Under the Red Dragon: A Novel
When his spirit was bold and his courage was high;"
and when he, too, had followed that sound, and ridden across the
stiffest country, neck and neck with the best horsemen in Salop and
Cheshire.
Suddenly there came a shout, and a huntsman in red, minus his black
velvet cap, was seen to clear a beech-hedge on the border of the lawn;
and ere an exclamation of annoyance or indignation could escape old
George Franklin, that his privacy should be invaded, even by a
sportsman, in this unwonted manner, a cry of terror escaped Georgette;
for it was evident that the gentleman's horse had become quite
unmanageable, as the bridle-rein had given way; and after its terrible
leap, it came tearing at a mad pace straight towards the house, and
dashing itself head foremost against a tree, hurled the rider
senseless on the ground. He rolled to the very feet of Georgette and
her father, both of whom were full of pity and compassion, the former
all the more so that the stranger was undoubtedly a handsome man, and
barely yet in the prime of life. Aid was promptly summoned, and the
village doctor, anxious to serve, for a time at least, one whom he
deemed a wealthy patient, earnestly seconded, and even enforced, the
suggestion of the hospitable George Franklin, that the sufferer, whose
head was contused, and whose shoulder-blade had narrowly escaped
fracture, should neither be removed nor disturbed. Hence he was at
once assigned a room in the old mansion, with Georgette's old Welsh
nurse, now the housekeeper, to attend him. He was a man, however, of a
strong constitution, "one of those fellows who are hard to kill," as
he phrased it; thus, on the third morning after the accident, he was
well enough to make his way to the breakfast room.
Georgette, attired in a most becoming muslin dress, and looking fresh,
rosy, and innocent, as a young girl can only look who has left her
couch after a healthy slumber to greet the sunny morning, was standing
on a chair in an oriel, attending to the wants of one of her feathered
pets; suddenly the chair slipped, and she was about to fall, when a
strong arm, in the sleeve of a scarlet hunting-coat, encircled and
supported her. This little _contretemps_ made both parties at once at
home, and on easy terms.
"Mr. Guilfoyle!" exclaimed the girl, for it was he.
"Miss Franklin, I presume?"
"Are you well already?" she asked.
"Nearly so," said he, smilingly, as he took in all the girl's beauty
at a glance, together with the pleasant view beyond the antique oriel,
where the morning sun came down on the shining leaves, covering all
the dewy ground, as it were, with drops of golden light; and the
quaint old house, he thought, seemed such a pleasant home.
"How happy papa will be!" said the young lady, colouring slightly
under his somewhat critical gray--or rather green--eye. "I should have
nursed you myself, instead of old nurse Wynne," she added, archly.
"In that case I should have been in no hurry to announce my
convalescence," said he, rather pointedly; "may I ask your name--the
first one, I mean? Somehow, I fancy that I can judge of character by
the name."
"Georgette Franklin."
"Georgette!"
"I am called after papa."
"A charming name!" he exclaimed, but in a low tone.
Naturally frank and honest, purely innocent, and assured of her own
position, and of that of her father--for though poor now, he was one
of England's old untitled aristocracy--the girl felt neither
awkwardness nor shyness with her new friend, who, though polished in
manner, easy, and not ungraceful, was a thorough man of the world, and
selfishly ready to take advantage of every place and person who came
in his way; and a very simple one, indeed, was the kind old gentleman
who now came to welcome his visitor, to express fears that he had left
his couch too soon; and critically and keenly this hawk, who was now
in the dove's nest, eyed him, and saw, by the thinness of his hair,
his spare figure and wrinkled face, "delicately lined by such
characters as a silver _stylus_ might produce upon a waxen tablet,"
that his years could not be many now; yet his keen gray eyes were full
of bright intelligence still, and were shaded by lashes as long and
silky as those of his daughter.
Hunting and breakfast were discussed together. Mr. Guilfoyle seemed,
or affected to be, an enthusiast in old English sports, professing
that he loved them for themselves and from their associations; and
quite won George Franklin's heart by stigmatising the "iron horse" of
civilisation, which was now bearing all before it; and his host seemed
to grow young again, as he recurred to the field exploits of his
earlier years, over the same ground which Mr. Guilfoyle--who had been
on a visit to the house of some friend twenty miles distant--had
hunted so recently: round beautiful Ellesmere, by Halston and Hordley,
by the flat fields of Creamore, by the base of wooded Hawkstone, where
he had made many a terrible flying leap, and away by Acton Reynald;
all this ground had Guilfoyle gone over but lately, and, as the event
proved, almost fatally for his own bones, and more fatally for his
future peace of mind, as he pretty plainly indicated to Miss Franklin
on every available opportunity, in the softest and most well-chosen
language. Though able to leave his room, he was neither permitted to
leave the house nor attempt to mount; so he wrote to his friend, had
some of his wardrobe sent over to Stoke Franklin, and, encouraged by
the hearty hospitality of its owner, took up his quarters there for an
indefinite period; at least, until his hunting friend should depart
for Madeira, whither he had promised to accompany him; for Mr.
Hawkesby Guilfoyle seemed somewhat of a cosmopolitan, and rather
peripatetic in his habits. He had been over one half the world,
according to his own accounts, and fully intended to go over the
other; so he proved a very agreeable companion to the hitherto lonely
father and daughter in that secluded mansion in Salop. Merciful it is,
indeed, that none of us can lift the veil that hides the future; thus
little could George Franklin foresee the influence this man was to
exert over the fate of his daughter and himself, when he listened to
his plausible anecdotes, or sat alone and happy in his shady old
library, communing pleasantly with his ancient favourites--with
Geoffrey Chaucer, the knightly pages of Froissart, Dame Juliana
Berners on hunting and hawking, and works, rare as manuscripts, that
came from the antique press of Caxton and De Worde. Mr. Guilfoyle
found himself in very pleasant quarters, indeed. It was ever his
principle to improve the occasion or the shining hour. Georgette was
highly accomplished, and knew more than one language; so did he; so
week after week stole pleasantly away.
By them the touching airs of Wales, the merry _chansons_ of Wronger,
were played and sung together; and she it was, and no Princess of
Catzenelnbogen, who taught him that wild German farewell, with its
burden of "Leb'wohl! Leb'wohl!" we had heard at Craigaderyn Court.
Even Petrarch was not omitted by them; for he knew, or pretended to
know, a smattering of Italian, and translated the tenderest speeches
of Laura's lover with a _point_ that caused the young girl's heart to
vibrate with new and strange emotions. And now, ever and anon, there
was a heightened flush on her soft cheek, a bright sparkle in her dark
gray eye, a lightness in all her motions; she had moments of merry
laughter, alternated by others of dreamy sadness--that yet was not all
sadness--which showed that Georgette was in love.
And Guilfoyle, in his own fashion, loved her, too; but he had learned
that of all George Franklin's once noble estate, the house alone
remained, and that at his death even it must inevitably go to the
spoiler; so, though to love Georgette was very pleasant and sweet,
matrimony with her was not to be thought of. Money was the god of
Guilfoyle's idolatry, and he thought of the wonder of his "fast"
friends when they asked, "What did he get with his wife?" and how they
should laugh if they heard he had married for love. Yet Georgette had
become besotted--there is no other word for it, save infatuated--by
him; by one who had made flippant love with strange facility to many.
By degrees he artfully strove to warp or poison the girl's mind; but
finding that instinctively her innocence took the alarm after a time,
though she long misunderstood him, he quite as artfully changed his
tactics, and spoke sorrowfully of his imperative and approaching
departure for Madeira, of the agony such a separation would cause him;
"it might be for years, and it might be for ever," and so forth,
while, reclining in tears on his breast, the girl heard him. Taking
the right time, when she was thoroughly subdued or softened by love,
and fear lest she should lose him, he prayed her to elope or consent
to a private marriage--he was not without hopes that his hunting
friend might officiate as parson. This, he urged, would keep them true
to each other until his return and their final reunion; but to this
measure she would not consent.
"Come with me, then, to Madeira; we shall be back in a month, at
latest."
"But think of dear papa--my poor old papa," replied Georgette,
piteously; "worn as he is with years and infirmity, I cannot leave him
even for so short a time; for who will soothe his pillow when I am
gone?"
"Old moth--Mrs. Wynne can do all that; at least, until we return,"
said he, almost impatiently.
"But must you really go to Madeira?" pleaded the gentle voice.
"I must, indeed: business of the first importance compels me; in fact,
my funds are there," he added, with charming candour, as his hunting
friend had promised to frank him to Funchal and back again to London.
"We shall be gone but a short time, and when we return this dear old
house shall be brighter than ever, and together we shall enliven his
old age. We shall kneel at his feet, darling Georgie, and implore--"
"Why not kneel _now_," urged Georgette, "and beg his consent and
blessing?"
"Nay, that would be inopportune, absurd, melodramatic, and all that
sort of thing. Returning, we shall be linked in the fondest affection;
returning, he will be unable to resist our united supplications. Come,
darling, come with me. Let us despise the silly rules of society, and
the cold conventionalities of this heartless world! Let us live but
for each other, Georgie; and O, how happy we shall be, when we have
passed, through the medium of romance, into the prose of wedded life;
though that life, my darling, shall not be altogether without romance
to us!"
Overcome by the intensity of her affection for this man, her first and
only lover, the poor girl never analysed the inflated sophistries he
poured into her too willing ear, but sank, half fainting with delight,
upon his shoulder. Guilfoyle clasped her fondly in his arms; he
covered her brow, her eyes--and handsome eyes they were--her lips, and
braided hair, with kisses, and in his forcible but somewhat fatuous
language, poured forth his raptures, his love, and his vows of
attachment.
Suddenly a terror came over her, and starting from his arm, she half
repulsed him, with a sudden and sorrowful expression of alarm in her
eye.
"Leave me, Hawkesby," said she, "leave me, I implore you; I cannot
desert papa, now especially, when most he needs my aid. O, I feel
faint, very faint and ill! I doubt not your love, O, doubt not mine;
but--but--'
"I must and do doubt it," said he, sadly and gloomily. "But enough of
this; to-morrow I sail from Liverpool, and _then_ all shall be at an
end."
"O God, how lonely I shall be!" wailed the girl; "I would, dear
Hawkesby, that you had never come here."