Under the Red Dragon: A Novel
"It is one of the oldest of our Welsh superstitions," said Winifred,
somewhat piqued by his tone.
"Why are you so cross with me?" he asked, while venturing just to
touch her hand, as he tied a spray of ivy for her. "Cross--I, with
you?"
"Reserved, then."
"I am not aware, Sir Watkins, that I am either; but please don't begin
to revert to--to--"
"The subject on which we spoke so lately?"
"Yes."
"Ah, Miss Lloyd--my earnest and loving proposal to you."
"In pity say no more about it!" said Winifred, colouring again, but
with intense annoyance at herself for having drawn forth the remark.
"Well, Miss Lloyd, pardon me; I am but a plain fellow in my way, and
your good papa understands me better than you do."
"And likes you better," said she, smiling.
"I am sorry to be compelled to admit that such is the case; but
remember the maxim of Henry IV. of France."
"Why--the roses please--what was it?"
"There are more flies caught by one spoonful of honey than by ten tuns
of vinegar."
"Thanks, very much, for the maxim," replied Winifred, proudly and
petulantly; "but I hope I am not quite of the nature of vinegar, and I
don't wish to catch flies or anything else."
It was now Sir Watkins' turn to blush, which he did furiously, for her
proud little ways perplexed him; but she added, with a laugh,
"The base of the next pillar requires our attention, and then I think
the decorations are ended. Do let the cobwebs alone with your whip,
and assist me, if you would please me."
"There is not in all the world a girl I would do more to please," said
Sir Watkins, earnestly, his blue eyes lighting up with honest
enthusiasm as he spoke in a low and earnest tone, "and I know that
there is not in all England another girl like you, Winifred: you quite
distance them all, and it is more than I can understand how it comes
to pass that those who--who--don't love you--"
"Well, what, Sir Watkins?"
"Can love any one else!" said he, confusedly, while smoothing his fair
moustache, for there was a quick flash in the black eyes of Winifred
Lloyd that puzzled him. In fact, though he knew it not, or was without
sufficient perception to be aware of it, this was an offhand style of
love-making that was infinitely calculated to displease if not to
irritate her.
"You flatter me!" said she, her short upper lip curling with an
emotion of disdain she did not care at that moment to conceal.
"Does it please you?"
"No."
"I am sorry for that, as we are generally certain of the gratitude at
least, if not the love, of those we flatter."
Much more of this sort of thing, almost sparring, passed between them;
for Sir Watkins, piqued by her rejection of him, would not permit
himself again as yet to address her in the language of genuine
tenderness, and most unwisely adopted a manner that had in it a
_soupçon_ of banter. But Winifred Lloyd heard him as if she heard him
not: the memories of past days were strong at that time in her heart,
and glancing from time to time towards the old oak family pew, then
half lost in obscurity and gloom, she filled it up in fancy with the
figures of some who were far away--of Philip Caradoc and another; of
Estelle Cressingham, who, for obvious reasons of her own, had omitted
her and Dora from the Christmas circle at Pottersleigh House; and so,
while Sir Watkins continued to speak, she scarcely responded. The
girl's thoughts "were with her heart, and that was far away," to where
the lofty batteries of Sebastopol and the red-and-white marble cliffs
of Balaclava looked down upon the Euxine, where scenes of which her
gentle heart could form no conception were being enacted hourly; where
human life and human agony were of no account; and where the festival
of the Babe that was born at Bethlehem, as a token of salvation,
peace, and goodwill unto men, was being celebrated by Lancaster guns
and rifled cannon, by shot and shell and rockets, and every other
device by which civilisation and skill enable men to destroy each
other surely, and expeditiously.
Just as some such ideas occurred to her she saw her father, followed
by old Owen Gwyllim, enter the church, and in the faces of both she
read an expression of concern that startled her; and from her hands
she dropped the ivy sprays and paper roses, which she was entwining
together. Sir Madoc held in his hand an open newspaper, with which the
old butler had just ridden over from the Court, and he silently
indicated a certain paragraph to the curate, who read it and then
lifted up his hands and eyes, as with sorrow and perplexity.
"What the devil is up now?" asked Sir Watkins, bluntly; "no bad news
from the Crimea, I hope--eh?"
"Very--very bad news! we have lost a dear, dear friend!" replied Sir
Madoc, letting his chin drop on his breast; while Sir Watkins, taking
the journal from his hand, all unconscious of error or misjudgment,
read aloud:
"'It is now discovered beyond all doubt, by the Chief of the Staff,
that Captain Henry Hardinge, of the Royal Welsh Fusileers, whose
disappearance, when on a particular duty, was involved in so much
mystery, has been drowned in the Black Sea, by which casualty a most
promising young officer has been lost to her Majesty's service.'"
"Drowned--Harry Hardinge drowned in the Black Sea!" exclaimed Dora,
with sudden tears and horror.
"By Jove, the same poor fellow I met at your fête, I think--so sorry,
I am sure!" said Sir Watkins, with well-bred regret; "and see--I have
quite startled poor Miss Lloyd!"
Winifred, who for a moment seemed turned to stone, covered her face
with her handkerchief, while her whole delicate form shook with the
sobs she dared not utter.
Mothers, wives, and friends, the tender, the loving, and the true, had
all read, until their hearts grew sick and weary, of the perils and
sufferings of those who were before Sebastopol, as the horrors of the
Crimean winter, adding to those which are ever attendant on war,
deepened over them. And now here was one horror more--one that was
quite unlooked for in its nature, but which now came home to their own
hearts and circle.
"Take me away, papa--take me home!" said Winifred, in a faint voice,
as she laid her face on his shoulder, for her tears were
irrepressible; and the tall, slender curate in the long coat--an
Oxonian, who chanted some portions of his church service, turned to
the east when he prayed, had an altar whereon were sundry brazen
platters, like unto barbers' basins, and tall candles, which (as yet)
he dared not light, and who secretly, but hopelessly, admired Winifred
in his inner heart--knew not what to think of all this sudden emotion;
but he kindly caressed her passive white hands between his own, and
whispered lispingly in her ear, that "the Lord loved those whom He
chastened--afflictions come not out of the ground--all flesh was
grass--that God is the God of the widow and fatherless--yet there were
more thorns than roses in our earthly path," with various other old
stereotyped crumbs of comfort.
"To the Court--home!" cried Sir Madoc; "call round the carriages to
the porch, Owen, and let us begone."
A few minutes after this they had all quitted the church, and were
being driven home in their close vehicle, Sir Watkins excepted, who
drove in his dog-cart, sucking a cigar he had forgotten to light, and
wondering what the deuced fuss was all about. Had Hardinge stood in
his way? If so, by Jove, there was a chance for him yet, thought the
good-natured fellow. In the dark depth of the large family carriage,
as it bowled along noiselessly by a road where the white mantle of
winter lay so deep by hill and wood that one might have thought the
Snow-King of the Norsemen had come again, Winifred could weep freely;
and as she did so, her father's arm stole instinctively and
affectionately round her.
"Drowned," she whispered in his ear; "poor Harry drowned--and I loved
him so!"
"It may all be some d--d mistake," sighed Sir Madoc, in sore grief and
perplexity.
"But, O papa," whispered the girl, "I loved him so--loved him as
Estelle Cressingham never, never did!"
"You, my darling?"
"Yes, papa."
"My poor pet! I suspected as much all along. Well, well, we are all in
the hands of God. It is a black Christmas, this, for us at
Craigaderyn, and I shall sorrow for him even as Llywarch Hen sorrowed
of old for all the sons he lost in battle. But what a strange fatality
to escape so narrowly at the Bôd Mynach, and then to be drowned in the
distant East!"
And with a heart swollen alike by prayer and sorrow, the girl, whose
tender and long-guarded secret had at last escaped her in the shock of
grief, sat alone in her room that night, and heard the Christmas
chimes ringing out clearly and merrily to all, it seemed, but for her;
for those bells, those gladsome bells, which speak to every Christian
heart of bright hope here and brighter hope elsewhere, seemed to chime
in vain for Winifred Lloyd; so she thought in her innocent heart, "I
shall go to him yet, though he can never come back to me!"
CHAPTER XLIV.--THE CASTLE OF YALTA.
I presume that I need scarcely inform my reader that, notwithstanding
the predicament in which a preceding chapter left me, and the tenor of
that paragraph which caused such consternation among my warm-hearted
Welsh friends at Craigaderyn, I was _not_ drowned in the Black Sea,
though my dip in the waters thereof was both a cold and deep one. Such
fellows as I, are, perhaps, hard to kill--at least, I hope so. On
rising to the surface, I found myself minus forage-cap, sword, and
revolver, and also my horse, which, being sorely wounded, floated away
out of the creek into which we had fallen (or been hurled by the
Cossack lances), and the poor animal was helplessly drowned, without
making any attempt to swim landward. This was, perhaps, fortunate for
me, as the Cossacks saw it drifting in the moonlight, and continued to
fire at it with their carbines, leaving me to scramble quietly ashore
unnoticed and unseen.
My swimming powers are very small; thus, when just about to sink a
second time, I was fortunate enough to grasp some sturdy juniper
bushes, that grew among the rocks and overhung the water. Aided by
these I gained footing on a ledge in safety, and remained there for a
few minutes, scarcely venturing to breathe, until all sounds ceased on
the cliffs above, and the flashing of the Cossacks' carbines, and
their wild hurrahs died away; and the moment I was assured of silence,
I proceeded steadily, but not without great difficulty, to climb to
the summit of the opposite side of the creek, my recently fractured
arm feeling stiff and feeble the while, three lance-prods bleeding
pretty freely, and my undress uniform wet, sodden, and becoming
powdered fast by the still falling flakes of snow. Even amid all that
bodily misery I thought more sorrowfully than bitterly of her I had
lost.
"Estelle gone from me, a terrible death before me, either by capture
or privation," thought I. "What have I done, O God, to be dealt with
thus hardly?"
Even mortification that I had failed in the execution of my once
coveted duty, existed no longer in my heart, at that time at least. At
last I gained the summit; the uprisen moon was shining on the
far-stretching Euxine, and casting a path of glittering splendour on
its waters, even to the foot of the cliffs on which I stood. On the
other side, to my comfort, the scouting Cossacks had entirely
disappeared. That Count Volhonski, once my pleasant companion in
Germany, and in whose way, coincidence and chance had so often cast
me, should have fallen by my hand, was certainly a source of deep
regret to me; but for a time only; a sense of my own pressing danger
soon became paramount to all minor considerations. Exposure to the