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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.
CONTENTS.
CHAP.
I. THE INVITATION.
II. THE MOTH AND THE CANDLE.
III. BY EXPRESS.
IV. WINNY AND DORA LLOYD.
V. CRAIGADERYN COURT.
VI. THREE GRACES.
VII. PIQUE.
VIII. SUNDAY AT CRAIGADERYN.
IX. THE INITIALS.
X. A PERILOUS RAMBLE.
XI. THE FETE CHAMPETRE.
XII. ON THE CLIFFS.
XIII. A PROPOSAL.
XIV. THE UNFORESEEN.
XV. WHAT THE MOON SAW.
XVI. THE SECRET ENGAGEMENT.
XVII. WHAT FOLLOWED IT.
XVIII. GUILFOYLE.
XIX. TWO LOVES FOR ONE HEART.
XX. FEARS.
XXI. GEORGETTE FRANKLIN.
XXII. GEORGETTE FRANKLIN'S STORY.
XXIII. TURNING THE TABLES.
XXIV. BITTER THOUGHTS.
XXV. SURPRISES.
XXVI. WITHOUT PURCHASE.
XXVII. RECONCILIATION.
XVIII. ON BOARD THE URGENT.
XXIX. "ICH DIEN."
XXX. NEWS OF BATTLE.
XXXI. UNDER CANVAS.
XXXII. IN THE TRENCHES.
XXXIII. THE FLAG OF TRUCE.
XXXIV. GUILFOYLE REDIVIVUS.
XXXV. THE NIGHT BEFORE INKERMANN.
XXXVI. THE FIFTH OF NOVEMBER.
XXXVII. THE ANGEL OF HORROR.
XXXVIII. THE CAMP AGAIN.
XXXIX. A MAIL FROM ENGLAND.
XL. A PERILOUS DUTY.
XLI. THE CARAVANSERAI.
XLII. THE TCHERNIMORSKI COSSACKS.
XLIII. WINIFRED'S SECRET.
XLIV. THE CASTLE OF YALTA.
XLV. EVIL TIDINGS.
XLVI. DELILAH.
XLVII. VALERIE VOLHONSKI.
XLVIII. THE THREATS OF TOLSTOFF.
XLIX. BETROTHED.
L. CAUGHT AT LAST.
LI. FLIGHT.
LII. BEFORE SEBASTOPOL STILL.
LIII. NEWS FROM CRAIGADERYN.
LIV. THE ASSAULT.
LV. INSIDE THE REDAN.
LVI. A SUNDAY MORNING IN THE CRIMEA.
LVII. IN THE MONASTERY OF ST. GEORGE.
LVIII. HOME.
LIX. "A DREAM WHICH WAS NOT ALL A DREAM."
LX. A HONEYMOON.
LXI. "FOR VALOUR."
UNDER THE RED DRAGON.
CHAPTER I.--THE INVITATION.
"And _she_ is to be there--nay, is there already; so one more chance
is given me to meet her. But for what?--to part again silently, and
more helplessly bewitched than ever, perhaps. Ah, never will she learn
to love me as I love her!" thought I, as I turned over my old friend's
letter, not venturing, however, to give utterance to this aloud, as
the quizzical eyes of Phil Caradoc were upon me.
"A penny for your thoughts, friend Harry?" said he, laughing; "try
another 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 wrong
horse?"
"Been jilted, had a bill returned, or what?" suggested Gwynne.
"Neither, fortunately," said I; "it is simply an invitation from Sir
Madoc Lloyd, which rather perplexes me."
At this time our regiment was then in the East, awaiting with the rest
of the army some movement to be made from Varna, either towards
Bessarabia or the Crimea--men's minds were undecided as to which,
while her Majesty's Ministers seemed to have no thought on the
subject. Our depôt belonged to the provisional battalion at
Winchester, where Caradoc, Gwynne, two other subalterns, and I, with
some two hundred rank and file, expected ere long the fiat of the
fates who reign at the Horse Guards to send us forth to win our
laurels from the Russians, or, what seemed more probable, a grave
where the pest was then decimating our hapless army, in the beautiful
but perilous vale of Aladdyn, on the coast of Bulgaria. We had
just adjourned from mess, to have a quiet cheroot and glass of
brandy-and-water in my quarters, when I received from my man, Owen
Evans, the letter the contents of which awakened so many new hopes and
tantalising wishes in my heart, and on which so much of my fate in the
future might hinge.
The bare, half-empty, or but partially-furnished single room accorded
by the barrack authorities to me as a subaltern, in that huge square
edifice built of old by Charles II. for a royal residence, seemed by
its aspect but little calculated to flatter the brilliant hopes in
question. Though ample in size, it was far from regal in its
appurtenances--the barrack furniture, a camp-bed, my baggage trunks
piled in one corner, swords and a gun-case in another, books, empty
bottles, cigar-boxes, and a few pairs of boots ostentatiously
displayed in a row by Evans, making up its entire garniture, and by
very contrast in its meagreness compelling me to smile sadly at myself
for the ambitious ideas the letter of my old friend had suggested; and
thus, for a minute or so ignoring, or rather oblivious of, the
presence of my two companions, my eye wandered dreamily over the
far-extended mass of old brick houses and the gray church towers of
the city, all visible from the open window, and then steeped in the
silver haze of the moonlight.
Sipping their brandy-and-water, each with a lighted cheroot between
his fingers, their shell-jackets open, and their feet unceremoniously
planted on a hard wooden chair, while they lounged back upon another,
were Phil Caradoc and Charley Gwynne. The first a good specimen of a
handsome, curly-haired, and heedless young Englishman, who shot,
fished, hunted, pulled a steady oar, and could keep his wicket against
any man, while shining without effort in almost every manly sport, was
moreover a finished gentleman and thorough good fellow. Less
fashionable in appearance and less dashing in manner, though by no
means less soldier-like, Gwynne was his senior by some ten years. He
was more grave and thoughtful, for he had seen more of the service and
more of the world. Already a gray hair or so had begun to mingle with
the blackness of his heavy moustache, and the lines of thought were
traceable on his forehead and about the corners of his keen dark-gray
eyes; for he was a hard-working officer, who had been promoted from
the ranks when the regiment lay at Barbadoes, and was every inch a
soldier. And now they sat opposite me, waiting, with a half-comical
expression, for farther information as to their queries; and though we
were great friends, and usually had few secrets from each other, I
began to find that I had _one_ now, and that a little reticence was
necessary.
"You know Sir Madoc's place in North Wales?" said I.
"Of course," replied Caradoc; "there are few of ours who don't. Half
the regiment have been there as visitors at one time or other."
"Well, he wishes me to get leave between returns--for even longer if I
can--and run down there for a few weeks. 'Come early, if possible,' he
adds; 'the girls insist on having an outdoor fête, and a lot of nice
folks are coming. Winny has arranged that we shall have a regimental
band--the Yeomanry one too, probably; then we are to have a Welsh
harper, of course, and an itinerant Merlin in the grotto, to tell
every one's fortune, and to predict your promotion and the C.B., if
the seer remains sober. While I write, little Dora is drawing up a
programme of the dances, and marking off, she says, those which she
means to have with _you_.'"
Here I paused; but seeing they expected to hear more, for the writer
was a friend of us all, I read on coolly, and with an air of as much
unconsciousness as I could assume:
"Lady Estelle Cressingham is with us--by the way, she seems to know
you, and would, I think, like to see more of you. She is a very fine
girl, though not pure Welsh; but that she cannot help--it is her
misfortune, not her fault. We have also a fellow here, though I don't
quite know how he got introduced--Hawkesby Guilfoyle, who met her
abroad at Ems, or Baden-Baden, or one of those places where one meets
everybody, and he seems uncommonly attentive--so much so, that I
wonder her mother permits it; but he seems to have some special power
or influence over the old lady, though his name is not as yet, or ever
likely to be, chronicled by Burke or Debrett. In lieu of the goat
which your regiment lost in Barbadoes, Winifred has a beautiful pet
one, a magnificent animal, which she means to present to the Welsh
Fusileers. Tell them so. And now, for yourself, I will take no
refusal, 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 you
choose, bring horses; we have plenty of cavalry here. Hope you will be
able 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," said
Gwynne. "I have ridden with him once or twice in the hunting-field--on
a borrowed mount, of course," added poor Charley; who had only his
pay, and, being an enthusiast in his profession, was no lounger in the
service.
"But what is there in all this that perplexes you?" asked Caradoc,
who, I suppose, had been attentively observing me. As he spoke, I
coloured visibly, feeling the while that I did so.
"The difficulty about leave, perhaps," I stammered.
"You'll go, of course," said Caradoc. "His place--Craigaderyn
Court--is one of the finest in North Wales; his daughters are indeed
charming; and you are certain to meet only people of the best style
there."
"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 had
the invitation. His eldest daughter has, I have heard, in her own
right, no end of coal-mines somewhere, and many grassy acres of dairy
farms in the happy hunting-grounds of the midland counties."
"By Jove," murmured Gwynne, as he lit a fresh cigar; "she should be
the 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, and
having known me from infancy, he almost views me as a son. Don't
mistake me," I added, reddening with positive annoyance at the hearty
laugh my admission elicited; "Miss Lloyd and I are old friends too,
and know each other a deuced deal too well to tempt the perils of
matrimony together. We have no draughts ready for the East, nor will
there be yet awhile; even our last recruits are not quite licked into
shape."
"No," sighed Gwynne, who had a special charge of the said "licking
into shape."
"And so, as the spring drills are over, I shall try my luck with old
R----."
The person thus bluntly spoken of was the lieutenant-colonel of the
depôt battalion--one who kept a pretty tight hand over us all in
general, and the subalterns in particular.
"Stay," I exclaimed suddenly; "here is a postscript. 'Bring Caradoc of
yours with you, and Gwynne, too, if you can. Winny has mastered the
duet 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 in
the orderly-room is propitious," said Phil, colouring and laughing.
"Thank Sir Madoc for me, old fellow," said Gwynne, half sadly. "Tell
him that the Fates have made me musketry instructor, and that daily I
have 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 drill
them to fire without closing both eyes and blazing in the air."
"'In the lawn,' adds Sir Madoc, 'we are to have everything--from
waltzing to croquet (which, being an old fellow, and being above
insteps and all that sort of thing, I think the slowest game known),
and from cliquot and sparkling hock to bottled stout and bitter
beer--unlimited flirtation too, according to that wag, Dora.'"
"A tempting bill of fare, especially with two such hostesses," said
Gwynne; "but for me to quit Winchester is impossible. Even the stale
dodge of 'urgent private affairs' won't serve me. Such droll ideas of
the service old Sir Madoc must have, to think that three of us could
leave 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 ours
will 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 foot
of Snowdonia, leaving nothing undone, from singing 'Jenny Jones' to
dancing 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 such
bright auspices and happy influence. So Wales be it, if possible.
London, of course, is empty just now, and all who can get out of it
will be yachting at Cowes, shooting in Scotland, fishing in Norway,
backing the red at Baden-Baden, climbing the Matterhorn, or, it may
be, the Peter Botte; killing buffaloes in America, or voyaging up the
Nile in canoes. Rotten-row will be a desert, the opera a place of
silence and cobwebs; and the irresistible desire to go somewhere and
be doing something, no matter what, which inspires all young Britons
about this time, renders Sir Madoc's invitation most tempting and
acceptable."
"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 brandy
bottle. "At present I have other work in hand than flirting with
countesses, or visiting heiresses. But I envy you both, and heartily
wish 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 all
drill (shot drill perhaps excepted)--a course of musketry--betimes in
the morning.
We knew that Gwynne, who was a tall, thin, close-flanked, and square
shouldered, but soldier-like fellow, had nothing but his pay; and
having a mother to support, he was fain to slave as a musketry
instructor, the five shillings extra daily being a great pecuniary
object to him. He was very modest withal, and feared that, nathless
his red coat and stalwart figure, his chances of an heiress, even in
Cottonopolis, were somewhat slender.