-coloured kid glove, that touched mine, filled up theeye of the mind? Was I dreaming, or only about to sleep, like so manyof the congregation--those toilers afield, those hardy hewers of woodand drawers of water, whose strong sinews, when unbraced, induced themto slumber now--the men especially, as the study of each other'stoilets served to keep the female portion fully awake. When theclergyman prayed for the success of our arms in the strife that was tocome, Winifred's dark eyes looked into mine for a moment, quick aslight, and I saw her bosom swell; and when he prayed, "Give peace inour time, O Lord," her voice became earnest and tremulous inresponding; and I could have sworn that I saw a tear oozing, butarrested, on the thick black eyelash of this impulsive Welsh girl,whom this part of the service, by its association and the time, seemedto move; but Lady Estelle was wholly intent on having one of hergloves buttoned by Guilfoyle, whose attendance she doubtless preferredto that of old Sir Madoc.

"Look!" said Winifred Lloyd, in an excited whisper, as she lightlytouched my hand.

I followed the direction of her eye, and saw, seated at the end of thecentral aisle, modestly and humbly, among the free places reserved forthe poor, a young woman, whose appearance was singularly interesting.Poorly, or rather plainly, attired in faded black, her face wasremarkably handsome; and her whole air was perfectly ladylike. She wasas pale as death, with a wild wan look in all her features; disease,or sorrow, or penury--perhaps all these together--had marked her astheir own; her eyes, of clear, bright, and most expressive gray, werehaggard and hollow, with dark circles under them. Black kid glovesshowed her pretensions to neatness and gentility; but as they werefrayed and worn, she strove to conceal her hands nervously under hergathered shawl.

"She is looking at you, Winifred," said Dora.

"No--at Estelle."

"At us all, I think," resumed Dora, in the same whispered tone; "andshe has done so for some time past. Heavens! she seems quite like aspectre."

"Poor creature!" said Winifred; "we must inquire about her."

"Do you know her, Mr. Hardinge?" asked Dora.

"Nay, not I; it is Mr. Guilfoyle she is looking at," said I.

Guilfoyle, having achieved the somewhat protracted operation ofbuttoning Lady Estelle's lavender kid glove, now stuck his glass inhis eye, and turned leisurely and languidly in the direction thatattracted us all, just as the service was closing; but the pale womanquickly drew down her veil, and quitted the church abruptly, ere hecould see her, as I thought; and this circ*mstance, though I took noheed of it then, I remembered in the time to come.

Winifred frankly took my arm as we left the church.

"You promised to come with me after luncheon and see the goat I havefor the regiment," said she.

"Did I?--ah, yes--shall be most happy, I'm sure," said I, shamefullyoblivious of the promise in question, as we proceeded towards thecarriages, the people making way for us on all sides, the womencurtseying and the men uncovering to Sir Madoc, who was a universalfavourite, especially with the maternal portion of the parish, as hewas very fond of children and flattered himself not a little on hispower of getting on with them, being wont to stop mothers on the roador in the village street, and make knowing remarks on the beauty, thecomplexions, or the curly heads of their offspring while he was neverwithout a handful of copper or loose silver for general distribution;and now it excited some surprise and even secret disdain inGuilfoyle--a little petulance in Lady Estelle too--to find him shakinghands and speaking in gutteral Welsh with some of the men cottagers,or peasant-women with jackets and tall odd hats. But one anecdote willsuffice to show the character of Sir Madoc.

In the very summer of my visit, it had occurred that he had to serveon a jury when a property of some three thousand pounds or so was atissue; and when the jury retired, he found that they were determinedto decide in such manner as he did not deem equitable, and which inthe end would inevitably ruin an honest farmer named Evan Rhuddlan,father of a sergeant in my company of Welsh Fusileers, who dwelt at aplace called Craig Eryri, or "the Rock of Eagles." Finding that theywere resolute, he submitted, or affected to acquiesce in theirdecision; but on announcing it to the court he handed the losing partya cheque on Coutts and Co. for the whole sum in litigation, and becamemore than ever the idol of the country people.

"Romantic old place--casques, cobwebs, and all that sort of thing,"said Guilfoyle, as he handed Lady Estelle into the carriage, and tookthe bridle of his horse from Bob Spurrit, the groom; "I thought Burkehad written the epitaph of chivalry and all belonging to it."

"Yes, but romance still exists, Mr. Guilfoyle," said Winifred, whoseface was bright with smiles.

"And love too, eh, Estelle?" added Dora, laughing.

"Even in the region of Mayfair, you think?" said she.

"Yes; and wherever there is beauty, that is rarest," said I.

But she only replied by one of her calm smiles; for she had areticence of manner which there seemed to be no means of moving.

"Talking of love and romance, I should like to know more of that palewoman we saw in church to-day," said Dora.

"Why so?" asked Guilfoyle, curtly.

"Because I saw she must have some terrible story to tell.--What wasthe text, Mr. Caradoc?" she asked, as we departed homewards.

"Haven't the ghost of an idea," replied Phil.

"O fie!--or the subject?"

"No," said Caradoc, reddening a little; for he had been intent duringthe whole service on Winifred Lloyd.

"It was all about Jacob's ladder, of which we have had a mostinaccurate notion hitherto," said Dora, as we drove down the long limeavenue, to find that, as the day was so sultry, luncheon had been laidfor us by Owen Gwyllim under the grand old trees in the lawn, aboutthirty yards from the entrance-hall, under the very oak where thespectre of Sir Jorwerth Du was alleged to vanish, the oak of OwenGlendower; and where that doughty Cymbrian had perhaps sought tosummon spirits from the vasty deep, we found spirits of anotherkind--brandy and seltzer, clicquot and sparkling moselle cooling insilver ice-pails on the greensward; and there too, awaiting us, satLady Naseby, smiling and fanning herself under the umbrageous shadowsof the chase.

Over her stately head was pinned a fall of rich Maltese lace, thathung in lappets on each side--a kind of demi-toilette that well becameher lingering beauty and matronly appearance.

In a mother-of-pearl basket by her side, and placed on theluncheon-table, lay Tiny, her shock, a diminutive cur, white as snow,spotless as Mademoiselle Babette with perfumed soap could make it, itslong woolly hair dangling over its pink eyes, giving it, as Sir Madocsaid, "a most pitiable appearance;" for with all his love of dogs, hedisliked such pampered, waddling, and wheezing pets as this, andthought manhood never looked so utterly contemptible as when atall "Jeames" in livery, with whiskers and calves, cane and nosegay,had the custody of such a quadruped, while his lady shopped inRegent-street or Piccadilly.

CHAPTER IX.-THE INITIALS.

While we were at luncheon, and the swollen champagne-corks were flyingupward into the green foliage overhead, and while Owen Gwyllim wassupplying us with iced claret-cup from a great silver tankardpresented to Sir Madoc's uncle by his regiment, the Ancient Britons,after the Irish rebellion of 1798, and with which he, Sir Madoc, hadbeen wont to dispense swig or "brown Betty" on St. David's day, whenat Cambridge--Dora, with her hair flying loose, her eyes sparkling,and her face radiant with excitement and merriment came tripping downthe perron from the entrance hall, and across the lawn towards us,with the contents of the household post-bag. She seemed to haveletters for every one, save me--letters which she dropped and pickedup as she came along. There was quite a pile of notes for herself, onthe subject of her approaching fête; and how busy her pretty littlehands immediately became!

After the usual muttered apologies, all began to read.

There was a letter for Guilfoyle, on reading which he grew very white,exhibited great trepidation, and thrust it into his coat-pocket.

"What is up, sir?" asked Sir Madoc, pausing with a slice of cold fowlon his fork; "nothing unpleasant, I hope?'

"Sold on a bay mare--that is all," he replied, with an affected laugh,as if to dismiss the subject.

"How?" asked Sir Madoc, whom a "horsey" topic immediately interested.

"Like many other handicap 'pots' this season, my nag came in worsethan second."

"A case of jockeying?"

"Pure and simple."

"When?"

"O, ah--York races."

"Why, man alive, they don't come off for a month yet!" responded SirMadoc, somewhat dryly; but perceiving that his guest was awkwardlyplaced, he changed the subject by saying, "But your letter, LadyEstelle, gives you pleasure, I am glad to see."

"It is from Lord Pottersleigh. He arrives here to-morrow and hopes hisrooms have a southern exposure."

"The fête-day--of course. His comforts shall be fully attended to."

"Why did he write to her about this, and not to Sir Madoc or MissLloyd?" thought I.

"He is such an old friend," remarked Lady Estelle, as if she divinedmy mental query.

"Yes, rather too old for my taste," said the somewhat mischievousDora. "He wears goloshes in damp weather, his hat down on the nape ofhis neck; is in an agony of mind about exposures, draughts, andcurrents of air; makes his horse shy every time he attempts to mount,and they go round in circles, eyeing each other suspiciously till agroom comes; and when he does achieve his saddle, he drops his whip orhis gloves, or twists his stirrup-leather. And yet it is this oldfogie whose drag at Epsom or the Derby makes the greatest show, hasthe finest display of lovely faces, fans, bonnets, and parasols--amoving Swan and Edgar, with a luncheon spread that Fortnum and Masonmight envy, and champagne flowing as if from a fountain; but withal,he is so tiresome!"

"Dora, you quite forget yourself," said Winifred, while I could havekissed her for this sketch of my rival, at which Sir Madoc, and evenEstelle Cressingham, laughed; but Lady Naseby said, with some asperityof tone,

"Lord Pottersleigh is one of our richest peers, Miss Dora, and hiscreation dates from Henry VIII."

"And he is to dance with me," said the heedless girl, still laughing."O, won't I astonish his nerves if we waltz!"

"Your cousin Naseby is to visit us, Estelle, at Walcot Park, so soonas we return, if he can," said the Countess, turning from Dora with avery dubious expression of eye, and closing a letter she had received;"his love-affair with that odious Irish girl is quite off, thankheaven!"

"How?--love of change, or change of love?"

"Neither."

"What then, mamma?"

"The Irish girl actually had a mind of her own, and preferred some oneelse even to a peer, an English peer!"

"I drain this clicquot to the young lady's happiness," said Sir Madoc.

"But all this is nothing to me, mamma," said Lady Estelle, coldly.

But I could see at a glance, that if it was unimportant to her, itwas not so to her mother, his aunt, who would rather have had theyoung earl for her son-in-law than the old viscount, even though thepatent of the latter had been expede by the royal Bluebeard, mostprobably for services that pertained more to knavery than knighthood.

"Well, Caradoc," said I, "is your despatch from the regiment?"

"Yes; from Price of ours. Nothing but rumours of drafts going eastwardto make up the death-losses at Varna, and he fears our leave may becancelled. 'Deuced awkward if we go soon,' he adds, 'as I have a mostsuccessful affaire du c[oe]ur on hand just now.'"

"When is he ever without one?" said I; and we both laughed.

Winifred's eyes were on me, and Caradoc's were on her, while I wassedulously attending to Lady Estelle. As for Guilfoyle, since theadvent of his letter he had become quite silent. We were at the oldgame of cross-purposes; for it seems to be in love, as with everythingelse in life, that the obstacles in the way, and the difficulty ofattainment, always enhance the value of the object to be won. Yet inthe instance of Lady Estelle I was not so foolish as poor Price ofours, the butt of the mess, who always fell in love with the wrongperson--to whom the pale widow, inconsolable in her first crape; theblooming bride, in her clouds of tulle and white lace; the girl justengaged, and who consequently saw but one man in the world, and thatman her own fiancé; or any pretty girl whom he met just when theroute came and the mess-plate was packed prior to marching--becameinvested with remarkable charms, and a sudden interest that made hissusceptible heart feel sad and tender.

The ladies' letters opened up quite a budget of town news and gossip.To Sir Madoc, a genuine country gentleman, full only of field-sports,the prospects of the turnip crop and the grouse season, thecounty-pack and so forth, a conversation that now rose, chiefly on thecoming fête on dresses, music, routs and Rotten-row, kettledrums anddrawing-rooms, and the town in general, proved somewhat of a bore. Hefidgeted, and ultimately left for the stables, where he and BobSpurrit had to hold a grave consultation on certain equine ailments.The ladies also rose to leave us; but Caradoc, Guilfoyle, and Ilingered under the cool shadow of the oaks, and lit our cigars. Withhis silver case for holding the last-named luxuries, Guilfoyleunconsciously pulled forth a letter, which fell on the grass at myfeet. Picking it up, I restored it to him; but brief though theaction, I could not help perceiving it to be the letter he had justreceived, that it was addressed in a woman's hand, and had on theenvelope, in coloured letters, the name "Georgette."

"Thanks," said he, with sudden irritation of manner, as he thrust itinto a breast-pocket this time; "a narrow squeak that!" he added,slangily, with a half-muttered malediction.

I felt certain that there was a mystery in all this; that he fearedsomething unpleasant might have been revealed, had that identicalletter fallen into other hands, or under more prying eyes; and Iremembered those trivial circ*mstances at a future, and to me ratherharassing, time. I must own that this man was to me a puzzle. With allhis disposition to boast, he never spoke of relations or of family;yet he seemed in perfectly easy circ*mstances; his own valet, groom,and horses were at Craigaderyn; he could bear himself well and withperfect ease in the best society; and it was evident that, whereverthey came from, he was at present a man of pretty ample means. Hepossessed, moreover, a keen perception for appreciating individualsand events at their actual value; his manners were, when he chose,polished, his coolness imperturbable, and his insouciance sometimesamusing. For the present, it had left him.

"Beautiful brilliant that of yours, Mr. Guilfoyle," said Caradoc, tofish for another legend of the ring; but in vain, for Guilfoyle was nolonger quite himself, though he had policy enough to feed the snarlingcur Tiny in her basket, with choice morsels of cold fowl, as LadyNaseby's soubrette, Mademoiselle Babette, was waiting to carry itaway. Since the remarks or contretemps concerning the York races hehad been as mute as a fish; and now, when he did begin to speak in theabsence of Sir Madoc, I could perceive that gratitude for kindness didnot form an ingredient in the strange compound of which his characterwas made up. Perhaps secret irritation at Sir Madoc's queries aboutthe letter which so evidently disturbed his usual equanimity mighthave been the real spirit that moved him now to sneer at the oldbaronet's Welsh foibles, and particularly his weakness on the subjectof pedigrees.

"You are to stay here for the 1st, I believe?" said I.

"Yes; but, the dooce! for what? Such a labour to march through milesof beans and growing crop, to knock over a few partridges and rabbits"(partwidges and wabbits, he called them), "which you can pay anotherto do much better for you."

"Sturdy Sir Madoc would hear this with incredulous astonishment," saidI.

"Very probably. Kind fellow old Taffy, though," said he, while smokingleisurely, and lounging back in an easy garden-chair; "has a longpedigree, of course, as we may always remember by the coats-of-armsstuck up all over the house. 'County people' in the days of Howel Dha;'county ditto' in the days of Queen Victoria, and likely to remain sotill the next flood forms a second great epoch in the family history.Very funny, is it not? He reminds me of what we read of Mathew Bramblein Humphry Clinker--a gentleman of great worth and property,descended in a straight line by the female side from Llewellyn, Princeof Wales."

I was full of indignation on hearing my old friend spoken of thus, ifnot under his own roof, under his ancient ancestral oaks; but PhilipCaradoc, more Celtic and fiery by nature, anticipated me by sayingsharply, "Bad taste this, surely in you, Mr. Guilfoyle, to sneer thusat our hospitable entertainer; and believe me, sir, that no one treatslightly the pedigree of another who--who--"

"Ah, well--who what?"

"Possesses one himself," added Phil, looking him steadily in the face.

"Bah! I suppose every one has had a grandfather."

"Even you, Mr. Guilfoyle?" continued Caradoc, whose cheek began toflush; but the other replied calmly, and not without point,

"There is a writer who says, that to pride oneself on the nobility ofone's ancestors is like looking among the roots for the fruit thatshould be found on the branches."

Finding that the conversation was taking a decidedly unpleasant turn,and that, though his tone was quiet and his manner suave, a glassyglare shone in the greenish-gray eyes of Guilfoyle, I said, with anassumed laugh,

"We must not forget the inborn ideas and the national sentiments ofthe Welsh--call them provincialisms if you will. But remember thatthere are eight hundred thousand people inspired by a nationality sostrong, that they will speak only the language of the Cymri; and it isamong those chiefly that our regiment has ever been recruited. But ifthe foibles--I cannot deem them folly--of Sir Madoc are distasteful toyou, the charms of the scenery around us and those of our lady friendscannot but be pleasing."

"Granted," said he, coldly; "all are beautiful, even to Miss Dora, wholooks so innocent."

"Who is so innocent by nature, Mr. Guilfoyle," said I, in a tone ofundisguised sternness.

"Then it is a pity she permits herself to say--sharp things."

"With so much unintentional point, perhaps?"

"Sir!"

"Truth, then--which you will," said I, as we simultaneously rose toleave luncheon-table.

And now, oddly enough, followed by Winifred, Dora herself came againtripping down the broad steps of the perron towards us, exclaiming,

"Is not papa with you?--the tiresome old dear, he will be among theharriers or the stables of course!"

"What is the matter?" I asked.

"Only think, Mr. Hardinge, that poor woman we saw at church thismorning, looking so pretty, so pale, and interesting, was found amongthe tombstones by Farmer Rhuddlan, quite in a helpless faint, after wedrove away--so the housekeeper tells me; so we must find her out andsuccour her if possible."

"But who is she?" asked Caradoc.

"No one knows; she refused obstinately to give her name or tell herstory ere she went away; but at her neck hangs a gold locket, with acrest, the date, 1st of September, on one side, and H. G. beautifullyenamelled on the other. How odd--your initials, Mr. Guilfoyle!"

"You are perhaps not aware that my name is Henry Hawkesby Guilfoyle,"said he, with ill-concealed anger, while he played nervously with hisdiamond ring.

"How intensely odd!" resumed his beautiful but unwitting tormentor;"H. H. G. were the three letters on the locket!"

"Did no one open it?" he asked.

"No; it was firmly closed."

"By a secret spring, no doubt."

Guilfoyle looked ghastly for a moment, or it might have been theeffect of the sunlight flashing on his face through the waving foliageof the trees overhead; but he said laughingly,

"A droll coincidence, which under some circ*mstances, might be veryromantic, but fortunately in the present has no point whatever. If myinitials hung at your neck instead of hers, how happy I should be,Miss Dora!"

And turning the matter thus, by a somewhat clumsy compliment or bit offlattery, he ended an unpleasant conversation by entering the housewith her and Caradoc.

Winifred remained irresolutely behind them.

"We were to visit my future comrade," said I.

"Come, then," said she, with a beautiful smile, and a soft blush ofinnocent pleasure.

CHAPTER X.--A PERILOUS RAMBLE.

Winifred Lloyd was, as Caradoc had said, a very complete and perfectcreature. The very way her gloves fitted, the handsome form of herfeet, the softness of her dark eyes, the tender curve of her lips,and, more than all, her winning manner--the inspiration of an innocentand guileless heart--made her a most desirable companion at all times;but with me, at present, poor Winifred was only the means to an end;and perhaps she secretly felt this, as she lingered pensively for amoment by the marble fountain that stood before Craigaderyn Court, andplayed with her white fingers in the water, causing the gold andsilver fish to dart madly to and fro. Above its basin a group of greenbronze tritons were spouting, great Nile lilies floated on itssurface, and over all was the crest of the Lloyds, also in bronze, alion's head, gorged, with a wreath of oak. The notes of a harp camesoftly towards us through the trees as we walked onward, for old OwenGwyllim the butler was playing in that most unromantic place hispantry, and the air was the inevitable "Jenny Jones."

From the lawn I led her by walks and ways forgotten since my boyhood,and since I had gone the same route with her birdnesting and nuttingin those glorious Welsh woods, by hedgerows that were matted andinterwoven with thorny brambles and bright wild-flowers, past ladenorchards and picturesque farms, nooks that were leafy and green, andlittle tarns of gleaming water, that reflected the smiling summer sky;past meadows, where the sleek brown, or black, or brindled cattle werechewing the cud and ruminating knee-deep among the fragrant pasture;and dreamily I walked by her side, touching her hand from time totime, or taking it fairly in mine as of old, and occasionallyenforcing what I said by a pressure of her soft arm within mine, whileI talked to her, saying heaven knows what, but most ungratefullywishing all the time that she were Estelle Cressingham. All was softand peaceful around us. The woods of Craigaderyn, glowing in the heatof the August afternoon, were hushed and still, all save the hum ofinsects, or if they stirred it was when the soft west wind seemed topass through them with a languid sigh; and so some of the influencesof a past time and a boyish love came over me; a time long before Ihad met the dazzling Estelle--a time when to me there had seemed to bebut one girl in the world, and she was Winifred Lloyd--ere I joinedthe --th in the West Indies, or the Welsh Fusileers, and knew what theworld was. I dreaded being betrayed into some tenderness as a treasonto Lady Estelle; and fortunately we were not without someinterruptions in our walk of a mile or so to visit her horned pet,whom she had sent forth for a last run on his native hills.

We visited Yr Ogof (or the cave) where one of her cavalier ancestorshad hidden after the battle of Llandegai, in the Vale of the Ogwen,during the wars of Cromwell, and now, by local superstition, deemed anabode of the knockers, those supernatural guardians of the mines, towhom are known all the metallic riches of the mountains; hideous pigmygnomes, who, though they can never be seen, are frequently heardbeating, blasting, and boring with their little hammers, and singingin a language known to themselves only. Then we tarried by theheaped-up cairn that marked some long-forgotten strife; and then bythe Maen Hir, a long boulder, under which some fabled giant lay; andnext a great rocking stone, amid a field of beans, which we foundFarmer Rhuddlan--a sturdy specimen of a Welsh Celt, high cheek-bonedand sharp-eyed--contemplating with great satisfaction. Highabove the sea of green stalks towered that wizard altar, where whiloman archdruid had sat, and offered up the blood of his fellow-men togods whose names and rites are alike buried in oblivion; but Strabotells us that it was from the flowing blood of the victim that theDruidesses--virgins supposed to be endowed with the gift ofprophecy--divined the events of the future; and this old stone, nowdeemed but a barrier to the plough, had witnessed those terribleobservances.

Poised one block upon the other, resting on the space a sparrow alonemight occupy, and having stood balanced thus mysteriously foruncounted ages, lay the rocking stone. The farmer applied his stronghand to the spheroidal mass, and after one or two impulses it swayedmost perceptibly. Then begging me not to forget his son, who was withour Fusileers far away at Varna, he respectfully uncovered his oldwhite head, and left us to continue his tour of the crops, but notwithout bestowing upon us a peculiar and knowing smile, that made theblood mantle in the peachlike cheeks of Winifred.

"How strange are the reflections these solemn old relics excite!" saidshe, somewhat hastily; "if, indeed, one may pretend to value or tothink of such things in these days of ours, when picturesquesuperstition is dying and poetry is long since dead."

"Poetry dead?"

"I think it died with Byron."

"Poetry can never die while beauty exists," said I, smiling ratherpointedly in her face.

My mind being so filled with Estelle and her fancied image, caused meto be unusually soft and tender to Winifred. I seemed to be minglingone woman's presence with that of another. I regarded Winifred as thedearest of friends; but I loved Estelle with a passion that was fullof enthusiasm and admiration.

"No two men have the same idea of beauty," said Winifred, after apause.

"True, nor any two nations; it exists chiefly, perhaps, in the mind ofthe lover."

"Yet love has nothing exactly to do with it."

"Prove this," said I, laughing, as I caught her hand in mine.

"Easily. Ask a Chinese his idea of loveliness, and he will tell you, awoman with her eyebrows plucked out, the lids painted, her teethblackened, and her feet shapeless; and what does the cynical Voltairesay?--'Ask a toad what is beauty, the supremely beautiful, and he willanswer you, it is his female, with two round eyes projecting out ofits little head, a broad flat neck, a yellow breast, and dark-brownback.' Even red hair is thought lovely by some; and did not DukePhilip the Good institute the order of the Golden Fleece of Burgundyin honour of a damsel whose hair was as yellow as saffron; and now,Harry Hardinge, what is your idea?"

"Can you ask me?" I exclaimed, with something of ardour, for shelooked so laughingly bright and intelligent as she spoke; thendivining that I was thinking of another, not of her, "for there is athread in our thoughts even as there is a pulse in our hearts, and hewho can hold the one knows how to think, and he who can move the otherknows how to feel," she said, with a point scarcely meant.

"The eye may be pleased, the vanity flattered, and ambition excited bya woman of beauty, especially if she is one of rank; yet the heart maybe won by one her inferior. Talking of beauty, Lady Naseby has strivenhard to get the young earl, her nephew, to marry our friend, LadyEstelle."

"Would she have him?" I asked, while my cheek grew hot.

"I cannot say--but he declined," replied Winifred, pressing a wildrose to her nostrils.

"Declined--impossible!"

"Why impossible? But in her fiery pride Estelle will never, neverforgive him; though he was already engaged to one whom he, then atleast, loved well."

"Ah--the Irish girl, I suppose?"

"Yes," said Winifred, with a short little sigh, as she looked down.

"Such a girl as Estelle Cressingham must always find admirers."

"Hundreds; but as the estates, like the title, have passed to the nextmale heir, and Lady Naseby has only a life-rent of the jointure housein Hants--Walcot Park, a lovely place--she is anxious that herdaughter should make a most suitable marriage."

"Which means lots of tin, I suppose?" said I, sourly.

"Exactly," responded Winifred, determined, perhaps, if I had the badtaste to speak so much of Estelle, to say unpleasant things; "and thefavoured parti at present is Viscount Pottersleigh, who comes hereto-morrow, as his letter informed her."

"Old Pottersleigh is sixty if he is a day!" said I, emphatically.

"What has age to do with the matter in view? Money and position arepreferable to all fancies of the heart, I fear."

"Nay, nay, Winifred, you belie yourself and Lady Estelle too; love isbefore everything!"

She laughed at my energy, while I began to feel that, next to makinglove, there is nothing so pleasant or so suggestive as talking of itto a pretty girl; and I beg to assure you, that it was somewhatperilous work with one like Winifred Lloyd; a girl who had thesweetest voice, the most brilliant complexion, and the softest eyesperhaps in all North Wales. She now drew her hand away; till then Ihad half forgot it was her hand I had been holding.

"Remember that oft-quoted line in the song of Montrose," said she,pretty pointedly.

"Which? for I haven't an idea."

"'Love one--and love no more.'"

"The great marquis was wrong," said I; "at least, if, according to amore obscure authority in such matters, Price of ours, one may lovemany times and always truly."

"Indeed!" Her lip curled as she spoke.

"Yes; for may not the same charms, traits, manner, and beauty whichlure us to love once, lure us to love again?"

Winifred actually sighed, with something very like irritation, as shesaid, "I think all this the most abominable sophistry, Mr. Hardinge,and I feel a hatred for 'Price of ours,' whoever he may be."

"Mister! Why I was Harry a moment ago."

"Well, here is the abode of Cameydd Llewellyn; and you must tell mewhat you think of your future Welsh comrade; his beard may be to theregimental pattern, though decidedly his horns and moustaches arenot."

As she said this, again laughingly, we found ourselves close to alittle hut that abutted on a thatched cottage and cow-house, in a mostsecluded place, a little glen or dell, over which the trees werearching, and so forming a vista, through which we saw CraigaderynCourt, as if in a frame of foliage. She opened a little wicket, and atthe sound of her voice the goat came forth, dancing on his hindlegs--a trick she had taught him--or playfully butting her skirts withhis horns, regarding me somewhat dubiously and suspiciously the whilewith his great hazel eyes. He was truly a splendid specimen of the oldCarnarvonshire breed of goats, which once ran wild over the mountainsthere, and were either hunted by dogs or shot with the bullet solately as Pennant's time. His hair, which was longer than is usualwith those of England, led me to fancy there was a Cashmerian cross inhis blood; his black horns were two feet three inches long, and morethan two feet from one sharp tip to the other. He was as white as thenew-fallen snow, with a black streak down the back, and his beard wasas venerable in proportion and volume as it was silky in texture.

"He is indeed a beautiful creature--a noble fellow!" I exclaimed, withgenuine admiration.

"And just four years old. I obtained him when quite a kid."

"I am so loth that the Fusileers should deprive you of him."

"Talk not of that; but when you see my goat, my old pet CarneyddLlewellyn, marching proudly at their head, and decked with chaplets onSt. David's day, when you are far, far away from us, you will--" shepaused.

"What, Winifred?"

"Think sometimes of Craigaderyn--of to-day--and of me, perhaps," sheadded, with a laugh that sounded strangely unlike one.

"Do I require aught to make me think of you?" said I, patting kindlythe plump, ungloved hand with which she was caressing the goat's head,and which in whiteness rivalled the hue of his glossy coat; andthereon I saw a Conway pearl, in a ring I had given her long ago, whenshe was quite a little girl.

"I hope not--and papa--I hope not."

The bright beaming face was upturned to me, and, as the deuce wouldhave it, I kissed her: the impulse was irresistible.

She trembled then, withdrew a pace or two, grew very pale, and hereyes filled with tears.

"You should not have done that, Harry--I mean, Mr. Hardinge."

There was something wild and pitiful in her face.

"Tears?" said I, not knowing very well what to say; for "people oftendo say very little, when they mean a great deal."

"My old favourite will know the black ladders of Carneydd Llewellyn nomore," said she, stooping over the goat caressingly to hide herconfusion.

"But, Winifred--Miss Lloyd--why tears?"

"Can you ask me?" said she, her eyes flashing through them.

"Why, what a fuss you make! I have often done so--when a boy!"

"But you are no longer a boy; nor am I a girl, Mr. Hardinge."

"Do please call me Harry, like Sir Madoc," I entreated. "Notnow--after this; and here comes Lady Estelle."

"Estelle!"

At that moment, not far from us, we saw Lady Naseby, driven in apony-phaeton by Caradoc, and Lady Estelle with Guilfoyle a little waybehind them, on horseback, and unaccompanied by any groom, comingsweeping at a trot down the wooded glen.

Such is the amusing inconsistency of the human heart--the male humanheart, perhaps my lady readers will say--that though I had been morethan flirting with Winifred Lloyd--on the eve of becoming too tender,perhaps--I felt a pang of jealousy on seeing that Guilfoyle was LadyEstelle's sole companion, for Dora was doubtless immersed in thedetails of her forthcoming fête.

Had she seen us?

Had she detected in the distance that little salute? If so, in thesilly, kindly, half-flirting, and half-affectionate impulse which ledme to kiss my beautiful companion and playfellow of the pastyears--the mere impulse of a moment--if mistaken, I might have ruinedmyself with her--perhaps with both.

"A lovely animal'! I hope you are gratified, Mr. Hardinge?" said LadyEstelle, with--but perhaps it was fancy--a curl on her red lip, as shereined-in her spirited horse sharply with one firm hand, and caressedhis arching neck gracefully with the other, while he rose on his hindlegs, and her veil flew aside.

Already dread of the future had chased away my first emotion of pique,nor was it possible to be long angry with Estelle; for with men andwomen alike, her beauty made her irresistible. Some enemies among thelatter she undoubtedly had; they might condemn the regularity of herfeatures as too classically severe, or have said that at times theflash of her dark eyes was proud or defiant; but the smile that playedabout her lip was so soft and winning that its influence was felt byall. Her perfect ease of manner seemed cold--very cold, indeed,when compared to the thoughts that burned in my own breast at thatmoment--dread that I might have been trifling with Winifred Lloyd, forwhom I cherished a sincere and tender friendship; intense annoyancelest my friend Caradoc, who really loved her, might resent the affair;and, more than all, that she for whom I would freely have perilledlimb and life might also resent, or mistake, the situation entirely.And in this vague mood of mind I returned with the little party to thehouse, where the bell had rung for tea, before dinner, which wasalways served at eight o'clock. As we quitted the goat, its keeper, anold peasant dame, wearing a man's hat and coat, with a stripedpetticoat and large spotted handkerchief, looked affectionately afterMiss Lloyd, and uttered an exclamation in Welsh, which Caradoctranslated to me as being,

"God bless her! May feet so light and pretty never carry a heavyheart!"

CHAPTER XI.--THE FÊTE CHAMPETRE.

How wild and inconceivable, abrupt, yet quite practicable, were thebrilliant visions I drew, the projects I formed! Mentally I sprangover all barriers, cleared at a flying leap every obstacle. In fancy Iachieved all my desires. I was the husband of Estelle; the chosenson-in-law of her mother--the man of all men to whom she would haveentrusted the future happiness of her only daughter. The good old ladyhad sacrificed pride, ambition, and all to love. Time, life-usage, allbecame subservient to me when in these victorious moods. I haddistanced all rivals--she was mine; I hers. I had cut the service,bidden farewell to the Royal Welsh; she, for a time at least, toLondon, the court, the Row, "society," the world itself for me; andwere rusticating hand-in-hand, amid the woods of Walcot Park, orsomewhere else, of which I had a very vague idea. But from thesedaydreams I had to rouse myself to the knowledge that, so far frombeing accepted, I had not yet ventured to propose; that I had morethan one formidable rival; that other obstacles were to be overcome;and that Lady Naseby was as cold and proud and unapproachable as ever.

The day of Dora's fête proved a lovely one. The merry littlecreature--for she was much less in stature than her elder sister--withher bright blue eyes and wealth of golden hair, was full of smiles,pleasure, and impatience; and was as radiant with gems, the gifts offriends, as a young bride. I welcomed the day with vague hopes thatgrew into confidence, though I could scarcely foresee how it was toclose for me, or all that was to happen. Though Caradoc and I had comefrom Winchester ostensibly to attend this fête, I must glance brieflyat many of the details of it, and confine myself almost to thedramatis personæ. Suffice it to say that there was a militia band onone of the flower-terraces; there was a pretty dark-eyed Welsh gipsy,with black, dishevelled hair, who told fortunes, and picked up, butomitted to restore, certain stray spoons and forks; there was anitinerant Welsh harper, whom the staghound Brach, the same statelyanimal which I had seen on the rug before the hall-fire, inspired bythat animosity which all dogs seem to have for mendicants, assailedabout the calf of the leg, for which he seemed to have a particularfancy. So Sir Madoc had to plaster the bite with a fifty-pound note.Then there was a prophetic hermit, in a moss-covered grotto, cloakedlike a gray friar, and bearded like the pard; a wizard yclept Merlin,who, having imbibed too much brandy, made a great muddle of thepredictions and couplets so carefully entrusted to him for judiciousutterance; and who assigned the initials of Lady Estelle Cressinghamto the portly old vicar, as those of his future spouse, and those ofhis lady, a stout matron with eight bantlings, to me, and so on.

The company poured in fast; and after being duly received by Sir Madocand Miss Lloyd in the great drawing-room, literally crowded all thebeautiful grounds, the band in white uniform on the terrace being arival attraction to the great refreshment tent or marquee--a statelypolychromed edifice, with gilt bells hanging from each point of thevandyked edging--wherein a standing luncheon was arranged, under thecare of Owen Gwyllim; and over all floated a great banner, ermine andpean, with the lion rampant of the Lloyds. A ball was to follow in theevening. The floor of the old dining-hall had been waxed till it shonelike glass for the dancers. Its walls were hung with evergreens andcoloured lamps, and a select few were invited; but Fate ordained thatneither Lady Estelle nor I were to figure in this, the closing portionof the festivities. A number of beautiful girls in charming toiletteswere present. People of the best style, too, mingled with humblemiddle-class country folks--tenants and so forth. There were someofficers from the detachments quartered in Chester, and several littlehalf-known parsons, in Noah's-ark coats, who came sidling in, andintrenched themselves beside huge mammas in quiet corners, to discussparish matters and general philanthropy through the medium of icedclaret-cup and sparkling moselle. And there were present, too, asGuilfoyle phrased it, "some of those d--d fellows who write and paint,by Jove!"

On this day Guilfoyle, though he had carefully attired himself incorrect morning costume, seemed rather preoccupied and irritable. Thepresence of Pottersleigh and so many others placed his societysomewhat at a discount; and, glass in eye, he seemed to watch thearrival of the lady guests, especially any who were darkly attired,with a nervous anxiety, which, somehow, I mentally connected with thepale woman in church, and Dora's story of the initials. There wasundoubtedly some mystery about him. Viewed from the perron of thehouse, the scene was certainly a gay one--the greenness of theclosely-mown lawn, dotted by the bright costumes of the ladies, and afew scarlet coats (among them Caradoc's and mine); the brilliance andthe perfume of flowers were there; the buzz of happy voices, the softlaughter of well-bred women, and the strains of the band, as theyebbed and flowed on the gentle breeze of the sunny noon. Every way itwas most enjoyable. Here on one side spread an English chase, withoaks as old, perhaps, as the days when "Beddgelert heard the buglesound," leafy, crisp, and massive, their shadows casting a tint thatwas almost blue on the soft greensward, with the sea rippling andsparkling about a mile distant, where a portion of the chase ended atthe edge of some lofty cliffs. On the other side rose the Welshmountains, with all their gray rocks, huge boulders, and foamingwaterfalls--mountains from where there seemed in fancy to come thescent of wild flowers, of gorse, and blackberries, to dispel thefashionable languor of the promenaders on the lawn. The leaves, theflowers, the trees of the chase, the ladies' dresses, and the quaintfaçade of the old Tudor mansion were all warm with sunshine.

Old Morgan Roots the gardener, to his great disgust, had beencompelled to rifle the treasures of his hothouses, and to strip hisshelves of the most wonderful exotics, to furnish bouquets for theladies; for Morgan was proud of his floral effects, and whendisplaying his slippings from Kew and all the best gardens in England,tulips from Holland and the Cape, peonies from Persia, rhododendronsfrom Asia, azaleas from America, wax-like magnolias, and so forth, hewas wont to exult over his rival, the vicar's Scotch gardener, whom hestigmatised as "a sassenach;" and not the least of his efforts weresome superb roses, named the "Dora," in honour of the fair-hairedheroine of the day. And Caradoc--who was a good judge of everything,from cutlets and clicquot to horses and harness, and had a special eyefor ankles, insteps, and eyelashes, style, and colour, &c.--declaredthe fête to be quite a success. As I looked around me, I could not butfeel how England is pre-eminently, beyond all others, the land of fairwomen and of beauty. Lady Estelle, with her pale complexion and thickdark hair, her dress of light-blue silk, over which she wore a whitetransparent tunique, her tiny bonnet of white lace, her gloves andparasol of the palest silver-gray, seemed a very perfect specimen ofher class; but until Lord Pottersleigh appeared, which was long afterdancing had begun on the sward (by country visitors chiefly), she satby the side of mamma, and declined all offers from partners. TheViscount--my principal bête noire--had arrived over-night in his owncarriage from Chester, but did not appear at breakfast next morning,nor until fully midday, as he had to pass--so Dora whispered tome--several hours in an arm-chair, with his gouty feet enveloped inflannel, while he regaled himself by sipping colchicum and warmwine-whey, though he alleged that his lameness was caused by a kickfrom his horse; and now, when with hobbling steps he came to whereLady Naseby and her stately daughter were seated, he did not seem--hiscoronet and Order of the Garter excepted--a rival to be much dreadedby a smart Welsh Fusileer of five and twenty.

Fully in his sixtieth year, and considerably wasted--more, perhaps, byearly dissipation than by time--the Viscount was a pale, thin, andfeeble-looking man, hollow-chested and slightly bent, with anunsteadiness of gait, an occasional querulousness of manner andrestlessness of eye, as if nervous of the approach of many of thoseamong whom he now found himself, and whom he viewed as "bumpkins in astate of rude health." Guilfoyle, of whom he evidently had misgivings,he regarded with a cold and aristocratic stare, after carefullyadjusting a gold eyeglass on his thin, aquiline nose, and yet they hadbeen twice introduced elsewhere. His features were good. In youth hehad been deemed a handsome man; but now his brilliant teeth were ofParis, and what remained of his hair was carefully dyed a clear darkbrown, that consorted but ill with the wrinkled aspect of his face,and the withered appearance of his thin white hands, when he ungloved,which was seldom. His whole air and style were so different fromthose, of hearty and jolly Sir Madoc, whose years were the same, andwho was looking so bland, so bald, and shiny in face and brow, so fulland round in waistcoat, with one of the finest camellias in hisbutton-hole, "just like Morgan Roots the gardener going to church onSunday," as Dora had it, while he watched the dancers, and clapped hishands to the music.

"Ha, Pottersleigh," said he, "you and I have done with this sort ofthing now; but I have seen the day, when I was young, less fleshy, anddidn't ride with a crupper, I could whirl in the waltz like a spinningjenny."

To this awkward speech the Viscount, who affected juvenility,responded by a cold smile; and as he approached and was welcomed byLady Naseby and her daughter, the latter glanced at me, and I coulddetect an undefinable expression, that savoured of amusem*nt, ordisdain, or annoyance, or all together, ending with a haughty smile,hovering on her dark and ever-sparkling eyes; for she knew by pastexperience, that from thenceforward, with an air of proprietary thatwas very provoking, he would be certain to hover constantly besideher; and now, after paying the usual compliments to the two ladies,his lordship condescended to honour me with a glance and a smile, butnot with his hand.

"Ah, how do you do, Mr. Hardinge--or shall I have the pleasure ofsaying Captain Hardinge?" said he.

"Fortune has not so far favoured me--I am only a sub still."

"So was Wellington in his time," said Sir Madoc, tapping me on theshoulder.

"Ah, but you'll soon be off to the East now, I suppose." (His eyesexpressed the words, "I hope.") "We shall soon come to blows withthose Russian fellows, and then promotions will come thick and fast. Ihave it as a certainty from Aberdeen himself, that a landing somewhereon the enemy's coast cannot be much longer delayed now."

"And with one-half our army dead, and the other half worn out bycamp-fever, cholera, and sufferings at Varna, we shall take the fieldwith winter before us--a Russian winter, too!" said Sir Madoc, who wasa bitter opponent of the ministry.

Ere Pottersleigh could reply, to avert any discussion of politics, theCountess spoke.

"I trust," said she, "that the paragraph in the Court Journal andother papers, which stated that your title is about to be made anearldom, is something more than mere rumour?"

"Much more, I have the pleasure to inform you," mumbled thishereditary legislator. "I have already received official notice of thehonour intended me by her Majesty. I supported the Aberdeen ministryso vigorously throughout this Russian affair, clearing them, so far asin me lay, from the allegations of vacillation, that in gratitude theywere bound to recognise my services."

He played with his eyeglass, and glanced at Estelle. She seemed to belooking intently at the shifting crowd; yet she heard him, for aslight colour crossed her cheek.

"So Potter is to be an earl," thought I; "and she perhaps iscontrasting his promotion with that which I have to hope for."

Even this brief conversation by its import made me fear that my dreamsmight never come to pass--that my longings were too impossible forfulfilment. I envied Caradoc, who, having no distinction of rank tocontend with in his love affair, seemed, to be getting on very wellwith Winifred Lloyd, who, to his great delight, had made him heraide-de-camp, and useful friend during the day.

"Our troops will find it tough work encountering the Russians, Iexpect," said Lord Pottersleigh; "for although the rank and file areutter barbarians, Mr. Hardinge, many of their officers are men of highculture, and all regard the Czar as a demigod, and Russia as holy."

"I met some of them when I was in the north of Europe," saidGuilfoyle--who, being rather ignored by Pottersleigh, felt ruffled, ifnot secretly enraged and disposed to contradict him; "and though Ithink all foreigners usually absurd--"

"Ah, that is a thoroughly English and somewhat provincial idea," saidhis lordship, quietly interrupting him; "but I have read of an oldCarib who said, 'The only obstinate savages I have met are theEnglish; they adopt none of our customs.'"

"To adopt their dress might have been difficult in those days; butall foreigners, and especially Russians, are somewhat strange, mylord, when judged by an English standard. I can relate a curiousinstance of attempted peculation in a Russian official, such as wouldnever occur with one occupying a corresponding position here. Whenattaché at the court of Catzenelnbogen, I once visited a wealthyRussian landowner, a Count Tolstoff, who lived near Riga, at a timewhen he was about to receive the sum of eighty thousand silver roublesfrom the imperial treasury, for hemp, timber, and other produce of hisestate, sold for the use of the navy. Ivan Nicolaevitch, thePulkovnich commanding the marine infantry stationed in the fortress ofDunamunde, was to pay this money; but that official informed Tolstoffverbally--he was too wary to commit anything to paper--that unless sixthousand of the roubles were left in his hands, the whole might belost by the way, as my friend's residence was in a solitary place, andthe neighbourhood abounded with lawless characters.

"On Tolstoff threatening to complain to the Emperor, the Pulkovnichmost unwillingly handed over the entire sum, which was delivered ingreat state by a praperchich, or ensign, and six soldiers; and therewe thought the matter would end. But that very night, as we sat atsupper, smoking our meerschaums to digest a repast of mutton withmushrooms, compote of almonds and stuffed carrots--carrots scoopedout like pop-guns, and loaded with mincemeat--the dining-room wassoftly entered by six men dressed like Russian peasants, with canvascraftans and rope girdles, bark shoes and long beards, their facescovered with crape. They threatened me with instant death by thepistol if I dared to stir; and pinioning my friend to a chair, placedthe barrel of another to his head, and demanded the treasure, or to betold where it was.

"Tolstoff, who was a very cool fellow, gave me a peculiar smile, andtold me in French to open the lower drawer of his escritoire, and givethem every kopec I found there.

"On obtaining permission from the leader, I crossed the room, andfound in the drawer indicated no money, but a brace of revolverpistols. With these, which luckily were loaded and capped, I shot downtwo of the intruders, and the rest fled. On tearing the masks from thefallen men, we discovered them to be--whom think you? The PulkovnichNicholaevitch and the praperchich of the escort! There was an awfulrow about the affair, as you may imagine; but in a burst of gratitudemy friend gave me this valuable ring, a diamond one, which I have wornever since."

"God bless my soul, what a terrible story!" exclaimed Pottersleigh,regarding the ring with interest; for Guilfoyle usually selected a newaudience for each of these anecdotes, by which he hoped to create aninterest in himself; and certainly he seemed to do so for a time inthe mind of the somewhat simple old lord, who now entered intoconversation with him on the political situation, actually took hisarm, and they proceeded slowly across the lawn together. I was sorryCaradoc had not overheard the new version of the ring, and wonderedhow many stories concerning it the proprietor had told to others, orwhether he had merely a stock on hand, for chance narration. Was itvanity, art, or weakness of intellect that prompted him? Yet I haveknown a Scotch captain of the line, a very shrewd fellow, who was wontto tell similar stories of a ring, and, oddly enough, over and overagain to the same audience at the mess-table.

Being rid of both now, I resolved to lose no time in taking advantageof the situation. Sir Madoc and "mamma" were in the refreshment tent,where I hoped they were enjoying themselves; Dora was busy with ayoung sub from Chester--little Tom Clavell of the 19th--who evidentlythought her fête was "awfully jolly;" Caradoc had secured Winifred forone dance--she could spare him but one--and his usual soldierly swingwas now reduced to suit her measure, as they whirled amid the throngon the smoothly-shorn turf.

CHAPTER XII.--ON THE CLIFFS.

Lady Estelle received me with a welcome smile, for at that time allaround her were strangers; and I hoped--nay, felt almost certain--thatpleasure to see me inspired it, for on my approach she immediatelyrose from her seat, joined me, and as if by tacit and silent consent,we walked onward together. Pottersleigh's presence at CraigaderynCourt, and the rumours it revived; something cool and patronising inhis manner towards me, for he had not forgotten that night inPark-lane; Lady Naseby's influence against me; the chances that somesudden military or political contingency might cut short my leave ofabsence; the certainty that ere long I should have to "go where glorywaited" me, and perhaps something less pleasant in the shape ofmutilation--the wooden leg which Dora referred to--a coffinless gravein a ghastly battle trench--all rendered my anxiety to come to anunderstanding with Lady Estelle irrepressible. My secret was alreadyknown to Phil Caradoc, fully occupied though he was with his ownpassion for Winifred Lloyd; and I felt piqued by the idea of beingless successful than I honestly hoped he was, for Phil was the king ofgood fellows, and one of my best friends.

"You have seemed very triste to-day--looking quite as if you livedin some thoughtful world of your own," said Lady Estelle, when sheleft her seat; "neither laughing nor dancing, scarcely evenconversing, and certainly not with me. Why is this?"

"You have declined all dancing, hence the music has lost its zest forme."

"It is not brilliant; besides, it is somewhat of a maypole orharvest-home accomplishment, dancing on the grass; pretty laborioustoo! And then, as Welsh airs predominate, one could scarcely waltz tothe Noble Race of Shenkin."

"You reserve yourself for the evening, probably?"

"Exactly. I infinitely prefer a well-waxed floor to a lawn,however well mown and rolled. But concerning your--what shall I termit--sadness!"

"Why ask me when you may divine the cause, though I dare notexplain--here at least?"

After a little pause she disengaged two flowers from her bouquet, andpresenting them to me with an arch and enchanting smile--for whenbeyond her mother's ken, she could at times be perfectly natural--shesaid,

"At this floral fête champêtre, I cannot permit you to be the onlyundecorated man."

"Being in uniform, I never thought of such an ornament."

"Wear these, then," said she, placing them in a button-hole.

"As your gift and for your sake?"

"If you choose, do so."

"Ah, who would not but choose?" said I, rendered quite bright and gayeven by such a trifle as this. "But Lady Estelle, do you know whatthese are emblematic of?"

"In the language of the flowers, do you mean?"

"Of course; what else could he mean?" said a merry voice; and thebright face of Dora, nestled amid her golden hair, appeared, as shejoined us, flushed with her dancing, and her breast palpitating withpleasure, at a time when I most cordially wished her elsewhere. "Yes,"she continued, "there is a pansy; that's for thought, as Opheliasays--and a rosebud; that is for affection."

"But I don't believe in such symbolism, Dora; do you. Mr. Hardinge?"

"At this moment I do, from my soul."

She laughed, or affected to laugh, at my earnestness; but it was notdispleasing to her, and we walked slowly on. Among the multitude ofstrangers--to us they were so, at least--to isolate ourselves wascomparatively easy now. Besides, it is extremely probable that underthe eyes of so many girls she had been rather bored by the senileassiduity of her old admirer; so, avoiding the throng around thedancers, the band, and the luncheon marquee, we walked along theterraces towards the chase, accompanied by Dora, who opened a wicketin a hedge, and led us by a narrow path suddenly to the cliffs thatoverhung the sea. Here we were quite isolated. Even the music of theband failed to reach us; we heard only the monotonous chafing of thewaves below, and the sad cry of an occasional sea-bird, as it swoopedup or down from its eyrie. The change from the glitter and brillianceof the crowded lawn to this utter solitude was as sudden as it waspleasing. In the distance towered up Great Orme's Head, seven hundredand fifty feet in height; its enormous masses of limestone rockabutting against the foam, and the ruins of Pen-y-Dinas cutting thesky-line. The vast expanse of the Irish Sea rolled away to thenorth-westward, dotted by many a distant sail; and some eighty feetbelow us the surf was rolling white against the rocky base of theheadland on which we stood.

"We are just over the Bôd Mynach, or 'monk's dwelling,'" said Dora."Have you not yet seen it, Estelle?"

"No; I am not curious in such matters."

"It is deemed one of the most interesting things in North Wales, quiteas much so as St. Tudno's Cradle, or the rocking-stone on yonderpromontory. Papa is intensely vain of being its proprietor. Gruffyd apMadoc hid here, when he fled from the Welsh after his desertion ofHenry III.; so it was not made yesterday. Let us go down and restourselves in it."

"Down the cliffs?' exclaimed Lady Estelle, with astonishment.

"Yes--why not? There is an excellent path, with steps hewn in therock. Harry Hardinge knows the way, I am sure."

"As a boy I have gone there often, in search of puffins' nests; butremember that Lady Estelle--"

"Is not a Welsh girl of course," said Dora.

"Nor a goat, like Carneydd Llewellyn," added her friend. "But with Mr.Hardinge's hand to assist you," urged Dora. "Well, let us make theessay at once, nor lose time, ere we be missed," said the other, hermind no doubt reverting to mamma and Lord Pottersleigh.

I began to descend the path first, accepting with pleasure the officeof leading Lady Estelle, who for greater security drew off a glove andplaced her hand in mine, firmly and reliantly, though the path, aladder of steps cut in the living rock, almost overhung the sea, andthe descent was not without its perils. The headland was cleft in twoby some throe of nature, and down this chasm poured a little stream,at the mouth of which, as in a diminutive bay, a gaily-paintedpleasure-boat of Sir Madoc's, named the "Winifred," was moored, and itseemed to be dancing on the waves almost beneath us.

We had barely proceeded some twenty feet down the cliff when Dora,instead of following us, exclaimed that she had dropped a bracelet onthe path near the wicket, but we were to go on, and she would soonrejoin us. As she said this she disappeared, and we were thus leftalone. To linger where we stood, almost in mid-air, was not pleasant;to return to the edge of the cliff and await her there, seemed auseless task. Why should we not continue to descend, as she must soonovertake us? I could read in the proud face of Lady Estelle, as wepaused on that ladder of rock, with her soft and beautiful hand inmine, that she felt in a little dilemma. So did I, but my heart beathappily; to have her so entirely to myself, even for ten minutes, wasa source of joy.

While lingering thus, I gradually led our conversation up to the pointI wished, by talking of my too probable speedy departure for anotherland; of the happy days like the present, which I should never forget;of herself. My lips trembled as my heart seemed to rise to them; andforgetting the perilous place in which we stood, and remembering onlythat her hand was clasped in mine, I began to look into her face withan expression of love and tenderness which she could not mistake; forher gaze soon became averted, her bosom heaved, and her colour cameand went; and so, as the minutes fled, we were all unaware that Dorahad not yet returned; that the sultry afternoon had begun to darken asheavy dun clouds rolled up from the seaward, and the air become filledwith electricity; and that a sound alleged to be distant thunder hadbeen heard at Craigaderyn Court, causing some of the guests toprepare, for departure, despite Sir Madoc's assurances that no rainwould fall, as the glass had been rising.

Dora was long in returning; so long that, instead of waiting orretracing our steps, proceeding hand in hand, and more than once LadyEstelle having to lean on my shoulder for support, we continued todescend the path in the face of the cliff--a path that ultimately ledus into a terrible catastrophe.

CHAPTER XIII.--A PROPOSAL.

A long time elapsed and we did not return, but amid the bustle thatreigned in and around Craigaderyn Court, our absence was not observedso soon as it might otherwise have been, the attention of the manyguests being fully occupied by each other. The proposal of Dora'shealth devolved upon Lord Pottersleigh as the senior bachelor present,and it was drunk amid such cheers as country gentlemen alone can give.Then Sir Madoc, who had a horror of after-dinner speeches in general,replied tersely and forcibly enough, because the words of thanks andpraise for his youngest girl came straight from his affectionateheart; but his white handkerchief was freely applied to the nervoustask of polishing his forehead, which gave him a sense of relief; forthe worthy old gentleman was no orator, and closed his response bydrinking to the health of all present in Welsh.

"Our good friend's ideas are somewhat antiquated," said Pottersleighto Guilfoyle, who now stuck to him pretty closely; "but he is athorough gentleman of an old school that is passing away."

His lordship, however, looked the older man of the two.

"Antiquated! By Jove, I should think so," responded the other, whoinstinctively disliked his host; "ideas old as the days when peoplemade war without powder and shot, went to sea without compasses, andpegged their clothes for lack of buttons; but he is an hospitable oldfile, and his wine--this Château d'Yquem, for instance, is excellent."

Pottersleigh gave the speaker a quiet stare, and then, as if dislikingthis style of comment, turned to Lady Naseby for the remainder of therepast.

The overcasting of the day and a threatening of rain had put an end tomuch of the dancing on the flower-terrace, and of the promenading inthe garden and grounds. The proposal of Dora's health had been deemedthe close of the fête; the servants had begun to prepare for the ball,and many of the guests, whose invitation did not include that portionof the festivities--for the grounds of course, would hold more thanthe hall--were beginning to depart, while a few still lingered in theconservatories, the library, or the picture gallery; thus, thoughCaradoc was looking through them for me, with a shrewd idea that I waswith Lady Estelle, he could not for the life of him imagine where;besides, Phil was anxious to make the most of his time with MissLloyd.

The breaking of the guests into groups caused our absence to be longunnoticed, especially while carriages, gigs, drags, wagonnettes, andsaddle-horses were brought in succession to the door; cloaks andshawls put on, ladies handed in, and the stream of vehicles wentpouring down the long lime avenue and out of the park.

"You have danced but once to-day with Mr. Caradoc, he has told me,"said Dora in a low voice, as she passed her sister.

"I had so many to dance with--so many to introduce; and then, think ofthe evening before us."

"He loves you quite passionately, I think, Winny dear; more than wordscan tell."

"So it would seem," replied Winifred, smiling over her fan."Why--how?"

"He has never spoken to me on the subject."

"He will do so before this evening is over, or I am no trueprophetess," said Dora, as she threw back the bright masses of herhair.

"That I don't believe."

"Why?"

"Because he wears at his neck a gold locket, the contents of which noone has seen; and Mr. Guilfoyle assures me that it holds the likenessof a lady."

"Well time will prove," replied Dora, as she was again led away by hernew admirer, the little sub from Chester; but her prediction cametrue.

Winifred felt instinctively that she was the chief attraction toCaradoc, and was exciting in his breast emotions to which she couldnot respond. Again and again when asking her to dance, she had urgedin reply, that he would please her more by dancing with others, asthere were present plenty of country girls to whom a red coat wasquite a magnet; so poor Caradoc found plenty of work cut out for him.Pressed at last by him, Winifred said, while fanning herself,

"Do excuse me; to-night I shall reward you fully; but meanwhile we maytake a little promenade. I think all who are to remain must know eachother pretty well now;" and taking his arm they passed from the greatmarquee along the now deserted terrace, to find that the sky was soovercast and the wind so high, that they turned into an alley of theconservatory, where she expected to find some of their friends, but itwas empty; and as Caradoc's face, and the tremulous inflections of hisvoice, while he was uttering mere commonplaces about the sudden changeof the weather, the beauty of the flowers, the elegance of theconservatory, and so forth, told her what was passing in his mind, shebecame perplexed annoyed with herself, and said hurriedly,

"Let us seek Lady Naseby; I fear that we are quite neglecting her--andshe is somewhat particular."

"One moment, Miss Lloyd, ere we go; I have so longed for anopportunity to speak with you--alone, I mean--for a moment--even for amoment," said he.

Winifred Lloyd knew what was coming; there was a nervous quivering ofher upper lip, which was a short one, and showed a small portion ofher white teeth, usually imparting an expression of innocence to herface, while its normal one was softness combined with great sweetness.Caradoc had now possessed himself of her right hand, thus withoutbreaking away from him, and making thereby a species of "scene"between them, an episode to be avoided, she could not withdraw, butstood looking shyly and blushingly half into his handsome face, whilehe spoke to her with low and broken but earnest utterances.

"I have decoyed you hither," said he, "and you will surely pardon mefor doing so, when you think how brief is my time now, here, in thishappy home of yours--even in England itself; and when I tell you howanxious I have been to--to address you--"

"Mr. Caradoc," interrupted the girl, now blushing furiously behind herfan, "your moments will soon become minutes!"

"Would that the minutes might become hours, and the hours, days andyears, could I but spend them with you! Listen to me, Miss Lloyd--"

"Not at present--do, pray, excuse me--I wish to speak with Dora."

But instead of having her hand released, it was now pressed by Caradocbetween both of his.

"I will not detain you very long," said he, sadly, almostreproachfully; "you know that I love you; every time my eyes have metyours, every time I have spoken, my voice must have told you that I dodearly, and if the fondest emotions of my heart--"

"A soldier's heart, of which little scraps and shreds have been leftin every garrison town?"

"Do not laugh at my honest earnestness!" urged Caradoc, with a deepsigh.

"Pardon me, I do not laugh; O think not that I could be guilty of sucha thing!" replied Winifred, colouring deeper than ever.

Beautiful though she was, and well dowered too, this was the firstproposal or declaration that had been made to her. The speaker waseminently handsome, his voice and eyes were full of passion andearnestness, and she could not hear him without a thrill of pleasureand esteem.

"I know that I am not worthy of you, perhaps; but--"

"I thank you, dear Mr. Caradoc, but--but--more is impossible."

"Impossible--why?"

She grew quite pale now, but he still retained her hand; and herchange of colour was, perhaps, unseen by him, for there was littlelight in the conservatory, the evening clouds being dark and densewithout.

"Miss Lloyd--Winifred--dearest Winifred--I love you, love you with allmy heart and soul!"

"Do not say so, I implore you!" said she in an agitated voice, andturning away her head.

"Do you mean to infer that you are already engaged?"

"No."

"Or that you love another?"

"That is not a fair question," she replied, with a little hauteur ofmanner.

"It is, circ*mstanced as I am, and after the avowal I have made."

"Well, I do--not."

"And yet you cannot love me? Alas, I am most unfortunate!"

"Let this end, dear Mr. Caradoc," said Winifred, almost sobbing, anddeeply repenting that she had taken his arm for a little promenadethat was to end in a proposal. Phil, being in full uniform, playedwith, or swung somewhat nervously, the tassels of his crimson sash, afavourite resort of young officers when in any dubiety or dilemma.After a little pause--

"May I speak to Sir Madoc on the subject?" he asked.

"No."

"Perhaps my friend Harry Hardinge might advise--"

"Nay, for Heaven's sake don't confer with him on the matter at all!"

"Why?" said he, startled by her earnestness.

"Would you make love to me through him--through another?"

"You entirely mistake my meaning."

"What do you mean?"

"Simply what I have said; that I love you, esteem and admire you; thatyou are, indeed, most dear to me, and that if I had the approval--"

"Of the lady whose likeness is in your locket; so treasured that asecret spring secures it!" said she, suddenly remembering Dora's wordsas a means of escape.

"Yes, especially with her approval. I should then be happy, indeed. Iknow not how you came to know of it; but shall I show you thelikeness?"

"If you choose," said Winifred, thinking in her heart, "Poor fellow,it must be his mother's miniature;" but when Phil touched a spring andthe locket flew open she beheld a beautiful coloured photo ofherself.

"Good heavens!" she exclaimed, "how came you by this?"

"Hardinge had two in the barracks, and I begged one from him."

"Hardinge--Harry Hardinge! That was most unfair of him," said she, heragitation increasing; "he is one of our oldest friends."

"May I be permitted to keep it?"

"O, no; not there--not there, in a locket at your neck."

"Be it so; your slightest wish is law to me; but be assured, MissLloyd, the heart near which it lies was never offered to womanbefore."

"I can well believe you; but--hush, here are people coming!"

Sir Madoc and Lady Naseby entered the conservatory somewhat hurriedly,followed by two or three of the guests.

"Lady Estelle! Is Lady Estelle here?" they asked, simultaneously.

"No," replied Caradoc.

"Nor Harry Hardinge?"

"We are quite alone, papa," said Winifred, in a voice the agitation ofwhich, at another time, must have been apparent to all; for no womancan hear a declaration of love or receive a proposal quiteunconcerned, especially from a handsome young fellow who was soearnest as Philip Caradoc; around whom the coming departure for theseat of war shed a halo of melancholy interest, and who, by theartless production of the locket, proved that he had loved her forsome time past, and secretly too.

"What the deuce is the meaning of this?" exclaimed Sir Madoc, with anexpression of comicality, annoyance, and alarm mingling in his face;"the servants can nowhere find her!"

"Find who?" asked Lord Pottersleigh, opening his snuffbox as heshambled forward.

"Why, Lady Estelle."

His lordship took a pinch, paused for the refreshing titillation of asneeze, and then said,

"Indeed--surprising--very!"

"And Hardinge is missing, too, you say?" said Phil. "How odd!"

"Odd! egad, I think it is odd; they have not been seen by any onefor more than two hours, and a regular storm has come on!"

Phil and Miss Lloyd had been too much occupied, or they must haveremarked the bellowing of the wind without and the sudden darkening ofthe atmosphere.

"O papa, papa!" exclaimed Dora, now rushing in from the lawn,"something dreadful must have happened. I left them on the verge ofthe cliffs; returning to look for the bracelet you gave me, I met mypartner, Mr. Clavell of the 19th; we began dancing again, and I forgotall about them."

"On the cliffs!" exclaimed several voices, reprehensibly andfearfully.

"Yes," continued Dora, beginning to weep; "I took them through thepark wicket, and suggested a visit to the Bôd Mynach."

"Suggested this to Estelle! She is not, as we are, used to such pathsand places, and you tell us of it only now!" exclaimed Winifred, withan expression of reproach and anguish sparkling in her eyes.

"My God, an accident must have occurred! The wind--weather--composeyourself, Lady Naseby; Gwyllim, ring the house-bell, and summon everyone," cried Sir Madoc; "not a moment is to be lost."

"O, what is all this you tell me now, Dora?" exclaimed Winifred, asshe started from the conservatory, with her lips parted, her dark eyesdilated, and her hair put back by both her trembling hands.

Poor Phil Caradoc and his proposal were alike forgotten now; and hebegan to fear that, like Hugh Price of ours, in making love he hadmade some confounded mistake.

Querulous, and useless so far as searching or assisting went, LordPottersleigh nevertheless saw the necessity of affecting to dosomething, as a man, as a gentleman, and a very particular friend ofthe Naseby family. Accoutred in warm mufflings by his valet, with amackintosh, goloshes, and umbrella, he left the house half an hourafter every one else, and pottered about the lawn, exclaiming fromtime to time,

"Such weather! such a sky! ugh, ugh! what the devil can havehappened?" till a violent fit of coughing, caused by the keen breezefrom the sea, and certain monitory twinges of gout, compelled him toreturn to his room, and wait the event there, making wry faces andsipping his colchicum, while sturdy old Sir Madoc conducted the searchon horseback, galloping knee-deep among fern, searching the vistas ofthe park, and sending deer, rabbits, and hares scampering in everydirection before him. Above the bellowing of the stormy wind, thatswept the freshly torn leaves like rain against the walls andmullioned windows of the old house, or down those long umbrageousvistas where ere long the autumn spoil would be lying thick, rose andfell the clangour of the house-bell. Servants, grooms, gamekeepers,and gardeners were despatched to search, chiefly in the wild vicinityof the now empty Bôd Mynach; but no trace could be found of LadyEstelle or her squire, save a white-laced handkerchief, which, while alow cry of terror escaped her, Lady Naseby recognised as belonging toher daughter. On it were a coronet and the initials of her name.

It had been found by Phil Caradoc with the aid of a lantern, whensearching along the weedy rocks between the silent cavern and theseething sea, which was now black with the gathered darkness and amist from the west.

There was no ball at Craigaderyn Court that night.

CHAPTER XIV.--THE UNFORESEEN.

In this world, events unthought of and unforeseen are alwayshappening; so, as I have hinted, did it prove with me, on the epoch ofDora's birthday fête. It was not without considerable difficulty andcare on my side, trepidation and much of annoyance at Dora on that ofLady Estelle, mingled with a display of courage which sprang from herpride, that I conducted her by the hand down the old and time-wornflight of narrow steps--which had been hewn, ages ago, by some oldCeltic hermit in the face of the cliff--till at last we stood on thelittle plateau that lies between the mouth of his abode and the sea,which was chafing and surging there in green waves, that the wind wascresting with snowy foam.

On our right the headland receded away into a wooded dell, that formedpart of Craigaderyn Park. There a little rhaidr or cascade cameplashing down a fissure in the limestone rocks, and fell into a pool,where a pointed pleasure-boat, named the Winifred, was moored. On ourleft the headland, that towered some eighty feet above us, formed partof the bluffs or sea-wall that stretched away to the eastward, and,sheer as a rampart, met the waves of the wide Irish Sea. Before usopened the arched entrance of the monk's abode--a little cavern orcell, that had been hollowed by no mortal hand. Its echoes are allegedto be wonderful; and it has been of old used as a hiding-place intimes of war and trouble, and by smugglers for storing goods, wherethe knights of Craigaderyn could find them without paying to theking's revenue. It has evidently been what its name imports--thechapel and abode of some forgotten recluse. A seat of stones goesround the interior, save at the entrance. A stone pillar or altar hadstood in its centre. A font or stone basin is there, and from it thereflows a spring of clear water, with which the follower of St. Davidwas wont to baptise the little savages of Britannia Secunda; and wherenow, in a more pleasant and prosaic age, it has supplied the tea andcoffee kettles of many a joyous party, who came hither boating orfishing from Craigaderyn Court; and above that stone basin thehermit's hand has carved the somewhat unpronounceable Welsh legend:

"Heb Dduw, heb ddim."[1]

"A wonderful old place! But I have seen caverns enough elsewhere,and this does not interest me. I am no archæologist," said LadyEstelle--"besides, where is Dora?" she added, looking somewhat blanklyup the ladder of steps in the cliff, by which we were to return: andshe speedily became much less alive to the beauty of the scenery thanto a sense of danger and awkwardness in her position.

There was no appearance of Dora Lloyd, and we heard no sound in thatsecluded place, save the chafing of the surf, the equally monotonouspouring of the waterfall, and the voices of sea-birds as they skimmedabout us.

I thought that Lady Estelle leant upon my arm a little heavier thanusual, and remembered that, when I took her hand in mine to guide herdown, she left it there firmly and confidingly.

"May I show you the grotto?" said I; and my heart beat tumultuouslywhile I looked in her face, the rare beauty of which was now greatlyenhanced by a flush, consequent on our descent and the sea-breeze.

"O no, no, thanks very much; but let us return to the park ere we bemissed. Give me your hand, Mr. Hardinge. If we came down so quickly,surely we may as quickly ascend again."

"Shall I go first?"

"Please, do. The caves of Fingal, or Elephanta and Ellora to boot,were not worth this danger."

"I have come here many a time for a few sea-birds' eggs," said I,laughing, to reassure her.

But the ascent proved somehow beyond her power. The wind had risenfast, and was sweeping round the headland now, blowing her dress abouther ankles, and impeding her motions. She had only ascended a littleway when giddiness or terror came over her. She lost all presence ofmind, and began to descend again. Thrice, with my assistance, sheessayed to climb the winding steps that led to the summit, and thendesisted. She was in tears at last. As all confidence had desertedher, I proposed to bind her eyes with a handkerchief; but shedeclined. I also offered, if she would permit me to leave her for afew minutes, to reach the summit and bring assistance; but she was tooterrified to remain alone on the plateau of rock, between the cell andthe water.

"Good heavens!" she exclaimed, when, like myself, perhaps she thoughtof Lady Naseby, "what shall I do? And all this has been brought aboutby the heedless suggestions of Dora Lloyd--by her folly andimpulsiveness! Will she never return to advise us?"

Nearly half-an-hour had elapsed, and a dread that she, that I--thatboth of us--must now be missed, and the cause of surmise, roused ananger and pride in her breast, that kindled her eye and affected hermanner, thus effectually crushing any attempt to intrude my own secretthoughts upon her.

"What are we to do, Mr. Hardinge? Here we cannot stay; I dare notclimb; not a boat is to be seen; the sun has almost set, and see, howdense a mist is coming on!"

I confess that I had not observed this before, so much had I beenoccupied by her own presence, by her beauty, and by entreating thatshe would "screw her courage to the sticking-point," and ascend whereI had seen the two pretty Lloyds trip from step to step in their meregirlhood, to the horror, certainly, of their French governess; butknowing that a fog from the sea was rolling landward in dense masses,and that the evening would be a stormy one, I felt intense anxiety forLady Estelle, and certainly left nothing unsaid to reassure her,firmly yet delicately--for good breeding becomes a second nature, andis not forgotten even in times of dire emergency; then how much lessso when we love, and love as I did Estelle Cressingham?--but all myarguments were in vain. There was in her dark eyes a wild and startledbrilliance, a hectic spot on each pale cheek. Her innate prideremained, but her courage was gone. She trembled, and her breath cameshort and quick as she said,

"Who would have dreamt that I--I should have acted thus? Moreheedlessly even than Dora, for she is a Welsh girl, and, like a goat,is used to such places. And now there is no aid--not even the smallestboat in sight!"

"Of what have I been thinking!" I exclaimed. "The pleasure-boat whichbelongs to the grotto is moored yonder in the creek, where somevisitor, who preferred the short cut up the cliff, has evidently leftit. If you will permit me to place you in it, I can row across themouth of the waterfall to the other side, where a Chinese bridge willenable us at once to reach the lawn."

"Why did you not think of this before?" she asked, with something ofangry reproach almost flashing in her eyes.

"Will you make the attempt?"

"Of course. O, would that you had thought of it before!"

"Come, then, though the wind has risen certainly; and among so manyguests, our absence may have been unnoticed yet."

I reached the boat--a gaudily-painted shallop, seated for four oars.There were but two, however; these were enough; but as ill-luck wouldhave it, she was moored to a ring-bolt in the rocks by a padlock andchain, which I had neither the strength nor the means of breaking.This was a fresh source of delay, and Lady Estelle's whole frameseemed to quiver and vibrate with impatience, while every moment sheraised her eyes to the cliff, by which she expected succour orsearchers to come. What the deuce was she--were we--to say to allthis? With a girl possessed of more nerve and firmness of mind thismatter could never have taken such a turn, and the delay had neveroccurred. This malheur or mishap--this variation from the strictrules laid down by such matrons as the Countess of Naseby--looked solike a scheme, that I felt we were in a thorough scrape, and knewthere was not a moment to be lost in making our appearance at theCourt. By a stone I smashed the padlock, and casting loose the boat,brought it to where Lady Estelle stood, beating the rock impatientlywith her foot; and, handing her on board, seated her in thestern-sheets, but with some difficulty, as the west wind was rollingthe waves with no small fury now past the headland, in which the blackBôd Mynach gaped.

"Pull with all your strength, Mr. Hardinge. Dear Mr. Hardinge, let usonly be back in time, and I shall ever thank you!" she exclaimed.

"All that man can do I shall," was my enthusiastic reply.

I could pull a good stroke-oar, and had done so steadily in many aregimental and college boat-race and regatta; but now there ensuedwhat I never could have calculated upon. Excited by the desire ofpleasing Lady Estelle by landing her on the opposite side of the tinybay with all speed--desirous, when seated opposite to her, face toface, of appearing to some advantage by an exhibition of strength andskill--at each successive stroke, as I shot the light boat seaward, Ialmost lifted it out of the water. I had to clear a rock, over whichthe water was foaming and gleaming in green and gold amid the sinkingsunshine, ere I headed her due westward, and in doing so I clearedalso the headland, which rose like a tower of rock from the sea,crowned by a clump of old elms, wherein some rooks had taken up theirquarters in times long past.

"O, Mr. Hardinge," said Lady Estelle, while grasping the gunwale withboth hands, and looking up, "how had I ever the courage to come downsuch a place? It looks fearful from this!"

Ere I could reply, the oar in my right hand broke in the iron rowlockwith a crash. The wood had been faulty. By this mishap I lost mybalance, and was nearly thrown into the sea, as the boat careered overon a wave. Thus the other was torn from my grasp, and swept farbeyond my reach. I was powerless now--powerless to aid either her ormyself. The tide was ebbing fast. The strong west wind, and thecurrent running eastward, influenced by the flow of the Clwyde, andeven of the Dee, ten miles distant, swept the now useless boat pastthe abutting headland, and along the front of those cliffs which riselike a wall of rock from the sea, and where, as the mist gatheredround us, our fate would be unseen, whether we were dashed against theiron shore or swept out into the ocean.

The red sunset was fading fast on distant Orme's Head, where myriadsof sea-birds are ever revolving, like gnats in the light amid itsgrand and inaccessible crags. It was dying, too, though tipping themwith flame, on Snowdon's peaks, the eyrie of the golden eagle and theperegrine falcon, and on the smaller range of Carneydd Llewellyn.Purple darkness was gathering in the grassy vales between, and blueand denser grew those shadows as the cold gray mist came on, and thesombre glow of a stormy sunset passed away. Soon the haze of thetwilight blurred, softened, and blended land and sea to the eastward.The sharp edge of the new moon was rising from a dark and tremblinghorizon, whence the mist was coming faster and more fast, and theevening star, pale Hesperus, shone like a tiny lamp amid the opaltints of a sky that was turning fast to dun and darkness. The rollingmist soon hid the star and the land, too, and I only knew that we weredrifting helplessly away.

CHAPTER XV.--WHAT THE MOON SAW.

The absence of the boat from its mooring-place was soon observed, andsurmises were rife that we must infallibly have gone seaward. But why?It seemed unaccountable--and at such a time, too! The idea that LadyEstelle's heart should fail her in attempting to return by the cliffnever occurred to any save Winifred, who knew more of her friend'stemperament than the rest, and for a time, with others, the ardent andcourageous girl searched the shore, and several boats were put forthinto the mist; but in vain, and ere long the strength and violence ofthe wind drove even Sir Madoc and all his startled guests to theshelter of the house. Muffled in silk cloaks and warm shawls orotter-skin jackets, the ladies had lingered long on the terraces, onthe lawn and avenues, while the lights of the searchers were visible,and while their hallooing could be heard at times from the rocks andravines, where they swung their lanterns as signals, in hopes that thelost ones might see them.

Lord Pottersleigh snuffed and ejacul*ted from time to time, and erelong had betaken himself to his room. Caradoc, Guilfoyle--who seemedconsiderably bewildered by the affair--young Clavel of the 19th, andother gentlemen, with Gwyllim the butler, Morgan Roots the gardener,Bob Spurrit, and the whole male staff of the household, manfullycontinued their search by the shore. There the scene was wild andimpressive. Before the violence of the bellowing wind, the mist wasgiving place to the pall-like masses of dark clouds, which rolledswiftly past the pale face of the new moon, imparting a weird-likeaspect to the rocky coast, against which the sea was foaming in whiteand hurrying waves, while the sea-birds, scared alike by the shoutsand the light of the searchers, quite as much as by the storm,screamed and wheeled in wild flights about their eyries. Moments therewere when Caradoc thought the search was prosecuted in the wrongdirection, and that, as there had probably been an elopement, thisprowling along the seashore was absurd.

"Can it be," said he, inaudibly, "that the little boy who cried forthe moon has made off with it bodily? If so, this will be rather a'swell' affair for the mess of the Royal Welsh."

Slowly passed the time, and more anxious than all the rest--LadyNaseby of course excepted--the soft-hearted Winifred was full ofdismay that any catastrophe should occur to two guests at Craigaderyn,and she listened like a startled fawn to every passing sound.

Dora, as deeming herself the authoress of the whole calamity, wascompletely crushed, and sat on a low stool with her head bowed on LadyNaseby's knee, sobbing bitterly ever and anon, when the storm-gustshowled among the trees of the chase, shook the oriels of the oldmansion, and made the ivy leaves patter on the panes, or shuddering asshe heard the knell-like ding-dong of the house-bell occasionally. Themasses of her golden hair had been dishevelled by the wind without;but she forgot all about that, as well as about her two solemnengagements made with Tom Clavell for the morrow; one, the mildexcitement of fishing for sticklebacks in the horse-pond, and theother, a gallop to the Marine Parade of Llandudno, attended by old BobSpurrit; for the little sub of the 1st York North Riding was, protem., the bondsman of a girl who was at once charming and childish,petulant and more than pretty. Heavily and anxiously were passed theminutes, the quarters, and the hours. Messenger after messenger to thesearchers by the shore went forth and returned. Their tidings were allthe same; nothing had been seen or heard of the boat, of Lady Estelle,or of her companion. Nine o'clock was struck by the great old clock inthe stable court, and then every one instinctively looked at his orher watch. Half-past nine, ten, and even midnight struck, withouttidings of the lost. By that time the mist had cleared away, the tidehad turned, and the west wind was rolling the incoming sea withmightier fury on the rock-bound shore.

The first hours of the morning passed without intelligence, and alarm,dismay, and grief reigned supreme among the pallid group atCraigaderyn Court. All could but hope that with the coming day arevelation might come for weal or woe; and as if to involve thedisappearance of the missing ones in greater mystery, if it did notpoint to a terrible conclusion, the lost pleasure-boat was discoveredby a coastguardsman, high and dry, and bottom up, on a strip of sandybeach, some miles from Craigaderyn; but of its supposed occupants nota trace could be found, save a lace cuff, recognised as LadyEstelle's, wedged or washed into the framework of the little craft,thus linking her fate with it. Ours was, indeed, a perilous situation.We were helplessly adrift on a stormy sea, off a rock-bound coast, ina tiny boat, liable to swamping at any moment, without oars orcovering, the wind rising fast, while the darkness and the mist werecoming down together. I had no words to express my anxiety for whatone so delicately nurtured as Estelle might suffer. My annoyance atthe surmises and wonder naturally excited by our protracted absence;quizzical, it might be equivocal, inferences drawn from it--I thoughtnothing of these. I was beyond all such minor considerations, and feltonly solicitude for her safety and a terror of what her fate might be.All other ideas, even love itself--though that very solicitude wasborn of love--were merged for the time in the tenderest anxiety. Ifher situation with me was perilous, what had it been if with LordPottersleigh? But had she been with him, no such event as a descent tothat unlucky pleasure grotto could have been thought of. Though paleand terrified, not a tear escaped her now; but her white and beautifulface was turned, with a haggard aspect, to mine. A life-buoy happenedto be in the boat, and without a word I tied it to her securely.

"Is there not one for you?" she asked, piteously, laying a hand onmine.

"Think not of me, Lady Estelle; if you are saved, what care I formyself?"

"You swim, then?"

"A little, a very little; scarcely at all."

"You are generous and noble, Mr. Hardinge! O, if kind God permits meto reach the land safely, I shall never be guilty of an act of follylike this again. Mamma says--poor mamma!--that it is birth, or blood,which carries people through great emergencies; but who could haveforeseen such a calamitous contretemps as this? And who could havebeen a greater coward than I? I should have made a steady attempt atyonder pitiful cliff; to fail was most childish, and I have involvedyou in this most fatal peril."

She sobbed as she spoke, and her eyes were full of light; but her lipswere compressed, and all her soft and aristocratic loveliness seemedfor a time to grow different in expression; to gather sternness, as acourage now possessed her, of which she had seemed deficient before,or it might be an obstinacy born of despair; for the light boat wasswept hither and thither helplessly, by stem and stern alternately, oneach successive wave; tossed upward on the crest of one watery ridge,or sunk downward between two that heaved up on each side as if toengulf us; while the spoondrift, salt and bitter, torn from theirtops, flew over us, as she clung with one hand to the gunwale of thetiny craft, and with the other to me.

That we were not being drifted landward was evident, for we could nolonger hear the voices of the sea-birds among the rocks; and to bedrifted seaward by ebb tide or current was only another phase ofperil. The voice of Lady Estelle came in painful gasps as she said,

"O, Mr. Hardinge, Mr. Hardinge, we shall perish most miserably; weshall certainly be drowned! Mamma, my poor mamma, I shall never seeher more!"

Though striving to reassure her I was, for a time, completelybewildered by anxiety for what she must suffer by a terror of thesudden fate that might come upon her; and I was haunted by morbidvisions of her, the brilliant Estelle, a drowned and sodden corpse,the sport of the waves--of myself I never thought--tossing unburied inthe deep, or, it might be, cast mutilated on the shore; and she lookedso beautiful and helpless as she clung to me now, clasping my rightarm with all her energy, her head half reclined upon my shoulder, andthe passing spray mingling with her tears upon her cheek. "Thedrowning man is said to be confronted by a ghostly panorama of hiswhole life." It may be so generally; but then I had only the horror oflosing Estelle, whom I loved so tenderly. We were now together andalone, so completely, suddenly, and terribly alone, it might be forlife or for death--the former short indeed, and the latter swift andsudden, if the boat upset, or we were washed out of it into the sea;and yet in that time of peril she possessed more than ever for me thatwondrous and undefinable charm and allurement which every man finds inthe woman he loves, and in her only.

"God spare us and help us!" she exclaimed. "Mr. Hardinge, I am filledwith unutterable fear;" and then she added, unconsciously quoting somepoet, "I find the thought of death, to one near death, most dreadful!"

"With you, Estelle, love might make it indeed a joy to die!" Iexclaimed, with a gush of enthusiasm and tenderness that, but for theterrible situation, had been melodramatic.

"I did not think that you loved me so," said she, after a littlepause; and my arm now encircled her waist, while something of aninvocation to heaven rose to my lips, and I repeated,

"Not think that I loved you! Do not be coquettishly unwilling toadmit what you must know, that since that last happy night in Londonyou have never been absent from my thoughts; and here, Estelle, dear,dear Estelle, when menaced by a grave amid these waters, I tell youthat I loved you from the first moment that I knew you! Death staresus in the face, but tell me truly that you--that you--"

"Love you in return? I do, indeed, dear Harry!" she sobbed, and thenher beloved face, chilled and damp with tears and spray, came close tomine.

"God bless you, O my darling, for this avowal!" said I in a thickvoice, and even the terrors of our position could not damp the glow ofmy joy.

In all my waking dreams of her had Estelle seemed beautiful; but neverso much so as now, when I seemed on the eve of losing her for ever,and my own life, too; when each successive wave that rolled in inkyblackness towards us might tear her from my clasp! How easily undersome circ*mstances do we learn the language of passion! and now, whileclasping her fast with one arm, as with both of hers she clung to me,I pressed her to my breast, and told her again and again how fondly Iloved her, while--as it were in a dream, a portion of a nightmare--ourboat, now filling fast with water, was tossed madly to and fro. Andlike a dream, too, it seemed, the fact that I had her all tomyself--for life or death, as it were--this brilliant creature soloved by many, so prized by all, and hitherto apparently sounattainable; she who, by a look, a glance, a smile, by a flirt of herfan, by the dropping of a glove, or the gift of a flower, selectedwith point from her bouquet, had held my soul in thrall by all thedelicious trifles that make up the sum and glory of love to the loverwho is young. And where were we now? Alone on the dark, and ere longit was the midnight, sea! Alone, and with me; I who had so long eyedher lovingly and longingly, even as Schön Rohtrant, the German king'sdaughter, was gazed at and loved by the handsome page, who dared notto touch or kiss her till he gathered courage one day, as the balladtells us, when they were under a shady old oak.

"If God spares us to see her," said Lady Estelle, "what will mammathink of this terrible fiasco of ours?"

While Estelle loved me, I felt that I did not care very much for thedowager's views of the matter, especially at that precise moment. Whenon terra firma there would be sufficient time to consider them.

"And you are mine, darling?" said I, tenderly.

"I am yours, Harry, and yours only."

"Never shall I weary of hearing this admission; but the rumour of anengagement to Lord Pottersleigh?'

"Absurd! It has grown out of his dangling after me and mamma's wish,as I won't have my cousin Naseby."

"And you do not hold yourself engaged--"

"Save to you, Harry, and you alone."

And as her head again sank upon my shoulder, her pride and my doubtsfled together; but now a half-stifled shriek escaped her, as the frailboat was nearly overturned by a larger wave than usual, which struckit on the counter. We were drenched and chilled, so ours was, indeed,love-making under difficulties; and the time, even with her recliningin my arms, passed slowly. How many a prayer and invocation, all toodeep for utterance, rose to my lips for her! The hours drew on. Wouldday never dawn? With all the sweet but now terrible companionship oflove--for it was love combined with gloomy danger--this was our utmostcraving.

The new moon, as she rose pale and sharp, like a silver sickle, fromthe Irish Sea, when the fog began to disperse, tipped for a littletime with light the wave-tops as they rose or sank around us; butclouds soon enveloped her again; and when the tide turned, the sea raninward, and broke wildly on the tremendous headlands of the coast.That our boat was not swamped seemed miraculous; but it was verybuoyant, being entirely lined with cork, and had air-tightcompartments under the seats. A gray streak at the far horizon hadspread across a gap of pale green, announcing that the short Augustnight was past, and rapidly it broadened and brightened into day,while crimson and gold began to tip the wave-tops with a fiery hue,the whole ocean seeming to be mottled, as it were; and I could see thecoast-line, as we were not quite a mile from it. In the distance wereplainly visible the little town of Abergele, and those hills whereCastell Cawr and the Cefn Ogo are, tinged with pink, as they roseabove the white vapour that rolled along the shore.

The more distant mountain ranges seemed blue and purple against a skywhere clouds of pearly-pink were floating. Estelle was exhausted now.Her pallor added to my misery. So many hours of pitiless exposure hadproved too much for her strength, and with her eyes closed she layhelpless in my arms, while wave after wave was now impelling usshoreward, and, most happily it would seem, towards a point where therocks opened and the water shoaled. One enormous breaker,white-crested and overarching, came rolling upon us. A gasp, a mutualcry to heaven, half-stifled by the bitter spray, and then the mightyvolume of it engulfed us and our boat. We had a momentary sense ofdarkness and blindness, a sound as of booming thunder mingled with theclangour of bells in our ears, and something of the feeling of beingswept by an express train through a tunnel filled with water, for wewere fairly under the latter; but I clung to the boat with one handand arm, while the other went round Estelle with a death-like embrace,that prevented her from being swept or torn from me.

For some moments I knew not whether we were on the land or in the sea;but, though stunned by the shock, I acted mechanically. Then Iremember becoming conscious of rising through the pale-green water, ofinhaling a long breath, a gasping respiration, and of seeing thesunshine on the waves. Another shock came, and we were flung on theflat or sloping beach, to be there left by the receding sea. Insteadof in that place, had we been dashed against the impending rockselsewhere, all had then been over with us. I still felt that my rightarm was clasped around Estelle; but she was motionless, breathless,and still; and though a terror that she was dead oppressed me, atorpor that I could not resist spread over all my faculties, and Isank into a state of perfect unconsciousness.

CHAPTER XVI.--THE SECRET ENGAGEMENT.

In making a circuit of his farm on the morning after the storm, FarmerRhuddlan, while traversing a field that was bounded by a strip of thesea shore, on which the ebbing surf still rolled heavily, was verymuch scared to find lying there, and to all appearance but recentlycast up from the ocean, among starfish, weed, and wreck, an officer infull dress, and a lady (in what had been an elegant demi-toilette ofblue silk and fine lace), fair and most delicately white, butdrenched, sodden, and to all appearance, as he thought,"dearanwyl--drowned"--as she was quite motionless, with her beautifuldark hair all dishevelled and matted among the sand.

He knew me--in fact, he had known me since boyhood, having caught memany a time in his orchard at Craig Eryri--and thought he recognizedthe lady. Moreover, he had heard of the search overnight, and lost notime in spurring his fat little cob in quest of succour. Somewondering rustics promptly came from a neighbouring barnyard, and bythe time they arrived, Estelle and I had recovered consciousness, andstruggled into a sitting position on some stones close by, whence wewere beginning to look about us.

A benumbed sensation and total lack of power in my right arm warned methat an accident had occurred, and I endeavoured to conceal thecirc*mstance from Estelle, but in vain; for when murmuring some thanksto God for our preservation, she suddenly lifted her face from mybreast, and exclaimed, "You cannot move this arm! You have been hurt,darling! Tell me about it--speak!"

"I think it is broken, Estelle," said I, with a smile; for while Ifelt something almost of pleasure in the conviction that I hadundergone this in saving her, thereby giving me a greater title to herinterest and sympathy, I could not forget my short leave fromWinchester, the war at hand, the regiment already abroad, and theactive duties that were expected of me.

"Broken?" she repeated, in a faint voice.

"My sword-arm--on the eve of marching for foreign service. Awkward,isn't it?"

"Awkward! O Harry, it is horrible! And all this has occurred throughme and my childish folly!"

"One arm is at your service, dearest, still," said I, while placing itround her, and assisting her to rise, as the kind old farmer returnedwith his people, joyful to find that we were living, after all, andthat by assisting us he might in some degree repay Sir Madoc Lloyd aportion of that debt of gratitude which he owed to him.

After despatching a mounted messenger to Craigaderyn with tidings ofour safety, he had us at once conveyed to his farm-house at CraigEryri, where dry clothing was given us, and a doctor summoned toattend me.

"You knew that we were missing--lost?" said I.

"Too well, sir," replied the farmer, as he produced a brandy-bottlefrom an ancient oak cupboard. "With all my lads I assisted in thesearch," he continued in Welsh, as he could scarcely speak a word ofEnglish. "A gentleman came here over night with a groom, both mounted,to spread the news of you and a lady having been lost somewhere belowthe Bôd Mynach."

"A gentleman mounted--Mr. Caradoc, perhaps?"

"Caradoc is one of ourselves," said the farmer, his keen eyestwinkling; "this one was a Sassenach--he Sir Madoc gave that lovelyring to, with a diamond as big as a horse-bean, for winning a race atChester."

"O, Mr. Guilfoyle."

"Yes, sir, that is his name, I believe," replied Rhuddlan; and despitethe gnawing agony of my arm I laughed outright, for the quondam Germanattaché would seem to have actually found time to relate somethingnew about his brilliant to the simple old farmer, and while the fateof Lady Estelle was yet a mystery. As for mine, I shrewdly suspectedhe cared little about that.

Attired by the farmer's wife in the best clothing with which she couldprovide her, Lady Estelle, pale, wan, and exhausted, was seated near afire to restore warmth to her chilled frame, while I retired with themedical man, who found my unlucky arm broken above the elbow;fortunately, the fracture was simple, and in no way a compound one.The bones were speedily set, splinted, and bandaged; and clad in asuit provided for me by Farmer Rhuddlan--to wit, a pair of corduroyknee-breeches, a deeply-flapped double-breasted waistcoat, which, fromits pattern, seemed to have been cut from a chintz bedcover, sogorgeous were the roses and tulips it displayed, a large loose coat ofcoarse gray Welsh frieze, with horn buttons larger than crown pieces,each garment "a world too wide"--I presented a figure so absurd andnovel that Estelle, in spite of all the misery and danger we hadundergone, laughed merrily as she held out to me in welcome a hand ofmarvellous form and whiteness, the hand that was to be mine in thetime to come; and I seated myself by her side, while the farmer andhis wife bustled about, preparing for the certain arrival of Sir Madocand others from the Court.

"How odd it seems!" said Estelle, in a low voice, and after a longpause, as she lay back in the farmer's black-leather elbow chair,where his wife had kindly placed and pillowed her; and while shespoke, her eyes were half closed and her lips were wreathed withsmiles; "engaged to be married--and to you, Harry! I can scarcely'realise it. Is this the end of all our ballroom flirtations, our Parkdrives, and gallops in the Row?"

"Nay, not the end of any; but a continuance of them all, I hope."

"Scarcely; people don't flirt after marriage--together, at least. Butit will be the end of all mamma's grand schemes for me. She alwayshoped I should twine strawberry leaves with my marriage wreath.Heavens, how nearly I was having a wreath of seaweed!" she added, witha shudder and a little gasping laugh as I kissed her hand. "O, my poorHarry, with an arm broken, and by my means I shall never forgivemyself--never!"

"Better an arm than if my heart had been broken by your means,Estelle," said I, in a low voice. After a little she said calmly andin an earnest tone, while her colour came and went more than once,

"We must be secret, secret as we are sincere; and yet such a systemis repugnant to me, and to my pride of heart."

"Secret, Estelle!" (How delicious to call her simply Estelle!) "Why?"

"It is most necessary--yet awhile, at least."

"Your mamma's objections?"

"More than that."

"What--more?"

"By papa's will mamma has entire control over all her fortune andmine, too, and should I marry without her full approbation andconsent, she may bequeath both if she pleases to my cousin Naseby,leaving but a pittance to me."

"But what will not one undergo for love?" said I, gazing tenderly intoher eyes.

She smiled sadly, but made no response; perhaps she thought of whatlove might have of luxury on a subaltern's pay and his "expectations."

"Fear not, Estelle," said I, "for your sake our engagement shall be asecret one."

All my doubts and fears had already given place to the confidence ofavowed and reciprocated affection, and in the security of that I wasblindly happy. How my heart had been wont to throb when I usedmentally to imagine the last interview I should have with her eregoing forth to the East, with the story of my love untold; leaving herin ignorance, or partially so, of the sweet but subtle link that boundmy existence to hers! Now, the love was told; the link had become atie, and pain of the anticipated parting became all the more keenapparently, and I prospectively reckoned one by one the weeks, thedays, yea, almost the hours I might yet spend in the society ofEstelle. I was not much given to daydreams or illusions, but, I askedof myself, was not all this most strange if I was not dreaming now?Could it be that, within a few hours--a time so short--Estelle and Ihad braved such peril together, and that I had achieved her plight,her troth; the promise of her hand; the acknowledgment of her love,and that all was fulfilled; the coveted and dearest object of mysecret thoughts and tenderest wishes!

Whether our engagement were secret or not mattered little to me now.Assured of her regard, I felt in her presence and society all thatcalm delight and sense of repose which were so pleasing after my latetumult of anxiety, pique, jealousy, and uncertainty. By chance or someintuition the farmer and his wife left us for a time alone, whilewaiting the arrival of our friends; and never while life lasts shall Iforget the joy of that calm morning spent alone with Estelle inRhuddlan's quaint little drawing-room, the windows of which faced thegreen Denbigh hills, on which the warm August sun shone cheerily; andoften did the memory of it come back to me when I was far away, when Iwas shivering amid the misery of the half-frozen trenches beforeSebastopol, or relieving the out pickets, when Inkermann lights werewaxing pale and dim as dawn stole over those snow-clad wastes, whereso thick lay the graves of men and horses, while the eternal boom andflash went on without ceasing from the Russian bastions and the alliedbatteries. I felt as if I had gained life anew, and with it EstelleCressingham. Great, indeed, was the revulsion of feeling after suchperil undergone; after a night of such horror and suffering, to sit byher side, to hang over her, inspired to the full by that emotion oftenderness and rapture which no man can feel but once in life,when the first woman he has really loved admits that he has notdone so in vain. I placed on her finger--the engaged finger--anemerald-and-diamond ring that I valued highly, as it had once been mymother's, and in its place took one of hers, a single pearl set inblue-and-gold enamel. The once proud beauty seemed so humble, gentle,and loving now, as she reclined with her head on my shoulder, andlooked at me from time to time with a sweet quiet smile in the softdepths of her dark eyes I forgot that she was an earl's daughter, witha noble dowry and an ambitious mother, and that I was but a sub of theRoyal Welsh, with little more than his pay. I forgot that the routefor Varna hung over my head like the sword of Damocles; that aseparation, certain and inevitable, was hourly drawing closer andcloser, though the accident which had occurred might protract it alittle now.

Estelle Cressingham was a grand creature, certainly. She naturallyseemed to adopt statuesque positions, and thus every movement, howevercareless and unstudied, was full of artistic grace. Even the misshapengarments of Mrs. Evan Rhuddlan could not quite disfigure her. The turnof her head was stately, and at times her glance, quick and flashing,had a pride in it that she was quite unconscious of. She was, asCaradoc had said, "decidedly a splendid woman--young lady, rather--butof the magnificent order." But there were tender and womanly touches,a gentler nature, in the character of Estelle, that lay under theartificial strata of that cumbrous society in which she had beenreared. She had many pets at home in London and at Walcot Park--birdsand dogs, which she fed with her own hands, and little children, whowere her pensioners; and if her nose seemed a proud one, with anaristocratic curve of nostril, her short upper lip would quiveroccasionally when she heard a tale of sorrow or cruelty. And now, fromour mutual daydream, we were roused by the sound of wheels, of hoofs,and several voices, as some of our friends from the Court arrived.

CHAPTER XVII.--WHAT FOLLOWED IT.

To expatiate upon the joy of all when we found ourselves safe inCraigaderyn Court again were a needless task. Lady Estelle wasconveyed at once to her own room, and placed in charge of MademoisellePompon. For two entire days I saw nothing of her, and could but hoveron the terrace which her windows overlooked, in the hope of seeingher; but the same doctor who came daily to dress my arm had to attendher, as she was weak, feverish, and rather hysterical after all shehad undergone; while I, with my broken limb, found myself somewhat ofa hero in our little circle.

"This adventure of yours will make the Bôd Mynach the eighth wonder ofWales, if it gets into print," said Sir Madoc.

This chance was Lady Naseby's fear. She was "full of annoyance andperplexity," as she said, "lest some of those busybodies who write forthe ephemeral columns of the daily press should hear of the affair,and ventilate it in some manner that was garbled, sensational, and,what was worse than either, unpunishable."

She thanked me with great courtesy, but without cordiality, for havingsaved her daughter's life at the expense of a broken limb, as it wasby sheer strength that I prevented Estelle being torn from the boatand me. Her ladyship, however, soon dismissed the subject, and nowTiny, the snappish white shock, which for some hours had beenforgotten and shamefully neglected, came in for as many caresses asher daughter, if not more.

Anxious, for many obvious reasons, to gain the esteem of this cold andunapproachable dowager--even to love her, for her daughter's sake,most unlovable though she was--I was ever assiduous in my attentions;and these seemed to excite quietly the ridicule of Winifred Lloyd,while Dora said that she believed Lady Estelle must have quarrelledwith me, and that I had transferred my affections to her mamma.

But little Dora saw and knew more than I supposed. On the second dayafter the affair, when she came with her light tripping step down theperron of the mansion, and joined me on the terrace, where I wasidling with a cigar, I said,

"By the bye, why did you leave us, Dora, in that remarkable manner,and not return?"

"Mr. Clavell overtook me, and insisted upon my keeping an engagementto him. Moreover," she added, waggishly, "under my music-master I havelearned that many a delightful duet becomes most discordant whenattempted as a trio."

"And for that reason you left us?"

"Precisely," replied the lively girl, as she removed her hat, andpermitted the wealth of her golden hair to float out on the wind."Save for your poor arm being broken, and the terrible risks you ran,I might laugh at the whole affair; for it was quite romantic--likesomething out of a play or novel; but it quite put an end to theball."

"And now that Tom Clavell has gone back to his depôt at Chester, youcan scarcely forgive me?"

"I saw that you were dying to be alone with Lady Estelle," sheretorted, "and now don't you thank me?"

I certainly felt a gratitude I did not express, but doubted whetherher elder sister would have approved of Dora's complicity in thematter; and affecting to misunderstand her I said,

"Why thank you now?"

"Because," said Dora, looking at me, with her blue eyes half closed,"if on the top of a mountain an acquaintance ripens fast, goodheavens, how must it have been with you two at the bottom of the sea!"

And she laughed merrily at her own conceit, while swinging her hat toand fro by its ribbons. Lord Pottersleigh shook his head as if hedisliked the whole affair, and nervously scanned the daily papers withspectacles on his thin aquiline nose, in expectation of seeing someabsurd, perhaps impertinent, paragraph about it; and such was the oldman's aristocratic vanity, that I verily believe, had he seen such, hewould there and then have relinquished all his expectations--for heundoubtedly had them--of making Estelle Lady Pottersleigh, and thepartner of his higher honours that were to come.

"Lady Naseby owes you a debt of gratitude, Mr. Hardinge, for savingthe life of her daughter--and I, too," he added, "owe you aneverlasting debt of gratitude."

"You, my lord?" said I, turning round in the library, where wehappened to be alone.

"Yes; for in saving her you saved one in whom I have the deepestinterest. So, my dear Mr. Hardinge," he continued, pompously, lookingup from the Times, "if I can do aught for you at the Horse Guards,command me, my young friend, command me."

"Thanks, my lord," said I, curtly; for his tone of patronage, and thecause thereof, were distasteful to me.

"You have of course heard the rumour of--of an engagement?"

"With Lady Estelle Cressingham?"

"Exactly," said he, laughing till he brought on a fit of coughing--"exactly--ha, ha--ugh, ugh! How the deuce these things ooze out atclubs and in society, I cannot conceive; for even the world of Londonseems like a village in that way. Ah, nowhere out of our aristocracycould a man find such a wife as Lady Estelle!"

"I quite agree with you; but there is a point beyond that."

"Indeed! what may that be?"

"To get her!" said I, defiantly, enraged by the old man's coolpresumption.

Was this reference to "a rumour" merely his senile vanity, or hadEstelle ignored something that really existed?

Caradoc's congratulations, though I carefully kept my own counsel,were as warm in reality as those of Guilfoyle were in pretence.

"Wish you every joy," said the latter, in a low tone, as we met in thebilliard-room, where he was practising strokes with Sir Madoc.

"I don't quite understand."

"You hold the winning-cards now, I think," said he, with a cold glarein his eye.

"Sir?"

"I congratulate you on escaping so many perils with the Lady Estelle,and being thereby a winner."

I had just left Pottersleigh, and was not disposed to endure much fromGuilfoyle.

"The winner of what?" I asked.

"The future esteem of the Countess," he sneered.

"Perhaps she will present me with a diamond ring on the head of it,"said I, turning on my heel, while Sir Madoc laughed at the hit; butwhatever he felt, Guilfoyle cloaked it pretty well by laughing, and,as a Parthian shot, quoting, with some point, and with unruffledexterior, a line or two from the fourth book of the Æneid,concerning the storm which drew Dido and her hero into the cave.

The bearing of Winifred Lloyd now became somewhat of a riddle to me;and on the morning of the third day, when we all met at the breakfasttable (which was littered by cards and notes of congratulation), andwhen Lady Estelle appeared, looking so pale and beautiful, decliningMademoiselle Babette's cosmetics and pearl-powder alike, in theloveliest morning-dress that Swan and Edgar could produce, I wasconscious that she watched us with an interest that seemed wistful,tearful, and earnest. Whether I had a tell-tale face, I know not.Nothing, however, could be gathered from that of Estelle, or her modeof greeting me and inquiring about the progress of my broken armtowards recovery. My ring was on her finger; but as she wore several,it passed unnoticed, and even Dora's quick eye failed to detect it.

Winifred had become very taciturn; and when I asked her to drive withme in the open carriage--as for a time I could not ride--she declinedrather curtly, and with something of petulance, even disdain, in hertone. She never had the usual inquiries made by others concerning myfracture, nor joined with Dora in the playful rivalry of the ladiescutting for me, if no servant was near; for at table I was of coursehelpless. She smiled seldom, but laughed frequently; and yet it struckme there was something unwonted in the ring of her laughter, as if itcame not from her heart. The girl had a secret sorrow evidently. WasMaster Phil Caradoc at the bottom of this? If not, who then? I watchedher from time to time, and observed that once, when our eyes met, sheseemed confused, and coloured perceptibly.

"Surely," thought I, "she is not resenting my half-flirtation with herthe other day, when we visited her pet goat!"

She was restless, absent, listlessly indifferent, and occasionallypreoccupied in manner; and in vain did I say to her more than once,

"Miss Lloyd--Winifred--what troubles you? what has vexed you?"

"Nothing troubles me, Mr. Hardinge."

"Mr.?"

"Well, then, Harry--and nothing vexes me. What leads you to think so?"

Her full-fringed dark eyes looked clearly into mine; they seemedmoist, yet defiant, and she tossed her pretty little head wilfully andpetulantly. I felt that I had in some way displeased her; but darednot press the matter, for, with all her softness of heart, she had alittle Welsh temper of her own.

Phil Caradoc gave me his entire confidence, especially after dinner,when men become full of talk, and inspired by bland and generousimpulses. He related, without reserve, the whole episode that occurredin the conservatory; and I felt some compunction or annoyance thatcirc*mstances prevented me from having the same frankness with him,for none would have rejoiced in my success more warmly than he.

"For the life of me, Harry, I can't make out what Miss Lloyd means,"said Phil, in a low voice, as he made his Cliquot effervesce, bystirring it with a macaroon; "she was ready enough to love me as afriend, and all that sort of thing."

"You have asked her, then?"

"Pointedly--hardly know what I said, though--one feels so deuced queerwhen making love--in earnest, I mean."

"A man can do no more than ask."

"Except asking again; but tell me, old fellow, have I a chance?"

"How should I know, Phil? But I think that the pattern sub of theRoyal Welsh Fusileers, made up, like Don Juan,

"'By love, by youth, and by an army tailor,'

should have a particularly good chance."

"You can afford to laugh at me, Harry."

"Far from it, Phil; I haven't such a thought, believe me."

"Seeing how friendly you are with these girls--with her especially--Ithought you might know this. Is any other fellow spooney upon MissLloyd?"

"A good many may well be; she is lovely."

"Well, does any one stand in her good graces?"

"Can't say, indeed, Caradoc," said I, as my thoughts reverted to thatepisode at the goat's-house, and others not dissimilar, with someemotions of compunction, as I looked into Phil's honest brown eyes.

He fancied that Winifred avoided him. In that idea he erred. Sheadmired and loved him as a friend--a gentleman who had done her greathonour; but she never thought of analysing his emotions farther thanto wish him well, and to wish him away from Craigaderyn, after thatscene in the conservatory; and remembering it in all its points, shewas careful not to trust herself alone with him, lest the subjectmight be renewed; and yet she found the necessity of approaching itone day, when a sudden recollection struck her, as they were ridinghome together, and had cantered a little way in advance of theirparty.

"Now that I think of it, Mr. Caradoc," said she, "you must give methat likeness which you wear. I really cannot permit you to keep it,even in jest."

"Jest!" repeated Phil, sadly and reproachfully; "do you think someanly of me as to imagine that I would jest with you or with it?"

"But I can see no reason why you should retain it."

"Perhaps there is none--and yet, there is. It is the face of one Ishall never, never forget; and it is a memento of happy days spentwith you--a memento that other eyes than mine shall never look upon."

"Do not speak thus, Mr. Caradoc, I implore you!" said Winifred,looking down on her horse's mane.

"You will permit me to keep it?"

"For a time," said she, trying to smile, but her lips quivered, "Thankyou, dear Winifred."

"If shown to none."

"'While I live none shall see; and if I die in action--as many shallsurely do, and why not I as well as happier fellows?--it will be heardof no more?"

Caradoc's voice became quite tremulous, either because of Miss Lloyd'sobduracy, or that he felt, as many people do, rather pathetic at thethought of his own demise. He had already possessed himself of herwhip-hand, when her horse began to rear, and in a minute more theywere in the lime avenue; and this proved the last opportunity he hadof reasoning with her on the subject that was nearest his heart. Henow wished that he had never met Winifred Lloyd, or that, having met,and learned to love her--oddly enough, when his passion was notreturned--he could be what her ideal was. "In what," thought he, "amI wanting? Am I too rough, too soldierly, too blunt, unwinning, orwhat?" It was none of these; for Caradoc was a well-mannered,courteous, gentle, and pleasing young fellow, and by women unanimouslydeemed handsome and distingué. All that day he was unusually castdown and taciturn, though he strove to take an interest in theconversation around him.

"By Jove, Hardinge," said he, "I wish you had never brought me here,to renew the hopes I had begun to entertain in London."

"Don't lose heart yet, Phil," said I.

"But I have to leave for the seat of war--leave her to the chance ofbeing loved by others, without even a promise--"

"To what troubles we are exposed in life!" said I, sententiously, andfeeling perhaps selfishly secure in my own affair.

"Greater troubles perhaps in death," added Phil, gloomily, as hegnawed his moustache. "I sometimes wonder whether man was made for theworld, or the world was made for man."

"In what respect," said I, surprised by the train of thought sounusual in him.

"Look at the newly-born infant, and you will find it difficult todetermine. 'He begins his life,' as Pliny says, 'in punishment, andonly for being born.'"

"Come Phil," said I, "don't get into the blues; and as for Pliny, Ileft him with Euclid, Straith's Fortification, and gunnery, atSandhurst."

The morning mail brought letters from the depôt-adjutant to Phil andme. Their official aspect, as Owen Gwyllim laid them on the breakfasttable, attracted the attention of all. The eyes of Winifred were onme, and mine turned instinctively and sadly to Lady Estelle, who grewashy pale, but seemed intent on some letters of her own. Theadjutant's epistles were brief. Caradoc was requested to join at once,his short leave being cancelled, as he had to go with a draft ofeighty rank-and-file for the East. My leave was, extended for afortnight, in consequence of a medical certificate received concerningthe accident that had befallen me.

So that night saw poor good-hearted Phil depart; and the memory of histhick brown hair and handsome brown moustache, his clear hazel eyesand honest English face dwelt not in the thoughts of her with whom hehad left his heart behind.

He had the regimental goat in his custody; and when Winifred caressedand kissed her pet, ere it was lifted into the vehicle that was toconvey it to Chester, Phil eyed her wistfully; and I knew that hewould have given the best of his heart's blood to have felt but one ofthose kisses on his nut-brown cheek!

CHAPTER XVIII.--GUILFOYLE.

My Lord Pottersleigh and the adventurer Hawkesby Guilfoyle--for anartful, presumptuous, and very singular adventurer he eventuallyproved to be--could not detect that there was a secret understanding,and still less that there was any engagement, between Lady Estelle andme; yet both were sharp enough to fancy that there was something wrongso far as they were concerned--something understood by us which tothem was incomprehensible; and the latter now referred in vain toBaden, Berlin, Catzenelnbogen, and other places where they had met sopleasantly on the Continent. Engaged solemnly and tenderly to Estelle,I had yet the absurd annoyance of beholding Pottersleigh, who wasassured of her mother's countenance and favour (though he would havebeen a more seemly suitor for herself), and whose years and positiongave him perfect confidence, hovering or shambling perpetually abouther, absorbing her time if not her attention, mumbling hisoverstrained compliments into her unwilling ear, touching her hand ortapered arm, and even patting her lovely white shoulders from time totime with his withered paws, and every way giving himself suchfatherly and lover-like airs of proprietary oddly mingled that I couldwith pleasure have punched his aristocratic old head. We frequentlylaughed at all this even when he was present; for by a glance ratherthan a word, Estelle could convey to me all she thought and felt.There was something delightful in this secret understanding, thissecret community of thought and interest, with one so young andbeautiful--more than all, when blended with it was the charm of themost perfect success in a first affair of love; and I thought myselfone of the happiest fellows in the world.

Superb as her toilettes were at all times, she seemed to make littleBabette Pompon take extra pains with them now, and I felt delightedaccordingly, for such infinite care seemed to express a desire toplease me. Our next departure from the Court was Mr. HawkesbyGuilfoyle, whom Sir Madoc and all his visitors had begun to view witha coolness and disfavour of which the party in question found itconvenient to seem quite oblivious; but it reached its culminatingpoint through a very small matter. One day after luncheon we had goneso far as Penmaen Mawr. The four ladies were in the open carriage; Ioccupied the rumble; Sir Madoc, Lord Pottersleigh, and Guilfoyle weremounted, and we were all enjoying to the fullest extent that gloriouscombination of marine and mountain scenery peculiar to the Welshcoast; the air was full of ozone and the sky was full of sunshine. Wewere all happy, and even Winifred seemed in unusually high spirits; asfor Dora, she was never otherwise. The well-hung carriage rolledpleasantly along, between the beautiful green hills, past quietvillages and ancient churches, vast yawning slate quarries, greenmounds and gray stones that marked where battles had been, withoccasional glimpses of the Irish Sea, that stretched away to the dimhorizon like a sheet of glittering glass. Estelle, by arrangement,sat with her back to the horses, so that she and I could freelyconverse with our eyes, from time to time, under the shade of herskilfully-managed parasol.

Sir Madoc on this day was peculiarly enthusiastic, and having mountedwhat the girls called his "Welsh hobby," was disposed to give it fullrein. We halted in a little sequestered glen, a lovely spot embosomedamong trees, on the southern slope of the hill. The horses wereunbitted; Owen Gwyllim had put the champagne' bottles to cool in arunnel, where their long gilded necks and swollen corks stoodinvitingly up amid the rich green grass that almost hid the murmuringwater. We had come by Caerhun, through an old and little-frequentedroad, where Sir Madoc insisted on pointing out to us all the manyerect old battle-stones by the wayside; for his mind was now full ofquaint stories, and the memory of heroes with barbarous names. Thuswhen Owen uncorked the Cliquot, he drank more than one guttural Welshtoast, and told us how, often in his boyhood, the road had beenobstructed for weeks by masses of rock that fell thundering from themountain above; and in his love of the olden time or detestation ofchange, I believe he would have preferred such barriers to progressstill, rather than have seen the lines of road and rail that now sweepbetween the mountain and the sea on the way to Holyhead.

"It was in this dell or glyn," said Sir Madoc, as he seated his sturdyfigure on the grass, though the ladies did not leave the carriage,"that Llewellyn ap Jorwerth took prisoner the luckless William deBreas, whom he hanged at Aber, in the time of Henry III."

"Why did he hang him?" asked Guilfoyle, holding his glass for Owen torefill it.

"Because he was a handsome fellow, and found too much favour in theeyes of his princess, whom he dragged to the window that she might seehis body hanging lifeless on the gibbet."

"Deuced hard lines," said Guilfoyle, laughing. "I thought he mighthave been hung because he hadn't a pedigree, or some other enormity inWelsh eyes." As Sir Madoc looked at the speaker his eyes sparkled, forthe remark was a singularly gratuitous one.

"You English," said he, "laugh at what you are pleased to consider ourlittle weakness in that respect; and yet the best names in the peerageare apt to be deduced from some corporal or sergeant of William'sNorman rabble."

"Heavens, papa! when I change my name of Lloyd, I hope it won't be forthat of Mrs. John Smith or Robinson?" said Dora, merrily, as she heardthat Sir Madoc's tone was sharp.

"Well, but you must admit that these fortuitous circ*mstances aredeemed of small account now; for as Dick Cypher sings,

"'A peer and a 'prentice now dress much the same,And you can't tell the difference excepting by name.'"

"I don't know who your friend Dick Cypher may be," replied Sir Madoc,quietly, though evidently greatly ruffled, "but Burke and Debrettrecord as ancient, names we deem but those of yesterday, and whencompared with ours are as the stunted gorsebush to pine or oak--yes,sir! or as the donkey that crops thistles by the wayside when comparedto the Arab horse!"

"God bless my soul!" exclaimed Pottersleigh, letting his hat sinkfarther on the nape of his neck, as he placed his gold glasses on hislong thin nose and gazed at Sir Madoc, who tossed an empty bottle intothe runnel, and continued:--"In Wales we have the lines of Kynaston,who descend from Rhodric Mawr, King of all Wales, and the daughter andcoheir of the Bloody Wolf; the Mostyns, from the Lord of Abergeleu whofounded the eighth noble tribe; the Vaughans, who come from that KingRhodric who married the daughter of Meuric ap Dyfnwall ap Arthur apSitsylt, though that was only in the year 800; and we have theLloyds----"

"O, papa," exclaimed Winifred, seeing that Estelle was laughingheartily, "we cannot listen to more; and I am sure that yourmuster-roll of terrible names must have quite convinced Mr. Guilfoyleof his error."

"If it ever existed--I did but jest," said he, bowing and smiling ashe turned to her.

Sir Madoc's gust of patriotic ire passed away at the sound of hisdaughter's voice; but from that moment his manner to Guilfoyleunderwent a marked change, for he had already more than once contrivedto wound him on this his most tender point. So the usually suave andkind old man became very cool to him as they rode homeward; and earlythat evening Guilfoyle retired to his room, alleging that he had towrite letters.

After dinner, as we idled for a little time in the smoking-room priorto joining the ladies, Lord Pottersleigh led the conversationgradually back to our evening excursion, and with some hesitationbegan to speak of Guilfoyle.

"You will pardon me, my dear Sir Madoc, for venturing to speakslightingly of any friend of yours; but----"

"Mr. Guilfoyle is no friend of mine," said the other, hastily; "hedropped among us from the clouds, as it were. When with Lady Naseby Imet him on the beach at Llandudno. He had done her some service on theContinent, at Catzeneln--what's-its-name?--I invited him on thestrength of their past acquaintance--that's all."

"Then, briefly, get rid of him if you can."

"What do you say, Harry?"

"I say with Lord Pottersleigh."

Sir Madoc fidgeted, for his Welsh ideas of hospitality were somewhatshocked by the idea of "getting rid" of a guest.

"I assure you, Sir Madoc," resumed the peer, "that he is quiteout of his place amongst us, quite; and despite his usually assumedsuavity--for it is assumed--he lacks intensely l'odeur de la bonnesociété, though he affects it; and I overheard two of your lateguests making some very dubious remarks concerning him."

"The deuce you did!" exclaimed Sir Madoc, tossing away his half-smokedcigar.

"They spoke quite audibly, as if they cared not who might hear them."

"Who were they?"

"Officers of the 19th, from Chester. 'Guilfoyle!' I heard that fastboy Clavell exclaim, as if with surprise, to another; 'is that fellow,who--' 'The very same.' 'Then how comes he to be a guest here?' 'Justwhat I was asking of myself, as he is tabooed everywhere. You knowthey say--' 'They--who?' 'O, that ubiquitous and irresponsible partyso difficult to grapple with--that though he was attaché at someGerman place, he has been in several conspiracies to pigeon youngmuffs just come of age. There was particularly one poor fellow of ourswhom he rooked at Hamburg of every sixpence, and who was afterwardsfound drowned in the Alster. And lately I have heard that he wasproprietor, or part proprietor, of a gaming-hell in Berlin.' 'ByJove!' exclaimed little Clavell, but can all this be proved?' 'No.''Why?' 'He lays his plans too deeply and surely.' Then they walkedtowards the marquee, and I thought I had hear, enough--quite," addedhis lordship, snuffing.

Long before Pottersleigh was done, Sir Madoc had blushed purple withstifled rage and mortification. He said,

"My lord, you should have mentioned all this instantly."

"Truth is, I knew not how to approach the subject."

"And I have introduced this fellow to my daughters, to my friends, andto Craigaderyn! D--n me, I shall choke!" he exclaimed, as he startedfrom his chair. "He is deep as Llyn Tegid! I have already lostconsiderable sums to him at billiards, and I always thought hissuccess at cards miraculous. But an end shall be put to thisinstantly!--Owen! Owen Gwyllim!"

He kicked a spittoon to the other end of the room, rang the bellfuriously for the butler, and dashed off a note to Mr. Guilfoyle. Itwas sufficiently curt and pointed. He expressed "regret that a gunwould not be at his service on the coming 1st of September; but thatthe carriage would await his orders, for Chester or elsewhere."

Guilfoyle had doubtless been accustomed to meet with affronts such asthis. Desiring his baggage to be sent after him, he departed thatnight with his two horses, his groom (and diamond ring); but, prior todoing so, he had the effrontery to leave P.P.C. cards for Lady Nasebyand Estelle, saying that "he should not forget their kind invitationto Walcot Park;" and rode off, scheming vengeance on me, to whom heevidently attributed the whole matter, as he informed Owen Gwyllimthat he "would yet repay me, through his solicitor, perhaps, for theinterest I had taken in his affairs."

This threw a temporary cloud over our little party, and good Sir Madocfelt a kind of sorrow for Guilfoyle as he surmised how little money hemight have in his purse, forgetting that he was proprietor of a pairof horses. To prevent her amour propre being wounded, we mostunfortunately did not reveal this man's real character to Lady Naseby;thus, to Sir Madoc's hot temper was attributed his sudden departure.

Though Lady Estelle was excessively provoked that, through her and hermother, whom his service on the Continent had prejudiced in hisfavour, and through his alleged acquaintance with me, he had becomeSir Madoc's guest, in a day or two the whole contretemps wasforgotten; but I was fated not to have seen or heard the last of Mr.Hawkesby Guilfoyle.

CHAPTER XIX.--TWO LOVES FOR ONE HEART.

By the peculiarity of our position kept much apart, or seldom findingopportunities, even in a house like Craigaderyn Court, for beingalone, as it was perpetually thronged by visitors, we had to contentourselves with the joy of stolen glances that lit up the eye with anexpression we alone could read, or that was understood by ourselvesonly; by tender touches of the hand that thrilled to the heart; and byinflections of the voice, which, do as we might, would at times becomesoft and tremulous. Our life was now full of petty stratagems andpretty lover-like enigmas, especially when in the presence of LadyNaseby; and now I also became afraid of Winifred Lloyd, who,unoccupied, so far as I could see, by any love-affair of her own, wasalmost certain, I thought, to see through mine. "There is no conquestwithout the affections," said Ninon de l'Enclos; "and what mole is soblind as a woman in love?" Yet Estelle was careful to a degree in herbearing, and never permitted her fondness of me to lull her into asense of security from observation. I learned, however, from my allyDora, that Lady Naseby was so provoked by what Estelle not inaptlytermed our "late fiasco," that, save for the weight such aproceeding might have given it, they and the Viscount, too, would havequitted Craigaderyn Court, So they remained; but, thought I, whatright had he to be concerned in the matter? And unless I greatlyerred, I felt certain that the Countess cared not how soon I receivedmy marching orders for that fatal shore where so many of us were toleave our bones.

Yet many a stolen kiss and snatched caress or pressure of the hand,many a whispered assurance of love, made Estelle and me supremelyhappy, while the few days that remained of my leave glidedquickly--ah, too quickly!--past; and all desire for "glory" apart, Iwas not sorry when I saw that my fractured arm would prevent my beingsent with the next draft, and cause my retention for a little timelonger in England. "They who love must drink deeply of the cup oftrembling," says some one; "for at times there will arise in theirhearts a nameless terror, a sickening anxiety for the future, whosebrightness all depends upon this one cherished treasure, which oftenproves a foreboding of some real anguish looming in the distanthours."

As yet no forebodings came to mar my happiness; it was without alloy,save the prospect of a certain and, as we trusted to Providence, atemporary separation; yet it was well that I saw not the future, orwhat those distant hours had in store for me.

"Estelle," said I, one day when a happy chance threw us together for afew minutes in an arbour of the garden, where we sometimes met at acertain hour, and separated after by different paths, like a pair ofconspirators, "when shall a period be put to all this mystery--thispainful, though joyous, false position in which we find ourselves?"

"We can but wait and hope, Harry--wait and hope!" said she, while herhead drooped on my shoulder, and my arm went round her.

"Wait and hope, dearest, for what? My promotion?"

"That would bring the end no nearer," said she, with a sad, sicklysmile.

"No, certainly; even to be colonel of the Royal Welsh instead of amere sub would not enhance my value much in Lady Naseby's estimation,"said I, with some bitterness. "For what then, darling?"

"Some change in mamma's views regarding me."

"She will never change!"

"You know, Harry, that were you rich, I might marry you now--yes, andgo to Turkey with you, too!" said she, with a brightness in her eyes.

"Would to Heaven, then, that I were rich! But being poor--"

"It is impossible."

And we both sighed heavily.

"I am under orders for the East, and must take my turn of dutythere, risking all the chances of war, ere I can think of home ormarriage, Estelle; but when we part, if I am not to write to you, howshall I ever know that you think of me? how hear of your health andwelfare? that you remain true to me--"

"O, doubt not that!"

"Nor do I; but it would be so sweet to see your writing, and imagineyour voice reiterating the troth you plighted to me in that terribletime."

"I shall write to you, dear, dear Harry, for I can do that freely andopenly; but of you, alas! alas! I can only hear through our friends atthe Court here, for you can neither write to me in London nor atWalcot Park."

"May I not ask Miss Lloyd to receive enclosures for you? I shall bewriting to her, and we are such old friends that she would thinknothing of it."

"Too old friends, I fear," said she, with a half-smiling but pointedglance; "but for Heaven's sake think not of that. She would neverconsent, nor should I wish her to do so. I can of course receive whatletters I choose; but servants will pry, and consider what certaincoats of arms, monograms, and postal marks mean; so my Crimeancorrespondent would be shrewdly suspected, and myself subjected tomuch annoyance by mamma and her views."

"Her views! This is the second time you have referred to them," saidI, anxiously; "and they are--"

"That I should marry my cousin Naseby, whom I always disliked," saidEstelle, in a sad and sweetly modulated voice; "or Lord Pottersleigh,whose wealth and influence are so great that a short time must see himcreated an earl; but he has no chance now, dear Harry!"

Long, lovingly, and tenderly she gazed into my eyes, and her glanceand her manner seemed so truthful and genuine that I felt all therapture of trusting her fearlessly, and that neither time nor distancewould alter or lessen her regard for me; and a thousand times in "thedistant hours" that came did I live over and over again that scene inthe arbour, when the warm flush of the August evening was lying deepon the Welsh woods and mountains, when all the mullioned windows ofthe quaint old mansion were glittering in light, and the soft coo ofthe wild pigeons was heard as they winged their way to the summit ofCraigaderyn, which is usually alive with them, and there the fiercehawk and the ravenous cormorant know well when to find their prey.

The time for my departure drew near; and already but a day remained tome. Caradoc and Charley Gwynne had already sailed in a troopship forVarna, from which the entire army was about to embark for a landing onthe Russian coast, and ill or well, my presence with the regimentaldepôt was imperative. My bullock trunks had been packed by OwenGwyllim, and the carriage was ordered to convey me next evening, afteran early dinner. The latter passed slowly and heavily enough, andafterwards, instead of remaining all together, as might have beenexpected, circ*mstances separated us for an hour or so. Lady Nasebywas indisposed; so was Lord Pottersleigh, whom his old enemy hadconfined by the feet to this rooms, yet he hoped to be in serviceorder, to enact the sportsman on the coming 1st of September, a periodto which he looked forward with disgust and horror, as involving anenormous amount of useless fatigue, with the chances of shootinghimself or some one else. Sir Madoc had certain country business toattend; and on the three young ladies retiring to the drawing-room, Iwas left to think over my approaching departure through the medium ofburgundy and a cigar.

My sword arm was nearly well now; but still I should have made but apoor affair of it, if compelled to resort to inside and outside cuts,to point and parry, with a burly Muscovite. To know that I had but afew hours left me now, and not to spend them with Estelle Cressingham,seemed intolerable! Before me, from the window, spread the far extentof grassy chase steeped in the evening sunshine; above the green woodswere the peaks of Snowdon and Carneydd Llewellyn, dim and blue in thedistance; and while gazing at them wistfully, I reflected on all Ishould have to see and undergo, to hope and fear and suffer--the milesI should have to traverse by sea and land--ere I again heard, if ever,the pleasant rustle of the leaves in these old woods, the voice of thewild pigeon or the croak of the rooks among the old Tudor gables andchimneys of Craigaderyn. And then again I thought of Estelle.

"I must see her, and alone, too, at all risks; perhaps dear littleDora will assist me," I muttered, and went towards the drawing-room,which was now considerably involved in shadow, being on the westernside of the Court; and I felt with the tender Rosalind, when her loversaid, "For these two hours, Rosalind, I will leave thee," "Alas, dearlove, I cannot lack thee two hours."

I entered the room and found only Winifred Lloyd. She was seated inthe deep bay of a very picturesque old oriel window, which seemed toframe her as if in a picture. Her chin was resting in the hollow ofher left hand, and she was gazing outward dreamily on vacancy, oralong the flower-terraces of the house; but she looked hastily round,and held out a hand to me as I approached.

I caressed the pretty hand, and then dropped it; and not knowing verywell what to say, leaned over the back of her chair.

"I suppose," she began, "you are thinking--thinking--"

"How far more pleasing to the eye are a pair of fair white shouldersto the same amount of silk or satin," said I smilingly, as I pattedher neck with my glove.

She shrugged the white shoulders in question, and said petulantly,with half averted face,

"Is it possible that your departure has no place in your thoughts?"

"Alas, yes! for do I not leave Craigaderyn by sunset? and its goldenfarewell rays are lingering on blue Snowdon even now," said I, with aforced smile; for though I had come in quest of Estelle, something--Iknow not what--drew me to Winifred just then.

Her eyebrows were very black, but slightly arched, and they almost metover her nose; and I gazed into the orbs below them, so dark, soclear, and beautiful--eyes that could neither conceal the emotions ofher heart, nor the pleasure or sorrow she felt; and I thought howeasily a man might be lured to forget the world for her, as friendshipbetween the sexes--especially in youth--is perilous; and some suchthought, perhaps, occurred to her, for she turned her face abruptlyfrom me.

"You are surely not angry with me?" said I, bending nearer her ear.

"Angry--I with you?"

"Yes."

"Why should I be so?" she asked, looking down upon her folded handsthat trembled in her lap--for she was evidently repressing someemotion; thinking, perhaps, of poor Phil Caradoc, who was thenploughing the waters of the Mediterranean with Carneydd Llewellyn toconsole him.

"You should not have come here," said she, after a pause.

"Not into the drawing-room?"

"Unless to meet Estelle Cressingham."

"Do not say this," said I, nervously and imploringly, in a low voice;"what is Estelle to me?"

"Indeed!" said the little scornful lip. "Her mamma summoned her, butshe may be here shortly."

Doubtless Lady Naseby had some dread of the leave-taking.

"I shall be so glad to see her once again ere I go."

"Of course."

"I hope that you and she will often think and speak of me when I amgone."

"You are a delightful egotist, Harry Hardinge; but I trust ourmemories may be reciprocal."

"We have ever been such friends, and must be, you know, Winifred."

"Yes, Harry; why should we not be friends?" she asked, with a dashof passionate earnestness in her tone, while she gazed at me with acurious expression in her large, soft, and long-lashed eyes.

"Have you any message for--for----"

"Whom?" she asked, sharply.

"Philip Caradoc."

"None."

"None!"

"Save kindest regards and warmest wishes. What is Mr. Caradoc to me?"Then she gave a little shiver, as she added, "Our conversation istaking a very strange tone."

"I cannot conceive in how I have annoyed you," said I, with somethingof sorrow and wonder in my heart.

"Perhaps; but you have not annoyed me, though you are not quite whatyou used to be; and none are so blind as those who will not see."

"I am quite perplexed. I think we know each other pretty well,Winifred?" said I, very softly.

"I know you certainly," was the dubious response.

"Well--and I you?" said I, laughing.

"Scarcely. Woman, you should be aware, is a privileged enigma."

"Well, I was about to say that, whatever happens, we must ever be dearfriends, and think of each other kindly and tenderly, for the pleasanttimes that are past and gone."

"What can happen to make us otherwise?" she asked, in a strange voice.

"I--may be killed," said I, not knowing very well what to say orsuggest; "so, while there is a chance of such a contingency, let uspart kindly; not so coldly as this, dear Winifred; and kiss me ere Igo."

Her lips, warm and tremulous, touched mine for an instant; but hereyes were sad and wild, and her poor little face grew ashy white asshe hastened away, leaving me with Estelle, who was approachingthrough the long and shaded room; and when with her, Winifred Lloydand the momentary emotion that had sprung up--emotion that I cared notand dared not then to analyse--were utterly forgotten.

Our interview was a very silent one. We had barely time for a fewwords, and heavy on my heart as lead weighed the conviction that I hadto part from her--my love so recently won, so firmly promised andaffianced. I knew that the days of my sojourn at Winchester must befew now; and with the chances of war before me, and temptations andaristocratic ambition left behind with her, how dubious and how remotewere the chances of our meeting again!

Moments there were when I felt blindly desperate, and with my armsround Estelle.

When returning, would she still love me, as Desdemona loved her Moor,for the dangers I had dared? The days of chivalry and romance havegone; but the "old, old story" yet remains to us, fresh as when firsttold in Eden.

"For life or death, for good or for evil, for weal or woe, darlingEstelle, I leave my heart in your keeping!" said I, in a lowpassionate whisper; "in twelve months, perhaps, I may claim you as mywife."

"L'homme propose, et Dieu dispose," said she, quietly and tenderly. "Iyet hope to see you, were it but for a day, at Walcot Park, ere yousail."

"Bless you for the hope your words give me!" said I, as Owen Gwyllimcame to announce that the carriage was at the door, and to give meLady Naseby's and Lord Pottersleigh's cards and farewell wishes. Andfrom that moment all the rest of my leave-taking seemed purelymechanical; and not only Sir Madoc, his two daughters, and Estelle,were on the terrace of the mansion to bid me adieu, but all thehearty, hot-tempered, high-cheekboned old Welsh domestics, most ofwhom had known me since boyhood, were also there.

The impulsive Dora brought me my courier-bag, a flask filled withbrandy, and dainty sandwiches cut and prepared by Winifred's own kindlittle hands (for in doing this for me she would trust neither thebutler nor Mrs. Gwenny Davis the housekeeper), and then she held upher bright face to be kissed; but inspired by I know not what emotionof doubt or dread, I only touched with my lips the hands of LadyEstelle and Miss Lloyd. Both girls stood a little apart from eachother, pale as death, tremulous with suppressed emotion, and withtheir lashes matted and their eyes filled with tears, that pride andthe presence of others restrained from falling. They were calmexternally, but their hearts were full of secret thoughts, to which Iwas long in getting the clue. In the eyes of Estelle there was thatglance or expression of loving intensity which most men have seenonce--it may be twice--in a woman's eye, and have never, neverforgotten.

Sir Madoc's brown manly hand shook mine heartily, and he clapped me onthe back.

"I hope to see you yet ere you leave England, my boy, and such hopesalways take the sting from an adieu," said he, with a voice thatquivered nevertheless. "Sorry you can't stay for the 1st ofSeptember--the partridges will be in splendid order; but there isshooting enough of another kind in the preserves you are going to."

"And may never come back from," was the comforting addendum of oldMrs. Davis, as she applied her black-silk apron to her eyes.

"Ah, Harry," said Sir Madoc, "you gave a smile so like your motherjust now! She was handsome; but you will be never like her, were youas beautiful as Absalom."

"It is well that poor mamma can't hear all this," said Dora, laughingthrough her tears.

"Your dear mamma, my girl, was very fond of her and of him, too," saidhonest Sir Madoc; and then he whispered, "If ever you want cash,Harry, don't forget me, and Coutts and Co.--the dingy den in theStrand. Farewell--anwylbach!--good-bye!"

A few minutes more and all the tableau on the steps had passed away. Iwas bowling along the tall lime avenue and down the steep mountainroad, up which Phil Caradoc and I had travelled but a few weeksbefore. How much had passed since then! and how much was inevitably topass ere I should again see these familiar scenes! What had I said, orleft unsaid? What had I done, what had passed, or how was it, that asthe train sped with me beyond brave old Chester, on and on, on and on,monotonously clanking, grinding, jarring, and occasionally shrieking,while intrenched among railway rugs, with a choice cigar between myteeth, and while I was verging into that pleasant frame of mind whensoft and happy visions are born of the half-drowsy brain, lulled as itwere by rapidity of motion and the sameness of recurring sounds--howwas it, I say, that the strange, unfathomable expression I had seen inthe soft pleading eyes of dear Winifred--distance was already makingher "dear"--mingled in my memory with the smileless, grave, and tenderfarewell glance of my pale Estelle; and that the sweet innocent kissof the former was remembered with sadness and delight?

I strove to analyse my ideas, and then thrust them from me, as Ilowered the carriage window and looked forth upon the flying landscapeand the starry night, and muttered,

"Poor Winny--God bless her! But two loves for one heart will never,never do. I have been at Craigaderyn too long!"

And I pictured to myself the drawing-room there: Estelle, perhaps, atthe piano to conceal her emotions; or listening, it might be, to thetwaddle of old Pottersleigh. Winny gazing out upon the starlitterrace, trying to realise the prospect--as women proposed to willdo--if she had married Phil Caradoc; or thinking of--heaven knowswhat! And old Sir Madoc in his arm-chair, and dreaming, while Doranestled by his side, of the old times, and the boy--to wit, myself--heloved so well.

CHAPTER XX.-FEARS.

Caradoc and many other good fellows were gone eastward, and save HughPrice and a newly-fledged ensign, I was the only officer with thedepôt, and being senior had the command. The former had always someaffair of the heart on the tapis; the latter was a mere boy, freshfrom Harrow, so neither was companion for me. Back once more to theprosaic life of heavy drill and much useless duty in Winchesterbarracks, the picturesque and joyous past at Craigaderyn--after I hadwritten a letter to Sir Madoc full of remembrances to the ladies--seemed somewhat like a dream.

My engagement with Estelle--our rides, drives, and rambles by the wildgreen hills of Mynedd Hiraethrog; in the chase and long lime avenue;our chance meetings in the garden arbour; by the fountain, where thelilies floated and the gold fish shot to and fro; over all, that wildboat adventure, by which our lives were to be knit up as one in thefuture--seemed too like a dream, of which her ring on my finger aloneremained to convince me of the reality, as no letters could passbetween us--at least none from me to her. Thus I grew fond of courtingsolitude after the duties of the day were over, and I could flingsword, sash, and belt aside; and usually I quitted early the jollityof the battalion mess, that I might indulge in visions and conjure upbright fancies amid the gray smoke wreaths of a quiet cigar, in thathumble bachelor's quarter already described; while the moonlightsilvered the spires and red-tiled roofs of Winchester, and when allbecame still in the crowded barrack, after the tattoo-drums hadbeaten, and the notes of the last bugle had warned--like the Normancurfew of old--the extinction of all lights and fires.

I had seen many a drama and read many a romance; but now I seemed tobe personally the hero of either one or other. Engaged to the daughterof an earl; but in secret, and unknown to all! And how or when wasthat engagement to end--to be brought to a successful issue? On thesepoints my ideas were painfully vague and full of anxiety. Were we yetto meet--were it but for an hour--ere war separated us morecompletely, by sea as well as land? Returning, it might be mutilatedand disfigured, should I still find her loving, tender, and true? andif I fell in action, how long might I hope to be remembered ereEstelle--But I could not with patience contemplate the chances ofanother replacing or supplanting me. Occasionally, as if to kill time,I was seized by fits of unwonted zeal, and found plenty of work to do,apart from parades, guards, sword-exercise, and revolver-pistolpractice--for hourly recruits, many of whom could not speak a word ofEnglish, were coming in to replace those that had sailed with PhilCaradoc; and it is one of the essential parts of the duty of theofficer commanding a regimental depôt to see after the arms,accoutrements, and clothing of his men; and also, that so far as drillgoes, they are made perfect soldiers. Few or none of these recruitswere natives of the counties outside Offa's Dyke; but when the news ofthe Alma came, and all England thrilled with the story of the uphillcharge of the Royal Welsh, more than one London paper enviously spreadthe rumour, that our regiment was Cambrian only in name; till it wasflatly contradicted by the colonel--but the story nearly gave hotpeppery Sir Madoc a fit of apoplexy.

Besides other duties there was no small number of books--goodly sizedfolios--of which I had the supervision, ten at least exactly similarto those which are kept at headquarters; and all these tasks werevaried by an occasional ball or rout such as a cathedral and garrisontown can furnish; or a court-martial, or one of inquiry, concerningMrs. Private Jones resenting--vi et armis--that the canteen-keepershould cut her bacon and tobacco, butter and bread, with the sameknife; or to give some Giles Chawbacon fifty lashes about daybreak fora violation of the Red-book, in a hollow square, where men's teethchattered in the chilly air, or they yawned behind their glazed stocksand shivered with disgust, at a punishment for which the army wasindebted to William of Orange, and which is now happily a thing of thepast. So the month of August drew to a close, and a box of partridgesduly came from Sir Madoc--the spoil of his gun on the slopes of MyneddHiraethrog, perhaps; with a letter which acquainted me that LadyNaseby and her daughter had been for fully a fortnight at Walcot Parkin Hampshire, but that he supposed I was probably aware of thecirc*mstance, and that Pottersleigh was with them.

Fully a fortnight, and neither letter nor card of invitation, thoughthey knew that I was in Winchester! How or why was this? A chill cameover me, though I certainly had no fear of the Viscount's influence;but then I reflected that Estelle could not, and that Lady Nasebywould not, invite me--each for reasons of her own. What, then,remained for me to do, but wait the event with patience, or endeavourto seek her out, by throwing myself in her way? I writhed at the ideaof a fortnight having escaped us, while the coming of the fatal routefor the East hung over me. There was something revolting andhumiliating to my spirit in acting the part of a prowler about WalcotPark; but who is a more humble slave than a lover? The declaration ofwar had animated the services, both by sea and land, with a new orrevived interest for all, with women especially. Thus our parades,reviews, and even our marches of exercise were frequently witnessed byall the beauty and fashion of the city and county; and among them Ialways looked in vain for the carriage and liveries of the Countess.Was Estelle ill, or was their absence from these spectacles part of asystem to be pursued by the former?

Walcot Park was, I knew, only a few miles from the barracks on theWhitchurch-road. I had spent many an hour riding there merely to seethe place which was associated with Estelle, when she had been absentfrom it in London or elsewhere; and now I had doubly an attraction tomake me turn my horse's head in that direction, after Sir Madoc'sletter came; so the second day saw me take the way northward from theold cathedral city, in mufti, to elude observation. The evening was alovely one, and those swelling hills and fertile valleys, wideexpanses of woodland already becoming crisp by the heat of the pastsummer, with clumps of birch and elder, the wild ash and the oak,which make up the staple features of Hampshire scenery, were in alltheir autumnal beauty and repose. The tinkling of the waggoner's bellson the dusty highway, was still heard, though the shrill whistle ofthe locomotive seemed to hint that, like the old stage-coachman, heshould ere long find his occupation gone; and mellowed on the soft andambient air there came the merry evening chimes from more than onequaint, village-church--the broad square Norman tower of whichstood--the landmark of its district--in outline distinct and darkagainst the golden flush of the western sky. Dusk was almost closingwhen I crossed that noted trouting-stream, the Teste; and passedthrough Whitchurch.

As I trotted leisurely along the single street of which the littlemarket borough is chiefly composed, at the door of a small inn Iperceived a stable-boy holding by their bridles a black horse and aroan mare. The form of the latter seemed familiar to me. I could notmistake the height of forehead, the depth of chest, and roundness ofbarrel, or a peculiar white spot on the off-shoulder, and in theformer recognised the roadster which Guilfoyle had brought with him toCraigaderyn. On seeing that I drew my reins and looked ratherscrutinisingly at the animal, the groom, stable helper, or whatever hewas, touched his cap, on which I inquired,

"Whose nag is this, my man?"

"Can't say as I knows, sir; but the gentleman, with another, is insidethe bar, having a drop of summut," was the answer.

"Does he reside hereabout?"

"At Walcot Park he do."

"Walcot Park!"

"My Lady Naseby's place; he's been there for a couple of days atleast, with Mr. Sharpus, my lady's lawyer from London."

I rode on and spurred my horse to a maddening pace for some distance,and then permitting the reins to drop on his neck, gave way to thetide of perplexing, harassing, and exasperating thoughts that flowedupon me. I remembered that we had arranged at Craigaderyn not toinform Lady Naseby of the real character of her chosen continentalacquaintance, a foolish and fatal mistake, as the fellow would seem tohave had sufficient presumption to present himself at Walcot Park, andthere remain until exposed and expelled. But how came it to pass thatsuch as he was patronised and fostered, as it were, by "the familysolicitor," and patented by being his companion? Surely a legal man,however great a rascal professionally and personally, was too wary toadopt openly a blackleg as his friend and protégé!

I felt that Lady Naseby should instantly be warned of Guilfoyle's realcharacter; but by whom was this to be done? Tied up by my secretarrangements with Estelle, I could neither write nor call uninvited;but why had she not, as she had promised, written to me, or given mesome sign of her being so near Winchester as Walcot Park? When Irecalled her apparent preference for this man, when Caradoc and Ifirst went to Wales, their frequent recurrence to past companionshipabroad, their duets together, and so forth, her angry defence of himto myself, together with an interest he had acquired in the eyes ofher usually unapproachable mother, something of my old emotions ofpique and doubt, and a jealousy for which I blushed, began to minglewith my perplexity and mortification, and the fear that he couldhave any influence on her destiny or mine!

I recalled all the conversation overheard by Pottersleigh, and greatergrew my astonishment and indignation. I felt it imperative thatsomething should be done instantly, and resolved to telegraph or writeto Sir Madoc, requesting him to procure the dismission of thisintruder from Walcot Park as promptly as he had despatched him fromCraigaderyn. From a part of the road where it wound over an uplandslope I could see the Jointure House which formed the residence ofLady Naseby and of that Estelle who was a law, a light, a guiding starto me, and towards whom every thought and aspiration turned. WalcotPark was a spacious domain, and studded by clumps of stately oldtrees, which had been planted after the Revolution of 1688 by a peerof the Naseby family, who was one of the first to desert hishereditary king at Rochester. The mansion itself dated from the samestormy period, and was built entirely of red brick with white stonecorners and cornices. Its peristyle of six Ionic columns glistenedwhite in the moonlight, and was distinctly visible from where I sat onhorseback. The shadow of the square façade of the entire edifice fellpurple and dark far across the park. There were lights in several ofthe windows, and I knew that my Estelle must be in one of thoserooms--but which?

At that moment all my soul yearned for her; could I but for an instanthave seen her, or heard her voice! She dwelt there, visible to andapproachable by others, and yet I dared not visit her. The fact of herpresence there seemed to pervade and charm all the place, and with asad, loving, and yet exasperated interest, I continued to survey it. Iwas hovering there, but aimlessly, and without any defined purpose,other than the vague chance of seeing or being near her. Walcot I knewwas her favourite place, and there she kept all her pets, for she hadmany: a parrot sent from the Cape by the captain of a frigate to whomshe had spoken but once at a ball; a spaniel from Malta, the gift ofsome forgotten rifleman; a noble staghound, given by a Highlandofficer who had danced with her once--once only--and never forgot it;a squirrel, the gift of Sir Madoc; and an old horse or two, herfather's favourite hacks, turned loose in the park as perpetualpensioners.

Could she really have loved me as she said she did, if she was alreadybehaving so coldly to me now? No letter or note, no invitation--shehad surely influence enough with her mother to have procured methat!--no notice taken of my vicinity, of my presence with the depôtagain! What shadow was this that seemed already to be falling on oursunny love? Whence the doubt that had sprung up within me, and thecoldness that seemed between us? Full of these thoughts, I was gazingwistfully at the house, when I perceived the dark figures of twohorsem*n riding leisurely along the winding approach that led to thewhite peristyle, and felt certain that they were Guilfoyle and hislegal friend Mr. Sharpus (of Sharpus and Juggles) mounted on theidentical nags I had seen at the inn-door; and inspired by emotions ofa very mingled character, I galloped back to the barracks, neverdrawing my bridle for the entire twelve miles of the way, until Ithrew it to my man Evans; and hurrying to my room, wrote instantly amost pressing letter to Sir Madoc, informing him of what I had seenand heard. I was not without thoughts of communicating with LordPottersleigh; but, for obvious reasons, shrunk from his interventionin the Cressingham family circle.

I knew that it would be delivered at Craigaderyn on the morrow, anddeemed that now twenty-four hours must be the utmost limit of Mr.Hawkesby Guilfoyle's sojourn in his present quarters, and in a spherewhich he insulted by his presence; but three, four, even five dayspassed, and no reply came from Sir Madoc, who was then, though I knewit not, shooting with some friends in South Wales, and did not receivemy epistle until it was somewhat late for him to act on it. Duringthese intervening days I was in a species of fever. One Sunday Iincidentally heard, at mess, that Lady Naseby's party, now a prettynumerous one, had been at service in the cathedral, and to hear thebishop preach. She had come in state, in the carriage, attended byseveral gentlemen on horseback, and two tall fellows in livery, onecarrying her prayer-books, the other a long cane and huge nosegay;and there I might have met them all face to face, and seen Estelleonce more, had my evil destiny not assigned to me the commandof the main guard, and thus detained me in barracks; but Price ofours--susceptible as the Tupman of Pickwick--had seen her, and cameto mess raving about her beauty.

Every hour I could spare from duty was spent in hovering, like aspectre or a spy--an unquiet spirit certainly--in the vicinity ofWalcot Park, till the lodge-keepers, who had been wont to touch theirhats civilly at first, began ere long to view me with mistrust; and myhorse knew every crook and turn of the Whitchurch-road quite as wellas the way to his own stable. On the evening of the fifth day after Ihad written to Sir Madoc--a pleasant evening in the first days ofSeptember--I was again riding leisurely among the deep green lanesthat border on Walcot Park, and which lay between dark green hedgerowsthen studded by scarlet dogberries, and the overarching branches ofapple, pear, and damson trees, my heart, as usual, full of vaguedoubts, decided longings, and most undecided intentions, when I beganslowly to walk my horse up a long, steep, and picturesque road, thevista of which was closed by an old village church, in the low andmoss-grown wall surrounding which was a green wicket. It was on justsuch an evening as the last I have described, when the farewell gleamof the sun shone level along the fields, when the many-colouredfoliage rustled in the gentle wind, and the voices of the blackbird,the thrush, and the lark came sweetly at times from the darkeningcopsewood, and when, as Clare writes in his rhyming calendar,

"The wagons haste the corn to load,
And hurry down the dusty road;
The driving boy with eager eye
Watches the church clock, passing by--
Whose gilt hands glitter in the sun--
To see how far the hours have run;
Right happy in the breathless day,
To see time wearing fast away."

Nearly covered with ivy, the square tower of the little church--a faneold as the days when the Saxons bent their bows in vain at Hastings;yea, old as the time of St. Ethelwold (the famous architect and Bishopof Winchester)--peeped up amid the rich autumnal foliage that almosthid it from the view. At the wicket, some hundred yards from me, inthe twilight--for though the sun had not set, the density of thecopsewood about the place rendered the light rather dim andobscure--were a lady and gentleman, the latter mounted, and the formeron foot. At first they seemed to be in close and earnest conversation;then the lady gesticulated earnestly, raising her hands and face tohim imploringly; but twice he thrust her back, almost violently, withthe handle of his whip. This was a strange and unpleasant episode toencounter. I knew not whether to advance or retire. I feared tointrude on what I supposed was something more than a lovers' quarrel,or, from the man's utter indifference, was perhaps a matrimonialsquabble; and I was equally loth to retire, and leave a woman--a ladyevidently--to the violence or passion of this person, upon whose loveor mercy--it might be both--by her gestures and even the distant tonesof her voice, she was so evidently throwing herself in vain.

I checked my horse's pace, and, amid the thick rank grass of thenarrow lane, his footsteps were unheeded by the two actors in thisscene; moreover, without backing him well into one of the thickhedges, I could not have turned to retrace my way.

Her hands were clasped now; she had dropped her parasol, and her face,a very white one, was upturned pleadingly to his; but to whatever shesaid, this horseman, whose back was to me, replied scornfully andderisively by a low mocking laugh, which somehow I seemed to haveheard before, but when, or where, I quite failed to remember. Anon shedrew something from her bosom, and, kissing it, held it towards him,as if seeking to influence him, by an appeal through it to some pasttime of love, or truth, or happiness, or all together. Whatever it wasshe thus displayed, he snatched it roughly, even fiercely, from herwith a curse, and, again thrusting her violently from him--so violently,that I believe he must have used his foot and the off-stirrupiron---she fell heavily against the low wall, which, at the same moment,he cleared by a flying leap, and then disappeared in the network oflanes, orchards, and hedgerows that lie about the churchyard. A low wailescaped her; and when I came cantering up, and dismounted, she was lyingon the path beside the churchyard wicket in tears and despair. Herappearance was perfectly ladylike, and most prepossessing; yet I knewnot very clearly what to say or how to interfere in the matter, thoughmanhood and courtesy rendered some action imperatively necessary.

"I trust you are not hurt," said I, taking her hand and assisting herto rise.

"Thank you, sir--not bodily hurt," she replied, in a low and brokenvoice, while scarcely venturing to look at me, and pressing her lefthand upon her heart, as if to restrain emotion, or as if she felt apain there.

"Did that person rob you?" asked I.

"O no, no, sir," she answered, hurriedly.

"But he seemed to snatch or wrench something from you?"

"Yes," said she, with hesitation.

"By violence, too?"

She did not reply, but covered her face with her handkerchief, and bitit, apparently in efforts to control her sobs.

"Can I assist you--be of service to you in any way?" I urged, in apleading tone; for her whole air and appearance interested me.

"No, sir; none can assist me now."

"None?"

"Save God, and even He seems to abandon me."

"What is the meaning of this despair?" I asked, after a pause. "It isa lovers' quarrel, I presume; and if so--"

"O no, sir; he is no lover of mine--now, at least."

"He--who?"

"The gentleman who has just left me," said she, evasively. "But permitme to pass you, sir; I must return to Whitchurch."

I bowed, and led my horse aside, that she might pass down the lane.

"I thank you, sir, for your kindness," said she, bowing, as I liftedmy hat; and then she seemed to totter away weakly and feebly,supporting or guiding herself, as if blind, by the rude low wall; andI could perceive that her left hand, which was now ungloved, wassmall, delicate, and of exceeding beauty in form. Her manner and airwere hurried; her voice and eyes were agitated; she seemed a ladylikelittle creature, but plainly and darkly attired in a kind of secondmourning. Her figure, if petite, was very graceful and girlish, too,though she was nearer thirty, perhaps, than twenty. Her face wasdelicate in feature, and charmingly soft and feminine in expression.Her eyes were of that clear dark gray which seems almost black atnight, and their lashes were long and tremulous, lending a chastenedor Madonna tone to her face, which, when taken together with hersadness of manner and a certain languor that seemed to be the resultof ill-health, proved very prepossessing. With all this there wassomething, I thought, of the widow in her aspect and dress; but thiswas merely fancy.

Ere I remounted, and while observing her, I perceived that shetottered, as if overcome by weakness, emotion, or both. She sankagainst the churchyard wall, and nearly fell; on this, I againapproached, and said with all softness and respect:

"Pardon me, and do not deem me, though a stranger, intrusive; you areill and weary, and unable to walk alone. Permit me to offer my arm,for a little way at least, down this steep and rugged road."

"Thanks," she replied; "you are very kind, sir; once at the foot ofthis lane, I shall easily make my way alone. I am not afraid ofstrangers," she added, with a strange smile; "I have been much castamong them of late."

"You reside at Whitchurch?" said I, as we proceeded slowly together,occasionally treading the fallen apples under foot among the longgrass.

"Yes."

"It is, then, your home?"

"I have no other--at present," said she, in a choking voice, andscarcely making an effort to restrain her tears, while I detected on afinger of the ungloved hand, the beauty of which I so much admired, aplain gold hoop--the marriage ring. So she was a wife; and theunseemly quarrel I had seen must have been a matrimonial one. Thus Ibecame more assured in my manner.

"I am almost a stranger here," said I, "as I belong to the garrison atWinchester."

"You are an officer?"

"Yes, madam, of the Royal Welsh Fusileers."

She simply bowed, but did not respond to my information by sayingwho she was.

"Though a soldier, sir," said she, after a pause, "I dare say you willbe aware that the hardest battles of this world are not fought inthe field."

"Where then?"

"Where we might least look for struggles of the soul: in many awell-ordered drawing-room; in many a poor garret; in many a lovelybower and sunny garden, or in a green and shady lane like this; foughtin secrecy and the silence of the heart, and in tears that are hot andsalt as blood!"

She is very pretty, thought I; but I hope she won't becomemelodramatic, hysterical, or anything of that sort!

"Darkness will be set in ere you can reach Whitchurch, at our presentrate of progression," said I; "and your--your--" (I was about to sayhusband) "relations or friends will be anxious about you."

"Alas, no, sir! I have no one to miss or to regret me," she replied,mournfully; "but I must not intrude selfishly my sorrows on astranger."

"There is no appearance of the--the person who annoyed you returning,"said I, looking backward up the long narrow lane we were descending.

"Little chance is there of that," said she, bitterly; "he will returnno more."

"You are certain of that?"

"Too fatally certain!"

"You have quarrelled, then?"

"No; it is worse than a quarrel," said she, with her pale lipsquivering.

"He is an enemy?"

"My enemy?--my tempter--my evil spirit--he is my husband!"

"Pardon me; I did not mean to be curious, when I have no right to beso; but here is the highway; I too am going towards Whitchurch--my wayto the barracks lies in that direction; and I shall have much pleasurein escorting you to your home, if you will permit me," said I, seizedby an impulse of gallantry, humanity, or both, which I ere long hadcause to repent.

"Sir, I thank you, and shall detain you no longer," she replied,hurriedly; "I am something of a wanderer now, and my rooms are at theivy-clad inn by the roadside."

This was the place where I had seen Guilfoyle's roan mare, an eveningor so past.

We had now reached the end of the narrow and secluded lane, a famousone in that locality as the trysting-place of lovers, and werestanding irresolutely near the main road that leads to Whitchurch andWinchester, when a large and handsome carriage, drawn by a pair ofspanking dark gray horses, approached us rapidly.

Throwing my nag's bridle over my left arm, I was in the act ofoffering my right hand to this mysterious lady in farewell, when hereyes caught sight of the carriage; a half-stifled sob escaped her; shereeled again, and would have fallen, had I not thrown my arm roundher, and by its firm support upheld her. At that moment the carriagebowled past. The face of a lady was at the open window, looking outupon us with wonder and interest, as she saw a lady and gentleman toall appearance embracing, or at least on very good terms with eachother, at the corner of a shady lane, a little way off the Queen'shighway; and something like an exclamation of dismay escaped me onrecognising the colourless haughty face, the dark eyes, the blackhair, and bonnet of that orange tint so becoming to one of hercomplexion--she of whom my whole soul was full, Lady EstelleCressingham!

CHAPTER XXI .-GEORGETTE FRANKLIN.

Had Estelle recognised me? If so, what might she--nay, what mustshe--think, and how misconstrue the whole situation? Should I rideafter the carriage, or write at all risks, and explain the matter, orcommit the event to fate? That might be perilous. She may not haverecognised me, I thought: the twilight, the shade, the place mighthave concealed my identity; but if not, they were all the more againstme. I was now in greater and more horrible perplexity than ever, and Iwished the unhappy little woman, the cause of all, in a very warmclimate indeed.

Thus, while longing with all the energies of my life to see Estelle,to be seen by her there, at a time so liable to misconception ifleft unexplained, might be death to my dearest hopes, and destructionto the success I had achieved.

"Why were you so agitated by the sight of Lady Naseby's carriage?" Iasked, with an annoyance of tone that I cared not to conceal.

"Giddiness, perhaps; but was I agitated?"

"Of course you were--nearly fell; would have fallen flat, indeed, butfor me."

"I thank you, sir," was the gentle reply; for my asperity of mannerwas either unnoticed or unheeded by her; "but you seemed scarcely lessso."

"I, madam!--why the deuce should I have been agitated?"

"Unless I greatly err, you were, and are so still."

"Indeed!"

"Do you know the ladies?"

"Were there two?" asked I, with increased annoyance.

"The Countess and her daughter."

"I saw but one."

"And--O, pardon my curiosity, dear sir--you know them?"

"Intimately;--and what then?" I asked, with growing irritation.

"Intimately!" she repeated, with surprise.

"There is nothing very singular in that, I suppose?"

"And, sir, you visit them?"

"I have not as yet, but hope to do soon. We were all together in thesame house in North Wales."

"Ah! at Craigaderyn Court?"

"Yes; Sir Madoc Lloyd's. Do you know Sir Madoc?"

"I have not that pleasure."

"Who, then, that you are acquainted with knows him?"

"My husband."

"Your husband!" said I, glancing at the plain hoop on the delicatelittle hand, which she was now gloving nervously.

"He was there with you; must have been conversing with you often. Isaw you all at church together one Sunday afternoon, and frequently onthe terraces and on the lawn; while!"--she covered her face with herhands--"while I loitered and lurked like an outcast!"

"Your husband, madam?" I queried again.

"Mr. Hawkesby Guilfoyle."

Whew! Here was a discovery: it quite took my breath away, and I lookedwith deeper interest on the sweet and pale and patient little face.

I now remembered the letter I had picked up and returned to him; hisconfusion about it, and the horse he alleged to have lost by at a racethat had not come off; his irritation, the postal marks, and the nameof Georgette.

After such a termination to his visit to Craigaderyn, I could fancythat his situation as a guest or visitor at Walcot Park, even after hefound the ladies there were ignorant of the nature of Sir Madoc's curtnote to him, must be far from enviable, for such as he must live inhourly dread of insult, slight, or exposure; but how was I nowsituated with regard to her I loved?

Deemed, perhaps, guilty in her eyes, and without a crime; and if awareof the situation, the malevolent Guilfoyle would be sure to availhimself of it to the fullest extent.

"Lady Estelle is very lovely, as I could see," said my companion.

"Very; but you saw her--when?"

"In Craigaderyn church, most fully and favourably."

And now I recalled the pale-faced little woman in black, who had beenpointed out to me by Winifred Lloyd, and who had been found in a swoonamong the gravestones by old Farmer Rhuddlan.

In all this there was some mystery, which I felt curious enough toprobe, as Guilfoyle had never by word or hint at any time given thoseamong whom he moved reason to believe he was aught else than abachelor, and a very eligible one, too; for if my once rival, as Ibelieved him to be, was not a creditable, he was certainly aplausible, one; and here lay with me the means of an exposé beyondeven that which had taken place at Craigaderyn Court.

"You are his wife, madam, and yet--does he, for purposes of his own,disavow you?" said I, after a pause, not knowing very well how to putmy leading question.

"It is so, sir--for infamous purposes of his own."

"But you have him in your power; you have all the air of a lady ofbirth and education--why not come forward and assert your position?"

The woman's soft gray eyes were usually filled by an expression ofgreat and deep sadness; but there were times when, as she spoke, theyflashed with fire, and there were others, when her whole face seemedto glitter with "the white light of passion" as she thought of herwrongs. Restraining her emotion, she replied,

"To assert my claims; that is exactly what I cannot do--now at least."

"Why?"

"Because he has destroyed all the proofs that existed of our unhappyand most miserable marriage."

"Destroyed them! how?"

"Very simply, by putting them in the fire before my face."

"But a record--a register--must exist somewhere."

"We were married at sea, and the ship, in the chaplain's books ofwhich the marriage I have no doubt was recorded, perished. Proofs Ihave none. But tell me, sir, is it true, that--that he is to bemarried to the daughter of Lady Naseby?"

"To Estelle Cressingham?" I exclaimed, while much of amusem*nt mingledwith the angry scorn of my manner.

"Yes," she replied, eagerly.

"No, certainly not; what on earth can have put such an idea into yourhead, my good woman?"

My hauteur of tone passed unheeded, as she replied:

"I saw her portrait in the Royal Academy, and heard a gentleman whostood near me say to another, that it was so rumoured; that he--Mr.Guilfoyle--had come with her from the Continent, and that he was goingafter her down to North Wales. He had said so at the club."

I almost ground my teeth on hearing this. That his contemptible nameshould have been linked with hers by empty gossips in public placeslike the Royal Academy and "his club," where none dared think of mine,was intolerable.

"I followed him to Wales," she continued. "I saw nothing atCraigaderyn church, or elsewhere, on her part to justify the story;when I met my husband on the lawn at the fête--for I was there,though uninvited--he laughed bitterly at the rumour, and said she wascontracted to Lord Pottersleigh, who, as I might perceive, was ever byher side. He then gave me money, which I flung on the earth; orderedme on peril of my life to leave the place, lest he might give noticeto the police that I had no right to be there. But though I have longsince ceased to love, I cannot help hovering near him, and from WalesI followed him here; for I know that now he is at Walcot Park."

"I can assure you, for your ease, that the Lady Estelle is engaged,but to a very different person from old Lord Pottersleigh," said I,twirling the ends of my moustache with undisguised satisfaction, ifnot with a little superciliousness; "your husband, however, seems aman of means, Mrs. Guilfoyle."

She gave me a bitter smile, as she replied, "Yes, at times; and drawnfrom various resources. He laughs to scorn now my marriage ring; andyet he wears the diamond one which I gave him in the days when we wereengaged lovers, and which had once been my dear father's."

The diamond which she gave him! Here, then, was another, and themost probable version of the history of that remarkable brilliant.

"Of what was it that he deprived you by force, before his horse leapedthe wall?"

"A locket which I wore at my neck, suspended by a ribbon," said she,as her tears began to fall again.

"He has the family solicitor with him at Walcot Park, I understand,"said I.

"They are visiting there together. Mr. Sharpus came on business, andmy husband accompanied him."

"Why not appeal to this legal man?

"I have done so many times."

"And he--"

"Fears Mr. Guilfoyle and dare not move in the matter, or affects todisbelieve me."

"What power has this--your husband, over him?"

"God alone knows--I do not," she replied, clasping her hands; "but Mr.Sharpus quails like a criminal under the eye of Hawkesby Guilfoyle,who seems also to possess some strange power over Lady Naseby, Ithink."

Could such really be? It seemed impossible; everything appeared toforbid it; and yet I was not insensible to a conviction that thedowager countess was rather pleased with, than influenced by, him.Could he have acted in secret the part of lover to her, and soflattered her weakness by adulation? Old women and old men, too, areat times absurd enough for anything; and now the words of Caradoc, onthe night he lost money to Guilfoyle at billiards, recurred to me,when in his blunt way he averred they had all some secretunderstanding, adding, "By Jove! I can't make it out at all." My mindwas a kind of chaos as I walked onward with my new friend, and leadingmy horse by the bridle we entered Whitchurch together. In the dusk Ileft her at the inn door, promising to visit her on the morrow, andconsult with her on the means for farther exposing her husband; foralthough her story--for all I knew to the contrary--might be an entirefabrication, I was not then in a mood of mind to view it as such. As Ibade her adieu, a dog-cart, driven by a servant,--whose livery wasfamiliar to me, passed quickly. Two women were in it, one of whommentioned my name. I looked up and recognised Mademoiselle BabettePompon, Lady Naseby's soubrette, who had evidently been shopping; anda natural dread that she, out of a love of gossip, or the malevolencepeculiar to her class, might mention having seen me at the inn porchwith a fair friend, was now added to the annoyance caused by theepisode at the lane end--an episode to which the said parting wouldseem but an addendum or sequel; and I galloped home to my quarters ina frame of thought far from enviable, and one which neither brandy norseltzer at the mess-house could allay.

CHAPTER XXII.--GEORGETTE FRANKLIN'S STORY.

Next day I heard the stranger's story, and it was a sad one. GeorgetteFranklin--for such was her unmarried name--was the last survivingchild of George Franklin, a decayed gentleman, who dwelt in Salop,near the Welsh border--we need not precisely say where, but withinview of the green hills of Denbigh; for the swelling undulations ofthe beautiful Clwydian range formed the background to the prospectfrom the windows of that quaint old house which was nearly all thatsurvived of his hereditary patrimony. Stoke Franklin--so named as itoccupied the site of a timber dwelling of the Saxon times, coevalperhaps with Offa's Dyke--was still surrounded by a defensive ditch ormoat, where now no water lay, but where, in the season, the primrosesgrew in golden sheets on the emerald turf. It was an isolated edifice,built of dark-red brick, with stone corners, stone mullions to itsquaint old sunken windows, and ogee pediments or gables above them,also of stone. From foundation to chimneys it was quaint in style,ancient in date, and picturesque in aspect. Long lines of elms, and insome places pollard willows, marked the boundaries of what had beenthe demesne of the Franklins; but piecemeal it had passed away to morecareful neighbours, and now little remained to George Franklin but theground whereon the old mansion-house stood, and that sombre greenpatch in God's-acre, the neighbouring churchyard, where his wife andtheir four children lay, near the ancient yew, the greenery of whichhad decorated the altar in the yule feasts of centuries ago, and whosesturdy branches had furnished bow-staves for the archers who shotunder his ancestors at Bosworth, at Shrewsbury, and Flodden Field.

George Franklin was not a misanthrope; far from it; but he lived verymuch alone in the old house. His oaken library, so solemnly tranquil,with its heavy dark draperies and book-hidden walls, when the eveningsun stole through the deep mullions of the lozenged and paintedwindows, was his favourite resort. And a cozy room it proved inwinter, when the adjacent meres were frozen, and the scalp of MoelFammau was powdered with snow. There he was wont to sit, withGeorgette by his knee, he reading and she working; a bright-faced,brown-haired, and lively girl, whose golden canaries and greenlove-birds hung in every window; for the house was quite alive withher feathered pets, and was as full of sound as an aviary with theirvoices in summer. One warm evening in autumn, when Georgette wasverging on her eighteenth year, she and her father were seated nearthe house-door, under a shady chestnut-tree. The sunshine lay brighton the greensward, and on the wilderness of flowers and shrubs thatgrew close to the massive red walls of the old mansion. Mr. Franklinwas idly lingering over a book and sipping a glass of some dark andfull-bodied old port--almost the last bottle that remained in his nowbut ill-replenished cellar. And a very perfect picture the old manmade. His thin but stately figure; his features so patrician inprofile; his dress somewhat old in fashion; his hands, though faded,so shapely, with a diamond ring on one finger, the diamond ring ofwhich we have heard so much lately; and the handsome girl who hoveredabout him, attending to his little wants, varying her kind officeswith playful caresses, while her white neck and her golden-brown hairglittered in the sunshine--all this seemed to harmonise well with theold house that formed the background to the picture. The evening wasquiet and still. The voices of Georgette's birds, her caged canariesand piping bullfinches, came through the open windows; but there wereno other sounds, save once or twice when the notes of a distanthunting-horn, prolonged and sad, came on the passing wind, and thenthe old man would raise his head, and his clear eye would sparkle,

"As he thought of the days that had long since gone by,
When his spirit was bold and his courage was high;"

and when he, too, had followed that sound, and ridden across thestiffest country, neck and neck with the best horsem*n in Salop andCheshire.

Suddenly there came a shout, and a huntsman in red, minus his blackvelvet cap, was seen to clear a beech-hedge on the border of the lawn;and ere an exclamation of annoyance or indignation could escape oldGeorge Franklin, that his privacy should be invaded, even by asportsman, in this unwonted manner, a cry of terror escaped Georgette;for it was evident that the gentleman's horse had become quiteunmanageable, as the bridle-rein had given way; and after its terribleleap, it came tearing at a mad pace straight towards the house, anddashing itself head foremost against a tree, hurled the ridersenseless on the ground. He rolled to the very feet of Georgette andher father, both of whom were full of pity and compassion, the formerall the more so that the stranger was undoubtedly a handsome man, andbarely yet in the prime of life. Aid was promptly summoned, and thevillage doctor, anxious to serve, for a time at least, one whom hedeemed a wealthy patient, earnestly seconded, and even enforced, thesuggestion of the hospitable George Franklin, that the sufferer, whosehead was contused, and whose shoulder-blade had narrowly escapedfracture, should neither be removed nor disturbed. Hence he was atonce assigned a room in the old mansion, with Georgette's old Welshnurse, now the housekeeper, to attend him. He was a man, however, of astrong constitution, "one of those fellows who are hard to kill," ashe phrased it; thus, on the third morning after the accident, he waswell enough to make his way to the breakfast room.

Georgette, attired in a most becoming muslin dress, and looking fresh,rosy, and innocent, as a young girl can only look who has left hercouch after a healthy slumber to greet the sunny morning, was standingon a chair in an oriel, attending to the wants of one of her featheredpets; suddenly the chair slipped, and she was about to fall, when astrong arm, in the sleeve of a scarlet hunting-coat, encircled andsupported her. This little contretemps made both parties at once athome, and on easy terms.

"Mr. Guilfoyle!" exclaimed the girl, for it was he.

"Miss Franklin, I presume?"

"Are you well already?" she asked.

"Nearly so," said he, smilingly, as he took in all the girl's beautyat a glance, together with the pleasant view beyond the antique oriel,where the morning sun came down on the shining leaves, covering allthe dewy ground, as it were, with drops of golden light; and thequaint old house, he thought, seemed such a pleasant home.

"How happy papa will be!" said the young lady, colouring slightlyunder his somewhat critical gray--or rather green--eye. "I should havenursed you myself, instead of old nurse Wynne," she added, archly.

"In that case I should have been in no hurry to announce myconvalescence," said he, rather pointedly; "may I ask your name--thefirst one, I mean? Somehow, I fancy that I can judge of character bythe name."

"Georgette Franklin."

"Georgette!"

"I am called after papa."

"A charming name!" he exclaimed, but in a low tone.

Naturally frank and honest, purely innocent, and assured of her ownposition, and of that of her father--for though poor now, he was oneof England's old untitled aristocracy--the girl felt neitherawkwardness nor shyness with her new friend, who, though polished inmanner, easy, and not ungraceful, was a thorough man of the world, andselfishly ready to take advantage of every place and person who camein his way; and a very simple one, indeed, was the kind old gentlemanwho now came to welcome his visitor, to express fears that he had lefthis couch too soon; and critically and keenly this hawk, who was nowin the dove's nest, eyed him, and saw, by the thinness of his hair,his spare figure and wrinkled face, "delicately lined by suchcharacters as a silver stylus might produce upon a waxen tablet,"that his years could not be many now; yet his keen gray eyes were fullof bright intelligence still, and were shaded by lashes as long andsilky as those of his daughter.

Hunting and breakfast were discussed together. Mr. Guilfoyle seemed,or affected to be, an enthusiast in old English sports, professingthat he loved them for themselves and from their associations; andquite won George Franklin's heart by stigmatising the "iron horse" ofcivilisation, which was now bearing all before it; and his host seemedto grow young again, as he recurred to the field exploits of hisearlier years, over the same ground which Mr. Guilfoyle--who had beenon a visit to the house of some friend twenty miles distant--hadhunted so recently: round beautiful Ellesmere, by Halston and Hordley,by the flat fields of Creamore, by the base of wooded Hawkstone, wherehe had made many a terrible flying leap, and away by Acton Reynald;all this ground had Guilfoyle gone over but lately, and, as the eventproved, almost fatally for his own bones, and more fatally for hisfuture peace of mind, as he pretty plainly indicated to Miss Franklinon every available opportunity, in the softest and most well-chosenlanguage. Though able to leave his room, he was neither permitted toleave the house nor attempt to mount; so he wrote to his friend, hadsome of his wardrobe sent over to Stoke Franklin, and, encouraged bythe hearty hospitality of its owner, took up his quarters there for anindefinite period; at least, until his hunting friend should departfor Madeira, whither he had promised to accompany him; for Mr.Hawkesby Guilfoyle seemed somewhat of a cosmopolitan, and ratherperipatetic in his habits. He had been over one half the world,according to his own accounts, and fully intended to go over theother; so he proved a very agreeable companion to the hitherto lonelyfather and daughter in that secluded mansion in Salop. Merciful it is,indeed, that none of us can lift the veil that hides the future; thuslittle could George Franklin foresee the influence this man was toexert over the fate of his daughter and himself, when he listened tohis plausible anecdotes, or sat alone and happy in his shady oldlibrary, communing pleasantly with his ancient favourites--withGeoffrey Chaucer, the knightly pages of Froissart, Dame JulianaBerners on hunting and hawking, and works, rare as manuscripts, thatcame from the antique press of Caxton and De Worde. Mr. Guilfoylefound himself in very pleasant quarters, indeed. It was ever hisprinciple to improve the occasion or the shining hour. Georgette washighly accomplished, and knew more than one language; so did he; soweek after week stole pleasantly away.

By them the touching airs of Wales, the merry chansons of Wronger,were played and sung together; and she it was, and no Princess ofCatzenelnbogen, who taught him that wild German farewell, with itsburden of "Leb'wohl! Leb'wohl!" we had heard at Craigaderyn Court.Even Petrarch was not omitted by them; for he knew, or pretended toknow, a smattering of Italian, and translated the tenderest speechesof Laura's lover with a point that caused the young girl's heart tovibrate with new and strange emotions. And now, ever and anon, therewas a heightened flush on her soft cheek, a bright sparkle in her darkgray eye, a lightness in all her motions; she had moments of merrylaughter, alternated by others of dreamy sadness--that yet was not allsadness--which showed that Georgette was in love.

And Guilfoyle, in his own fashion, loved her, too; but he had learnedthat of all George Franklin's once noble estate, the house aloneremained, and that at his death even it must inevitably go to thespoiler; so, though to love Georgette was very pleasant and sweet,matrimony with her was not to be thought of. Money was the god ofGuilfoyle's idolatry, and he thought of the wonder of his "fast"friends when they asked, "What did he get with his wife?" and how theyshould laugh if they heard he had married for love. Yet Georgette hadbecome besotted--there is no other word for it, save infatuated--byhim; by one who had made flippant love with strange facility to many.By degrees he artfully strove to warp or poison the girl's mind; butfinding that instinctively her innocence took the alarm after a time,though she long misunderstood him, he quite as artfully changed histactics, and spoke sorrowfully of his imperative and approachingdeparture for Madeira, of the agony such a separation would cause him;"it might be for years, and it might be for ever," and so forth,while, reclining in tears on his breast, the girl heard him. Takingthe right time, when she was thoroughly subdued or softened by love,and fear lest she should lose him, he prayed her to elope or consentto a private marriage--he was not without hopes that his huntingfriend might officiate as parson. This, he urged, would keep them trueto each other until his return and their final reunion; but to thismeasure she would not consent.

"Come with me, then, to Madeira; we shall be back in a month, atlatest."

"But think of dear papa--my poor old papa," replied Georgette,piteously; "worn as he is with years and infirmity, I cannot leave himeven for so short a time; for who will soothe his pillow when I amgone?"

"Old moth--Mrs. Wynne can do all that; at least, until we return,"said he, almost impatiently.

"But must you really go to Madeira?" pleaded the gentle voice.

"I must, indeed: business of the first importance compels me; in fact,my funds are there," he added, with charming candour, as his huntingfriend had promised to frank him to Funchal and back again to London."We shall be gone but a short time, and when we return this dear oldhouse shall be brighter than ever, and together we shall enliven hisold age. We shall kneel at his feet, darling Georgie, and implore--"

"Why not kneel now," urged Georgette, "and beg his consent andblessing?"

"Nay, that would be inopportune, absurd, melodramatic, and all thatsort of thing. Returning, we shall be linked in the fondest affection;returning, he will be unable to resist our united supplications. Come,darling, come with me. Let us despise the silly rules of society, andthe cold conventionalities of this heartless world! Let us live butfor each other, Georgie; and O, how happy we shall be, when we havepassed, through the medium of romance, into the prose of wedded life;though that life, my darling, shall not be altogether without romanceto us!"

Overcome by the intensity of her affection for this man, her first andonly lover, the poor girl never analysed the inflated sophistries hepoured into her too willing ear, but sank, half fainting with delight,upon his shoulder. Guilfoyle clasped her fondly in his arms; hecovered her brow, her eyes--and handsome eyes they were--her lips, andbraided hair, with kisses, and in his forcible but somewhat fatuouslanguage, poured forth his raptures, his love, and his vows ofattachment.

Suddenly a terror came over her, and starting from his arm, she halfrepulsed him, with a sudden and sorrowful expression of alarm in hereye.

"Leave me, Hawkesby," said she, "leave me, I implore you; I cannotdesert papa, now especially, when most he needs my aid. O, I feelfaint, very faint and ill! I doubt not your love, O, doubt not mine;but--but--'

"I must and do doubt it," said he, sadly and gloomily. "But enough ofthis; to-morrow I sail from Liverpool, and then all shall be at anend."

"O God, how lonely I shall be!" wailed the girl; "I would, dearHawkesby, that you had never come here."

"Or had broken my neck when my horse cleared yonder hedge," said he,as his arm again went round her, and the strong deep love with whichhe had so artfully succeeded in inspiring her, triumphed over everysentiment of filial regard, of reason, and humanity. She forgot theold parent who doted on her; the stately old ancestral home, that wasincrusted with the heraldic honours of the past; she forgot herposition in the world, and fled with the parvenu Guilfoyle.

That night the swift express from Shrewsbury to Birkenhead, as itswept through the beautiful scenery by Chirk and Oswestry, while thewooded Wrekin sank flat and far behind, bore her irrevocably from herhome; but her father's pale, white, and wondering face was ever andalways upbraidingly before her. As Guilfoyle had foreseen, no propermarriage could be celebrated at Liverpool ere the ship sailed from theMersey. He hurried her on board, and his hunting friend--a dissipatedman of the world, ordered to Madeira for the benefit of hishealth--received the pale, shrinking, and already conscience-strickengirl in the noisy cabin of the great steamer with a critical eye andremarkably knowing smile, while his manner, that for the time wasveiled by well-bred courtesy, might have taught the poor dove that shewas in the snares of an unscrupulous fowler.

But ere the great ship had made the half of her voyage--about sixdays--in her sickness of body and soul, the girl had made a friend andconfidant of the captain, a jolly and good-hearted man, who had girlsof his own at home; and he, summoning a clergyman who chanced to be onboard, under some very decided threats compelled Guilfoyle to performthe part he had promised; so he and Georgette were duly wedded in thecabin, while, under sail and steam, the vessel cleft the blue waves ofthe western ocean, and her ensign was displayed in honour of theevent. But there the pleasure and the honour ended, too; and Guilfoylesoon showed himself in his true colours, as a selfish and infamousroué.

"Alas!" said she, weeping, "he no longer called me the pet names Iloved so well; or made a fuss with me, and caressed me, as he was wontto do among the pleasant woods of Stoke Franklin. I felt that, thoughhe was my husband, he was a lover no longer! We had not been afortnight at Madeira when we heard that the vessel, on board of whichwe were married, had perished at sea with all on board, including hertemporary chaplain. Then it was that Mr. Guilfoyle tore from me thesole evidence of that solemn ceremony given to me by the clergyman,and cast it in the flames before my face, declaring that then he wasfree! Of our past love I had no relic but a gold locket containing hislikeness and bearing a date, the 1st of September, the day on which wewere married, with our initials, H. H. and G., and even that he rentfrom me yesterday. Alas for the treachery of which some human heartsare capable! We were one no longer now, as the old song has it:

As a finishing stroke to his cruelty and perfidy, he suddenly quittedMadeira, after some gambling transaction which brought the alcalde ofFunchal and other authorities upon him. He effected his escapedisguised as a vendor of sombreros and canary birds, and got clearoff, leaving a note by the tenor of which he bequeathed me to hisfriend, with whom he left me at a solitary quinta among themountains."

Though dissipated and "fast" by nature and habit, the latter was atheart an English gentleman; and pitying the forlorn girl abandoned ina foreign colony under circ*mstances so terrible, he sent her home;and one day, some six months after her flight, saw her once morestanding irresolutely at the closed gate of the old manor-house ofStoke Franklin.

The latter was empty now; the windows were closed, the bird-cages hungthere no more; the golden and purple crocuses she had planted werepeeping up from the fragrant earth, untended now; the pathways werealready covered with grass and mosses; untrimmed ivy nearly hid thenow unopened door; the old vanes creaked mournfully in the wind; andsave the drowsy hum of the bees, all spoke to her hopeless,despairing, and remorseful heart of the silence and desolation thatfollow death. The odour of last year's dead leaves was heavy on theair. After a time she learned how rapidly her father had changed inaspect, and how he had sunk after her disappearance--her desertion ofhim; and how there came a time when the fine old gentleman, whose thinfigure half stooping, with his head bent forward musingly, his scantwhite hair floating over the collar of his somewhat faded coat, hiskindly but wrinkled face, his tasselled cane trailing behind him fromhis folded hands, whilom so familiar in the green lanes about StokeFranklin, and who was always welcomed by the children that gambolledon the village green or around the old stone cross, and the decayedwooden stocks that stood thereby, appeared no more. A sudden illnesscarried him off, or he passed away in his sleep, none knew preciselywhich; and then another mound under the old yew-tree was all thatremained to mark where the last of the Franklins, the last of an old,old Saxon line, was laid.

I promised to assist her if I could, though without the advice of alegal friend I knew not very clearly what to do; besides, knowing whatlawyers usually are, I had never included one in the circle even of myacquaintances. Estelle's long silence, and the late episode in thelane, chiefly occupied my thoughts while riding back to the barracks,where somewhat of a shock awaited me.

CHAPTER XXIII.--TURNING THE TABLES.

Though the dower-house of Walcot Park dated from the days of DutchWilliam, when taste was declining fast in England, internally it hadall the comforts of modern life, and its large double drawing-room wasreplete with every elegance that art could furnish or luxuryrequire--gilt china, and buhl cabinets, and console mirrors whichreproduced again and again, in far and shadowy perspectives, thewinged lions of St. Mark in verde antique; Laocoon and his sonswrithing in the coils of the serpents; Majolica vases, where tritons,nymphs, and dolphins were entwined; Titian's cavaliers sallow andsombre in ruffs and half-armour, with pointed moustachios andimperious eyes; or red-haired Venetian dames with long stomachers,long fingers, and Bologna spaniels; or Rubens' blowsy belles, allflesh and bone, with sturdy limbs, and ruddy cheeks and elbows; butthe mirrors reflected more about the very time that I was lingering atWhitchurch; to wit, a group, a trio composed of Lady Naseby, herdaughter, and Mr. Guilfoyle; and within that room, so elegant andluxurious, was being fought by Estelle, silently and bitterly, one ofthose struggles of the heart, or battles of life, which, as poorGeorgette Franklin said truly, were harder than those which werefought in the field by armed men. Guilfoyle was smiling, and lookingvery bland and pleased, indeed, to all appearance; Lady Naseby'susually calm and unimpressionable face, so handsome and noble in itscontour, wore an expression of profound disdain and contempt; whilethat of Lady Estelle was as pale as marble. She seemed to be icy cold;her pink nostrils were dilated, her lips and eyelids were quivering;but with hands folded before her, lest she should clench them andbetray herself, she listened to what passed between her mother andtheir visitor.

"It was, as you say, a strange scene, of course, Mr. Guilfoyle, thewoman fainting--"

"Reclining."

"Well, yes, reclining in the arms of Mr. Hardinge in that lonelylane," said the Countess; "but we need refer to it no more. He must bea very reckless person, as Pompon saw him take leave of this creaturewith great tenderness, she says, at the door of that obscure inn atWhitchurch; so that explains all."

"Not quite," replied Guilfoyle.

"Perhaps not; but then it is no affair of ours, at all events, I mustown that I always wondered what the Lloyds--Sir Madoc especially--sawin that young man, a mere subaltern of the line!"

"Precisely my view of the matter, Lady Naseby."

"Besides, your little baronet people are great sticklers for rank anddignity, and often affect a greater exclusiveness than those who rankabove them."

"But as for this unfortunate woman," resumed Guilfoyle, who was lothto quit the subject.

"We have heard of her in our neighbourhood before," said Lady Naseby;"at least, Pompon has. She is good to all, especially the poor."

"Ah, doesn't care to hide her candle under a bushel, eh?"

"What do you mean, Mr. Guilfoyle?"

"Simply that vanity is often mistaken for generosity, profusion forbenevolence."

"You are somewhat of a cynic, I know."

"Nay, pardon me, I hope not."

"She is too poorly clad in general, Pompon says, to be able to indulgein profusion," continued Lady Naseby, while Lady Estelle glanced atthe speakers alternately, in silence and with apparent calmness.

But Guilfoyle, who read her eyes and heart, and knew her secretthoughts, gloated on the pain she was enduring.

"No doubt the unfortunate creature is much to be pitied," said he;"but when a woman has lost respect for herself, she cannot expect muchof it from others. The poor little soiled love-bird has probably leftsome pretty semi-detached villa at Chertsey or St. John's Wood tofollow its faithless redcoat to Hampshire, and hence the touchingtableau in the lane," he added, with his mocking and strangely unreallaugh.

"Mr. Guilfoyle!" said the Countess, in a tone of expostulation, whileher daughter darted a glance of inexpressible scorn at him. But hecontinued coolly, "Well, perhaps I should not speak so slightingly ofher, after what she has given herself out to be."

"And what is that?" asked Lady Naseby.

"Only--his wife."

"His wife!" exclaimed Estelle, starting in spite of herself. "Yes,Lady Estelle; but it may not be, nay, I hope is not, the case."

"You should rather hope that it is so."

"But we all know what military men are--never particular to a shade;and though excuses must be made for the temptations that surroundthem, and also for youth, I approve of the continental system, whichgenerally excludes subaltern officers from society."

"Wife!" repeated Estelle; "O, it cannot be!"

"What is it to you--to us?" asked mamma, with a slight asperity oftone.

"Well, wife or not, she certainly wears a wedding-ring, and he hasbeen more than once to visit her in that inn at Whitchurch. Of onevisit our mutual friend Mr. Sharpus is cognisant. If you doubt this,ask him, and he will not contradict me."

"I have not said that I doubt you, Mr. Guilfoyle," said Estelle, withintense hauteur, while for a moment--but a moment only--her eyesflashed, her breast heaved, her hands were clenched, a burning coloursuffused her face, and her feet were firmly planted on the carpet; yetshe asked quietly, "Why do we hear this scandalous story at all? Whatis it to mamma--what to me?"

"More, perhaps, than you care to admit," said he, in a low voice, asthe Countess rose to place Tiny in his mother-of-pearl basket.

Guilfoyle at Craigaderyn had acted as eavesdropper, and on more thanone occasion had watched and followed, overseen and overheard us, andknew perfectly all about our secret engagement, her mother's views andopposition to any alliance save a noble or at least a moneyed one; andof all the stories he had the unblushing effrontery to tell, thepresent was perhaps the most daring. He had contrived, during theshort visit he had paid to Walcot Park, under the wing of Mr. Sharpus,to let Estelle know by covert hints and remarks all he knew, and allhe might yet disclose to her mother, to the young Earl of Naseby, toLord Pottersleigh, Sir Madoc, and others; and feeling herself in hispower, with all her lofty spirit the poor girl cowered before him, andhe felt this instinctively, as he turned his green eyes exultinglyupon her. But for a delicate, proud, and sensitive girl to have thesecrets of her heart laid bare, and at the mercy of a man like this,was beyond all measure exasperating. And this strange narrative ofhis, coming after what she had seen, and all that Pompon with Frenchexaggeration had related, crushed her completely for the time.

"I have another little item to add to our Hardinge romance," said he,with his strange, hard, dry, crackling laugh, and a smile of positivedelight in his shifty green eyes, while he toyed with the long ears ofTiny the shock, which had resumed its place in Lady Naseby's lap. "Youremember the locket with the initials 'H. H. G.' and the date 1stSeptember which Miss Dora Lloyd mentioned when we were atCraigaderyn?"

"I have some recollection of it," replied Lady Naseby, languidly.

"Curiously enough, as I rode past the spot where you saw that touchingand interesting interview--the lane, I mean--I perceived somethingglittering among the grass. Dismounting, I picked up that identicallocket, which doubtless the lady had dropped, thus losing it within afew days of its bestowal, if we are to judge by the date."

"And you have it?"

"Here."

Opening his leather portemonnaie, he drew from it a gold locket, towhich a black-velvet ribbon was attached, and said with the utmostdeliberation, "The initials represent those of Henry Hardinge and hisinamorata, and behold!"

Pressing a spring, the secret of which he knew very well, the locketflew open, and within it were seen the photograph of the pale womanwhom they saw in Craigaderyn church, and opposite to it one of me,inserted by himself, pilfered from the album of Winifred Lloyd, as weafterwards ascertained.

"Aha! the moral Mr. Henry Hardinge with his petite femme entretenue,as the French so happily term it."

Lady Estelle was quite calm now in her demeanour, and she surveyed thelocket with a contemptuous smile; but her face was as white as marble.She felt conscious that it was so, and hence sat with her back to thenearest window, lest her mother should perceive that she was affected.

Guilfoyle, smilingly, stood by her, stroking his dyed moustache.

"This must be restored to its owner," said he.

"Permit me to do so," said Lady Estelle.

"You, Estelle--you!" exclaimed her usually placid mother, becomingalmost excited now; "why should you touch the wretched creature'sornament?"

"As an act of charity it should be restored to her, or to him," sheadded, through her clenched teeth; and taking the locket, she left theroom for her own, ere her mother could reply; and there she gave wayto a paroxysm of tears, that sprang from sorrow, rage, and shame thatshe had for a moment permitted herself to have been deluded by me, andthus be placed in the power of Guilfoyle. Her lips, usually of a rosytint, were colourless now; her upper one quivered from time to time,as she shuddered with emotions she strove in vain to repress; and herproud hot blood flowed furiously under her transparent skin, as shethrew open her desk, and sought to apply herself to the task ofwriting me that which was to be her first, her last, and only letter.For her heart swelled with thoughts of love and disappointment, pride,reproach, disdain, and hate, as she spoiled and tore up sheet aftersheet of note-paper in her confusion and perplexity, and at lastrelinquished the idea of writing at all.

Thus, while I was scheming how to expose Mr. Hawkesby Guilfoyle, andhave him cast forth from that circle in which he was an intruder, heturned the tables with a vengeance, and provided me with a wife toboot. But finding, or suspecting, that he was beginning to be viewedwith doubt, that very day, after having done all possible mischief, hequitted Walcot Park with Lady Naseby's solicitor, who, strange to say,seemed to be his most particular friend. He had made no impressionfavourable to himself on the heart of Estelle; but he hoped that hehad succeeded in ruining me, as I could neither write nor clear myselfof an allegation of which I was then, of course, ignorant. She wasunjust to me; but she certainly--whatever came to pass in the gloomyand stormy future--loved me then.

CHAPTER XXIV.--BITTER THOUGHTS.

As yet I knew nothing of all that has been detailed in the foregoingchapter, consequently the entire measure of my vengeance againstGuilfoyle was not quite full. I had, however, a revival of my olddoubts, anxiety, and perplexity, in not hearing from Walcot Park insome fashion, by an invitation, or otherwise privately from Estelleherself, as, by our prearrangement, there was nothing to prevent herwriting to me; and to these were added now a dread of what they hadseen on that unlucky evening, and the reasonable misconstructions towhich the scene was liable. More than one of my mess-room friends hadreceived cards of invitation from Lady Naseby; why then was I, whomshe had met so recently, apparently forgotten?

After the relation of her story, I left Mrs. Guilfoyle in sucha state of mental prostration and distress, that I was not withoutwell-founded fears that she might commit some rash act, perhapssuicide, to add to the vile complication of our affairs. Next day Iwas detailed for guard, and could not leave the barracks, either toconsult with my new unhappy acquaintance, or for my accustomed canterin the vicinity of Walcot Park. A presentiment that somethingunpleasant would happen ere long hung over me, and a day and a nightof irritation and hot impatience had to be endured, varied only by theexceedingly monotonous duties that usually occupy the attention of theofficer who commands a guard, such as explaining all the standingorders to the soldiers composing it, inspecting the reliefs going outto their posts and those returning from them, and going the round ofthose posts by night; but on this occasion, the routine was varied bya fire near Winchester, so we were kept under arms for some hours in atorrent of rain, with the gates barricaded, till the barrack enginesreturned. On the following morning, just when dismissing my old guardafter being relieved by the new one, I perceived a servant in thewell-known Naseby livery--light-blue and silver--ride out of thebarracks; and with a fluttering in my heart, that was born of hope andapprehension, I hastened to my room.

"Packet for you, sir," said my man Evans, "just left by a flunkey inred breeches."

"You mean a servant of Lady Naseby's."

"I mean, sir," persisted Evans, "a flunky who eyed me verysuperciliously, and seemed to think a private soldier as low andpitiful as himself," added the Welshman, whom the pompous bearing ofthe knight of the shoulder-knot had ruffled.

"You were not rude to him, I hope."

"O no, sir. I only said that, though the Queen didn't like badbargains, I'd give him a shilling in her name to play the triangles."

"That will do; you may go," said I, taking from his hand a smallpacket sealed in pink paper, and addressed to me by Lady Estelle; andmy heart beat more painfully than ever with hope and fear as I tore itopen.

A locket dropped out--the locket just described--in which I wasbewildered to find a likeness of myself, and with it the ring I hadplaced on the hand of Estelle in Rhuddlan's cottage--the emeraldencircled by diamonds--on the morning after our escape from a terriblefate! I have said that a shock awaited me at the barrack; but that thelocket should come to me, accompanied by Estelle's ring, so astonishedand perplexed me, that some time elapsed before I perceived there wasa little note in the box which contained them.

It ran thus:

"Lady E. Cressingham begs that Mr. Hardinge will return theaccompanying locket and ring to the lady to whom they properlybelong--she whom he meets in the lane near Walcot Park, and whom heshould lose no time in presenting to the world in her own character.Farther communications are unnecessary, as Mr. Guilfoyle has explainedall, and Lady E. Cressingham leaves to-day for London."

The handwriting was very tremulous, as if she had written when underno ordinary excitement; and now, as the use to which the two episodes,at the lane and the inn-door, had been put by the artful Guilfoylebecame plain to me, I was filled by a dangerous fury at the falseposition in which they placed me with her I loved and with whom I hadbeen so successful. For a minute the room seemed to swim round me,each corner in pursuit of the other. We had both been wronged--myselfchiefly; and though I knew that Guilfoyle had been at work, I couldnot precisely know how; but I thought the Spartan was right when, onbeing asked if his sword was sharp, he replied, "Yes, sharper eventhan calumny!" This wretched fellow had daringly calumniated me, andto clear that calumny, to have an instant interview with Estelle,became the immediate and burning desire of my heart. I rushed to mydesk, and opened it with such impulsive fury that I severely injuredmy arm, so recently broken--broken in her service--and as yet butscarcely well. I spread paper before me, but my fingers werepowerless; if able to hold the pen, I was now unable to write, and thewhole limb was alternately benumbed and full of acute agony; andthough Hugh Price of ours was a very good fellow, I had no friend--atleast, none like Phil Caradoc--in the dépôt battalion in whom I couldconfide or with whom consult, in this emergency.

I despatched Evans for the senior surgeon, who alleged that theoriginal setting, dressing, and so forth of my fractured limb had beenmost unsatisfactory; that if I was not careful, inflammation might setin, and if so, that instant amputation alone could save my life. Beingalmost in a fever, he placed me on the sick-list, with orders not toleave my room for some days, and reduced me to claret-and-water.

"A pleasant predicament this!" thought I, grinding my teeth.

Estelle, through whom all this came to pass, lost to me, apparentlythrough no fault of my own, and I unable to communicate with her orexplain anything; for now she was in London, where I feared she might,in pique or rage, take Pottersleigh, Naseby, or even, for all I knew,accept Guilfoyle, a terrible compromise of her name. But she hadplenty of other admirers, and disappointed women marry every day indisgust of some one. Next I thought of the regiment abroad wondering"when that fellow Hardinge would join"--promotion, honour, profession,and love in the balance against health, and all likely to be lost!

"Rest, rest," said the battalion Sangrado, whom my condition ratherperplexed; "don't worry yourself about anything. Rest, mental andbodily, alone can cure you."

"It is a fine thing to talk," I muttered, while tossing on my pillow;for I was confined to bed in my dull little room, and for three dayswas left entirely to my own corroding thoughts.

I had but one crumb of comfort, one lingering hope. She had not askedme to return her ring, nor did I mean to do so, if possible. Onceagain my arm was slung in a black-silk scarf, which Estelle hadinsisted on making for me at Craigaderyn. Alas! would the joys of thattime ever return to us again? I sent Evans, in uniform and not in mylivery, to Whitchurch with the locket, after extracting my likenesstherefrom; but he returned with it, saying that the lady had left theinn for London, having no doubt followed her husband. I knew notexactly of what I was accused--a liaison of some kind apparently, ofwhich the strongest proofs had been put before the Cressinghams. If,when able, I wrote to explain that the two meetings with Mrs.Guilfoyle were quite fortuitous, would Estelle believe me? Withoutinquiry or explanation, she had coldly and abruptly cast me off; andit was terrible that one I loved so well should think evil or withscorn of me. What would honest old Sir Madoc's view of the matter be,and what the kind and noble-hearted Winifred's, who loved me as asister, if they heard of this story, whatever it was?

Vengeance--swift, sudden, and sure--was what I panted for; and momentsthere were when I writhed under the laws that prevented me fromdiscovering and beating to a jelly this fellow Guilfoyle, or evenshooting him down like a mad dog, though I would gladly have risked myown life to punish him in the mode that was no longer approved of nowin England; and I pictured to myself views of having him over inFrance, in the Bois de Boulogne, or on the level sands of Dunkirk, thespire of St. Eloi in the distance, the gray sky above us, the sea fora background, no sound in our ears but its chafing on the long stripof beach, and his villainous face covered by my levelled pistol at tenpaces, or less--yea, even after I had let him have the first shot, bytossing or otherwise. And as these fierce thoughts burned within me,all the deeper and fiercer that they were futile and found noutterance, I glanced longingly at my sword, which hung on the wall, orhandled my pistols with grim anticipative joy; and reflected on howmany there are in this world who, in the wild sense of justice, or thelonging for a just revenge on felons whom the laws protect, fear thepolice while they have no fear of God, even in this boasted age ofcivilisation; and I remembered a terrible duel à la mort in which Ihad once borne a part in Germany.

A July evening was closing in Altona, when I found myself in thegarden of Rainville's Hotel, which overlooks the Elbe. The windows ofthe house, an edifice of quaint aspect, occupied successively in yearspast by General Dumourier and gossiping old Bourienne, were open, andlights and music, the din of many voices--Germans are always loud andnoisy--and the odour of many cigars and meerschaums, came forth, tomingle with the fragrance of the summer flowers that decked thetea-garden, the trees of which were hung with garlands of colouredlanterns. A golden haze from the quarter where the sun had setenveloped all the lazy Elbe, and strings of orange-tinted lightsshowed here and there the gas-lamps of Hamburg reflected in its bosom.

In dark outline against that western flush were seen the masts andhulls of the countless vessels that covered the basin of the river andthe Brandenburger Hafen. Waiters were hurrying about with coffee,ices, and confectionery, lager-beer in tankards, and cognac in crystalcruets; pretty Vierlander girls, in their grotesque costume, thebodice a mass of golden embroidery, were tripping about coyly,offering their bouquets for sale; and to the music of a fine Germanband, the dancing had begun on a prepared platform. There weremingling lovely Jewesses of half-Teutonic blood, covered with jewels;spruce clerks from the Admiralit-strasse, and stout citizens from theNeuer-wall; officers and soldiers from the Prussian garrison; girls ofgood style from the fashionable streets about the Alsterdamm, andothers that were questionable from the quarter about the GrosseTheater Strasse.

I was seated in an arbour with a young Russian officer namedPaulovitch Count Volhonski, who was travelling like myself, and whom Ihad met at the table-d'hôte of the Rolandsburg, in the Breitestrasse.As an Englishman, apt at all times to undervalue the Russiancharacter, I was agreeably surprised to find that this young captainof the Imperial Guard could speak several European, and at least twoof the dead, languages with equal facility. He was a good musician,sang well, and was moreover remarkably handsome, though his keen darkeyes and strongly marked brows, with a most decided aquiline nose,required all the softness that a mouth well curved and as delicatelycut as that of a woman could be, to relieve them, and something ofpride and hauteur, if not of sternness, that formed the normalexpression of his face. His complexion was remarkably pure and clear,his hair was dark and shorn very short, and he had a handsomemoustache, well pointed up. We had frequented several places ofamusem*nt together, and had agreed to travel in company so far asBerlin, and this was to be our last night in Altona. The waiter hadbarely placed our wine upon the table and poured it out, when thereentered our arbour, and seated himself uninvited beside us, a greatburly German officer in undress uniform, and who in a stentorian voiceordered a bottle of lager-beer, and lighting his huge meerschaumwithout a word or glance of courtesy or apology, surveyed us boldlywith a cool defiant stare. This was so offensive, that Volhonski'susually pale face flushed crimson, and we instinctively looked at eachother inquiringly.

The German next lay back in his seat, coughed loudly, expectorated inall directions in that abominable manner peculiar to his country,placed his heavy military boots with a thundering crash upon twovacant chairs, drank his beer, and threw down the metal flagon roughlyon the table, eyeing us from time to time with a sneering glance thatwas alike insulting and unwarrantable. But this man, whom weafterwards learned to be a noted bully and duellist, Captain LudwigSchwartz, of the Prussian 95th or Thuringians, evidently wished toprovoke a quarrel with either or both of us, as some Prussian officersand Hamburg girls, who were watching his proceedings from an alley ofthe garden, seemed to think, and to enjoy the situation. But for theirpresence and mocking bearing, Volhonski and I would probably, for thesake of peace, have retired and gone elsewhere; however, theirlaughter and remarks rendered the intrusive insolence of their friendthe more intolerable. It chanced that a little puff of wind blew theashes of Volhonski's cigar all over the face and big brown beard ofthe German, who, while eyeing him fiercely, slowly extricated the pipefrom his heavy dense moustache, and striking his clenched hand on thetable so as to make everything thereon dance, he said, imperiously,"The Herr Graf will apologise?"

"For what?" asked Volhonski, haughtily.

"For what!--der Teufel!--do you ask for what?"

"Ja, Herr Captain."

"For permitting those cigar ashes to go over all my person."

"In the first place, your precious person had no right to be there; inthe second, appeal to the wind, and fight with it."

"I shall not fight with it!" thundered the German; "and I demand aninstant apology."

"Absurd!" replied Volhonski, coolly; "I have no apology to make,fellow. Apologise to another I might; but certainly not to such asyou."

"You dare to jest--to--to--to trifle with me?" spluttered the German,gasping and swelling with rage.

"I never jest or trifle with strangers; do you wish to quarrel?"

"No, Herr Graf," sneered the German; "do you?"

"Then how am I to construe your conduct and words?"

"As you please. But know this, Herr Graf: that though I ever avoidquarrelling, I instantly crush or repel the slightest appearance ofinsult, and you have insulted me."

"Ja, ja!" muttered the German officers, in blue surtouts and brassshoulder-scales, who now crowded about us.

Volhonski smiled disdainfully, and drew from his pocket arichly-inlaid card-case; then taking from it an enamelled card, with abow that was marked and formal, yet haughty, he presented it toCaptain Ludwig Schwartz, who deliberately tore it in two, and said, ina low fierce voice,

"Bah! I challenge you, Schelm, to meet me with pistols, or hand tohand without masks, and without seconds, if you choose."

"Agreed," replied Volhonski, now pale with passion, knowing well thatafter such a defiance as that, and before such company, it would be aduel without cessation, a combat à la mort. "Where?" he asked,briefly.

"The Heiligengeist Feld."

"When?"

"To-morrow at daybreak"

"Agreed; till then adieu, Herr Captain;" and touching their caps toeach other in salute, they separated.

Next morning, when the dense mists, as yet unexhaled by the sun, layheavy and frouzy about the margin of the Elbe, and were curling upfrom the deep moats and wooded ramparts of the Holstein Thor ofHamburg, we met on the plain which lies between that city and Altona;it is open, grassy, interspersed with trees, and is named the Field ofthe Holy Ghost. A sequestered place was chosen; Volhonski was attendedby me, Captain Schwartz by another captain of his regiment; butseveral of his brother officers were present as spectators, and allthese wore the tight blue surtout, buttoned to the throat, with theshoulder-scales, adopted by the Prussians before Waterloo; and theywore through their left skirt a sword of the same straight and springshell-hilted fashion, used in the British service at Fontenoy andCulloden, and retained by the Prussians still. The morning was chill,and above the gray wreaths of mists enveloping the plain rose, on oneside, the red brick towers and green coppered spires of St. Michael,St. Nicolai, and other churches. Opposite were the pointed roofs ofAltona, and many a tall poplar tree. Volhonski, being brave, polite,and scrupulous in all his transactions, was naturally exasperated onfinding himself in this dangerous and unsought-for predicament, afterbeing so grossly and unwarrantably insulted on the preceding night. Hewas pale, but assumed a smiling expression, as if he thought it asgood a joke as any one else to be paraded thus at daybreak, when wequitted our hackney droski at the corner of the great cemetery andtraversed the field, luckily reaching the appointed spot the samemoment as our antagonists.

We gravely saluted each other. While I was examining and preparing thepistols, Volhonski gave me a sealed letter, saying, quite calmly, "Ihave but one relation in the world--my little sister Valérie, now atSt. Petersburg. See," he added, giving me the miniature of a beautifulyoung girl, golden-haired and dark-eyed; "if I am butchered by thisbeer-bloated Teuton, you will write to her, enclosing this miniature,my letter, and all my rings."

I pressed his hand in silence, and handed our pistols for inspectionto the other second, a captain, named Leopold Döpke, of the ThuringianInfantry.

"Now, Herr Graf, we fight till one, at least, is killed," saidSchwartz, grimly.

Volhonski bowed in assent.

"Be quick, gentlemen," said the German officers; "already the risingsun is gilding the vane of St. Michael's."

Volhonski glanced at it earnestly, and his fine dark eyes clouded fora moment. Perhaps he was thinking of his sister, or of how and wherehe might be lying when the sun's rays were lower down that lofty brickspire, which is a hundred feet higher than the cross of St. Paul's inLondon. In the German fashion a circle was drawn upon the greensward,on which the diamond dew of a lovely summer morning glittered.Volhonski and Schwartz were placed within that circle, from which theywere not permitted to retire; neither were they to fire until thesignal was given.

"Mein Herren," said Captain Döpke, who seemed to think no more of theaffair than if it had been a pigeon match, "when I give the signal bythrowing up my glove and uttering the word you may fire at discretion,or as soon as you have your aim, and at what distance you please; butit must be within the circumference of this ring. The first whosteps beyond it falls by my hand, as a violation of the laws of theduel."

"Be quick," growled Schwartz; "for the night watch in St. Michael'stower have telescopes, and the Burgher Guard are already under arms atthe Holstein Thor."

Twelve paces apart within that deadly ring stood Volhonski andSchwartz, facing each other. The former wore a black surtout buttonedup to the throat; the latter his uniform and spike helmet. He untiedand cast aside his silver gorget, lest it might afford a mark for hisadversary's pistol. His face was flushed with cruelty, triumph, andthe lust of blood, that came from past successful duels. Volhonskilooked calm; but his eyes and heart were glowing with hatred and alonging for a just revenge.

"Fire!" cried Captain Döpke, as if commanding a platoon, and tossingup his pipe-clayed glove.

Both pistols exploded at the same instant, and Schwartz uttered acruel and insulting laugh as Volhonski wheeled round and staggeredwildly; his left arm was broken by a ball.

"Fresh pistols!" cried Schwartz.

"Is not this enough for honour?" said I, starting forward. "No--standback!" exclaimed Captain Döpke.

"Ach Gott! Herr Englander, your turn will come next," thunderedSchwartz, as we gave them other pistols and proceeded deliberately toreload the first brace, yet warm after being discharged.

No word of command was expected now; both duellists aimed steadily.Schwartz fired first and a terrible curse, hoarse and guttural,escaped him, as his ball whistled harmlessly past the left ear ofVolhonski, whose face was now ghastly with pain, rage, and hatred.Drawing nearer and nearer, till the muzzle of his pistol was barelytwo feet from the forehead of Schwartz, he gave a grim and terriblesmile for a moment. We were rooted to the spot; no one stirred; no onespoke, or seemed to breathe; and just as a cold perspiration flowed inbeadlike drops over the face of the merciless Schwartz; it seemed tovanish with his spike helmet in smoke, as Volhonski fired and--blewhis brains out! We sprang into the droski, and I felt as if a terriblecrime had been committed when we drove at full speed across theneutral ground, called the Hamburgerburg, which lies between the cityand the river gate of Altona, along a street of low taverns anddancing-rooms; and there, when past the sentinels in Danish uniform,the Lion of Denmark and the red-striped sentry boxes indicated that wewere safe within the frontier of Holstein. So intense were ourfeelings then, that the few short fleeting moments crowded into thatshort compass of time seemed as an age, so full were they of fierce,exciting, and revolting thoughts; but these were past and gone; andnow, as I recalled this merciless episode, times there were when Ifelt in my heart that I could freely risk my life in the same fashionto kill Guilfoyle, even as Volhonski killed the remorseless Germanbully Schwartz.

CHAPTER XXV.--SURPRISES.

Supposing her to have left Walcot Park, as her letter informed me, Irode in that direction no more; and though I knew the family addressin London, I could neither write in exculpation of myself nor procureleave to follow her. All furloughs were now forbidden or withdrawn, asthe new detachments for the East expected hourly the order to depart.Thus I passed my days pretty much as one may do those which precede orfollow a funeral. I performed all my military duties, went to mess,rose and retired to bed, mechanically, my mind occupied by onethought--the anxious longing to do something by which to clear myselfand regain Estelle; and feeling in Winchester Barracks somewhat asIxion might have felt on his fabled wheel, or the son of Clymene onhis rock; and so I writhed under the false position in which another'sart and malice had placed me; writhed aimlessly and fruitlessly, savethat, although tied up by my promise of secrecy to Estelle, I hadwritten a full and candid detail of the whole affair to Sir Madoc, andentreated his good offices for me. Vainly did Price, little TomClavell (the 19th depôt had come in), Raymond Mostyn of the Rifles,and other friends say, when noticing my preoccupation, "Come, oldfellow, rouse yourself; don't mope. Are you game for pool to-day?"

"Pool with a recently-broken arm!" I would reply.

"True--I forgot. Well, let us take Mostyn's drag to Southamptonto-morrow--it is Sunday, no drill going--cross to the Isle of Wight,dine at the hotel, and with our field-glasses--the binoculars--see thegirls bathing at Freshwater."

"I don't approve of gentlemen overlooking ladies bathing."

"What the deuce do you approve of?"

"Being let alone, Price; as the girls say to you, I suspect."

"Not always--not always, old fellow," replied Hugh, with a veryself-satisfied smile, as he caressed and curled his fair moustache.

"Nor the married ones either," added Mostyn, a tall showy officer in abraided green patrol jacket; "for when you were in North Wales,Hardinge, our friend Price got into a precious mess with a selfish oldsposo, who thought he should keep his pretty wife all to himself, orat least from flirting with a redcoat."

"Perhaps he was less irritated by the rifle green."

"Come with me into the city," urged Clavell; "the Dean's lady gives akettledrum before mess, and I can take a friend."

"Parish scandal, cathedral-town gossip, coffee, ices, and Italianconfectionery. Thanks, Tom, no."

"I have met some very pretty girls there," retorted Clavell, "and itis great fun to lean over their chairs and see them look up at oneover their fans shyly, half-laughing at, and half-approving of, thebalderdash poured into their ears."

"A sensible way of winning favour and spending time."

"I vote for the Isle of Wight," continued Clavell; "I saw la belleCressingham taking a header there the other day in splendid style.Only fancy that high-born creature taking a regular header!"

"Who did you say?" said I, turning so suddenly that little Tom wasstartled, and let the glass drop from his eye.

"Lady Estelle Cressingham; you remember her of course. She had on amost becoming bathing-costume; I could make that out with my glassfrom the cliffs."

"Clavell, she is in London," said I, coldly; "and moreover is unlikelyto indulge in headers, as she can't swim."

"I know better, excuse me," said Mostyn, who, I knew, had dined butlately at Walcot Park; "she told me that she had been recentlybathing, and had studied at the Ecole de Natation on the Quai d'Orsayin Paris."

"It is more than she ever told me," thought I, as my mind reverted toour terrible adventure. I became silent and perplexed, and covertlylooked with rather sad envy on the handsome and unthinking Mostyn, whohad enjoyed the pleasure of seeing and talking to Estelle since I haddone so.

"It is difficult," says David Hume, "for a man to speak long ofhimself without vanity; therefore I will be short;" and having muchto narrate, I feel compelled to follow the example of the Scottishhistorian, for events now came thick and fast.

I had barely got rid of my well-meaning comrades, and was relapsinginto gloomy reverie in my little room, when I heard voices, and heavyfootsteps ascending the wooden stair that led thereto. Some one waslaughing, and talking to Evans in Welsh; till the latter threw openthe door, and, with a military salute, ushered in Sir Madoc Lloyd,looking just as I had seen him last, save that the moors had embrownedhim, in his riding-coat, white-corded breeches, and yellow-toppedboots, and whip in hand, for his horse was in the barrack yard.

"Welcome, Sir Madoc.--That will do, Evans; be at hand when I ring.--Sokind of you, this; so like you!" I exclaimed.

"Not at all, not at all, Harry. So these are your quarters? Plain andundecorated, certainly; boots, bottles, boxes, a coal-scuttle--herMajesty's property by the look of it--a sword and camp-bed; humblesplendour for the suitor of an earl's daughter, and the rival of arich viscount. Ah, you sly dog, you devilish sly dog!" he added, as heseated himself on the edge of the table, winked portentously, andpoked me under the small ribs with the shank of his hunting-whip, "Isuspected that something of this kind would follow that aquaticexcursion of yours; and Winifred says she always knew of it."

"Winifred--Miss Lloyd!" said I, nervously.

"Why didn't you speak to me, and consult with me, about the matterwhen at Craigaderyn? I am certain that I should have made all squarewith the Countess. Egad, Harry, I will back you to any amount, for thesake of those that are dead and gone," he added, shaking my handwarmly, while his eyes glistened under the shaggy dark brows that inhue contrasted so strongly with the whiteness of his silky hair.

"You got my letter, Sir Madoc?"

"Yes, and I am here in consequence. It cut short my shooting, though."

"I am so sorry--"

"Tush; no apologies. The season opened gloriously; but I missed yousorely, Harry, when tramping alone over turnip fields, through milesof beans and yellow stubble, though I had some jolly days of it downin South Wales. Lady Naseby--

"She knows nothing of the secret engagement?" said I, hurriedly andanxiously.

"Nothing as yet."

"As yet! Must she be told?"

"Of course; but I shall make all that right, by-and-by. She believesnow in the real character of her attaché, Mr. Guilfoyle, who intrudedhimself among us, and who has disappeared. Your perfect innocence hasbeen proved alike to her and her daughter, and now you may win at acanter. The photo of you in the locket was abstracted from Winifred'salbum, and has her name written on the back of it. You are to rideover with me to Walcot Park, where I have left Winifred, as sherefused flatly to come to Winchester--why, I know not. She will affordyou an opportunity of slipping the ring again on your fair one'sfinger, and doing anything else that may suggest itself at such atime--you comprehend, eh? Winny bluntly asked Lady Naseby's permissionto invite you, as you were so soon to leave England."

"The dear girl! God bless her!"

"So say I. Lady Naseby said at first that though you had beenmaligned, there had also been a contretemps of which even her Frenchmaid was cognisant; that she hated all contretemps and so forth; butWinny--you know how sweet the girl is, and how irresistible--carriedher point, so you spend this evening there. Tell Evans to have yournag ready within the hour. That fellow is not forgetting hismother-tongue among the Sassenachs. He comes from our namesake'splace, Dolwrheiddiog, 'the meadow of the salmon.' I know it well."

"If I could but meet Guilfoyle--" I was beginning.

"Forget him. I cannot comprehend how he found such favour in the sightof Lady Naseby; but when I called him a thoroughbred rascal, shequietly fanned herself, and fondling her beastly little cur said, 'Mydear Sir Madoc, this teaches us how careful we ought to be in choosingour acquaintance, and how little we really know as to the truecharacter, the inner life and habits of our nearest friends. But ourmutual legal adviser Mr. Sharpus always spoke of Mr. Guilfoyle as aman of the greatest probity, and of excellent means.' 'Probably,' saidI; 'but I never liked that fellow Sharpus; he always looked like a manwho has done something of which he is ashamed, and that is not theusual expression of a legal face.'"

So poor Winifred Lloyd had been my chief good angel; yet she was thelast whom I should have chosen as ambassadress in a love affair ofmine. She was a volunteer in the matter, and a most friendly one toboot. Were this a novel, and not "an owre true tale," I think I shouldhave loved Winny; for "how comes it," asks a writer, "that the heroesof novels seem to have in general a bad taste by their choice ofwives? The unsuccessful lady is the one we should have preferred.Rebecca is infinitely more calculated to interest than Rowena."

My heart was brimming with joy, and with gratitude to Sir Madoc andhis elder daughter; the cloud that overhung me had been exhaled insunshine, and all again was happiness. I was about to pour forth mythanks to my good old friend, whose beaming and rubicund face was asbright as it could be with pleasure, when there came a sharp singleknock on the door of my room.

"Come in!" said I, mechanically.

My visitor was the sergeant-major of the dépôt battalion, a tall thinold fellow who had burned powder at Burmah and Cabul, and whoinstantly raised his hand to his forage-cap, saying,

"Beg pardon, sir; the adjutant's compliments--the route has just comefor your draft of the Royal Welsh, and all the others, for the East."

"Is this certain!" asked Sir Madoc, hurriedly.

"Quite, sir; it will be in orders this evening. They all embarkto-morrow at midday."

"Where?" asked I.

"At Southampton, as usual. The first bugle will sound after réveilto-morrow."

The door closed on my formal visitor, who left me a little bewilderedby this sudden sequel to the visit of Sir Madoc, who wrung my handwarmly and said,

"Heaven bless and protect you, Harry! I feel for you like a son of myown going forth in this most useless war. And so we are actually tolose you, and so soon, too!"

"But only for a little time, I hope, Sir Madoc," said I, cheerfully,thinking more of my early meeting with Estelle than the longseparation the morrow must inevitably bring about. I ordered Evans topack up and prepare everything, to leave my P.P.C. cards with a fewpersons I named; and avoiding Price, Clavell, Mostyn, and others, rodewith Sir Madoc towards Walcot Park, as my mind somehow foreboded, amidall my joy and excitement, for what I feared would be the last time.

CHAPTER XXVI.--WITHOUT PURCHASE.

Close to, and yet quietly secluded from, the mighty tide of busyhumanity that daily surges to and fro between the Bank and the MansionHouse, all up Cheapside and Cornhill, in a small dark court off thelatter, was the office of Messrs. Sharpus and Juggles, solicitors. Thebrick edifice towered to the height of many stories; a score of namesappeared on each side of the doorway in large letters; and many longdark passages and intricate stairs led to the two dingy rooms wherethose human spiders sat and spun the webs and meshes of the law. Theirdens had a damp and mouldy odour; no ray from heaven ever fell intothem, but a cold gray reflected light came from the white encaustictiles, with which the opposite wall of the court was faced for thatpurpose; and of that borrowed light even the lower room, where theirhalf-starved clerks worked into the still hours of the night--averitable cave of Trophonius, if one might judge by their sad, seedy,and dejected appearance--was deprived from its situation; and in allthese courts and chambers gas was burned daily in those terribleseasons when the London fogs assume somewhat the solidity and hue ofpea-soup. Mr. Sharpus sat in his private room, surrounded by boxes ofwood or japanned tin and ticketed dockets of papers, that were mouldyand dirty--as their contents too probably were--while fly-blownprospectuses, plans, and advertisem*nts of lands, houses, andmessuages for sale, and so forth, covered the discoloured walls.

Juggles, his partner, was a suave, slimy, and meekly-mannered man,"with the eye of a serpent and the voice of a dove;" but our presentbusiness is with the former, who was a thin round-shoulderedindividual, with a cold keen face, an impending forehead, sunken darkgray eyes, the expression of which varied between cunning andsolemnity, pride, vulgar assurance, and occasionally restlessness.Shrewd of head and stony of heart, he was not quite the kind of man atwhose mercy one would wish to be. He had a hard-worked and sometimesworried aspect; but now an abject white fear, with an unmistakablyhunted expression, came over his face, when one of the clerks from thelower den ushered in, without much ceremony, Mr. Guilfoyle, who had inhis hand a sporting paper, which he was reading as he entered.

"You here again?" exclaimed Sharpus, laying down his pen, andcarefully closing the door.

"Yes, by Jove, again!" replied Guilfoyle, with barely a nod, andseating himself with his hat on.

"So soon!" groaned Sharpus; and reseating himself, he eyed, with anexpression of haggard hate, Guilfoyle, who continued to read from thepaper hurriedly, excitedly, and half aloud, some report of asteeplechase.

"The Devil--threw his rider--remounted; at the next fence Raglan tookthe lead, followed by Fairy and Beauty, and Beau, the Devil lyingnext; last fence but one taken by the quintette almost simultaneously,when Raglan, Beauty, and Beau came away together, the first-namedwinning a very fine race by half a length--Beauty being third, andclose upon Beau, but Fairy was nowhere. D--nation! there is a pot ofmoney gone, or not won, which amounts to the same thing in the end!"and crushing up the paper, he threw it on the writing-table ofSharpus.

"Wanting more money?" said the latter, in a hollow voice.

"Precisely so; out at the elbows--in low water--phrase it as you will.I have sold even my horse at last," replied the other, folding hisarms, and regarding the lawyer mockingly.

"And the ring given you by--by the King of Bavaria?" said Sharpus,with a sickly smile.

"I retain but a paste imitation of that remarkable brilliant; and thatI may present you as a mark of my regard and esteem."

"I thought you had made something by a mercantile transaction, as youphrased it, when last on the Continent?"

"So I did; 'the mercantile transaction' being nothing less thanbreaking the bank at Homburg, by steadily and successfully backing thered, and sending home all those who came for wool most decidedlyshorn."

"You should have saved some of those ill-gotten gains for futurecontingencies," said Sharpus.

"How much easier it is to advise and to speculate than to act withcare and decision!" sneered Guilfoyle.

"I pity your poor wife," said the lawyer, sincerely enough.

"She has no documentary proof that she is such," replied Guilfoyle,angrily. "Pshaw! what is pity? an emotion that is often at war withreason and with sense, too; for a handsome face or a well-turned anklemay make us pity the most undeserving object."

The lawyer sighed, and at that moment sincerely pitied himself; for ithad chanced that, in earlier years, an intimacy with Guilfoyle led tothe latter discovering that which gave him such absolute power as toreduce him--Sharpus--to be his very slave. This was nothing less thanthe forgery of a bill in the name of Guilfoyle; who, beforerelinquishing the privilege of prosecution, on retiring the document,had obtained a complete holograph confession of the act, which he nowretained as a wrench for money, and held over the head of Sharpus,thereby compelling him to act as he pleased. After a minute's silence,during which the two men had been surveying each other, the one withhate and fear, the other with malignant triumph, Guilfoyle said, "Idid Lady Naseby, as you know, a service at Berlin, when at very lowwater; being seen with her won me credit, which I failed not to turnto advantage. I followed her and her daughter through all Germany--atEms, Gerolstein, Baden, and then to Wales, where I was in clover atCraigaderyn. I was a fool to fly my hawks at game so high as thepeerage; and I feel sure it was that beast of a fellow Hardinge, ofthe Royal Welsh, who blew the gaff upon me, and prevented me fromentering stakes, as I intended to do, for one of the daughters of thathorse-and-cow-breeding old Welsh baronet; and they are, bar one, thehandsomest girls in England."

"And that one?"

"Is Lady Estelle Cressingham."

Even the ghastly lawyer smiled at his profound assurance.

"Have you no remorse when you think of Miss Franklin?"

"No more than you have, when you have sucked a client dry, and leavehim to die in the streets," replied Guilfoyle, with his strange drymocking laugh; "remorse is the word for a fool--the unpunished crime,I have read somewhere, is never regretted. Men mourn the consequences,but never the sin or a crime itself. As for Hardinge, d--n him!" headded, grinding his teeth; "I thought to put a spoke in his wheel, bypassing off Georgette as his wife, but Taffy came to his aid, and thetrue story was told; and yet, do you know, there were times when Iplayed my cards exceedingly well with the Cressinghams. Besides, youalways represented me to be a man of fortune."

"I have invariably done so," groaned Sharpus.

"And have stumped out pretty well to maintain the story, while hintingof--"

"Coal-mines in Labuan, shares in others in Mexico, and all manner ofthings, to account for the sums wrung from me--from my wife andchildren. But, God help me, I can do no more!"

"Bah! what do they or you want with that villa at Hampstead? But youare a good fellow, Sharpus; and, thanks to your assistance, I workedthe oracle pretty well at Walcot Park for Mr. Henry Hardinge."

"Against him, you mean?"

"Of course; but, unluckily, our story wouldn't stand testing."

"Could you expect it to do so?"

"But I put a hitch in his gallop there, anyhow. By Jove, I was a greatfool not to make love to the old woman, instead of her daughter."

"Meaning Lady Naseby?" said Sharpus, with surprise.

"So Burke and Debrett name her. She is just at that age--twice herdaughter's--when the soft sex become remarkably soft indeed, and aptto make fools of themselves."

"She would indeed have been one had she listened to you."

"Thanks, old tape-and-parchment; I did not come here for a character,but to show you the state of my cash-book."

Again the lawyer groaned, and Guilfoyle laughed louder than ever.Delight to have a lawyer under his heel rendered him merciless; buteven a worm will turn, so Sharpus said sternly, "How have you livedsince the last remittance--extortion?"

"Call it as you will," replied the other, putting his glass in hiseye, and smilingly switching his leg with his cane; "I have lived asmost men do who live by their wits, and the follies, or it may be thecrimes--O, you wince!--of others; meeting debts and emergencies asthey come, content with the peace or action of the present, and neverregretting the past, or fearing the future! With the help of an ace,king, and queen, when my betting-book or a stroke of billiards failedme, and with your great kindness, my dear old Sharpus, I have, tillnow, always kept my funds far above zero."

"Your life is a great sham--a very labyrinth of deceit!" exclaimed thelawyer, furiously.

"And yours, friend Sharpus?"

"Is spent in slaving for my family, and endeavouring to atone for, orto buy the concealment of, one great error--the error that madeyou--ay, men such as you--my master!"

Guilfoyle laughed heartily, and said,

"I require 600l. instantly!"

"Not a penny--not another penny!"

"We shall see. Sharpus, though a bad lot, I know that you are not theutter rogue that most of your profession are--"

"Leave my office, scoundrel, or I shall kill you!" said Sharpus, in alow voice of concentrated passion, as he became deadly pale, and adangerous white gleam came into his stealthy restless eyes, whichseemed to search in vain for a weapon.

"If I leave your office it will be for the purpose of laying beforethe nearest police-magistrate a certain document you may remember tohave written; and I am so loth to kill the goose that lays my goldeneggs," continued the other, in his quiet mocking tone. "But remember,Mr. Sharpus," he added, in a lofty and bullying manner, as he graspedthe shoulder of the listener, "that the forgery of a document is notdeemed an error in legal practice here, as in Spain or Scotland,but a crime meriting penal servitude; and shall I tell you what thatmeans--you, who have now wealth, ease, position, a handsome wife, andseveral children? You will be torn from all these for ever, as afelon!"

Drops of perspiration poured over the poor wretch's temples as histormentor continued: "Think of being in Millbank, beside the muggyThames, and the years that would find you there, a bondsman and aslave, who for the least misconduct would be lashed like a faultyhound, and ironed in a blackhole. Hard work, aggravated by theconsciousness of infamy; clad in the gray livery of disgrace; yourname effaced from the Law List, and for it substituted the letter ornumber on your prison garb!"

"For God's sake, hush!" implored the wretched lawyer, in terror, lestthe speaker's voice might reach the room of Juggles, or the ears ofthe clerks below; "hush, and I shall do all you wish."

"Come--that is acting like a reasonable being."

"Will 200l. do you--this time?"

"Two hundred devils! I want 600l. at least."

"I shall be ruined with my partner; he must know ere long where allthese moneys have gone."

"That is nothing to me; tell him if you dare."

Sharpus burst into tears, and said, piteously,

"At present I can give but 200l.--the rest shall follow."

"Well, you can do something else for me, and I may trouble you nomore."

"How?" asked Sharpus, eagerly and incredulously, with a dreary andbewildered air.

"Get me some employment, where there is little to do; I hatebrain-work."

"Employment!--where? with whom?"

"Civil or military, I care not which."

"Military! impossible--too old. Stay, I have it!" exclaimed thelawyer; "you have been in the Militia, I know."

"Three months in the Royal Diddlesex."

"What say you to an appointment in Lord Aberdeen's new Land TransportCorps? It will be easily got--a handsome uniform and great éclat,though the officers are nearly all taken from the ranks. The dutiesare simple enough--conveyance of baggage, and carrying off the woundedafter an action."

"Not to bury the dead?--ugly work that."

"No, no."

"By Jove, I'll go!" he exclaimed, as Sharpus filled up the cheque.

Sharpus strove in vain to conceal his delight.

"I have of course done a few things which would hardly bear the 'lightof the world's bull's-eye' turned upon them, but the Horse Guards knownothing of them. You have noble and powerful clients, and can do thiseasily for me. Bravo!" And they actually shook hands over the matter,as if over a bargain.

Sharpus lost no time in using the necessary influence, and--though notexactly a cadet after Mr. Cardwell's heart--this commission wasdecidedly one without purchase; and on the strength of having beenonce in the boasted constitutional force, "Henry Hawkesby Guilfoyle,gent., late Lieutenant, Diddlesex Militia," appeared in theGazette ere long, as one of twenty-four comets of the long-sincedisbanded Land Transport Corps, for service in the Crimea.

CHAPTER XXVII.--RECONCILIATION.

As Sir Madoc and I proceeded along the to me well-known Whitchurchroad, I asked myself mentally, could it really be that I was againlooking with farewell eyes on all this fair English scenery, andperhaps for the last time; for our departure to the seat of war, wherewe were to be face to face and foot to foot with an enemy, was verydifferent from other voyages to a peaceful British colony? Now, variedby autumnal tints, brown, golden, or orange, I saw the long and shadylane where Estelle had last seen me, and near it the low churchyardwall, where our evil genius had rent away the locket from his wife.Sir Madoc's eyes were turned chiefly to the tawny stubble-fields, andhe sighed with regret, as he saw the brown coveys of partridgeswhirring up, that he had not his patent breech-loader in lieu of ahunting-whip.

"Estelle--Estelle!" thought I. "How many temptations in mightyLondon, and in the country, too--in Brighton, that other London by thesea, and wherever she may go--will beset one so noble and sobeautiful--allurements that may teach her to forget and banish fromher memory the poor Fusileer subaltern, to whom she seems as thecentre of the universe!"

The evening was a lovely one, and the scenery was beautiful. Chestnutsand oaks were, at every turn of the way we rode, forming naturalarches and avenues, beyond which were pleasant glimpses of quaintcottages, whose walls and roofs were nearly hidden by masses of rosesand honeysuckle; short square village spires and ivy-coveredparsonages; widespreading pastures, where the sleepy cattle browsedamid purple clover and golden cowslips, with the glory of the ruddysunset falling aslant upon them, while the ambient air was full ofearthy and leafy fragrance; for many fallen leaves, the earliest spoilof autumn, lay with bursting cones in cool and sunless dells, or bythe wayside, where the fern and foxglove mingled under the old thickhedgerows. And so I was looking, as I have said, on all this peacefulscene, perhaps for the last time; yet there was no sadness in myheart, for the revulsion or change of feeling, from the gloom andtumultuous anxiety of many, many days past, and even of that morning,was great indeed to me, especially when we cantered through thehandsome iron gates of Walcot Park, the once suspicious keeper ofwhich gave me an unmistakable glance of recognition. I felt like onein a dream as I threw my reins to a servant, and was led upstairs bySir Madoc.

"Where is Lady Estelle?" he asked of another valet, to whom I gave mysword in the hall.

"In the front drawing-room."

"Alone?"

"I think so, sir."

"All right, Harry!"

But he suddenly affected to remember that he had something to say tohis own groom, and as he turned back, I was ushered into the long andstately apartment. I had a dreamy sense of being amid many buhl tablesand glass shades, much drapery, and several mirrors that reproducedeverything, amid which I saw Estelle advancing cordially to meet me.She had a bright smile in her face, and held out both her hands; but Icould scarcely speak.

"Estelle," I whispered, "joy--joy! It is indeed joy, to see you onceagain!"

"Then you quite forgive me, dearest Harry?"

"Forgive you? O Estelle!" I exclaimed, in a low and passionate voice,as she turned up her adorable face to meet mine half-way.

I knew from past experience that caresses from her meant much morethan they did from most women; for Estelle, though proud and reticent,and apparently cold and calm, was reluctant to give and to acceptthem; so now I felt all the truth and sincerity of this reunion. "Alovers' quarrel is but love renewed;" we, however, had not quarrelled,but been cruelly wrenched asunder by the art and cunning of another.

"Are you on duty, Mr. Hardinge?" said a voice; and from a window whereshe had been sitting, quite unseen and unnoticed by me, Winny Lloydcame forth, looking, as I thought, a little paler and sadder than whenI had seen her last at Craigaderyn Court.

"What makes you think I am on duty, dear Miss Lloyd?--or rather let mesay, my dear, dear good friend and guardian angel Winifred, to whoseintercession I owe all the happiness of a time like this," said I,pressing her hand caressingly between both of mine.

"Because you are in undress uniform, of course," said she, almostpetulantly.

"I can wear no other costume now; we bid good-bye to mufti, the sablelivery of civilisation, to-morrow."

"How?"

"We march at daybreak."

"For the East?"

"Yes; for the East, at last."

"So soon?" exclaimed both girls at once.

"The order came within an hour or little more, when Sir Madoc was withme."

The eyes of the girls were full of sudden tears, and they gazed on mewith an honest emotion of tenderness and real interest, that,considering the rare beauty and high position of both, were alikeflattering and bewildering; and I felt that this was one of thosemoments when, to be a soldier or a sailor on the eve of departure tothe seat of war, was indeed worth something.

And Winifred, the impulsive Welsh fairy, so fresh-hearted, so simplein her motives, and sweet in her disposition, uttered something verylike a little sob in her slender white throat, adding apologeticallyto Estelle, "We have been such old friends, Harry Hardinge and I."

"You never wrote to me, Estelle," said I, softly, yet reproachfully.

"I dared not; you remember our arrangement," she replied, withhesitation.

"Nor was I invited here, like Mostyn, Clavell, and others; thus I hadno opportunity of--"

"I had no control, darling Harry, over mamma's dinner-list: I couldbut suggest to mamma; and then there was that terrible story. But herecomes mamma!"

And turning, I found myself face to face with the tall, handsome,and stately Countess of Naseby, whom--nathless her chilling mannerand lofty presence--I hoped yet to hail as a very creditablemother-in-law.

I was on the eve of departure, to go where glory waited me. I mightcross her exclusive path no more; so my Lady Naseby seemed quitedisposed to bury the hatchet, and received me with that which was--forher--unusual kindness, and an enmpressem*nt which made the eyes ofher daughter to sparkle with pleasure. A late dinner made a sad holein the time I had hoped to spend with Estelle; yet I had the pleasureof sitting beside her--a pleasure that was clouded by the convictionthat my presence would soon be imperatively requisite at the barracks,where so much was to be done ere morning, and that I should becompelled to abridge even this, my farewell visit, to pleasant WalcotPark, and all who were there. Fortunately, Lady Naseby went quietly tosleep in her boudoir after dinner, with Tiny on her lap; Sir Madocobligingly went into the library to write; and Winifred suggested aturn in the conservatory, where for a little time she adroitly leftEstelle and me together.

There is no utility in dwelling on how we sealed our reconciliationand renewed our troth, when once more I placed my ring upon herfinger; or in rehearsing the soft and tender words--perhaps (Oheaven!) the "twaddle"--we spoke for an indescribable few minutes, andhow each said to the other that our apparent separation had been as aliving death. But now all that misery was over; we loved each othermore than ever, and the grave alone could part us finally; words, theprompting of the heart, came readily, till our emotions became toodeep, and she agreed that I should write to her boldly, "as ere longmamma, through good Sir Madoc, must know all." And so we leanedagainst a great flower-stand, almost hidden by gorgeous azaleas, ourhands tightly clasped in each other, eyes looking fondly into eyes,and feeling that the depth of our tenderness formed for us one ofthose few-and-far-between portions of existence when time seems tostand still, when silence is made eloquent by the beatings of theheart, when we almost forget we are mortal, and feel as if earth hadbecome heaven. From this species of happy trance we were roughlyroused by the crash of a great majolica vase containing a giantcactus, and a voice exclaiming querulously,

"God bless my soul!--Pardon me; I did not know any one was here."

"The devil you didn't!" was my blunt rejoinder.

And there, with gold glasses on his long aristocratic nose, and in hisrichly-tasselled robe de chamber and embroidered slippers, stood myLord Pottersleigh, whom I knew not to be at Walcot Park, as he hadbeen nursing his gout upstairs; and now I wished his lordship in ahotter climate than the quarters of the 2nd West India for hisunwelcome interruption. Of what he had seen or what he thought I carednot a rush, so far as he was concerned; and a few minutes later sawme, after a hurried farewell to all, with the pleasure of rememberedkisses on my lips, and my heart full of mingled joy and sadness,triumph and prayerful hope for the perilous future, flying at fullgallop back to Winchester.

CHAPTER XXVIII.--ON BOARD THE URGENT.

"Weather bit your chain, and cast loose the topsails!" cried a hoarsevoice, rousing me from a reverie into which I had fallen--one of thosewaking-dreams in which I am so apt to indulge.

By this time the quarter-boats had been hoisted in, and the anchor gotup "reluctant from its oozy cave"--no slight matter in the greattroopship Urgent--when there was a stiff breeze even under the lee ofthe Isle of Wight; and as her head pitched into the sea, the waterrushed through the hawse-holes, and the chain cables surged in such afashion as almost to start the windlass-barrel when it revolvedbeneath the strength of many sturdy arms, and tough, though bending,handspikes. Leaning over the taffrail, and looking at the dim outlineof the coast of Hampshire from St. Helen's Roads, to which two tugshad brought us from the great tidal dock at Southampton to a temporaryanchorage, and seeing Portsmouth, with its spires and shipping steepedin a golden evening haze, I recalled the events of the past bustlingday--could it be that only a day had passed?--since "the first buglesounded after réveil," and all our detachments, five in number,destined for the army of the East had paraded amid the gray light ofdawn, in the barrack-square at Winchester, in heavy marching order,with packs, blankets, and kettles, and marched thence, their caps andmuskets decked with laurel-leaves, the drums and fifes playing many apatriotic air, accompanied by the cheers of our comrades, and thetears of the girls who were left behind us--the girls "who doat uponthe military."

Yet so had we marched--the drafts of the Scots Royals and KentishBuffs, the two oldest regiments in the world, leading the way; thencame those of the 7th Fusileers, my own of the Royal Welsh, the 46th,and the wild boys of the 88th bringing up the rear--to the railwaystation, when they were packed in carriages, eight file to eachcompartment--packed like sheep for the slaughter, yet all were singingmerrily, their spirits high though their purses were empty, the lastof their "clearings" having gone in the grog-shop and canteen overnight; and there by that railway platform many saw the last they wereto see, in this life, at least, of those they loved best on earth--thewife of her husband, the parent of the child--separated all, with thesound of the fatal drum in their ears, and the sadness of rememberedkisses on their lips, or tear-wetted cheeks, till, with a shriek and asnort, the iron horse swept them away on his rapid journey. I caughtthe enthusiasm of the brave fellows around me. It was impossible notto do so; and yet, amid it all, there was the recollection of awoman's face, so pale and beautiful, as I had seen it last (whenbidding a brief and formal farewell at the drawing-room door of WalcotPark), with her mouth half open, her sorrowful eyes full ofearnestness, and the tender under lip clenched by the teeth above it,as if to restrain emotion and repress tears--the face of EstelleCressingham.

My heart and thoughts were with her, while mechanically I had, as induty bound, to see to the most prosaic wants of my detachment,consisting of one officer (Hugh Price), two sergeants, and forty rankand file of the Royal Welsh. To the latter were issued their coarsecanvas fatigue-frocks. I had to see their muskets racked, their berthsallotted, the messes and watches formed, the ammunition secured, andfifty other things required by her Majesty's regulations. All baggagenot required for the voyage was sent below; and we heartily quizzedpoor Price, whose bullock trunks were alleged to contain only cambrichandkerchiefs, odd tiny kids, variously-tinted locks of hair, andfaded ribbons. But strict orders were issued concerning smoking, as wehad gunpowder in the lower hold; and a number of four-wheeledhospital-waggons for the Land Transport Corps, grimly suggestive, aseach vehicle was divided into four compartments, fitted to receivefour killed or wounded men, on commodious stretchers, withunder-carriages, canopies, and medicine-chests.

Some of my brother officers were glad enough, glory apart, to beleaving Jews and lawyers, "shent. per shent." and legal roguery,behind them. One of the former tribe, having followed Raymond Mostynconcerning a bill discounted at only sixty per cent., came alongside,insisting that the balance should be taken half in cash, and half in a"warranted Correggio," with some villainous wine for the voyage, andsome jewelry "for the girls at Malta;" but he was swamped in his boatunder the counter, when the first mate unceremoniously cast loose thepainter, and sent old Moses--"Mammon incarnate"--to leeward, shriekingand cursing in rage and terror. So my short reverie was completelybroken now, as the great ship, with her deck crowded by soldiers inforage-caps and gray greatcoats, swayed round, and our skipper, an oldman-o'-war lieutenant, from the poop continued his orders with thatpromptitude and tone of authority which are best learned under thelong pennant.

"Make sail on her, my lads, with a will!" he cried. And the watchrushed to the coils at the belaying-pins, aided by the soldiers toldoff for deck duty. "Cast loose the topsails! hoist away, and sheethome!"

"Bear a hand, forecastle, there! cat and fish the anchor!" added thefirst mate; and in a few minutes, with a heavy head sea--the same seawhere, by that shore now lessening in the distance, Danish Canutetaught his servile Saxon courtiers the lesson of humility--we borepast Sandown Bay, with its old square fort of bluff King Harry's dayupon its level beach: and Portsmouth's spires and Selsey Point sunkfast upon our lee, while our bugles were announcing sunset. And thensomething of sadness and silence seemed to steal over the once noisygroups, as they gathered by the starboard side, when we cleared theIsle of Wight. When the yards were squared, more sail was made on theUrgent; and before the north wind we stood down the Channel, and erethe same bugles sounded again, for all save the deck-watches toturn-in below, we were standing well over to the coast of France. Thewhite cliffs had melted into the world of waters, and we had bidden along good-night to dear old England. The twinkling light on St.Catharine's Point lingered long at the horizon, and was watched bymany an eye, as Mostyn, Clavell, and I, with others, cigar in mouth,walked to and fro on the poop, surmising what awaited us in the landfor which we were bound.

As yet the land forces of the Allies had not come to blows with theRussians; but the imperial fort and mole at Odessa (works constructedat vast cost and care by Catharine and Alexander) had been destroyed,and all their ships of war lying there had been burnt or sunk by theAnglo-French fleet. The Russians had taken and burned our war-steamerthe Tiger, and cruelly bombarded Sinope. The Turks had driven themacross the Danube, and defeated them at Giurgevo, but had lost asubsequent battle in Armenia. Napier had bombarded and destroyed theforts upon the Aland Isles in the Baltic; and we on board the Urgent,with many other successive drafts departing eastward, from everyBritish port south of Aberdeen, were full of ardour and of hope to bein time to share in the landing that was to be made at last upon thecoast of the enemy, though no one knew where.

CHAPTER XXIX.--"ICH DIEN."

And now, while the stately troopship Urgent is passing under the gunsof old Gib, and ploughing the waters of the Mediterranean, I mayexplain that which may have been a puzzle to the non-militaryreader--the meaning of "the Red Dragon." In the breasts of all whoserve or have served in the army there exists an esprit de corps, afilial attachment, to all that belongs to their regiment, to its pasthistory, its conduct in peace and war, its badges won in battle--thosehonours which are the heraldry of the service, and connected with theglory of the empire--in its officers and soldiers of all ranks. Thissentiment is more peculiar to some regiments, perhaps, than others,especially those which, like the Scottish and Irish, have distinctnationalities to represent and uphold; but to none is it moreapplicable than the old Fusileers, whose motto is at the head of thischapter. By esprit de corps the good and brave are excited to freshfeats of valour, and the evil-disposed are frequently deterred fromrisking disgrace by a secret consciousness of the duty it inculcates,and what is required of them by their comrades; for, like a Highlandclan, a regiment has its own peculiar annals and traditions. It is acommunity, a family, a brotherhood, and should be the soldier's happythough movable home, while a regiment great in history "bears so far aresemblance to the immortal gods as to be old in power and glory, yetto have always the freshness of youth."

So it is and has been with mine, which was first embodied at Ludlow,in Shropshire, in 1689, from thirteen companies of soldiers, raisedspecially in Wales, under Lord Herbert, of Cherbury, whose cousin,Colonel Charles Herbert, M.P. for Montgomery, was killed, at the headof the Fusileers, in his buff coat and cuirass, at the battle ofAughrim, after having led them through a bog up to the waist belt,under a terrible fire from the Irish. His successor, the valiant TobyPurcell, who had been major of the regiment, greatly distinguishedhimself at the battle of the Boyne, and the huge spurs, worn by him onthat memorable occasion, are still preserved in the corps, beingalways in possession of the senior major for the time being.

To attempt a memoir of the regiment would be to compile a history ofall the wars of Britain since the Revolution. Suffice it to say, thaton every field, in the wars of the Spanish Succession, those ofFlanders (where "our army swore so terribly"), at Minden, in America,Egypt, and the ever-glorious Peninsula, the Welsh Fusileers have beenin the van of honour, and, like their Scottish comrades, might wellterm themselves "second to none."

Among the last shots fired after Waterloo were those discharged bythe Fusileers, when, on the 24th of June, six days subsequent to thebattle, they entered Cambrai by the old breach near the Port du Paris.As it is common for corps from mountainous districts to have some petanimal--as the Highlanders often have a stag--as a fond symbol toremind them of home and country, the regiment has the privilege ofpassing in review preceded by a goat with gilded horns, adorned withringlets of flowers, and a plate inscribed with its badge.

No record is preserved of the actual loss of the regiment at Bunker'sHill, though the assertion of Cooper, the American novelist, that onthat bloody day "the Welsh Fusileers had not a man left to saddletheir goat," which went into action with them, would seem to becorroborated by the fact that only five grenadiers escaped; whileMrs. Adams, in a letter to her husband, the future President of theUnited States, says of that battle, "our enemies were cut down likegrass; and but one officer of all the Welsh Fusileers remains to tellhis story." When old Billy, the favourite goat of the 23rd, departedthis life in peace in the Caribbean Isles, whence he had accompaniedthe regiment from Canada in 1844, her Majesty the Queen, on learningthat he was greatly lamented by the soldiers, sent to them, fromWindsor Park, a magnificent pair of the pure Cashmerian breed, whichhad been presented to her by the Shah of Persia. On every 1st ofMarch, on the anniversary of their tutelary patron--St. David--theofficers give a splendid entertainment; and when the cloth is removed,and the leek duly eaten, the first toast is a bumper to the health ofthe Prince of Wales; the memory of old Toby Purcell is not forgotten,and, as the order has it, the band plays "'The noble Race of Shenkin,'while a drum-boy mounted on the goat, which is richly caparisoned forthe occasion, is led thrice round the table by the drum-major."

At Boston, in 1775, a goat somewhat resented this exhibition, bybreaking away from the mess-room, and rushing into the barracks withall his trappings on. There are few battlefields honourable to Britainwhere the Welsh Fusileers have not left their bones. The colours whichwave over their ranks show a goodly list of hard-won honours--"bloodyand hard-won honours," says a writer. "Arthur himself, Cadwallader,Glendower, and many an ancient Cambrian chief, might in ghostlyform--if ghosts can grudge--envy their bold descendants the fame ofthese modern exploits, and confess that the lance and the corselet,the falchion and the mace, have done no greater deeds than those ofthe firelock and the buff-belt, the bayonet and sixty rounds ofball-cartridge." On their colours are the two badges of Edward theBlack Prince--the Rising Sun and the Red Dragon; "a dragon addorsedgules, passant, on a mountain vert," as the heralds have it. This wasthe ancient symbol of the Cambrian Principality, with the significantmotto, Ich dien, "I serve." And now, at the very time the Urgent wasentering the Mediterranean, the regiment was on its way, with others,to win fresh laurels by the shores of the Black Sea; and with hishorns gaily gilded, and a handsome, regimental, silver plate claspedon his forehead, Cameydd Llewellyn, whilom the caressed pet of thegentle Winny Lloyd, was landing with them at Kalamita Bay, and thehordes of Menschikoff were pouring forward from Sebastopol.[2]

CHAPTER XXX.--NEWS OF BATTLE.

We came in sight of Malta at daybreak on the 28th of September, andabout noon dropped our anchor in the Marsamuscetta, or quarantineharbour, where all ships under the rank of a frigate must go. Thiscelebrated isle, the master-key of the Mediterranean, the link thatconnects us with Egypt and India, was a new scene to me. Mostyn andsome others on board the Urgent had been quartered there before, andwhile I was surveying the vast strength of its batteries of whitesandstone, with those apparently countless cannon, that peer throughthe deep embrasures, or frown en barbette over the sea; the quaintappearance of those streets of stairs, which Byron anathematised; thesingular architecture of the houses, so Moorish in style and aspect,with heavy, overhanging balconies and flat roofs all connected, sothat the dwellers therein can make a common promenade of them; thegroups of picturesque, half-nude, and tawny Maltese; the monks andclerical students in rusty black cloaks and triangular hats; the Greeksailors, in short jackets and baggy blue breeches; the numbers ofscarlet uniforms, and those of the Chasseurs de Vincennes (for twoFrench three-deckers full of the latter had just come in); the nakedboys who dived for halfpence in the harbour, and jabbered a dialectthat was more Arabic than Italian--while surveying all this from thepoop, through my field-glass, Mostyn was pointing out to me the greatcathedral of St. John, some of the auberges of the knights, andanticipating the pleasure of a fruit lunch in the Strada Reale, adrive to Monte Benjemma, a dinner at Morell's, in the Strada Forni, acigar on the ramparts, and then dropping into the opera-house, whichwas built by the Grand-master Manoel Vilhena, and where the bestsingers from La Scala may be heard in the season; and Price of ourswas already soft and poetical in the ideas of faldettas of lace, blackeyes, short skirts, and taper ankles, and anticipating or suggestingvarious soft things. While the soldiers clustered in the waist, asthick as bees, the officers were all busy with their lorgnettes on thepoop, or in preparation for a run ashore, when the bells of Valettabegan to ring a merry peal, the ships in the harbour to show all theircolours, and a gun flashed redly from the massive granite ramparts ofSt. Elmo, a place of enormous strength, having in its lower bastions asunk barrack, capable of holding two thousand infantry.

"Another gun!" exclaimed little Tom Clavell, as a second cannon sentit* peal over the flat roofs, and another; "a salute, by Jove! What isup--is this an anniversary?"

It was no anniversary, however, and on the troopship coming toanchor in the crowded and busy harbour, and the quarantine boat comingon board, we soon learned what was "up;" the news spread likelightning through the vessel, from lip to lip and ear to ear; the humgrew into a roar, and ended in the soldiers and sailors giving threehearty cheers, to which many responded from other ships, and from theshore; while the bands of the Chasseurs de Vincennes, on board thethree-deckers, struck up the "Marseillaise."

News had just come in that four days ago a battle had been fought byLord Raglan and Marshal St. Arnaud at a place called the Alma in CrimTartary; that the allied troops after terrible slaughter werevictorious, and the Russians were in full retreat. That evening a fewof us dined at the mess of the Buffs, a battalion of which wasquartered in the castle of St. Elmo. The officers occupied one of theknights' palaces--the Auberge de Bavière--near that bastion where theScottish hero of Alexandria is lying in the grave that so becomes hisfate and character. This auberge is a handsome building overlookingthe blue sea, which almost washes its walls; and there we heard thefirst hasty details of that glorious battle, the story of which filledour hearts with regret and envy that we had not borne a share in it,and which formed a source of terrible anxiety to the poor wives ofmany officers who had left them behind at Malta, and who could onlysee the fatal lists after their transmission to London. We heard thebrief story of that tremendous uphill charge made by the LightDivision--the Welsh Fusileers, the 19th, 33rd, 88th, and otherregiments--supported by the Guards and Highlanders; that the 33rdalone had nineteen reliefs shot under their two colours, which wereperforated by sixty-five bullet-holes. We heard how Colonel Chestersof ours, and eight of his officers, fell dead at the same moment, andthat Charley Gwynne, Phil Caradoc, and many more were wounded.

"On, on, my gallant 23rd!" were the last words of Chesters, as he fellfrom his horse.

We heard how two of our boy ensigns, Buller and little Anstruther ofBalcaskie, were shot dead with the colours in their hands; howConnelly, Wynne, young Radcliffe, and many more, all fell sword inhand; how the regiment had fought like tigers, and that Sir GeorgeBrown, after his horse was shot under him, led them on foot, with hishat in his hand, crying, "Hurrah for the Royal Welsh! Come on, myboys!"

And on they went, till Private Evans planted the Red Dragon on thegreat redoubt, where nine hundred men were lying dead. The heightswere taken by a rush, and the first gun captured from the Russians wasby Major Bell of ours, who brought it out of the field. A passionateglow of triumph and exultation filled my heart; I felt proud of ourarmy, but of my regiment in particular, for the brave fellows of theBuffs were loud in their commendations of the 23rd; proud that I worethe same uniform and the same badges in which so many had perishedwith honour. None but a soldier, perhaps, can feel or understand allthis, or that esprit de corps already referred to, and which sums uplove of country, kindred, pride of self and profession, in one. Butanon came the chilling and mortifying thought that I enjoyed onlyreflected honours. Why was I now seated amid the splendour and luxuryof a mess in the Auberge de Bavière? Why was I not yonder, where somany had won glory or a grave? How provoking was the chance, the merechain of military contingencies, by which I had lost all participationin that great battle, the first fought in Europe since Waterloo--thisAlma, that was now in all men's mouths, and in the heart of many awife and mother, fought and won while we had been sailing on the sea,and while the unconscious folks at home throughout the British Isleswere going about their peaceful avocations; when thousands of men andwomen, parents and wives, whose tenderest thoughts were with ourgallant little host, were ignorant that those they loved best on earthperhaps were already cold, mutilated, and buried in hasty gravesbeneath its surface, in a place before unheard of, or by them unknown.

So great was the slaughter in my own regiment, that though I was onlya lieutenant, there seemed to be every prospect of my winning ere longthe huge spurs won by Toby Purcell at the Boyne Water; but my turn ofsharp service was coming; for, though I could not foresee it all then,Inkermann was yet to be fought, the Quarries to be contested, theMamelon and Redan to be stormed, and Sebastopol itself had yet tofall. Had I shared in that battle by the Alma, I might have perished,and been lost to Estelle for ever; leaving her, perhaps, to be wooedand won by another, when I was dead and forgotten like the last year'ssnow. This reflection cooled my ardour a little; for love made meselfish, or disposed to be more economical of my person, after myenthusiasm and the fumes of the Buffs' champagne passed away; and nowfrom Malta I wrote the first letter I had ever addressed to her, fullof what the reader may imagine, and sent with it a suite of thosedelicate and beautiful gold filigree ornaments, for the manufacture ofwhich the Maltese jewellers are so famed; and when I sealed my packetat the Clarendon in the Strada San Paola, I sighed while reflectingthat I could receive no answer to it, with assurances of her love andsorrow, until after I had been face to face with those same Muscoviteswhom my comrades had hurled from the heights of the Alma.

Three days after this intelligence arrived we quitted Malta, and had afair and rapid run for the Dardanelles. The first morning found us,with many a consort full of troops, skirting, under easy sail, thebarren-looking isle of Cerigo--of old, the fabled abode of the goddessof love, now the Botany Bay of the Ionians; its picturesque old townand fort encircled by a chain of bare, brown, and rugged mountains,whose peaks the rising sun was tipping with fire. As if to remind usthat we were near the land of Minerva, and of the curious Ascalaphus,

"Begat in Stygian shades
On Orphnè, famed among Avernal maids,"

many little dusky owls perched on the yards and booms, where theypermitted themselves to be caught. Ere long the Isthmus of Corinthcame in sight--that long tract of rock connecting the bleak-lookingMorea with the Grecian continent, and uniting two chains of loftymountains, the classical names of which recalled the days of ourschool-boy tasks; thence on to Candia, the hills of which rose so paleand white from the deep indigo blue of the sea, that they seemed as ifsheeted with the snow of an early winter; but when we drew nearer theshore, the land-wind wafted towards us the aromatic odour that arisesfrom the rank luxuriance of the vast quantity of flowers and shrubswhich there grow wild, and form food for the wild goats and hares.

Every hour produced some new, or rather ancient, object of interest aswe ploughed the classic waters of the Ægean Sea, and no man among us,who had read and knew the past glories, traditions, and poetry of theshores we looked on, could hear uttered without deep interest thenames of those isles and bays--that on yonder plain, as we skirted themainland of Asia, stood the Troy of Priam; that yonder hill toweringin the background, a purple cone against a golden sky, was Mount Idacapped with snow, Scamander flowing at its foot; Ida, where Paris, theprincely shepherd, adjudged the prize of beauty to Venus, and whencethe assembled gods beheld the Trojan strife; for every rock and peakwe looked on was full of the memories of ancient days, and of that"bright land of battle and of song," which Byron loved with all apoet's enthusiasm. Dusk was closing as we entered the Hellespont; thecastles of Europe and Asia were, however, distinctly visible, and wecould see the red lights that shone in the Turkish fort, and thewindmills whirling on the Sigean promontory, as we glided, withsquared yards, before a fair and steady breeze, into those famousstraits which Mohammed IV. fortified to secure his city and fleetsagainst the fiery energy of the Venetians; and now, as I do not mean"to talk guide-book," our next chapter will find us in the land ofstrife and toil, of battle and the pest; in that Crim Tartary which,to so many among us, was to prove the land of death and doom.

CHAPTER XXXI.-UNDER CANVAS.

The 4th of October found me with my regiment (my detachment "handedover," and responsibility, so far as it was concerned, past) beforeSebastopol, which our army had now environed, on one side at least.And now I was face to face with the Russians at last, and war hadbecome a terrible reality. Tents had been landed, and all the troopswere fairly under canvas. Our camp was strengthened by a chain ofintrenchments dug all round it, and connected with those of theFrench, which extended to the sea on their left, while our right laytowards the valley of Inkermann, at the entrance of which, on a chalkycliff, 190 feet high at its greatest elevation, rose the city ofSebastopol, with all its lofty white mansions, that ran in parallelstreets up the steep acclivity. In memory I can see it now, as I usedto see it then, from the trenches, the advanced rifle-pits, or throughthe triangular door of my tent, with all its green-domed churches, itsgreat round frowning batteries, forts Alexander and Constantine andothers, perforated for cannon, tier above tier; and far inlandapparently, for a distance after even the suburbs had ceased, wereseen the tall slender masts of the numerous shipping that had takenshelter in the far recesses of the harbour, nearly to the mouth of theTchernaya, from our fleets (which now commanded all the Black Sea).And a pretty sight they formed in a sunny day, when all their whitecanvas was hanging idly on the yards to dry.

Nearer the mouth of the great harbour were the enormous dark hulls ofthe line-of-battle ships--the Three Godheads of 120 guns, theSilistria of 84, the Paris and Constantine, 120 each, and othervessels of that splendid fleet which was soon after sunk to bar ourentrance. Daily the Russians threw shot and shell at us, while weworked hard to get under cover. The sound of those missiles wasstrange and exciting at first to the ears of the uninitiated; butafter a time the terrible novelty of it passed away, or was heard withindifference; and with indifference, too, even those who had not beenat Alma learned to look on the killed and wounded, who were daily andnightly borne from the trenches to the rear, the latter to be underthe care of the toil-worn surgeons, and the former to lie for a timein the dead-tents. The siege-train was long in arriving. "War triesthe strength of the military framework," says Napier. "It is in peacethe framework itself must be formed, otherwise barbarians would be theleading soldiers of the world. A perfect army can only be made bycivil institutions." Yet with us such was the state of the"framework," by the results of a beggarly system of political economy,that when war was declared--a war after forty years of peace--ourarsenals had not a sufficient quantity of shells for the firstbattering-train, and the fuses issued had been in store rotting anddecaying since the days of Toulouse and Waterloo. This was but oneamong the many instances of gross mismanagement which characterisedmany arrangements of the expedition. And taking advantage of thedelays, nightly the Russians, with marvellous rapidity, were throwingup additional batteries of enormous strength, mounted with cannontaken from the six line-of-battle ships which, by a desperateresolve of Prince Menschikoff's, were ultimately sunk across theharbour-mouth, where we could see the sea-birds, scared by the adversecannonade, perching at times on their masts and royal-yards, whichlong remained visible above the water. Occasionally our war-steamerscame near, and then their crews amused themselves by throwing shellsinto the town. Far up the inlet lay a Russian man-of-war, with acannon ingeniously slung in her rigging. The shot from this, as theycould slue it in any direction, greatly annoyed our sappers, andkilled many of them, before one well-directed ball silenced it forever.

Two thousand seamen with their officers, forming the Naval Brigade ofgallant memory, were landed from our fleet, bringing with them amagnificent battering-train of ship-guns of the largest calibre; andthese hardy and active fellows lent most efficient aid in draggingtheir ordnance and the stores over the rough and hilly ground thatlies between Balaclava and the city. They were all in exuberantspirits at the prospect of a protracted "spree" ashore; for as suchthey viewed the circ*mstance of their forming a part of the combinedforces destined to take Sebastopol, and they amused and astonished theredcoats by their freaks and pranks under fire, and their readyalacrity, jollity, and muscular strength. Guns of enormous weight andlong range were fast being brought into position; the trenches were"pushed" with vigour; and now the work of a regular siege--theconsecutive history of which forms no part of my narrative--was begunin stern earnest when the batteries opened on the 16th October. Ourarmies were placed in a semicircle, commanding the southern side ofthis great fortified city and arsenal of the Black Sea. They were infull possession of the heights which overlook it, and were mostfavourably posted for the usual operations of a siege, which wouldnever have been necessary had it been entered after Alma was won. Adeep and beautiful ravine, intersecting the elevated ground, extendedfrom the harbour of the doomed city to Balaclava, dividing the area ofthe allied camp into two portions. The French, I have said, were onthe left, and we held the right.

On the very day our batteries opened, I received the notification ofmy appointment to a company. This rapid promotion was consequent tothe sad casualties of the Alma; and two days after, when thetrench-guards were relieved, and I came off duty before daybreak, Icrept back to my tent cold, miserable, and weary, to find my manEvans--brother of the gallant private of the same name who planted theRed Dragon on the great redoubt--busy preparing a breakfast forthree, with the information that Caradoc and Gwynne, who had been onboard the Hydaspes, an hospital ship for officers, had rejoined thenight before, and had added their repast to mine for the sake ofsociety. But food and other condiments were already scarce in thecamp, and tidings that they had come from Balaclava with theirhaversacks full, caused more than one hungry fellow to visit myhumble abode, the canvas walls of which flapped drearily in the wind,that came sweeping up the valley of Inkermann. Without undressing, asthe morning was almost in, I threw myself upon my camp-bed, whichserved me in lieu of a sofa, and strove, with the aid of a plaid, arailway-rug, and blanket, to get some warmth into my limbs, after thechill of a night spent in the damp trenches; while Evans, poor fellow,was doing his best to boil our green and ill-ground coffee in acamp-kettle on a fire made of half-dried drift-wood, outside my tent,which was pitched in a line with thousands of others, on the slope ofthe hill that overlooked the valley where the Tchernaya flows. Thoughthe season was considerably advanced now, the days were hot, but thenights were correspondingly chill; and at times a white dense fog camerolling up from the Euxine, rendering still greater the discomfort ofa bell-tent, as it penetrated every crevice, and rendered everythingtherein--one's bedding and wearing apparel, even that which was packedin overlands and bullock-trunks--damp, while sugar, salt, and breadbecame quite moist. Luckily, somehow it did not seem to affect ourammunition. Then there came high winds, which blew every night,whistling over the hill-tops, singing amongst the tent-ropes, andbellowing down the valley of Inkermann.

These blasts sometimes cast the tent-ropes loose by uprooting thepegs, causing fears lest the pole--whereon hung the revolvers, swords,pans, and kettles of the occupants--might snap, and compel them, whenhoping to enjoy a comfortable night's rest off duty, to come forthshivering from bed to grope for the loosened pegs amid the muddy soilor wet grass, and by the aid of a stone or a stray shot--if the malletwas not forthcoming--to secure them once more. This might be varied bya shower of rain, which sputtered in your face as you lay abed, tillthe canvas became thoroughly wetted, and so tightened. Anon it mightshrink; then the ropes would strain, and unless you were in time torelax them, down might come the whole domicile in a wet mass on thosewho were within it. Now and then a random shot fired from Sebastopol,or the whistling shell, with a sound like t'wit-t'wit-t'wit,describing a fiery arc as it soared athwart the midnight sky on itserrand of destruction, varied the silence and darkness of the hour.The clink of shovels and pickaxes came ever and anon from thetrenches, where the miners and working-parties were pushing their saptowards the city. The sentinels walked their weary round, or stoodstill, each on his post shivering, it might be, in the passing blast,but looking fixedly and steadily towards the enemy. The rest sleptsoundly after their day of toil and danger, watching, starvation, andmisery; forgetful of the Russian watchfires that burned in thedistance, heedless of the perils of the coming day, and of where thecoming night might find them. And so the night would pass, till themorning bugle sounded; then the stir and bustle began, and there wasno longer rest for any, from the general of the day down to the goatof the Welsh Fusileers; the cooking, and cleaning of arms, parade ofreliefs for outpost and the trenches, proceeded; but these withoutsound of trumpet or drum, as men detailed for such duties doeverything silently; neither do their sentries take any complimentarynotice of officers passing near their posts. Ere long a thousand whitepuffs, spirting up from the broken ground between us and the city,would indicate the rifle-pits, where the skirmishers lay en perdue,taking quiet pot-shots at each other from behind stones, caper-bushes,sand-bags, and sap-rollers; and shimmering through haze and smoke--theblue smoke of the "villainous saltpetre"--rose the city itself, withits green spires and domes, white mansions, and bristling batteries.

And so I saw it through the tent-door as the morning drew on, and thegolden sunshine began to stream down the long valley of Inkermann,"the city of caverns;" while our foragers were on the alert, andTurkish horses laden with hay, and strings of low four-wheeled arabas,driven by Tartars in fur skull-caps, brown jackets, and loose whitetrousers, would vary the many costumes of the camp. And the morningsunshine fell on other things which were less lively,--the long moundsof fresh earth where the dead lay, many of them covered with whitelime dust to insure speedy decay. And then began that daily cannonadeagainst the city--the cannonade that was to last till we aloneexpended more than one hundred thousand barrels of gunpowder, andheaven alone knows how many tons of shot and shell.

Often I lay in that tent, with the roar of the guns in my ears,pondering over the comfort of stone walls, of English sea-coal fires,and oftener still of her who was so far away, she so nobly born andrich, surrounded, as I knew she must always be, by all that wealth andluxury, rank and station could confer; and I thought longingly, "O foraunt Margaret's mirror, or Surrey's magic glass, or for the far-seeingtelescope of the nursery tale, that I might see her once again!"Estelle's promises of writing to me had not been fulfilled as yet, orher answers to my loving and earnest letters from Malta and the Crimeahad miscarried.

"Welcome, Caradoc! welcome, Gwynne!" cried I, springing off thecamp-bed as my two friends entered the tent, of which I was the soleoccupant, as my lieutenant was on board the Hydaspes ill with fever,and my ensign, a poor boy fresh from Westminster school, was under oneof the horrid mounds in the shot-strewn valley.

"Harry, old fellow, how are you?--how goes it? Missed the Alma, eh?"said they cheerfully, as we warmly shook hands.

"All the better, perhaps," said Mostyn, who now joined us, while Priceand Clavell soon after dropped in also; so two had to sit on thecamp-bed, while the rest squatted on chests or buckets, and as for atable, we never missed it.

"And you were hit, Caradoc?"

"In the calf of the left leg, Harry, prodded by the rusty bayonet of afellow who lay wounded on the ground, and who continued to fireafter us when we had left him in the rear, till one of ours gave himthe coup de grâce with the butt-end of his musket. Would you believeit?--the goat went up hill with us, and I couldn't, even while thebullets fell like hail about us, resist caressing it, for the sake ofthe donor."

"Poor Winny Lloyd!"

"Why poor?" asked Phil.

"Well, pretty, then. I saw her just before I left Southampton."

"This goat seems to be the peculiar care of Caradoc," said Gwynne; "herivals its keeper, little Dicky Roll the drummer, in his anxiety toprocure leaves, and buds of spurge, birch, and bird-cherry for it."

Phil Caradoc laughed, and muttered something about being "fond ofanimals;" but a soft expression was in his handsome brown eyes, and Iknew he was thinking of sweet Winifred Lloyd, of his bootless suit,and the pleasant woods of Craigaderyn.

"And you, Charley, were hit, too? Saw your name in the Gazette,"said I.

"A ball right through the left fore-arm, clean as a whistle; but it isalmost well."

"And now to breakfast. Look sharp, Evans, there's a good fellow! Amorning walk from Balaclava to the front gives one an appetite," saidI.

"Yes, that one may not often have, like us, the wherewith to satisfy.An appetite is the most troublesome thing one can have in the vicinityof Sebastopol," replied Phil.

A strange-looking group we were when contrasted with our appearancewhen last we met.

Probably not one of us had enjoyed the luxury of a complete wash for aweek, and the use of the razor having long been relinquished, ourbeards rivalled that of Carneydd Llewellyn in size, if not in hue. Thescarlet uniforms, with lace and wings[3] of gold, in which we hadlanded, we had marched and fought and slept in for weeks, were purple,covered with discolorations, and patched with any stuff that came tohand. Our trousers had turned from Oxford gray to something of a redhue, with Crimean mud. Each of us had a revolver in his sash (which wethen wore round the waist), and a canvas haversack or well-worncourier-bag slung over his shoulder, to contain whatever he might pickup, beg, borrow, or buy (some were less particular) in the shape ofbiscuits, eggs, fowls, or potatoes. Caradoc carried a dead duck by thelegs as he entered, and Charley Gwynne had a loaf of Russian breadhung by a cord over his left shoulder, like a pilgrim at La ScalaSanta; while Price had actually secured a lump of cheese from the wifeof a Tartar, a fair one, with whom the universal lover had foundfavour when foraging in the lovely Baidar Valley. We were already toomiserable to laugh at each other's appearance, and our tatters hadceased to be a matter of novelty. If such was the condition of ourofficers, that of the privates was fully worse; and thanks to ourwretched commissariat and ambulance arrangements, the splendidphysique of our men had begun to disappear; but their pluck wasundying as ever.

On this morning we six were to have a breakfast such as rarely fell toour lot in the Crimea; for Evans, my Welsh factotum and fidusAchates, was a clever fellow, and speedily had prepared for us, at afire improvised under the shelter of a rock, a large kettle ofsteaming coffee, which, sans milk, we drank from tin canteens,tumblers, or anything suitable, and Gwynne's loaf was sharedfraternally among us, together with a brace of fowls found by him in aTartar cottage. "Lineal descendants of the co*ck that crew to Mahomet,no doubt," said he; "and now, thanks to Evans, there they are, brown,savoury, appetising, gizzard under one wing, liver under theother--done to a turn, and on an old ramrod."

And while discussing them, the events of the siege were alsodiscussed, as coolly as we were wont to do the most ordinary fieldman[oe]uvres at home.

"The deuce!" said I, "how the breeze comes under the wall of thiswretched tent!"

"Don't abuse the tent, Harry," said Caradoc; "I am thankful to findmyself in one, after being on board the Hydaspes. It must be averitable luxury to be able to sleep, even on a camp-bed and alone,after being in a hospital, with one sufferer on your right, another onyour left, dead or dying, groaning and in agony. May God kindly keepus all from the 'bloody hospital of Scutari,' after all I have heardof it!"

"You were with us last night in the trenches, Mostyn?" said I.

"Yes, putting Gwynne's Hythe theories into practice from a rifle pit.I am certain that I potted at least three of the Ruskies as coolly asever I did grouse in Scotland. All squeamishness has left me now,though I could not help shuddering when first I saw a man's heels inthe air, after firing at him. You will never guess what happened onour left. A stout vivandière of the 3rd Zouaves, while in the act ofgiving me a petit verre from her little keg, was taken--"

"By the enemy?" exclaimed Price.

"Not at all--with the pains of maternity; and actually while the shotand shell were flying over our heads."

"And what were the trench casualties?" asked Gwynne.

"About a hundred and twenty of all ranks, killed, wounded, andmissing. A piece more of the fowl--thanks."

"A guardsman was killed last night, I have heard," said Hugh Price.

"Yes; poor Evelyn of the Coldstreams; he was first blinded by dust andearth blown into his eyes by the ricochetting of a 36-pound shot, andas he was groping about in an exposed place between the gabions, hefell close by me."

"Wounded?"

"Mortally--hit in the head; he' was just able to whisper some woman'sname, and then expired. He purchased all his steps up to the majority,so there's a pot of money gone. I think I could enjoy a quiet weednow; but, Clavell, there was surely an awful shindy in your quarterlast night?"

"Yes," replied Tom, who, since he had been under fire, seemed to havegrown an inch taller; "a sortie."

"A sortie?" said two or three, laughing.

"Well, something deuced like it," said Tom, testily, as he stroked theplace where his moustache was to be. "I was asleep between the gabionsabout twelve at night, when all at once a terrible uproar awoke me.'Stand to your arms, men, stand to your arms!' cried our adjutant;'the Russians are scouring the trenches!' I sprang up, and tumbledagainst a bulky brute in a spike-helmet and long coat, with a smokingrevolver in his hand, just as a sergeant of ours shot him. It was allconfusion--I can tell you nothing about it; but we will see it all inthe Times by and by. 'Sound for the reserves!' cried one. 'By God,they have taken the second parallel!' cried another. 'Fire!' 'Don'tfire yet!' But our recruits began to blaze away at random. TheRussians, however, fell back; it might have been only a reconnoitringparty; but, anyhow, they have levanted with the major of the 93rdHighlanders."

"The deuce they have!" we exclaimed. And this episode of the major'scapture was to have more interest for me than I could then foresee.

"These cigars, five in number," continued Tom, "were given to me by apoor dying Zouave, who had lost his way and fallen among us. I gavehim a mouthful of brandy from my canteen, after which he said, Takethese, monsieur l'officier; they are all I have in the world now, and,as you smoke them, think of poor Paul Ferrière of the 3rd Zouaves,once a jolly student of the Ecole de Médecine, dying now, like abeggar's dog!' he added, bitterly. 'Nay,' said I, 'like a bravesoldier.' 'Monsieur is right,' said he, with a smile. Our surgeonscould do nothing for him, and so he expired quite easily, whilewatching his own blood gradually filling up a hole in the earth nearhim!"

"Well, the Crimea, bad as it is," said Caradoc, as he prepared and litone of the Frenchman's cigars, "is better than serving in India, Ithink; 'that union of well-born paupers,' as some fellow has it, 'apenal servitude for those convicted of being younger sons.'"

"By Jove, I can't agree with you," said Mostyn, who had served inIndia, and was also a younger son; "but glory is a fine thing, nodoubt."

"Glory be hanged!" said Gwynne, testily; "a little bit of it goes along way with me."

"See, there go some of the Naval Brigade to have a little ballpractice with a big Lancaster!" cried Tom Clavell, starting to thetent-door.

"Getting another gun into position apparently," added Raymond Mostyn.

As they spoke, a party of seamen, whiskered and bronzed, armed withcutlasses and pistols, their officers with swords drawn, swept pastthe tent-door at a swinging trot, all singing cheerily a forecastlesong, of which the monotonous burden seemed to be,

tallying on the while to the drag-ropes of a great Lancaster gun,which they trundled up the slope, crushing stones, caper-bushes, andeverything under its enormous grinding wheels, till they got it intoposition; and a loud ringing cheer, accompanied by a deep and sullenboom, ere long announced that they had slued it round and sent onemore globe of iron to add to the hundreds that were daily hurledagainst Sebastopol. On this occasion the fire of this especialLancaster gun was ordered to be directed against a bastion on theextreme left of the city, where the officer in command, a man ofremarkable bravery, who had led several sorties against us, seemed towork his cannon and direct their fire with uncommon skill; and it washoped that we should ere long dismount or disable them, and ifpossible breach the place.

CHAPTER XXXII.--IN THE TRENCHES.

It was while the infantry and Naval Brigade were still beforeSebastopol, toiling, trenching, and pounding with cannon and mortar atall its southern side, we had our ardour fired, our enthusiasmkindled, and our sorrow keenly excited by the tidings of that gloriousbut terrible death ride, the charge of the six hundred cavalry atBalaclava; and of how only one hundred and fifty came alive out ofthat mouth of fire, the valley where rained "the red artillery"--the13th Hussars were said to have brought only twelve men out of theaction, and the 17th Lancers twenty--and how nobly they were avengedby our "heavies" under the gallant Scarlett; and of the stern standmade against six thousand Russian horse by the "thin red line" of theSutherland Highlanders.

On the day these tidings were circulated in the trenches by many whohad witnessed the events, we seemed to redouble our energies, and shotand shell were poured with greater fury than ever on the city, whilesharper, nearer, and more deadly were the contests of man and man inthe rifle-pits between it and the trenches. Then followed the sortiemade by Menschikoff, supposing that most of the allied forces had beendrawn towards Balaclava--a movement met by the infantry and artilleryof the second division under Sir De Lacy Evans, and repulsed with aslaughter which naturally added to the hatred on both sides; andinnumerable were the stories told, and authenticated, of the Russiansmurdering our helpless wounded in cold blood. On the night of the 2ndNovember I was again in the trenches opposite to the eastern flank ofSebastopol, the whole regiment being on duty covering the batteriesand working-parties.

The day passed as usual in exciting and desultory firing, the Russiansand our fellows watching each other like lynxes, and never missing anopportunity for taking a quiet shot at each other. A strong battalionof the former was in our front, lurking among some mounds and thickabattis, formed of trees felled and pegged to the earth with theirbranches towards us; and above the barrier and the broken ground thatlay between it and the advanced trench-ground, strewed with fragmentsof rusty iron nails, broken bottles, and the other amiable contents ofexploded bombs, torn, rent, upheaved, or sunk into deep holes by theexplosion of mines and countermines, shells and rockets, we could seetheir bearded visages, their flat caps and tall figures, cross-beltedand clad in long gray shapeless coats, as from time to time theyyelled and started up to take aim at some unwary Welsh Fusileer,heedless that from some other point some comrade's bullet avengedhim, or anticipated his fate. To attempt a description of the trenchesto a non-military reader, in what Byron terms "engineering slang,"would be useless, perhaps; suffice it to say that we were prettysecure from round shot, but never from shells, the trenches or zigzagsbeing dug fairly parallel to the opposing batteries, with a thick bankof earth towards Sebastopol, a banquette for our men to mount on whenfiring became necessary.

Near us was a battery manned by our Royal Artillery--the guns beingrun through rude portholes made in the earthen bank, with the additionof sand-bags, baskets, and stuffed gabions, to protect the gunners.All was in splendid order there: the breeching-guns ever ready foraction; the sponges, rammers, and handspikes lying beside the wheels;the shot piled close by as tidily as if in Woolwich-yard; the carbinesof the men placed in racks against the gabions; the officers laughingover an old Punch, or making sketches, varied by caricatures of theRussians, their men sitting close by in their greatcoats, smoking andsinging while awaiting orders, and listening with perfect indifferenceto the casual dropping fire maintained by us against the enemy in theabbatis or pits along our front, though almost every shot was theknell of a human existence.

Death and danger were now strangely familiar to us all, and we caredas little for the whish of a round bullet or the sharp ping of theMinie, while it cut the air, as for the deep hoarse booming of thebreaching-guns; it was the cry of "bomb!" from the look out men, thatusually made us start, and sprawl on our faces, or scamper away, forshelter, to crouch with our heads stooped in our favourite or fanciedplaces of security among the gabions, till a soaring monster, withdeath and mutilation in its womb, with its hoarse puffing that rose toa whistle, concussed all the air by the crash of its explosion.

Our men were all in their greatcoats, with their white belts outside;and, save when a section or so started angrily to arms, as thosefellows in the abattis became more annoying, they sat quietly on theground or against the wall of the trench, smoking, chatting withperfect equanimity, and occasionally taking a sip of rum or raki fromtheir canteens; for, after weeks and months of this kind of duty,especially after the severity of the Crimean war set in, our oldersoldiers seemed utterly indifferent as to whether they lived or died.

All of them, even such boys as Tom Clavell, had been front to frontwith death, again and again. Among ourselves, even, there was anincessant scramble for food; hence in the expression of theirfaces and eyes there was something hard, set, fierce, andundefinable--half-wolfish at times, devil-may-care always; for in afew weeks after the landing at Eupatoria, they had seen more and livedlonger than one can do in years upon years of a life of peace.

"What do you see, Hugh, that you look so earnestly to the front?" Iasked of Price, who was lying on his breast with a rifle close besidehim, and his field-glass, to which his eyes were applied, wedged in acranny between two sand-bags.

"A Russian devil has made a bolt out of the abattis into yonder holemade by a shell."

"And what of that?"

"I am waiting to pot him, as he can't stay there long," replied Price,usually the best of good-natured fellows, but now looking with atiger-like stare through the same lorgnette which he had used on manya day at the Derby, and many a night at the opera; "there he comes,"he added. In a moment the Minie rifle, already sighted, was firmly atthe shoulder of Price, who fired; a mass like a gray bundle, withhands and arms outspread, rolled over and over again on the ground,and then lay still; at another time it might have seemed mostterribly still!

"Potted, by Jove!" exclaimed Hugh, as he restored the rifle toSergeant Rhuddlan, and quietly resumed his cigar.

"A jolly good shot, sir, at four hundred yards," added thenon-commissioned officer, as he proceeded to reload and cap.

At that time the life of a Russian was deemed by us of no more accountthan that of a hare or rabbit in the shooting season; but, if recklessof the lives of others, it must be remembered that we were equallyreckless of our own; and, with all its horrors, war is not withoutproducing some of the gentler emotions. Thus, even on those weary,exciting, and perilous days and nights in the trenches, under theinfluence of camaraderie, of general danger, and the most commonchance of a sudden and terrible death, men grew communicative, andwhile interchanging their canteens and tobacco-pouches they were aptto speak of friends and relations that were far away: the old mother,whose nightly prayers went up for the absent; the ailing sister, whohad died since war had been declared; the absent wife, left on theshore at Southampton with a begging-pass to her own parish; the littlebaby that had been born since the transport sailed; the old fireside,where their place remained vacant, their figure but a shadowyremembrance; the girls they had left behind them; theirdisappointments in life; their sorrows and joys and hopes for thefuture; the green lanes, the green fields, the pleasant and familiarplaces they never more might see: and officers and privates talked ofsuch things in common; so true it is that

"One touch of nature makes the whole world kin."

On the 3rd of November, Caradoc and I were sitting in a shelteredcorner, between the gabions, chatting on some of the themes I haveenumerated, when a little commotion was observable among our men, andwe saw the adjutant and the major--the worthy holder of Toby Purcell'sspurs, he who had carried off the first gun at Alma, B-- of ours,and who, since Colonel Chesters was killed, had commanded theregiment--coming directly towards us.

"What the deuce is up?" said I.

"Their faces look important," added Caradoc.

"Sorry to disturb you; not that there is much pleasure here,certainly," said the major, smiling; "but the adjutant tells me thatyou, Hardinge, are the first officer for duty."

"We are all on duty," replied I, laughing; "if we are not, I don'tknow what duty is. Well, major, what is to be done?"

"You are to convey a message from Lord Raglan into Sebastopol."

"To Sebastopol?"

"Yes, to that pleasant city by the sea," said the adjutant.

"To Prince Menschikoff?"

"No," replied the major; "to the officer commanding the nearest post."

"Under a flag of truce?"

"Of course; it would be perilous work otherwise."

"About what is the message?"

"The capture of Major MacG--, of the 93rd, who was carried off by akind of sortie the other night, and who is supposed to have beenafterwards killed in cold blood."

The seizure of the major of the Sutherland Highlanders, a brave oldfellow who had on his breast medals for Candahar, Afghanistan, andMaharajapore, had created much interest in the army at this time, whenwe so readily believed the Russians liable to commit atrocities onwounded and prisoners.

"Lord Raglan wishes distinct information on the subject," added theadjutant, after a pause.

"All right, I am his man," said I, starting up and looking carefullyto the chambers and capping of my Colt, ere I replaced it in itspouch; and knocking some dust and mud off my somewhat dilapidatedregimentals, added, "now for a drummer and a flag of truce."

"You are to go to the officer in command of that bastion on theRussian left," said the major.

"To that wasp of a fellow who is so active, and whose scoundrels havekilled so many of our wounded men, firing even on the burial parties?"

"The same. You must be sharp, wary, and watchful."

"His name?"

"Ah, that you may perhaps learn, not that it matters much; even LordRaglan cannot know that; but, doubtless, it will be something like asneeze or two, ending in 'off' or 'iski.'"

"Success, Harry!" cried Caradoc.

A few minutes after this saw me issue from the trenches of the rightattack, attended by Dicky Roll, with his drum slung before him; in myright hand I carried a Cossack lance, to which a white handkerchief ofthe largest dimensions was attached to attract attention, as theRussians were not particular to a shade as to what or whom they firedon, and the cruel and infamous massacre of an English boat's crew atHango was fresh in the minds of us all; consequently I was not withoutfeeling a certain emotion of anxiety, mingled with ardour and joy atthe prospect of Estelle seeing my name in the despatches, as Dicky andI now advanced into the broken and open ground that lay between ourparallel and the abattis, amid which I saw head after head appear, asthe white emblem I bore announced that pro tem, hostilities in thatquarter must cease, by the rules of war.

Dicky Roll, who, poor little fellow, had been fraternally sharing hisbreakfast and blanket with the goat, and did not seem happy in hismind at our increasing proximity to "them Roosian hogres," as hecalled them, beat a vigorous chamade on his drum, and I waved myimpromptu banner. I was glad when a Russian drum responded, as flagsof truce had been more than once fired upon, on the miserable pleathat communications under them were merely designed for the purpose ofgaining intelligence, of reconnoitring Sebastopol and its outposts.Hence our progress was watched with the deepest interest by the wholeregiment and others, all of whom were now lining the banquette of theparallels, or clustering at the embrasures and fascines of thebreaching batteries.

CHAPTER XXXIII.-THE FLAG OF TRUCE.

In the rifle-pits many of our men lay dead or dying, and a few pacesbeyond them brought me among Russians in the same pitiable condition.One, who had been shot through the chest, lay on his back, half in andhalf out of his lurking hole; his eyes were glazing, bubbles of bloodand froth were oozing through his thick black moustaches, which werematted by the cartridges he had bitten. Another was shot through thelungs, and his breath seemed to come with a wheezing sound through theorifice.

There, too, lay the luckless Russian "potted" by Hugh Price. He wasone of the imperial 26th, for that number was on his shoulder-straps.On his breast were several copper medals. Others who were able, takingadvantage of the cessation of hostilities, were crawling away on theirhands or knees towards the town or trenches, in search of water, ofsuccour, and of some kind friend to bind their wounds; and encouragedby the lull in the firing, the little birds were twittering aboutthose ghastly pits in search of biscuit-crumbs or other food.

The ground was studded thickly with rusty fragments of explodedshells, nails, bottles, grape and canister shot; other places werefurrowed up, or almost paved with half-buried cannon-balls of everycalibre; and here and there, in the crater made by a mine, lay aforgotten corpse in sodden uniform, gray faced with red; and yetsingularly enough, amid these horrors, there were springing throughthe fertile earth many aromatic shrubs, and a vast number of thecolchicum autumnale, a beautiful blue crocus-like flower, with whichthe Crimea abounds.

The Russian drum, hoarse, wooden, and ill-braced, again sounded, andmine replied; then we saw an officer coming towards us from theentanglements of the abattis, with his sword sheathed and waving awhite handkerchief. He was a tall grim-looking man, of what rank Icould not determine, as all the enemy's officers in the field, fromthe general down to the last-joined praperchick, or ensign, wore long,ungraceful greatcoats of brownish gray cloth, having simply facingsand shoulder-straps. He carried a wooden canteen and an old batteredtelescope, worn crosswise by two leather straps, and had severalsilver medals, won doubtless in battle against Schamyl in Circassia.

It is a common belief in England that every Russian gentleman speaksFrench; but though he may do so better than another foreigner--for hewho can pronounce Muscovite "words of ten or twelve consonants apiece"may well speak anything--it is chiefly the language of the court andof diplomacy; and in this instance, when, after saluting each otherprofoundly, and eyeing each other with stern scrutiny, I addressed theofficer in the language of our allies, he replied in German, which Iknew very imperfectly.

I made him understand, however, that my message was for the officer incommand of the left bastion.

He replied, that to be taken into Sebastopol, or even to be lednearer, required that the eyes of myself and the drummer should beblindfolded, to which I assented; and he proceeded carefully to muffleDicky Roll and me in such a manner as to place us in utter darkness.He then gave me his arm, I took the drummer by the hand, and in thisgrotesque fashion, which excited some laughter in the trenches, thetrio proceeded, stumbling and awkwardly, towards the city.

I heard the increasing buzz of many voices around us, the unbarring ofa heavy wicket, the clatter of musket-butts on the pavement, andoccasionally a hoarse order or word of command issued in what seemedthe language of necromancy. Caissons, and wagons heavily laden,rattled along the streets; I felt that I was inside Sebastopol; butdared not without permission unbind my eyes, save at the risk of beingrun through the body by this fellow in the long coat, or made aprisoner of war, and despatched towards Perecop with my hands tied tothe mane of a Cossack pony.

The sensation and the conviction were most tantalising; but I wascompelled to submit, and knew that we were proceeding through thethoroughfares of that place towards which I had daily turned myfield-glass with the most intense curiosity, and which we knew to beone vast garrison rather than a town, with whole streets of barracks,arsenals, and government houses.

A change of sounds and of atmosphere warned me that we were withindoors. My guide withdrew the bandages, and then Dicky and I lookedaround us, dazzled with light, after being in darkness for nearly halfan hour. I was in a large whitewashed room, plainly furnished,uncarpeted, heated by a stove of stone in one corner, with an eikonin another. On the table of polished deal lay some books, a copy ortwo of the Invalide Russe, the Moskauer Zeitung, Panaeff'sRussian Snobs, the vernacular for that familiar word beingkhlishch. On the walls hung maps and documents--orders of the day,perhaps--in Russian.

Through the two large windows, which we were warned not to approach, Iobtained a glimpse of the hill on which the residence of PrinceMenschikoff was situated. On one side I saw that the streets ran inparallel lines down to the water edge; on the other to where the newnaval arsenals lay, in the old Tartar town which was known by the nameof Achtiare in the days of Thomas Mackenzie, the Scoto-Russian admiralwho first created Sebastopol, and whose khutor, farm or forest forproducing masts, excited so much speculation among our HighlandBrigade. Everywhere I saw great cannon bristling, all paintedpea-green, with a white cross on the breech.

The jingle of spurs caused me to turn, and Dicky to lift his hand tohis cap in salute. We saw a tall and handsome Russian officer, ofimposing appearance, enter the room. His eyes were dark, yet sharp andkeen in expression; he had black strongly-marked eyebrows and anaquiline nose, with a complexion as clear as a woman's, a pretty amplebeard, and close-shorn hair. He, too, wore the inevitable greatcoat;but it was open in this instance, and I could see the richly-lacedgreen uniform and curious flat silver epaulettes of the VladimirRegiment, with the usual number of medals and crosses, for all thearmies of Nicholas were well decorated. He bowed with great courtesy,and said in French,

"You have, I understand, a message for me from my Lord Raglan?"

I bowed.

"Before I listen to it you must have some refreshment; your drummercan wait outside."

I bowed again. A soldier-servant placed on the table decanters ofCrimskoi wine, with a silver salver of biscuits and pastilla, orlittle cakes made of fruit and honey; and of these I was not loath topartake, while the soldier in attendance led away Dicky Roll, who eyedme wistfully, and said, as he went out,

"For God's sake don't forget me, Captain Hardinge; I don't like thelook of them long-coated beggars at all."

I was somewhat of Dicky's opinion; and being anxious enough to getback to the trenches, stated briefly my message.

"You have, I fear, come on a bootless errand," replied the Russian,"as no officer of your army was, to my knowledge, either killed ortaken by us on the night in question; though certainly a man mayeasily be hit in the dark, and crawl away to some nook or corner, andthere die and lie unseen. But the Pulkovnick Ochterlony, who keeps thelist of prisoners, will be the best person to afford you informationon the matter. Remain with me, and assist yourself to the Crimskoi,while I despatch a message to him."

He drew a glazed card from an embossed case, and pencilling amemorandum thereon, sent his orderly with it, while we seatedourselves, entered into conversation, and pushed the decanterfraternally to and fro.

"I have just come from hearing the Bishop of Sebastopol preach in thegreat church to all the garrison off duty," said he, laughing; "and hehas been promising us great things--honour in this world, and glory inthe next--if we succeed in driving you all into the Euxine."

"There are plenty of opportunities afforded here of going to heaven."

"A good many, too, of going the other way; however, I must not tellyou all, or even a part, of what the bishop said. He did all thateloquence could do to fire the religious enthusiasm--superstition, ifyou will--of our soldiers and his language was burning."

"Then you are on the eve of another sortie," said I, unwarily.

"I have not said so," he replied, abruptly, while his eyes gleamed,and handing me his silver cigar-case, on which was engraved a coronet,we lapsed into silence.

The sermon he referred to was that most remarkable one preached on theevening of Saturday, the 4th of November, before one of the mostmemorable events of the war. In that discourse, this Russian-Greekbishop, with his coronal mitre on his head, glittering with preciousgems, a crozier whilom borne by St. Sergius in his hand, his silverbeard floating to his girdle over magnificent vestments, stood on thealtar-steps of the great church, and assured the masses of armed menwho thronged it to the portal that the blessing of God was upon theirforthcoming enterprise and the defence of the city; that crowns ofeternal glory awaited all those martyrs who fell in battle against theheretical French and the island curs who had dared to levy war on holyRussia and their father the Emperor.

He told them that the English were monsters of cruelty, who torturedtheir prisoners, committing unheard-of barbarities on all who fellinto their hands; that "they were bloodthirsty and abominableheretics, whose extermination was the solemn duty of all who wished towin the favour of God and of the Emperor." He farther assured themthat the British camp contained enormous treasures--the spoil ofIndia, vessels of silver and gold, sacks and casks filled withprecious stones--one-third of which was to become the property of thevictors; and he conjured them, by the memory of Michael and Feodor,who sealed their belief in Christ with their blood, before the savageBatu-Khan, by the black flag unfurled by Demetri Donskoi when hemarched against Mamai the Tartar, "by the forty times forty churchesof Moscow the holy," and the memory of the French retreat from it, tostand firm and fail not; and a hoarse and prayerful murmur of assentresponded to him.

My present host was too well-bred to tell all he had just heard,whether he believed it or not. After a pause, "If another sortie ismade," said I, "the slaughter will be frightful."

"Bah!" replied he, cynically, while tipping the white ashes from hiscigar, "a few thousands are not missed among the millions of Russia; Ipresume we only get rid of those who are unnecessary in the generalscheme of creation."

"Peasants and serfs, I suppose?"

"Well, perhaps so--peasants and serfs, as you islanders suppose allour people to be."

"Nay, as you Russians deem them."

"We shall not dispute the matter, please," said he, coldly; and now,as I sat looking at him, a memory of his face and voice came over me.

"Count Volhonski!" I exclaimed, "have you quite forgotten me and theduel with the Prussian at Altona?"

He started and took his cigar from his mouth.

"The Hospodeen Hardinge!" said he, grasping my hand with honestwarmth; "I must have been blind not to recognise you; but I neverbefore saw you in your scarlet uniform."

"It is more purple than scarlet now, Count."

"Well, our own finery is not much to boast of, though we are in acity, and you are under canvas. But how does the atmosphere of CrimTartary agree with you?" he asked, laughing.

"A little too much gunpowder in it, perhaps."

"I am sorry, indeed, to find that you and I are enemies, after thosepleasant days spent in Hamburg and Altona; but when we last parted inDenmark--you remember our mutual flight across the frontier--you werebut a subaltern, a praperchick, a sub-lieutenant, I think."

"I am a captain now."

"Ah--the Alma did that, I presume."

"Exactly."

"You will have plenty of promotion in your army, I expect, ere thiswar is ended. You shall all be promoted in heaven, I hope, ere holyRussia is vanquished."

"Well, Count, and you--"

"I am now Pulkovnick of the Vladimir Infantry."

"Did the Alma do that?"

"No; the Grand-duch*ess Olga, to whom the regiment belongs, promoted mefrom the Guards, as a reward for restoring her glove, which shedropped one evening at a masked ball given in the hall of St. Vladimirby the Emperor; so my rank was easily won."

A knock rang on the door; spurs and a steel scabbard clattered on thefloor, and then entered a stately old officer in the splendid uniformof the Infantry of the Guard, the gilded plate on his high andpeculiarly-shaped cap bearing the perforation of more than one bullet,and his breast being scarcely broad enough for all the orders thatcovered it. He bowed to Volhonski, and saluted me with his right hand,in which he carried a bundle of documents like lists. The Countintroduced him as "the Pulkovnick Ochterlony, commanding theOchterlony Battalion of the Imperial Guard." He was not at all like aRussian, having clear gray eyes and a straight nose, and still lesslike one did he seem when he addressed me in almost pure English.

"I have," said he, "gone over all the lists of officers of the Alliesnow prisoners in Sebastopol, or taken since the siege and sent towardsYekaterinoslav, and can find among them no such name as that of MajorMacG--, of the 93rd Regiment of Scottish Highlanders. If traces of himare found, dead or alive, a message to that effect shall at once besent to my Lord Raglan."

"I thank you, sir," said I, rising and regarding him curiously; "youspeak very pure English for a Russian!"

"I am a Russian by birth and breeding only; in blood and race I am acountryman of your own."

"Indeed!" said I, coldly and haughtily, "how comes it to pass that anEnglishman--"

"Excuse me, sir," said he, with a manner quite as haughty as my own,"I did not say that I was an Englishman; but as we have no time tomake explanations on the subject, let us have together a glass ofCrimskoi, and part, for the time, friends."

His manner was so suave, his bearing so stately, and his tone soconciliating--moreover his age seemed so great--that I clinked myglass with his, and withdrew with Volhonski, who, sooth to say, seemedexceedingly loath to part with me.

"Who the deuce is that officer?" I asked.

"I introduced him to you by name. He is the colonel of the OchterlonyBattalion of the Guard, which was raised by his father, one of themany Scottish soldiers of fortune who served the Empress Catharine;and the man is Russian to the core in all save blood, which he cannothelp; but here is the gate, and you must be again blinded by Tolstoff.Adieu! May our next meeting be equally pleasant and propitious!"

As we separated, there burst from the soldiery who thronged near thegates a roar of hatred and execration, excited doubtless by thebishop's harangue; and poor Dicky Roll shrunk close to my side as wepassed out. The ancient Scoto-Muscovite, I afterwards learned, wasstyled Ochterlony of Guynde, the soldiers of whose regiment hadenjoyed from his father's time the peculiar privilege of retaining andwearing their old cap-plates, so long as a scrap of the brassremained, if they had once been perforated by a shot in action; and itis known that this identical old officer--who had some three or fournephews in the Russian Guards--had been visiting his paternal place ofGuynde, in Forfarshire, but a few months before the war broke out.

In a few minutes more, Dicky Roll and I found ourselves, with our eyesunbandaged, once more in that pleasant locality midway between theabattis and the trenches, towards which we made our way in all haste,that I might report the issue of my mission concerning the Scotchmajor, who, as events proved, was found alive and unhurt, luckily; andthe moment my white flag disappeared among the gabions--where allcrowded round me for news, and where I became the hero of anhour--again the firing was resumed on both sides with all its formerfury, and the old game went on--shot and shell, dust, the crash ofstones and fascines, thirst, hunger, slaughter, and mutilation. Thatthe Russians had some great essay in petto, the words of Volhonskileft us no doubt, nor were we long kept in ignorance of what wasimpending over us.

CHAPTER XXXIV.--GUILFOYLE REDIVIVUS.

Quietly and before day dawned the trench-guards were relieved, andwe marched wearily back towards the camp. I had dismissed my company,and was betaking me to my tent, threading my way along the streetsformed by those of each regiment, when an ambulance wagon,four-wheeled and covered by a canvas hood, drew near. It was drawn byfour half-starved-looking horses; the drivers were in the saddles; andan escort rode behind, muffled in their blue cloaks. It was laden, nodoubt, with boots warranted not to fit, and bags of green or unripecoffee for the troops, who had no means of grinding it or of cookingit, firewood being our scarcest commodity. An officer of the LandTransport Corps, in cloak and forage-cap, was riding leisurely in rearof the whole, and as he passed I heard him singing, for his ownedification, apparently: the refrain of his ditty was,

"Ach nein! ach nein! ich darf es nich.
Leb'wohl! Leb'wohl!"

"Heavens!" thought I, pausing in my progress, "can this be myquondam acquaintance, the attaché at the Court of Catzenelnbogenhere--here, in the Crimea!"

"Can you direct me to the commissariat quarter of the SecondDivision?" asked the singer, a little pompously.

"By all the devils it is Guilfoyle!" I exclaimed.

"Oho--You are Hardinge of the 23rd--well met, Horatio!" said he,reining-in his horse, and with an air of perfect coolness.

"How came you to be here, sir?" I asked, sternly.

"I question your right to ask, if I do not your tone," he replied;"however, if you feel interested in my movements, I may mention that Iwas going to the dogs or the devil, and thought I might as well takeSebastopol on the way."

"It is not taken yet--but you, I hope, may be."

"Thanks for your good wishes," was the unabashed reply; "however, I amwide enough awake, sir; be assured that I cut my eye-teeth some yearsago."

To find that such a creature as he had crept into her Majesty'sservice, even into such an unaristocratic force as the Land TransportCorps, and actually wore a sword and epaulettes, bewildered me,excited my indignation and disgust; and I felt degraded that by areflected light he was sharing our dangers, our horrors, and thehonours of the war. I had never seen his name in the Gazette, asbeing appointed a cornet of the Transport Corps, and the surprise Ifelt was mingled with profound contempt, and something of amusem*nt,too, at his insouciance and cool effrontery. This made me partiallyforget the rage and hatred he had excited in me by the mischievousgame he had played at Walcot Park, his plot to ruin me with EstelleCressingham--a plot from which I had been so victoriouslydisentangled. Hence circ*mstance, change of position and place,induced me to talk to the fellow in a way that I should not have doneat home or elsewhere.

"How came you to deprive England of the advantages of your society?" Iasked, in a sneering tone, of which he was too well-bred not to beconscious; so he replied in the same manner,

"A verse of an old song may best explain it:

"And so Pilgarlick is serving his ungrateful country," he added, withthe mocking laugh that I remembered of old.

"You can actually laugh at your own--"

"Don't say anything unpleasant," said he, shortening his reins; "I doso, but only as Reynard, who has lost his brush, laughs at the moreclever fox who has kept his from the hounds," he added, with a glanceof malevolence. "So you were not at the Alma? Doubtless it waspleasanter to break a bone quietly at home than risk all your limbshere in action."

Disdaining to notice either his sneer or the inference to bedrawn from his remark, I asked, "What has become of that unhappycreature--your wife?"

"As you call her."

"Georgette Franklin--well?"

"It matters little now, and is no business of yours."

"That I know well--I only pitied her; but why do I waste words or timewith such as you?"

"So you would like to know what has become of her, eh?"

"Very much."

"Well," said he, grinding his teeth with anger or hate, perhaps both,"there is a den in the Walworth-road, above a rag, bone, andold-bottle shop, the master of which was not unknown to the police, asapt to be roaming about intent to commit, as no doubt he often did,felony; for a few articles of bijouterie, such as a bunch ofskeleton-keys, a crowbar, a brace of knuckle-dusters, and a 'barker,'with a piece of wax-candle, were found upon his person, after aninvestigation thereof, suggestive that his habits were nocturnal, andthat the propensities of his digits were knavish; and the landlord ofthis den gave her lodgings--and there she died, this GeorgetteFranklin, in whom you are so interested--died not without suspicion ofsuicide. Now are you satisfied?" he added, holding a cigar betweenthe first and second fingers of his right hand, and gazing lazily atthe smoke wreaths as they curled upward in the chill morning air.

There was something sublimely infernal--if I may be permitted theparadox--in the gusto with which the fellow told all this, and in thesneering expression of his face; and I could see his green eyes andhis white teeth glisten in the light of a great rocket--some secretsignal--that soared up from Fort Alexander, and broke with a thousandsparkles, curving downward through the murky morning sky.

"Pass on, sir," said I, sternly; "and the best I can wish you is thatsome Russian bullet may avenge her and rid the earth of you."

And with his old mocking laugh, he galloped after his wagon, as heturned back in his saddle, "Compliments to old Taffy Lloyd, when youwrite--may leave him my brilliant in my will if he behaves himself."

CHAPTER XXXV.--THE NIGHT BEFORE INKERMANN.

I told Phil Caradoc of the strange meeting with Mr. HawkesbyGuilfoyle, and his emotions of astonishment and disgust almostexceeded mine, though mingled with something of amusem*nt, to thinkthat such a personage should be with the army before Sebastopol in anycapacity; and he predicted that he must inevitably do something thatwould not add to the budding laurels of the Land Transport Corps,which we scarcely recognised as a fighting force, though armed, ofcourse, for any sudden emergency. On this morning, the mail had comein from Constantinople; but there was still no letter for me--noletter from her with whom I had left my heart, and all its fondestaspirations--yea, my very soul it seemed--in England, far away.

Many mails had gone missing; and I strove to flatter and to consolemyself by the vague hope, that the letters of Estelle were lyingperhaps in the Gulf of Salonica, or in the Greek Archipelago, ratherthan adopt the bitter and wounding conviction that none were writtenat all. I counted the days and weeks that had elapsed since ourdetachments sailed from Southampton; the weeks had now become months;we were in November; yet, save when once or twice I had seen her nameamong the fashionable intelligence in a stray newspaper, I knew andheard nothing of Estelle, of her whose existence and future I sofondly thought were for ever woven up with mine. For a time I had beenweak enough to conceal from kind-hearted Phil Caradoc the fact that Ihad not been getting answers to my letters; and often over a quietcigar and a bottle of Greek wine I have listened nervously to hiscongratulations on my success and hopes, blended with his own personalregrets that Winifred Lloyd could not love him. He had sent to her andDora, from Malta and from Constantinople, some of those beautifularticles of bijouterie, which the shops of the former and the bazaarsof the latter can so exquisitely produce to please the taste of women,and they had been accepted with "kindest thanks," a commonplace onwhich poor Phil seemed to base some hope of future success.

"Winifred Lloyd is very lovely," said I, as we sat in my tent thatnight over a bottle of Crimskoi; "sweet and pure, happy in spirit, andgentle in heart--all that a man could desire his wife and the motherof his children to be."

"But--"

"But what, Phil?" said I, curtly.

"She cannot love me, and she will never be mine," sighed Caradoc.

"Never despair of that; we have to take Sebastopol yet; and that onceachieved, we shall all go merrily sailing home to England."

"That I doubt much; some of the regiments here will be taken for theIndian reliefs--our fighting here will count as service in Europe--butsurely the war cannot end with the fall of Sebastopol. A war betweenthree of the greatest countries in the world to dwindle down to thesomewhat ill-conducted siege of a fortified town would be absurd."

"Ill-conducted, Phil?"

"Of course.. We leave the city open for supplies of all kinds on theRussian side, and have never, as we should have done, seized theIsthmus of Perecop, and cut off the whole Crimea from the empire."

"Errors perhaps; but by the way, Phil, have you still Miss Lloyd'sminiature about you?"

"Yes."

"Do let me have a look at it. I am an old friend, you know."

"I gave her my solemn word that while I lived no man should look uponit, Harry," said Phil, whose colour deepened. "When I am carried tothe dead-tent, if that day comes, or to the burial-trench, as manybetter fellows have been, you may keep it or send it to her, which youwill, though I would rather it were buried with me."

His eyes filled with tender enthusiasm, and his voice faltered withgenuine emotion as he spoke.

"Pass the bottle, Phil, and don't be romantic--one more cigar is inthe box, and it is at your service," said I.

But full of his own thoughts, which were all of her, Caradoc made noimmediate reply. He sat with his eyes fixed sadly on the glowingembers of my little fire; for, thanks to the ingenuity of Evans, I hadactually a fire in my tent. He had made an excavation in the earth,with a flue constructed out of the fragments of tin ammunition boxes,and the cases which had held preserved meat. This conveyed the smokeunderneath the low wall of the tent, outside of which he had erectedanother flue some three feet high of the same materials, to which wereadded a few stones and some mud. The smoke at times was scarcelyendurable, and made one's eyes to water; but I was not yet "oldsoldier" enough to heat a cannon-ball to sleep with, so Evans' patentgrate had quite a reputation in the regiment, and added greatly to thecomfort, if such a term can be used, of my somewhat draughty abode.

"Deuced hard lines, this sort of thing, Harry," said Caradoc, after apause, as, bearded and patched, unshaven and unkempt, we cowered overthe fire in our cloaks and wrappers; "I mean for men accustomed tobetter things, especially to those of expensive tastes and extravaganthabits--your guardsman and man of pleasure, the lounger about town,whose day was wont to begin about two P.M., and to end at four nextmorning. Yet they are plucky for all that; by Jove! there is an amountof mettle or stamina in our fellows such as those of no other nationpossess, the resolution to die game any way."

I fully agreed with him; for among our officers I knew hundreds ofmen, like Raymond Mostyn and others I could name, who were enduringthis miserable gipsy-like life, and who, when at home, had hunters andharriers in the country, a house in town, a villa at St. John's Woodor elsewhere, with a tiny brougham and tiger for some "fair one withthe golden locks," a yacht at Cowes, a forest in the Highlands, a boxat the Opera, a French cook, perhaps, and vines and pines and otherrarities from their own forcing-pits and hothouses, and who were nowthankful for a mouthful of rum and hard ship-biscuit and somehalf-roasted coffee boiled in a camp-kettle; and for what, or to whatuseful end or purpose, was all this being endured? Perhaps thenon-reception of letters from Estelle was making me cynical, andleading me to deem the great god of war but a rowdy, and the goddesshis sister no better than she should be, glory a delusion and a humbugafter all. But just when Phil, as the night was now far advanced, wasmuffling himself prior to facing the cold frosty blast that swept upthe valley of Inkermann, and proceeding to his own tent, which was onthe other flank of the regiment, the visage of Evans, red as a lobsterwith cold, while his greatcoat was whitened with hoar-frost, appearedat the piece of tied canvas, which passed muster as a door.

"Letter for you, sir--an English one."

"For me! how, at this hour?" I exclaimed, starting up.

"It came by the mail this morning, sir; but was in the bag for the88th. The address is almost obliterated, as you see, so the 88thofficers were tossing-up for it, when Mr. Mostyn--"

"Pshaw! give me the letter," said I, impatiently. "It is from SirMadoc--only Sir Madoc!" I added, with unconcealed disappointment;and in proportion as my countenance lowered, Phil's brightened withinterest.

I tore open what appeared to be a pretty long letter.

"It seems to have a postscript," said Phil, lingering ere he went.

"Kindest regards to Caradoc from Winny and Dora."

"Is that all?"

"All that seems to refer to you, Phil."

Phil sighed, and said,

"Well, a letter is an uncommon luxury here, so I shall not disturbyou. Good night, old fellow."

"Good night; and keep clear of the tent-pegs."

Again the canvas door was tied, and I was alone; so drawing thelantern, that hung on the tent-pole, close to the empty flour-cask,which now did duty as a table, I sat down to read the characteristicepistle of my good old fatherly friend, Sir Madoc Lloyd, which wasdated from Craigaderyn Court. After some rambling remarks about thewar, and the mode in which he thought it should be conducted, and somesmart abuse of the administration in general, and Lord Aberdeen inparticular, over all of which I ran my eyes impatiently, at last theycaught a name that made my heart thrill, for this was the first letterthat had reached me from England.

"Lady Estelle's admirer Pottersleigh has been raised to anearldom--Heaven only knows why or for what--his own distinguishedservices, he says. It was all in last night's Gazette--that herMajesty had been pleased to direct letters patent, &c., granting thedignity of Earl of the United Kingdom, unto Viscount Pottersleigh,K.G., and the heirs male of his body (good joke that, Harry: reckoninghis chickens before they are hatched), by the name and title ofAberconway, in the principality of Wales. For some weeks past he hasbeen at Walcot Park, with the Cressinghams--seems quite to live there,in fact. He has been very assiduous in his attentions to a certainyoung lady there; he always flatters her quietly, and it seems toplease her; a sure sign it would seem to me that she is not displeasedwith the flatterer. People say it is old Lady Naseby whom he affects;but I don't think so; neither does Winny. You will probably have heardmuch of this kind of gossip from Lady Estelle herself. She certainlygot your Malta letter, and one from the camp before Sebastopol--soWinny, who is in her confidence, told me. You only can know if shereplied--Winny rather thinks not; but I hope she may be faithful toyou as Oriana herself.

"I heard all about poor Caradoc's affair from Dora; but Winny hasrefused another offer of marriage--a most eligible one, too--from SirWatkins Vaughan; and since then he was nearly done for in anotherfashion: for when he and I were cub-hunting last month near Hawkstone,his horse, a hard-mouthed brute, swerved as we were crossing a fence,and rolled over him; so between her blunt refusal and his ugly spill,he is rather to be pitied. I don't understand Winny at all. I shouldnot like my girls to throw themselves away; but hay should be madewhile the sun shines, and baronets are not to be found under everybush. Beauty fades; it is but a thing of a season; and the mostblooming girl, in time, becomes passé and wrinkled, or it may be fatand fusby, as her grandmother was before her. And then Sir Watkinsrepresents one of the best families in Wales, not so old as uscertainly, but still he is descended in a direct line from GryffythVychan, who was Lord of Glyndwyrdwy in Merionethshire, in Stephen'stime."

(Why should Winifred Lloyd refuse and refuse again thus? As certainlittle passages between us in days gone by came flashing back to mymemory, I felt my cheek flush by that wretched camp-fire, and then Ithrust the thoughts aside as vanity.)

"Poor Winny has not been very well of late," the letter proceeded."When she and Dora were decorating their poor mamma's grave, in theold Welsh fashion, on Palm Sunday, at Craigaderyn church, I fear shemust have caught cold; it ended in a touch of fever, and I think thedear girl grew delirious, for she had a strange dream about the ghostof Jorwerth Du--you remember that absurd old story?--but the ghost wasyou, and the red-haired daughter of the Gwylliad Cochion, whospirited you away, was--whom think you?--but Lady Estelle!

"We had a jolly shooting-season at Vaughan's place in South Wales.With Don and our double-barrelled breech-loader we soon filled aspring-cart, and brought it back in state, with all the hares and thelong bright tails of the pheasants hanging over it. Vaughan--who willnot relinquish his hope of Winny--and a lot of other fine fellows--oldfriends, some of them--are coming to have their annual Christmasshooting with me, and I have got two kegs of ammunition all ready inthe gun-room. How I wish you were to be with us, Harry!

"Golden plover and teal, too, are appearing here now, and flocks ofwhite Norwegian pigeons in Scotland; all indications that we shallhave an unusually severe winter; so God help you poor fellows undercanvas in the Crimea! In common with all the girls in England, Winnyand Dora are busy making mufflings, knitted vests and cuffs, and soforth for the troops; and I have despatched some special hampers ofgood things, made up and packed by Owen Gwyllim and Gwenny Davis, thehousekeeper, for our own lads of the 23rd to make merry with atChristmas, or on St. David's day."

(The warm wrappers arrived for us in summer, and as for the "specialhampers," they were never heard of at all.)

And so, with many warm wishes, almost prayers, for my preservationfrom danger, and offers of money if I required it, the letter of mykind old friend ended; but it gave me food for much thought, and farinto the hours of the chill night I sat and pondered over it. Why didWinny refuse so excellent an offer as that of Sir Watkins, whom I knewto be a wealthy and good-looking young baronet? I scarcely dared toask myself, and so, as before, dismissed that subject. Why had notEstelle's answers reached me, if she had actually written then? ThatLady Naseby had surreptitiously intercepted our correspondence, Icould not believe, though she might forbid it. Was my LordPottersleigh, now Earl of Aberconway, at work; or had they, like manyothers, perished at sea? Heaven alone new. His flatteries "pleasedher," his, the senile dotard! And he had taken up his residence atWalcot Park; his earldom, too! I was full of sadness, mortification,and bitter thoughts; thoughts too deep and fierce for utterance ordescription. Could it be that the earldom and wealth on one hand wereproving too strong for love, with the stringent tenor of her father'swill on the other?

At the opera and theatre I had seen Estelle's beautiful eyes fill withtears, as she sympathised with the maudlin love and mimic sorrow, thewrongs or mishaps, of some well-rouged gipsy in rags, some peasant ina steeple-crowned hat and red bandages, some half-naked fisherman,like Masaniello, and her bosom would heave with emotion andenthusiasm; and yet with all this natural commiseration andfellow-feeling, she, who could almost weep with the hero or heroine ofthe melodrama, while their situation was enhanced by the effects ofthe orchestra, the lime-light, and the stage-carpenter, was perhapscasting me from her heart and her memory, as coolly as if I were anold ball-dress! So I strove yet awhile to think and to hope that herletters were with the lost mails at the bottom of the Ægean or theBlack Sea; but Sir Madoc's letter occasioned me grave and painfuldoubts; and memory went sadly back to many a little butwell-remembered episode of tenderness, a word, a glance, a stolencaress, when we rode or drove by the Elwey or Llyn Aled, in the longlime avenue, in the Martens' dingle, and in the woods and gardens ofpleasant Craigaderyn. The wretched light in my lantern was beginningto fail; my little fire had died quite out, and the poor sentryshivering outside had long since ceased to warm his hands at the flue.The tent was cold and chill as a tomb, and I was just about to turnin, when a sound, which a soldier never hears without startinginstinctively to his weapons, struck my ear.

A drum, far on the right, was beating the long roll! Hundreds ofothers repeated that inexorable summons all over the camp, while manya bugle was blown, as the whole army stood to their arms. It was themorning of the battle of Inkermann!

CHAPTER XXXVI.--THE FIFTH OF NOVEMBER.

We had all long since forgotten the discomfort of early rising. In mycase I had never been to bed, so to buckle on my sword and revolverwas the work of one moment; in another I was threading my way amongthe streets of tents, from which our men, cold, damp, pale, andworn-looking, were pouring towards their various muster-places, manyof them arranging their belts as they hurried forward.

"What is the row? what is up?" were the inquiries of all.

But no one knew, and on all hands the mounted officers were ridingabout and crying,

"Fall in, 19th Regiment!" "Fall in, 23rd Fusileers!" and so on. "Standto your arms; turn out the whole; uncase the colours, gentlemen!"

"It is gunpowder-plot day," cried a laughing aide-de-camp, gallopingpast with such speed and recklessness that he nearly rode me down.

It proved to be a sortie from Sebastopol, made chiefly by a newdivision of troops brought up by forced marches from Bessarabia andWallachia, many of them in wagons, kabitkas, and conveyances of allkinds; and all these men, to the number of many thousands, left thebeleaguered city inflamed by the sermon I have described, by haranguesof a similar kind, by the money or martyrdom they hoped to win, andby a plentiful distribution of coarse and ardent raki; while toOsten-Sacken, Volhonski, and other officers of rank, one of the GrandDukes held out threats of degradation and Siberia if we were notattacked and the siege raised! All our men, without breakfast or otherfood, got briskly under arms, by regiments, brigades, and divisions;they were in their gray greatcoats, hence some terrible mistakesoccurred in the hurry and confusion; many of our officers, however,went into action in scarlet, with their epaulettes on--most fatallyfor themselves. All the bells in Sebastopol--and some of these weremagnificent in size and tone--rang a tocsin, while the troopscomposing the sortie, at the early hour of three A.M., stole, undercloud of darkness and a thick mist, into the ravines near theTchernaya, to menace the British right, our weakest point; and,unknown to our out-guards, and generally unheard by them--though morethan one wary old soldier asserted that he heard "something like therumble of artillery wheels"--in the gloom and obscurity several largepieces of cannon were got into position, so as completely to commandthe ground occupied by us. Cautiously and noiselessly the masses ofRussian infantry had stolen on, the sound of their footsteps hidden bythe jangle of the bells, till they, to the number of more than 50,000men, were on the flank as well as in front of our line; and the firstindication we had of their close vicinity was when our outlyingpickets, amid the dense fog of that fatal November morning, foundthemselves all but surrounded by this vast force, and fightingdesperately!

Knapsacks were generally thrown aside, and the muskets of the picketswere in some instances so wet by overnight exposure, that they failedto explode, so others taken from the dead and wounded were substitutedfor them. There was firing fast and furious on every hand; themusketry flashing like red streaks through the gray gloom, towards thehead of the beautiful valley of Inkermann, even before our regimentwas formed and moved forward to the support of the pickets, who wereretreating towards a small two-gun battery which had been erected, butafterwards abandoned during the progress of the siege. The greatRussian cannon now opened like thunder from those hills which had beenreached unseen by us, and then began one of the closest, becauseconfused, most ferocious, and bloody conflicts of modern times. TheRussian has certainly that peculiar quality of race, "which issuperior to the common fighting courage possessed indiscriminately byall classes--the passive concentrated firmness which can take everyadvantage so long as a chance is left, and die without a word at last,when hope gives place to the sullen resignation of despair."

Descriptions of battles bear a strong family likeness, and the historyof one can only be written, even by a participant, long after it isall over, and after notes are compared on all sides; so to thesubaltern, or any one under the rank of a general, during itsprogress, it is all vile hurly-burly and confusion worse confounded;and never in the annals of war was this more the case than atInkermann. Though hidden by mist at the time, the scene of thiscontest was both picturesque and beautiful. In the foreground, aromantic old bridge spanned the sluggish Tchernaya, which winds fromthe Baidar valley through the most luxurious verdure, and thence intothe harbour of Sebastopol between precipitous white cliffs, which areliterally honeycombed with chapels and cells: thus Inkermann is wellnamed the "City of the Caverns." These are supposed to have beenexecuted by Greek monks during the reigns of the emperors in themiddle ages, and when the Arians were persecuted in the Chersonesus,many of them found shelter in these singular and all but inaccessibledwellings. Sarcophagi of stone, generally empty, are found in many ofthe cells, which are connected with each other by stairs cut in theliving rock, and of these stairs and holes the skirmishers were notslow to avail themselves. Over all these caverns are the ivied ruinsof an ancient fort but whether it was the Ctenos of ChersonesusTaurica, built by Diophantes to guard the Heruclean wall, or was theTheodori of the Greeks, mattered little to us then, as we moved to getunder fire beneath its shadow; and now, as if to farther distract theattention of the Allies from the real point of assault--which at firstseemed to indicate a movement towards Balaclava--all the batteries ofthe city opened a fearful cannonade, which tore to shreds the tents inthe camp, and did terrible execution on every hand. Louder and louder,deeper and hoarser grew the sounds of strife; yet nothing was seen byus save the red flashes of the musketry, owing to the density of thefog, and the tall brushwood through which we had to move being in someplaces quite breast-high; and so we struggled forward in line, tillsuddenly we found the foe within pistol-shot of us, and our menfalling fast on every side. Till now, to many in our ranks, who sawthese long gray-coated and flat-capped or spike-helmeted masses, theenemy had been a species of myth, read of chiefly in the newspapers;now they were palpable and real, and war, having ceased to be adream, had become a terrible fact. Vague expectancy had given place tothe actual excitement of the hour of battle, the hour when a man wouldreflect soberly if he could; but when every moment may be his last,little time or chance is given for reflection.

In this quarter were but twelve thousand British, to oppose the mightyforce of Osten-Sacken. Upon his advancing masses the brave fellows ofthe 55th or Westmoreland Foot had kept up a brisk fire from the rudeembrasures of the small redoubt, till they were almost surrounded by aforce outnumbering them by forty to one, and compelled to fall back,while the batteries on the hills swept their ranks with an ironshower. But now the 41st Welsh, and 49th or Hertfordshire, came intoaction, with their white-and-green colours waving, and storming up thehill bore back the Russian hordes, hundreds of whom--as they weremassed in oblong columns--fell beneath the fatal fire of our Minierifles, and the desperate fury of the steady shoulder-to-shoulderbayonet charge which followed it.

On these two regiments the batteries from the distant slope dealtdeath and destruction; again the Russians rallied at its foot, andadvanced up the corpse-strewn ground to renew an attack before whichthe two now decimated regiments were compelled to retire. Their numberand force were as overwhelming as their courage, inflamed by raki andintense religious fervour, was undeniable; for deep in all theirhearts had sunk the closing words of the bishop's prayer: "Bless andstrengthen them, O Lord, and give them a manly heart against theirenemies. Send them an angel of light, and to their enemies an angel ofdarkness and horror to scatter them, and place a stumbling-blockbefore them to weaken their hearts, and turn their courage intoflight." And for a time the Russians seemed to have it all their ownway, and deemed their bishop a prophet. Our whole army was now underarms, but upon our right fell the brunt of the attack, and old LordRaglan was soon among us, managing his field-glass and charger withone hand and a half-empty sleeve. Under Brigadier-general Strangeways,who was soon after mortally wounded, our artillery, when the mistlifted a little, opened on the Russian batteries, and soon silencedtheir fire; but the 20th and 47th Lancashire, after making a gallantattempt to recapture the petty redoubt, were repulsed; but not untilthey had been in possession of it for a few dearly-bought minutes,during which, all wedged together in wild mêlée, the most hideousslaughter took place, with the bayonet and clubbed musket; and themoment they gave way, the inhuman Russians murdered all our woundedmen, many of whom were found afterwards cold and stiff, with handsuplifted and horror in their faces, as if they had died in the act ofsupplication.

Driven from that fatal redoubt at last by the Guards under the Duke ofCambridge, it was held by a few hundred Coldstreamers against at leastsix thousand of the enemy. Thrice, with wild yells the gray-coatedmasses, with all their bayonets glittering, swept madly and bravelyuphill, and thrice they were hurled back with defeat and slaughter.Fresh troops were now pouring from Sebastopol, flushed with fury bythe scene, and in all the confidence that Russia and their cause werealike holy, that defeat was impossible, and the redoubt wassurrounded.

Then back to back, pale with fury, their eyes flashing, their teethset, fearless and resolute, their feet encumbered with the dying andthe dead, fought the Coldstream Guardsmen, struggling for very life;the ground a slippery puddle with blood and brains, and again andagain the clash of the bayonets was heard as the musket barrels werecrossed. Their ammunition was soon expended; but clubbing theirweapons they dashed at the enemy with the butt-ends; and hurling evenstones at their heads, broke through the dense masses, and leaving atleast one thousand Muscovites dead behind them, rejoined theircomrades, whom Sir George Cathcart was leading to the advance, when aball whistled through his heart, and he fell to rise no more.

The combat was quite unequal; our troops began slowly to retiretowards their own lines, but fighting every inch of the way andpressed hard by the Russians, who bayonetted or brained by thebutt-end every wounded man they found; and by eleven o'clock they wereclose to the tents of the Second Division.

The rain of bullets sowed thickly all the turf like a leaden shower,and shred away clouds of leaves and twigs from the gorse and otherbushes; but long ere the foe had come thus far, we had our share andmore in the terrible game. Exchanging fire with them at twenty yards'distance, the roar of the musketry, the shouts and cheers, the yellsof defiance or agony, the explosion of shells overhead, the hoarsesound of the round shot, as they tore up the earth in deeper furrowsthan ever ploughshare formed, made a very hell of Inkermann, thatvalley of blood and suffering, of death and cruelty; but dense cloudsof smoke, replacing the mist, enveloped it for a time, and veiled manyof its horrors from the eye.

Bathurst and Sayer, Vane and Millet of ours were all down by thistime; many of our men had also fallen; and from the death-clutch orthe relaxed fingers of more than one poor ensign had the tatteredcolour which bore the Red Dragon been taken, by those who were fatedto fall under it in turn. I could see nothing of Caradoc; but I heardthat three balls had struck the revolver in his belt. Poor Hugh Pricefell near me, shot through the chest, and was afterwards found, likemany others, with his brains dashed out. In the third repulse of theRussians, as we rushed headlong after them with levelled bayonets, Ifound myself suddenly opposed by an officer of rank mounted on a grayhorse, the flanks and trappings of which were splashed by blood,whether its own or that of the rider, I knew not. Furiously, by everyenergy, with his voice, which was loud and authoritative, and bybrandishing his sword, he was endeavouring to rally his men, a mingledmass of the Vladimir Battalion and the flat-capped Kazan LightInfantry.

"Pot that fellow; down with him!" cried several voices; "maybe he'sold Osten-Sacken himself."

Many shots missed him, as the men fired with fixed bayonets, whensuddenly he turned his vengeance on me, and checking his horse for asecond, cut at my head with his sword. Stooping, I avoided his attack,but shot his horse in the head. Heavily the animal tumbled forward,with its nose between its knees; and as the rider fell from the saddleand his cap flew off, I recognised Volhonski. A dozen of Fusileers hadtheir bayonets at his throat, when I struck them up with my sword, andinterceding, took him prisoner.

"Allow me, if taken, to preserve my sword," said he, in somewhatbroken English.

"No, no; by ----, no! disarm him, Captain Hardinge," cried several ofour men, who had already shot more than one Russian officer when inthe act of killing the wounded.

He smiled with proud disdain, and snapping the blade across his knee,threw the fragments from him.

"Though it is a disgrace alike for Russian to retreat or yield, Iyield myself to you, Captain Hardinge," said he in French, andpresenting his hand; but ere I could take it, I felt a shot strike meon the back part of the head. Luckily it was a partially spent one,though I knew it not then.

A sickness, a faintness, came over me, and I had a wild and clamorousfear that all was up with me then; but I strove to ignore the emotion,to brandish my sword, to shout to my company, "Come on, men, come on!"to carry my head erect, soldierlike and proudly. Alas for human nervesand poor human nature! My voice failed me; I reeled. "Spare me,blessed God!" I prayed, then fell forward on my face, and felt therush of our own men, as they swept forward in the charge to the front;and then darkness seemed to steal over my sight, and unconsciousnessover every other sense, and I remembered no more.

So while I lay senseless there, the tide of battle turned in thevalley, and re-turned again. But not till General Canrobert, withthree regiments of fiery little Zouaves, five of other infantry, and astrong force of artillery, made a furious attack on the Russian flank,with all his drums beating the pas de charge. The issue of thebattle was then no longer doubtful.

The Russians wavered and broke, and with a strange wail of despair,such as that they gave at Alma, when they feared that the angel oflight had left them, they fled towards Sebastopol, trodden down likesheep by the French and British soldiers, all mingled pell-mell, infierce and vengeful pursuit. By three in the afternoon all was over,and we had won another victory.

But our losses were terrible. Seven of our generals were killed orwounded; we had two thousand five hundred and nine officers and menkilled, wounded, or missing; but more than fourteen thousand Russianslay on the ground which had been by both armies so nobly contested,and of these five thousand were killed.

CHAPTER XXXVII.--THE ANGEL OF HORROR.

When consciousness returned, I found the dull red evening sun shiningdown the long valley of Inkermann, and that, save moans and cries foraid and water, all seemed terribly still now.

A sense of weakness and oppression, of incapacity for action andmotion, were my first sensations. I feared that other shot must havestruck me after I had fallen, and that both my legs were broken. Thecause of this, after a time, became plain enough: a dead artilleryhorse was lying completely over my thighs, and above it and them laythe wheel of a shattered gun carriage; and weak as I was then, toattempt extrication from either unaided was hopeless. Thus I wascompelled to lie helplessly amid a sickening puddle of blood,enduring a thirst that is unspeakable, but which was caused byphysical causes and excitement, with the anxiety consequent on thebattle. The aspect of the dead horse, which first attracted me, washorrible. A twelve-pound shot had struck him below the eyes, making ahole clean through his head; the brain had dropped out, and lay withhis tongue and teeth upon the grass. The dead and wounded lay thicklyaround me, as indeed they did over all the field. Some of the former,though with eyes unclosed and jaws relaxed, had a placid expression intheir white waxen faces. These had died of gun-shot wounds. Theexpressions of pain or anguish lingered longest in those who hadperished by the bayonet. Over all the valley lay bodies in heaps,singly or by two and threes, with swarms of flies settling over them;shakoes, glazed helmets, bearskin-caps, bent bayonets, broken muskets,swords, hairy knapsacks, bread-bags, shreds of clothing, torn from thedead and the living by showers of grape and canister, cooking-kettles,round shot and fragments of shells, with pools of noisome blood, layon every hand.

Truly the Angel of Horror, and of Death, too, had been there. I sawseveral poor fellows, British as well as Russian, expire within thefirst few minutes I was able to look around me. One whose breast boreseveral medals and orders, an officer of the Kazan Light Infantry,prayed very devoutly and crossed himself in his own blood ere heexpired. Near me a corporal of my own regiment named Prouse, who hadbeen shot through the brain, played fatuously for a time with ahandful of grass, and then, lying gently back, passed away without amoan. A Zouave, a brown, brawny, and soldier-like fellow, who seemedout of his senses also, was very talkative and noisy.

"Ouf!" I heard him say; "it is as wearisome as a sermon or a funeralthis! Were I a general, the capture of Sebastopol should be as easy asa game of dominoes.--Yes, Isabeau, ma belle coquette, kiss me and holdup my head. Vive la gloire! Vive l'eau de vie! A bas la mélancolie! Abas la Russe!" he added through his clenched teeth hoarsely, as hefell back. The jaw relaxed, his head turned on one side, and all wasover.

Of Volhonski I could see nothing except his gray horse, which laydead, in all its trappings, a few yards off; but I afterwards learnedthat he had been retaken by the Russians on their advance after thefall of poor Sir George Cathcart.

There was an acute pain in the arm that had beeninjured--fractured--when saving Estelle; and as a kind of stupor,filled by sad and dreamy thoughts, stole over me, they were all ofher. The roar of the battle had passed away, but there was a kind ofdrowsy hum in my ears, and, for a time, strangely enough, I fanciedmyself with her in the Park or Rotten-row. I seemed to see thebrilliant scene in all the glory of the season: the carriages; thehorses, bay or black, with their shining skins and glitteringharness; the powdered coachmen on their stately hammer-cloths; thegaily-liveried footmen; the ladies cantering past in thousands, soexquisitely dressed, so perfectly mounted, so wonderful in theirloveliness--women the most beautiful in the world; and there, too,were the young girls, whose season was to come, and the ampledowagers, whose seasons were long since past, lying back among thecushions, amid ermine and fur; and with all this Estelle was laughingand cantering by my side. Then we were at the opera--another fantasticdream--the voices of Grisi and Mario were blending there, and as itsmusic seemed to die away, once more we were at Craigaderyn, under itsshady woods, with the green Welsh hills, snow-capped Snowdon andCarneydd Llewellyn, in the distance, and voices and music andlaughter--some memory of Dora's fête--seemed to be about us. So whilelying there, on that ghastly field of Inkermann, between sleeping andwaking, I dreamed of her who was so far away--of the sweetcompanionship that might never come again; of the secret tie thatbound us; of the soft dark eyes that whilom had looked lovingly intomine; of the sweetly-modulated voice that was now falling merrily,perhaps, on other ears, and might fall on mine no more. And a vaguesense of happiness, mingled with the pain caused by the half-spentshot and the wild confusion and suffering of the time, stole over me.Waking, these memories became

"Sad as remembered kisses after death,
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned
On lips that are for others--deep as love,
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret,
O death in life--the days that are no more!"

From all this I was thoroughly roused by a voice crying, "Up, up,wounded--all you who are able! Cavalry are coming this way--you willbe trod to death. Arrah, get out of that, every man-jack of yees!"

The excited speaker was an Irish hussar, picking his way across thefield at a quick trot.

It was a false alarm; but the rumble of wheels certainly came nextday, and an ambulance-wagon passed slowly, picking up the wounded, whogroaned or screamed as their fractured limbs were handled, and theirwounds burst out afresh through the clotted blood. I waved an arm, andthe scarlet sleeve attracted attention.

"There is a wounded officer--one of the 23rd Fusileers," cried adriver from his saddle.

"Where?" asked a mounted officer in the blue cloak and cap of the LandTransport Corps.

"Under that dead horse, sir."

"One of the 23rd; let us see--Hardinge, by all the devils!" saidthe officer, who proved to be no other than Hawkesby Guilfoyle."So-ho--steady, steady!" he added, while secretly touching his horsewith the spurs to make it rear and plunge in three several attempts totread me under its hoofs; but the terrible aspect of the dead animalsmashed by the cannon-shot so scared the one he rode, that he bore onthe curb in vain.

"Coward! coward!" I exclaimed, "if God spares me you shall hear ofthis."

"The fellow is mad or tipsy," said he; "drive on."

"But, sir--sir!" urged the driver in perplexity.

"Villain! you are my evil fate," said I faintly.

"I tell you the fellow is mad--drive on, I command you, or by----,I'll make a prisoner of you!" thundered Guilfoyle, drawing a pistolfrom his holster, while his shifty green eyes grew white withsuppressed passion and malice; so the ambulance-cart was driven on,and I was left to my fate.

Giddy and infuriated by pain and just indignation, I lay under my coldand ghastly load, perishing of thirst, and looking vainly about forassistance.

Scarcely were they gone, when out of the dense thick brushwood, thatgrew in clumps and tufts over all the valley, there stole forth twoRussian soldiers, with their bayonets fixed, and their faces distortedand pale with engendered fanaticism and fury at their defeat. Therewas a cruel gleam in their eyes as they crept stealthily about. Eitherthey feared to fire or their ammunition was expended, for I saw themdeliberately pass their bayonets through the bodies of four or fivewounded men, and pin the writhing creatures to the earth. I lay verystill, expecting that my turn would soon come. The dead horse servedto conceal me for a little; but I panted rather than breathed, and mybreath came in gasps as they drew near me; for on discovering that Iwas an officer, my gold wings and lace would be sure to kindle theirspirit of acquisition. I had my revolver in my right hand, andremembered with grim joy that of its six chambers, three were yetundischarged. Just as the first Russian came straight towards me, Ishot him through the head, and he fell backward like a log; the seconduttered a howl, and came rushing on with his butt in the air and hisbayonet pointed down. I fired both barrels. One ball took him right inthe shoulder, the other in the throat, and he fell wallowing in blood,but not until he had hurled his musket at me. The barrel struck mecrosswise on the head, and I again became insensible. Moonlight wasstealing over the valley when consciousness returned again, and I feltmore stiff and more helpless than ever. Something was stirring nearme; I looked up, and uttered an exclamation on seeing our regimentalgoat, Carneydd Llewellyn, quietly cropping some herbage among thedébris of dead bodies and weapons that lay around me. Like Caradoc, Ihad made somewhat a pet of it. The poor animal knew my voice, and oncoming towards me, permitted me to stroke and pat it; and a strongemotion of wonder and regard filled my heart as I did so, for it was acurious coincidence that this animal, once the pet of Winifred Lloyd,should discover me there upon the field of Inkermann.

After a little I heard a voice, in English, cry, "Here is our goat atlast, by the living Jingo!" and Dicky Roll, its custodian--from whosetent it had escaped, when a shot from the batteries broke thepole--came joyfully towards it.

"Roll, Dicky Roll," cried I, "for God's sake bring some of ourfellows, and have me taken from here!"

"Captain Hardinge! are you wounded, sir?" asked the little drummer,stooping in commiseration over me.

"Badly, I fear, but cannot tell with certainty."

Dicky shouted in his shrill boyish voice, and in a few minutes some ofour pioneers and bandsmen came that way with stretchers. I wasspeedily freed from my superincumbent load, and very gently andcarefully borne rearward to my tent, when it was found that a coupleof contusions on the head were all I had suffered, and that a littlerest and quiet would soon make me fit for duty again.

"You must be more than ever careful of our goat, Dicky," said I, asthe small warrior, who was not much taller than his own bearskin cap,was about to leave me (by the bye, my poor fellow Evans had been cutin two by a round shot). "But for Carneydd Llewellyn, I might havelain all night on the field."

"There is a date scratched on one of his horns, sir," said Roll; "Isaw it to-day for the first time."

"A date!--what date?"

"Sunday, 21st August."

"Sunday, 21st August," I repeated; "what can that refer to?"

"I don't know, sir--do you?"

The drummer saluted and left the tent. I lay on my camp-bed weak andfeverish, so weak, that I could almost have wept; for now camepowerfully back to memory that episode, till then forgotten--theSunday ramble I had with Winifred Lloyd when we visited the goat, bythe woods of Craigaderyn, by the cavern in the glen, by the Maen Hiror the Giant's Grave, and the rocking stone, and all that passed thatday, and how she wept when I kissed her. Poor Winifred! her prettywhite hand must have engraved the date which the little drummerreferred to--a date which was evidently dwelling more in her artlessmind than in mine.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.--THE CAMP AGAIN.

After the living were mustered next morning, and burial partiesdetailed to inter the dead, Caradoc and one or two others dropped intomy tent to share some tiffin and a cigar or two with me; for, as DigbyGrand has it, "whatever people's feelings may be, they go to dine allthe same."

Poor Phil looked as pale and weary, if not more so, than I did. He wason the sick-list also, and had his head tied up by a bloody bandage,necessitated by a pretty trenchant sword-cut, dealt, as we afterwardsdiscovered on comparing notes, by Volhonski just before his recapture.

"I was first knocked over by Cathcart's riderless horse--"

"Poor old Cathcart--a Waterloo man!" said Gwynne, parenthetically."Well, Phil?"

"It was wounded and mad with terror," continued Caradoc; "then thesplinter of a shell struck me on the left leg. Still I limped to thefront, keeping the men together and close to the colours, till thatfellow you call Volhonski cut me across the head; even my bearskinfailed to protect me from his sabre. Then, but not till then, whenblood blinded me, I threw up the sponge and went to the rear."

"What news of our friends in the 19th?" I asked.

"O, the old story, many killed and wounded."

"Little Tom Clavell?"

"Untouched. Had the staff of the Queen's colours smashed in his handsby a grape shot. Tom is now a bigger man than ever," said CharleyGwynne. "By the way, he was talking of Miss Dora Lloyd last night inmy bunk between the gabions, wondering what she and the girls inEngland think of all this sort of thing."

"Thank God, they know nothing about it!" said Caradoc, lighting afresh cigar with a twisted cartridge paper; "the hearts of some ofthem would break, could they see but yonder valley."

"Poor Hugh Price!" observed Charley, with a sigh and a grimace, for hehad a bayonet prod in the right arm; "he was fairly murdered in coldblood by one of those Kazan fellows--brained clean by the heel of amusket, ere our bandsmen could carry him off to the hospital tents;but I am thankful the assassin did not escape."

"How?"

"He too was finished the next moment by Evan Rhuddlan."

Other instances of assassination, especially by a Russian major, werementioned, and execrations both loud and deep were muttered by us allat these atrocities, which ultimately caused Lord Raglan to send afirm remonstrance on the subject to Sebastopol.

"Is it true, Charley, that the Duke of Cambridge has gone on boardship, sick and exhausted?" asked I.

"I believe so."

"And that Marshal Canrobert was wounded yesterday?"

"Yes, and had his horse shot under him, too."

"The poor Coldstreamers were fearfully cut up in the redoubt!"

"I saw eight of their officers interred in one grave this morning, andthree of the Grenadier Guards in another."

"Poor fellows!" sighed Caradoc; "so full of life but a few hours ago."

For a time the conversation, being of this nature, languished; it wasthe reverse of lively, so we smoked in silence. We were all in ratherlow spirits. This was simply caused by reaction after the fierceexcitement of yesterday, and to regret for the friends who hadfallen--the brave and true-hearted fellows we had lost for ever.Victorious though we were, we experienced but little exultation; andfrom my tent door, we saw the burial parties, British and French, hardat work in their shirt sleeves, interring the slain in great trenches,where they were flung over each other in rows, with all their goryclothing and accoutrements, just as they were found; and there theylay in ghastly ranks, their pallid faces turned to heaven, the hope ofmany a heart and household that were far away from that horriblevalley; their joys, their sorrows, their histories, and their passingagonies all ended now, with no tears on their cheek save those withwhich the hand of God bedews the dead face of the poor soldier.

A ring or a watch, or it might be a lock of hair, taken, or perhapshastily shorn by a friendly hand from the head of a dead officer as hewas borne away to these pits--the head that some one loved so well,hanging earthward heavily and untended--shorn for a widowed wife oranxious mother, then at home in peaceful England, or some secludedScottish glen; and there his obsequies were closed by the bearded andsurpliced chaplain, who stood book in hand by the edge of the ghastlytrench, burying the dead wholesale by the thousand; and amid the boomof the everlasting and unrelenting cannonade, now going on at the leftattack, might be heard the solemn sentences attuned to brighter hopeselsewhere than on earth, where "Death seemed scoffed at and derided bythe reckless bully Life."

"Here is an old swell, with no end of decorations," said a couple ofour privates, as they trailed past the body of a Russian officer, onehalf of whose head had been shot away, and they threw him into atrench where the gray-coats lay in hundreds. The "old swell" proved tobe the brave Pulkovnich Ochterlony of Guynde; he who had led hisregiment so bravely at Bayazid on the mountain slopes of the AghriTagh in Armenia, when, in the preceding August, the Russians haddefeated the Turks, and laid two thousand scarlet fezzes in the dust.The episode of meeting with Guilfoyle, his conduct after the action,and the character he had borne as a civilian, formed a topic ofsome interest for my friends, who were vehement in urging me todenounce this distinguished "cornet" of the wagon-corps to thecommander-in-chief. And this I resolved to do so soon as I wassufficiently recovered to write, or to visit Lord Raglan in person.

But to take action in the matter soon proved impossible, as he wastaken prisoner the next day by some Cossacks who were scouting nearthe Baidar Valley, and who instantly carried him off. Some there werein the camp who gave this capture the very different name of wilfuldesertion, from two reasons; first, he had been gambling to awonderful extent, and with all his usual success, so that he hadcompletely rooked many of his brother officers, nearly all of whomwere deserving men from the ranks; and second, that on the day afterhe was taken, the Russians opened a dreadful fire of shot and shell onone of our magazines, the exact locale of which could only have beenindicated to them by some traitor safe within their own lines; andnone knew better than I the savage treachery of which he was capable.

It was now asserted that we should not assault Sebastopol until thearrival of fresh reinforcements, which were expected by the way ofConstantinople in a few weeks. There were said to be fifteen thousandFrench, and our own 97th, or Earl of Ulster's, and 99th Lanarkshirecoming from Greece, with the 28th from Malta; but that we were likelyto winter before the besieged city was now becoming pretty evidentto the Allies, and none of us liked the prospect, the French perhapsleast of all, with the freezing memories of their old Russian war andthe retreat from flaming Moscow still spoken of in their ranks; andthe cruel and taunting boast of the Emperor Nicholas concerningRussia's two most conquering generals--January and February.

So when the wood for the erection of huts began to arrive atBalaclava, and the winter siege became a prospect that was inevitable,I thought of having a wigwam built for myself and two other officers;and confess that as the season advanced, some such habitation wouldhave been more acceptable than my bell-tent, which, like much more ofour warlike gear, had probably lain in some of John Bull's shabbypeace-at-any-price repositories since Waterloo, and was all decaying.Hence the door was always closed with difficulty, especially on coldnights, the straps being rotten and the buckles rusty. Add to this,that our camp-bedding and clothes were alike dropping to pieces--theresult of constant wet and damp. Already no two soldiers in our rankswere clad alike; they looked like well-armed vagrants, and worecomically-patched clothing, with caps of all kinds, gleaned off thelate field or near the burial trenches. Some of the Rifles, in lieu ofdark green, were fain to wear smocks made by themselves from oldblankets, and leggings made of the same material or old sacking, andmany linesmen, who were less fortunate, had to content them with therags of their uniforms. Happy indeed were the Highlanders, who had notrousers that wore out. Alas for those to whom a flower in thebutton-hole, kid gloves, glazed boots, and Rimmel's essences, were asthe necessaries of life! But ere the wished-for materials for my hutarrived, circ*mstances I could little have foreseen found me quartersin a very different place. Every other day I was again on duty in thetrenches, and without the aid of my field-glass could distinctly seethe dark groups of the enemy's outposts, extending from the right upthe valley of Inkermann, towards Balaclava.

The rain rendered our nights and days in the trenches simply horrible;as we had to shiver there for four-and-twenty hours, literally in mudthat rose nearly to our knees, and was sometimes frozen--especiallytowards the darkest and earliest hours of the morning, when the coldwould cause even strong and brave fellows almost to sob with weaknessand debility, while we huddled together like sheep for animal warmth,listening the while, perhaps, for a sound that might indicate aRussian mine beneath us. Those who had tobacco smoked, of course, andshared it freely with less fortunate comrades, who had none; and undercirc*mstances such as ours, great indeed was the solace of a pipe,though some found their tobacco too wet to smoke; then the Russiansand the rain were cursed alike. The latter also often reduced thebiscuits in our havresacks to a wet and dirty pulp; but hunger made usthankful to have it, even in that condition.

"By Jove," one would say, "how the rain comes down! Awful, isn't it?"

"Won't spoil our uniforms, Bill, anyhow."

"No, lads, they are past spoiling," said I, and often had to add,"keep your firelocks under your greatcoats, men, and look to yourammunition."

And such care was imperatively necessary, for on dark nightsespecially we never knew the moment when an attempt to scour thetrenches might bring on another Inkermann. So we would sit coweringbetween the gabions, while ever and anon the fiery bombs, often shotat random, came in quick succession through the dark sky of night,making bright and glittering arcs as they sped on their message ofdestruction, sometimes falling short and bursting in mid-air, or onthe earth and throwing up a column of dust and stones, and sometimesfairly into the trenches, scattering death and mutilation among us.Erelong, as the season drew on, we had the snow to add to ourmiseries, and for many an hour under the lee of a gabion I have sat,half awake and half torpid, watching the white flakes falling, likeglittering particles, athwart the slanting moonlight on the pale andupturned faces and glistening eyes of the dead, on their black andgaping wounds, and tattered uniform; for many perished nightly in thetrenches, on some occasions over a hundred; and at times and placestheir bodies were so frozen to the earth, that to remove or tear themup was impossible, so they had to be left where they lay, or becovered up pro tem, with a little loose soil, broken by a sapper'spickaxe. And with the endurance of all this bodily misery, I had theadditional grief that no letters ever came from Estelle for me. Mydream-castle was beginning to crumble down. I began to feel vaguelythat something had been taken out of my life, that life itself wasless worth having now, and that the beauty of the past was fadingcompletely away. I had but one conviction or wish--that I had nevermet, had never known, or had never learned to love her.

CHAPTER XXXIX.--A MAIL FROM ENGLAND.

THE dreamy conviction or thought with which the last chapter closes,proved, perhaps, but a foreshadowing of that which was looming in thefuture. On the day after that terrible storm of wind, rain, and hailin the Black Sea, when some five hundred seamen were drowned, and whenso many vessels perished, causing an immense loss to the Allies; aterrific gale, such as our oldest naval officers had never seen; whenthe tents in camp were uprooted in thousands, and swept in rags beforethe blast; when the horses broke loose from their picketing-ropes, andforty were found dead from cold and exposure; when every imaginablearticle was blown hither and thither through the air; and when,without food, fire, or shelter, even the sick and wounded passed anight of privation and misery such as no human pen can describe, andmany of the Light Division were thankful to take shelter in the oldcaverns and cells of Inkermann--on the 15th of November, the daysubsequent to this terrible destruction by land and water, thereoccurred an episode in my own story which shall never be forgotten byme.

Singular to say, amid all the vile hurly-burly incident to the storm,a disturbance increased by the roar of the Russian batteries, and asortie on the French, a mail from England reached our division, and itcontained one letter for me.

Prior to my opening it, as I failed to recognise the writing, PhilCaradoc (wearing a blanket in the fashion of a poncho-wrapper, agarment to which his black bearskin cap formed an odd finish) enteredmy tent, which had just been re-erected with great difficulty, and Isaw that he had a newspaper in his hand, and very cloudy expression inhis usually clear brown eyes.

"What is up, Phil?" said; "a bad report of our work laid before thepublic, or what?"

"Worse than that," said he, seating himself on the empty flour-caskwhich served me for a table. "Can you steel yourself to hear badnews?"

"From home?" I asked.

"Well, yes," said he, hesitating, and a chill came over my heart as Isaid involuntarily,

"Estelle?"

"Yes, about Lady Cressingham."

"What--what--don't keep me in suspense!" I exclaimed, starting up.

"She is, I fear, lost to you for ever, Hardinge."

"Ill--dead--O, Phil, don't say dead!"

"No, no."

"Thank God! What, then, is the matter?"

"She is--married, that is all."

"Married!"

"Poor Harry! I am deuced sorry for you. Look at this paper. Perhaps Ishouldn't have shown it to you; but some one less a friend--Mostyn orClavell--might have thrown it in your way. Besides, you must havelearned the affair in time. Take courage," he added, after a pause,during which a very stunned sensation pervaded me; "be a man; she isnot worth regretting."

"To whom is she married?" I asked, in a low voice.

"Pottersleigh," said he, placing in my hand the paper, which was aMorning Post.

I crushed it up into a ball, and then, spreading it out on the head ofthe inverted cask, read, while my hands trembled, and my heart grewsick with many contending emotions, a long paragraph which Philindicated, and which ran somewhat as follows, my friend the whilestanding quietly by my side, manipulating a cheroot prior to lightingit with a cinder from my little fire. The piece of fashionable gossipwas headed, "Marriage of the Right Hon. the Earl of Aberconway and theLady Estelle Cressingham;" and detailed, in the usual style of suchannouncements, that, on a certain--I forget which day now--thelovely and secluded little village of Walcot, in Hampshire, presentedquite a festive appearance in honour of the above-named event, theunion of the young and beautiful daughter of the late Earl of Nasebyto our veteran statesman; that along the route from the gates ofWalcot Park to the porch of the village church were erected severalarches of evergreen, tastefully surmounted by banners and appropriatemottoes. Among the former "we observed the arms of the now unitednoble houses of Potter and Cressingham, and the standards of theAllies now before Sebastopol. The beautiful old church of Walcot wasadorned with flowers, and crowded to excess long before the hourappointed. The lovely bride was charmingly attired in white satin,elegantly trimmed with white lace, and wore a wreath of orangeblossoms on her splendid dark hair, covered with a long veil, à lajuive. The bridesmaids, six in number, were as follows:" but I omittheir names as well as the list of gifts bestowed upon the noblebride, who was given away by her cousin, the young earl. "LordAberconway, with his ribbon of the Garter, wore the peculiar uniformof the Pottersleigh Yeomanry."

"Rather a necessary addition," said Phil, parenthetically; "hislordship could scarcely have figured in the ribbon alone."

"--Yeomanry, of which gallant regiment he is colonel, and looked haleand well for his years. After a choice déjeûner provided for adistinguished circle, the newly-wedded pair left Walcot Park, amid themost joyous demonstrations, for Pottersleigh Hall, the ancestral seatof the noble Earl, to spend the honeymoon."

"A precious flourish of penny whistles!" said Phil, when I had read,deliberately folded the paper, and thrust it into the fire, to the endthat I might not be troubled by the temptation to read it all overagain; and then we looked at each other steadily for a minute insilence. Forsaken! I remembered my strange forebodings now, when I hadridden to Walcot Park. They were married--married, she and oldPottersleigh! My heart seemed full of tears, yet when seating myselfwearily on the camp-bed, I laughed bitterly and scornfully, as Ithought over the inflated newspaper paragraph, and that the sangreazul of the Earl of Aberconway must be thin and blue indeed, whencompared with the red blood of my less noble self.

"Come, Harry, don't laugh--in that fashion at least," said Caradoc."I've some brandy here," he added, unslinging his canteen, "I got froma confiding little vivandière of the 10th Regiment, Infanterie deLigne. Don't mix it with the waters of Marah, the springs ofbitterness, but take a good caulker neat, and keep up your heart.Varium et mutabile semper--you know the last word is feminine. Thatis it, my boy--nothing more. Even the wisest man in the world, thoughhe dearly loved them, could never make women out; and I fear, Harry,that you and I are not even the wisest men in the Welsh Fusileers. Andnow as a consolation,

"'And that your sorrow may not be a dumb one,
Write odes on the inconstancy of woman.'"

"I loved that girl very truly, very honestly, and very tenderly,Phil," said I, in a low voice, and heedless of how he had been runningon; "and she kissed me when I left her, as I then thought and hoped awoman only kisses once on earth. In my sleep I have had aforeshadowing of this. Can it be that the slumber of the body is butthe waking of the soul, that such thoughts came to me of what was tobe?"

"The question is too abstruse for me," said Caradoc, stroking hisbrown beard, which was now of considerable length and volume; "butdon't worry yourself, Harry; you have but tasted, as I foresaw youwould, of the hollow-heartedness, the puerile usages, the pettyintrigues, and the high-born snobbery of those exclusives 'the upperten thousand.' Don't think me republican for saying so; but 'there isone glory of the sun and another of the moon,' as some one writes;'and there is one style of beauty among women which is angelic, andanother which is not,' referring, I presume, to beauty of thespirit. We were both fated to be unlucky in our loves," continuedCaradoc, taking a vigorous pull at the little plug-hole of hiscanteen, a tiny wooden barrel slung over his shoulder by a strap; "butdo take courage, old fellow, and remember there are other women in theworld in plenty."

"But not for me," said I, bitterly.

"Tush! think of me, of my affair--I mean my mistake with Miss Lloyd."

"But she never loved you."

"Neither did this Lady Estelle, now Countess of Aberconway" (I groundmy teeth), "love you."

"She said she did; and what has it all come to? promises broken, aplight violated, a heart trod under foot."

"Come, come; don't be melodramatic--it's d--d absurd, and no use.Besides, there sounds the bugle for orders, and we shall have torelieve the trenches in an hour. So take another cigar ere you go."

"She never loved me--never! never! you are right, Phil."

"And yet I believe she did."

"Did!" said I, angrily; "what do you mean now, Caradoc? I am in nomood to study paradoxes."

"I mean that she loved you to a certain extent; but not well enough tosacrifice herself and her--"

"Don't say position--hang it!"

"No--no."

"What then?" I asked, impatiently.

"Her little luxuries, and all that she must have lost by the tenor ofher father's will and her mother's bad will, or that she should haveomitted to gain, had she married you, a simple captain of the 23rdFoot, instead of this old Potter--this Earl of Aberconway."

"A simple captain, indeed!"

"Pshaw, Harry, be a man, and think no more about the affair. It is asa tale that is told, a song that is sung, a bottle of tolerable winethat has become a marine."

"L'infidelité du corps, ou l'infidelité du c[oe]ur, I care notnow which it was; but I am done with her now and for ever," Iexclaimed, with a sudden gust of rage, while clasping on my sword.

"Done--so I should think, when she is married."

"But to such a contemptible dotard."

"Well, there is some revenge in that."

"And she could cast me aside like an old garment," said I, lapsinginto tenderness again; "I, to whose neck she clung as she did on thatevening we parted. There must have been some trickery--some treachery,of which we are the victims!"

"Don't go on in this way, like a moonstruck boy, or, by Jove, thewhole regiment will find it out; so calm yourself, for we go to thefront in an hour;" and wringing my hand this kind-hearted fellow,whose offhand consolation was but ill-calculated to soothe me, leftfor his own tent, as he had forgotten his revolver.

I was almost stupefied by the shock. Could the story be real? I lookedto the little grate (poor Evans' contrivance) where the charredremains of the Morning Post still flickered in the wind. Was I thesame man of an hour ago? "The plains of life were free to traverse,"as an elegant female writer says, "but the sunshine of old lay acrossthem no longer. There were roses, but they were scentless--fruits, butthey were tasteless--wine, but it had lost its flavour. Well, everycreated being must come to an hour like this, when he feels there isnothing pleasant to the palate, or grateful to the sense, agreeable tothe ear, or refreshing to the heart; when man delights him not andwoman still less, and when he is sick of the dream of existence."

To this state had I come, and yet I had neither seen nor heard thelast of her.

"Estelle--Estelle!" I exclaimed in a low voice, and my arms went outinto vacancy, to fall back on the camp-bed whereon I reclined.Abandoned for another; forgotten it might too probably--nay, must be.I stared up, and looked from the triangular door of the tent over thewilderness of zigzags, the sand-bags, and fascines of the trenches;over the gun-batteries to the white houses and green domes ofSebastopol, and all down the long valley of Inkermann, where thegraves of the dead lay so thick and where the Russian pickets werequietly cooking their dinners; but I could see nothing distinctly.The whole features of the scenery seemed blurred, faint, and blended,for my head was swimming, my heart was sick, and all, all this wasthe doing of Estelle! Did no memory of sweet Winifred Lloyd cometo me in my desolation of the heart? None! I could but think of thecold-blooded treachery of the one I had lost. My letter! I suddenlyremembered it, and tore it open, thinking that the writer, whose hand,as I have said, I failed to recognise, might cast some light upon thematter; and to my increasing bewilderment, it proved to be fromWinifred herself. A letter from her, and to me; what could it mean?But the first few words sufficed to explain.

Craigaderyn, . . . .

"My dear Captain Hardinge,--Papa has sprained his whip hand whenhunting with Sir Watkins Vaughan, and so compels me to write for him."(Why should compulsion be necessary? thought I.) "You will, no doubt,have heard all about Lady Estelle's marriage by this time. She wasengaged to Lord Pottersleigh before she came here, it would seem,and matters were brought to an issue soon after your transport sailed.She wished Dora and me to be among her bridesmaids, but we declined;nor would papa have permitted us, had we desired to be present at theceremony. She bade me say, if I wrote to you, that you must forgiveher, as she is the victim of circ*mstances; that she shall ever esteemand love you as a brother, and so forth; but I agree with papa, whosays that she is a cold-hearted jilt, undeserving of any man's love,and that he 'will never forgive her, even if he lived as long asGwyllim ap Howel ap Jorwerth ap Tregaian,' the Old Parr of Wales.

"We are all well at Craigaderyn, and all here send you and Mr. Caradockindest love. We are quite alone just now, and I often idle over mymusic, playing 'The Men of Harlech,' and other Welsh airs to papa.More often I wander and ride about the Martens' dingle, by CarneyddLlewellyn's hut--you remember it?--by Glendower's oak, by the Elwey,Llyn Aled, and the rocking stone, and think--think very much of youand poor Mr. Caradoc, and all that might have been." (Pretty pointedthis--with which--Phil or me? Could I be uncertain?) "Next to hearingfrom you, our greatest pleasure at Craigaderyn is to hear about youand our own Welsh Fusileers, of whose bravery at Alma we are so justlyproud; so we devour the newspapers with avidity and too often withsorrow. How is my dear pet goat?"

And so, with a pretty little prayer that I might be spared, her letterended; and hearing the voices of the adjutant and sergeant-major, Ithrust it into my pocket, and set off to relieve the trenches, withless of enthusiasm and more recklessness of life than ever beforepossessed me, and without reflecting that I did not deserve to receivea letter so kind and prayerful as that of the dear little Welsh girl,who was so far away. It was cold that night in the trenches, nathlessthe Russian fire--yea, cold enough to freeze the marrow in one'sbones; but my heart seemed colder still. In the morning, four of mycompany were found dead between the gabions, without a wound, and withtheir muskets in their hands. The poor fellows had gone to their lastaccount--slipt away in sheer exhaustion, through lack of food, warmth,and clothing--and this was glory!

CHAPTER XL.--A PERILOUS DUTY.

I have said that, ere the regular hutting of the army for the wintersiege began, quarters were found for me by fate elsewhere; acirc*mstance which came about in the following manner. All may haveheard of the famous solitary ride of Lieutenant Maxse of the RoyalNavy, to open a communication between headquarters and Balaclava; andit was my chance to have a similar solitary ride to perform, but,unfortunately, to fail in achieving the end that was in view. Oneafternoon, on being informed by the adjutant of ours that I was wantedat headquarters, I assumed my sword and sash--indeed, theseappurtenances were rarely off us--and putting my tattered uniform insuch order as the somewhat limited means of my "toilet-table"admitted, repaired at once, and not without considerable surprise, andsome vague misgivings, to the house inhabited by Lord Raglan. I hadthere to wait for some time, as he was busy with some of theheadquarter staff, and had just been holding a conference with certainFrench officers of rank, who were accompanied by their aides andorderlies. Among them I saw the fat and full-faced but soldier-likeMarshal Pelissier, the future Duc de Malakoff, with his cavalry escortand banner; and grouped about the place, or departing therefrom, I sawChasseurs d'Afrique in sky-blue jackets and scarlet trousers; ImperialCuirassiers in helmets and corslets of glittering steel; French horseartillery with caps of fur and pelisses covered with red braid. There,too, were many of our own staff officers, with their plumed hats; eventhe Turkish cavalry escort of some pasha, stolid-looking fellows inscarlet fezzes, were there, their unslung carbines resting on theright thigh; and I saw some of our Land Transport Corps, in redjackets braided with black, loitering about, as if some importantmovement was on the tapis; but whatever had been suggested, nothingwas fated to come of it.

Through the buzz and Babel of several languages, I was ushered atlast, by an orderly sergeant, into the little dingy room where theCommander-in-chief of our Eastern army usually held his councils orconsultations, received reports, and prepared his plans. The militarysecretary, the chief of the staff, the adjutant-general, and someother officers, whose uniforms were all threadbare, darned, anddiscoloured, and whose epaulettes were tattered, frayed, and reducedalmost to black wire, were seated with him at a table, which waslittered with letters, reports, despatches, telegrams, and plans ofSebastopol, with the zigzags, the harbour, the valley of theTchernaya, and of the whole Crimea. And it was not without an emotionof interest and pleasure, that I found myself before our old andamiable leader, the one-armed Lord Raglan--he whose kindly nature,charity, urbanity, and queer signature as Fitzroy Somerset, whenmilitary secretary, had been so long known in our army during the daysof peace; and to whom the widow or the orphan of a soldier neverappealed in vain.

"Glad to see you, Captain Hardinge," said he, bowing in answer to mysalute; "I have a little piece of duty for you to perform, and thechief of the staff" (here he turned to the future hero of the attackon the Redan) "has kindly reminded me of how well you managed theaffair of the flag of truce sent to the officer on the Russian left,concerning the major of the 93rd Highlanders."

I bowed again and waited.

"My personal aides," he continued, "are all knocked up or engagedelsewhere just now, and I have here a despatch for Marshal Canrobert,requiring an immediate answer, as there is said to be an insurrectionamong the Polish troops within Sebastopol, and if so, you will readilyperceive the necessity for taking instant advantage of it. At thisprecise time, the Marshal is at a Tartar village on the road toKokoz." (Here his lordship pointed to a map of the Crimea.) "It liesbeyond the Pass of Baidar, which you will perceive indicated there,and consequently is about thirty English miles to our rear and right.You can neither miss him nor the village, I think, by any possibility,as it is occupied by his own old corps, the 3rd Zouaves, a French lineregiment, and four field guns. You will deliver to him this letter,and bring me his answer without delay."

"Unless I fail, my lord."

"As Richelieu says in the play, 'there is no such word as fail!'" hereplied, smiling. "But, however, in case of danger, for there areCossacks about, you must take heed to destroy the despatch."

"Very good, my lord--I shall go with pleasure."

"You have a horse, I presume?"

"I had not thought of that, my lord--a horse, no; here I can scarcelyfeed myself, and find no use for a horse."

"Take mine--I have a spare one," said the chief of the staff, who wasthen a major-general and C.B. He rang the hand-bell for the orderlysergeant, to whom he gave a message. Then I had a glass or two ofsherry from a simple black bottle; Lord Raglan gave me his missivesealed, and shook my hand with that energy peculiar to the one-armed,and a few minutes more saw me mounted on a fine black horse, belongingto the chief of the staff, and departing on my lonely mission. Theanimal I rode--round in the barrel, high in the forehead, and deep inthe chest, sound on its feet and light in hand--was a thorough Englishroadster--a nag more difficult to find in perfection than even thehunter or racer; but his owner was fated to see him no more.

I rode over to the lines of the regiment, to let some of ourfellows--who all envied me, yet wished me well--know of the dutyassigned me. What was it to me whether or not she saw my name indespatches, in orders, or in the death list? Whether I distinguishedmyself or died mattered little to me, and less now to her. It was abitter conviction; so excitement and forgetfulness alike of the pastand of the present were all I sought--all I cared for. Caradoc,however, wisely and kindly suggested some alteration or modificationin my uniform, as the country through which I had to pass wascertainly liable to sudden raids by scouting Cossacks. So, for my redcoat and bearskin, I hastily substituted the blue undress surtout,forage cap, and gray greatcoat. I had my sword, revolver, andammunition pouch at my waist-belt. Perceiving that I was gloomy andsullen, and somewhat low-spirited in eye and bearing, Caradoc andCharley Gwynne, who could not comprehend what had "been up" with mefor some time past, and who openly assured me that they envied me thischance of "honourable mention," accompanied me a little way beyond theline of sentries on our right flank.

"Au revoir, old fellow! Keep up your heart and remember all I havesaid to you," were Phil's parting words, "and together we shall singand be merry. I hope to keep the 1st of March in Sebastopol, and thereto chorus our old mess room song;" and as he waved his hand to me, thelight-hearted fellow sang a verse of a ditty we were wont to indulgein on St. David's-day, while Toby Purcell's spurs were laid on thetable, and the band, preceded by the goat led by the drum-major with asalver of leeks, marched in procession round it:

"Then pledge me a toast to the glory of Wales--
To her sons and her daughters, her hills and her vales;
Once more--here's a toast to the mighty of old--
To the fair and the gentle, the wise and the bold;
Here's a health to whoever, by land or by sea,
Has been true to the Wales of the brave and the free!"

And poor Phil Caradoc's voice, carolling this local ditty, was thelast sound I heard, as I took the path that led first towardsBalaclava and thence to the place of my destination, while the sun ofthe last day of November was shedding lurid and farewell gleams on thespires and white walls of Sebastopol. Many descriptions have renderedthe name and features of Balaclava so familiar to all, with its oldGenoese fort, its white Arnaout dwellings shaded by poplars and othertrees, that I mean to skip farther notice of it, and also of the mudand misery of the place itself--the beautiful and landlocked harbour,once so secluded, then crowded with man-of-war boats and steamlaunches, and made horrible by the swollen and sweltering carcasses ofhundreds of troop-horses, which our seamen and marines used asstepping-stones when leaping from boat to boat or to the shore. Somelittle episodes made an impression upon me, which I am unlikely toforget, after approaching Balaclava by a cleft between those rockyheights where our cavalry were encamped, and where, by ignominiouslymaking draught-horses of their troopers for the conveyance of planks,they were busily erecting a town of huts that looked like a "backwood"hamlet. A picturesque group was formed by some of the kilted HighlandBrigade, brawny and bearded men, their muscular limbs displayed bytheir singular costume, piling a cairn above the trench where some oftheir dead comrades lay, thus fulfilling one of the oldest customs oftheir country--in the words of Ossian, "raising the stones above themighty, that they might speak to the little sons of future years."Elsewhere I saw two Frenchmen carrying a corpse on a stretcher, fromwhich they coolly tilted it into a freshly dug hole, and began tocover it up, singing the while as cheerily as the grave-digger inHamlet, which I deemed a striking proof of the demoralising effectof war--for their comrade was literally buried exactly as a dog wouldhave been in England; and yet, that the last element of civilisationmight not be wanting, a gang of "navvies" were laying down thesleepers for the first portion of the camp-railway, through the mainstreet of Balaclava, the Bella-chiare of the adventurous Genoese.

Though I did not loiter there, the narrow way was so deep with mud,and so encumbered by the débris and material of war, that my progresswas very slow, and darkness was closing in on land and sea when Iwheeled off to the left in the direction of Kokoz, after obtainingsome brandy from a vivandière of the 12th French Infantry--not thepretty girl with the semi-uniform, the saucy smile, and slenderankles, who beats the drum and pirouettes so prettily as the orthodoxstage vivandière--but a stout French female party, muffled in abloodstained Russian greatcoat, with a tawny imp squalling at herback. I passed the ground whereon the picturesque Sardinian army wasafterwards to encamp, and soon entered the lovely Baidar valley. Themountains and the dense forests made me think of Wales, for on myright lay a deep ravine with rocks and water that reflected the stars;on my left were abrupt but well-wooded crags, and I could not but lookfirst on one side, and then on the other, with some uneasiness; forRussian riflemen might be lurking among the latter, and stray Cossacksmight come prowling down the former, far in rear of Canrobert'sadvanced post at the Tartar village. A column such as he had with himmight penetrate with ease to a distance most perilous for a singlehorseman; and this valley, lovely though it was--the Tempe of theCrimea--I was particularly anxious to leave behind me. I have saidthat I felt reckless of peril, and so I did, being reckless enough andready enough to face any danger in front; yet I disliked the idea ofbeing quietly "potted" by some Muscovite boor lying en perdue,behind a bush, and then being brained or bayoneted by him afterwards;for I knew well that those who were capable of murdering our helplesswounded on the field, would have few compunctions elsewhere.Reflection now brought another idea--a very unpleasant one--to mind.Though I was in rear of this French advanced post, there was nothingto prevent Cossack scouts--active and ubiquitous as the Uhlans ofPrussia--from deeming me a spy and treating me as such, if they foundme there; for was not Major André executed most ignominiously by theAmericans on that very charge, though taken in the uniform of theCameronian regiment?

Unfortunately for me, there were and are two roads through the Baidarvalley: one by the pass, of recent construction; and the other, theancient horse-road, which is old, perhaps, as the days of the Greeksof Klimatum. A zigzag ascent, and a gallery hewn through the graniterocks for some fifty yards or so, lead to a road from whence, by itslofty position, the whole line of shore can be seen for miles, and thesea, as I saw it then, dotted by the red top-lights of our men-o'-warand transports. The other follows for some little distance, certainly,the same route nearly, but comes ere long to the Devil's Staircase,the steps of which are trunks of trees alternated by others hewn outof the solid rock; and this perilous path lies, for some part of theway at least, between dark, shadowy, and enormous masses of impendingcliffs, where any number of men might be taken by surprise. Andcertainly I felt my heart beat faster, with the mingled emotions offierce excitement and stern joy, as I hooked my sword-hilt close up tomy waist-belt, assured myself that the caps were on my revolver, andspurred my roadster forward. Darkness was completely set in now, andbefore me there twinkled one solitary star at the distant end of thegloomy and rocky tunnel through which I was pursuing my solitary way.

CHAPTER XLI.--THE CARAVANSERAI.

I pursued the old road just described, urging my horse to a trot whereI dare do so, but often being compelled--by the rough construction andnature of the way, and at times by my painful doubts as to whether Iwas pursuing the right one--to moderate his pace to a walk.Frequently, too, I had to dismount and lead him by the bridle,especially at such parts as those steps of wood and stone by theMerdven or Devil's Staircase, when after passing through forests ofbeech and elm, walnut and filbert trees, I found myself on the summitof a rock, which I have since learned is two thousand feet above theEuxine, and from whence the snow-capped summits of the Caucasus can beseen when the weather is clear. Around me were the mountains of Yaila,rising in peaks and cliffs of every imaginable form, and fragments ofrock like inverted stalactites started up here and there amidst thestar-lighted scenery. Anon the way lay through a forest entirely ofoaks, where the fallen leaves of the past year lay deep, and the heavyodour of their decay filled all the atmosphere. The country seemedvery lonely; no shepherd's cot appeared in sight, and an intenseconviction of utter solitude oppressed me. Frequently I reined in myhorse and hearkened for a sound, but in vain. I knew a smattering ofArabic and that polyglot gibberish which we call Hindostani, butfeared that neither would be of much service to me if I met a Tartar;and as for a Greek or Cossack, the revolver would be the only means ofconferring with them. Once the sound of a distant bell struck my ear,announcing some service by night in a church or monastery among thehills; and soon, on my left, towered up the range of whichMangoup-Kaleh is the chief, crowned with the ruins of a desertedKaraite or Jewish tower, and which overlooks Sebastopol on one side,and Sebastopol on the other. After a time I came to a place where somebuffaloes were grazing, beside a fountain that plashed from a littlearchway into a basin of stone. This betokened that some habitationmust be in the vicinity; but that which perplexed me most, was thecirc*mstance that there the old road was crossed by another: thus Iwas at a loss which to pursue. One might lead me to the shore of theBlack Sea; another back towards Sebastopol, or to the Russian picketsin the valley of Inkermann; and the third, if it failed to be the wayto Kokoz, might be a path to greater perils still.

While in this state of doubt, a light, hitherto unnoticed, attractedmy attention. It glimmered among some trees about a mile distant on myleft, and I rode warily towards it, prepared to fight or fly, as theevent might require. Other lights rapidly appeared, and a few minutesmore brought me before a long rambling building of Turkish aspect,having large windows filled in with glass, a tiled roof, and broadeaves. On one side was a spacious yard enclosed by a low wall, whereinwere several horses, oxen, and buffaloes tethered to the kabitkas orquaintly-constructed country carts; on the other was a kind of openshed like a penfold, where lighted lanterns were hanging and candlesburning in tin sconces; and by these I could perceive a number ofbearded Armenians and Tartars seated with chibouks and coffee beforethem, chatting gaily and laughing merrily at the somewhat broad andcoarse jokes of a Stamboul Hadji, a pretended holy mendicant, whoseperson was as unwashed and whose attire was as meagre and tattered asthat of any wandering Faquir I had ever seen in Hindostan. His beardwas ample, and of wonderful blackness; his glittering eyes, set underbeetling brows, were restless and cunning; his turban had once beengreen, the sacred colour; and he carried a staff, a wallet, asandal-wood rosary of ninety-nine beads, and a bottle, which probablyheld water when nothing stronger could be procured. The Tartars, sixin number, were lithe, active, and gaily-dressed fellows, with largewhite fur caps, short jackets of red or blue striped stuff, and loose,baggy, dark blue trousers, girt by scarlet sashes, wherein were stucktheir daggers and brass-butted pistols; for, though all civilians,they were nevertheless well armed.

The Armenians seemed to be itinerant merchants, or pedlars, as theirpackages were close beside them; and two Tartar women--the wife anddaughter probably of the keeper of the khan--who were in attendance,bringing fresh relays of coffee, cakes, and tobacco, wore each a whiteferedji, which permitted nothing of their form to be seen, save thesparkling dark eyes and yellow-booted feet, as it covered them socompletely that each looked like nothing else than a walking andtalking bundle of white linen. The whole group, as I came upon it thussuddenly, when seen by the flickering light of the candles andlanterns, had a very picturesque effect; but the idea flashed upon me,that as all these men were, too probably, subjects of the Russianempire, I ran some risk among them; and on my unexpected appearancethe Tartars started, eyed each other and me, in doubt how to act, andinstinctively laid hands on their weapons, like men who were wont touse them. The Armenians changed colour and laid down their pipes,fearing that I was but the precursor of a foraging party; and even theHadji paused in his story, and placed a hand under his short cloak,where no doubt a weapon was concealed. All seemed doubtful what tomake of me. I heard "Bashi-bazouk" (Irregular) muttered, and "Frank,"too. My gray greatcoat enabled me, in their unprofessional eyes, topass for anything. If a Russian officer, they feared me; if one of theAllies, I was the friend--however unworthy an instrument--of thesuccessor of Mahomet; one of those who had come to fight his battlesagainst the infidels of the Russian-Greek church; so either way I waspretty secure of the Tartars' good will; and boldly riding forward, Iproceeded to "air" some of the Arabic I had picked up in the East, byuttering the usual greeting; to which the keeper of the khan repliedby a low salaam, bending down as if to take the dust from my rightboot and carry it to his lips, while more than once he said,

"Hosh ghieldiniz!" (i. e., Welcome!)

Then a Tartar, as a token of goodwill, took a pipe from his mouth andpresented it to me, while another offered me sliced water-melon on anEnglish delph-plate.

"Aan coon slaheet nahss?" (Have you any coppers?) whined the Hadji.

I gave him a five-piastre piece, on which he salaamed to the earthagain and again, saying,

"Kattel herac! kattel herac!" (Thank you, sir.)

The meeting was a narrow escape, for I might have fallen amongRussians; but fortunately not one of their nation happened at thatmoment to be about the place. I laid some money on the low boardaround which they were seated, and asked for coffee and a chibouk,which were brought to me, when I dismounted. However, I remained nearmy horse, that I might vault into the saddle and be off on theshortest notice. On inquiring if I was on the right road for Kokoz,the host of the establishment shook his head, and informed me that Iwas several versts to the left of it. I next asked whether there wereany Russian troops in the immediate neighbourhood. Still eyeing mekeenly and dubiously, several of the Tartars replied in theaffirmative; and the tattered Hadji, whose goodwill I had won by mypeace-offering, told me that a party of Cossacks were now hovering inthe Baidar Valley, the very place through which I had passed, and musthave to repass, unless for safety I remained with Canrobert's flyingcolumn. But then my orders were to return with his answer, and withoutdelay. Here was a pleasant predicament! After mature consideration Iresolved to wait for daylight, when the Hadji promised to be my guideto the Tartar village, where the Franks were posted, and which he ledme to understand was nearer the base of Mangoup-Kaleh than the town ofKokoz; and in the meantime, he added, he should resume a story, in thenarration of which he had been interrupted by my arrival. Thisannouncement was greeted with a hearty clapping of hands; the womencame nearer; all adjusted themselves in attitudes of attention, fororal storytelling is the staple literature of the East. Thus theirthoughts, suspicions, and conjectures were drawn from me; and as allseemed good-humoured, I resolved to make the best of the situation andremain passive and patient, though every moment expecting to hear theclank of hoofs or the jingle of accoutrements, and to see the glitterof Cossack lances; and while I sat there, surveying the singular groupof which I formed one, the quaint aspect of the caravanserai on oneside, the dark forest lands and starlit mountains on the other, mythoughts, in spite of me, reverted to the news I had so latelyheard--to her I had now lost for ever, and who, in her splendidEnglish home, was far away from all such wild scenes and stirringperils as those which surrounded me.

The story told by the Hadji referred to a piece of court scandal,which, had he related it somewhere nearer the Golden Horn, might havecost him his head; and to me it became chiefly remarkable from thecirc*mstance that, soon after the Crimean War, a portion of itactually found its way as news from the East into the London papers;but all who heard it in the khan listened with eyes dilated and mouthagape, for it was replete with that treachery and lust of crueltywhich are so peculiarly oriental. After extolling in flowing andexaggerated terms the beauty of Djemila Sultana, whom he called thethird and youngest daughter of the Sultan Abdul Medjid, the Hadji toldus that he had been present when she was bestowed in marriage uponMahmoud Jel-al-adeen Pasha, to whom, notwithstanding the charms ofthis royal lady, the possession of her hand was anything but enviable,as oriental princesses usually treat worse than slaves their husbands,leading them most wretched lives, in consequence of their tyrannicalspirit, their caprice, pride, and jealousy of other women. Now theSultana Djemila was no exception to this somewhat general rule, andhaving discovered by the aid of her royal papa's chief astrologer, theMunadjim Bashee, that her husband had purchased and secluded in apretty little kiosk near the waterside at Pera a beautiful Circassian,whom he was wont to visit during pretended absences on military duty,she found means to have the girl carried off, and ordered the CapiAga, or chief of the White Eunuchs, an unscrupulous Greek, todecapitate her; an operation which he performed by one stroke of hissabre, for the neck of the victim was very slender, and shapely asthat of a white swan. Not contented with this, she resolved stillfarther to be revenged upon her husband the Pasha when he returned todinner.

Seating herself in the divan-hanee while the meal of which the Pashawas to partake alone--as women, no matter what their rank may be,never eat with men in the East--was being spread, she rose up at hisentrance, and rendering the usual homage accorded by wives (much tohis astonishment), she then clapped her white hands, on which thediamonds flashed, as a signal to serve up the dinner. Crushed andabashed by a long system of domestic tyranny and despair, MahmoudJel-al-adeen, who feared his wife as he had never feared the Russians,against whom he had fought valiantly at Silistria, failed to perceivethe malignant light that glittered in the beautiful black eyes ofDjemila. But a fear of coming evil was upon him, as on that day, whenhe had ridden past the great Arsenal, he had seen a crow fly towardshim; in the East an infallible sign of something about to befall him,as it was a crow that first informed Adam that Abel was slain.

"So I pray you, Djemila, neither to taunt nor revile me to-day," saidhe, "for a strange gloom is upon me."

She laughed mockingly, and Mahmoud shivered, for this laugh was oftenthe precursor of taunts that could never be recalled or forgotten, andof having his beard rent, his turban knocked off, and his lips--thesame lips at whose utterance his brigade of three thousand Mahomediyestrembled--beaten with the heel of her tiny slipper. But she began tostorm as was her wont; and then, while her husband's fingers went intothe pillau from time to time, there began their usual tauntingdiscussion, with quotations from the Koran, "which, as all the worldknows, or ought to know," continued the Hadji, "is the one and onlybook for laws, civil, moral, religious, and domestic."

"Doth not the Prophet say," she exclaimed, closing the slender tips ofher henna-dyed fingers, "in the fourth chapter entitled 'Women,' andrevealed at Mecca, act with equity towards them?"

"Yes; but he adds, 'If ye act not with equity towards orphans of thefemale sex, take in marriage such other as please you, two, three, orfour; but not more."

"So--so; and your fancy was for a slave!"

"Was?" stammered Mahmoud; then he added, defiantly, yet tremulouswith apprehension the while, "A Circassian, whose skin is as the eggof an ostrich--her hair as a shower of sunbeams."

"This to me!" she exclaimed; and starting from the divan, she smotehim thrice on the mouth with the heel of her embroidered slipper.

The eyes of the Pasha flashed fire; yet remembering who she was, hesighed and restrained his futile wrath, and said,

"If you will quote the Prophet, remember that he says in chapter iv.,'Men shall have pre-eminence above women, because of those advantageswherein God hath caused one of them to excel the other.'"

Djemila laughed derisively and fanned herself.

"Who dared to tell you of this slave girl?" asked Mahmoud, glancingnervously at the pretty little slipper; "who, I demand?"

"The wire of the Infidels, that passes over men's houses, and revealsthe secrets of all things therein--even those of the harem," said she,laughing, but with fierce triumph now; "yea, telling more than isknown by the Munadjim Bashee himself."

The Pasha knew not what to say to this; he quaffed some sherbet tokeep himself cool, and then ground his teeth, resolving, if he dared,to have all the telegraph wires in his neighbourhood cut down; indeed,about this time, such was the terror the Turks had of those mysteriousspeaking wires, that in Constantinople, to prevent their destructionas telltales, a few human heads were placed upon the supporting polesby order of Stamboul Effendi, or chief of the police.

"Thou shalt be stoned by order of my brother, and according to theholy law!" said Djemila, her proud lips curling and quivering.

"Woman, she is but a slave--an odalisque!"

"Whom you would marry before the kadi?"

"Yes," said Mahmoud, through his teeth, for his temper was risingfast.

"And you love her?"

"Alas, yes--God and the Prophet alone know how well!" said the Pasha,whose head drooped as he mentally compared the sweet gentleness of hisCircassian girl with the fiery fury of the royal bride he had beencompelled to espouse, as a cheap reward for his military services.

"Chabauk!" exclaimed Djemila. "Serve the next dish. Eat, eat, I say,and no more of this!"

The cover was removed by a trembling servant, and there lay before thePasha Mahmoud the head of the poor Circassian girl--the masses ofgolden hair he had so frequently caressed, the eyes, now glazed, hehad loved to look on, and the now pale lips he had kissed a thousandtimes in that lonely kiosk beside the sea.

"There is your dessert--alfiert olsun!" (May it do you good!)exclaimed Djemila, with flashing eyes and set teeth.

Mahmoud, horror-struck, had only power to exclaim, as he threw hishands and turned his eyes upward, "My love--my murdered love--Allahbereket versin!" (May God receive your soul!) and then fell back onhis divan, and expired.

As he had prior to this drunk some sherbet, it was whispered abroad,ere long, that the poor Pasha had been poisoned; but as no examinationafter death took place, the high rank of his wife precluding it, itwas given out that he had died of apoplexy. So he was laid in thePlace of Sleep, with his turban on, his toes tied together, and hisface turned towards Mecca, and there was an end of it with him; butnot so with the Capi Aga, whom the Sultan, for being guilty of obeyingDjemila's order to execute the odalisque, subjected to an old Turkishpunishment now, and long before that day, deemed as obsolete. He wastaken to the Sirdan Kapuss*, or Dungeon Gate of Stamboul, close by theFruit Market, and placed in a vaulted room, where he was stripped ofall his clothes by the Capidgi Bashi, who then brought in a largecopper plate or table, supported by four pedestals of iron, andunderneath which was a grate of the same metal, containing a fire ofburning coals, at the sight of which a shriek of despair escaped themiserable Greek. When the plate of copper had become quite hot, theexecutioner took the turban-cloth of the doomed man, unwound it, andplacing it round his waist, by the aid of two powerful hamals had itdrawn tight, until his body was compressed into the smallest possibleplace. Then by one blow of his sabre he slashed the hapless wretch intwo, and placing his upper half instantly upon the burning copper, thehissing blood was staunched thereby, and he was kept alive, but inexquisite torture, till the time for which he was ordained to endureit was fulfilled. He was then lifted off, and instantly expired.

Eagerly, with fixed eyes, half-open mouths, and in hushed silence,forgetting even to smoke, and permitting their chibouks to die out,his audience listened to this most improbable story, which the cunningHadji related with wonderful spirit and gesticulation; and so "havingsupped full with horrors," at its close they showered coins--kopecs,paras, and even English pennies--upon the narrator. The whole storywas a hoax, the Sultan having no such daughter as Djemila, the namesof the three sultanas being quite unlike it; but that made as littledifference then in Crim Tartary as it did afterwards nearer Cornhill;and Charley Gwynne and others of ours to whom I mentioned it were wontto call it "the bounce of the cold chop and the hot plate."

CHAPTER XLII.--THE TCHERNIMORSKI COSSACKS.

The night passed slowly with me in the khan. After the conclusion ofthe Hadji's story, the travellers who were halting there coiledthemselves up to sleep, on the divan or on their carpets or felt mats;but I was too much excited, too wakeful and suspicious of the honestintentions of all about me, too anxious for dawn and the successfulcompletion of the important duty confided to me, to attempt followingtheir example, or even to allow that my horse should be unsaddled. Isimply relaxed his girths, and remained in the travellers' commonapartment, listening to every passing sound, and watching the sharporiental features of the black-bearded and picturesque-lookingsleepers by the smoky light of a solitary oil-lamp, which swung from adormant beam that traversed the apartment. The arched rafters of theceiling were painted in alternate stripes of white and black. Therewas a fireplace or open chimney, where smouldered on the hearthstone aheap of branches and dry fir-cones, the embers of which reddened andwhitened in the downward puffs of wind that eddied in the vent; andround the walls were rows of shining tin plates, and under these wereother rows of white cloths, like towels in shape and size, but workedand embroidered with gold thread, all made and prepared beforemarriage by the Tartar hostess in her bridal days. All these quaintobjects appeared to recede or fade from my sight, and sleep was justbeginning to overpower me, when my sleeve was twitched by the Hadji,who pointed to the snow-covered summits of the mountains then visiblefrom the windows, and becoming tipped with red light; and stiff andweary I started up, to have my horse corned and watered for the taskof that day, the close of which I could little foresee.

The wife of the Tartar placed before me, on a table only a foot highand little more than a foot square, a large tin tray, containing somehard boiled eggs, black rye bread, and a vessel filled with the sweetjuice of pears. It was a strange and humble repast, but proved quiteApician to me after our mode of messing before Sebastopol. I hadbarely ended this simple Tartar breakfast, when the Stamboul Hadji,who was to be my guide to Canrobert's post near Kokoz, exclaimed, in astartled voice, "Allah kerim--look!"

I followed the direction indicated by his hand and dark, gleamingeyes, and with emotions of a very chequered kind saw, through an openwindow, "a clump of spears," as Scott would have called them; inshort, a party of Cossacks riding slowly and leisurely down themountain-path that led straight towards the house. In the easternsunlight the tips of their lances shone like fiery stars; but no otherappointments glittered about them; for unlike the gay light cavalry ofFrance and Britain, their uniforms are generally of the most plain anddingy description. As yet they were about a mile distant, and if Iwould escape them, there was not a moment to be lost. I rushed to myhorse, looked hastily but surely to bridle-bit, to saddle-girth, andstirrup-leather; and without waiting for the Hadji, who, being afoot,would only serve to retard my pace and lead to my capture, I gave somemoney to the Tartar hostess, and galloped away, diving deep into theforest, hoping that I had been as yet unseen, and should escape ifnone of the people at the caravanserai betrayed me, either under theinspiration of cowardice or malevolence. To avoid this party, who, itwould appear, were coming right along the road I should pursue, I rodedue eastward towards the ridge of Mount Yaila, which rose between meand the Black Sea, and which extends from Balaclava nearly to Alushta,a distance of fifty miles.

The day was clear and lovely, though cold and wintry, as the seasonwas so far advanced, and I proceeded lightly along a narrow forestpath, the purely-bred animal I rode seeming scarcely to touch, butmerely to brush, the dewy grass with its small hoofs. The air wasloaded by the fragrance of the firs; here and there, between the darkand bronze-looking glades, fell the golden gleams of the morning sun;and at times I had a view of the sombre sea of cones that spread overthe hills in countless lines, and in places untrodden, perhaps, saveby the wolf and the badger; overhead the black Egyptian vulturehovered in mid-air, the brown partridges whirred up before my horse'sfeet, and the hare, too, fled from its lurking-place among the longgrass; but by wandering thus deviously in such a lonely place, thoughI might avoid those ubiquitous Cossacks, who were scattered"broadcast" over all Crim Tartary, I should never reach Kokoz, ordeliver that despatch, which, if taken by the enemy, I meant todestroy. Once or twice I came upon some Tartar huts, whose occupantsseemed to be chiefly women--the men being all probably employed asmilitary wagoners, in the forest or afield; but they drew close theiryashmacs and shut their doors at my approach; so midday came on, and Iwas still in ignorance of the route to pursue, and in a district soprimitive that, when the simple natives saw me scrape a lucifer-matchto light a cigar, they were struck dumb with fear and wonder. Vague,wild, and romantic dreams and hopes came into my mind, that, if Iperished and my name appeared in the Gazette, Estelle would weep forme; and in my absurd, most misplaced regard, and almost boyishenthusiasm, I felt that I should cheerfully have given up the life Godgave me, for a tear from this false girl, could I be but certain thatshe would have shed it. Ay, there was the rub! Would she shed it, orthe sacrifice be worth the return?

"Bah!" thought I, as I bit my lip, and uttering something like amalediction rode sullenly and madly on.

"Why cling thus to the dead past?" thought I, after a time. "Pshaw!Phil Caradoc was right in all he urged upon me. Yet that past is sosweet--it was so brilliant and tender--that memory cannot but dwellupon it with fondness and regret, with passion and bitterness."

Pausing for nearly an hour, my whole "tiffin" being a damp cheroot, Iloosened my horse's girths for the time, and turned his quivering anddistended nostrils to the keen winter blast that blew from the Euxine,and then I remounted. After wandering dubiously backward and forward,and seeking to guide my motions by the sun, just as I was about topenetrate into a narrow rocky defile, the outer end of which I hopedwould bring me to some proper roadway or place where my route could beascertained, the distant sound of a Cossack trumpet fairly in myfront, and responded to by another apparently but some fifty yards inmy rear, made me rein in my horse, while my heart beat wildly.

"Cossacks again!" I exclaimed, for I was evidently between twoscouting parties, and if I escaped one, was pretty certain to becaptured by the other.

Instinctively I guided my horse aside into a clump of wild pear-trees,the now leafless stems and branches of which I greatly feared wouldfail to conceal either it or me; but no nearer lurking place was nigh,and there I waited and watched, my spirit galled and my heart swollenwith natural excitement and anxiety. Death seemed very close to me atthat moment; yet I sat in my saddle, revolver in hand, the blade of mydrawn sword in the same grasp with my reins, and ready for instantuse, as I was resolved to sell my life dearly. Preoccupied, I had beenunconscious for some time past that the cold had been increasing; thatthe sun, lately so brilliant, had become obscured in sombre grayclouds, and even that snow had begun to fall. Delicate and white asfloating swans'-down fell the flakes over all the scenery. On myclothing and on my horse-furniture it remained white and pure; but onthe roadway I had to traverse it speedily became half-frozen mud. If Iescaped these scouting parties my horse-tracks might yet betray me,and I thought vainly of the foresight of Robert Bruce when he fledfrom London over a snow-covered country with his horse-shoes inverted.If I escaped them! I was not left long in uncertainty of my fate inthat respect.

Riding in double file, and led by an officer who wore the usual longcoat with silver shoulder-straps and a stiff flat forage-cap, a partyof forty Cossacks issued slowly from the defile. Their leader waseither a staff-officer or a member of some other force, as his uniformwas quite different from theirs, which declared them to beTchernimorski Cossacks, the tribe who inhabit the peninsula of Tamar,and all the country between the Kuban and Asof, being literally theCossacks of the Black Sea, and natives of the district. They carriedtheir cartridges ranged across their breast in rows of tin tubes, àla Circassienne, and were all bronzed, bearded, and rough-lookingmen, whose whole bearing spoke of Crimean and Circassian service, ofhard outpost work among the wild Caucasus, of many a bloody conflictwith Schamyl--conflicts in which quarter was neither asked nor given!I had never been quite so near those wild warriors of the Russiansteppes before, and have no desire ever to be so again, at least underthe same dubious circ*mstances. They wore little squab-shaped busbiesof brown fur; sheepskin shoubahs, or cloaks, over their coarse greenuniforms; and had trusses of straw and bags of corn so secured overthe shoulders and cruppers of their small shaggy horses, that butlittle more of the latter were visible than their noses and tails.They rode with their knees high and stirrup-leathers short, theirlances slung behind them, and carbines rested on the right thigh.Captivity or escape, life or death, were in the balance as they slowlyrode onward; but favoured by the already failing light and the fallingsnow, I am now inclined to think that my figure should have escapedeven their keen and watchful eyes, had not evil fortune caused myhorse, on discovering a mare or so among their cattle, after snuffingthe air with quivering nostrils, to whinny and to neigh! At thatmoment we were not more than fifty yards apart.

A shout, or rather a series of wild cries, escaped the Cossacks. Ipressed the spurs into the flanks of my gallant black horse, and hesprang away with a wild bound; while the bullets from nearly twentycarbines whistled past me harmlessly, thank heaven, and I rodesteadily away--away. I cared not in what direction now, so that themore pressing danger was eluded, while cries and threats, and shotafter shot followed me; but I had no great fear of them so long asthey fired from the saddle, experience having taught me that even thebest-trained cavalry are but indifferent marksmen. Before me rose thegreen ridge of Mount Yaila; the ground was somewhat open there, beingpastoral hill-slopes gradually culminating in those peaks, fromwhence, in a clear day, the snow-clad summits of the Caucasus can bediscerned; and to reach a ravine or cleft in the hills before me, Istrained every effort of my horse, hoping, with the coming night, toescape, or find some shelter by the seashore.

The idea was vague, uncertain, and wild, I know; but I had no otheralternative save to halt, wheel about, and sell my life as best Icould at terrible odds; while to prevent me eluding them, the Cossackshad gradually opened out their files into a wide semicircle, lest Ishould seek to escape by some sudden flank movement; and all kepttheir horses--wiry, fiery, and active little brutes--well in hand.Their leader was better mounted and kept far in advance ofthem--unpleasantly close on my flanks, indeed--but still his nag wasno match for the noble English horse I rode; and so as the blueshadows lengthened and deepened in the snow-coated valley, I began tobreathe more freely, and to think, or hope, there was perhaps a chancefor me after all. Perhaps some of the Cossacks began to think so, forthey dismounted, and, while the rest kept fiercely and closely inpursuit, levelled their carbines over their saddles, over each other'sshoulders, or with left elbow firmly planted on the knee, and thustook quiet and deliberate pot-shots at me; and two had effect on thehind legs of my horse, tending seriously to injure his speed andstrength; and as each ball struck him he gave a snort, and shiveredwith pain and terror. On and on yet up the mountain valley!

An emotion of mockery, defiance, and exultation almost filled me--theexultation of the genuine English racing spirit--on finding that I wasleaving the most of them behind, and was already well through thevale, or cleft, in the mountains, the slopes of which were then aseasy to traverse as if coursing on the downs of Sussex; and already Icould see, some three miles distant, the waters of the Euxine, and thesmoke of our war-steamers cruising off Yalta and Livadia. I lookedback. The Cossack leader was very close to me now, and five of hismen, all riding with lance in hand, as they had probably expendedtheir ammunition, were but a few horse-lengths behind him. I couldperceive that he had also armed himself with a lance, and felt assuredthat in his rage at having had so long and futile a pursuit, he wouldcertainly not receive my sword, even if I offered it, as a prisoner ofwar; so I resolved to shoot him as soon as he came within range of my"Colt," the six chambers of which I had been too wary to discharge asyet.

Checking my panting and bleeding horse for a second or two, to let thegalloping Russian come closer, I fired at him under my bridle arm, anda mocking laugh informed me that my Parthian shot had gone wide of itsmark. Not venturing to fire again, I continued to spur my black horseon still; for now the friendly twilight had descended on the mountainsand the sea, whose waves at the horizon were yet reddened by thefarewell rays of the winter sun as he sank beyond them. Suddenly thecharacter of the ground seemed to change--vacancy yawned before me,and I found myself within some twenty yards of a pretty high limestonecliff that overhung the water!

The hand of fate seemed on me now, and reining round my horse, I foundmyself almost face to face with the leader of the Cossacks; and allthat passed after this occurred in shorter time than I can take towrite it. Uttering an exulting cry, he raised himself in his stirrups,and savagely launched at me with all his force the Cossack spear. Ieluded it by swerving my body round; but it pierced deeply the offflank of my poor horse, and hung dangling there, with the crimsonblood pouring from the wound and smoking upward from the snow. Theanimal was plunging wildly and madly now, yet I fired the fiveremaining pistol shots full at the Russian ere he could draw hissword; and one at least must have taken effect somewhere, for he fellalmost beneath my horse's hoofs, and as he did so his cap flew off,and I recognised Volhonski--whom, by a singular coincidence, I thusagain encountered--Count Volhonski, the Colonel of the VladimirInfantry! At the same moment I was fiercely charged by the fiveadvanced Cossacks, with their levelled lances, and with my horse wasliterally hurled over the cliffs into the sea, the waves of which Iheard bellowing below me.

Within the pace of one pulsation--one respiration--as we fell whizzingthrough the air for some sixty feet together, I seemed to live all mypast life over again; but I have no language wherewith to express themingled bitterness and desolation that came over my soul at that time.Estelle lost to me; life, too, it seemed, going, for I must be drownedor taken--taken but to die. The remembrance of all I had loved and ofall who loved me; all that I had delighted in--the regiment, which wasmy pride--my friends and comrades, and all that had ever raised hopeor fancy, or excited emulation--seemed lost to me, as the waves of theBlack Sea closed over my head, and I went down to die, my fateunknown, and even in my grave, "unhousled, disappointed, unaneled."

Even now as I write, when the danger has long since passed away, andwhen the sun has shone again in all his glory on me, in my dreams I amsometimes once more the desperate and despairing fellow I was then.

CHAPTER XLIII.--WINIFRED'S SECRET.

It was Christmas-eve at Craigaderyn as well as before Sebastopol, andall over God's land of Christendom--the "Land of Cakes," perhaps,excepted, as Christmas and all such humanising holidays were banishedthence as paganish, by the acts of her Parliament and her "bigots ofthe Iron Time," as in England by Cromwell, some eighty years later,for a time. A mantle of gleaming white covered all mighty Snowdon, thetremendous abysses of Carneydd Llewellyn, and the lesser ranges ofMynyddhiraeth. Llyn Aled and Llyn Alwen were frozen alike, and theConway at some of its falls exhibited a beard of icicles that made allwho saw them think of the friendly giant--old Father Christmashimself! Deep lay the snow in the Martens' dingle and under all theoaks of the old forest and chase; for it was one of those hearty oldEnglish yules that seem to be passing away with other things, or toexist chiefly in the fancy of artists, and which, with theirconcomitants of cold without and warmth and glowing hospitalitywithin, seemed so much in unison with an old Tudor mansion likeCraigaderyn--a genuine Christmas, like one of the olden time, when theyule-log was an institution, when hands were shaken and facesbrightened, kind wishes expressed, and hearts grew glad and kind. Buton this particular Christmas-eve Winifred and Dora were not at theCourt, but with some of their lady friends were busy putting thefinishing touches to the leafy decorations of the parish church, forthe great and solemn festival of the morrow, with foliage cut from thesame woods and places where the Druids procured similar decorationsfor their temples, as it is simply a custom--an ancient usage--whichhas survived the shock of invading races and changing creeds.

The night was beautiful, clear, and frosty, and to those who journeyedalong the hard and echoing highway the square tower of the old church,loaded alike by snow and ivy, could be seen to loom, darkly and huge,against the broad face of the moon, that seemed to hang like a silvershield or mighty lamp amid the floating clouds, and right in a cleftbetween the mountains. The heavens were brilliant with stars; andlines of light, varied by the tinting of heraldic blazons and quaintscriptural subjects, fell from the traceried and mullioned windows ofthe ancient church on the graves and headstones in the burial-placearound it; while shadows flitted to and fro within--those of themerry-hearted and white-handed girls who were so cheerily at work, andwhose soft voices could be heard echoing under the groined arches inthose intervals when the chimes ceased in the belfry far above them.Huge icicles depended from the wyverns and dragons, through whosestony mouths the rain of fully five centuries had been disgorged bythe gutters of the old church, and being coated with snow, theobelisks and other mementos of the dead had a weird and ghostlikeeffect in the frosty moonlight.

In the cosy porch of the church were Sir Madoc Lloyd and his huntingbachelor friend, Sir Watkins Vaughan, each solacing himself with acigar while waiting for the ladies, to escort whom home they haddriven over from the Court after dinner in Sir Watkins' bang-updog-cart. While smoking and chatting (about the war of course, as noone spoke of anything else then), they peeped from time to time at thepicturesque vista of the church, where garlands of ivy and glisteningholly, green and white, with scarlet berries, and masses of artificialflowers, were fast making gay the grim Norman arches and sturdypillars, with their grotesque capitals and quaint details. Nor werethe tombs and trophies of the Lloyds of other times forgotten; so theold baronet watched with a pleased smile the slender fingers of hisyoung daughter as they deftly wreathed with holly and bay the rustyhelmet that whilom Madoc ap Meredyth wore at Flodden and Pinkey, herblue eyes radiant the while with girlish happiness, and her hair asusual in its unmanageable masses rolling down her back, and seeming inthe lights that flickered here and there like gold shaded away withauburn.

The curate, a tall, thin, and closely-shaven man, in a "Noah's-arkcoat" with a ritualistic collar, stood irresolutely between thesisters, though generally preferring the graver Winifred to thesomewhat hoydenish Dora, who insisted on appropriating his services inthe task of weaving and tying the garlands; but he was little morethan an onlooker, as the ladies seemed to have taken entire possessionof the church and reduced him to a well-pleased cipher. At last SirWatkins, a pleasant and gentlemanly young man, though somewhat of the"horsey" and fox-hunting type, who had a genuine admiration forWinifred, and had actually proposed for her hand (but, like poor PhilCaradoc, had done so in vain), seemed to think that he was letting hisreverence have the ladies' society too exclusively, tossed his cigarinto the snow, entered the church, and joined them; while Sir Madocpreferred to linger in the porch and think over the changes each ofthose successive festivals saw, and of the old friends who were nolonger here to share them with him.

"Here comes Sir Watkins, to make himself useful, at last!" said Dora,clapping her hands, as she infinitely preferred the fox-hunter to theparson. "I shall insist upon him going up the long ladder, and nailingall those leaves over that arch."

But Winifred, to whom his rather clumsy attentions, however quietlyoffered, were a source of secret annoyance, drew nearer her femalefriends, four gay and handsome girls from London, who were spendingChristmas at the Court (but have nothing else to do with our story),and whose eyes all brightened as the young and eligible baronet joinedthem. But for the charm which the presence of Winifred always had forhim, and the pleasure of attending on her and the other ladies, SirWatkins would infinitely have preferred, to a cold draughty church onChristmas night, Sir Madoc's cosy "snuggery," or the smoking-room atthe Court, where they could discuss matters equine and canine, reckonagain how many braces of grouse, black-co*ck, and ptarmigan they lad"knocked over" that day, or discuss the comparative merits of coursingin well-fenced Leicestershire, and in Sussex, where the downs are allopen and free as the highway, or other kindred topics, through themedium of hot brandy-and-water.

"Now, Sir Watkins, here are my garlands and there is a ladder," saidDora.

"Any mistletoe among them, Miss Dora?" he asked, laughing.

"No; we leave the arrangement of that mysterious plant to such Druidsas you; but here are some lovely holly-berries," said Dora, holding abunch over the head of one of her companions, and kissing her with allthat empressem*nt peculiar to young ladies.

"By Jove," said the baronet, with a positive sigh, "I quite agree withsome fellow who has written that 'two women kissing each other is amisapplication of one of God's best gifts.'"

Glancing at Winifred, who looked so handsome in her cosy sealskinjacket, with its cuffs and collar of silver-coloured grebe, thebachelor curate smiled faintly, and said, while playing nervously withhis clerical billyco*ck.

"I do not plead for aught approaching libertinism, but I do think thatto kiss in friendship those we love seems a simple and innocentcustom. In Scripture we have it as a form of ceremonious salutation,as we may find in the fourteenth chapter of Genesis, and in firstSamuel, where the consecration of the Jewish kings to regal authoritywas sealed by a kiss from the officiator in the ceremony."

"And we have also in Genesis the courtship of Jacob and the 'fairdamsel' Rachel," said Dora, looking up from her task with her brightface full of fun, "wherein we are told that 'Jacob kissed Rachel, andthen lifted up his voice, and wept.' If any gentleman did so afterkissing me, I am sure that I should die of laughter."

"We are having quite a dissertation on this most pleasant of civilisedinstitutions," said Sir Watkins, merrily, as he flicked away a cobwebhere and there with his silver-mounted tandem whip; "have you nothingto say on the subject, Miss Lloyd--no apt quotation?"

"None," replied Winifred, dreamily, while twirling a spray of ivyround her white and tapered fingers.

"None--after all your reading?"

"Save perhaps that a kiss one may deem valueless and but a jest may befull of tender significance to another."

"You look quite distraite, Winny, dear, as you make this romanticadmission," said one of her friends.

"Do I--or did I?" she asked, colouring.

"Yes. Of what or of whom were you thinking?"

"Such a deuced odd theme you have all got upon!" said Sir Watkins,perceiving how Winifred's colour had deepened at her own thoughts.

"But how funny--how delightful!" exclaimed the girls, laughingtogether; while Dora added, with something like a mock sigh, as sheheld up a crape rose,

"When last I wore this rose in my hair, I danced with little Mr.Clavell--and he is spending his Christmas before Sebastopol! Poor dearfellow--poor Tom Clavell!"

Winifred's colour faded away, her usual calm and self-possessed lookreturned; and, stooping down, she bent all her energies to weave anobstinate spray of ivy round the carved base of a pillar, some yardsdistant from the group.

"Permit me to be your assistant, Miss Lloyd," said the baronet, in alow voice and with an earnest manner. "Miss Dora must excuse me; but Idon't see the fun of craning my neck up there from the top of atwelve-foot ladder."

Winifred started a little impatiently, for as he stooped by her side,his long fair whiskers brushed her brow. "Do I annoy you?" he asked,gently.

"O no; but I feel nervous to-night, and wish our task were ended."

"It soon will be, if we work together thus. But you promised to tellme, Miss Lloyd, why your old gamekeeper would not permit me to shootthat hare in the Martens' dingle, to-day."

"Need I tell you, Sir Watkins--a Welshman?"

"You forget that my place is in South Wales, almost on the borders ofMonmouthshire, and this may be a local superstition."

"It is."

"Well, I am all attention," said he, looking softly down on the girl'swonderfully thick and beautiful eyelashes.

"The story, as I heard it once from dear mamma, runs thus: Ages ago,there took shelter in our forests at Pennant Melangell, the daughterof a Celtic king, called St. Monacella, to whom a noble had proposedmarriage; one whom she could not love, and could never love, but onwhom her father was resolved to bestow her."

"By Jove!" commented Sir Watkins, while poor Winifred, feeling theawkwardness of saying all this to a man she had rejected, becametroubled and coloured deeply; "and so, to escape her tormentors, shefled to the wilderness."

"Yes, and there she dwelt in peace for fifteen years, without seeingthe face of a man, till one day Brochwel, Prince of Powis, whenhunting, discovered her, and was filled with wonder to find in thedepth of the wild forest a maiden of rare beauty, at prayer on herknees beside a holy well; and still greater was his wonder to findthat a hare his dogs had pursued had sought refuge by her side, whilethey shrank cowering back with awe. Brochwel heard her story; andtaking pity, gave to God and to her some land to be a sanctuary forall who fled there; she became the patron saint of hares, and forcenturies the forest there teemed with them; and even at this hour ourold people believe that no bullet can touch a hare, if any one criesin time, 'God and St. Monacella be with thee!'"

"A smart little nursery legend," said Sir Watkins, who perhaps knew itwell, though he had listened for the pure pleasure of having her totalk to him, and him alone.

"It is one of the oldest of our Welsh superstitions," said Winifred,somewhat piqued by his tone.

"Why are you so cross with me?" he asked, while venturing just totouch her hand, as he tied a spray of ivy for her. "Cross--I, withyou?"

"Reserved, then."

"I am not aware, Sir Watkins, that I am either; but please don't beginto revert to--to--"

"The subject on which we spoke so lately?"

"Yes."

"Ah, Miss Lloyd--my earnest and loving proposal to you."

"In pity say no more about it!" said Winifred, colouring again, butwith intense annoyance at herself for having drawn forth the remark.

"Well, Miss Lloyd, pardon me; I am but a plain fellow in my way, andyour good papa understands me better than you do."

"And likes you better," said she, smiling.

"I am sorry to be compelled to admit that such is the case; butremember the maxim of Henry IV. of France."

"Why--the roses please--what was it?"

"There are more flies caught by one spoonful of honey than by ten tunsof vinegar."

"Thanks, very much, for the maxim," replied Winifred, proudly andpetulantly; "but I hope I am not quite of the nature of vinegar, and Idon't wish to catch flies or anything else."

It was now Sir Watkins' turn to blush, which he did furiously, for herproud little ways perplexed him; but she added, with a laugh,

"The base of the next pillar requires our attention, and then I thinkthe decorations are ended. Do let the cobwebs alone with your whip,and assist me, if you would please me."

"There is not in all the world a girl I would do more to please," saidSir Watkins, earnestly, his blue eyes lighting up with honestenthusiasm as he spoke in a low and earnest tone, "and I know thatthere is not in all England another girl like you, Winifred: you quitedistance them all, and it is more than I can understand how it comesto pass that those who--who--don't love you--"

"Well, what, Sir Watkins?"

"Can love any one else!" said he, confusedly, while smoothing his fairmoustache, for there was a quick flash in the black eyes of WinifredLloyd that puzzled him. In fact, though he knew it not, or was withoutsufficient perception to be aware of it, this was an offhand style oflove-making that was infinitely calculated to displease if not toirritate her.

"You flatter me!" said she, her short upper lip curling with anemotion of disdain she did not care at that moment to conceal.

"Does it please you?"

"No."

"I am sorry for that, as we are generally certain of the gratitude atleast, if not the love, of those we flatter."

Much more of this sort of thing, almost sparring, passed between them;for Sir Watkins, piqued by her rejection of him, would not permithimself again as yet to address her in the language of genuinetenderness, and most unwisely adopted a manner that had in it asoupçon of banter. But Winifred Lloyd heard him as if she heard himnot: the memories of past days were strong at that time in her heart,and glancing from time to time towards the old oak family pew, thenhalf lost in obscurity and gloom, she filled it up in fancy with thefigures of some who were far away--of Philip Caradoc and another; ofEstelle Cressingham, who, for obvious reasons of her own, had omittedher and Dora from the Christmas circle at Pottersleigh House; and so,while Sir Watkins continued to speak, she scarcely responded. Thegirl's thoughts "were with her heart, and that was far away," to wherethe lofty batteries of Sebastopol and the red-and-white marble cliffsof Balaclava looked down upon the Euxine, where scenes of which hergentle heart could form no conception were being enacted hourly; wherehuman life and human agony were of no account; and where the festivalof the Babe that was born at Bethlehem, as a token of salvation,peace, and goodwill unto men, was being celebrated by Lancaster gunsand rifled cannon, by shot and shell and rockets, and every otherdevice by which civilisation and skill enable men to destroy eachother surely, and expeditiously.

Just as some such ideas occurred to her she saw her father, followedby old Owen Gwyllim, enter the church, and in the faces of both sheread an expression of concern that startled her; and from her handsshe dropped the ivy sprays and paper roses, which she was entwiningtogether. Sir Madoc held in his hand an open newspaper, with which theold butler had just ridden over from the Court, and he silentlyindicated a certain paragraph to the curate, who read it and thenlifted up his hands and eyes, as with sorrow and perplexity.

"What the devil is up now?" asked Sir Watkins, bluntly; "no bad newsfrom the Crimea, I hope--eh?"

"Very--very bad news! we have lost a dear, dear friend!" replied SirMadoc, letting his chin drop on his breast; while Sir Watkins, takingthe journal from his hand, all unconscious of error or misjudgment,read aloud:

"'It is now discovered beyond all doubt, by the Chief of the Staff,that Captain Henry Hardinge, of the Royal Welsh Fusileers, whosedisappearance, when on a particular duty, was involved in so muchmystery, has been drowned in the Black Sea, by which casualty a mostpromising young officer has been lost to her Majesty's service.'"

"Drowned--Harry Hardinge drowned in the Black Sea!" exclaimed Dora,with sudden tears and horror.

"By Jove, the same poor fellow I met at your fête, I think--so sorry,I am sure!" said Sir Watkins, with well-bred regret; "and see--I havequite startled poor Miss Lloyd!"

Winifred, who for a moment seemed turned to stone, covered her facewith her handkerchief, while her whole delicate form shook with thesobs she dared not utter.

Mothers, wives, and friends, the tender, the loving, and the true, hadall read, until their hearts grew sick and weary, of the perils andsufferings of those who were before Sebastopol, as the horrors of theCrimean winter, adding to those which are ever attendant on war,deepened over them. And now here was one horror more--one that wasquite unlooked for in its nature, but which now came home to their ownhearts and circle.

"Take me away, papa--take me home!" said Winifred, in a faint voice,as she laid her face on his shoulder, for her tears wereirrepressible; and the tall, slender curate in the long coat--anOxonian, who chanted some portions of his church service, turned tothe east when he prayed, had an altar whereon were sundry brazenplatters, like unto barbers' basins, and tall candles, which (as yet)he dared not light, and who secretly, but hopelessly, admired Winifredin his inner heart--knew not what to think of all this sudden emotion;but he kindly caressed her passive white hands between his own, andwhispered lispingly in her ear, that "the Lord loved those whom Hechastened--afflictions come not out of the ground--all flesh wasgrass--that God is the God of the widow and fatherless--yet there weremore thorns than roses in our earthly path," with various other oldstereotyped crumbs of comfort.

"To the Court--home!" cried Sir Madoc; "call round the carriages tothe porch, Owen, and let us begone."

A few minutes after this they had all quitted the church, and werebeing driven home in their close vehicle, Sir Watkins excepted, whodrove in his dog-cart, sucking a cigar he had forgotten to light, andwondering what the deuced fuss was all about. Had Hardinge stood inhis way? If so, by Jove, there was a chance for him yet, thought thegood-natured fellow. In the dark depth of the large family carriage,as it bowled along noiselessly by a road where the white mantle ofwinter lay so deep by hill and wood that one might have thought theSnow-King of the Norsem*n had come again, Winifred could weep freely;and as she did so, her father's arm stole instinctively andaffectionately round her.

"Drowned," she whispered in his ear; "poor Harry drowned--and I lovedhim so!"

"It may all be some d--d mistake," sighed Sir Madoc, in sore grief andperplexity.

"But, O papa," whispered the girl, "I loved him so--loved him asEstelle Cressingham never, never did!"

"You, my darling?"

"Yes, papa."

"My poor pet! I suspected as much all along. Well, well, we are all inthe hands of God. It is a black Christmas, this, for us atCraigaderyn, and I shall sorrow for him even as Llywarch Hen sorrowedof old for all the sons he lost in battle. But what a strange fatalityto escape so narrowly at the Bôd Mynach, and then to be drowned in thedistant East!"

And with a heart swollen alike by prayer and sorrow, the girl, whosetender and long-guarded secret had at last escaped her in the shock ofgrief, sat alone in her room that night, and heard the Christmaschimes ringing out clearly and merrily to all, it seemed, but for her;for those bells, those gladsome bells, which speak to every Christianheart of bright hope here and brighter hope elsewhere, seemed to chimein vain for Winifred Lloyd; so she thought in her innocent heart, "Ishall go to him yet, though he can never come back to me!"

CHAPTER XLIV.--THE CASTLE OF YALTA.

I presume that I need scarcely inform my reader that, notwithstandingthe predicament in which a preceding chapter left me, and the tenor ofthat paragraph which caused such consternation among my warm-heartedWelsh friends at Craigaderyn, I was not drowned in the Black Sea,though my dip in the waters thereof was both a cold and deep one. Suchfellows as I, are, perhaps, hard to kill--at least, I hope so. Onrising to the surface, I found myself minus forage-cap, sword, andrevolver, and also my horse, which, being sorely wounded, floated awayout of the creek into which we had fallen (or been hurled by theCossack lances), and the poor animal was helplessly drowned, withoutmaking any attempt to swim landward. This was, perhaps, fortunate forme, as the Cossacks saw it drifting in the moonlight, and continued tofire at it with their carbines, leaving me to scramble quietly ashoreunnoticed and unseen.

My swimming powers are very small; thus, when just about to sink asecond time, I was fortunate enough to grasp some sturdy juniperbushes, that grew among the rocks and overhung the water. Aided bythese I gained footing on a ledge in safety, and remained there for afew minutes, scarcely venturing to breathe, until all sounds ceased onthe cliffs above, and the flashing of the Cossacks' carbines, andtheir wild hurrahs died away; and the moment I was assured of silence,I proceeded steadily, but not without great difficulty, to climb tothe summit of the opposite side of the creek, my recently fracturedarm feeling stiff and feeble the while, three lance-prods bleedingpretty freely, and my undress uniform wet, sodden, and becomingpowdered fast by the still falling flakes of snow. Even amid all thatbodily misery I thought more sorrowfully than bitterly of her I hadlost.

"Estelle gone from me, a terrible death before me, either by captureor privation," thought I. "What have I done, O God, to be dealt withthus hardly?"

Even mortification that I had failed in the execution of my oncecoveted duty, existed no longer in my heart, at that time at least. Atlast I gained the summit; the uprisen moon was shining on thefar-stretching Euxine, and casting a path of glittering splendour onits waters, even to the foot of the cliffs on which I stood. On theother side, to my comfort, the scouting Cossacks had entirelydisappeared. That Count Volhonski, once my pleasant companion inGermany, and in whose way, coincidence and chance had so often castme, should have fallen by my hand, was certainly a source of deepregret to me; but for a time only; a sense of my own pressing dangersoon became paramount to all minor considerations. Exposure to thekeen wind from the sea on ground so lofty, the night having closed in,and the snow flakes falling, all rendered shelter, warmth, and dryclothing, with dressing for the lance-thrusts, most necessary, if Iwould save my life; and yet in seeking to obtain these, I ran the mostimminent risk of summarily losing it.

I was, I knew, far in rear of the advanced line of all the Russianposts, and was certain to fall, alive or dead, into their hands atsome time or other; so drawing Lord Raglan's despatch to MarshalCanrobert from my breast-pocket--a piece of wet pulpy paper--Idestroyed and cast it away; an unwise proceeding, perhaps, as it wasthe only credential I possessed to prove that I was not a--spy, butsimply an officer on duty, who had lost his way. The cliffs of marblethat bordered the shore were silent and lonely. The tall mountains ofthe Yaila range, their sides bristling with sombre pines and rent byold volcanic throes into deep chasms and rugged ravines of rock, roseon my left; a little Tartar village, the feeble lights of which Icould discern, nestled at their base about a mile distant. Should Iendeavour to reach it, and risk or lose all at once? By this time Ihad struck upon a path which soon led to a roadway between vineyardwalls, and ere long these were replaced by what appeared to be thetrees of a park, between the branches of which the moon and the starsshone on the slanting snow-flakes and turned them to diamonds andprisms. In summer, the cypress and olive, the pomegranate and laureltrees, the quince and the Byzantine poplar, made all that road lovely.Then it was dreary enough, especially to me. Anon I came to a statelygate of elaborate cast-iron work, between two ornate pillars of thenative red-and-white marble, surmounted each by some heraldic design.It stood invitingly open; the track of recent carriage-wheels laythere; and beyond the now white sheet of snow that covered a spaciouspark, there towered a handsome mansion, in that quaint and almostbarbaric style of architecture peculiar to the châteaux of the Crimea,half Russian, half Turkish, with four domes, shaped like invertedonions, but of clearly-burnished copper, surmounting four slendertourelles, and under the broad cornices of which the pigeons--the holybirds of Muscovy--were clustered in cooing rows. In front was a prettyporch, under the open arches of which hung a large coloured lamp;while many lights, all suggestive of heat and comfort, were gleamingthrough the rich hangings of the windows on the snowy waste without.It was evidently the country residence of some wealthy Russianlandholder, and there I felt more certain and safe in seeking shelterthan among the wood-cutting boors or Tartar herdsmen of the village;yet my heart had more misgivings than hope as I approached it.

If the Russians, even in time of peace, are ever suspicious ofstrangers, how was I likely to be received there in time of war?Should I fall among good Samaritans, kindly perhaps; if otherwise, Imight be accused of spying in an enemy's country, be hanged, shot,knouted perhaps, and sent to Siberia, for my horrible surmises wereendless. But to remain where I was would be to die; so I boldlyapproached, not the door, but a lower window that overlooked abalustraded terrace on which a flood of light from within was falling.Between hangings of pale blue satin laced with silver, and through thedouble sashes of the windows, which were ornamented with false flowersin the old Russian fashion, I perceived a handsome and loftyapartment, the furniture of which was singularly elaborate and florid.It seemed, with its drapery, sofas, fauteuils, statuettes under glassshades, and its pretty watercolours hung on the wall, to be a tinydrawing-room or ladies' boudoir; but on one side, built into thepartition and forming a part thereof, were the stone ribs of apeitchka or Russian stove, faced with brilliantly-colouredporcelain. Through 'these ribs the light of a cheerful fire shoneacross the softly carpeted floor; and above the stove was an eikon,or Byzantine Madonna, with a bright metal halo like a gilt horsesho*round the head; a little silver lamp hung before it. From this a tinyjet of flame shot upward, while a golden tassel dangled below.

In the foreground, between the window and the glowing wall-stove at atable littered with books and needlework, were seated two ladies ineasy-chairs, their feet resting on tabourettes, as they cosily read bythe softened light of a great shaded lamp. One seemed young; the othersomewhat portly and advanced in years; and she wore a redsarafan--the ancient Russian dress--a readoption about that time,when our invasion of the Crimea acted as a powerful and angrystimulant to the national enthusiasm of the whole empire; and at thatprecise moment, I should have preferred to find this noble matron--forsuch I had no doubt she was--in some dress nearer the Parisian mode.However, in my then predicament I felt more disposed to trust to theprotection of women than of men, and so knocked gently, and then moreloudly, on the window. Both ladies started, laid down their books, androse. The double sashes and the false flowers placed between themrendered my figure indistinct, if not invisible. They conferred for amoment, and then, most fortunately for me, instead of summoningassistance by furiously ringing the bell, or indulging in outcries, assome ladies might have done in a land of well-ordered police, theyounger drew out a drawer, in which probably pistols lay; while theelder boldly unclasped the sashes, threw them open, and then bothsurveyed me with perplexity and with something of pity, too, as I wasbareheaded, unarmed, deadly pale, and covered with snow that in someplaces was streaked with blood. The elderly lady, a keen-lookingwoman, evidently with a dash of the nomadic Tartar in her blood, askedme rather imperiously some questions in Russian--that language whichGolovine so rightly says "is altogether inaccessible to foreigners;"but the other added, in softer French,

"Who are you, and from whence do you come?"

I replied that I was a British officer from the army beforeSebastopol, wounded and unhorsed in a recent skirmish with Cossacks;that I had lost my way, and was literally perishing of cold, hunger,and loss of blood.

"How come you to be here, as you have no troops in this quarter?"asked the young lady, to my surprise and pleasure, in English, whichshe spoke fluently, but with a pretty foreign accent.

"I lost my way, I have said, and being pursued have ridden far in awrong direction."

"Far, indeed, from Sebastopol at least; do you know where you are,sir?"

"No."

"This is Prince Woronzow's castle of Yalta."

"Yalta!"

"On the shore of the Black Sea," she added, smiling brightly at mysurprise.

"Then I am more than thirty miles in rear of the Russian posts inthe valley of Inkermann!"

"Yes; and as a soldier, must know that you are in great danger of thedarkest suspicions if you are taken."

"I am aware of that," said I, faintly, as a giddiness came over me,and I leaned against the open sash of the window; "but I care not whathappens."

The elder lady, who had a son with the army in Sebastopol, now saidsomething energetically, and in my favour apparently, and the otheradded, softly and kindly, "Enter, sir, and we shall succour you."

The closed sashes excluded the icy air, I felt myself within the warminfluence of the peitchka, and then the three smarting lance-woundsbegan to bleed afresh.

"Madame Tolstoff," said the younger lady, in French, "we must actwarily here, if we would prevent this poor fellow becoming a prisonerof war, or worse. Bring here old Ivan Yourivitch the dvornik."

This was the butler, but it also signifies "servant."

"Can you trust him in this matter?"

"In any matter, implicitly. His wife nursed me and my brother too.There is a perilous romance in all this, and to his care I shallconsign our unfortunate visitor, who does seem in a very bad way."

After a little explanation and some stringent directions, she confidedme to a white-headed butler, who wore a livery that looked likesemi-uniform, and he took me to his own rooms. He jabbered a greatdeal in Russ, of which I knew not a word, but first he gave me a largegoblet of golden Crimskoi, the wine of the district. Then he exchangedall my wet and sodden clothing for a suit which he selected from amongmany in a large wardrobe: a caftan of dark green cloth, tied at thewaist by a scarlet sash; trousers also of dark green, with boots thatcame half way up the calf of the leg. Under all I wore a soft redshirt; and this attire I afterwards learned was the most thoroughlynational costume in Russia, being that of the Rifle Militia of theCrown peasants--one worn by the Emperor himself on certain gala-days.This old man, Ivan Yourivitch, also dressed tenderly the threelance-prods, and though giddy and weak, I felt unusually comfortablewhen he led me back to the presence of the two ladies, of whose namesand rank I was quite ignorant, while shrewdly suspecting that bothmust be noble. Their mansion was evidently one of great magnificence,and exhibited all that luxury in which the wealthier Russian noblesare wont to indulge, displaying the extravagance and splendour ofpetty monarchs. I saw there a broad staircase of Carrara marble, andlackeys flitting about in the powdered wigs and liveries of the oldFrench court; apartments with tessellated floors and roofs of frettedgold; furniture in ormolu and mother-of-pearl; hangings of silk andcloth-of-gold; and in that castle of Yalta were ball, and card, andtea rooms; a library, picture-gallery, and billiard-room; andeverywhere the aroma of exotic plants and perfumes; so I began toflatter myself that I was quite as lucky as the Lieutenant of H.M.S.Tiger, when he fell into the hands of the Russians at Odessa in thepreceding May, and whose adventures made such a noise. When I rejoinedthe ladies, they both laughed merrily at the rapid transformationeffected in my appearance; and the younger saying, "My brother'sshooting-clothes suit you exactly," relinquished her book, which, withsome surprise, I detected to be a Tauchnitz edition of "OliverTwist!"

"In stumbling upon us here," she added, with great sweetness ofmanner, "how fortunate it is that you lighted first on Madame Tolstoffand myself, instead of any of our Tartar or Cossack servants!"

"Fortunate indeed! I may truly bless my stars that I have fallen intosuch gentle hands."

"All Russians are not the barbarians you islanders deem them; yet youdeserve a heavier punishment than we shall mete out to you, forventuring hither to fight against holy Russia and our father theCzar."

"May I ask if I have the honour of addressing any of the family ofPrince Woronzow!"

"O, no!" she replied. "Madame Tolstoff's son is serving in Sebastopol;my brother serves there also; and the kind Prince has merely given usthe use of this mansion, as he has done the more regal one at Alupkato other ladies similarly situated; and now that you know our secret,"she added, archly, "pray what is yours?"

"Secret!--I have none."

"You were not--well, reconnoitring?"

I coloured, feeling certain that she had substituted that word for oneless pleasant to military ears.

"No, madam: while seeking to convey a despatch from Lord Raglan toMarshal Canrobert I lost my way, fell among Cossacks, and am here."

"When my brother arrives--we expect him ere long--we shall becompelled to confide you to his care; meantime you are safe, and hereare refreshments, of which you seem sorely in need; and for greatersecrecy, Ivan Yourivitch will serve you here."

"Who the deuce can this brother be of whom she talks so much, andwhere can she have acquired such capital English?" were my surmises asI seated myself at a side-table, and, with old Ivan standing towel inhand at my back, fell à la Cosaque, on the good things before me,with an appetite unimpaired by all that I had undergone. To the elderlady's horror, I omitted previously to cross myself or turn towardsthe eikon; but fragrant coffee made as only Orientals andContinentals can make it, golden honey from the hills and woods ofYaila, newly-laid eggs, salmon fresh from the Salghir, boar's ham fromthe forests of Kaffa, and wine from Achmetchet, made a repast fit forthe gods--then how much so for a long-famished Briton! While I partookof it the ladies conversed together in a low voice in Russian, seemingto ignore my presence; for though full of natural female curiosity andimpatience to question me, they were too well-bred to trouble me justthen. Those who have starved as we starved in the Crimea can alonerelish and test the comforts of a good meal. You must sleep--ordoze--amid the half-frozen mud and ooze of the trenches, or in a colddraughty tent, to know the actual luxury of clean sheets, a soft bed,and cosy pillows. Hence it is, that though accustomed to "rough it" inany fashion and degree, no one so keenly appreciates the warmth, thefood, and the genuine comforts of home as the old campaigner, or theweather-worn seaman, who has perhaps doubled "the Horn," and knownwhat it is to hand a half-frozen topsail in a tempestuous night, withhis nails half torn out by the roots, as he lay out to windward. Yetwhen I found myself in quarters so comfortable, hospitable, andsplendid, I could not but think regretfully of the regiment, of PhilCaradoc, of Charley Gwynne, and others who were literally starvingbefore the enemy--starving and dying of cold and of hunger!

CHAPTER XLV.--EVIL TIDINGS.

I had now time amply to observe and to appreciate that which hadimpressed me powerfully at first--the wonderful beauty of the lady whoprotected me, and who spoke English with such marvellous fluency. Ifthe artist's pencil sometimes fails to convey a correct idea of awoman's loveliness--more than all of her expression--a description bymere ink and type can give less than an outline. In stature she wasfully five feet seven, full-bosomed and roundly limbed, and yet seemedjust past girlhood, in her twentieth or twenty-second year. Her skinwas fair, dazzlingly pure as that of any Saxon girl at home; while, bystrange contrast, her eyes were singularly dark, the deepest,clearest, and most melting hazel, with soft voluptuous dreamy-lookinglids, and long black lashes. Her eyebrows, which were rather straight,were also dark, while the masses of her hair were as golden in hue asever were those of Lucrezia Borgia; they grew well down upon herforehead, and in the light of the shaded lamp by which she had beenreading, ripples of sheen seemed to pass over them like rays of thesun. Her features were very fine, and her ears were white and delicateas if formed of biscuit china, and from them there dangled a pair ofthe then fashionable Schogoleff earrings of cannon-balls of gold.

Her dress was violet-coloured silk, cut low but square at the neck,with loose open sleeves, trimmed with white lace and ruches of whitesatin ribbon, and its tint consorted well with the fair purity of hercomplexion. Every way she was brilliant and picturesque, and seemedone of those women whom a man may rapidly learn to love--yea, and tolove passionately--and yet know very little about. Once in alifetime a man may see such a face and such a figure, and neverforget them. The dame, in the red sarafan, was a somewhat plain butpleasant-looking old Muscovite lady, whose angularity of feature andgeneral outline of face reminded me of a good-humoured tom cat; andwhile playing idly with the leaves of her book, she regarded me with arather dubious expression of eye; for British prisoners did not quitefind themselves so much at home in Kharkoff and elsewhere, nor werethey so petted and fêted, as the Russian prisoners were at Lewes,among the grassy downs of Sussex. My repast over, and the massivesilver tray removed by Ivan Yourivitch, a conversation was begun bythe younger lady saying, a little playfully,

"You must give me your parole of honour, that you will not attempt toleave this place in secret, or without permission."

"From you?"

"From me, yes."

"Did not duty require it of me, I might never seek the permission, butbe too happy to be for ever your captive," said I, gallantly; but sheonly laughed like one who was quite used to that sort of thing, andheld up a white hand, saying,

"Do you promise?"

"I do, on my honour. But will this pledge to a lady be deemedsufficient?"

"By whom?"

"Well, say Prince Menschikoff."

"We shall not consult him, unless we cannot help it; besides," sheadded, with a proud expression on her upper lip, "what is he, thoughMinister of Marine, Governor of Finland and Sebastopol, but thegrandson of a pastry-cook!"

"Prince Gortchakoff, then?"

"They are cousins; but do not take rank even in Russia with the oldfamilies, like the Dolgourikis and others, who are nobles of the firstclass."

On the suggestion, apparently, of the elder lady, whom she namedMadame Tolstoff, she proceeded to ask me many questions, which I carednot to answer, as they had direct reference to the strength of ourforces, and the plans and projects of the Allied Generals regardingSebastopol; and though my information was only limited to such as oneof subaltern rank could possess, I knew how artfully the mostimportant military and political secrets have been wormed from men bywomen, and was on my guard. Her excellent English she accounted for bytelling me that in her girlhood she had an English governess. She toldme, among other things, that she had gone in her carriage, withhundreds of other ladies from Sebastopol, Simpheropol, and BagtchiSerai (or "the Seraglio of Gardens"), to see the battle of the Alma.It began quite like a prasnik or holiday with them all, as they hadexpected, among other marvels, to see St. Sergius, whose sacred imagewas borne by the Kazan column, till the latter was routed by theHighland Brigade, and bundled over the hill, image and all, thoughInnocent, Archbishop of Odessa, in one of his sermons to the garrisonof Sebastopol (published in the Russian Messenger) confidentlypredicted a fourth appearance of the patriotic saint on that occasion;but my fair informant added, that when the fighting began, she haddriven away homeward in horror.

She quizzed me a little about the small dimensions of the island inwhich we dwelt, an island where the people elbowed each other for lackof room; she asked me if it were really true that our soldiers weresailors; and if it was also true that our Admiral in the Baltic alwayscarried a little sword under one arm, and a great fish under theother, alluding to a popular Moscow caricature of Sir Charles Napier.It was impossible not to laugh with her, for her charming tricks offoreign manner, the arch smiles of her occasionally half-closed eyes,and her pretty ways of gesticulation with the loveliest of whitehands, from which she had now drawn the gloves, were all veryseductive; moreover the Russians have a natural mode of imbuing withheartiness every phrase and expression, however simple or merelypolite. She always spoke of the Czar with more profound awe andrespect than even Catholics do of the Pope, or Mahometans do of theSultan; but it should be borne in mind that in Russia, as Golovinesays, "next to the King of Heaven, the Czar is the object ofadoration. He is, in the estimation of the Russian, the representativeand the elect of God; so he is the head of his church, the source ofall the beatitudes, and the first cause of all fear. His handdistributes as bounteously as his arm strikes heavily. Love, fear, andhumble respect are blended in this deification of the monarch, whichserves most frequently only to task the cupidity of some, and thepusillanimity of others. The Czar is the centre of all rays, the focusto which every eye is directed; he is the 'Red Sun' of the Russians,for thus they designate him. The Czar is the father of the wholenation; no one has any relation that can be named in the same day withthe Emperor; and when his interest speaks, every other voice ishushed!"

So, whenever this lady spoke of him, her eyes seemed to fill withmelting light, and her cheek to suffuse with genuine enthusiasm; andas I listened to her, and looked upon her rare beauty, her singularhair, her laughing lips; and her ease of manner that declared aperfect knowledge of the world, I could not but confess that if thereis no absolute cure for a heart disappointed in love, there may befound a most excellent balm for it. I know not now all we talked of,how much was said, and more left unsaid, for my new friend had all theairs of a coquette, and could fill up her sentences in a very eloquentfashion of her own, by a movement of the graceful hand, by the tappingof a dainty foot that would peep out ever and anon from under herviolet-coloured skirt; with a blush, a smile, a drooping of the sunnybrown eyes! Had the wine, the golden Crimskoi, affected me, that,while talking to the fair unknown, I seemed to tread on air; thatmy love for Estelle--a love thrust back upon my heart--wasalready--Heavens, already!--being replaced by an emotion of revengeagainst her, and exultation that the dazzling Russian might love me inher place? She was, indeed, gloriously beautiful; but, then, I haveever been a famous builder of castles in the air, and I was in thehands of one who felt her power and knew how to wield it. The Russianwomen, it has been truly written, like the gentlewomen of otherEuropean countries, who are reared in the lap of luxury, can employand practise all the accomplishments and seductive arts that mostenchant society, and employ them well! They have great vivacity ofmind, much grace of manner, and possess the most subtle and exquisitetaste in dress; yet the domestic virtues are but little cultivatedunder the double-headed Eagle, and marriages are too often merematters of convenience; so there is little romance in the character,and often much of intrigue in the conduct of the Russian lady.

"I trust that your wounds are not painful?" said she, with tenderearnestness, after a short pause, during which she perceived me towince once or twice.

"My immersion in salt water has made them smart, perhaps; and then theblood I have lost has caused such a dimness of sight, that at times,even while speaking with you, though I hear your voice, your figureseems to melt from before me."

"I am so deeply sorry to hear this; but a night's repose, and perhapsthe rest of to-morrow may, nay, I doubt not shall, cure you of thisweakness."

"I thank you for your good wishes and intentions."

"In that skirmish, fought single-handed by you against our Cossacks,they thrust you into the water--actually into the sea?"

"Yes; by the mere force of their charged lances--horse and man we wentover together; but not before I had shot their leader--a resolutefellow--poor Volhonski!"

At this name both ladies started and changed colour, though theyounger alone understood me.

"Whom did you say?" she asked, in a voice of terror, while tremblingviolently.

"Paulovitch Count Volhonski, a name well known in the Russian army, Ibelieve; he commanded the Vladimir regiment at the Alma and inSebastopol."

"And he--he fell by your hand?"

"I regret to say that he did," I replied, slowly and perplexedly.

"You know him, and are certain of this?"

"Certain as that I now address you--most certain, to my sorrow."

"O Gospodi pomiloui!"[4] she exclaimed, clasping her hands together,and seeming now pale as the new-fallen snow; "my brother--my brother!"

"Your brother?" I exclaimed, in genuine consternation.

"Slain by you--your hand!" she wailed out, wildly and reproachfully.

"O, it cannot be."

"Speak--how?" She stamped her foot as she spoke, and no prettier footin all Russia could have struck the carpet with a more imperial air.Her eyes were flashing now through tears; even her teeth seemed toglisten; her hands were clenched, and I felt that she regarded me, forthe time, with hate and loathing.

"He fell, and his horse, too--yet, now that I think of it," I urged,"he may be untouched; and from my soul I hope that such may be thecase, for personally he is my friend."

I felt deeply distressed by the turn matters had so suddenly taken;while Madame Tolstoff, to whom she now made some explanation inRussian, regarded me with fierce and undisguised hostility.

"Then there is yet hope?" she asked, piteously.

"That he may be simply wounded--yes."

"For that hope I thank you, Hospodeen: a little time shall tell usall."

"I was attacked and outnumbered; my own life was in the balance, and Iknew him not, nor did he know me, until we were at close quarters, inthe moment of his fall. To defend oneself is a natural impulse; and ithas been truly said, that if a man armed with a red-hot poker were tomake a lunge even at the greatest philosopher, he would certainlyparry it, though he were jammed between two sacks of gunpowder. Then Ihave the honour of addressing the Hospoza Valerie?"

"Yes," she replied, with hauteur; "but who are you, that know myname?"

"I am Captain Henry Hardinge, who--"

"The Hospodeen Hardinge" (Hardinovitch she called it), "who sogreatly befriended my dear brother in Germany, and who saved his lifeat Inkermann?"

"The same."

"I cannot receive you with joy; the present terrible tidings cloud allthe past. Yet I have promised to protect you," she added, giving meboth her hands to kiss, "and protected you shall be--even should mydead brother be borne here to-night!"

So the slender girl with the dark orbs and golden hair, she of whoseminiature I had custody for a little time on that memorable andexciting morning in the Heiligengeist Feld at Hamburg, was now alovely woman in all the budded bloom of past twenty--a fair Russian,with "more peril in her eyes than fifty of their swords!"

I felt sincere sorrow for the grief and consternation I had soevidently and so naturally excited, and I greatly feared that thehostility of the elder lady, Madame Tolstoff, might yet work me somemischief; though I knew not in what relation she could stand toVolhonski, who, at Hamburg, had distinctly said that his sisterValerie was the only one he had in the world. While I sat silentlylistening, and not without an emotion of guiltiness in my heart, totheir sobs and exclamations of woe, uttered singly and together, therapid clatter of hoofs, partially muffled by the snow, was heardwithout; bells sounded and doors were banged; and then IvanYourivitch, his old wrinkled face full of excitement and importance,entered the room unsummoned. My heart for a moment stood still.

"What fresh evil tidings," thought I, "does this old Muscovite bringus now?"

CHAPTER XLVI.--DELILAH.

Even while Ivan Yourivitch was conferring with his startled mistress,I saw a tall figure in Russian uniform--the eternal long graygreatcoat--appear at the room door, and I was instinctively glancinground for some weapon wherewith to defend me, when to my astonishmentVolhonski entered, somewhat splashed with mud, certainly, and powderedwith snow, but whole and well, without a wound, and with a cry of joyValerie threw herself into his arms. Wholly occupied by his beautifulsister, to whom he was tenderly attached, fully a minute elapsedbefore he turned to address Madame Tolstoff and then me. Was itselfishness, was it humanity, was it friendship, or what was thesentiment that inspired me, and caused so much of genuine joy to seeVolhonski appear safe and untouched?--I, who from the trenches hadbeen daily wont to watch with grim satisfaction the murderous"potting" of the Ruskies from the rifle-pits, and literal showers oflegs, arms, and other fragments of poor humanity, by their appearancein the air, respond to the explosion of a well-directed shell! He nowturned to me with astonishment on recognising my face in that place,and with the uniform of the Rifle Militia.

"By what strange caprice or whirligig of fortune do I find you here?"he exclaimed, as he took my hand, but certainly with a somewhatdubious expression of eye; "you have not come over to us, I hope, assome of our Poles have lately gone to you?"

"No," I replied, almost laughing at the idea. "Don't mistake me; Icame here as a fugitive, glad to escape you and your confoundedCossacks; but I thank God, Volhonski, that you eluded my pistol on thecliffs yonder."

"Then it was you, Captain Hardinge, whom I followed so fast and sofar from that khan on the Kokoz road? By St. George, my friend, butyou were well mounted! In our skirmish one of your balls cut my leftshoulder-strap, as you may see; the other shred away my horse's ear onthe off side, making him swerve round so madly that he threw me--thatwas all. You, however, fell into the sea--"

"And was soaked to the skin; the reason why, 'only for this nightpositively,' as the play-bills have it, I appear in the uniform of theImperial Rifle Militia, after finding my way here by the happiestchance in the world," I added, with a glance at his smiling sister."Marshal Canrobert--"

"Has fallen back with his slender force from Kokoz. You had a despatchfor him, I presume, by what fell from you at the Tartar caravanserai?"

"Precisely."

"Ah, I thought as much."

"I should not have been touring so far from our own lines else. Itconcerned, I believe--if I may speak of it--an émeute among thePoles in Sebastopol."

"A false rumour spread by some deserters; there was no such thing; andbe assured that our good father, the Emperor, is too much beloved,even in Poland, to be troubled by disaffection again."

Volhonski now threw off his great coat, and appeared in the handsomefull uniform of the Vladimir Infantry, on a lapel of which he wore,among other orders, the military star of St. George the Victorious,which is only bestowed by the Czar, for acts of personal bravery, likeour Victoria Cross.

"How came you to know of me and of my despatch?" I inquired, whileYourivitch replaced the wine and some other refreshments on the table.

"I had Menschikoff's express orders to watch, with a sotnia ofCossacks, Canrobert's flying column on the Kokoz road; and the Tartarswere prompt enough in telling me of your movements--at least of theappearance of an officer of the Allies, where, in sooth, he had noright to be. But, my friend, you look pale and weary."

"He has no less than three lance-wounds!" urged Valerie.

"Three!"

"In the arms and shoulder."

"This is serious; but take some more of the Crimskoi--it is harmlesswine. Excuse me, Captain Hardinge, but of course you are aware howdangerous it is for you to remain long here?"

"I have no intention of remaining a moment absent from my duty, if Ican help it!" said I, energetically.

"So we must get you smuggled back to your own lines somehow--unlessyou consent to become a prisoner of war."

"I have already given my parole of honour."

"Indeed! to whom?"

"To the Hospoza Volhonski," said I, laughing.

"More binding, perhaps, than if given to me; yet as I don't wish toavail myself of your promises to Valerie, but for the memory of pasttimes," he added, with a pleasant smile, "to see you safe among yourfriends, I must contrive some plan to get you hence without delay."

"Why such inhospitable haste?" asked Valerie.

"Think of the peril to him and to us of being discovered here--and inthat dress, too!"

"I fear I shall not be able to ride for days," said I, despondingly,as sensations of lassitude stole over me.

"I fear that with Valerie for your nurse, you may never return tohealth at all," said Volhonski, laughing, as he knew well thecoquettish proclivities of his sister; "hence, to insure at leastconvalescence, I must commit you to the care of old Yourivitch orMadame Tolstoff."

Joy for her brother's safe return made Valerie radiant and splendidlybrilliant; while some emotion of compunction for her temporaryhostility to me, led her to be somewhat marked in her manner, softlysuave; and this he observed; for, after a little time, he said,smilingly,

"You and my Valerie seem to have become quite old friends already; butremember the moth and the candle--gardez-vous bien, mon camaradeHardinge!"

"I don't understand you, Paulovitch," said Valerie, pouting.

"As little do I," said I, colouring, for the Colonel's speech waspointed and blunt, though his manner was scrupulously polite; but withall that, foreigners frequently say things that sound abrupt andstrange to English ears.

"This stupid soldier is afraid that, if left in idleness, you willfall in love with Madame Tolstoff--or me," said Valerie; "he isthinking of the Spanish proverb, no doubt--Puerto abierto al santotiento."

"I am thinking of no such thing, and did but jest, Valerie," said herbrother, gravely, while he caressed her splendid hair. "MadameTolstoff, our dear friend, is an experienced chaperone; and besidethat, you are safe--set apart from the world--so far as concerns theadmiration of men."

"That I never shall be, I hope!" said she, smiling and pouting again.

By Jove, can it be that she is destined for a nunnery? What the deucecan he mean by all these strange hints and out-of-place remarks?thought I, and not without secret irritation. Perhaps the keenMuscovite read something of this in my face, for he now clinked hisglass against mine, and filled it with beautifully golden-colouredChâteau Yquem, bright, cool, and sparkling from its white crystalflask; and to this champagne soon succeeded; unwisely for me, thoughit was champagne in its best condition, that is, after being just sixyears in bottle, as Yourivitch assured us; and now our conversationbecame more gay and varied, and, as I thought, decidedly morepleasant. He gave me some recent news from the immediate seat of war,and from our own lines, that proved of interest to me.

The Retribution man-of-war, with the Duke of Cambridge on board, wassaid to have been lost, or nearly so, in the late great storm, whichthe Russians naturally hoped would delay the arrival of transportswith reinforcements and supplies for the Allies; and he added that ifthe generals of the latter "had but the brains to cut off allcommunication with Simpheropol, Sebastopol would surrender in threedays!" He mentioned, also, that the Greeks at Constantinople hadtaken heavy bets that it would not fall before Christmas, which seemedlikely enough, as Christmas was close at hand now; and that there wasa rumour to the effect that General Buraguay d'Hilliers--one of theveterans of the retreat from Moscow--had landed at Eupatoria, andgiven battle to General Alexander Nicolaevitch von Luders, anddefeated him with the 5th Infantry Corps of the Russian Army; a mostimprobable story, as D'Hilliers was at that moment with his army inthe Aland Isles! And now Valerie, wearying of war and politics,shrugged her pretty shoulders, and gradually led us to talk on othertopics. As she was well read and highly accomplished, there were manysubjects on which we could converse in common, as she was wonderfullyfamiliar with the best works of the English and French writers of theday, and knew them quite as well as those of Tourguéneff, Panaeff,Longenoff, Zernina, and others who were barely known to me by name. Iwas afterwards to learn, too, that she was a brilliant musician; andwith all these powers of pleasing, was a Russian convent, with itsoppressive atmosphere of religion and austerity, to be her doom?When I compared, mentally, the Russian with the English woman ofrank--Valerie with Estelle--I could see that the latter, with less ofa nervous temperament, was more quiet and unimpressionable, and withall her beauty less attractive; the former was more coquettish andseductive, more full of minute, delicate, and piquante graces--thereal graces that win and enslave; more mistress of those witchingtrifles that at all times can inspire tenderness, provoke gallantry,and awaken love. The brilliant Valerie would have shone in a crowdedsalon, while Estelle Cressingham, with all her pale loveliness,would simply have seemed to be the cold, proud, aristocratic belle ofan English drawing-room.

Valerie was fascinating--she was magnetic--I know not how to phraseit; and what now to me was Estelle--the Countess of Aberconway--that Ishould shrink from drawing invidious comparisons?

When I retired that night to a spacious and magnificent apartment, andto a luxurious Russian couch, the pillows of which were edged with thefinest lace--ye gods! a laced pillow after mine in the camp, atent-peg bag stuffed with dirty straw--I was soon sensible of thedifference of sleeping indoors and within a house, after being undercanvas and accustomed so long to my airy tent. I felt as if stifling;and to this was added the effect of the wines, of which, incited bythe hospitality of Volhonski, I had partaken too freely. I forgot allabout my promises to be up betimes, even before daybreak, in themorning, and to ride with him as near to our posts as he daredventure, to leave me in a place of safety; I forgot that if I remainedin secret at the castle or château of Yalta, the great danger and thegrave suspicion to which I subjected him, his sister, and all there; Iforgot, too, the risk I ran personally of being taken and shot as aspy, perhaps, after short inquiry, or no inquiry at all. I thoughtonly of the brilliant creature whose voice seemed hovering in my ear,and the remembered touch of whose velvet hand seemed still to lingerin mine.

The more I saw of Valerie Volhonski, the more she dazzled, charmed,and--must I admit it?--consoled me for the loss I had sustained inEngland far away. She seemed quite aware of the admiration her beautyexcited--of the love that was inspiring me, and she seemed, I thought,in my vanity, not unwilling to return it! Why, then, should I not askher to love me? What to us were the miserable ambitions of emperorsand sultans; the intrigues and treacheries of statesmen; the wars, thebattles, the difference of religion, race, and clime? And so, as thesparkling cliquot did its work, I wove the shining web of the future,and gave full reins to my heated fancy as the hours of the silentnight stole on. But the morning found me ill, feverish, decidedlydelirious; and Volhonski, to his great mortification, had to leave meand ride off with his Cossacks, and reach Sebastopol by making a longdetour through that part of the country which we so stupidly leftopen--round by Tepekerman and Bagtchi Serai, and thence by theBelbeck into the Valley of Inkermann. I must have been in rather ahelpless condition for at least two days--days wherein the shortintervals of ease and sense seemed to me wearisome and perplexingindeed; while to see Madame Tolstoff and old Ivan Yourivitch glidingnoiselessly about my room in fur slippers, caused me to marvel sorelywhether I was dreaming or awake; whether or not I was myself, or someone else; for all about me seemed strange, unusual, and unreal.

On the morning of the third day I was greatly better, and on passing ahand over my head, found that my hair was gone--shorn to a crop of thetrue military Russian pattern, doubtless by a doctor's order. Then Isaw Madame Tolstoff and Valerie Volhonski standing near and smiling atmy perplexity.

"You miss your dark brown locks," said the latter, with one of hermost seducing smiles; "forgive me; but I am the Delilah who made aSamson of you!"

CHAPTER XLVII.--VALERIE VOLHONSKI.

Though convalescent, I was still too feeble to think of saddle-work;and the Hospoza Volhonski had no means of transmitting me otherwisethan mounted, or of having me--even when able to travel--guided to theBritish camp, without aid from her brother, of whom we had no tidingsfor weeks; so the time slipped away at Yalta pleasantly enough for me.To conceal me entirely from all the visitors who came there was animpossibility; thus, though dressed in plain clothes now, andgenerally passing for a German shut out from business at Sebastopol, Iran hourly risks of suspicion and discovery. Some of Volhonski'sabrupt and ill-judged remarks, or some perhaps of mine, which hadescaped me when delirious under the double effect of wound and wine,rendered Valerie a little reserved in her demeanour towards me for thefirst day or two after I was able to leave my room; but she was sofrank in nature and so gay in spirit, that this unusual mood rapidlywore away. We had many visitors from the Valley of Inkermann and fromSebastopol itself, as the city was left unblockaded on one side; andthe tidings they brought us--tidings which we eagerly devoured--variedstrangely. Once we were informed that it had been assaulted, and thatall the outworks were in the hands of the Allies; next we heard thatanother Inkermann had been fought--that the Allies had been scatteredand the siege raised; that the Austrians had entered Bulgaria; thattorpedoes had blown up the sunken ships; and that the British fleetwas actually in the harbour, shelling the town and burning it withrockets and red-hot shot. But all reports converged in one unvaryingtale--the dreadful sufferings of our soldiers among the snow in thetrenches, where young men grew gray, and gray-haired men grew whitewith misery. And so the Christmas passed; and when the Russian bellsby hundreds rang the old year out from the spires, the forts, and theships that lay above the booms and bridge of boats, the new year'smorning saw the black cross of St. Andrew still waving defiantly onthe Mamelon, and Redan, and all the forts of Sebastopol.

Once among our visitors came Prince Menschikoff himself, Valerieadvised my non-appearance, much to my relief; but I heard the din ofvoices, the laughter, and the sound of music in the salon or greatdining-room where a déjeûner was served for him and his staff, whilethe band of the Grand duch*ess Olga's Hussars were stationed in themarble vestibule, and played the grand national anthem of Russia andLuloff's famous composition, Borshoe zara brangie--God save theEmperor. After the Prince's departure we had the huge mansion entirelyto ourselves again, and any longings I might have to rejoin the WelshFusileers and share the dangers they underwent, together with mynatural anxiety to hear of my friends in their ranks, I was compelledto stifle and seek to forget, when tidings came that a great body ofTchernimorski Cossacks had formed a temporary camp between Yalta andthe head of the long Baidar Valley, thus, while they remained,completely cutting off all my chances of reaching either Balaclava orthe Allied camp; so there was nothing for me now but to resign myselfto a protracted residence in the same luxurious mansion with thebrilliant Valerie (and her watchful chaperone), with the somewhatcertain chance of losing my heart in the charms, of her society.Madame Tolstoff assuredly kept guard over us with Argus eyes; but afew of the devices in the heart that laugheth at locksmiths enabled meto elude her at times; while, fortunately for me, the language wespoke was perfectly unknown to her; yet "the Tolstoff," as I used tocall her, seemed, I knew not why, to exercise considerable controlover Valerie. In her youth she had been carried off by Schamyl'smountaineers from a Russian outpost, and was a detained for threeyears in the Caucasian chief's seraglio, where, with all my heart, Iwished her still. But while enjoying all the good things of this lifeat Yalta--grapes, melons, and pineapples from Woronzow's hothouses atAlupka, oysters from Hamburg, pickled salmon from Ladoga, sterlit fromthe Volga, sturgeon from the Caspian Sea, reindeer's tongue fromArchangel, Crimean wines that nearly equalled champagne, imitationSillery from the Don, Cliquot, Burgundy, and Bordeaux,--I thoughtoften with compunction of the wretched rations and hard fare of ourpoor fellows who were starving in the winter camp. Volhonski waswealthy, and thus his sister and her attendants were able to commandevery luxury. His rank was high, for he claimed, as usual with all theRussian nobles of the first tchinn or class, to be descended fromRuric the Norman--Ruric of Kiev and Vladimir--who, more than athousand years ago, founded the dynasty by which Muscovy was governedprior to the accession of the Romanoffs. All the best families in theland boast of a descent from Gedemine the Lithuanian, or from thisRuric and his followers; a weakness common also to the Englisharistocracy, whose genealogical craze is a real or supposed descentfrom those who were too probably the offscourings of Normandy. Beautybelongs peculiarly to neither race nor nation; yet somehow Valerieseemed to me, in her bearing and style, the embodiment of all that wasnoble and lovely; and though always graceful, her air and sometimesthe carriage of her head seemed haughty--even defiant.

In the many opportunities afforded by propinquity and close residencetogether in the same house, and by our speaking a language which wealone understood, I know not all I said to her then, nor need I seekto remember it now; suffice it, that softly and imperceptibly thesentiments of those who love are communicated and adopted; and so itwas with me. She was catching my heart at the rebound--at thericochet, as we might say in the trenches. I was beginning to learnthat there were other women who might love me--others whom I mightlove, and who were not worshippers of Mammon, like--ah, well--EstelleCressingham. If Pottersleigh died or broke his old neck in thehunting-field, where he sometimes rashly ventured, would Estelle--Ithrust her image aside, and turned all my thoughts to Valerie; yet mysecond choice seemed, by the peculiarity of our circ*mstances, a moreambitious one and more hopeless of attainment than the first. Daily,however, I strove to win her heart and to inspire her with that purepassion which, as a casuist affirms, can only be felt by the pure inspirit, as all virtues are closely connected with each other, and thetenderness of the heart is one of them. Was the devil at my elbow, ormy evil angel, if such things be, whispering in my ear? Or how was it,that whenever I grew tender with Valerie, the image of Estelle camerevengefully, yet sadly, to memory, as of an idol shattered, butcertainly not by me? Oddly enough I still wore her ring on myfinger--the single pearl set in blue and gold enamel--a gift I had asyet no means of restoring, and could not give away. "Have you everlooked at a portrait till it haunted you?" asks a writer. "Have youever seen the painted face of one, it may be, who was an utterstranger to you, yet that seemed to fill your mind with a sort ofrecognition that sent you out over the sea of speculation, wonderingwhere you had seen it before, or when you would see it again? The eyestalk to you and the lips tell you a dreamy story."

Such, then, was the haunting character of the face of Valerie. Herbeauty and her graces of manner filled up all my thoughts, and herstrange dark eyes seemed to say that if it was impossible we had knowneach other in the years that were past, we might be dear enough toeach other in the future; and I hoped in my heart that ours should beone; thus yielding blindly to the influence, to the charm of herpresence and the whole situation. Once she was at the piano, and sangto me with wonderful grace and brilliance "The Refusal," a Russiangipsy song, in which a young man makes many desperate professions andpromises of love to a giddy young beauty, who laughs at them andrejects him, because she values nothing so much as her own liberty.When turning the leaves for her, the pearl ring of Estelle--a ring soevidently that of a lady--caught her attention, and I saw Valerie'scolour heighten as she did so. I instantly drew it off; I felt nocompunction in doing so then, and said, "You admire this ring,apparently?"

"Nay--do not say so, please," said she, bending over the instrument;"when a lady admires thus, it seems only another fashion of coveting."

"In this instance that were useless," said I, laughing, "as the ringis not mine to bestow; otherwise I should glory in your accepting it."

"Is it your wife's?"

"My wife's!"

"Yes. Have you one in that wretched little island of yours?" shecontinued, sharply.

"No," I replied, delighted by this undisguised little ebullition ofjealousy.

"To whom does it belong, then?"

"The wife of another, to whom it shall be restored in England."

"This is very strange--it has, then, a history?" said she, bending herdark eyes on mine.

"Yes."

"And this history--what is it?"

"I cannot--dare not tell you."

"Indeed!" Her black lashes drooped for a moment, and she passed awhite hand nervously over her golden braids. "And wherefore?"

"It would be to reveal the secrets of another."

"Another whom you love?" she asked, hurriedly, while her teeth seemedto glitter as well as her eyes, for her lips were parted.

"No, no; on my honour, no!" said I, laying my right hand on my breast,and feeling that then I spoke but the truth and without theequivocation, to which her questions were forcing me. Then Valerieseemed to blush with pleasure, and my heart beat lightly with joy. Ishould certainly have done something rash; but the inevitable MadameTolstoff was in the room, embroidering a smoking cap for her son thecolonel, then in command of the 26th at Sebastopol; so I was compelledto content myself by simply touching the hand of Valerie, and bycaressing it tenderly, while affecting to admire a beautiful opal ringshe wore, and urging her to continue her music. The whole episodepartook somewhat of the nature of a scene between us, and even theusually self-possessed Valerie seemed a little confused, as she oncemore laid her tapered fingers on the ivory keys.

"I am very far from perfect in my music, or anything else, perhaps,"she said.

"Do not say so," I whispered; "yet had you been more perfect than youare, I think no other woman in this world would have had the chance ofa lover."

"How--why?"

"All men would be loving you, and you only."

"This is more like the inflated flattery of a Frenchman than thespeech of a sober Briton," said Valerie, a little disdainfully.

"Does it displease you?"

"Yes, certainly."

"Why?"

"People don't love when they flatter," was the pretty pointed andcoquettish response, and preluded an air with a crash on the keys,thus interrupting something I was about to say--heaven only knowswhat--a formal declaration, I fear.

"You admired my opal. Listen to the story of its origin; I doubt ifthe story of your ring is half so pretty," said she. And then she sangin English the following song, which she had been taught by hergoverness, a song the author of which I have never been able todiscover; but then and there, situated as I was, the English wordscame deliciously home to my heart, and I quote them now from memory:--

I ventured to pat her shoulder approvingly. I glanced furtively round;the Tolstoff had gone out of the room, and somehow my arm slippedround Valerie, who looked up at me, smiling archly, yet she said,firmly,

"Pray don't."

"How much longer am I to keep this silence?" I asked.

"How--what silence?"

"To be thus in suspense, Valerie," I added, lowering my voice andbending my face towards her ear.

Her smile passed away, her white lids drooped, and perplexity andtrouble stole over her eyes, as she drew her head back.

"I do not know what you mean, or whither your conversation tends," shesaid.

"You know that I love you!"

"No, I don't."

"You must have seen it--must have guessed it--since the happy hour inwhich I first saw you."

"Do not speak to me thus, I implore you," said she, colouring deeply,and covering her face with her beautiful hands.

"Why, Valerie, dearest, dearest Valerie?"

"I must not--dare not listen to you."

"Dare not?"

"I speak the truth," said she, and her breast heaved.

"Will you marry me, Valerie?"

"I cannot marry you."

"Why?"

"O heavens, don't ask me! But enough of this; and here comes MadameTolstoff, to announce that the samovar--the tea-urn--is ready."

In my irritation I muttered something that she of the red sarafan,Madame Tolstoff, would not wish graved on her tombstone, and resumedmy previous task of turning the leaves at the piano; but Valerie sangno more then, and for two entire days gave me no opportunity oflearning why she had received my declaration in a manner so odd andunexpected. I could but sigh and conjecture the cause, and recall thewords of her brother on the night he first met me at Yalta; and if itwere the case that a convent proved the only barrier, I was notwithout hopes of smoothing all such scruples away.

CHAPTER XLVIII.--THE THREATS OF TOLSTOFF.

In the growth of my passion for Valerie I forgot all about theprobable opposition of her brother, the Count, to my wishes. Indeed,he entered very little into my schemes of the future; for the perilouscontingencies of war caused life to be held by a very slight tenureindeed; so we might never see him again, though none would deploremore than I the death of so gallant a fellow. Then, in that instance,did one so lovely as Valerie require more than ever a legitimateprotector, and who could be more suitable than I? I felt convinced atthat time, that those who loved Valerie once could never feel foranother as they had loved her. She was so full of an individualitythat was all her own. Was it the coquetry of her manner, the strangeand indescribable beauty of her dark eyes, the coils of her goldenhair, the smile on her lips, or the subtle magnetism the kisses ofthose lips might possess, that entangled them? God knows, but I haveheard that those who loved her once were never quite the same menagain. If Valerie married me, with what pride and exultation should Idisplay her beauty, if occasion served, before Estelle and her dotardEarl, as a bright being I had won from hearts that were breaking forher, and as one who was teaching me fast to forget her, even as shehad forgotten me! A Russian wife, at that crisis of hostility andhatred, seemed a somewhat singular alliance certainly; what would theregiment say, and what would my chief friend old Sir Madoc, with allhis strong national prejudices, think? I should be pretty certain tofind the doors of Craigaderyn closed for long against me. These,however, were minor considerations amid my dreams; for dreams theywere, and visions that might never be realised; châteaux en Espagnenever, perhaps, to be mine!

On the morning of the third day after the musical performance recordedin the preceding chapter, Valerie met me, accompanied by MadameTolstoff. Her face wore a bright smile, and interlacing her fingers,she raised her eyes to the eikon above the fireplace, and said tome, "O Hospodeen, have I not cause to thank Heaven for the news aCossack has just brought me, in a letter from Colonel Tolstoff?"

"I hope so; but pray what is the news?" I. asked, while drawing nearerher.

"My brother Paulovitch has been taken prisoner by your people."

"Call you that good news?" I asked, with surprise.

"Yes, most happy tidings."

"How?"

"My brother will now be safe, and I hope that they will keep him sotill this horrible and most unjust war is over."

"Unjust! how is it so?" I asked, laughing.

"Can it be otherwise, when it is waged against holy Russia and ourgood father the Czar?"

I afterwards learned that Volhonski had been taken prisoner in thataffair which occurred on the night of Sunday, the 14th January, whenthe Russians surprised our people in the trenches, and captured oneofficer and sixteen men of the 68th, or Durham Light Infantry, intowhose hands Volhonski fell, and was disarmed and taken at once to therear.

"I am so happy," continued Valerie, clapping her hands like a child,"though it may be long, long ere I see him again, my dear Paulovitch!He will be taken to England, of course."

"Should you not like to join him there?" I asked, softly. "Yes, but Icannot leave Russia."

"Why?"

"Do not ask me; but we may keep you as a hostage for him," sheadded, merrily; "do you agree?"

"Can I do otherwise?" said I, tenderly and earnestly.

"Of course not, while those Cossacks are in the Baidar Valley. PoorPaulovitch! and this was his parting gift!" she continued, and drewfrom her bosom--and none in the world could be whiter or morelovely--a gold cross; and after kissing, she replaced it, looking atme with a bright, coquettish, and most provoking smile, as it slippeddown into a receptacle so charming. "And dear Madame Tolstoff is sohappy, too, for her son arrives here to-morrow; he has been severelybruised by the splinter of a shell in the Wasp Battery, and comesh*ther to be nursed by us."

I cannot say that I shared in "dear Madame's" joy on this occasion,and would have been better pleased had Valerie seemed to be lessexcited than she was. Moreover, I feared that the arrival of a Russianofficer as an inmate might seriously complicate matters, andcompletely alter my position; and a pang seemed to enter my heart, asI already began to feel with wretchedness that Valerie might soon belost to me. I had no time to lose if I would seek to resume thesubject of conversation on that evening when Madame Tolstoff arrivedjust in time to interrupt us; but Valerie seemed studiously never toafford me an opportunity of being with her alone. This was mosttantalising, especially now when a crisis in my affairs seemedapproaching. Moreover, I had already been at Yalta longer than I couldever have anticipated. The love of the brother and sister for eachother was, I knew, strong and tender; could I, therefore, but persuadeher to escape--"to fly" with me, as novels have it--to our camp, nowthat he was a prisoner, and probably en route for England! A meagrechoice of comforts would await her in the allied camp; but in theexcess of my love, my ardour, and folly, I forgot all about that, andeven about the Cossacks who occupied the Pass of the Baidar Valley.

It was not without emotions of undefined anxiety that on the followingday I heard from Ivan Yourivitch that Colonel Tolstoff had arrived,and would meet me at dinner. The whole of that noon and afternoonpassed, but I could nowhere see Valerie; and on entering the room whendinner was announced--a dinner à la Russe, the table covered withflowers fresh from the conservatory--I was sensible that she receivedme with an air of constraint which, in her, was very remarkable; whilesomething akin to malicious pleasure seemed to twinkle in the littledark beadlike eyes of Madame Tolstoff as she introduced me to her sonthe Colonel; at least, by his reception of me I understood so much ofwhat she said, for the old lady spoke in her native Russian. He was atall, grim-looking man, who, after laying aside the long militarycapote, appeared in the dark green uniform of the 26th Infantry,with several silver medals dangling on his well-padded breast. He hadfierce keen eyes, that seemed to glare at times under their bristlingbrows; and he had an enormous sandy-coloured moustache, that appearedto retain the blue curling smoke of his papirosse, or to emit itgrudgingly, as if it came through closely-laid thatch; a thick beardof the same hue, streaked with grizzled gray hair, concealed a massivejaw and most determined chin. He was huge, heavy-looking, andmuscular; and on seeing me, held out a strong, weather-beaten hand butcoldly and dryly, as he addressed me in German; and then weimmediately recognised each other, for he was the officer whocommanded the regiment which had occupied the abattis, and whor*ceived me when I took the flag of truce into Sebastopol. Volhonski,I have said, was a noble of the first class--that which tracesnobility back for a single century; but Tolstoff was only of thesecond, or military class, being the son of a merchant, who afterserving eight years in the ranks as a junker, on being made anofficer becomes an hereditary noble, with the right to purchase alanded estate. Tolstoff was quite lame--temporarily, however--by thebruises his left leg had suffered from the explosion of a shell. Hespoke to me in bad and broken German, though I shall render his wordshere in English.

"So my friend Volhonski is taken prisoner?" said I.

"Yes; less lucky than you, Herr Captain, who have to be taken yet," hereplied, tossing the fa*g end of his paper cigar into the peitchka.

"It was in a sortie, I understand?"

"A little one; his party was led astray by their guide towards thetrenches."

"Their guide! could one be found?"

"Yes; an officer who deserted to us."

"An officer!" said I, with astonishment.

"Yes; one who was a prime favourite with the Lord Raglan. Strange thathe should desert, was it not!"

"With Lord Raglan!" I continued, more bewildered still.

"The devil! You are strangely fond of repeating my words! Anyway hewears a diamond ring that was given him by Lord Raglan for some greatservice he performed; but as he is to be here to-night, you shall seehim yourself."

Guilfoyle! The inevitable Guilfoyle and his ring!

I could have laughed, but for rage at his cowardice, villainy, andtreachery, in actually acting as guide in that affair which caused aloss in killed, wounded, and prisoners to our 68th Foot. However,thought I, through my clenched teeth, I shall see him to-night.

"Have you ever seen this officer?" I asked.

"No; but he comes to Yalta with certain reports for my signature. Idoubt if Prince Woronzow, who is now Governor of Tiflis in Georgia,knows who--all--honour his mansion by a residence therein. You havemade a longer visit among us this time than you did under the flag oftruce!"

"Circ*mstances have forced me to do so, with what willingness you mayimagine," said I, justly displeased by his tone and tenor of hisspeech, which seemed to class me with a rascal and a traitor likeGuilfoyle. "I was most fortunate, however, in finding my way here,after escaping death, first at the hands of your Cossacks, andafterwards in the sea."

"Ah, they are troublesome fellows those Cossacks, and I fear you arenot quite done with them yet."

"They, and your infantry, too, found us pretty well prepared on thatmisty morning at Inkermann," said I, growing more and more displeasedby his tone and manner.

"Well prepared! By----, I should think so; when people come onfrivolous errands with flags of truce, to see what an enemy is aboutbehind his own lines."

I felt the blood rush to my temples, and Valerie, with a piteousexpression in her soft face, said something in Russian, and with atone of expostulation; to which the grim Pulkovnick made no response,but sat silently making such a dinner as seemed to indicate thatrations had been scarce in Sebastopol, and keeping Ivan Yourivitch inconstant attendance, but chiefly on himself. I could see that the manwas a soldier, and nothing but a soldier, a Russian military tyrant infact, and felt assured that the sooner I was out of Yalta, and beyondhis reach--risking even the Cossacks in the Valley--the better formyself.

He was twice assisted by his amiable "mamma," to the bativina, i.e.,soup made of roasted beef cut into small pieces, with boiled beetroot,spring onions, carraway-seeds, purée of sorrel, with chopped eggs andkvass. He was thrice helped to stuffed carrots with sauce, to roastmutton with mushrooms, and compote of almonds; and he drank greatquantities of hydromel flavoured with spices, and so fermented withhops that it foamed up in the silver tankard and over his vastmoustache. But in the intervals during dinner, and often speaking withhis mouth very full, he related for the express behoof of his motherand Valerie, a very strange incident, which they seemed implicitly tobelieve, and which the latter politely translated for me. It was tothe effect, that on the night Volhonski was taken prisoner, one of hisofficers, a man of noble rank, and major of the Vladimir Regiment, wascarried into Sebastopol mortally wounded in an attempt to rescue him;and as he was dying, the host was borne to him under a canopy byInnocent, Bishop of Odessa, in person. As the procession passed atratkir, or tea-house, some soldiers and girls were dancing there tothe sound of a violin; and though they heard the voices of thechanters, and the occasional ringing of the sanctus bell, they ceasednot their amusem*nt, neither did they kneel, so the host passed on;but like those who were enchanted by hearing the wonderful flute ofthe German tale, they could not cease dancing, neither could theviolinist desist from playing, and for six-and-thirty hours theycontinued to whirl in a wild waltz--in sorrow and tears, a ghastlyband--till, exhausted and worn nearly to skeletons, they sank gaspingand breathless on the floor, where they were still lying, paralysed inall their limbs, and hopelessly insane!

Tolstoff seemed to hasten the ceremonies of the dinner-table to getrid of the ladies; and the moment they rose he gave his mother somepapirosses, or cigarettes, to smoke, and then proceeded, leisurely,to roll up one for himself, after pushing across the table towards methe champagne, which he despised as very poor wine indeed.

"Hah, Yourivitch!" said he, taking up a decanter, and applying hissomewhat snub nose thereto; "what is this? corn-brandy!" he added,draining a glassful; "as it is good, I must have a glass;" so he tooka second of the fiery fluid. "O, now I feel another man, and beinganother man, require another glass;" so he took a third.

These additions to the hydromel did not seem to improve his temper,and assuredly I would have preferred to follow the ladies to thedrawing-room, than to linger on with him

"In after-dinner talk
Across the walnuts and the wine,"

but that I feared to offend the man unnecessarily.

"Excuse me," said he, as he lay back in his seat, with his coatunbuttoned, and proceeded, very coolly, to pick his teeth with one ofthose small cross-hilted daggers, the slender blades of which areabout four inches long, and which are worn in secret by so manyRussian officers, and are all of the finest steel. After a pause,during which he again dipped his long moustache in the foaminghydromel, he said,

"Though Volhonski told me about you, I scarcely expected, HerrCaptain, to have found you here still."

"Where should I have gone--into the hands of the Cossacks, at Baidar?"

"Towards Kharkoff, at all events."

I coloured at this very pointed remark, as it was to that province inthe Ukraine that the Russians had transmitted many of the prisonerstaken during the war.

"Here I felt myself on a special footing."

"How, Herr Captain?"

"As the guest of the Volhonskis," said I, sternly.

"Though an enemy of Russia?"

"Politically or professionally, yes: but I have the honour to beviewed as a friend by the Count, and also by his sister."

"Ah, indeed! I have heard as much. The Hospoza Valerie is, you see,beautiful."

"Wondrously so," said I, with fervour, glad that I could cordiallyagree with this odious fellow in one thing at least.

"Then beware," said Tolstoff, his face darkening; "for I don't believethat much friendship can subsist between the sexes without itsassuming a warmer complexion."

"Colonel Tolstoff!"

"Besides, the Hospoza Valerie is a coquette--one who would flirt withthe tongs, if nothing better were at hand--so don't flatter yourself,Herr Captain."

I felt inclined to fling the decanter at his head; for in his tone ofmentor he far exceeded even Volhonski.

"This is a somewhat offensive way to speak of a noble lady--the sisterof your friend," said I.

"We shall dismiss that subject; and now for another," said he. "Itmust be pretty apparent to you, Herr Captain, that you cannot remainhere, unparoled, in your present anomalous position."

"I quite agree with you, and feel it most keenly; but I gave my paroleof honour to Valerie," I added, gaily and unwisely, for again the faceof Tolstoff lowered.

"To let you remain or go free were treason to Russia and the Czar; youmust therefore be sent as a prisoner of war to Kharkoff, and--"

"What then?"

"Be treated there according to the report I shall transmit with yourescort."

"What will Volhonski say?"

"Just what he pleases; the Count is a prisoner now himself."

I read some hidden meaning in his eyes, though he sat quietly crackingwalnuts and sipping his hydromel.

"An officer on duty, I fall into the hands of an enemy--" I wasbeginning passionately, when he interrupted me, and his eyes gleamedas he said,

"You had a despatch; I think you told Volhonski or his sister so?"

"Yes, Colonel--a despatch for Marshal Canrobert."

"Where is it?"

"I destroyed it."

"Bah!--I thought so," said he, scornfully.

"On my honour, I did so, Colonel Tolstoff!"

"Honour! ha, ha, you are a spy!"

"Rascal!" I exclaimed, feeling myself grow white with passion thewhile; "recall this injurious epithet, or--"

"Or what? Dare you threaten me? I can pick the ace of hearts off acard at twenty paces with a revolver, so beware; and yet I am notobliged to meet any one who is amenable to the laws of war, and is ina position so dubious as yours."

I was choking with rage; yet a conviction that he spoke with somethingof warrant, so far as appearances went, and of the absolute necessityfor acting with policy, if I would leave myself a chance of winningValerie and escape greater perils than any I had encountered,compelled me to assume a calmness of bearing I was far from feeling.

"Seek neither to threaten nor to trifle with me," said he, loftily andgrimly; "you may certainly know the common laws of war regarding theretention of prisoners and the punishment of spies, but you know notthose of Russia. If I do not treat you as one of the latter, it isbecause Volhonski is your friend; but I have it in my power, intreating you as one of the former, to have you transmitted fartherthan the Ukraine--to where you should never be heard of more. We arenot particular to a shade here," he continued, with a sneering smile;"when the Emperor commanded a certain offender to be taken andpunished, the minister of police could not find the right individual.What the deuce was to be done? Justice could not remain unsatisfied;so, instead, he seized a poor German, who had just arrived and wasknown to none. He slit his tongue, tore out his nostrils, sent him toSiberia to hunt the ermine, and reported to the Czar that his ordershad been obeyed. So don't flatter yourself that any persons in officeamong us would be very particular in analysing any report that I maytransmit with you, a mere English captain!"

And rising from the table with these ominous words, he bowed to theeikon, crossed himself after the Greek fashion, inserted apapirosse into his dense moustache, and limped away, leaving me in avery unenviable frame of mind. Already I saw Valerie lost to me! Ibeheld myself, in fancy, marched into the interior of Russia underarmed escort, maltreated and degraded, with my hands tied to the maneof a Cossack pony, or a foot chained to a six-pound shot; a secretreport transmitted with me--a tissue of malevolent lies--to be actedupon by some irresponsible official with a crackjaw name; to be nevermore heard of, my sufferings and my ultimate fate to be--God aloneknew what!

I was weak enough to feel jealous of this ungainly Tolstoff--thisMuscovite Caliban--in addition to being seriously alarmed by histhreats, and enraged by his tone and bearing. Had Valerie ever viewedhim with favour? The idea was too absurd! If not, what right had heto advise me concerning her? But then she was so beautiful, one couldnot wonder that he--coarse though he was--might love her in secret.

Full of these and other thoughts that were vague and bitter, I quittedthe table just as Yourivitch was lighting the lamps, and wandered intothe long and now gloomy picture-gallery, one of the great windows ofwhich was open. Beyond it was a terrace, whereon I saw the figure ofValerie. She was alone, and in defiance of all prudence and thewarning of Tolstoff, I followed her.

CHAPTER XLIX.--BETROTHED.

She seemed absorbed in thought as I drew near her, and did notperceive my approach. She was leaning on the carved balustrade of theterrace, and gazing at the sea and the scenery that lay below it,steeped in the brilliance of a clear and frosty moonlight. The snowhad entirely departed from the vicinity of Yalta, though its whitemantle still covered all the peaks of the Yaila range of mountains.About a mile distant on one side lay the town, its glaringwhite-walled houses gleaming coldly in the moonshine. A beach wasthere, with most civilised-looking bathing-machines upon it; for priorto the war, Yalta had been the fashionable watering-place for theladies of Sebastopol, Bagtcheserai, and Odessa, who were wont there todisport themselves in fantastic costumes, and take headers in theEuxinus Pontus. On the other side were lovely valleys and hills,covered with timber--pine-groves dark and huge as those that overhangthe fjords of Norway.

In the distance lay the Black Sea--so called from the dark fogs thatso often cover it--sleeping in silver light, its waves in shiningripples rolling far away round the points of Orianda and Maragatsch;and Valerie, absorbed in thought, and her dark eyes fixed apparentlyon that point where the starry horizon met the distant sea.

She wore an ample jacket or pelisse of snow-white ermine lined withrose-coloured silk, and clasped at the tender throat by a brooch whichwas a cluster of bright amethysts. A kind of loose silken hood, suchas ladies when in full dress may wear in a carriage, was hastilythrown over the masses of her golden hair, which formed a kind of softframework for her delicately-cut and warmly-tinted face, for the coldair had brought an unwonted colour into her usually pale complexion.Her eyes wore an expression of languor and anxiety. Heaven knows whatthe girl was thinking of; but as she watched the shining sea I couldsee her full pink nervous lips curling and quivering, as if with thethoughts that ran through her impulsive mind. And this bright creaturemight be mine! I had but to ask her, perhaps, and I had not so faint aheart as to lose one so fair for the mere dread of asking her. Yet, asI drew near, the reflection flashed upon my mind that for three daysat least she had purposely avoided me. Why was this? Had my love forher been too apparent to others? had I underdone or overdone anything?what had I omitted, or how committed myself?

"Valerie!" said I, softly.

She uttered a slight exclamation, as if startled, and then placing herfirm, cool, and velvet-like hands confidingly in mine, glancednervously round her, and more particularly up at the windows of thehouse.

"I would speak with you," said she, in a half whisper.

"And I with you, Valerie. O, how I have longed for a moment such asthis, when I might again be with you alone!"

"But we must not be seen together; and I have but that moment you haveso wished for to spare. Come this way--this way, quick; thosecypresses in the tubs will shield us from any curious eyes that maylurk at yonder windows."

"O, Valerie!" I sighed with happiness, and as I passed a handcaressingly over her jacket of ermine I thought vengefully ofTolstoft's dark hint about hunting that small quadruped in Siberia;and then as I gazed tenderly into her dark and glittering eyes, Icould perceive that their long tremulous lashes were matted.

"Tears--why tears, Valerie?"

She spoke hurriedly. "I have most earnestly to apologise to you formuch that I heard the Pulkovnick say during dinner; it was indeedhorrid--all!"

"Much that you have not heard was more horrid still."

"It is unbearable! His wounds or bruises must have exasperated histemper. Yet I cannot speak to him of that which I did not hear, as todo so would appear too much as if you and I had some secretconfidences, and Madame Tolstoff, I fear, has hinted at something ofthis kind already."

"I asked you to marry me, dearest Valerie."

"Yes--vainly," said she, with a half-smile on her partly-averted face.

"Vainly--why?"

"Do not press me to say why."

"Could you love me, Valerie?"

"I might."

"Might, Valerie?" (I was never weary of repeating her sweet name; andwhat meant this admission, if she declined me?) "You do not doubt mylove for you?" I urged.

"No, though I fear it is but a passing fancy, born of idleness and theennui of Yalta."

"Think you, Valerie, that any man could see, and only love you thus? Ono, no! But say that you will be mine--that you will come with me toEngland, where your brother is, or soon shall be--to England, wherewomen are treated with a courtesy and tenderness all unknown inRussia, and where the girl a man loves is indeed as an empress to him,and has his fate in life in her own hands."

"I don't quite understand all this--nor should I listen to it," saidshe, looking me fully in the face, with calm confidence and somethingof sadness; too.

Her right hand was still clasped in mine, and as I pressed it againstmy heart, I placed my left arm round her waist, modestly, tenderly,and with a somewhat faltering manner; for she looked so stately, andin her white ermine seemed taller and more ample than usual, a beautyon a large scale and with "a presence." But starting back, she quicklyfreed herself from my half-embrace, and said, "Captain Hardinge, youforget yourself!"

"Can it be that you receive my tenderness thus?" said I,reproachfully, and feeling alike disappointed and crestfallen. "I loveyou most dearly, Valerie, and implore you to tell me of my future, foron your answer depends my happiness or misery."

"I hope that I am the holder of neither. I did not ask you to love me;and O, I would to Heaven that you had never come to Yalta--that we hadnever, never met!"

"Why--O, why?" I asked, imploringly.

"Because I am on the very eve of being married."

"Married!" I repeated, breathlessly; and then added passionately andhoarsely, "To whom?"

"Colonel Tolstoff, to whom I was betrothed in form by the Bishop ofOdessa."

Her refusal was really a double-shotted one, and for a moment I wasstupefied. Then I said, in a voice I could scarcely have recognised asmy own,

"It was to this tie, and not to a convent, that Volhonski alluded,when hinting that you were set apart from the world?"

"Yes. I thank you from my soul for the love you offer me, though itfills me with distress. I pity you; but can do no more. Alas! you havebeen here only too long."

"Too long, indeed!" said I, sadly, while bending my lips to her hand;and then hurrying into the house by the picture-gallery, she leftme--left me to my own miserable and crushing thoughts, with theadditional mortification of knowing that Madame Tolstoff, watchful asa lynx, had overseen and overheard our interview from another angle ofthe terrace, though she could not understand its nature; but of courseshe suspected much, and was all aflame for the interests of her suaveand amiable son.

However, this was not to be my last moment of tenderness with Valerie.But I was left little time for reflection, as events were now tosucceed each other with a degree of speed and brevity equalled only bythe transitions and discoveries of a drama on the stage.

CHAPTER L.--CAUGHT AT LAST.

I re-entered the château feeling sad, irresolute, and crushed inspirit. I had lost that on which I had set my heart, and at the handsof Tolstoff, my rival, I might yet lose more, if his threats meantanything--liberty, perhaps life itself.

What, then, was to be done? I was without money, without arms, or ahorse. All these Valerie might procure for me; but how or where was Ito address her again? After the result of our last interview she wouldbe certain to avoid me more sedulously than ever. As I passed throughthe magnificent vestibule, which was hung with rose-coloured lamps,the light of which fell softly on the green malachite pedestals andwhite marble Venuses, Dianas, and Psyches, which had no part of themdressed but their hair, which was done to perfection, I met IvanYourivitch, who made me understand that the officer whom thePulkovnick expected with certain papers from Sebastopol had arrived,and was now in the dining-room; but the Pulkovnick had smoked himselfoff to sleep, and must not, under certain pains and penalties, bedisturbed. Would I see him? And so, before I knew what to say, or hadmade up my mind whether to avoid or meet the visitor, I was usheredinto the stately room, when I found myself once more face to face withMr. Hawkesby Guilfoyle!

The ex-cornet of wagoners was clad now in the gray Russian militarycapote, with a sword and revolver at his girdle. His beard had grownprodigiously; but his hair--once so well cared for--was now very thinindeed, and he did not appear altogether to have thriven in the newservice to which he had betaken himself. His aspect was undoubtedlyhaggard. Suspected by his new friends (who urged him on duties forwhich he had not the smallest taste), and in perpetual dread offalling into the hands of the old, by whom he would be certainlyhanged or shot, his life could not be a pleasant one; so he hadevidently betaken himself to drink, as his face was blotched and hiseyes inflamed in an unusual degree.

He was very busy with a decanter of sparkling Crimskoi and other goodthings which the dvornick had placed before him, and on looking up hefailed to recognise me, clad as I was in a suit of Volhonski's plainclothes, which were "a world too wide" for me; and no doubt I was thelast person in the world whom he wished or expected to see in such aplace and under such circ*mstances--being neither guest nor prisoner,and yet somewhat of both characters. He bowed politely, however, andsaid something in Russian, of which he had picked up a few words, andthen smiled blandly.

"You smile, sir," said I, sternly; "but remember the adage, a man maysmile and smile, and be----"

"Stay, sir!" he exclaimed, starting up; "this is intolerable! Who thedevil are you, and what do you mean?"

"Simply that you are a villain, and of the deepest die!"

His hand went from the neck of the decanter towards his revolver; thenhe reseated himself, and with his old peculiar laugh said, whileinserting his glass in his right eye,

"O, this beats co*ck-fighting! Hardinge of the Welsh Fusileers! Now,where on earth did you come from?"

"Not from the ranks of the enemy, at all events," I replied.

His whole character--the wrongs he had tried to do me and had done tomany others; the artful trick he had played me at Walcot Park hispitiless cruelty to Georgette Franklin; his base conduct to me whenhelpless on the field of Inkermann; his guiding a sortie in the night;his entire career of unvarying cunning and treachery--caused me toregard the man with something of wonder, mingled with loathing andcontempt, but contempt without anger. He was beneath that.

"So you are a prisoner of war?" said he, after a brief pause, duringwhich he had drained a great goblet of the Crimskoi--a kind ofimitation champagne.

"What I am is nothing to you--my position, mind, and character are thesame."

"Perhaps so," he continued; "but I think that the most contemptiblemule on earth is a fellow in whom no experience or time can effect achange of mind, or cure of those narrow opinions in which he is firstbrought up, as the phrase is, in that little island of ours."

"So you have quite adopted the Russian idea of Britain?" said I, witha scornful smile.

"Yes; and hope to have more scope for my talents on the Continent thanI ever had there. I should not have left the army of my good friendRaglan----"

"Who presented you with that ring, eh?"

"Had there not been the prospect of a row about a rooking one night incamp, and a bill which some meddling fellow called a forgery. Bah! abad bill may be a very useful thing at times; it is like a gunwarranted to burst; but, as Lever says, you must always have it in theright man's hands, when it comes for explosion. If you are a prisoner,I am afraid that your chances of early seeing our dear mutual friendsin Taffyland--by the way, how is old Sir Taffy?--are very slender,if once you are sent towards the Ukraine," he went on mockingly, as helit a papirosse. "And so the fair Estelle threw you over, eh? Goodjoke that! Preferred old Potter's company to yours, for the term ofhis natural life? What a deuced sell! But what a touching picture oflove they must present--quite equal to Paul and Virginia, to Pyramusand Thisbe!"

At that moment, and while indulging in a loud and mocking laugh, hiscountenance suddenly changed; he grew very pale, the glass fell fromhis pea-green eye, and the lighted papirosse from his lips; all hisnatural assurance and insouciance deserted him, and he looked asstartled and bewildered as if a cannon-shot had just grazed his nose.I turned with surprise at this sudden change, and saw the face andfigure of Colonel Tolstoff, who had limped into the room and beenregarding us for half a minute unperceived. He stood behind me, grimand stern as Ajax, and was gazing at Guilfoyle with eyes that, undertheir bristling brows, glittered like those of a basilisk, and seemedto fascinate him.

"We have not met since that night at Dunamunde!" exclaimed Tolstoff,in a voice of concentrated fury; "but, I thank God and St. Sergius, wehave met at last--yes, at last! And so you know each other--youtwo?" he added, in German, while bestowing a withering glance on me.

"Dunamunde!" said I, sternly, as the name of that place recalledsomething of a strange story concerning Tolstoff told by Guilfoyle toLord Pottersleigh at Craigaderyn; "and you two would seem to haveknown each other and been friends of old, that is, if you are the sameCount Tolstoff whom he saved from the machinations of a certainColonel Nicolaevitch, then commanding the Marine Infantry at Riga."

"What rubbish is this you speak?" demanded the other, with angrysurprise; "there never was a Count Tolstoff; and I am the PulkovnickNicolaevitch Tolstoff who commanded in Dunamunde, and was custodian ofeighty thousand silver roubles, all government money. This ruffian wasmy friend--my chief friend then, though of the gaming table; but hejoined in a plot, with others like himself, among whom was the Head ofthe Police, to rob me. He admitted them masked into my rooms, whenthey shot me down with my own pistols, and left me, with a brokenthigh, bound hand and foot and cruelly gagged, while they escaped insafety across the Prussian frontier and got to Berlin, where theystarted a gaming-house. But he is here--here in my power at last; andsweetly and surely, I shall have such vengeance as that power givesme. Ha! look at him, the speechless coward; he has no bones in histongue now!" he added, using a favourite Russian taunt.

"All over--run to earth, by Jove!" muttered Guilfoyle, with tremblinglips, forgetting about the papers he had brought, his new character ofa Russian officer, and forgetting even to deny his identity; "I havethrown the dice for the last time, and d--nation, they have turned upaces!"

Ivan Yourivitch and other Cossack servants, who had heard the loudvoice of Tolstoff raised in undisguised anger, now appeared, andreceived some orders from him in Russian. In a moment they threwthemselves upon Guilfoyle, disarmed, stripped him of his uniform, andbound him with a silken cord torn from the window-curtains. At first Iwas not without fears that they meant to strangle him with it, soprompt and fierce was their manner; but they merely tied his handsbehind him, and thrust him into a closet, the door of which waslocked, and the key given to the Pulkovnick.

The latter, without deigning to take farther notice of me, turned onhis heel and limped away, muttering anathemas in Russian; and I feltvery thankful that he had not made me a close prisoner also, after thehumiliating fashion to which he had subjected the wretched Guilfoyle.But he was not without secret and serious ulterior views regarding me.All remained still now in the great mansion after this noisy andsudden episode; and I heard no sound save once--the clatter of ahorse's hoofs, which seemed to leave the adjoining stable-yard and dieaway, as I thought, in the direction of the Baidar Valley, where theCossacks lay encamped; and somehow my heart naturally connected thesecirc*mstances and foreboded coming evil, as I sat alone in the recessof a window overlooking the terrace, and the same moonlighted scenerywhich Valerie had viewed from it so lately.

CHAPTER LI.--FLIGHT.

I was full of gloomy, perplexing, and irritating thoughts.

"If I am to drag on my life for years perhaps as a Russian prisoner,better would it have been, O Lord, that a friendly shot had finishedmy career for ever. What have I now to live for?" I exclaimed, in thebitterness of my heart, as I struck my hands together.

"You speak thus--you so young?" said Valerie, reproachfully yetsoftly, as she suddenly laid a hand on my shoulder, while her brighteyes beamed into mine--eyes that could excite emotion by emitting it.

"Life seems so worthless."

"Why?" she asked, in a low voice.

"Can you ask me after what passed between us the other evening, andmore especially on yonder terrace, less than an hour ago?"

"But why is existence worthless?"

"Because I have lost you!"

(Had I not thought the same thing about Estelle, and deemed that "hewho has most of heart has most of sorrow"?)

"This is folly, dear friend," said she, looking down; "I never wasyours to lose."

"But you lured me to love you, Valerie; and now--now you wouldcast--nay, you have cast--my poor heart back upon itself!"

"I lured you?" asked the gentle voice; "O unjust! How could I helpyour loving me?"

"Perhaps not; nor could I help it myself."

"Tell me truly--has this--this misplaced passion for me lured you fromone who loves you well at home perhaps?"

"From no one," said I, bitterly.

"Thank Heaven for that; and we shall part as friends any way."

"As friends only?"

"Yes."

"But you will ever be more to me, Valerie."

She shook her head and smiled.

A desire for vengeance on Tolstoff, for his insulting bearing on onehand, with, the love and admiration I had of herself on the other, andthe pictured triumph of taking her away from him, and by her aid andpresence with me reaching our camp in safety, all prompted me to urgean elopement; nor could I also forget the coquettish admission thatshe "might" love me; but just as I was about to renew my suit and hadtaken possession of her hands, she withdrew them, and while glancingnervously about her, informed me that the Pulkovnick had sent amounted messenger to the Baidar Valley for Cossacks, to escort me andGuilfoyle to Kharkoff in the Ukraine; and when I remembered histhreats of probable ulterior measures, I felt quite certain that hisreport would include us both, and thus be framed in terms alikedangerous and injurious to me.

"What is to be done, Valerie?" I asked, in greater perplexity.

"If I cannot love, I can still serve you," said she, smiling with abrightness that was cruel; "it is but just, in gratitude for theregard you have borne me."

"That I still bear you and ever shall, beloved Valerie!" said I, withtremulous energy; "but to serve me--how?"

"You must leave this place instantly, for in less than an hour theCossacks will be here, and Tolstoff may have you killed on the march;the escort may be but a snare."

"Then come--come with me--let us escape together!"

"Impossible--you do but waste time in speaking thus."

"Why--O why, Valerie, when you know that I love you?"

"Race, religion, ties, all forbid such a step, even were I inclinedfor it, which fortunately I am not," she replied, lifting for amoment, as if for coolness, the rippling masses of her golden hairfrom her white temples, and letting them fall again; "you might andmust spare me more of this! Have I not told you it is useless tospeak of love to me, and wrong in me to listen to you?"

"And since when have you been engaged to this" (bear, I was about tosay)--"to this man Tolstoff? And by what magic or devilry has hetaught you to love him?"

"In what can either concern you, at such a time as this especially,when you have not a moment to lose?" she asked, almost withirritation. "But hush--O, hush! here is some one."

At that moment Ivan Yourivitch, with excitement on his usually stolidRussian visage, entered the room almost on tiptoe, and whisperedsomething to her in haste, while his eyes were fixed the while on me.

"Ah!--thank you, Ivan, thank you--that is well!" she said, and turningto me, she added, hurriedly and energetically, "If you would be free,and choose, it may be, between liberty or death, you have not anotherinstant to lose! Ivan tells me that the crew of an English man-of-warboat is at this moment filling casks with water at the well of St.Basil on the beach yonder. Thrice has that ship been there for thesame purpose; and I was watching for her when you came to me on theterrace, as I heard of her being off Alupka this morning."

"Your thoughts, then, were of me?" said I, tenderly.

"For you, rather; but away, and God be with you, sir!"

I lifted the window softly, and across the moonlit park that stretchedaway towards the seashore she pointed to where four tall cypressesrose like dark giants against the clear and starry sky, and where, atthe distance of a mile or little more, the white marble dome of thewell could be distinctly seen between them, its polished surfaceshining like a star above a sombre belt of shrubbery.

"There is the sound of hoofs! The Cossacks, your escort, are comingAway, sir; you cannot miss the well, though you may the boat!" saidValerie, with her hands clasped and her dark eyes dilated; and as shespoke the clank of galloping horses coming up the valley (and, as Ifancied, the cracking of the whips carried by the Cossacks at theirbridles) could be heard distinctly in the clear frosty air.

"If I had but my sword and pistols!" said I, with my teeth clenched.

"You do not require them. Farewell!

"Adieu, Valerie--adieu!"

I passionately kissed her lips and her cheek, too, ere she couldprevent me, waved my hand to old Yourivitch, vaulted over the window,dropped from the balustrade of the terrace into the park, and at therisk of being seen by some of the household crossed it with all thespeed I could exert in the direction that led to where I knew that thewell--a structure erected by Prince Woronzow--stood on a lonely partof the shore. More than once did I look back at the lofty façade ofthe beautiful château, with its four towers and onion-shaped domes ofshining copper, and all its stately windows that glittered in thelight of a cloudless moon; and just as I drew near the belt ofshrubbery, I could see the dark figures of mounted men encircling theterrace! A fugitive, in danger of losing honour and life together! Wasthis the end of my daydreams in Yalta? Once more I turned, andhastened to where the four cypress-trees towered skyward.

"Ahoy! who comes there?" cried a somewhat gruff voice, in English,accompanied by the sound of a slap on the butt of a musket; and thenthe squat sturdy figure of a seaman, posted as sentinel, appearedamong the bushes, with an infantry pouch, belts, and bayonet wornabove his short pea-jacket.

"A friend!" I replied, mechanically, yet not without a glow of sincerepleasure.

"Stand there, till I have a squint at you," replied Jack, co*cking hismusket and giving a glance at the cap; but I was too much excited toparley with him, and continued to advance, saying,

"I am an officer--Captain Hardinge, of the 23rd, a prisoner escapingfrom the enemy."

"All right, sir--glad to see you; heave ahead," he replied, halfco*cking his piece again.

"Who commands your party?"

"Lieutenant Jekyll, sir," said the seaman, saluting now, when he sawme fully in the moonlight.

"Of what ship?"

"The Southesk, sir, of twenty guns."

"Let me pass to your rear. He must instantly shove off his boat, asthe Cossacks are within a mile of us--at yonder house."

In a minute more I reached the party at the well, twelve seamen and asmany marines under an officer, who had a brace of pistols in his belt,and carried his sword drawn. They were in the act of carrying the lastcask of water into a ship's cutter, which lay alongside a ridge ofrock that ran into the sea, forming a species of natural pier orjetty, close by the white marble fountain.

I soon made myself known, and ere long found myself seated among newfriends, and out on the shining water, which bubbled up at the bow andfoamed under the counter as the oarsmen bent to their task, and theirsteadily and regularly feathered blades flashed in the silver sheen.The shore receded fast; the belt of shrubs grew lower and lower; andthen the glittering domes of the distant mansion, which was ever in mymind and memory to be associated with Valerie Volhonski, rosegradually on our view, with the snow-clad range of Yaila in thebackground. But all were blended in haze and distance by the time wecame sheering alongside H.M.S. Southesk, the water-tank of which had,fortunately for me, been empty, thus forcing her crew to have recourseto the well of St. Basil, by which circ*mstance I more than probablyescaped the fate that ultimately overtook, but deservedly, theluckless Hawkesby Guilfoyle.

In the morning, under easy sail and half steam, the ship was offBalaclava, where I saw the old Genoese fort that commands itsentrance, the white houses of the Arnaouts shaded by tall poplars, andthe sea breaking in foam upon its marble bluffs; and there the captainkindly put me ashore in the first boat that left the ship.

It was not until long after the Crimean war, that by the merestchance, through an exchanged prisoner--a private of our 68thFoot--when having occasion to employ him as a commissionnaire inLondon, I learned what the fate of Guilfoyle was. En route toKharkoff, he was run through the heart and killed by the lance of aCossack of his escort, who alleged that he was attempting to escape;but my informant more shrewdly suspected that it was to obtain quietpossession of his ring--the paste diamond which had figured so oftenin his adventures, real and fictitious.

CHAPTER LII.--BEFORE SEBASTOPOL STILL.

On the 28th of March, I found myself once more in my old tent, andseeking hard to keep myself warm at the impromptu stove, constructedby my faithful old servant, poor Jack Evans. I was received withastonishment, and, I am pleased to say, with genuine satisfaction bythe regiment, even by those who had flattered themselves that they hadgained promotion by my supposed demise. I was welcomed by all, fromthe Lieutenant-colonel down to little Dicky Roll, the junior drummer,and for the first day my tent was besieged by old friends.

I had come back among them as from the dead; but more than one man,whose name figured in the lists as missing, turned up in a similarfashion during the war. My baggage had all been sent to Balaclava, therailway to which was now partly in operation; my letters and papershad been carefully sealed up in black wax by Philip Caradoc, and withother private and personal mementos of me, packed for transmission toSir Madoc Lloyd, as my chief friend of whom he knew. Many came, I havesaid, to welcome me; but I missed many a familiar face, especiallyfrom among my own company, as the Fusileers had more than once beenseverely engaged in the trenches.

Caradoc had been wounded in the left hand by a rifle-ball; CharleyGywnne greeted me with his head in bandages, the result of a Cossacksabre-cut; Dynely, the adjutant, had also been wounded; so had Mostyn,of the Rifles, and Tom Clavell, of the 19th, when passing through "theValley of Death." Sergeant Rhuddlan, of my company, had just rejoined,after having a ball in the chest (even Carneydd Llewellyn had lost ahorn): all who came to see me had something to tell of dangers daredand sufferings undergone. All were in uniforms that were worn to rags;but all were hearty as crickets, though sick of the protracted siege,and longing to carry Sebastopol with the cold steel.

"How odd, my dear old fellow, that we should all think you drowned,and might have been wearing crape on our sleeves, but for the lackthereof in camp, and the fact that mourning has gone out of fashionsince death is so common among us; while all the time you have beenmewed up (by the Cossacks in the Baidar Valley) within some fortymiles of us; and so stupidly, too!" said Caradoc, as we sat late inthe night over our grog and tobacco in his hut.

"Not so stupidly, after all," I replied, while freely assisting myselfto his cavendish.

"How?"

"There was such a girl there, Phil!" I added, with a sigh.

"Oho! where?"

"At Yalta."

"Woronzow's palace, or château?"

"Yes; but why wink so knowingly?"

"So, after all, you found there was balm in Gilead?" said he,laughing. "You must admit then, if she impressed you so much, thatall your bitter regrets about a certain newspaper paragraph were alittle overdone, and that I was a wise prophet? And what was thisgirl--Russian, Tartar, Greek, a Karaite Jewess, or what?"

"A pure Russian."

"Handsome?"

"Beyond any I have ever seen, beautiful!"

"Whew! even beyond la belle--"

"There, don't mention her at present, please," said I, with a littleirritation, which only made him laugh the more.

"If you were love-making at Yalta, with three lance-prods in you,there was no malingering anyhow."

"I should think not."

"And so she was engaged to be married to that Russian bear, Tolstoff,"he added, after I had told him the whole of my affair with Valerie.

"Yes," said I, with an unmistakable sigh.

"I think we are both destined to live and die bachelors," he resumed,in a bantering way; for though Phil had in these matters undergone, atCraigaderyn and elsewhere, "the baptism of fire" himself, he was notthe less inclined to laugh at me; for of all sorrows, those of lovealone excite the risible propensities.

"And so, Phil, the world's a kaleidoscope--always shifting."

"Not always couleur de rose, though?"

"And I am here again!"

"Thank God!" said he, as we again shook hands, "Faith, Harry, you musthave as many lives as a cat, and so you may well have as many loves asDon Juan; but, entre nous, and excuse me, she seems to have been abit of a flirt, your charming Valerie."

"How--why do you think so?"

"From all you have told me; moreover every woman to be attractive,should be a little so," replied Caradoc, curling his heavy brownmoustache.

"I don't think she was; indeed, I am certain she was not. But if thisbe true, how then about Miss Lloyd; and she is attractive enough?"

At the tenor of this retort Phil's face flushed from his Crimean beardto his temples.

"There you are wrong," said he, with the slightest asperity possible;"she has not in her character a grain of coquetry, or of that whichHorace calls 'the art that is not to be taught by art.' She is apure-minded and warm-hearted English girl, and is as perfect as allthose wives and daughters of England, who figure in the volumes ofMrs. Ellis; and in saying this I am genuine, for I feel that I ampraising some other fellow's bride--not mine, God help me!" he added,with much of real feeling.

"You have heard nothing of the Lloyds since I left you?"

"Nothing."

"Well, take courage, Phil; we may be at Craigaderyn one day yet," saidI; and he, as if ashamed of his momentary sentimental outburst,exclaimed, with a laugh,

"By Jove, now that I have heard all your amours and amourettes, theysurpass even those of Hugh Price."

"Poor Hugh! his lieutenancy is filled up, I suppose?"

"Yes--as another week would have seen your company, for we could notconceive that you were a prisoner at Yalta. Awkward that would havebeen."

"Deucedly so."

"But now you must console yourself, old fellow, by seeing what Madamela Colonelle Tolstoff----"

"Don't call her by that name, Phil--I hate to hear it!"

"By what, then?"

"Valerie--anything but the other."

"Then what, as Mrs. Henry Hardinge, she might become, if allthis author (whose book I have been reading) says of the Russianladies be true." And drawing from his pocket a small volume, he gaveme the following paragraph to read, and I own it consoled me--alittle:--

"The domestic virtues are little known or cultivated in Russia, andmarriage is a mere matter of convenience. There is little of romancein the character or conduct of the Russian lady. Intrigue andsensuality, rather than sentiment or passion, guide her in her amours,and these in after-life are followed by other inclinations. Shebecomes a greedy gamester, and a great gourmande, gross in person,masculine in views, a shrewd observer of events, an oracle at court,and a tyrant over her dependents. There are, of course, exceptions tothis rule."

"Ah, Valerie would be one of these!"

"Perhaps--but as likely not," said Phil; "and on the whole, if thistraveller Maxwell is right, I have reason to congratulate you on yourescape. But we must turn in now, as we relieve the trenches an hourbefore daybreak to-morrow; and by a recent order every man, withoutdistinction, carries one round shot to the front, so a constant supplyis kept up for the batteries."

Soon after this, on the 2nd of April, a working party of ours sufferedseverely in the trenches, and Major Bell, who commanded, was thankedin general orders for his distinguished conduct on that occasion. Asyet it seemed to me that no very apparent progress had been made withthe siege. The cold was still intense. Mustard froze the moment it wasmade, and half-and-half grog nearly did so, too. The hospital tentsand huts were filled with emaciated patients suffering under the manydiseases incident to camp life; and the terrible hospital at Scutariwas so full, that though the deaths there averaged fifty daily inFebruary, our last batch of wounded had to be kept on board-ship.

Phil and I burned charcoal in our hut, using old tin mess-kettles withholes punched in them. We, like all the officers, wore long Crimeanboots; but our poor soldiers had only their wretched ankle bluchers,which afforded them no protection when the snow was heavy, or when inthaws the mud became literally knee-deep; and they suffered so much,that in more than one instance privates dropped down dead without awound after leaving the trenches. So great were the disasters of oneregiment--the 63rd, I think--that only seven privates and fourofficers were able to march to Balaclava on the 1st of February; bythe 12th the effective strength of the brigade of Guards was returnedat 350 men; and all corps--the Highland, perhaps, excepted--were in asimilarly dilapidated state.

The camp was ever full of conflicting rumours concerning combinedassaults, expected sorties, the probabilities of peace, or acontinuance of the war; alleged treasons among certain Frenchofficers, who were at one time alleged to have given the Russiansplans of their own batteries; that Menschikoff was dead from a wound,and also Yermiloff the admiral; that General Tolstoff was now incommand of the left towards Inkermann. (If so, was Valerie now inSebastopol? How I longed for the united attack--the storm and capturethat might enable me to see her once again!) And amid all these variedrumours there came one--carried swiftly by horsem*n through Bucharestand Varna--which reached us on the 7th of April, to the effect thatNicholas the mighty Czar of All the Russias, had gone to his lastaccount; and I do not think it was a demise we mourned much. We sentintelligence of it by a flag of truce to the Russians; but theyreceived it with scorn, as a "weak invention of the enemy."

And now the snow began to wear away; the clouds that floated over theblue Euxine and the green spires of Sebastopol became light andfleecy; the young grass began to sprout, and the wild hyacinths, thepurple crocuses, and tender snowdrops, the violet and the primrose,were blooming in the Valley of Death, and on the fresh mould thatmarked where the graves of our comrades lay.

CHAPTER LIII.--NEWS FROM CRAIGADERYN.

It was impossible for me not to feel lingering in my heart a deep andtender interest for Valerie. She had not deceived or ill-used me; wehad simply been separated by the force of circ*mstances; by herprevious troth to Tolstoff, whom I flattered myself she could notlove, even if she respected or esteemed him.

That they were married by this time I could scarcely doubt, as she hadassured me that she was on "the very eve" of her nuptials (one ofthose "marriages of convenience," according to Caradoc's book); and ifhe held a command so high in Sebastopol, there was every reason toconclude she must be with him. In the event of a general assault, Iwas fully resolved to send my card to headquarters as a volunteer forthe storming column, though I knew right well that I dare not allowmyself to fall alive, into his hands, at all events; thus the wholesituation gave me an additional and more personal interest in the falland capture of that place than, perhaps, inspired any other man in thewhole allied army. What if Tolstoff should be killed? This surmiseopened up a wide field for speculation.

Any of those balls that were incessantly poured against the city mightsend that amiable commander to kingdom come, and if Valerie were lefta widow--well, I did not somehow like to think of her as a widow,Tolstoff's especially, yet I was exasperated to think of her, sobrilliant, so gentle, and so highly cultured, as the wife of one socoarse and even brutal in bearing, and if he did happen to stand inthe way of a bullet, why should he not be killed as well as another;and so I reasoned, so true it is, that "with all our veneering andFrench polish, the tiger is only half dead in any of us."

If I were again unluckily sent with a flag of truce into Sebastopol,on any mission such as the burial of the dead and removal of thewounded, or so forth, it would, I knew, be certainly violated byTolstoff, and myself be made prisoner for the affairs at Yalta. Thenif such a duty were again offered me, on what plea could I, withhonour, decline it? I could but devoutly hope that no such contingencymight happen for me again.

Times there were when, brooding over the past, and recalling thestrange magnetism of the smile of Valerie, and in the touch of herhand, the contour of her face, her wonderful hair, and pleadingwinning dark eyes, there came into my heart the tiger feeling referredto, the jealousy that makes men feel mad, wild, fit for homicide oranything; and as hourly "human lives were lavished everywhere, as theyear closing whirls the scarlet leaves," I had--heroics apart--aterrible longing to have my left hand upon the throat of Tolstoff,with her Majesty's Sheffield regulation blade in the other, to helphim on his way to a better world.

In these, or similar visions and surmises, I ceased to indulge whenwith Caradoc, as he was wont to quiz me, and say that if I got a wifeout of Sebastopol, I should be the only man who gained anything by thewar, and even my gain might be a loss; that, like himself, I had twiceburned my fingers at the torch of Hymen, and that I should laugh atthe Russian episode or loving interlude, as he called it, as therewere girls in England whose shoe-strings he was sure she was not fitto tie. Though she had rightly told me that my passion was but apassing fancy, she knew not that it was one fed by revenge anddisappointment.

"Lady Estelle may perhaps have destroyed your faith in women," addedPhil, "but any way she has not destroyed mine."

"Have you still the locket with the likeness of Winifred Lloyd?" saidI.

"Yes--God bless her--she left it with me," he replied, with a kindlingeye. How true Phil was to her! and yet she knew it not, and as far aswe knew, recked but little of the faith he bore her.

On a Saturday night--the night of that 21st of April, on which wecaptured the rifle-pits--as we sat in our hut talking over the affair,weary with toil of that incessant firing to which the cannonading atShoeburyness is a joke, Phil said,

"Let us drink 'sweethearts and wives,' as we used to do in thetransport."

"Agreed," said I; and as we clinked our glasses together and exchangedglances, I knew that his thoughts went back to Craigaderyn, even asmine recurred to that moonlight night on the terrace at Yalta.

"You remained with the burial party," said he, after a pause.

"Yes, and I saw something which convinced me that the fewer tenderties we fighting men have, the better for our own peace. An officer ofthe 19th lay among the dead, a man past forty apparently. A paper waspeeping from the breast of his coat; I pulled it out, and it proved tobe a letter, received perhaps that morning--a letter from his wife,thrust hastily into his breast, as we marched to the front. A littlegolden curl was in it, and there was written in a child's hand,'Cecil's love to dearest papa.' I must own that the incident, at sucha time and place, affected me; so I replaced the letter in the poorfellow's breast, and we buried it with him. So papa lies in arifle-pit, with mamma's letter and little Cecil's lock of hair; but,after all, king Death did not get much of him--the poor man had beennearly torn to pieces by a cannon shot."

"I saw you in advance of the whole line of skirmishers to-day, Harry,far beyond the zigzags."

"I was actually at the foot of the glacis."

"The glacis--was not that madness?" exclaimed Phil.

"The truth is, I did so neither through enthusiastic courage nor in aspirit of bravado. I was only anxious to see if from behind thesap-roller that protected me, my field-glass could enable me to detectamong the gray-coated figures at the embrasures, the tall person andgrim visage of old Tolstoff."

"By Jove, I thought as much!"

"But I looked in vain, and retired in crab-fashion, the bulletsfalling in a shower about me the while."

At that moment a knock rung on the door of the hut, and SergeantRhuddlan, who acted as our regimental postman, handed a small packetto me.

"The second battalion of the Scots Royals, the 48th, and the 72ndHighlanders have just come in, sir, from Balaclava, and have brought amail with them," said he, in explanation; and while he was speaking,we heard the sound of drums and bagpipes, half drowned by cheers inthe dark, as those in camp welcomed the new arrivals from home, andhelped to get them tented and hutted.

"From Craigaderyn!" said I, on seeing the seal--Sir Madoc's antiqueoval--with the lion's head erased, as the heralds have it.

I had written instantly to the kind old man on my return to camp, andthis proved to be the answer by the first mail. On opening the packetI found a letter, and a cigar-case beautifully worked in beads of theregimental colours, red, blue, and gold, with my initials on oneside, and those of Winifred Lloyd on the other. Poor Phil Caradoclooked wistfully at the work her delicate hands had so evidentlywrought--so wistfully that, but for the ungallantry of the proceeding,I should have presented the case to him. However, he had the simplegratification of holding it, while I read the letter of Sir Madoc, anddid so aloud, as being of equal interest to us both. It was full ofsuch warm expressions of joy for my safety and of regard for mepersonally, that I own they moved me; but some passages proved alittle mysterious and perplexing.

"Need I repeat to you, my dear Harry, how the receipt of your lettercaused every heart in the Court to rejoice--that of Winny especially?She is more impressionable than Dora, less volatile, and I have nowlearned why the poor girl refused Sir Watkins, and, as I understand,another."

"That is me," said Phil, parenthetically.

"But of that unexpected refusal of Sir Watkins Vaughan nothing can besaid here."

"What on earth can he mean!" said I, looking up; "perhaps she has somelingering compunction about you, Phil."

"If so, she might have sent the cigar-case to me--or something else;just to square matters, as it were."

Remembering my old suspicions and fears--they were fears then--as Idrove away from Craigaderyn for Chester, I read the letter in haste,and with dread of what it might contain or reveal; as I would not forworlds have inflicted a mortification, however slight, on my dearfriend Caradoc, who gnawed the ends of his moustache at the following:

"Young Sir Watkins had been most attentive to Winny during the pastseason in town--that gay London season, which, notwithstanding thewar, was quite as brilliant as usual; when every one had come backfrom the Scotch moors, from Ben Nevis, Mont Blanc, the Matterhorn, andeverywhere else that the roving Englishman is wont to frequent, tokill game, or time, or himself, as it sometimes happens. But Winnywon't listen to him, and I think he is turning his attention to Dora,though whether or not the girl--who has another adorer, in the shapeof a long-legged Plunger with parted hair and a lisp--only laughs athim, I can't make out.

"Tell Caradoc, Gwynne, and other true-hearted Cymri in the WelshFusileers, that when in London I attended more than one meeting,inaugurating a movement to secure for Wales judges and counsel whoshall speak Welsh, and Welsh only. The meetings were failures, and thed--d Sassenachs only laughed at us; but from such injustice, Gwaredni Argylywd daionus![5] say I.

"And so poor Hugh Price of yours is gone. A good-hearted fellow, whocould do anything, from crossing the stiffest hunting country tomaking a champagne cup, singing a love song or mixing a salad--one ofthe old line of the Rhys of Geeler in Denbighshire. My God, how manyother fine fellows lie in that hecatomb in the Valley of Inkermann!Sebastopol seems to be left quite open on one side, so that theRussians may pour in stores and fresh troops, and go and come at theirpleasure? It is pleasant for tax-payers at home and the troops abroadto think that things are so arranged in Downing-street, by my LordsAberdeen, Aberconway, and suchlike Whig incapables and incurables.

"I fear your regimental dinner would be a scanty one on St.David's-days." (On that day I had dined with Valerie, and forgot allabout the yearly festival of the Fusileers!) "I thought of it and ofyou all--the more so, perhaps, that I had just seen the old colours ofthe Royal Welsh in St. Peter's Church at Carmarthen."

The old baronet, after a few Welsh words, of which I could makenothing, rambled away into such subjects as mangold-wurzels andsubsoil, scab-and-foot rot, and food for pheasants, all of which Iskipped; ditto about the close of the hunting-season, which he and SirWatkins--Winny's admirer--had shared together; and how the rain haddeluged Salop, throwing the scent breast-high, so that in many a runthe fox and the hounds had it all to themselves, and that followingthem was as bad as going all round the Wrekin to Shrewsbury, merebrooks having become more than saddle-girth deep; moreover, themischievous, execrable, and pestilent wire fences were playing thedevil with the noble old sport of fox-hunting; then, with a few moreexpressions of regard, and a hint about Coutts & Co., if I wantedcash, his characteristic letter closed, and just when folding it, Idetected Master Phil Caradoc surreptitiously placing Winny's cigarcase very near his bushy moustache--about to kiss it, in fact. He grewvery red, and looked a little provoked.

"So that is all Sir Madoc's news?" said he.

"All--a dear old fellow."

"To-morrow is Sunday, when we shall have the chaplain at thedrum-head, and be confessing that we have done those things which weought not to have done, and left undone those things which we ought tohave done, while the whistling dicks are bursting and the shotbooming, as the Ruskies seek to have a quiet shy at our hollow square,and the Naval Brigade, with their long 'Lancasters,' are making, asusual, the devil's own row against the Redan--so till then, adieu!" headded, adopting a bantering tone, as men will at times, when ashamedof having exhibited any emotion or weakness.

Not long after this, with my company, I had to escort to Balaclava,and to guard for some days, till embarked, some Russian prisoners, whohad been taken by the Turks in an affair between Kamara and theTchernaya, and who were afterwards transmitted to Lewes in Sussex; andI had a little opportunity afforded me for studying their characterand composition; and brave though these men undoubtedly were, I feltsomething of pity and contempt for them; nor was I mistaken, thoughPrince Dolgorouki maintains, in La Vérité sur la Russie, that aMuscovite alone can write on a Russian subject. A British soldiernever forgets that he is a citizen and a free-born man; but to theRussian these terms are as untranslatable as that of slave into theCeltic.

In the empire, when fresh levies are wanted, the chief of each villagemakes a selection; the wretched serfs have then one side of the headshaved, to prevent desertion, and, farther still, are manacled andmarched like felons to the headquarters of their regiment. There theyare stripped, bathed--rather a necessary ceremony--and deprived of allthey may possess, save the brass crosses and medals which are chainedround their neck--the holy amulet of the Russian soldier, and sparedto him as the only consolation of his miserable existence. He isdocile, submissive, and gallant, but supple, subservient, and cunning,though his gallantry and courage are the result of dull insensibility,tinged with ferocity rather than moral force.

The recruit bemoans the loss of his beard, and carefully preserves itthat it may be buried with him, as an offering to St. Nicholas, whowould not admit him into heaven without it. Once enrolled--we cannotsay enlisted--he makes a solemn vow never to desert the colours ofhis regiment, each of which has its own artel or treasury, its ownchaplain, sacred banners, and relics. The pay of these warriorsaverages about a halfpenny English per diem. Their food is of the mostwretched description, and it is known that when the troops of Suwarrowserved in the memorable campaign of Italy, they devoured with keenrelish the soap and candles wherever they went; but many of theRussian battalions, and even the Cossack corps, have vocal companiesthat sing on the march, or at a halt, where they form themselves intoa circle, in the centre of which stands the principal singer orleader. And thus I heard some of these poor fellows sing, when Ihalted them outside Balaclava, at a place where, as I remember,there lay a solitary grave--that probably of a Frenchman, as it wasmarked by a cross, had a wreath of immortelles upon it, and wasinscribed--alas for the superstitions of the poor human heart!--"thelast tribute of love."

The snow and the rain had frittered it nearly away.

Among my prisoners were four officers--dandies who actually woreglazed boots, and were vain of their little hands and feet. I was morethan usually attentive to them for the sake of Valerie, and as theycertainly seemed--whatever the rank and file might be--thoroughgentlemen. One knew Volhonski, and all seemed to know Valerie, and hadprobably danced--perhaps flirted--with her, for they had met at ballsin St. Petersburg. All knew Tolstoff, and laughed at him; but nonecould tell me whether or not she and that northern bear were as yet"one flesh," or married in facie ecclesia.

CHAPTER LIV.--THE ASSAULT.

It is the morning of Saturday, the 8th September, 1855. For a year nowthe allied forces have been before Sebastopol; but the flag of St.Andrew is still flying in defiance upon its forts, and on thismemorable morning the columns of attack are forming for the greatassault. In the preceding June, amid the din of the ceaselesscannonade, poor Lord Raglan had passed away to a quieter world; andthe picturesque Sardinians, with their green uniforms, billyco*ck hats,and Bersaglieri plumes--each private a species of Fra Diavolo--hadcome to aid us in the reduction of this place, the Gibraltar of theEuxine.

It was a cheerless morning. From the sea, a biting wind swept over theland; clouds of white dust and dusky-brown smoke, that came from morethan one blazing street and burning ship--among the latter was atwo-decker, fired by the French rockets--rose high above the greenspires and batteries of Sebastopol, and overhung it like a sombrepall, while shorn of its rays the sun resembled a huge red globe hungin mid-air above us. Gradually it seemed to fade out altogether, andthen the whole sky became of a dull, leaden, and wintry gray. By thistime our epaulettes had entirely disappeared, and our uniforms werehopeless rags; in some instances eked out by plain clothes, orwhatever one could pick up; and the government contractors had suchvague ideas of the dimensions of the human foot, that some of theboots issued to the soldiers would not have fitted a child of tenyears old, and as they dared not throw away her Majesty's property,many men went bare-footed, with their boots dangling from theirknapsack or waist-belt.

"In our present toggery we may meet the Russians," said Dyneley, ouradjutant; "but I should scarcely like to figure in them before thegirls at Winchester, in 'the Row,' or at the windows of 'the Rag.'"

In great masses, 30,000 Frenchmen were forming to assault theMalakoff, with 5,000 Sardinians as supports.

A long line of cavalry--Hussars with their braided dolmans, Lancerswith their fluttering banneroles, Dragoons with glittering helmets,and all with loaded carbine on thigh, had been, from an early hour,thrown to the front, to form a cordon of sentinels, to preventstraggling; while a similar line was formed in our rear to keep backidlers from Balaclava; yet to obtain glimpses of the impending attack,groups of red-fezzed Turks, of picturesque-looking Eupatorians, andfur-capped Tartars, began to cluster on every green knoll at a safedistance, where, in their excitement, they jabbered and gesticulatedin a manner most unusual for people so generally placid and stolid.

At half-past eleven A.M. the pipes of the Highland Brigade wereheard, as it marched in from Kamara, and got into position in reserveof the right attack; and the fine appearance of the men of thosemountains--"the backbone of Britain," as Pope Sylvester called them ofold--elicited a hearty cheer from the Royal Welsh as they defiledpast, with all their black plumes and striped tartans waving in thebiting wind.

During all the preceding day, the batteries had thundered in salvoesagainst Sebastopol; and hence vast gaps were now visible in thestreets and principal edifices, most of which were half hidden inlurid sheets of fire; and by the bridge of boats that lay between thenorth and south side, thousands of fugitives, laden with their goodsand household lares, their children, sick, and aged, had been seen topour so long as light remained.

Until the French began to move, the eyes of all in our division wereturned on our famous point of attack--the Redan; and I may inform thenon-military reader, that a redan in field fortification means simplyan indented work with lines and faces; but this one resembled anunfinished square, with two sides meeting at the salient angle infront of our parallels, i. e., the trenches by which we had dug ourway under cover towards it.

With a strong reinforcement, Nicholaevitch Tolstoff, now, as beforestated, a general, had entered the Redan by its rear or open face; andsince his advent, it had been greatly strengthened. In the walls ofthe parapet he had constructed little chambers roofed with sacks ofearth, and these secure places rendered the defenders quite safe fromfalling shells. In the embrasures were excavations wherein the gunnersmight repose close by their guns, but ever armed and accoutred; and bya series of trenches it communicated with the great clumsy edificeknown as the Malakoff Tower.

By a road to the right, the Redan also communicated with the extensivequadrangle of buildings forming the Russian barracks, one hundredyards distant; and in its fear there lay the Artillery or DockyardCreek. The flat caps, and in other instances the round glazed helmets,of the Russians and the points of their bayonets, bristling like ahedge of steel, could be seen above the lines of its defence and atthe deeply-cut embrasures, where the black cannon of enormous calibrepeered grimly down upon us.

Our arrangements were very simple. At noon the French were to attackthe Malakoff; and as soon as they fell to work we were to assault theRedan, and I had volunteered for the scaling-ladder party, whichconsisted of 320 picked men of the Kentish Buffs and 97th or UlsterRegiment.

In the trenches of our left attack could be seen the black bearskinsof our Brigade of Guards, and massed in dusky column on the hillbefore their camp, their red now changed to a very neutral tintindeed, were the slender battalions of the Third Division, motionlessand still, save when the wind rustled the tattered silk of thecolours, or the sword of an officer gleamed as he dressed the ranks. Across cannonade was maintained, as usual, between our batteries andthose of the enemy. The balls were skipping about in all directions,and several "roving Englishmen," adventurous tourists, "owncorrespondents," and unwary amateurs, who were there, had to scuttlefor their lives to some place of shelter.

As I joined the ladder party, I could not help thinking of many a pastepisode in my life: of Estelle, who had been false; of Valerie, whowas lost to me; and of the suspicion that Winifred Lloyd loved me. Ereanother hour, I might be lying dead before the Redan, and there forgetthem all! Our covering party consisted of 200 of the Buffs and Riflesunder Captain Lewes; but alas for the weakness of our force, ascompared with thousands of men to oppose. The strength of the SecondDivision detailed against the Redan consisted only of 760 men of the3rd, 41st, and 62nd regiments, with a working party of 100 from theRoyal Welsh. The rest of Colonel Windham's brigade was in reserve.

Brigadier Shirley, who was to command the whole, had been ill onboard-ship; but the moment the gallant fellow heard that an assaultwas resolved on, he hastened to join us. Prior, however, to hiscoming, Colonel Windham and Colonel Unett of the 29th were decidingwhich of them should take precedence in leading the attack. Theycoolly tossed up a shilling, and the latter won. Thus he had thealternative of saying whether he would go first, or follow Windham;but a glow spread over his face, and he exclaimed,

"I have made my choice, and I shall be the first man inside theRedan!"

However, it was doomed to be otherwise, as soon afterwards a ball fromthe abattis severely wounded and disabled him. When we had seen thatour men had carefully loaded and capped and cast loose theircartridges, all became very still, and there was certainly more ofthought than conversation among us. Many of the men in some regimentswere little better than raw recruits, and were scarcely masters oftheir musketry drill. Disease in camp and death in action had fastthinned our ranks of the carefully-trained and well-disciplinedsoldiers who landed in Bulgaria; and when these--the pest andbullet--failed, the treachery of contractors, and the generalmismanagement of the red-tapists, did the rest. Accustomed as we hadbeen to the daily incidents of this protracted siege, there was agreat hush over all our ranks; the hush of anticipation, and perhapsof grave reflection, came to the lightest-hearted and most heedlessthere.

"What is the signal for us to advance?" I inquired.

"Four rockets," replied Dyneley, our adjutant, who was on foot, withhis sword drawn, and a revolver in his belt.

"There go the French to attack the tower!" cried Gwynne; and then ahum of admiration stole along our lines as we saw them, at preciselyfive minutes to twelve o'clock, "like a swarm of bees," issue fromtheir trenches, the Linesmen in kepis and long blue coats, the Zouavesin turbans and baggy red breeches, under a terrible shower of cannonand musketry, fiery in their valour, quick, ardent, and eager! Theyswept over the little space of open ground that lay between the headof their sap, and, irresistible in their number, poured on a sea ofarmed men, a living tide, a human surge, section after section, andregiment after regiment, to the assault.

"O'er ditch and stream, o'er crest and wall,
They jump and swarm, they rise and fall;
With vives and cris, with chee0rs and cries.
Like thunderings in autumnal skies;
Till every foot of ground is mud,
With tears and brains and bones and blood.
Yet, faith, it was a grim delight
To see the little devils fight!"

With wonderful speed and force, their thousands seemed to driftthrough the gaping embrasures of the tower, which appeared to swallowthem up--all save the dead and dying, who covered the slope of theglacis; and in two minutes more the tricolor of France was waving onthe summit of the Korniloff bastion!

But the work of the brave French did not end there. From twelve tillseven at night, they had to meet and repulse innumerable attempts ofthe Russians to regain what they had lost--the great tower, which wasreally the key of the city; till, in weariness and despair, the latterwithdrew, leaving the slopes covered with corpses that could only bereckoned by thousands. The moment the French standard fluttered outabove the blue smoke and grimy dust of the tower, a vibration seemedto pass along all our ranks. Every face lit up; every eye kindled;every man instinctively grasped more tightly the barrel of his musket,or the blade of his sword, or set his cap more firmly on his head, forthe final rush.

"The tricolor is on the Malakoff! By heavens, the French are in!hurrah!" cried several officers.

"Hurrah!" responded the stormers of the Light and Second Divisions.

"There go the rockets!" cried Phil Caradoc, pointing with his sword towhere the tiny jets of sparkles were seen to curve in the wind againstthe dull leaden sky, their explosion unheard amid the roar of musketryand of human voices in and beyond the Malakoff.

"Ladders, to the front! eight men per ladder!" said Welsford, of the97th.

"It is our turn now, lads; forward, forward!" added some oneelse--Raymond Mostyn, of the Rifles, I think.

"There is a five-pound note offered to the first man inside theRedan!" exclaimed little Owen Tudor, a drummer of ours, as he slunghis drum and went scouring to the front: but a bullet killed the poorboy instantly, and Welsford had his head literally blown off by acannon ball.

In their dark green uniforms, which were patched with many a rag, ahundred men of the Rifle Brigade who carried the scaling ladderspreceded us; and the moment they and we began to issue, which we didat a furious run, with bayonets fixed and rifles at the short trail,from the head of the trenches, the cannon of the Redan opened awithering fire upon us. The round shot tore up the earth beneath ourfeet, or swept men away by entire sections, strewing limbs and otherfragments of humanity everywhere; the exploding shells also dealtdeath and mutilation; the grape and cannister swept past in whistlingshowers; and wicked little shrapnels were flying through the air likeblack spots against the sky; while, with a hearty and genuine English"hurrah!" that deepened into a species of fierce roar, we swepttowards the ditch which so few of us might live to recross.

Thick fall our dead on every hand, and the hoarse boom of the cannonis sounding deep amid the roar of the concentrated musketry. Crawlingand limping back to the trenches for succour and shelter, the groaningor shrieking wounded are already pouring in hundreds to the rear,reeking with blood; and, within a minute, the whole slope of the Redanis covered with our redcoats--the dead or the helpless--thick as theleaves lie "when forests are rended!"

CHAPTER LV.--INSIDE THE REDAN.

One enormous cannon-shot that struck the earth and stones threw up acloud of dust which totally blinded the brave brigadier who led us; hewas thus compelled to grope his way to the rear, while his place wastaken by Lieutenant-colonel W. H. Bunbury of ours--a tried soldier,who had served in the Kohat-Pass expedition five years before this,and been Napier's aide-de-camp during the wars of India. TheHonourable Colonel Handco*ck, who led three hundred men of the 97th andof the Perthshire Volunteers, fell mortally by a ball in the head.Colonel Lysons of ours (who served in the Canadian affair of St.Denis), though wounded in the thigh and unable to stand, remained onthe ground, and with brandished sword cheered on the stormers.

The actual portion of the latter followed those who bore the scalingladders, twenty of which were apportioned to the Buffs; and no timewas to be lost now, as the Russians from the Malakoff, inflamed byblood, defeat, and fury, were rushing down in hordes to aid in thedefence of the Redan. In crossing the open ground between our trenchesand the point of attack, some of the ladders were lost or left behind,in consequence of their bearers being shot down; yet we reached theedge of the ditch and planted several without much difficulty, tillthe Russians, after flocking to the traverses which enfiladed them,opened a murderous fusillade upon those who were crossing or gettinginto the embrasures, when we planted them on the other side; and thenso many officers and men perished, that Windham and three of theformer were the only leaders of parties who got in untouched.

The scene in the ditch, where the dead and the dying, the bleeding,the panting, and exhausted lay over each other three or four deep, wasbeyond description; and at a place called the Picket House was onesolitary English lady, watching this terrible assault, breathless andpale, putting up prayers with her white lips; and her emotions at sucha time may be imagined when I mention that she was the wife of anofficer engaged in the assault, Colonel H----, whose body was soonafter borne past her on a stretcher.

When my ladder was planted firmly, I went up with the stormers, men ofall regiments mixed pell-mell, Buffs and Royal Welsh, 90th and 97th. Agun, depressed and loaded with grape, belched a volume of flame andiron past me as I sprang, sword in hand, into the embrasure, firing myrevolver almost at random; and the stormers, their faces flushed withardour and fierce excitement, cheering, stabbing with the bayonet,smashing with the butt-end, or firing wildly, swarmed in at everyaperture, and bore the Russians back; but I, being suddenly wedgedamong a number of killed and wounded men, between the cannon and theside of the embrasure could neither advance nor retire, till draggedout by the strong hand of poor Charley Gwynne, who fell a minuteafter, shot dead; and for some seconds, while in that most exposed andterrible position, I saw a dreadful scene of slaughter before me; forthere were dense gray masses of the Russian infantry, their usuallystolid visages inflamed by hate, ferocity, by fiery vodka, andreligious rancour, the front ranks kneeling as if to receive cavalry,and all the rear ranks, which were three or four deep, firing overeach other's heads, exactly as we are told the Scottish brigades ofthe "Lion of the North" did at Leipzig, to the annihilation of thoseof Count Tilly.

We were fairly IN this terrible Redan; but the weakness of our forcewas soon painfully apparent, and in short, when the enemy made aunited rush at us, they drove us all into an angle of the work, andultimately over the parapet to the outer slope, where men of the Lightand Second Divisions were packed in a dense mass and firing into it,which they continued to do even till their ammunition became expended,when fresh supplies from the pouches of those in rear were handed tothose in front. An hour and a half of this disastrous strife elapsed,"the Russians having cleared the Redan," to quote the tritedescription of Russell, "but not yet being in possession of itsparapets, when they made a second charge with bayonets under a heavyfire of musketry, and throwing great quantities of large stones, grapeand small round shot, drove those in front back upon the men in rear,who were thrown into the ditch. The gabions in the parapet now gaveway, and rolled down with those who were upon them; and the men inrear, thinking all was lost, retired into the fifth parallel."

Many men were buried alive in the ditch by the falling earth; Dora'sadmirer, poor little Torn Clavell of the 19th, among others, perishedthus horribly. Just as we reached our shelter, there to breathe,re-form, and await supports, I saw poor Phil Caradoc reel wildly andfall, somewhat in a heap, at the foot of the gabions. In a moment Iwas by his side. His sword-arm had been upraised as he wasendeavouring to rally the men, and a ball had passed--as it eventuallyproved--through his lungs; though a surgeon, who was seated close bywith all his apparatus and instruments, assured him that it was notso.

"I know better--something tells me that it is all over with me--andthat I am bleeding internally," said he, with difficulty. "Hardinge,old fellow--lift me up--gently, so--so--thank you."

I passed an arm under him, and raised his head, removing at the sametime his heavy Fusileer cap. There was a gurgle in his throat, and thefoam of agony came on his handsome brown moustache.

"I am going fast," said he, grasping my hand; "God bless you,Harry--see me buried alone."

"If I escape--but there is yet hope for you, Phil."

But he shook his head and said, while his eye kindled,

"If I was not exactly the first man in, I was not long behindWindham. I risked my life freely," he added, in a voice so low thatI heard him with difficulty amid the din of the desultory fire, andthe mingled roar of other sounds in and around the Malakoff; "yet Ishould like to have gone home and seen my dear old mother once again,in green Llangollen--and her--she, you know who I mean, Harry.But God has willed it all otherwise, and I suppose it is for thebest. . . . Turn me on my side . . . dear fellow--so. . . . I ameasier now."

As I did what he desired, his warm blood poured upon my hand, throughthe orifice in his poor, faded, and patched regimentals, never so muchas then like "the old red coat that tells of England's glory."

"Have the Third or Fourth Division come yet? Where are the ScotsRoyals?" he asked, eagerly, and then, without waiting for a reply,added, very faintly, "If spared to see her--Winny Lloyd--tell her thatmy last thoughts were of her--ay, as much as of my poor mother . . . and. . . that though she will get a better fellow than I----"

"That is impossible, Phil!"

"She can never get one who . . . . who loves her more. The time isnear now when I shall be but a memory to her and you . . . . and toall our comrades of the old 23rd."

His lips quivered and his eyes closed, as he said, with something ofhis old pleasant smile,

"I am going to heaven, I hope, Harry--if I have not done much good inthe world, I have not done much harm; and in heaven I'll meet withmore red coats, I believe, than black ones . . . . and tellher . . . tell Winny----"

What I was to tell her I never learned; his voice died away, and henever spoke again; for just as the contest became fiercer between theFrench and the masses of Russians--temporarily released from the Redanor drawn from the city--his head fell over on one side, and heexpired. I closed his eyes, for there was yet time to do so. Poor PhilCaradoc! I looked sadly for a minute on the pale and stiffening faceof my old friend and jovial chum, and saw how fast the expression ofbodily pain passed away from the whitening forehead. I could scarcelyassure myself that he was indeed gone, and so suddenly; that his oncemerry eyes and laughing lips would open never again. Turning away, Iprepared once more for the assault, and then, for the first time, Iperceived Lieutenants Dyneley and Somerville of ours lying near him;the former mortally wounded and in great pain, the latter quite dead.

My soul was full of a keen longing for vengeance, to grapple with thefoe once more, foot to foot and face to face. The blood was fairly upin all our hearts; for the Russians had now relined their ownbreastworks, where a tall officer in a gray capote made himself veryconspicuous by his example and exertions. He was at last daring enoughto step over the rampart and tear down a wooden gabion, to make a kindof extempore embrasure through which an additional field-piece mightbe run.

"As you are so fond of pot-firing," said Colonel Windham to thesoldiers, with some irritation at the temporary repulse, "why thedeuce don't you shoot that Russian?"

On looking through my field-glass, to my astonishment I discoveredthat he was Tolstoff. Sergeant Rhuddlan of ours now levelled his rifleover the bank of earth which protected the parallel, took a steadyaim, and fired. Tolstoff threw up his arms wildly, and his swordglittered as it fell from his hand. He then wheeled round, and fellheavily backward into the ditch--which was twenty feet broad and tenfeet deep--dead; at least, I never saw or heard of him again.

Just as a glow of fierce exultation, pardonable enough, perhaps, atsuch a time (and remembering all the circ*mstances under which thisdistinguished Muscovite and I had last met and parted), thrilledthrough me, I experienced a terrible shock--a shock that made me reeland shudder, with a sensation as if a hot iron had pierced my left armabove the elbow. It hung powerless by my side, and then I felt my ownblood trickling heavily over the points of my fingers!

"Wounded! My God, hit at last!" was my first thought; and I lost muchblood before I could get any one, in that vile burly-burly, to tie myhandkerchief as a temporary bandage round the limb to stanch the flow.

I was useless now, and worse than useless, as I was suffering greatly,but I could not leave the parallel for the hospital huts, and remainedthere nearly to dusk fell. Before that, I had seen Caradoc interredbetween the gabions; and there he lay in his hastily-scooped grave,uncoffined and unknelled, his heart's dearest longings unfulfilled,his brightest hopes and keenest aspirations crushed out like his younglife; and the evanescent picture, the poor photo of the girl he hadloved in vain, buried with him; and when poor Phil was being coveredup, I remembered his anecdote about the dead officer, and the letterthat was replaced in his breast.

Well, my turn for such uncouth obsequies might come soon enough now.In the affair of the Redan, if I mistake not, 146 officers and men ofours, the Welsh Fusileers, were killed and wounded; and every otherregiment suffered in the same proportion.

The attack was to be renewed at five in the morning by the Guards andHighlanders, under Lord Clyde of gallant memory, then Sir ColinCampbell; but on their approaching, it was found that the Russians hadspiked their guns, and bolted by the bridge of boats, leavingSebastopol one sheet of living fire. Fort after fort was blown intothe air, each with a shock as if the solid earth were being splitasunder. The sky was filled with live shells, which burst there likethousands of scarlet rockets, and thus showers of iron fell in everydirection. Columns of dark smoke, that seemed to prop heaven itself,rose above the city, while its defenders in thousands, without beat ofdrum or sound of trumpet, poured away by the bridge of boats. When thelast fugitive had passed, the chains were cut, and then the mightypontoon, a quarter of a mile in length, swung heavily over to thenorth side, when we were in full possession of Sebastopol!

CHAPTER LVI.--A SUNDAY MORNING IN THE CRIMEA.

I must have dropped asleep of sheer weariness and loss of blood, whentottering to the rear; for on waking I found the moon shining, andmyself lying not far from the fifth parallel, which was now occupied,like the rest of the trenches, by the kilted Highlanders, whose barelegs, and the word Egypt on their appointments, formed a doublesource of wonder to our Moslem allies, especially to the contingentthat came from the Land of Bondage. These sturdy fellows werechatting, laughing, and smoking, or quietly sleeping and waiting fortheir turn of service against the Redan, in the dark hours of themorning.

I had lain long in a kind of dreamy agony. Like many who were in theRedan and in the ditch around it, I had murmured "water, water," oftenand vainly. The loss of Estelle, or of Valerie, for times there werewhen my mind wandered to the former now, the love of dear friends, thedeath of comrades, honour, glory, danger from pillaging Russians orTartars, all emotions, in fact, were merged or swallowed up in theterrible agony I endured in my shattered arm, and the still moreconsuming craving for something wherewith to moisten my cracked lipsand parched throat. Poor Phil Caradoc had perhaps endured this beforeme, while his heart and soul were full of Winifred Lloyd; but Phil,God rest him! was at peace now, and slept as sound in his uncouthgrave as if laid under marble in Westminster Abbey.

In my uneasy slumber I had been conscious of this sensation of thirst,and had visions of champagne goblets, foaming and iced; of humblebitter beer and murmuring water; of gurgling brooks that flowed overbrown pebbles, and under long-bladed grass and burdocks in leafydingles; of Llyn Tegid, deep and blue; of the marble fountain, withthe lilies and golden fish, at Craigaderyn. Then with this idea thevoice of Winifred Lloyd came pleasantly to my ear; her white fingersplayed with the sparkling water, she raised some to my lips, but thecup fell to pieces, and starting, I awoke to find a tall Highlander,of the Black Watch, bending over me, and on my imploring him to get mesome water, he placed his wooden canteen to my lips, and I drank ofthe contents, weak rum-grog, greedily and thankfully.

It seemed strange to me that I should dream of Winifred, there andthen; but no doubt the last words of Caradoc had led me to think ofher. It is only when waking after long weariness of the body, andover-tension of the nerves, the result of such keen excitement as wehad undergone since yesterday morning, that the full extremity ofexhaustion and fatigue can be felt, as I felt them then. Add to these,that my shattered arm had bled profusely, and was still undressed.

Staggering up, I looked around me. The moon was shining, and flakes ofher silver light streamed through the now silent embrasures of theRedan, silent save for the groans of the dying within it. There and inthe ditch the dead lay thick as sheaves in a harvest-field--thick asthe Greeks, at Troy, lay under the arrows of Apollo. How many a manwas lying there, mutilated almost out of the semblance of humanity,whose thoughts, when the death shot struck him down, or the sharpbayonet pierced him, had flashed home, quicker than the electrictelegraph, yea, quicker than light, to his parents' hearth, to hislonely wife, to the little cots where their children lay abed--littleones, the memory of whose waxen faces and pink hands then filled hisheart with tears; how many a resolution for prayer and repentance ifspared by God; how many a pious invocation; how many a fierceresolution to meet the worst, and die like a man and a soldier, hadgone up from that hell upon earth, the Redan--the fatal Redan, whichwe should never have attacked, but should have aided the French in thecapture of the Malakoff, after which it must inevitably have fallensoon, if not at once.

Many of our officers were afterwards found therein, each with a handclutching a dead Russian's throat, or coat, or belt, their fingersstiffened in death--man grasping man in a fierce and last embrace.Among others, that stately and handsome fellow, Raymond Mostyn, of theRifles, and an officer of the Vladimir regiment were thus lockedtogether, the same grape-shot having killed them both. Some of ourslain soldiers were yet actually clinging to the parapet and slope ofthe glacis, as if still alive, thus showing the reluctance with whichthey had retired--the desperation with which they died. In everyimaginable position of agony, of distortion, and bloody mutilationthey lay, heads crushed and faces battered, eyes starting from theirsockets, and swollen tongues protruding; and on that terrible scenethe pale moon, "sweet regent of the sky," the innocent queen of night,as another poet calls her, looked softly down in her glory, as thesame moon in England, far away, was looking on the stubble-fieldswhence the golden grain had been gathered, on peaceful homesteads, oldchurch steeples and quiet cottage roofs, on the ruddy furnaces of theBlack country, on peace and plenty, and where war was unknown, save byname.

She glinted on broken and abandoned weapons; she silvered the upturnedfaces of the dead--kissing them, as it were, for many a loving one whoshould see them no more; and gemming as if with diamonds the dewygrass and the autumnal wild-flowers; and there, too, amid thathorrible débris, were the little birds--the goldfinch, the tit, andthe sparrow--hopping and twittering about, too terrified to seek theirnests, scared as they were by the uproar of the day that was past.

I felt sick at heart and crushed in spirit now. In the immediateforeground the moonlight glinted on the tossing dark plumes, thepicturesque costume, and bright bayonets of the Highlanders in thetrenches. In the distance was the town; its ports, arsenals, barracks,theatres, palaces, churches, and streets sheeted with roaring flames,that lighted up all the roadstead, where, one after the other, theRussian ships were disappearing beneath the waves, in that lurid glarewhich tipped with a fiery gleam the white walls and spiked cannon ofthe now abandoned forts.

I began to creep back towards the camp, in search of surgical aid, andon the way came to a place where, with their uniforms off, theirshirt-sleeves rolled up, their boxes of instruments open, lint andbandages ready, three officers of the medical staff were busy upon agroup of wounded men, who sat or lay near, waiting their turn, someimpatiently, some with passive endurance, but all, more or less, inpain, as their moans and sighs declared.

"Don't bother about that Zouave, Gage," I heard one Æsculapius say, asI came near, "I have overhauled him already!"

"Is his wound mortal?"

"Yes--brain lacerated. By Jove! here is an officer of the 23rd!"

"Well, he must wait a little."

So I sighed, and seated myself on a stone, and clenched my teeth tocontrol the agony I was enduring. The men who lay about us, with pale,woe-begone visages and lack-lustre eyes, belonged chiefly to theLight Division, but among them I saw, to my surprise, a Russian hussarlying dead, with the blood dry and crusted on his pale blue andyellow-braided dolman. How he came to be there, I had not thecuriosity to inquire. A mere bundle of gory rags, he seemed; for acannon-shot had doubled him up, and now his Tartar horse stood overhim, eyeing him wildly, and sniffing as if in wonder about his beardedface and fallen jaw.

The Zouave referred to was a noisy and loquacious fellow,notwithstanding his perilous predicament. He had strayed hithersomehow from the Malakoff, and was mortally wounded, as the surgeonsaid, and dying. A tiny plaster image of the blessed Virgin lay beforehim; he was praying intently at times, but being fatuous, he wildlyand oddly mingled with his orisons the name of a certain MademoiselleAuréle, a fleuriste, with whom he imagined himself in the secondgallery of the Théâtre Français, or supping at the Barrière del'Etoile; anon he imagined they were on the Boulevardes, or in a caféchantant; and then as his mind--or what remained of it--seemed torevert to the events of the day, he drew his "cabbage-cutter," as theFrench call their sword-bayonet, and brandished it, crying,

"Cut and hew, strike, mes camarades--frappez vite et frappez forte!Vive la France! Vive l'Empéreur!"

This was the last effort; a gush of fresh blood poured into his eyes,and the poor Zouave was soon cold and stiff. In a kind of stupor I satthere and watched by moon and lantern light the hasty operations:bullets probed for and snipped out by forceps, while the patientswrithed and yelled; legs and arms dressed or cut off like brancheslopped from a tree, and chucked into a heap for interment. I shudderedwith apprehensive foreboding of what might ensue when my own turncame, and heard, as in a dream, the three surgeons talking with themost placid coolness about their little bits of practice.

"Jones, please," said one, a very young staff medico, "will you kindlytake off this fellow's leg for me? I have ripped up his trousers andapplied the tourniquet--he is quite ready."

"But must it come off?" asked Jones, who was patching up a bullet-holewith lint.

"Yes; gun-shot fracture of the knee-joint--patella totally gone."

"Why don't you do it yourself, my good fellow?" asked the third, who,with an ivory-handled saw between his teeth, was preparing to operateon the fore-arm of a 19th man, whose groans were terrible. "Gage, didyou never amputate?"

"Never on the living subject."

"On a dead one then, surely?"

"Often--of course.'

"By Jove, you can't begin too soon--so why not now?"

"I am too nervous--do it for me."

"In one minute; but only this once, remember. Now give me your knifefor the flap; and look to that officer of the Welsh Fusileers--hisleft arm is wounded."

So while Dr. Jones, whom the haggard eyes of the man, whose limb wasdoomed, watched with a terrible expression of anxiety, applied himselfto the task of amputation, the younger doctor, a hand fresh fromLondon, came to me.

After ripping up the sleeve of my uniform, and having a briefexamination, which caused me such bitter agony that I could no longerstand, but lay on the grass, he said,

"Sorry to tell you, that yours is a compound fracture of the mostserious kind."

"Is it reducible?" I asked, in a low voice.

"No; I regret to say that your arm must come off."

"My arm--must I lose it?" I asked, feeling keener anguish with theunwelcome announcement.

"Yes; and without delay," he replied, stooping towards his instrumentcase.

"I cannot spare it--I must have some other--excuse me, sir--some olderadvice," I exclaimed, passionately.

"As you please, sir," replied the staff-surgeon, coolly; "but we haveno time to spare here, either for opposition or indecision."

The other two glanced at my arm, poked it, felt it as if it had beenthat of a lay figure in a studio, and supported the opinion of theirbrother of the knife. But the prospect of being mutilated, armless,for life, and all the pleasures of which such a fate must deprive me,seemed so terrible, that I resolved to seek for other advice at thehospital tents, and towards them I took my way, enduring such pain ofbody and misery of mind that on reaching them I should have sunk, hadbrandy not been instantly given to me by an orderly. It was Sundaymorning now, and the gray light of the September dawn was stealingover the waters of the Euxine, and up the valley of Inkermann. Thefragrant odour of the wild thyme came pleasantly on the breeze; butnow the rain was falling heavily, as it generally does after anaction--firing puts down the wind, and so the rain comes; but to methen it was like the tears of heaven--"Nature's tear-drop," as Byronhas it, bedewing the unburied dead. A red-faced and irritable-lookinglittle Deputy Inspector of Hospitals, in a blue frogged surtout,received me, and from him I did not augur much. The patients werepouring in by hundreds, and the medical staff had certainly nosinecure there. After I had been stripped and put to bed, I rememberthis personage examining my wound and muttering,

"Bad case--very!"

"Am I in danger, doctor?" I inquired.

"Yes, of course, if it should gangrene," said he, sharply.

"I don't care much for life, but I should not like to lose my arm. Doyou think that--that--"

"What?" he asked, opening his box of tools with sangfroid.

"I shall die of this?"

"Of a smashed bone?"

"Yes."

"Well, my dear fellow, not yet, I hope."

"Yet?" said I, doubtfully.

"Well, immediately, I mean. There is already much sign ofinflammation, and consequent chance of fever. The os humerus is, as Isay, smashed to pieces, and the internal and external condyles of theelbow are most seriously injured. Corporal Mulligan, a basin andsponge, and desire Dr.----" (I did not catch the name) "to step thisway."

The corporal, a black-bearded Connaught Ranger, who had lost an eye atAlma, brought what the surgeon required; he then placed a handkerchiefto my nostrils; there was a bubbling sensation in the brain, butmomentary, as the handkerchief contained chloroform; then somethingpeaceful, soporific, and soothing stole over me, and for a time Ibecame oblivious of all around me.

CHAPTER LVII.--IN THE MONASTERY OF ST. GEORGE.

To be brief, when the effect of the chloroform passed away, I becamesensible of a strange sensation of numbness about my left shoulder.Instinctively and shudderingly I turned my eyes towards it, and foundthat my left arm was--gone! Gone, and near me stood Corporal Mulligancoolly wiping the fat little surgeon's instruments for the next case.Some wine, Crimskoi, and water were given me, and then I closed myeyes and strove, but in vain, to sleep and to think calmly over mymisfortune, which, for a time, induced keen misanthropy indeed.

"Armless!" thought I; "I was pretty tired of life before this, and amutterly useless now. Would that the shot had struck me in a more vitalplace, and finished me--polished me off at once! That old staffsawbones should have left me to my fate; should have letmortification, gangrene, and all the rest of it, do their worst, and Imight have gone quietly to sleep where so many lay, under the crocusesand caper-bushes at Sebastopol."

"After life's fitful fever" men sleep well; and so, I hoped, should I.

Such reflections were, I own, ungrateful and bitter; but suffering,disappointment, and more than all, the great loss of blood I hadsuffered, had sorely weakened me; and yet, on looking about me, andseeing the calamities of others, I felt that the simple loss of an armwas indeed but a minor affair.

Close by me, on the hospital pallets, I saw men expiring fast, andborne forth to the dead-pits only to make room for others; I saw thepoor human frame, so delicate, so wondrous, and so divine in itsorganisation, cut, stabbed, bruised, crushed, and battered, in everyimaginable way, and yet with life clinging to it, when life hadbecome worthless. From wounds, and operations upon wounds, there wasblood--blood everywhere; on the pallets, the straw, the earthen floor,the canvas of the tents, in buckets and basins, on sponges and towels,and on the hands of the attendants. Incessantly there were moans andcries of anguish, and, ever and anon, that terrible sound in thethroat known as the death-rattle.

Sergeant Rhuddlan, Dicky Roll the drummer (the little keeper of theregimental goat), and many rank and file of the old 23rd--relics ofthe Redan--were there, and some lay near me. The sergeant was mortallywounded, and soon passed away; the poor boy was horribly mutilated, agrape shot having torn off his lower jaw, and he survived, to haveperhaps a long life of misery and penury before him; and will it bebelieved that, through red-tapery and wretched Whig parsimony, twohours before the attack on the Redan, the senior surgeon in theQuarries was "run out" of lint, plasters, bandages, and every otherappliance for stanching blood?

I heard some of our wounded, in their triumph at the general successof the past day, attempting feebly and in quavering tones to sing"Cheer, boys, cheer;" while others, in the bitterness of their hearts,or amid the pain they endured, were occasionally consigning the eyes,limbs, and souls of the Ruskies to a very warm place indeed. Estelle'sring, which I had still worn, was gone with my unfortunate arm, andwas now the prize, no doubt, of some hospital orderly. Next day, asthe wounded were pouring in as fast as the dripping stretchers andambulances could bring them, I was sent to the monastery of St.George, which had been turned into a convalescent hospital. Theremoval occasioned fever, and I lay long there hovering between lifeand death; and I remember how, as portions of a seemingphantasmagoria, the faces of the one-eyed corporal who attended me,and of the staff doctors Gage and Jones, became drearily familiar.

This monastery is situated about five miles from Balaclava and sixfrom Sebastopol, near Cape Fiolente, and consists of two long rangesof buildings, two stories in height, with corridors off which thecells of the religious open. The chapel, full of hospital pallets,there faces the sea, and the view in that direction is both charmingand picturesque. A zigzag pathway leads down from the rocks of redmarble, past beautiful terraces clothed with vines and floweringshrubs, to a tiny bay, so sheltered that there the ocean barelyripples on the snow-white sand. But then the Greek monks, in theirdark-brown gowns, their hair plaited in two tails down their back,their flowing beards, with rosary and crucifix and square black cap,had given place to convalescents of all corps, Guardsmen, Riflemen,Dragoons, and Linesmen, who cooked and smoked, laughed and sang,patched their clothes and pipe-clayed their belts, where whilom masswas said and vespers chanted. Others were hopping about on crutches,or, propped by sticks, dozed dreamily in the sunshine under shelter ofthe wall that faced the sparkling sea--the blessed high road to oldEngland.

My room, a monk's cell, was whitewashed, and on the walls were hungseveral gaudy prints of Russian saints and Madonnas with oval shiningmetal halos round their faces; but most of these the soldiers, with aneye to improvement in art, had garnished with short pipes, moustaches,and eyeglasses; and with scissors and paste-pot Corporal Mulliganadded other decorations from the pages of Punch.

Sebastopol had fallen; "Redan Windham," as we named him, then aBrigadier-general, was its governor; and by the Allies the place hadbeen plundered of all the flames had spared (not much certainly), evento the cannon and church bells; and now peace was at hand. But many aday I sighed and tossed wearily on my hard bed, and more wearily stillin the long nights of winter, when the bleak wind from the Euxinehowled round the monastery and the rain lashed its walls, thoughCorporal Mulligan would wink his solitary eye, and seek to console meby saying,

"Your honour's in luck--there is no trinch-guard to-night, thank God!"

"Nor will there ever be again for me," I would reply.

The inspector of hospitals had informed me that, so soon as I couldtravel, sick leave would be granted me, that I might proceed toEngland; but I heard him with somewhat of indifference. Would Valeriejoin her brother Volhonski at Lewes in Sussex, was, however, my firstthought; she would be free to do as she pleased now that the odiousTolstoff--But was he killed by Rhuddlan's bullet, or merely wounded,with the pleasure of having Valerie, perhaps, for a nurse? Hecertainly seemed to fall from the parapet as if he were shot dead. Whyhad I not gone back and inspected the slain in the ditch of the Redan,to see if he lay there? But I had other thoughts then, and so theopportunity--even could I have availed myself of it--was gone forever. These calculations and surmises may seem very cool now; but tous then human life, and human suffering, too, were but of smallaccount indeed.

One evening the fat little staff surgeon came to me with a cheerfulexpression on his usually cross face, and two packets in his hand.

"Well, doctor," said I, with a sickly smile, but unable to lift myhead; "so I didn't die, after all."

"No; close shave though. Wish you joy, Captain Hardinge."

"Joy--armless!"

"Tut; I took the two legs off a rifleman the other day close to thetibia--ticklish operation, very, but beautifully done--and he'lltoddle about in a bowl or on a board, and be as jolly as a sand-boy.Suppose your case had been his?"

"When may I leave this?"

"Can't say yet awhile. You don't want to rejoin, I presume?"

"Would to God that I could! but the day is past now When I do leave,it will be by ship or steamer."

"Unless you prefer a balloon. Well, it was of these I came to wish youjoy," said he, placing before me, and opening it (for I was unable todo so, single-handed), the packet, which contained two medals; one forthe Crimea, with its somewhat unbecoming ribbon, and two clasps for"Inkermann" and "Sebastopol."

"They are deuced like labels for wine-bottles," said the littledoctor; "but a fine thing for you to have, and likely to catch theeyes of the girls in England."

"And this other medal with the pink ribbon?"

"Is the Sardinian one, given by Victor Emanuel; and more welcome thanthese perhaps, here is a letter from home--from England--for you;which, if you wish, I shall open" (every moment I was some way thusreminded, even kindly, of my own helplessness), "and leave you toperuse. Good evening; I've got some prime cigars at your service, ifyou'll send Mulligan to me."

"Thanks, doctor."

And he rolled away out of the cell, to visit some other unfortunatefellow. The medals were, of course, a source of keen satisfaction tome; but as I toyed with them and inspected them again and again, theywoke an old train of thought; for there was one, who had no longerperhaps an interest in me (if a woman ever ceases to have an interestin the man who has loved her), and who was another's now, in whosewhite hands I should once with honest pride have laid them. Viewedthrough that medium, they seemed almost valueless for a time; thoughthere was to come a day when I was alike vain of them--ay, and of myempty sleeve--as became one who had been at the fall of Sebastopol,the queen of the Euxine.

"I fear I am a very discontented dog," thought I, while turning to theletter, which proved to be from kind old Sir Madoc Lloyd.

For months no letters had reached me, and for the same period I hadbeen unable to write home; so in all that time I had heard nothingfrom my friends in England--who were dead, who alive; who marrying, orbeing given in marriage. Sir Madoc's missive was full of kind thoughtsand expressions, of warm wishes and offers of service, that came to meas balm, especially at such a time and in such a place. Poor PhilCaradoc, and many others, were sorrowfully and enthusiasticallyreferred to. Sir Watkins Vaughan was still hovering about the girls,"but with remarkable indecision apparently." The tall Plunger with theparted hair had proposed to Dora, and been declined; for no veryvisible reason, as he was a pleasant fellow with a handsome fortune.

On an evening early in September, the very day that a telegramannouncing the fall of the Redan reached Craigaderyn, they weredressing for a county ball at Chester--a long-looked-for and mostbrilliant affair--when their sensibility, and fear that I might havebeen engaged, made them relinquish all ideas of pleasure, andcountermand the carriage, to the intense chagrin of Sir Watkins andalso of the Plunger, who had come from town expressly to attend it.Two day afterwards the lists were published, and the account of theslaughter of our troops, and the death of so many dear friends, hadmade Winifred positively ill, so change of air was recommended forher, at Ventnor or some such place.

A postscript to this, in Dora's rapid hand, and written evidentlysurreptitiously (perhaps while Sir Madoc had left his desk for amoment), added the somewhat significant intelligence, that "Winny hadwept very much indeed on reading the account of that horrible Redan"(for Phil's death, thought I; if so, she mourns him too late!) "andnow declares that she will die an old maid." (It is so!) "When thatinteresting period of a lady's life begins," continued Dora, "I knownot; if unmarried, before thirty, I suppose; thus I am eleven yearsoff that awful period yet, and have a decidedly vulgar prejudiceagainst ever permitting myself to become one. Papa writes that SirWatkins is undecided; but I may add that I, for one, know that he isnot. Our best love to you, dear old Harry; but O, I can't fancy youwithout an arm!"

I was in a fair way of recovery now. The state I had been in so long,within the four walls of that quaint little chamber--a state thathovered between sense and insensibility, between sleeping and waking,time and eternity--had passed away; and, after all I had undergone, ithad seemed as if

"Thrice the double twilight rose and fell,
About a land where nothing seemed the same,
At morn or eve, as in the days gone by."

This had all passed and gone; but I was weak as a child, and worn to ashadow; and by neglect had become invested with hirsute appendages ofthe most ample proportions.

And so, without the then hackneyed excuse of "urgent private affairs,"on an evening in summer, when the last rays of the sun shone redly onthe marble bluffs and copper-coloured rocks of Cape Khersonese--thelast point of that fatal peninsula towards the distant Bosphorus--andwhen the hills that look down on the lovely Pass of Baidar and thegrave-studded valley of Inkermann were growing dim and blue, I foundmyself again at sea, on board the Kangaroo--a crowded transport (orrather a floating hospital)--speeding homeward, and bidding "a longgood-night to the Crimea," to the land of glory and endurance.

Sebastopol seemed a dream now, but a memory of the past; and a dream,too, seemed my new life when I lay on my couch at the open port, andsaw the crested waves flying past, as we sped through them under sailand steam.

Onward, onward, three hundred miles and more across the Euxine, towhere the green range of the Balkan looks down upon its waters, andwhere the lighthouses of Anatolia on one side, and those of Roumeliaon the other, guide to the long narrow channel of Stamboul; but erethe latter was reached--and on our starboard bow we saw the whitewaves curling over the blue Cyanean rocks, where Jason steered theArgonauts--we had to deposit many a poor fellow in the deep; for wehad four hundred convalescent and helpless men on board, and only onesurgeon, with scarcely any medicines or comforts for them, as JohnBull, if he likes glory, likes to obtain it cheap. It was anothercase of Whig parsimony; so every other hour an emaciated corpse,rolled in a mud-stained greatcoat or well-worn blanket, without prayeror ceremony of any kind, was quietly dropped to leeward, the 32-poundshot at its heels making a dull plunge in that huge grave, the worldof water, which leaves no mark behind.

I gladly left the Kangaroo at Pera, and, establishing myself at theHôtel d'Angleterre, wrote from thence to Sir Madoc that I should takeone of the London liners at Malta for England, and to write me to theUnited Service Club in London; that all my plans for the future werevague and quite undecided; but I was not without hope of getting somemilitary employment at home. The Frankish hotel was crowded by woundedofficers, also en route for England or France, all in sorely fadeduniforms, on which the new Crimean medals glittered brightly. As allthe world travels nowadays, I am not going to "talk guide-book," orbreak into ecstasies about the glories of Stamboul as viewed from adistance, and not when floundering mid-leg deep in the mud of itspicturesque but rickety old thoroughfares; yet certainly the dailyscene before the hotel windows was a singular one; for there werestalwart Turkish porters, veritable sons of Anak; stagey-lookingdragomen, with brass pistols and enormous sabres in wooden sheaths;the Turk of the old school in turban, beard, slippers, and flowinggarments; the Turk of the new, whom he despised, close shaven, withred fez and glazed boots; water-carriers; Osmanli infantry, solemn,brutal, and sensual, jostled by rollicking British tars and merrylittle French Zouaves; and for a background, the city of the Sultans,with all its casem*nts, domes, and minarets glittering in theunclouded sunshine.

Two light cavalry subs, who had ridden in the death ride at Balaclava,and bore some cuts and slashes won therein, three others of the LightDivision, and myself, agreed to travel homeward together; and pleasantdays we had of it while skirting the mountainous isles of Greece,Byron's

"Isles of Greece, where burning Sappho loved and sung,"

and the tints of which seemed all brown or gray as we saw them throughthe vapour exhaled in summer from the Ægean Sea, with their littlewhite villages shadowed by trees, their rocks like sea-walls, crownedhere and there by the columns, solitary and desolate, of some templedevoted to the gods of other days--"a country rich in historicreminiscence, but poor as Sahara in everything else."

And so on by Malta and old Gib; and exactly fourteen days afterleaving the former we were cleaving the muddy bosom of Father Thames;and that night saw me in my old room at "the Rag," with the dull roarof mighty London in my ears; and after the rapid travelling I went tosleep, as addled as a fly could be in a drum.

CHAPTER LVIII.--HOME.

The comfort and splendour of the fashionable club-house, the tallmirrors, the gilded cornices, the soft carpets, the massive furniture,the powdered and liveried waiters gliding noiselessly about, allimpressed me with a high sense of the intense snugness of England andof home, after my airy tent, with its embankment of earth forshelter, its smoky funnel of mess-tins, and the tiny trench cut roundit to carry away the rainwater. Then I was discussing a breakfastwhich, after my Crimean experience, seemed a feast fit for Lucullus orApicius, and listening with something of a smile to the rather loudconversation of some members of the club--wiry old Peninsulars,Waterloo and India men, who were certain "the service was going to thedevil," and who drew somewhat disparaging comparisons between the waymatters had been conducted by our generals and those of the war underSir John Moore, Lynedoch, Hill, and "the Iron Duke;" and to me itseemed that the old fellows were right, and that after forty years ofpeace we had learned nothing new in the art of campaigning.

"Captain Hardinge, a gentleman for you, sir," said a waiter,presenting me with a card on a silver salver; and I had barely time tolook at it ere Sir Madoc Lloyd, in top-boots and corded breeches asusual--his ruddy sunburnt face, his white hair and sparkling darkeyes, in his cheery breezy way the same as ever--entered, hat and whipin hand, and welcomed me home so warmly, that for a moment he drewthe eyes of all in the room upon us. He had breakfasted two hoursbefore--country time--and had a canter round the Park. He was in townon Parliamentary business, but was starting that afternoon forCraigaderyn. I should accompany him, of course, he added, in hishearty impetuous way. Then ere I could speak,--

"God bless my soul!" he exclaimed. "Poor Harry! till I have seen you Icould not realise the idea of your being mutilated thus! No morehunting, no more shooting, no more fishing----"

"And no more dancing, the ladies would add," said I, smiling.

"And no more soldiering."

"Unless the Queen kindly permits me."

"Gad! I think you have had enough of it!"

"And--and Miss Lloyd and Dora?"

"Are both well and looking beautiful. There are not many girls inWales like my girls. A seaside trip has brought back the bloom toWinny's cheeks; and as for Dora, she never loses it."

"And why did Miss Lloyd refuse an offer so eligible as that of SirWatkins Vaughan?" I asked, after a pause.

"Can't for the life of me say," replied Sir Madoc, rubbing his chin,and turning to the decanter as a waiter set some dry sherry andbiscuits before us.

"And why would not my little friend Dora have her Guardsman?"

"Can't say that, either. Perhaps she hated a 'swell' with an affected'yaw-haw' impediment in his speech. Girls are so odd; but mine aredear girls for all that. I'll telegraph to Owen Gwyllim to have thecarriage awaiting us at Chester; and we shall leave town beforeluncheon-time, if you have no other plans or engagements."

"I have neither; but--but, Sir Madoc, why so soon?" I asked, ascertain passages in my later visits to Craigaderyn gave me a twinge ofcompunction. "Now that I think of it, I had an idea of taking a rundown to Lewes in Sussex," said I.

"Lewes in Sussex--a dreary place, though in a first-rate coursingcountry. I've ridden there with the Brighton Hunt. What would take youthere--before coming to us, at least?"

I coloured a little, and said,

"I have a friend there, among the Russian prisoners."

"By Jove, I think you've had enough of those fellows! Nonsense, Harry!We shall start without delay. Why waste time and money in London?"said Sir Madoc, who never liked his plans or wishes thwarted. "I havejust to give a look at a brace of hunters at Tattersall's for Vaughan,and then I am with you. Down there, with our fine mountain breezes,our six-months' Welsh mutton, and seven-years' cliquot, we'll make aman of you again. I can't get you an arm, Harry; but, by Jove, it willgo hard with us if we don't get you two belonging to some one else!"

I laughed at this idea; and so that evening saw me again far fromLondon, and being swept as fast as the express could speed along theNorth-Western line towards Chester. I had quite a load of Russiantrophies--such were then in great request--for Sir Madoc: sabres,muskets, and bayonets; glazed helmets of the 26th and VladimirRegiments, a Zouave trumpet (with a banner attached), trod flat as apancake under the feet of the stormers as they poured into theMalakoff. There, too, were several rusty fragments of explodedshells, hand-grenades, and the last cannon-shot fired from the MamelonVert. For Winifred and Dora I had mother-of-pearl trunks of rareessences and perfumes; slender gilt vials of attar of roses;daintily-embroidered Turkish slippers, with turned-up toes, andbracelets of rose-pearls from Stamboul; Maltese jewelry, lace, veils,and as many pretty things as might have stocked a little shop in thePalais Royal or the Burlington Arcade.

The month was June, and my spirits became more and more buoyant, as inthe open carriage we bowled along between the green mountains and thewaving woodlands. Now the mowers, scythe in hand, were bending overthe fragrant and bearded grass; the ploughmen were turning up thefallow soil; the squirrels were feasting in the blossom; the sheepwere being driven to fold; and the crow was flying aloft, ere hesought his nest "in the rooky wood." It was a thorough English Juneevening: the air pure, the sunshine bright, and casting the shadows ofthe mountains far across the vales and fresh green meadows; theblackbird, thrush, and linnet sang on every tree, and a glow ofhappiness came over me; for all around the land looked so peaceful andso lovely, the gray smoke curling up from copse and dingle to markwhere stood those "free fair homes of England," of which Mrs. Hemanssang so sweetly. Sir Madoc was discoursing on the cultivation ofturnips and mangold wurzels, and on the mode of extirpating annualdarnel-grass, coltsfoot, wild charlock, and other mysterious plants tome unknown; and I heard him as one in a dream, when we entered thelong lime avenue.

How pleasant and picturesque looked the old house of the Tudor timesat the end of that long leafy vista, with all its tinted oriels, itsgilded vanes, and quaint stone finials! The woodbine, clematis, andivy, hops and honeysuckle, all blended in luxuriant masses, aspiringto peep in at the upper windows. Craigaderyn, so redolent of fruit andflowers, of fresh sweet air, of bright green leaves, of health andevery bracing element--a hearty old house, where for generations theyule log had blazed, and the holly-branch and the mistletoe hung fromthe old oak roof, when the snow lay deep on Carneydd Llewellyn; wherethe boar's head was served up in state at Christmas, and at Michaelmasthe goose; where so many brides had come home happy, and so many oldfolks, full of years and honour, gone to the vault of the old churchamong the hills; where lay all the line of Lloyd, save the lucklessSir Jorwerth Du; and where--. But here my somewhat discursive reveriewas interrupted by the carriage being pulled sharply up at the perronbefore the entrance; and Owen Gwyllim, with his wrinkled face beaming,and his white head glistening in the sunshine, hastened down to openthe door, arrange the steps, and shake the only hand the Russians hadleft me.

"Where are the young ladies?" asked Sir Madoc, impatiently glancing upat all the windows.

"Gone for a ride so far as Llandudno, with Miss Vaughan."

"Alone?"

"No, Sir Madoc, attended by Spurrit, the groom. They were gone beforeyour telegram arrived, but are to be back before the first bell ringsfor dinner."

And now, after a little attention to my toilet, I was ushered into thedrawing-room, every object in which was so familiar to me; and seatingmyself in the corner of an oriel, I gave way to a long train of deepthought; for I was left quite alone just then, as Sir Madoc foundletters of importance awaiting him; and now, induced by the heat ofevening, the stillness broken only by the tinkle of a sheep-bell andthe hum of the bees at the open window, and by the length and rapidityof my journey, I actually dozed quietly off to sleep.

CHAPTER LIX.--"A DREAM WHICH WAS NOT ALL A DREAM."

Brief though my nap of "forty winks," I had within it a little dream,induced, no doubt, by my return to Wales, and by my surroundings, asit was of Winifred Lloyd, of past tenderness, and our old kind,flirting, cousinly intercourse, before others came between us; forWinifred had ever been as a sister to me, and dearer, perhaps. Now Ithought she was hanging over me with much of sorrowful yearning in hersoft face, and saying,

"Papa will not be here for an hour, perhaps, and for that hour I mayhave him all to myself, to watch. Poor Harry, so bruised, so battered,and so ill-used by those odious wretches!"

Her lips were parted; her breath came in short gasps.

Was it imagination or reality that a kiss or a tress of her hairtouched my cheek so lightly? There was certainly a tear, too!

I started and awoke fully, to see her I dreamt of standing at the sideof my chair, with one hand resting on it, while her soft eyes regardedme sadly, earnestly, and--there is no use evading it--lovingly. Shewore her blue riding-habit, her skirt gathered in the hand which heldher switch and buff gauntlets; and though her fine hair wasbeautifully dressed under her riding-hat, one tress was loose.

"Dear Winifred, my appearance does not shock you, I hope?" said I,clasping her hand tenderly, and perhaps with some of that energypeculiar to those who have but one.

"Thank Heaven, it is no worse!" she replied; "but, poor HarryHardinge, an arm is a serious loss."

"Yet I might have come home, like Le Diable Boiteux, on two woodenstumps, as Dora once half predicted; but even as it is, myround-dancing is at an end now. By the way, I have a sorrowful messagefor you."

"Then I don't want to hear it. But from whom?"

"One who can return no more, but one who loved you well--PhilCaradoc."

A shade of irritation crossed her face for a moment; and then, withsomething of sorrow, she asked,

"And this message?--poor fellow, he fell at the Redan!"

"His last thoughts and words were of you, Winny--amid the anguish of amortal wound," said I; and then I told her the brief story of hisdeath, and of his interment in the fifth parallel. Her eyes were veryfull of tears; yet none fell, and somehow my little narrative failedto excite her quite so much as I expected.

"Did you not love him?"

"No," she replied, curtly, and gathering up the skirt of her habitmore tightly, as if to leave me.

"Did you never do so?"

"Why those questions?--never, save as a friend--poor dear Mr. Caradoc!But let us change the subject," she added, her short lip quivering,and her half-drooped eyelids, too.

I was silent for a minute. I knew that, with a knowledge of the secretsentiment which Winifred treasured in her heart for myself, I waswrong in pursuing thus the unwelcome theme of Caradoc's rejection;moreover, there are few men, if any, who would not have felt immenselyflattered by the preferences of a girl so bright and beautiful, sosoft and artless, as Miss Lloyd; and I found myself rapidly yieldingto the whole charm of the situation.

"How odd that you should have returned on my birthday!" said she,playing with her jewelled switch, and permitting me to retain herungloved hand in mine.

"Your birthday."

"Yes; I am just twenty-three."

"The number of the old corps, Winifred--the number, see it when hemay, a soldier never forgets."

"But I hope you have bidden good-bye to it for ever."

"Too probably; and you cannot know, dear Winifred, how deep is thepleasure I feel in being here again, after all I have undergone--herein pleasant Craigaderyn; and more than all with you--hearing yourfamiliar voice, and looking into your eyes."

"Why?" she asked, looking out on the sunlit chase.

"Can you ask me why, when you know that I love you, Winny, and havealways loved you?"

"As a friend, of course," said she, trembling very much; "yes--butnothing more."

"I repeat that I love you tenderly and truly; have I not ever knownyour worth, your goodness--"

"Is this true, Harry Hardinge?" she asked, in a low voice, as my armencircled her, and she looked coyly but tremblingly down.

"True as that God now hears us, my darling, whom I hope yet to call mywife!"

"O, say it again and again, dear Harry," said she, in a low voice likea whisper; "I did so doubt it once--did so doubt that you would ever,ever love me, who--who--loved you so," she continued, growing verypale. "It may be unwomanly in me to say this, Harry; but I am notashamed to own it now."

"To a poor cripple, a warlike fragment from the Crimea," said I, witha smile, as caressingly I drew her head down on my shoulder; and whileI toyed with her dark-brown hair, and gazed into her tenderviolet-coloured eyes, I thought, "How can a man love any but a womanwith eyes and hair like Winny's?"

(At that moment I quite forgot how fatuously I had worshipped thethick golden tresses, the snow-white skin, and deep black eyes ofValerie. And it was for me that Winny had declined poor Phil, SirWatkins, and some one else! O, I certainly owed her some reparation!)

"Bless you, darling, for your love," said I; "and I think our marriagewill make good Sir Madoc so happy."

"You were ever his favourite, Harry."

"And you have actually loved me, Winny--"

"Ever since I was quite a little girl," she replied, in a low voice,while blushing deeply now.

"Ah, how blind I have been to the best interests of my heart! I alwaysloved you, Winifred; but I never knew how much until now."

"I am sure, Harry, that I--that I shall--"

"What, love?"

"Make you a very, very good little wife, and be so kind to you afterall you have undergone."

As she said this, with something between coyness and artlessness thatproved very bewitching, I pressed her close to me, and there flashedupon my memory the dream of her, as I lay wounded and athirst near theditch of the Redan, and also the singular coincidence of her pet goatleading to my discovery when lying half buried under the dead horseand cannon-wheel on the field of Inkermann.

"Papa and Dora," said she, in a low broken voice, "on that day when mygreat grief came--"

"Which grief?"

"The tidings of your being drowned," she continued, weeping at therecollection, "and when I let out the long-hidden secret of my heart,told me not to weep for you, Harry; that you were far happierelsewhere than on earth; that you were in Heaven; and poor papa saidover and over again the Welsh prayer which ends Gogoniant ir Tad, acir Mab, ac ir Yspryd Glan."

"What on earth is all that!" I asked, smiling.

"Glory to the Father, the Son, and so on. Well, Harry, it was all invain. I felt that in losing you I had lost the desire of my eyes, thelove of my girl's heart--for I always did love you, and I care not totell you so openly again," she added, as the tender arms went roundme, and the loving lips sought mine. "My crave for news from the seatof war, and the terror with which I read those horrible lists, Harry,are known to myself only; yet why should I say so? many others, whosedearest were there, must have felt and endured as I did."

"All that is over now, pet Winny."

"And you are here with us again, Harry."

"And am yours--yours only!"

"But there is the bell to dress for dinner, Harry--and here come Doraand Gwenny Vaughan," she added, giving a hasty smooth to her hair,which somehow had been a little rumpled during the precedingconversation.

The two girls came in for a minute or so, in their hats and ridinghabits; the last-named was a very beautiful and distinguished-lookingblonde, who could talk about hunting like an old whipper-in, and whor*ceived me with kind interest, while Dora did so with her usualgushing empressem*nt.

The dinner, which came subsequently in due course, was rather a tameaffair to Winny and me, when contrasted with our recent interview inthe drawing-room; but the tender secret we now shared, and the perfectconsciousness that no obstacle existed to our marriage, made us bothso radiantly happy, that Sir Madoc's rubicund face wore a comical andsomewhat perplexed expression, till we had our postprandial cigartogether in the conservatory. So the whole affair came about in thefashion I have narrated; yet but a day or two before, I had beenaffecting a desire to visit the Russian prisoners at Lewes!

At table, of course, I required much assistance, and though I urgedthat Owen Gwyllim or one of the footmen should attend me, there wasoften a friendly contention among the three girls to cut my food forme, as if I were a great baby; and like something of that kind, I wasflattered, petted, and made much of; and there was something sopleasant in being thus made a fuss with, and viewed as a "Crimeanhero," that I scarcely regretted the bones I had left at the Redan.

"And so, poor Harry," said Dora, after hearing the story of thataffair, "you had no brave beautiful Sister of Mercy to nurse you?"

"No; I had only Corporal Mulligan, a true and brave-hearted Irishman,who lost an eye at Alma; and a kind-hearted fellow he was!"

Winifred did not talk much; but in her place as hostess seemedbrilliantly happy, and quite her old self. We had all a thousandthings to talk of, to tell, and to ask each other; and the fate ofthat strange creature Guilfoyle, or rather the mystery which thenattended it, excited almost the commiseration of Sir Madoc, who, onceupon a time, was on the point of horse-whipping him. On certain pointsconnected with my residence at Yalta, I was, of course, as mute as afish.

Of Caradoc he spoke with genuine sorrow--the more so, as he was thelast of an old, old Welsh line.

"Poor fellow!" said he; "Phil was a man of whom we may say that whichwas averred of Colonel Mountain, of the Cameronians, 'that though hewere cut into twenty pieces, yet every piece would be a gentleman!'"

Over our cigars, I told Sir Madoc all that had passed between Winifredand me, and begged his approbation; and I have no words to express howenthusiastic the large-hearted and jolly old man became; how rejoiced,and how often he shook my hand, assuring me that he had ever loved mequite as much as if I had been a son of his own; that his Winny wasone of the best girls in all Wales--true as steel, and one who, whenshe loved, did so for ever.

"I thank Heaven," he added, "you didn't get that slippery eel, my LadyAberconway!"

"So do I, now, Sir Madoc," was my earnest response.

But I had not yet seen quite the last of Estelle Cressingham.

Of her Winifred must, at times, have been keenly and bitterly jealous,yet she was too gentle, too ladylike and enduring, to permit such anemotion to be visible to others.

CHAPTER LX.--A HONEYMOON.

And so it came to pass, as perhaps Sir Madoc had foreseen, by thedoctrine of chances, and without any romance or sensationalism, thatin the bright season of summer, Winifred and I--after a shortengagement, and many a delicious ramble by the Elwey and Llyn Aled, inthe Martens' dingle and by the old rocking-stone--were married inCraigaderyn Church, by her secret admirer, the tall pale curate in thelong, long coat, "assisted" by another (as if aid in such cases werenecessary); and amid the summer sounds that came floating through theopen porch and pointed windows, with the yellow flakes of hazysunshine, when I heard the voice of the pastor uniting us, Iremembered the Sunday we were all last in the same place, and thedaydreams in which I had indulged during the prosy sermon, when Ifancied the same solemn service being said, and when, by some magic,the image of Winifred would ever come in the place of another.

Sir Watkins Vaughan, a purpose-like and gentlemanly young fellow, aprime bat and bowler, a good shot and good horseman, a thoroughEnglishman and lover of all field sports, and who acted as mygroomsman, was so intent on looking at Dora--radiant in white crapeand tulle as one of her sister's bridesmaids--that he made, as hesaid, "a regular mull" of drawing off my glove, an office which Icould not have done for myself.

At last the whole was over; the golden hoop had been slid on theslender figure of a tremulous little hand; we were made one "tilldeath do us part;" and after the usual kisses and congratulations,came forth into the glorious sunshine, while overhead the marriagechimes rang merrily in the old square tower which Jorwerth ap DavyddLloyd had founded in honour of St. David five hundred years ago. Thencame the cheers in the churchyard--cheers that might wake the deadbelow the green turf; the guttural Celtic voices of the tenants andpeasantry, the general jollity, with much twangle-dangling of harpsborne by certain itinerant and tipsy bards, attracted thither by thecoin and the well-known Cymric proclivities of Sir Madoc; and loud onall hands were praises of the beauty of the Briodasferch (Welsheuphony for bride), with prayers for her future happiness, as we droveaway to luncheon.

All the household held high festival. Owen Gwyllim wept in his glee,and drank our healths in mulled port with Mrs. Davis (for whom he hada tenderness) in her room; and Bob Spurrit and Morgan Roots, and allthe valets and gamekeepers, did ditto with mulled ale in the"servants' 'all," while we, leaving all to feast and speechify atCraigaderyn, were speeding, as fast as four horses could take us, tohide our blushes at Brighton. . . . After the stormy life I had ledhow sweet and blessed were home-rest with Winifred! No tempests ofthought, of pique or jealousy, of disappointment or bitterness,agitated me now. It was all like first love, and calmly as the summergloaming among the mountains, the joyous time glided away with us. Ifelt how truly she had clung to me, and loved me as only those whohave long been loved in secret, and whose value, to the heart atleast, has been ascertained, by having been to all appearance lost inlife, and lost in death, too--for had I not been so to her?--and beenmourned for as only the dead, who can return no more, are mourned. YetI had survived all the perils of war, and her arms were round me now.

How strange it seemed, that I should once have been so indifferent toall the graces of her mind and person; that I had been wont to quizpoor Caradoc about her, and had more than once actually suggested thathe should "propose;" and so, when I looked into her tender and lovingeyes, I recalled her words on that day when, on a time that seemed solong ago, we had a ramble by the rocking-stone, and when she said,"the eye may be pleased, the vanity flattered, and ambition excited bya woman of beauty, especially if she is one of rank; yet the heart maybe won by one her inferior." But I considered my little wife inferiorto none and second to none. After all my wild work in the field andtrenches, there was something wonderfully refreshing, bewitching, andattractive in having her hovering and gliding about me, and all hersweet companionship; and it was so delightful and novel to havethose quick and white and fairy-like fingers to adjust one's necktie,to settle one's collar, and give, perhaps, just a finishing touch witha carved ivory brush to the back-parting of one's hair. It hadseemed odd to me, at first, those bracelets, tiny rings, and hair-pinsat times on my toilet table; and equally odd to her my collars, ties,studs, and razors sometimes left on hers; and we were laughing andchatting merrily of this community in matters one lovely morning atBrighton, when the sun was shining on the sea, that was dotted by athousand pleasure-boats, and was all rippling in golden light from thesnow-white cliffs of Beachy Head to Selsea Bill, and while the merryvoices of children came pleasantly on the warm air from the MarineParade, as we were seated at breakfast with the hotel windows open.

Winifred was looking as only a young bride in her first bloom canlook. She was more radiant than she had ever seemed even atCraigaderyn; and through the frills of her morning dress, a marvel ofwhite lace and millinery, her slender throat and delicate arms,without necklet or bracelet, were seen to perfection, and I thoughtshe never seemed so charming, as she sat smiling at me over the silverurn. Thus one quite forgot the fragrant coffee, the French rolls thatlay cosily hidden in the damask napkin, the dainty fresh eggs, thegame-pie, the ham done up in Madeira, and as for the well-airedmorning papers, they were never thought of at all. On the morning inquestion my valet, Lance-corporal Mulligan, entered the room with ourletters on a salver. I had picked up the poor fellow by the merestchance one night at the Brighton Theatre, where he had been receiving,as a super and sham soldier in a suit of tin armour, one shilling pernight, exactly what he got from her Majesty's most liberal governmentfor risking his life night and day as a real one; and so, minus aneye, he had betaken himself, after fighting at Alma and storming theRedan, to figuring at the Battle of Bosworth and marching toDunsinane. So he came to me gladly, while his Biddy and a chubby Pat,born under canvas among the tents of the Connaught Rangers, weresnugly located in one of the gate-lodges at Craigaderyn.

Erect as a pike he marched up to the table and laid the letters beforeWinny, all save one, which he handed to me. It was oblong, official,and inscribed "On her Majesty's Service," words at the sight of whichhis solitary eye brightened, while he regarded them with respect, asan Osmanli might the cipher of the Sultan; and then he stood at"attention," lingering by, napkin in hand, to hear what the contentswere. They were, as usual in such communications from the HorseGuards, very brief, but not the less gratifying. The MilitarySecretary had the honour to inform me that her Majesty had beengraciously pleased to signify her intention of conferring the neworder of merit, entitled the Victoria Cross, on certain officers,seamen, and soldiers, for acts of bravery during the late war;that my name was on the list for it, on the recommendation ofBrigadier-general Windham, as a reward for volunteering with theladder party at the storming and capture of the Redan on the 8thSeptember; and that my presence was required at a parade before herMajesty, on a certain day named.

"That is all, Mulligan--you may go," said I, and he wheeled aboutsharply, as if on a pivot, and stalked out; while Winny kissed me, ranher white fingers caressingly through my hair, her face beaming withdelight.

"But, Winny, by Jove, I've done nothing to deserve this. I onlytumbled into an embrasure of the Redan, to be tumbled out again," saidI; "and I got jambed among the dead."

"Nothing, darling--do you call that nothing?" she exclaimed. "O, thisis indeed delightful--a real decoration! How proud I am of you! andyet--and yet--I am loth to leave Brighton for town. We are so happyhere; we have been so jolly, Harry."

"But, Winny, we shall return; we have 'done' the pier, the parade, andthe pavilion, again and again."

"Have you wearied?"

"When with you!"

"And I with you, Harry! But I am so happy that I fear at times suchhappiness cannot last."

"Town will be a pleasant change for a time; and then the spectacle inthe Park will be most brilliant, and--all the world of fashion will bethere."

"And one, perhaps, whom--I don't wish to see," said she, pouting.

"One--who?"

"Lady Aberconway will be there, no doubt," she replied, with a littlenervous laugh.

"What of that, in the world of London? And what now is Es--theMarchioness of Aberconway, or Aber-anything-else, to me, Winny,darling?"

"Nothing now, of course--but--but--"

"But what?"

"I cannot forget that she has been something to you."

"Never what you are now," said I, clasping her to my breast with onearm, and kissing her on the eyes and hair.

"You pet me too much, Harry, and I fear will quite spoil me," saidshe, laughing merrily again.

"Who could live with you and not pet you? Would you have me to wrapmyself up in a toga, a mantle of marital dignity, and remain solemnlyon a pedestal like an armless statue, for my little wife to worship?But there was something in one of your letters that made you laugh?"

"It is from Dora."

"And her news?"

"Is that she has accepted Vaughan."

"I am so glad to hear it! Then we shall have another marriage, andmore feasting and harping at Craigaderyn?"

"Yes; about the middle of August, or after the grouse-shooting begins,as dear papa would date it."

CHAPTER LXI.--"FOR VALOUR."

It was in the height of the gay London season that this interestingceremony, which formed the last scene connected with the CrimeanWar--the last chapter in its glorious yet melancholy history--was tobe closed under the auspices of Royalty on a day in June, when the airwas clear, bright, and sunny, the sky without a cloud. The placeselected for the celebration, though perhaps not the most suitable inLondon, was appropriate enough, by its local and historicalassociations; and Hyde Park seemed beautiful and stirring when viewedthrough the mellow haze of the midsummer morning, with its long rowsof trees and far expanse of green grass, on which the masses ofcavalry and infantry, chiefly of the Household Brigade, were ranged,their arms and gay appointments flashing and glittering in the sun,and the mighty assemblage of fashionables, in splendid carriages, onhorseback, or on foot--such an assemblage as London alone canproduce--with the bronze Achilles, the trophy of another and far moreglorious war, towering over all.

There were present not less than a hundred thousand of thesight-loving Londoners, full of generous enthusiasm. A grand reviewformed a portion of the programme; but as such displays are all alike,I shall skip that part of the day's proceedings; though there werepresent the 79th Highlanders, whom I had last seen in the trenchesbefore the Redan, preparing for the final assault at daybreak; the19th, that with the 23rd went side by side in the uphill charge atAlma; the showy 11th Hussars in blue with scarlet pelisses, who hadridden in the terrible death ride at Balaclava; and with glitteringbrass helmets the gallant Enniskillens, who, with the Greys, hadfollowed Scarlett in the task of avenging them. And there, too,commanding the whole, in his plumed bonnet and tartan trews, was oldColin Campbell, riding as quietly and as grimly, amid the youth, rank,and beauty of London, as when he brought his Highland Brigade instately échelon of regiments along the green slopes of the KourganéHill, and heard the gray Kazan columns, ere they fled, send up theirterrible wail to heaven, that "the angel of Death had come!" Thisveteran soldier, who had carried the colours of the 9th Regiment underMoore at Corunna, looked old now, worn, and service-stricken, yet hehad the wars of the Indian Mutiny before him still. By his side rodethe hero of Kars in artillery uniform, and that brilliant Hussarofficer, the Earl of Cardigan, mounted on the same horse he had riddenat Balaclava. The royal stand, as yet empty, was elaboratelydecorated; gilded chairs of state were placed within it; and in front,covered with scarlet cloth, was a table whereon lay sixty-two of thoseblack crosses, cast from Russian cannon, rude in design, but namedafter her Majesty, and inscribed "For Valour"--sixty-two being thenumber who, on that day, were to receive them.

We, "the observed of all observers," had not as yet fallen in, so Ilingered near the stand, where Winifred, Dora, and Gwenny Vaughan, andmany other ladies were seated, and seeking, by the aid of parasol andfan, to shield themselves from the heat of the sun, and using theirlorgnettes freely in looking for friends among the crowd, and inwatching the proceedings, chatting and laughing gaily the while, withall the freedom of happy and heedless girls; for the troops were"standing at ease," and her Majesty had not yet come. Winifred waslooking charming in her bridal bonnet, charming amid the loveliestwomen in the world--and they were there by thousands; for she had thebeauty of perfect goodness, and of the purest and gentlest attributesof woman-kind; for she was an artless and generous creature, toosimpleminded at times, even in this cold-blooded and well-bred age, tohave the power of concealing her emotions.

I wore my old and faded red coat of the Welsh Fusileers for the lasttime; and though there was something sad in the conviction that it wasso, I never felt so proud of it, or of my looped-up sleeve, as on thatday in Hyde Park. I felt that my occupation was gone, and that anyother was unsuited to me, for "it is the speciality of a soldier'scareer, that it unfits most men for any other life. They cannot throwoff the old habitudes. They cannot turn from the noisy stir of war tothe tame quiet of every-day life; and even when they fancy themselveswearied and worn out, and willing to retire from the service, theirsouls are stirred by every sound of the distant contest, as thewar-steed is roused by the blast of a trumpet." Often in fancy beforethis, for I was ever addicted to daydreams, I had pictured some suchfête, some such ceremony, some such reward, for all our army hadendured in Bulgaria, and done by the shores of the Black Sea; but thereality far exceeded all I had ever imagined. In my school-days, how Ihad longed, with all a boy's ardour, to fight for my country andQueen! Well, I had fought--not for either, certainly, but for thelazy, wretched, and contemptible Turks--and her royal hand was aboutto reward me, by placing an order on my breast.

The longing, the wild desire to achieve, to do something great, orgrand, or dashing, had ever since those school-boy days been mine; nowthat mysterious "something" was achieved, and I was about to be made aV.C. before that vast multitude, and more than all, beneath the softkind eyes of one who loved me more than all the world.

"Who the dooce is that handsome woman, on whom----" (I failed to catchthe name) "of ours is so devilish spooney?" I heard one tall Plunger,in a marvellously new panoply, lisp to another, as he checked hisbeautiful black horse for a moment in passing.

"What! can it be possible you don't know? It is the talk of all town,"replied the other, laughing, and in a low tone; "she is LadyAberconway, old Pottersleigh's wife--a more ill-mated pair don't existin Europe, by Jove!"

"So she has found consolation?"

"Rather."

And the two glittering warriors with black boots, shiningbreastplates, and fly-away whiskers, winked to each other knowingly,and separated.

I looked in the direction they had indicated. Close by me an officerof the Oxford Blues, with his horse reined in close to the stand, wasengaged in a conversation, by turns gay and animated, or low andconfidential, with--Estelle! She was seated near her mother, LadyNaseby, who looked as impassible and passionless as ever, with hercold and imperious dignity of face and manner, and her odious whiteshock, now somewhat aged and wheezy, in her lap.

"Love," it is said, "is hard as any snake to kill." Perhaps so; but Icould regard her daughter now without any special throb of my pulse,or thrill in my heart.

Still I could not but confess that her high class of beauty, in style,polish, and finish, was wonderful, and when in repose, cold andaristocratic to a degree. She had achieved already that which has beenjustly described as "that queenly standard women so often attain aftermarriage, while losing none of their early charms," unless I except alittle heartless flippancy of manner in the conversation, which, as Iwas pressed near her by the crowd, I was compelled to overhear. Hertoilette was as perfect as lace, tulle, and flowers could make it. Howoften had I gazed tenderly and passionately on that face, so false andyet so fair, and kissed it on lips, and eyes, and cheek! and now itwas turned, smilingly, laughingly, and, I am sorry to add, lovingly,to the boyish and insipid face of that long-legged, curled, andpomatumed Guardsman, who had "never set a squadron in the field," norsmelt powder elsewhere than at Wormwood Scrubs or Bushey Park.

I turned from her with something of sublime contempt, and yet, odd tosay, I felt a nervous twinge, as if in the arm that was now no longerin my sleeve, when her voice reached me; but after all that had comeand gone, that voice could find no echo now in my heart. Sweetlymodulated it was still, but seemed to me only "low and clear as thesong of a snake-charmer."

"It will be the ball of the season--you will be there, of course?" sheasked.

"Only if you go, Lady Aberconway--not unless," replied the trooper,in a low tone; "what or who else should take me there?"

"So they have made your uncle a K.C.B."

"Yes--and somebody is going to marry him on Tuesday at eleven inHanover-square."

"And your brother is coming up for his little exam. I have heardalso."

"Yes--at Woolwich. The idea of any fellow fancying the Artillery!"

"Is he handsome--is he anything like you?" Then, without waiting fora reply to these important queries, she suddenly said, "Gracious,mamma, there is another poor creature without an arm!"

"Poor deyvil--so there is," drawled her male friend, and then I knewby these flattering remarks that their august regards were turned onme; but my bushy Crimean beard, my empty sleeve, and, as yet, ratherpale cheek, and moreover my face being half averted, prevented Estellefrom recognising me; or it might be, that I dwelt but little in hermemory.

"What is that officer's regiment?" she asked, adding doubtfully, "heis an officer, isn't he--but his uniform is deplorable!"

"Twenty-third--Welsh Fusileers."

"Ah, indeed!"

I now turned fully round; for a moment our eyes met, and then I movedback to where Winifred sat. Estelle eyed me keenly enough now, andfanned herself, as I thought, with a little air of vexation, from timeto time. Yet that was not flattering; for I knew that though a womanmay forget, she does not like the idea of being forgotten, or thateven when flirting with another, her empire over an old lover's heartis at an end.

She had deteriorated in style, and her tone of flippancy was not thatof the Estelle I had once loved; and as for the boy Guardsman, withwhom gossip was already linking her name, poor fool! his love for herand her extravagance soon ruined him. Bills were dishonoured thick andthreefold; cent. per cent., London, and Judea between them cleaned himout. A meeting of the Guards' Club passed such resolutions that he wascompelled to begin the sliding scale--from "the Guards to Line, andfrom thence to the devil," as the phrase is--and to recruiting forH.M. 2nd West India Regiment in Sierra Leone, where drink and feverfinished him; and he lies now by the bank of the Bunce river, ascompletely forgotten by Estelle as if he never had been.

"Do you see who is there, Harry?" asked Winifred, with a ratheragitated voice.

"Yes; what of it, little one?"

"Only that I--hate her!"

"Why?"

"For her treatment of you."

"How odd!" said I, laughing; "had it been otherwise, Winny, we shouldnot have had our delightful little trip to Brighton. Think of that, myBritish matron!"

"I am not a matron yet, but only your bride; the honeymoon is not yetover, sir."

"Thank God you are so, darling! What an escape I have had from beingin old Pottersleigh's place! But there sound the trumpets, and I mustfall in--fall in for the last time."

And as drum and bugle sounded on all sides, and the arms flashed inthe sunshine when the order was given to "shoulder," a brightnessseemed to pass over all the eyes and expectant faces in the grandstand. The Queen had come, and all that passed subsequently was like adream to me then, and is more so now. The sixty-two officers and menwho were to receive the cross (and twelve of whom belonged to thenavy) were all, irrespective of rank, marshalled according to thenumber of their regiment under Lieutenant John Knox, of the Rifles,who, like myself, had an empty sleeve. The braided breast of hisdark-green uniform seemed ablaze with medals, for he had been with theladder party in the attack on the Redan, where he lost an arm by agrape-shot. There were but two officers of the 23rd to win thedecoration, and we were posted between two privates of the 19th, andtwo of the 34th; but all passed the royal stand in single file. I hadnever seen the Queen hitherto, and suddenly I found myself beforeher--a smiling-faced, graceful, though stout little lady, in a lowhat, adorned with a beautiful plume, and wearing a scarlet tunic andblue skirt; and I certainly felt my heart vibrate, as with her ownhands she pinned the decoration on my breast--vibrate with a flush ofpride and joy only to be felt at such a time and at such a ceremony;and yet amid it all I thought of the dear little wife who, with hereyes dim with tears of happiness, was watching me. I then passed on,giving place to a lame private of the 34th Foot, the Prince Consortsaluting each recipient as they passed him--many slowly, painfully,and with difficulty; for some poor maimed and haggard-faced fellowswere hobbling on sticks and crutches, and some, like the gallant SirThomas Trowbridge, who had lost both legs, were wheeled to the veryfeet of the Queen in Bath-chairs. At last all was over--this closingepisode of our war in the Crimea; and as we drove from the crowdedpark to get the train for Brighton--the honeymoon was not yetfinished--I had forgotten all about Estelle and her Plunger; and Ithanked God in my heart that I was not lying where so many lay in theland we had left, and for the tender and true-hearted wife He hadgiven me, as I laughingly hung round her pretty neck the black-ironorder of valour--the Victoria Cross.

Fifteen years have passed since that auspicious day. And now, as Iwrite these closing lines, I can see, through the lozenged andmullioned windows of the library, the old woods of Craigaderyn tossingtheir leafy branches on the evening wind, and the sunset lingeringredly on the lofty peaks of Snowdon and Carneydd Llewellyn. Old SirMadoc--too old now to back even his most favourite hunter--is sittingyonder in the sunshine, looking dreamily down the far-stretched vistaof the chase to where the bright sea is rippling in the distance.

The flowers are blooming as gaily on the terrace as they did on theday of Dora's fête, and she has long been Aunt Vaughan; for atCraigaderyn there are little ones now--a violet-eyed Winifred, whoscampers through the park on a Welsh pony; a dark-haired Madoc, whocan almost handle a gun; and a golden-curled Harry to run after thetossing leaves, to shout to the deer and hare as they lurk among thefern; to seek for birds' nests among the shrubbery; to grab at thegold fish in the fountain with his fat little fists; to clamber aboutSir Madoc's chair and knees; to ride on the backs of Owen Gwyllim andold Corporal Mulligan, and in whom we see mamma's eyes, papa'sexpression--nods, winks, and blinks, and so forth, all so exactlyreproduced and blended, that our best friends don't know which of ushe most resembles; so "Time, the avenger" of all things, has broughtnothing but joy and happiness to us at Craigaderyn.

FOOTNOTES:

Footnote 1: Without God, without everything.

Footnote 2: The artillery of the Prussian Guard have also hadconstantly a goat, its neck encircled by a beautiful collar, and one,named by the soldiers "Herr Schneider," accompanied them in everybattle, from the war which broke out in 1866 till the peace in 1870.He always marched with the men of the first gun. At Köninghof, HerrSchneider was left in the rear, tied to a powder caisson; but he brokeloose, came to the front at full gallop, and was recaptured underfire; the soldiers afterwards attached to his collar a copper medal,made from a pan found among the captured cooking utensils of GeneralCoronini. His death was formally announced by the artillery of theGuard in the Berlin Vossische Zeitung.

Footnote 3: Fusileer regiments did not then wear epaulettes.

Footnote 4: May God preserve us!

Footnote 5: Good Lord deliver us.

THE END.

BILLING, PRINTER. GUILDFORD, SURREY