Under the Red Dragon: A Novel
hands--"while I loitered and lurked like an outcast!"
"Your husband, madam?" I queried again.
"Mr. Hawkesby Guilfoyle."
Whew! Here was a discovery: it quite took my breath away, and I looked
with deeper interest on the sweet and pale and patient little face.
I now remembered the letter I had picked up and returned to him; his
confusion about it, and the horse he alleged to have lost by at a race
that had not come off; his irritation, the postal marks, and the name
of _Georgette_.
After such a termination to his visit to Craigaderyn, I could fancy
that his situation as a guest or visitor at Walcot Park, even after he
found the ladies there were ignorant of the nature of Sir Madoc's curt
note to him, must be far from enviable, for such as he must live in
hourly dread of insult, slight, or exposure; but how was I now
situated with regard to her I loved?
Deemed, perhaps, guilty in her eyes, and without a crime; and if aware
of the situation, the malevolent Guilfoyle would be sure to avail
himself of it to the fullest extent.
"Lady Estelle is very lovely, as I could see," said my companion.
"Very; but you saw her--when?"
"In Craigaderyn church, most fully and favourably."
And now I recalled the pale-faced little woman in black, who had been
pointed out to me by Winifred Lloyd, and who had been found in a swoon
among the gravestones by old Farmer Rhuddlan.
In all this there was some mystery, which I felt curious enough to
probe, as Guilfoyle had never by word or hint at any time given those
among whom he moved reason to believe he was aught else than a
bachelor, and a very eligible one, too; for if my once rival, as I
believed him to be, was not a creditable, he was certainly a
plausible, one; and here lay with me the means of an _exposé_ beyond
even that which had taken place at Craigaderyn Court.
"You are his wife, madam, and yet--does he, for purposes of his own,
disavow you?" said I, after a pause, not knowing very well how to put
my leading question.
"It is so, sir--for infamous purposes of his own."
"But you have him in your power; you have all the air of a lady of
birth and education--why not come forward and assert your position?"
The woman's soft gray eyes were usually filled by an expression of
great and deep sadness; but there were times when, as she spoke, they
flashed with fire, and there were others, when her whole face seemed
to glitter with "the white light of passion" as she thought of her
wrongs. Restraining her emotion, she replied,
"To assert my claims; that is exactly what I cannot do--now at least."
"Why?"
"Because he has destroyed all the proofs that existed of our unhappy
and most miserable marriage."
"Destroyed them! how?"
"Very simply, by putting them in the fire before my face."
"But a record--a register--must exist somewhere."
"We were married at sea, and the ship, in the chaplain's books of
which the marriage I have no doubt was recorded, perished. Proofs I
have none. But tell me, sir, is it true, that--that he is to be
married to the daughter of Lady Naseby?"
"To Estelle Cressingham?" I exclaimed, while much of amusement mingled
with the angry scorn of my manner.
"Yes," she replied, eagerly.
"No, certainly not; what on earth can have put such an idea into your
head, my good woman?"
My hauteur of tone passed unheeded, as she replied:
"I saw her portrait in the Royal Academy, and heard a gentleman who
stood near me say to another, that it was so rumoured; that he--Mr.
Guilfoyle--had come with her from the Continent, and that he was going
after her down to North Wales. He had said so at the club."
I almost ground my teeth on hearing this. That his contemptible name
should have been linked with hers by empty gossips in public places
like the Royal Academy and "his club," where none dared think of mine,
was intolerable.
"I followed him to Wales," she continued. "I saw nothing at
Craigaderyn church, or elsewhere, on her part to justify the story;
when I met my husband on the lawn at the _fête_--for I was there,
though uninvited--he laughed bitterly at the rumour, and said she was
contracted to Lord Pottersleigh, who, as I might perceive, was ever by
her side. He then gave me money, which I flung on the earth; ordered
me on peril of my life to leave the place, lest he might give notice
to the police that I had no right to be there. But though I have long
since ceased to love, I cannot help hovering near him, and from Wales
I followed him here; for I know that now he is at Walcot Park."
"I can assure you, for your ease, that the Lady Estelle is engaged,
but to a very different person from old Lord Pottersleigh," said I,
twirling the ends of my moustache with undisguised satisfaction, if
not with a little superciliousness; "your husband, however, seems a
man of means, Mrs. Guilfoyle."
She gave me a bitter smile, as she replied, "Yes, at times; and drawn
from various resources. He laughs to scorn now my marriage ring; and
yet he wears the diamond one which I gave him in the days when we were
engaged lovers, and which had once been my dear father's."
The diamond which _she_ gave him! Here, then, was another, and the
most probable version of the history of that remarkable brilliant.
"Of what was it that he deprived you by force, before his horse leaped
the wall?"
"A locket which I wore at my neck, suspended by a ribbon," said she,
as her tears began to fall again.
"He has the family solicitor with him at Walcot Park, I understand,"
said I.
"They are visiting there together. Mr. Sharpus came on business, and
my husband accompanied him."
"Why not appeal to this legal man?
"I have done so many times."
"And he--"
"Fears Mr. Guilfoyle and dare not move in the matter, or affects to
disbelieve me."
"What power has this--your husband, over him?"
"God alone knows--I do not," she replied, clasping her hands; "but Mr.
Sharpus quails like a criminal under the eye of Hawkesby Guilfoyle,
who seems also to possess some strange power over Lady Naseby, I
think."
Could such really be? It seemed impossible; everything appeared to
forbid it; and yet I was not insensible to a conviction that the
dowager countess was rather pleased with, than influenced by, him.
Could he have acted in secret the part of lover to _her_, and so
flattered her weakness by adulation? Old women and old men, too, are
at times absurd enough for anything; and now the words of Caradoc, on
the night he lost money to Guilfoyle at billiards, recurred to me,
when in his blunt way he averred they had all some secret
understanding, adding, "By Jove! I can't make it out at all." My mind
was a kind of chaos as I walked onward with my new friend, and leading
my horse by the bridle we entered Whitchurch together. In the dusk I
left her at the inn door, promising to visit her on the morrow, and
consult with her on the means for farther exposing her husband; for
although her story--for all I knew to the contrary--might be an entire
fabrication, I was not then in a mood of mind to view it as such. As I
bade her adieu, a dog-cart, driven by a servant,--whose livery was
familiar to me, passed quickly. Two women were in it, one of whom
mentioned my name. I looked up and recognised Mademoiselle Babette
Pompon, Lady Naseby's soubrette, who had evidently been shopping; and
a natural dread that she, out of a love of gossip, or the malevolence
peculiar to her class, might mention having seen me at the inn porch
with a fair friend, was now added to the annoyance caused by the
episode at the lane end--an episode to which the said parting would
seem but an addendum or sequel; and I galloped home to my quarters in
a frame of thought far from enviable, and one which neither brandy nor
seltzer at the mess-house could allay.
CHAPTER XXII.--GEORGETTE FRANKLIN'S STORY.
Next day I heard the stranger's story, and it was a sad one. Georgette
Franklin--for such was her unmarried name--was the last surviving
child of George Franklin, a decayed gentleman, who dwelt in Salop,
near the Welsh border--we need not precisely say where, but within
view of the green hills of Denbigh; for the swelling undulations of
the beautiful Clwydian range formed the background to the prospect
from the windows of that quaint old house which was nearly all that
survived of his hereditary patrimony. Stoke Franklin--so named as it
occupied the site of a timber dwelling of the Saxon times, coeval
perhaps with Offa's Dyke--was still surrounded by a defensive ditch or
moat, where now no water lay, but where, in the season, the primroses
grew in golden sheets on the emerald turf. It was an isolated edifice,
built of dark-red brick, with stone corners, stone mullions to its
quaint old sunken windows, and ogee pediments or gables above them,
also of stone. From foundation to chimneys it was quaint in style,
ancient in date, and picturesque in aspect. Long lines of elms, and in
some places pollard willows, marked the boundaries of what had been
the demesne of the Franklins; but piecemeal it had passed away to more
careful neighbours, and now little remained to George Franklin but the
ground whereon the old mansion-house stood, and that sombre green
patch in God's-acre, the neighbouring churchyard, where his wife and
their four children lay, near the ancient yew, the greenery of which
had decorated the altar in the yule feasts of centuries ago, and whose
sturdy branches had furnished bow-staves for the archers who shot
under his ancestors at Bosworth, at Shrewsbury, and Flodden Field.
George Franklin was not a misanthrope; far from it; but he lived very
much alone in the old house. His oaken library, so solemnly tranquil,
with its heavy dark draperies and book-hidden walls, when the evening
sun stole through the deep mullions of the lozenged and painted
windows, was his favourite resort. And a cozy room it proved in
winter, when the adjacent meres were frozen, and the scalp of Moel
Fammau was powdered with snow. There he was wont to sit, with
Georgette by his knee, he reading and she working; a bright-faced,
brown-haired, and lively girl, whose golden canaries and green
love-birds hung in every window; for the house was quite alive with
her feathered pets, and was as full of sound as an aviary with their
voices in summer. One warm evening in autumn, when Georgette was
verging on her eighteenth year, she and her father were seated near
the house-door, under a shady chestnut-tree. The sunshine lay bright
on the greensward, and on the wilderness of flowers and shrubs that
grew close to the massive red walls of the old mansion. Mr. Franklin
was idly lingering over a book and sipping a glass of some dark and
full-bodied old port--almost the last bottle that remained in his now
but ill-replenished cellar. And a very perfect picture the old man
made. His thin but stately figure; his features so patrician in
profile; his dress somewhat old in fashion; his hands, though faded,
so shapely, with a diamond ring on one finger, _the_ diamond ring of
which we have heard so much lately; and the handsome girl who hovered
about him, attending to his little wants, varying her kind offices
with playful caresses, while her white neck and her golden-brown hair
glittered in the sunshine--all this seemed to harmonise well with the
old house that formed the background to the picture. The evening was
quiet and still. The voices of Georgette's birds, her caged canaries
and piping bullfinches, came through the open windows; but there were
no other sounds, save once or twice when the notes of a distant
hunting-horn, prolonged and sad, came on the passing wind, and then
the old man would raise his head, and his clear eye would sparkle,
"As he thought of the days that had long since gone by,