The following day was Sunday; and ere it closed, there occurred a
little contretemps which nearly lost me all chance of putting to the
issue 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 revenge
through the sweet medium of Winifred Lloyd; yet, though Lady Estelle's
somewhat pointed defence of Guilfoyle rankled in my memory, and
Caradoc's hints had added fuel to the flame, I shrunk from such a
double game, and hoped that the chances afforded by propinquity in
general, and the coming fête in particular, would soon enable me to
come to a decision. My mind was full of vague irritation against her;
yet when I rose in the morning, my one and predominant thought was
that I should see her again. Carriages and horses had been ordered
from the stable for our conveyance to Craigaderyn church, a three
miles' drive through lovely scenery, and I resolved to accompany the
sisters in the barouche, leaving whom fate directed to take charge of
Lady Estelle; yet great was my contentment when she fell to the care
of Sir Madoc in the family carriage. Lady Naseby did not appear, her
French soubrette, Mademoiselle Babette Pompon, announcing that she was
indisposed. Guilfoyle and Caradoc rode somewhat unwillingly together,
and I sat opposite Winny, who insisted on driving, and was duly
furnished with the smartest of parasol whips--pink, with a white
fringe. Quitting the park, we skirted a broad trout stream, the steep
banks of which were clad with light-green foliage, and name
_Nant-y-belan_, or the "Martens' dingle." At the bottom the river
foamed along over broken and abutting rocks, or flowed in dark and
noiseless pools, where the brown trout lurked in the shade, and where
the overarching trees and grassy knolls were reflected downward in
the depth.
Hawkesby Guilfoyle sat his horse--one of Sir Madoc's hunters, fully
sixteen 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 the
conviction that some cloud hung over the fellow's antecedents, and
present life too, perhaps; but with all that I could not forgive him
his rivalry and, as I deemed it, presumption, with the strong belief
that he was, in his secret heart; my enemy. He and Caradoc rode behind
the open carriage; we led the way in the barouche; and a very merry
and laughing party we were, as we swept by the base of the green hills
of Mynedd Hiraethrog, and over the ancient bridge that spans Llyn
Aled, to the church of Craigaderyn, where the entrance of Sir Madoc's
family and their visitors caused periodically somewhat of a sensation
among the more humble parishioners who were there, and were wont to
regard with a species of respectful awe the great square pew, which
was lined with purple velvet, and had a carved-oak table in the
centre, and over the principal seat the lion's head erased, and the
shield 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 (the
invariable account of all such roofs in Wales), and built by Jorwerth
ap Davydd Lloyd, in 1320, the church was a picturesque old place,
where many generations of the Craigaderyn family had worshipped long
before and since the Reformation, and whose bones, lapped in lead, and
even in coffins of stone, lay in the burial vaults below. The oaken
pews were high and deep, and were covered with dates, coats-of-arms,
and quaint monograms. In some places the white slabs indicated where
lay the remains of those who died but yesterday. Elsewhere, with
helmet, 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, how
stoutly and valiantly they had fought against the Spaniard, the
Frenchman, and the Scot. One, Sir Madoc ap Meredyth Lloyd, whose sword
hung immediately over my head, had wielded it, as his brass recorded,
"contra Scotos apud Flodden et Musselboro;" and now the spiders were
busy spinning their cobwebs over the rusted helmet through which this
old 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 of
commemorating the dead, by hanging up a coffin-plate, inscribed with
their names, in the pews where they were wont to sit. Coats-of-arms
met the eye on all sides--solid evidences of birth and family, which
more than once evoked a covert sneer from Guilfoyle, who to his other
bad qualities added the pride and the envy of such things, that seem
inseparable from the character of the parvenu. There were two
services in Craigaderyn church each Sunday, one in Welsh, the other in
English. Sir Madoc usually attended the former; but in courtesy to
Lady Estelle, he had come to the latter to-day.
Over all the details of the village fane my eyes wandered from time to
time, always to rest on the face of Estelle Cressingham or of Winifred
Lloyd, who was beside me, and who on this day, as I had accompanied
her, seemed to feel that she had me all to herself. We read off the
same book, as we had done years before in the same pew and place; ever
and anon our gloved fingers touched; I felt her silk dress rustling
against me; her long lashes and snowy lids, with the soft pale beauty
of her downcast face, and her sweetly curved mouth, were all most
pleasing and attractive; but the _sense_ of Estelle's presence rendered
me invulnerable to all but her; and my eyes could not but roam to
where she stood or knelt by the side of burly Sir Madoc, her fine face
downcast too in the soft light that stole between the deep mullions
and twisted tracery of an ancient stained-glass window, her noble and
equally pure profile half seen and half hidden by a short veil of
black lace; her rounded chin and lips rich in colour, and beautiful in
character as those of one of Greuze's loveliest masterpieces. There,
too, were the rich brightness of her hair, and the proud grace that
pervaded all her actions, and even her stillness.
Thus, even when I did not look towards her, but in Winifred's face, or
on the book we mutually held, and mechanically affected to read, a
perception, a dreamy sense of Estelle's presence was about me, and I
could not help reverting to our past season in London, and all that
has been described by a writer as those "first sweet hours of
communion, when strangers glide into friends; that hour which, either
in friendship or in love, is as the bloom to the fruit, as the
daybreak to the day, indefinable, magical, and fleeting;" the hours
which saw me presented as a friend, and left me a lover. The day was
intensely hot, and inside the old church, though some of the arched
recesses and ancient tombs looked cool enough, there was a blaze of
sunshine, that fell in hazy flakes or streams of coloured light
athwart the bowed heads of the congregation. With heat and languor,
there was also the buzz of insect life; and amid the monotonous tones
of the preacher I loved to fancy him reading the marriage service for
us--that is, for Estelle and myself--fancied it as an enthusiastic
school-girl might have done; and yet how was it that, amid these
conceits, the face and form of Winifred Lloyd, with her pretty hand in
the tight straw-coloured kid glove, that touched mine, filled up the
eye of the mind? Was I dreaming, or only about to sleep, like so many
of the congregation--those toilers afield, those hardy hewers of wood
and drawers of water, whose strong sinews, when unbraced, induced them
to slumber now--the men especially, as the study of each other's
toilets served to keep the female portion fully awake. When the
clergyman prayed for the success of our arms in the strife that was to
come, Winifred's dark eyes looked into mine for a moment, quick as
light, and I saw her bosom swell; and when he prayed, "Give peace in
our time, O Lord," her voice became earnest and tremulous in
responding; and I could have sworn that I saw a tear oozing, but
arrested, on the thick black eyelash of this impulsive Welsh girl,
whom this part of the service, by its association and the time, seemed
to move; but Lady Estelle was wholly intent on having one of her
gloves buttoned by Guilfoyle, whose attendance she doubtless preferred
to that of old Sir Madoc.
"Look!" said Winifred Lloyd, in an excited whisper, as she lightly
touched my hand.
I followed the direction of her eye, and saw, seated at the end of the
central aisle, modestly and humbly, among the free places reserved for
the poor, a young woman, whose appearance was singularly interesting.
Poorly, or rather plainly, attired in faded black, her face was
remarkably handsome; and her whole air was perfectly ladylike. She was
as pale as death, with a wild wan look in all her features; disease,
or sorrow, or penury--perhaps all these together--had marked her as
their own; her eyes, of clear, bright, and most expressive gray, were
haggard and hollow, with dark circles under them. Black kid gloves
showed her pretensions to neatness and gentility; but as they were
frayed and worn, she strove to conceal her hands nervously under her
gathered shawl.
"She is looking at you, Winifred," said Dora.
"No--at Estelle."
"At us all, I think," resumed Dora, in the same whispered tone; "and
she has done so for some time past. Heavens! she seems quite like a
spectre."
"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 of
buttoning Lady Estelle's lavender kid glove, now stuck his glass in
his eye, and turned leisurely and languidly in the direction that
attracted us all, just as the service was closing; but the pale woman
quickly drew down her veil, and quitted the church abruptly, ere he
could see her, as I thought; and this circumstance, though I took no
heed 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 have
for the regiment," said she.
"Did I?--ah, yes--shall be most happy, I'm sure," said I, shamefully
oblivious of the promise in question, as we proceeded towards the
carriages, the people making way for us on all sides, the women
curtseying and the men uncovering to Sir Madoc, who was a universal
favourite, especially with the maternal portion of the parish, as he
was very fond of children and flattered himself not a little on his
power of getting on with them, being wont to stop mothers on the road
or in the village street, and make knowing remarks on the beauty, the
complexions, or the curly heads of their offspring while he was never
without a handful of copper or loose silver for general distribution;
and now it excited some surprise and even secret disdain in
Guilfoyle--a little petulance in Lady Estelle too--to find him shaking
hands and speaking in gutteral Welsh with some of the men cottagers,
or peasant-women with jackets and tall odd hats. But one anecdote will
suffice to show the character of Sir Madoc.
In the very summer of my visit, it had occurred that he had to serve
on a jury when a property of some three thousand pounds or so was at
issue; and when the jury retired, he found that they were determined
to decide in such manner as he did not deem equitable, and which in
the end would inevitably ruin an honest farmer named Evan Rhuddlan,
father of a sergeant in my company of Welsh Fusileers, who dwelt at a
place called Craig Eryri, or "the Rock of Eagles." Finding that they
were resolute, he submitted, or affected to acquiesce in their
decision; but on announcing it to the court he handed the losing party
a cheque on Coutts and Co. for the whole sum in litigation, and became
more 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 took
the bridle of his horse from Bob Spurrit, the groom; "I thought Burke
had written the epitaph of chivalry and all belonging to it."
"Yes, but romance still exists, Mr. Guilfoyle," said Winifred, whose
face 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 a
reticence of manner which there seemed to be no means of moving.
"Talking of love and romance, I should like to know more of that pale
woman 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 was
the 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 during
the whole service on Winifred Lloyd.
"It was all about Jacob's ladder, of which we have had a most
inaccurate notion hitherto," said Dora, as we drove down the long lime
avenue, to find that, as the day was so sultry, luncheon had been laid
for us by Owen Gwyllim under the grand old trees in the lawn, about
thirty yards from the entrance-hall, under the very oak where the
spectre of Sir Jorwerth Du was alleged to vanish, the oak of Owen
Glendower; and where that doughty Cymbrian had perhaps sought to
summon spirits from the vasty deep, we found spirits of another
kind--brandy and seltzer, clicquot and sparkling moselle cooling in
silver ice-pails on the greensward; and there too, awaiting us, sat
Lady Naseby, smiling and fanning herself under the umbrageous shadows
of the chase.
Over her stately head was pinned a fall of rich Maltese lace, that
hung in lappets on each side--a kind of demi-toilette that well became
her lingering beauty and matronly appearance.
In a mother-of-pearl basket by her side, and placed on the
luncheon-table, lay Tiny, her shock, a diminutive cur, white as snow,
spotless as Mademoiselle Babette with perfumed soap could make it, its
long woolly hair dangling over its pink eyes, giving it, as Sir Madoc
said, "a most pitiable appearance;" for with all his love of dogs, he
disliked such pampered, waddling, and wheezing pets as this, and
thought manhood never looked so utterly contemptible as when a
tall "Jeames" in livery, with whiskers and calves, cane and nosegay,
had the custody of such a quadruped, while his lady shopped in
Regent-street or Piccadilly.