My Lord Pottersleigh and the adventurer Hawkesby Guilfoyle--for an
artful, presumptuous, and very singular adventurer he eventually
proved to be--could not detect that there was a secret understanding,
and still less that there was any engagement, between Lady Estelle and
me; yet both were sharp enough to fancy that there was something wrong
so far as they were concerned--something understood by us which to
them was incomprehensible; and the latter now referred in vain to
Baden, Berlin, Catzenelnbogen, and other places where they had met so
pleasantly on the Continent. Engaged solemnly and tenderly to Estelle,
I had yet the absurd annoyance of beholding Pottersleigh, who was
assured of her mother's countenance and favour (though he would have
been a more seemly suitor for herself), and whose years and position
gave him perfect confidence, hovering or shambling perpetually about
her, absorbing her time if not her attention, mumbling his
overstrained compliments into her unwilling ear, touching her hand or
tapered arm, and even patting her lovely white shoulders from time to
time with his withered paws, and every way giving himself such
fatherly and lover-like airs of proprietary oddly mingled that I could
with pleasure have punched his aristocratic old head. We frequently
laughed at all this even when he was present; for by a glance rather
than a word, Estelle could convey to me all she thought and felt.
There was something delightful in this secret understanding, this
secret community of thought and interest, with one so young and
beautiful--more than all, when blended with it was the charm of the
most perfect success in a first affair of love; and I thought myself
one of the happiest fellows in the world.
Superb as her toilettes were at all times, she seemed to make little
Babette Pompon take extra pains with them now, and I felt delighted
accordingly, for such infinite care seemed to express a desire to
please me. Our next departure from the Court was Mr. Hawkesby
Guilfoyle, whom Sir Madoc and all his visitors had begun to view with
a coolness and disfavour of which the party in question found it
convenient to seem quite oblivious; but it reached its culminating
point through a very small matter. One day after luncheon we had gone
so far as Penmaen Mawr. The four ladies were in the open carriage; I
occupied the rumble; Sir Madoc, Lord Pottersleigh, and Guilfoyle were
mounted, and we were all enjoying to the fullest extent that glorious
combination of marine and mountain scenery peculiar to the Welsh
coast; the air was full of ozone and the sky was full of sunshine. We
were all happy, and even Winifred seemed in unusually high spirits; as
for Dora, she was never otherwise. The well-hung carriage rolled
pleasantly along, between the beautiful green hills, past quiet
villages and ancient churches, vast yawning slate quarries, green
mounds and gray stones that marked where battles had been, with
occasional glimpses of the Irish Sea, that stretched away to the dim
horizon like a sheet of glittering glass. Estelle, by arrangement,
sat with her back to the horses, so that she and I could freely
converse with our eyes, from time to time, under the shade of her
skilfully-managed parasol.
Sir Madoc on this day was peculiarly enthusiastic, and having mounted
what the girls called his "Welsh hobby," was disposed to give it full
rein. We halted in a little sequestered glen, a lovely spot embosomed
among trees, on the southern slope of the hill. The horses were
unbitted; Owen Gwyllim had put the champagne' bottles to cool in a
runnel, where their long gilded necks and swollen corks stood
invitingly up amid the rich green grass that almost hid the murmuring
water. We had come by Caerhun, through an old and little-frequented
road, where Sir Madoc insisted on pointing out to us all the many
erect old battle-stones by the wayside; for his mind was now full of
quaint stories, and the memory of heroes with barbarous names. Thus
when Owen uncorked the Cliquot, he drank more than one guttural Welsh
toast, and told us how, often in his boyhood, the road had been
obstructed for weeks by masses of rock that fell thundering from the
mountain above; and in his love of the olden time or detestation of
change, I believe he would have preferred such barriers to progress
still, rather than have seen the lines of road and rail that now sweep
between the mountain and the sea on the way to Holyhead.
"It was in this dell or _glyn_," said Sir Madoc, as he seated his sturdy
figure on the grass, though the ladies did not leave the carriage,
"that Llewellyn ap Jorwerth took prisoner the luckless William de
Breas, whom he hanged at Aber, in the time of Henry III."
"Why did he hang him?" asked Guilfoyle, holding his glass for Owen to
refill it.
"Because he was a handsome fellow, and found too much favour in the
eyes of his princess, whom he dragged to the window that she might see
his body hanging lifeless on the gibbet."
"Deuced hard lines," said Guilfoyle, laughing. "I thought he might
have been hung because he hadn't a pedigree, or some other enormity in
Welsh eyes." As Sir Madoc looked at the speaker his eyes sparkled, for
the remark was a singularly gratuitous one.
"You English," said he, "laugh at what you are pleased to consider our
little weakness in that respect; and yet the best names in the peerage
are apt to be deduced from some corporal or sergeant of William's
Norman rabble."
"Heavens, papa! when I change my name of Lloyd, I hope it won't be for
that of Mrs. John Smith or Robinson?" said Dora, merrily, as she heard
that Sir Madoc's tone was sharp.
"Well, but you must admit that these fortuitous circumstances are
deemed 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 Debrett
record as ancient, names we deem but those of yesterday, and when
compared with ours are as the stunted gorsebush to pine or oak--yes,
sir! or as the donkey that crops thistles by the wayside when compared
to the Arab horse!"
"God bless my soul!" exclaimed Pottersleigh, letting his hat sink
farther on the nape of his neck, as he placed his gold glasses on his
long thin nose and gazed at Sir Madoc, who tossed an empty bottle into
the runnel, and continued:--"In Wales we have the lines of Kynaston,
who descend from Rhodric Mawr, King of all Wales, and the daughter and
coheir of the Bloody Wolf; the Mostyns, from the Lord of Abergeleu who
founded the eighth noble tribe; the Vaughans, who come from that King
Rhodric who married the daughter of Meuric ap Dyfnwall ap Arthur ap
Sitsylt, though that was only in the year 800; and we have the
Lloyds----"
"O, papa," exclaimed Winifred, seeing that Estelle was laughing
heartily, "we cannot listen to more; and I am sure that your
muster-roll of terrible names must have quite convinced Mr. Guilfoyle
of his error."
"If it ever existed--I did but jest," said he, bowing and smiling as
he turned to her.
Sir Madoc's gust of patriotic ire passed away at the sound of his
daughter's voice; but from that moment his manner to Guilfoyle
underwent a marked change, for he had already more than once contrived
to wound him on this his most tender point. So the usually suave and
kind old man became very cool to him as they rode homeward; and early
that evening Guilfoyle retired to his room, alleging that he had to
write letters.
After dinner, as we idled for a little time in the smoking-room prior
to joining the ladies, Lord Pottersleigh led the conversation
gradually back to our evening excursion, and with some hesitation
began to speak of Guilfoyle.
"You will pardon me, my dear Sir Madoc, for venturing to speak
slightingly of any friend of yours; but----"
"Mr. Guilfoyle is no friend of mine," said the other, hastily; "he
dropped among us from the clouds, as it were. When with Lady Naseby I
met him on the beach at Llandudno. He had done her some service on the
Continent, at Catzeneln--what's-its-name?--I invited him on the
strength 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 somewhat
shocked by the idea of "getting rid" of a guest.
"I assure you, Sir Madoc," resumed the peer, "that he is quite
out of his place amongst us, quite; and despite his usually assumed
suavity--for it is assumed--he lacks intensely _l'odeur de la bonne
société_, though he affects it; and I overheard two of your late
guests making some very dubious remarks concerning him."
"The deuce you did!" exclaimed Sir Madoc, tossing away his half-smoked
cigar.
"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 fast
boy Clavell exclaim, as if with surprise, to another; 'is that fellow,
who--' 'The very same.' 'Then how comes he to be a guest here?' 'Just
what I was asking of myself, as he is tabooed everywhere. You know
they say--' '_They_--who?' 'O, that ubiquitous and irresponsible party
so difficult to grapple with--that though he was attaché at some
German place, he has been in several conspiracies to pigeon young
muffs just come of age. There was particularly one poor fellow of ours
whom he rooked at Hamburg of every sixpence, and who was afterwards
found drowned in the Alster. And lately I have heard that he was
proprietor, or part proprietor, of a gaming-hell in Berlin.' 'By
Jove!' exclaimed little Clavell, but can all this be proved?' 'No.'
'Why?' 'He lays his plans too deeply and surely.' Then they walked
towards the marquee, and I thought I had hear, enough--quite," added
his lordship, snuffing.
Long before Pottersleigh was done, Sir Madoc had blushed purple with
stifled 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, and
to Craigaderyn! D--n me, I shall choke!" he exclaimed, as he started
from his chair. "He is deep as Llyn Tegid! I have already lost
considerable sums to him at billiards, and I always thought his
success at cards miraculous. But an end shall be put to this
instantly!--Owen! Owen Gwyllim!"
He kicked a spittoon to the other end of the room, rang the bell
furiously for the butler, and dashed off a note to Mr. Guilfoyle. It
was sufficiently curt and pointed. He expressed "regret that a gun
would not be at his service on the coming 1st of September; but that
the carriage would await his orders, for Chester or elsewhere."
Guilfoyle had doubtless been accustomed to meet with affronts such as
this. Desiring his baggage to be sent after him, he departed that
night with his two horses, his groom (and diamond ring); but, prior to
doing so, he had the effrontery to leave P.P.C. cards for Lady Naseby
and Estelle, saying that "he should not forget their kind invitation
to Walcot Park;" and rode off, scheming vengeance on me, to whom he
evidently attributed the whole matter, as he informed Owen Gwyllim
that he "would yet repay me, through his solicitor, perhaps, for the
interest I had taken in his affairs."
This threw a temporary cloud over our little party, and good Sir Madoc
felt a kind of sorrow for Guilfoyle as he surmised how little money he
might have in his purse, forgetting that he was proprietor of a pair
of horses. To prevent her _amour propre_ being wounded, we most
unfortunately 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 her
mother, whom his service on the Continent had prejudiced in his
favour, and through his alleged acquaintance with me, he had become
Sir Madoc's guest, in a day or two the whole _contretemps_ was
forgotten; but I was fated not to have seen or heard the last of Mr.
Hawkesby Guilfoyle.