Under the Red Dragon: A Novel

the life of her daughter--and I, too," he added, "owe you an everlasting debt of gratitude." "You, my lord?" said I, turning round in the library, where we happened to be alone. "Yes; for in saving her you saved one in whom I have the deepest interest. So, my dear Mr. Hardinge," he continued, pompously, looking up from the _Times_, "if I can do aught for you at the Horse Guards, command me, my young friend, command me." "Thanks, my lord," said I, curtly; for his tone of patronage, and the cause thereof, were distasteful to me. "You have of course heard the rumour of--of an engagement?" "With Lady Estelle Cressingham?" "Exactly," said he, laughing till he brought on a fit of coughing-- "exactly--ha, ha--ugh, ugh! How the deuce these things ooze out at clubs and in society, I cannot conceive; for even the world of London seems like a village in that way. Ah, nowhere out of our aristocracy could a man find such a wife as Lady Estelle!" "I quite agree with you; but there is a point beyond that." "Indeed! what may that be?" "To get her!" said I, defiantly, enraged by the old man's cool presumption. Was this reference to "a rumour" merely his senile vanity, or had Estelle ignored something that really existed? Caradoc's congratulations, though I carefully kept my own counsel, were as warm in reality as those of Guilfoyle were in pretence. "Wish you every joy," said the latter, in a low tone, as we met in the billiard-room, where he was practising strokes with Sir Madoc. "I don't quite understand." "You hold the winning-cards now, I think," said he, with a cold glare in his eye. "Sir?" "I congratulate you on escaping so many perils with the Lady Estelle, and being thereby a winner." I had just left Pottersleigh, and was not disposed to endure much from Guilfoyle. "The winner of what?" I asked. "The future esteem of the Countess," he sneered. "Perhaps she will present me with a diamond ring on the head of it," said I, turning on my heel, while Sir Madoc laughed at the hit; but whatever he felt, Guilfoyle cloaked it pretty well by laughing, and, as a Parthian shot, quoting, with some point, and with unruffled exterior, a line or two from the fourth book of the _Æneid_, concerning the storm which drew Dido and her hero into the cave. The bearing of Winifred Lloyd now became somewhat of a riddle to me; and on the morning of the third day, when we all met at the breakfast table (which was littered by cards and notes of congratulation), and when Lady Estelle appeared, looking so pale and beautiful, declining Mademoiselle Babette's cosmetics and pearl-powder alike, in the loveliest morning-dress that Swan and Edgar could produce, I was conscious that she watched us with an interest that seemed wistful, tearful, and earnest. Whether I had a tell-tale face, I know not. Nothing, however, could be gathered from that of Estelle, or her mode of greeting me and inquiring about the progress of my broken arm towards recovery. My ring was on her finger; but as she wore several, it passed unnoticed, and even Dora's quick eye failed to detect it. Winifred had become very taciturn; and when I asked her to drive with me in the open carriage--as for a time I could not ride--she declined rather curtly, and with something of petulance, even disdain, in her tone. She never had the usual inquiries made by others concerning my fracture, nor joined with Dora in the playful rivalry of the ladies cutting for me, if no servant was near; for at table I was of course helpless. She smiled seldom, but laughed frequently; and yet it struck me there was something unwonted in the ring of her laughter, as if it came not from her heart. The girl had a secret sorrow evidently. Was Master Phil Caradoc at the bottom of this? If not, who then? I watched her from time to time, and observed that once, when our eyes met, she seemed confused, and coloured perceptibly. "Surely," thought I, "she is not resenting my half-flirtation with her the other day, when we visited her pet goat!" She was restless, absent, listlessly indifferent, and occasionally preoccupied in manner; and in vain did I say to her more than once, "Miss Lloyd--Winifred--what troubles you? what has vexed you?" "Nothing troubles me, Mr. Hardinge." "_Mr.?_" "Well, then, Harry--and nothing vexes me. What leads you to think so?" Her full-fringed dark eyes looked clearly into mine; they seemed moist, yet defiant, and she tossed her pretty little head wilfully and petulantly. I felt that I had in some way displeased her; but dared not press the matter, for, with all her softness of heart, she had a little Welsh temper of her own. Phil Caradoc gave me his entire confidence, especially after dinner, when men become full of talk, and inspired by bland and generous impulses. He related, without reserve, the whole episode that occurred in the conservatory; and I felt some compunction or annoyance that circumstances prevented me from having the same frankness with him, for none would have rejoiced in my success more warmly than he. "For the life of me, Harry, I can't make out what Miss Lloyd means," said Phil, in a low voice, as he made his Cliquot effervesce, by stirring it with a macaroon; "she was ready enough to love me as a friend, and all that sort of thing." "You have asked her, then?" "Pointedly--hardly know what I said, though--one feels so deuced queer when making love--in earnest, I mean." "A man can do no more than ask." "Except asking again; but tell me, old fellow, have I a chance?" "How should I know, Phil? But I think that the pattern sub of the Royal Welsh Fusileers, made up, like Don Juan, "'By love, by youth, and by an army tailor,' should have a particularly good chance." "_You_ can afford to laugh at me, Harry." "Far from it, Phil; I haven't such a thought, believe me." "Seeing how friendly you are with these girls--with her especially--I thought you might know this. Is any other fellow spooney upon Miss Lloyd?" "A good many may well be; she is lovely." "Well, does any one stand in her good graces?" "Can't say, indeed, Caradoc," said I, as my thoughts reverted to that episode at the goat's-house, and others not dissimilar, with some emotions of compunction, as I looked into Phil's honest brown eyes. He fancied that Winifred avoided him. In that idea he erred. She admired and loved him as a friend--a gentleman who had done her great honour; but she never thought of analysing his emotions farther than to wish him well, and to wish him away from Craigaderyn, after that scene in the conservatory; and remembering it in all its points, she was careful not to trust herself alone with him, lest the subject might be renewed; and yet she found the necessity of approaching it one day, when a sudden recollection struck her, as they were riding home together, and had cantered a little way in advance of their party. "Now that I think of it, Mr. Caradoc," said she, "you must give me that likeness which you wear. I really cannot permit you to keep it, even in jest." "Jest!" repeated Phil, sadly and reproachfully; "do you think so meanly of me as to imagine that I would jest with you or with it?" "But I can see no reason why you should retain it." "Perhaps there is none--and yet, there is. It is the face of one I shall never, never forget; and it is a memento of happy days spent with you--a memento that other eyes than mine shall never look upon." "Do not speak thus, Mr. Caradoc, I implore you!" said Winifred, looking down on her horse's mane. "You will permit me to keep it?" "For a time," said she, trying to smile, but her lips quivered, "Thank you, dear Winifred." "If shown to none." "'While I live none shall see; and if I die in action--as many shall surely do, and why not I as well as happier fellows?--it will be heard of no more?" Caradoc's voice became quite tremulous, either because of Miss Lloyd's obduracy, or that he felt, as many people do, rather pathetic at the thought of his own demise. He had already possessed himself of her whip-hand, when her horse began to rear, and in a minute more they were in the lime avenue; and this proved the last opportunity he had of reasoning with her on the subject that was nearest his heart. He now wished that he had never met Winifred Lloyd, or that, having met, and learned to love her--oddly enough, when his passion was not returned--he could be what her _ideal_ was. "In what," thought he, "am I wanting? Am I too rough, too soldierly, too blunt, unwinning, or what?" It was none of these; for Caradoc was a well-mannered, courteous, gentle, and pleasing young fellow, and by women unanimously deemed handsome and _distingué_. All that day he was unusually cast down and taciturn, though he strove to take an interest in the conversation around him. "By Jove, Hardinge," said he, "I wish you had never brought me here, to renew the hopes I had begun to entertain in London." "Don't lose heart yet, Phil," said I. "But I have to leave for the seat of war--leave her to the chance of being loved by others, without even a promise--" "To what troubles we are exposed in life!" said I, sententiously, and feeling perhaps selfishly secure in my own affair. "Greater troubles perhaps in death," added Phil, gloomily, as he gnawed his moustache. "I sometimes wonder whether man was made for the world, or the world was made for man." "In what respect," said I, surprised by the train of thought so unusual in him. "Look at the newly-born infant, and you will find it difficult to determine. 'He begins his life,' as Pliny says, 'in punishment, and only for being born.'" "Come Phil," said I, "don't get into the blues; and as for Pliny, I left him with Euclid, Straith's _Fortification_, and gunnery, at Sandhurst." The morning mail brought letters from the depôt-adjutant to Phil and me. Their official aspect, as Owen Gwyllim laid them on the breakfast table, attracted the attention of all. The eyes of Winifred were on me, and mine turned instinctively and sadly to Lady Estelle, who grew ashy pale, but seemed intent on some letters of her own. The adjutant's epistles were brief. Caradoc was requested to join at once, his short leave being cancelled, as he had to go with a draft of eighty rank-and-file for the East. My leave was, extended for a fortnight, in consequence of a medical certificate received concerning the accident that had befallen me. So that night saw poor good-hearted Phil depart; and the memory of his thick brown hair and handsome brown moustache, his clear hazel eyes and honest English face dwelt not in the thoughts of her with whom he had left his heart behind. He had the regimental goat in his custody; and when Winifred caressed and kissed her pet, ere it was lifted into the vehicle that was to convey it to Chester, Phil eyed her wistfully; and I knew that he would have given the best of his heart's blood to have felt but one of those kisses on his nut-brown cheek! CHAPTER XVIII.--GUILFOYLE. 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