Under the Red Dragon: A Novel

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! CHAPTER XXI .-GEORGETTE FRANKLIN. Had Estelle recognised me? If so, what might she--nay, what must she--think, and how misconstrue the whole situation? Should I ride after the carriage, or write at all risks, and explain the matter, or commit the event to fate? That might be perilous. She may not have recognised me, I thought: the twilight, the shade, the place might have concealed my identity; but if not, they were all the more against me. I was now in greater and more horrible perplexity than ever, and I wished the unhappy little woman, the cause of all, in a very warm climate indeed. Thus, while longing with all the energies of my life to see Estelle, to be seen by her _there_, at a time so liable to misconception if left unexplained, might be death to my dearest hopes, and destruction to the success I had achieved. "Why were you so agitated by the sight of Lady Naseby's carriage?" I asked, with an annoyance of tone that I cared not to conceal. "Giddiness, perhaps; but was I agitated?" "Of course you were--nearly fell; would have fallen flat, indeed, but for me." "I thank you, sir," was the gentle reply; for my asperity of manner was either unnoticed or unheeded by her; "but you seemed scarcely less so." "I, madam!--why the deuce should I have been agitated?" "Unless I greatly err, you were, and are so still." "Indeed!" "Do you know the ladies?" "Were there two?" asked I, with increased annoyance. "The Countess and her daughter." "I saw but one." "And--O, pardon my curiosity, dear sir--you know them?" "Intimately;--and what then?" I asked, with growing irritation. "Intimately!" she repeated, with surprise. "There is nothing very singular in that, I suppose?" "And, sir, you visit them?" "I have not as yet, but hope to do soon. We were all together in the same house in North Wales." "Ah! at Craigaderyn Court?" "Yes; Sir Madoc Lloyd's. Do you know Sir Madoc?" "I have not that pleasure." "Who, then, that you are acquainted with knows him?" "My husband." "Your husband!" said I, glancing at the plain hoop on the delicate little hand, which she was now gloving nervously. "He was there with you; must have been conversing with you often. I saw you all at church together one Sunday afternoon, and frequently on the terraces and on the lawn; while!"--she covered her face with her