By the peculiarity of our position kept much apart, or seldom finding
opportunities, even in a house like Craigaderyn Court, for being
alone, as it was perpetually thronged by visitors, we had to content
ourselves with the joy of stolen glances that lit up the eye with an
expression we alone could read, or that was understood by ourselves
only; by tender touches of the hand that thrilled to the heart; and by
inflections of the voice, which, do as we might, would at times become
soft and tremulous. Our life was now full of petty stratagems and
pretty lover-like enigmas, especially when in the presence of Lady
Naseby; and now I also became afraid of Winifred Lloyd, who,
unoccupied, so far as I could see, by any love-affair of her own, was
almost certain, I thought, to see through mine. "There is no conquest
without the affections," said Ninon de l'Enclos; "and what mole is so
blind as a woman in love?" Yet Estelle was careful to a degree in her
bearing, and never permitted her fondness of me to lull her into a
sense of security from observation. I learned, however, from my ally
Dora, that Lady Naseby was so provoked by what Estelle not inaptly
termed our "late _fiasco_," that, save for the weight such a
proceeding might have given it, they and the Viscount, too, would have
quitted Craigaderyn Court, So they remained; but, thought I, what
right had _he_ to be concerned in the matter? And unless I greatly
erred, I felt certain that the Countess cared not how soon I received
my marching orders for that fatal shore where so many of us were to
leave 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 supremely
happy, while the few days that remained of my leave glided
quickly--ah, too quickly!--past; and all desire for "glory" apart, I
was not sorry when I saw that my fractured arm would prevent my being
sent with the next draft, and cause my retention for a little time
longer in England. "They who love must drink deeply of the cup of
trembling," says some one; "for at times there will arise in their
hearts a nameless terror, a sickening anxiety for the future, whose
brightness all depends upon this one cherished treasure, which often
proves a foreboding of some real anguish looming in the distant
hours."
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, a
temporary separation; yet it was well that I saw not the future, or
what those distant hours had in store for me.
"Estelle," said I, one day when a happy chance threw us together for a
few minutes in an arbour of the garden, where we sometimes met at a
certain hour, and separated after by different paths, like a pair of
conspirators, "when shall a period be put to all this mystery--this
painful, though joyous, false position in which we find ourselves?"
"We can but wait and hope, Harry--wait and hope!" said she, while her
head 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, sickly
smile.
"No, certainly; even to be colonel of the Royal Welsh instead of a
mere 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, and
go 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 duty
there, risking all the chances of war, ere I can think of home or
marriage, Estelle; but when we part, if I am not to write to you, how
shall I ever know that you think of me? how hear of your health and
welfare? that you remain true to me--"
"O, doubt not that!"
"Nor do I; but it would be so sweet to see your writing, and imagine
your voice reiterating the troth you plighted to me in that terrible
time."
"I shall write to you, dear, dear Harry, for I can do that freely and
openly; but of you, alas! alas! I can only hear through our friends at
the Court here, for you can neither write to me in London nor at
Walcot Park."
"May I not ask Miss Lloyd to receive enclosures for you? I shall be
writing to her, and we are such old friends that she would think
nothing of it."
"Too old friends, I fear," said she, with a half-smiling but pointed
glance; "but for Heaven's sake think not of that. She would never
consent, nor should I wish her to do so. I can of course receive what
letters I choose; but servants will pry, and consider what certain
coats of arms, monograms, and postal marks mean; so my Crimean
correspondent would be shrewdly suspected, and myself subjected to
much annoyance by mamma and her views."
"Her _views!_ This is the second time you have referred to them," said
I, anxiously; "and they are--"
"That I should marry my cousin Naseby, whom I always disliked," said
Estelle, in a sad and sweetly modulated voice; "or Lord Pottersleigh,
whose wealth and influence are so great that a short time must see him
created an earl; but he has no chance _now_, dear Harry!"
Long, lovingly, and tenderly she gazed into my eyes, and her glance
and her manner seemed so truthful and genuine that I felt all the
rapture of trusting her fearlessly, and that neither time nor distance
would alter or lessen her regard for me; and a thousand times in "the
distant hours" that came did I live over and over again that scene in
the arbour, when the warm flush of the August evening was lying deep
on the Welsh woods and mountains, when all the mullioned windows of
the quaint old mansion were glittering in light, and the soft coo of
the wild pigeons was heard as they winged their way to the summit of
Craigaderyn, which is usually alive with them, and there the fierce
hawk and the ravenous cormorant know well when to find their prey.
The time for my departure drew near; and already but a day remained to
me. Caradoc and Charley Gwynne had already sailed in a troopship for
Varna, from which the entire army was about to embark for a landing on
the Russian coast, and ill or well, my presence with the regimental
depôt was imperative. My bullock trunks had been packed by Owen
Gwyllim, and the carriage was ordered to convey me next evening, after
an early dinner. The latter passed slowly and heavily enough, and
afterwards, instead of remaining all together, as might have been
expected, circumstances separated us for an hour or so. Lady Naseby
was indisposed; so was Lord Pottersleigh, whom his old enemy had
confined by the feet to this rooms, yet he hoped to be in service
order, to enact the sportsman on the coming 1st of September, a period
to which he looked forward with disgust and horror, as involving an
enormous amount of useless fatigue, with the chances of shooting
himself or some one else. Sir Madoc had certain country business to
attend; and on the three young ladies retiring to the drawing-room, I
was left to think over my approaching departure through the medium of
burgundy and a cigar.
My sword arm was nearly well now; but still I should have made but a
poor 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 a
few hours left me now, and not to spend them with Estelle Cressingham,
seemed intolerable! Before me, from the window, spread the far extent
of grassy chase steeped in the evening sunshine; above the green woods
were the peaks of Snowdon and Carneydd Llewellyn, dim and blue in the
distance; and while gazing at them wistfully, I reflected on all I
should have to see and undergo, to hope and fear and suffer--the miles
I 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 the
wild pigeon or the croak of the rooks among the old Tudor gables and
chimneys of Craigaderyn. And then again I thought of Estelle.
"I _must_ see her, and alone, too, at all risks; perhaps dear little
Dora will assist me," I muttered, and went towards the drawing-room,
which was now considerably involved in shadow, being on the western
side of the Court; and I felt with the tender Rosalind, when her lover
said, "For these two hours, Rosalind, I will leave thee," "Alas, dear
love, I cannot lack thee two hours."
I entered the room and found only Winifred Lloyd. She was seated in
the deep bay of a very picturesque old oriel window, which seemed to
frame her as if in a picture. Her chin was resting in the hollow of
her left hand, and she was gazing outward dreamily on vacancy, or
along 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 very
well 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 shoulders
to the same amount of silk or satin," said I smilingly, as I patted
her 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 golden
farewell rays are lingering on blue Snowdon even now," said I, with a
forced smile; for though I had come in quest of Estelle, something--I
know not what--drew me to Winifred just then.
Her eyebrows were very black, but slightly arched, and they almost met
over her nose; and I gazed into the orbs below them, so dark, so
clear, and beautiful--eyes that could neither conceal the emotions of
her heart, nor the pleasure or sorrow she felt; and I thought how
easily a man might be lured to forget the world for her, as friendship
between the sexes--especially in youth--is perilous; and some such
thought, perhaps, occurred to her, for she turned her face abruptly
from 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 hands
that trembled in her lap--for she was evidently repressing some
emotion; thinking, perhaps, of poor Phil Caradoc, who was then
ploughing the waters of the Mediterranean with Carneydd Llewellyn to
console 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, but
she 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 am
gone."
"You are a delightful egotist, Harry Hardinge; but I trust our
memories 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 dash
of passionate earnestness in her tone, while she gazed at me with a
curious 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 is
taking a very strange tone."
"I cannot conceive in how I have annoyed you," said I, with something
of sorrow and wonder in my heart.
"Perhaps; but you have not annoyed me, though you are not quite what
you 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 dear
friends, and think of each other kindly and tenderly, for the pleasant
times 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 or
suggest; "so, while there is a chance of such a contingency, let us
part kindly; not so coldly as this, dear Winifred; and kiss me ere I
go."
Her lips, warm and tremulous, touched mine for an instant; but her
eyes were sad and wild, and her poor little face grew ashy white as
she hastened away, leaving me with Estelle, who was approaching
through the long and shaded room; and when with her, Winifred Lloyd
and the momentary emotion that had sprung up--emotion that I cared not
and dared not _then_ to analyse--were utterly forgotten.
Our interview was a very silent one. We had barely time for a few
words, and heavy on my heart as lead weighed the conviction that I had
to part from her--my love so recently won, so firmly promised and
affianced. I knew that the days of my sojourn at Winchester must be
few now; and with the chances of war before me, and temptations and
aristocratic ambition left behind with her, how dubious and how remote
were the chances of our meeting again!
Moments there were when I felt blindly desperate, and with my arms
round 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 have
gone; but the "old, old story" yet remains to us, fresh as when first
told in Eden.
"For life or death, for good or for evil, for weal or woe, darling
Estelle, I leave my heart in your keeping!" said I, in a low
passionate whisper; "in twelve months, perhaps, I may claim you as my
wife."
"L'homme propose, et Dieu dispose," said she, quietly and tenderly. "I
yet hope to see you, were it but for a day, at Walcot Park, ere you
sail."
"Bless you for the hope your words give me!" said I, as Owen Gwyllim
came to announce that the carriage was at the door, and to give me
Lady Naseby's and Lord Pottersleigh's cards and farewell wishes. And
from that moment all the rest of my leave-taking seemed purely
mechanical; and not only Sir Madoc, his two daughters, and Estelle,
were on the terrace of the mansion to bid me adieu, but all the
hearty, hot-tempered, high-cheekboned old Welsh domestics, most of
whom had known me since boyhood, were also there.
The impulsive Dora brought me my courier-bag, a flask filled with
brandy, and dainty sandwiches cut and prepared by Winifred's own kind
little hands (for in doing this for me she would trust neither the
butler nor Mrs. Gwenny Davis the housekeeper), and then she held up
her bright face to be kissed; but inspired by I know not what emotion
of doubt or dread, I only touched with my lips the hands of Lady
Estelle and Miss Lloyd. Both girls stood a little apart from each
other, pale as death, tremulous with suppressed emotion, and with
their lashes matted and their eyes filled with tears, that pride and
the presence of others restrained from falling. They were calm
externally, but their hearts were full of secret thoughts, to which I
was long in getting the clue. In the eyes of Estelle there was that
glance or expression of loving intensity which most men have seen
_once_--it may be twice--in a woman's eye, and have never, never
forgotten.
Sir Madoc's brown manly hand shook mine heartily, and he clapped me on
the back.
"I hope to see you yet ere you leave England, my boy, and such hopes
always take the sting from an adieu," said he, with a voice that
quivered nevertheless. "Sorry you can't stay for the 1st of
September--the partridges will be in splendid order; but there is
shooting enough of another kind in the preserves you are going to."
"And may never come back from," was the comforting addendum of old
Mrs. Davis, as she applied her black-silk apron to her eyes.
"Ah, Harry," said Sir Madoc, "you gave a smile so like your mother
just now! She was handsome; but you will be never like her, were you
as beautiful as Absalom."
"It is well that poor mamma can't hear all this," said Dora, laughing
through her tears.
"Your dear mamma, my girl, was very fond of her and of him, too," said
honest Sir Madoc; and then he whispered, "If ever you want cash,
Harry, don't forget me, and Coutts and Co.--the dingy den in the
Strand. Farewell--anwylbach!--good-bye!"
A few minutes more and all the tableau on the steps had passed away. I
was bowling along the tall lime avenue and down the steep mountain
road, up which Phil Caradoc and I had travelled but a few weeks
before. How much had passed since _then!_ and how much was inevitably to
pass ere I should again see these familiar scenes! What had I said, or
left unsaid? What had I done, what had passed, or how was it, that as
the 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 my
teeth, and while I was verging into that pleasant frame of mind when
soft and happy visions are born of the half-drowsy brain, lulled as it
were by rapidity of motion and the sameness of recurring sounds--how
was it, I say, that the strange, unfathomable expression I had seen in
the soft pleading eyes of dear Winifred--distance was already making
her "dear"--mingled in my memory with the smileless, grave, and tender
farewell glance of my pale Estelle; and that the sweet innocent kiss
of the former was remembered with sadness and delight?
I strove to analyse my ideas, and then thrust them from me, as I
lowered the carriage window and looked forth upon the flying landscape
and 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, at
the piano to conceal her emotions; or listening, it might be, to the
twaddle of old Pottersleigh. Winny gazing out upon the starlit
terrace, trying to realise the prospect--as women proposed to will
do--if she had married Phil Caradoc; or thinking of--heaven knows
what! And old Sir Madoc in his arm-chair, and dreaming, while Dora
nestled by his side, of the old times, and the boy--to wit, myself--he
loved so well.