Caradoc and many other good fellows were gone eastward, and save Hugh
Price and a newly-fledged ensign, I was the only officer with the
depôt, and being senior had the command. The former had always some
affair of the heart on the tapis; the latter was a mere boy, fresh
from Harrow, so neither was companion for me. Back once more to the
prosaic life of heavy drill and much useless duty in Winchester
barracks, the picturesque and joyous past at Craigaderyn--after I had
written 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 wild
green hills of Mynedd Hiraethrog; in the chase and long lime avenue;
our chance meetings in the garden arbour; by the fountain, where the
lilies floated and the gold fish shot to and fro; over all, that wild
boat adventure, by which our lives were to be knit up as one in the
future--seemed too like a dream, of which her ring on my finger alone
remained to convince me of the reality, as no letters could pass
between us--at least none from me to her. Thus I grew fond of courting
solitude after the duties of the day were over, and I could fling
sword, sash, and belt aside; and usually I quitted early the jollity
of the battalion mess, that I might indulge in visions and conjure up
bright fancies amid the gray smoke wreaths of a quiet cigar, in that
humble bachelor's quarter already described; while the moonlight
silvered the spires and red-tiled roofs of Winchester, and when all
became still in the crowded barrack, after the tattoo-drums had
beaten, and the notes of the last bugle had warned--like the Norman
curfew of old--the extinction of all lights and fires.
I had seen many a drama and read many a romance; but now I seemed to
be personally the hero of either one or other. Engaged to the daughter
of an earl; but in _secret_, and unknown to all! And how or when was
that engagement to end--to be brought to a successful issue? On these
points my ideas were painfully vague and full of anxiety. Were we yet
to meet--were it but for an hour--ere war separated us more
completely, by sea as well as land? Returning, it might be mutilated
and disfigured, should I still find her loving, tender, and true? and
if I fell in action, how long might I hope to be remembered ere
Estelle--But I could not with patience contemplate the chances of
another 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-pistol
practice--for hourly recruits, many of whom could not speak a word of
English, were coming in to replace those that had sailed with Phil
Caradoc; and it is one of the essential parts of the duty of the
officer commanding a regimental depôt to see after the arms,
accoutrements, and clothing of his men; and also, that so far as drill
goes, they are made perfect soldiers. Few or none of these recruits
were natives of the counties outside Offa's Dyke; but when the news of
the Alma came, and all England thrilled with the story of the uphill
charge of the Royal Welsh, more than one London paper enviously spread
the rumour, that our regiment was Cambrian only in name; till it was
flatly contradicted by the colonel--but the story nearly gave hot
peppery Sir Madoc a fit of apoplexy.
Besides other duties there was no small number of books--goodly sized
folios--of which I had the supervision, ten at least exactly similar
to those which are kept at headquarters; and all these tasks were
varied by an occasional ball or rout such as a cathedral and garrison
town can furnish; or a court-martial, or one of inquiry, concerning
Mrs. Private Jones resenting--_vi et armis_--that the canteen-keeper
should cut her bacon and tobacco, butter and bread, with the same
knife; or to give some Giles Chawbacon fifty lashes about daybreak for
a violation of the Red-book, in a hollow square, where men's teeth
chattered in the chilly air, or they yawned behind their glazed stocks
and shivered with disgust, at a punishment for which the army was
indebted to William of Orange, and which is now happily a thing of the
past. So the month of August drew to a close, and a box of partridges
duly came from Sir Madoc--the spoil of his gun on the slopes of Mynedd
Hiraethrog, perhaps; with a letter which acquainted me that Lady
Naseby and her daughter had been for fully a fortnight at Walcot Park
in Hampshire, but that he supposed I was probably aware of the
circumstance, and that Pottersleigh was with them.
Fully a fortnight, and neither letter nor card of invitation, though
they knew that I was in Winchester! How or why was this? A chill came
over me, though I certainly had no fear of the Viscount's influence;
but then I reflected that Estelle could not, and that Lady Naseby
would not, invite me--each for reasons of her own. What, then,
remained for me to do, but wait the event with patience, or endeavour
to seek her out, by throwing myself in her way? I writhed at the idea
of a fortnight having escaped us, while the coming of the fatal route
for the East hung over me. There was something revolting and
humiliating to my spirit in acting the part of a prowler about Walcot
Park; but who is a more humble slave than a lover? The declaration of
war had animated the services, both by sea and land, with a new or
revived interest for all, with women especially. Thus our parades,
reviews, and even our marches of exercise were frequently witnessed by
all the beauty and fashion of the city and county; and among them I
always looked in vain for the carriage and liveries of the Countess.
Was Estelle ill, or was their absence from these spectacles part of a
system to be pursued by the former?
Walcot Park was, I knew, only a few miles from the barracks on the
Whitchurch-road. I had spent many an hour riding there merely to see
the place which was associated with Estelle, when she had been absent
from it in London or elsewhere; and now I had doubly an attraction to
make me turn my horse's head in that direction, after Sir Madoc's
letter came; so the second day saw me take the way northward from the
old cathedral city, in mufti, to elude observation. The evening was a
lovely one, and those swelling hills and fertile valleys, wide
expanses of woodland already becoming crisp by the heat of the past
summer, with clumps of birch and elder, the wild ash and the oak,
which make up the staple features of Hampshire scenery, were in all
their autumnal beauty and repose. The tinkling of the waggoner's bells
on the dusty highway, was still heard, though the shrill whistle of
the locomotive seemed to hint that, like the old stage-coachman, he
should ere long find his occupation gone; and mellowed on the soft and
ambient air there came the merry evening chimes from more than one
quaint, village-church--the broad square Norman tower of which
stood--the landmark of its district--in outline distinct and dark
against the golden flush of the western sky. Dusk was almost closing
when I crossed that noted trouting-stream, the Teste; and passed
through Whitchurch.
As I trotted leisurely along the single street of which the little
market borough is chiefly composed, at the door of a small inn I
perceived a stable-boy holding by their bridles a black horse and a
roan mare. The form of the latter seemed familiar to me. I could not
mistake the height of forehead, the depth of chest, and roundness of
barrel, or a peculiar white spot on the off-shoulder, and in the
former recognised the roadster which Guilfoyle had brought with him to
Craigaderyn. On seeing that I drew my reins and looked rather
scrutinisingly at the animal, the groom, stable helper, or whatever he
was, 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 inside
the 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 at
least, 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 the
tide of perplexing, harassing, and exasperating thoughts that flowed
upon me. I remembered that we had arranged at Craigaderyn not to
inform Lady Naseby of the real character of her chosen continental
acquaintance, a foolish and fatal mistake, as the fellow would seem to
have had sufficient presumption to present himself at Walcot Park, and
there remain until exposed and expelled. But how came it to pass that
such as he was patronised and fostered, as it were, by "the family
solicitor," and patented by being his companion? Surely a legal man,
however great a rascal professionally and personally, was too wary to
adopt openly a blackleg as his friend and protégé!
I felt that Lady Naseby should instantly be warned of Guilfoyle's real
character; but by whom was this to be done? Tied up by my secret
arrangements with Estelle, I could neither write nor call uninvited;
but why had she not, as she had promised, written to me, or given me
some sign of her being so near Winchester as Walcot Park? When I
recalled her apparent preference for this man, when Caradoc and I
first went to Wales, their frequent recurrence to past companionship
abroad, their duets together, and so forth, her angry defence of him
to myself, together with an interest he had acquired in the eyes of
her usually unapproachable mother, something of my old emotions of
pique and doubt, and a jealousy for which I blushed, began to mingle
with my perplexity and mortification, and the fear that _he_ could
have any influence on her destiny or mine!
I recalled all the conversation overheard by Pottersleigh, and greater
grew my astonishment and indignation. I felt it imperative that
something should be done instantly, and resolved to telegraph or write
to Sir Madoc, requesting him to procure the dismission of this
intruder from Walcot Park as promptly as he had despatched him from
Craigaderyn. From a part of the road where it wound over an upland
slope I could see the Jointure House which formed the residence of
Lady Naseby and of that Estelle who was a law, a light, a guiding star
to me, and towards whom every thought and aspiration turned. Walcot
Park was a spacious domain, and studded by clumps of stately old
trees, which had been planted after the Revolution of 1688 by a peer
of the Naseby family, who was one of the first to desert his
hereditary king at Rochester. The mansion itself dated from the same
stormy period, and was built entirely of red brick with white stone
corners and cornices. Its peristyle of six Ionic columns glistened
white in the moonlight, and was distinctly visible from where I sat on
horseback. The shadow of the square façade of the entire edifice fell
purple and dark far across the park. There were lights in several of
the windows, and I knew that my Estelle must be in one of those
rooms--but which?
At that moment all my soul yearned for her; could I but for an instant
have seen her, or heard her voice! She dwelt there, visible to and
approachable by others, and yet I dared not visit her. The fact of her
presence there seemed to pervade and charm all the place, and with a
sad, loving, and yet exasperated interest, I continued to survey it. I
was hovering there, but aimlessly, and without any defined purpose,
other than the vague chance of seeing or being near her. Walcot I knew
was her favourite place, and there she kept all her pets, for she had
many: a parrot sent from the Cape by the captain of a frigate to whom
she had spoken but once at a ball; a spaniel from Malta, the gift of
some forgotten rifleman; a noble staghound, given by a Highland
officer 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, her
father's favourite hacks, turned loose in the park as perpetual
pensioners.
Could she really have loved me as she said she did, if she was already
behaving so coldly to me now? No letter or note, no invitation--she
had surely influence enough with her mother to have procured me
that!--no notice taken of my vicinity, of my presence with the depôt
again! What shadow was this that seemed already to be falling on our
sunny love? Whence the doubt that had sprung up within me, and the
coldness that seemed between us? Full of these thoughts, I was gazing
wistfully at the house, when I perceived the dark figures of two
horsemen riding leisurely along the winding approach that led to the
white peristyle, and felt certain that they were Guilfoyle and his
legal friend Mr. Sharpus (of Sharpus and Juggles) mounted on the
identical nags I had seen at the inn-door; and inspired by emotions of
a very mingled character, I galloped back to the barracks, never
drawing my bridle for the entire twelve miles of the way, until I
threw it to my man Evans; and hurrying to my room, wrote instantly a
most pressing letter to Sir Madoc, informing him of what I had seen
and heard. I was not without thoughts of communicating with Lord
Pottersleigh; but, for obvious reasons, shrunk from _his_ intervention
in the Cressingham family circle.
I knew that it would be delivered at Craigaderyn on the morrow, and
deemed that now twenty-four hours must be the utmost limit of Mr.
Hawkesby Guilfoyle's sojourn in his present quarters, and in a sphere
which he insulted by his presence; but three, four, even five days
passed, and no reply came from Sir Madoc, who was then, though I knew
it not, shooting with some friends in South Wales, and did not receive
my epistle until it was somewhat late for him to act on it. During
these intervening days I was in a species of fever. One Sunday I
incidentally heard, at mess, that Lady Naseby's party, now a pretty
numerous one, had been at service in the cathedral, and to hear the
bishop preach. She had come in state, in the carriage, attended by
several gentlemen on horseback, and two tall fellows in livery, one
carrying her prayer-books, the other a long cane and huge nosegay;
and there I might have met them all face to face, and seen Estelle
once more, had my evil destiny not assigned to me the command
of the main guard, and thus detained me in barracks; but Price of
ours--susceptible as the Tupman of _Pickwick_--had seen her, and came
to mess raving about her beauty.
Every hour I could spare from duty was spent in hovering, like a
spectre or a spy--an unquiet spirit certainly--in the vicinity of
Walcot Park, till the lodge-keepers, who had been wont to touch their
hats civilly at first, began ere long to view me with mistrust; and my
horse knew every crook and turn of the Whitchurch-road quite as well
as the way to his own stable. On the evening of the fifth day after I
had written to Sir Madoc--a pleasant evening in the first days of
September--I was again riding leisurely among the deep green lanes
that border on Walcot Park, and which lay between dark green hedgerows
then studded by scarlet dogberries, and the overarching branches of
apple, pear, and damson trees, my heart, as usual, full of vague
doubts, decided longings, and most undecided intentions, when I began
slowly to walk my horse up a long, steep, and picturesque road, the
vista of which was closed by an old village church, in the low and
moss-grown wall surrounding which was a green wicket. It was on just
such an evening as the last I have described, when the farewell gleam
of the sun shone level along the fields, when the many-coloured
foliage rustled in the gentle wind, and the voices of the blackbird,
the thrush, and the lark came sweetly at times from the darkening
copsewood, 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 fane
old 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 Bishop
of Winchester)--peeped up amid the rich autumnal foliage that almost
hid it from the view. At the wicket, some hundred yards from me, in
the twilight--for though the sun had not set, the density of the
copsewood about the place rendered the light rather dim and
obscure--were a lady and gentleman, the latter mounted, and the former
on foot. At first they seemed to be in close and earnest conversation;
then the lady gesticulated earnestly, raising her hands and face to
him imploringly; but twice he thrust her back, almost violently, with
the handle of his whip. This was a strange and unpleasant episode to
encounter. I knew not whether to advance or retire. I feared to
intrude on what I supposed was something more than a lovers' quarrel,
or, from the man's utter indifference, was perhaps a matrimonial
squabble; and I was equally loth to retire, and leave a woman--a lady
evidently--to the violence or passion of this person, upon whose love
or mercy--it might be both--by her gestures and even the distant tones
of her voice, she was so evidently throwing herself in vain.
I checked my horse's pace, and, amid the thick rank grass of the
narrow lane, his footsteps were unheeded by the two actors in this
scene; moreover, without backing him well into one of the thick
hedges, 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 she
said, this horseman, whose back was to me, replied scornfully and
derisively by a low mocking laugh, which somehow I seemed to have
heard before, but when, or where, I quite failed to remember. Anon she
drew something from her bosom, and, kissing it, held it towards him,
as if seeking to influence him, by an appeal through it to some past
time of love, or truth, or happiness, or all together. Whatever it was
she thus displayed, he snatched it roughly, even fiercely, from her
with a curse, and, again thrusting her violently from him--so violently,
that I believe he must have used his foot and the off-stirrup
iron---she fell heavily against the low wall, which, at the same moment,
he cleared by a flying leap, and then disappeared in the network of
lanes, orchards, and hedgerows that lie about the churchyard. A low wail
escaped her; and when I came cantering up, and dismounted, she was lying
on the path beside the churchyard wicket in tears and despair. Her
appearance was perfectly ladylike, and most prepossessing; yet I knew
not very clearly what to say or how to interfere in the matter, though
manhood and courtesy rendered some action imperatively necessary.
"I trust you are not hurt," said I, taking her hand and assisting her
to rise.
"Thank you, sir--not bodily hurt," she replied, in a low and broken
voice, while scarcely venturing to look at me, and pressing her left
hand upon her heart, as if to restrain emotion, or as if she felt a
pain 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 bit
it, apparently in efforts to control her sobs.
"Can I assist you--be of service to you in any way?" I urged, in a
pleading 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 is
a 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 permit
me 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 lifted
my hat; and then she seemed to totter away weakly and feebly,
supporting or guiding herself, as if blind, by the rude low wall; and
I could perceive that her left hand, which was now ungloved, was
small, delicate, and of exceeding beauty in form. Her manner and air
were hurried; her voice and eyes were agitated; she seemed a ladylike
little creature, but plainly and darkly attired in a kind of second
mourning. Her figure, if _petite_, was very graceful and girlish, too,
though she was nearer thirty, perhaps, than twenty. Her face was
delicate in feature, and charmingly soft and feminine in expression.
Her eyes were of that clear dark gray which seems almost black at
night, and their lashes were long and tremulous, lending a chastened
or Madonna tone to her face, which, when taken together with her
sadness of manner and a certain languor that seemed to be the result
of ill-health, proved very prepossessing. With all this there was
something, I thought, of the widow in her aspect and dress; but this
was merely fancy.
Ere I remounted, and while observing her, I perceived that she
tottered, as if overcome by weakness, emotion, or both. She sank
against the churchyard wall, and nearly fell; on this, I again
approached, and said with all softness and respect:
"Pardon me, and do not deem me, though a stranger, intrusive; you are
ill 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 of
this lane, I shall easily make my way alone. I am not afraid of
strangers," she added, with a strange smile; "I have been much cast
among them of late."
"You reside at Whitchurch?" said I, as we proceeded slowly together,
occasionally treading the fallen apples under foot among the long
grass.
"Yes."
"It is, then, your home?"
"I have no other--at present," said she, in a choking voice, and
scarcely making an effort to restrain her tears, while I detected on a
finger of the ungloved hand, the beauty of which I so much admired, a
plain gold hoop--the marriage ring. So she was a wife; and the
unseemly quarrel I had seen must have been a matrimonial one. Thus I
became more assured in my manner.
"I am almost a stranger here," said I, "as I belong to the garrison at
Winchester."
"You are an officer?"
"Yes, madam, of the Royal Welsh Fusileers."
She simply bowed, but did not respond to my information by saying
_who_ she was.
"Though a soldier, sir," said she, after a pause, "I dare say you will
be aware that the hardest battles of this world are _not_ fought in
the field."
"Where then?"
"Where we might least look for struggles of the soul: in many a
well-ordered drawing-room; in many a poor garret; in many a lovely
bower and sunny garden, or in a green and shady lane like this; fought
in secrecy and the silence of the heart, and in tears that are hot and
salt as blood!"
She _is_ very pretty, thought I; but I hope she won't become
melodramatic, hysterical, or anything of that sort!
"Darkness will be set in ere you can reach Whitchurch, at our present
rate of progression," said I; "and your--your--" (I was about to say
husband) "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 a
stranger."
"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 return
no 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 lips
quivering.
"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 be
so; but here is the highway; I too am going towards Whitchurch--my way
to the barracks lies in that direction; and I shall have much pleasure
in escorting you to your home, if you will permit me," said I, seized
by an impulse of gallantry, humanity, or both, which I ere long had
cause 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 the
ivy-clad inn by the roadside."
This was the place where I had seen Guilfoyle's roan mare, an evening
or so past.
We had now reached the end of the narrow and secluded lane, a famous
one in that locality as the trysting-place of lovers, and were
standing irresolutely near the main road that leads to Whitchurch and
Winchester, when a large and handsome carriage, drawn by a pair of
spanking dark gray horses, approached us rapidly.
Throwing my nag's bridle over my left arm, I was in the act of
offering my right hand to this mysterious lady in farewell, when her
eyes caught sight of the carriage; a half-stifled sob escaped her; she
reeled again, and would have fallen, had I not thrown my arm round
her, and by its firm support upheld her. At that moment the carriage
bowled past. The face of a lady was at the open window, looking out
upon us with wonder and interest, as she saw a lady and gentleman to
all appearance embracing, or at least on very good terms with each
other, at the corner of a shady lane, a little way off the Queen's
highway; and something like an exclamation of dismay escaped me on
recognising the colourless haughty face, the dark eyes, the black
hair, and bonnet of that orange tint so becoming to one of her
complexion--she of whom my whole soul was full, Lady Estelle
Cressingham!