"Thrice the double twilight rose and fell,About a land where nothing seemed the same,At morn or eve, as in the days gone by."
"Thrice the double twilight rose and fell,About a land where nothing seemed the same,At morn or eve, as in the days gone by."
This had all passed and gone; but I was weak as a child, and worn to a shadow; and by neglect had become invested with hirsute appendages of the most ample proportions.
And so, without the then hackneyed excuse of "urgent private affairs," on an evening in summer, when the last rays of the sun shone redly on the marble bluffs and copper-coloured rocks of Cape Khersonese--the last point of that fatal peninsula towards the distant Bosphorus--and when the hills that look down on the lovely Pass of Baidar and the grave-studded valley of Inkermann were growing dim and blue, I found myself again at sea, on board the Kangaroo--a crowded transport (or rather a floating hospital)--speeding homeward, and bidding "a long good-night to the Crimea," to the land of glory and endurance.
Sebastopol seemed a dream now, but a memory of the past; and a dream, too, seemed my new life when I lay on my couch at the open port, and saw the crested waves flying past, as we sped through them under sail and steam.
Onward, onward, three hundred miles and more across the Euxine, to where the green range of the Balkan looks down upon its waters, and where the lighthouses of Anatolia on one side, and those of Roumelia on the other, guide to the long narrow channel of Stamboul; but ere the latter was reached--and on our starboard bow we saw the white waves curling over the blue Cyanean rocks, where Jason steered the Argonauts--we had to deposit many a poor fellow in the deep; for we had four hundred convalescent and helpless men on board, and only one surgeon, with scarcely any medicines or comforts for them, as John Bull, if he likes glory, likes to obtain itcheap. It was another case of Whig parsimony; so every other hour an emaciated corpse, rolled in a mud-stained greatcoat or well-worn blanket, without prayer or ceremony of any kind, was quietly dropped to leeward, the 32-pound shot at its heels making a dull plunge in that huge grave, the world of water, which leaves no mark behind.
I gladly left the Kangaroo at Pera, and, establishing myself at the Hôtel d'Angleterre, wrote from thence to Sir Madoc that I should take one of the London liners at Malta for England, and to write me to the United Service Club in London; that all my plans for the future were vague and quite undecided; but I was not without hope of getting some military employment at home. The Frankish hotel was crowded by wounded officers, alsoen routefor England or France, all in sorely faded uniforms, on which the new Crimean medals glittered brightly. As all the world travels nowadays, I am not going to "talk guide-book," or break into ecstasies about the glories of Stamboul as viewed from a distance, and not when floundering mid-leg deep in the mud of its picturesque but rickety old thoroughfares; yet certainly the daily scene before the hotel windows was a singular one; for there were stalwart Turkish porters, veritable sons of Anak; stagey-looking dragomen, with brass pistols and enormous sabres in wooden sheaths; the Turk of the old school in turban, beard, slippers, and flowing garments; the Turk of the new, whom he despised, close shaven, with red fez and glazed boots; water-carriers; Osmanli infantry, solemn, brutal, and sensual, jostled by rollicking British tars and merry little French Zouaves; and for a background, the city of the Sultans, with all its casements, domes, and minarets glittering in the unclouded sunshine.
Two light cavalry subs, who had ridden in the death ride at Balaclava, and bore some cuts and slashes won therein, three others of the Light Division, and myself, agreed to travel homeward together; and pleasant days we had of it while skirting the mountainous isles of Greece, Byron's
"Isles of Greece, where burning Sappho loved and sung,"
and the tints of which seemed all brown or gray as we saw them through the vapour exhaled in summer from the Ægean Sea, with their little white villages shadowed by trees, their rocks like sea-walls, crowned here and there by the columns, solitary and desolate, of some temple devoted to the gods of other days--"a country rich in historic reminiscence, but poor as Sahara in everything else."
And so on by Malta and old Gib; and exactly fourteen days after leaving the former we were cleaving the muddy bosom of Father Thames; and that night saw me in my old room at "the Rag," with the dull roar of mighty London in my ears; and after the rapid travelling I went to sleep, as addled as a fly could be in a drum.
The comfort and splendour of the fashionable club-house, the tall mirrors, the gilded cornices, the soft carpets, the massive furniture, the powdered and liveried waiters gliding noiselessly about, all impressed me with a high sense of the intense snugness of England and ofhome, after my airy tent, with its embankment of earth for shelter, its smoky funnel of mess-tins, and the tiny trench cut round it to carry away the rainwater. Then I was discussing a breakfast which, after my Crimean experience, seemed a feast fit for Lucullus or Apicius, and listening with something of a smile to the rather loud conversation of some members of the club--wiry old Peninsulars, Waterloo and India men, who were certain "the service was going to the devil," and who drew somewhat disparaging comparisons between the way matters had been conducted by our generals and those of the war under Sir John Moore, Lynedoch, Hill, and "the Iron Duke;" and to me it seemed that the old fellows were right, and that after forty years of peace we had learned nothing new in the art of campaigning.
"Captain Hardinge, a gentleman for you, sir," said a waiter, presenting me with a card on a silver salver; and I had barely time to look at it ere Sir Madoc Lloyd, in top-boots and corded breeches as usual--his ruddy sunburnt face, his white hair and sparkling dark eyes, in his cheery breezy way the same as ever--entered, hat and whip in hand, and welcomed me home so warmly, that for a moment he drew the eyes of all in the room upon us. He had breakfasted two hours before--country time--and had a canter round the Park. He was in town on Parliamentary business, but was starting that afternoon for Craigaderyn. I should accompany him, of course, he added, in his hearty impetuous way. Then ere I could speak,--
"God bless my soul!" he exclaimed. "Poor Harry! till I have seen you I could not realise the idea of your being mutilated thus! No more hunting, no more shooting, no more fishing----"
"And no more dancing, the ladies would add," said I, smiling.
"And no more soldiering."
"Unless the Queen kindly permits me."
"Gad! I think you have had enough of it!"
"And--and Miss Lloyd and Dora?"
"Are both well and looking beautiful. There are not many girls in Wales like my girls. A seaside trip has brought back the bloom to Winny's cheeks; and as for Dora, she never loses it."
"And why did Miss Lloyd refuse an offer so eligible as that of Sir Watkins Vaughan?" I asked, after a pause.
"Can't for the life of me say," replied Sir Madoc, rubbing his chin, and turning to the decanter as a waiter set some dry sherry and biscuits before us.
"And why would not my little friend Dora have her Guardsman?"
"Can't say that, either. Perhaps she hated a 'swell' with an affected 'yaw-haw' impediment in his speech. Girls are so odd; but mine are dear girls for all that. I'll telegraph to Owen Gwyllim to have the carriage awaiting us at Chester; and we shall leave town before luncheon-time, if you have no other plans or engagements."
"I have neither; but--but, Sir Madoc, why so soon?" I asked, as certain passages in my later visits to Craigaderyn gave me a twinge of compunction. "Now that I think of it, I had an idea of taking a run down to Lewes in Sussex," said I.
"Lewes in Sussex--a dreary place, though in a first-rate coursing country. I've ridden there with the Brighton Hunt. What would take you there--before coming to us, at least?"
I coloured a little, and said,
"I have a friend there, among the Russian prisoners."
"By Jove, I think you've had enough of those fellows! Nonsense, Harry! We shall start without delay. Why waste time and money in London?" said Sir Madoc, who never liked his plans or wishes thwarted. "I have just to give a look at a brace of hunters at Tattersall's for Vaughan, and then I am with you. Down there, with our fine mountain breezes, our six-months' Welsh mutton, and seven-years' cliquot, we'll make a man of you again. I can't get you an arm, Harry; but, by Jove, it will go hard with us if we don't get youtwobelonging to some one else!"
I laughed at this idea; and so that evening saw me again far from London, and being swept as fast as the express could speed along the North-Western line towards Chester. I had quite a load of Russian trophies--such were then in great request--for Sir Madoc: sabres, muskets, and bayonets; glazed helmets of the 26th and Vladimir Regiments, a Zouave trumpet (with a banner attached), trod flat as a pancake under the feet of the stormers as they poured into the Malakoff. There, too, were several rusty fragments of exploded shells, hand-grenades, and the last cannon-shot fired from the Mamelon Vert. For Winifred and Dora I had mother-of-pearl trunks of rare essences and perfumes; slender gilt vials of attar of roses; daintily-embroidered Turkish slippers, with turned-up toes, and bracelets of rose-pearls from Stamboul; Maltese jewelry, lace, veils, and as many pretty things as might have stocked a little shop in the Palais Royal or the Burlington Arcade.
The month was June, and my spirits became more and more buoyant, as in the open carriage we bowled along between the green mountains and the waving woodlands. Now the mowers, scythe in hand, were bending over the fragrant and bearded grass; the ploughmen were turning up the fallow soil; the squirrels were feasting in the blossom; the sheep were being driven to fold; and the crow was flying aloft, ere he sought his nest "in the rooky wood." It was a thorough English June evening: the air pure, the sunshine bright, and casting the shadows of the mountains far across the vales and fresh green meadows; the blackbird, thrush, and linnet sang on every tree, and a glow of happiness came over me; for all around the land looked so peaceful and so lovely, the gray smoke curling up from copse and dingle to mark where stood those "free fair homes of England," of which Mrs. Hemans sang so sweetly. Sir Madoc was discoursing on the cultivation of turnips and mangold wurzels, and on the mode of extirpating annual darnel-grass, coltsfoot, wild charlock, and other mysterious plants to me unknown; and I heard him as one in a dream, when we entered the long lime avenue.
How pleasant and picturesque looked the old house of the Tudor times at the end of that long leafy vista, with all its tinted oriels, its gilded vanes, and quaint stone finials! The woodbine, clematis, and ivy, hops and honeysuckle, all blended in luxuriant masses, aspiring to peep in at the upper windows. Craigaderyn, so redolent of fruit and flowers, of fresh sweet air, of bright green leaves, of health and every bracing element--a hearty old house, where for generations the yule log had blazed, and the holly-branch and the mistletoe hung from the old oak roof, when the snow lay deep on Carneydd Llewellyn; where the boar's head was served up in state at Christmas, and at Michaelmas the goose; where so many brides had come home happy, and so many old folks, full of years and honour, gone to the vault of the old church among the hills; where lay all the line of Lloyd, save the luckless Sir Jorwerth Du; and where--. But here my somewhat discursive reverie was interrupted by the carriage being pulled sharply up at the perron before the entrance; and Owen Gwyllim, with his wrinkled face beaming, and his white head glistening in the sunshine, hastened down to open the door, arrange the steps, and shake the only hand the Russians had left me.
"Where are the young ladies?" asked Sir Madoc, impatiently glancing up at all the windows.
"Gone for a ride so far as Llandudno, with Miss Vaughan."
"Alone?"
"No, Sir Madoc, attended by Spurrit, the groom. They were gone before your telegram arrived, but are to be back before the first bell rings for dinner."
And now, after a little attention to my toilet, I was ushered into the drawing-room, every object in which was so familiar to me; and seating myself in the corner of an oriel, I gave way to a long train of deep thought; for I was left quite alone just then, as Sir Madoc found letters of importance awaiting him; and now, induced by the heat of evening, the stillness broken only by the tinkle of a sheep-bell and the hum of the bees at the open window, and by the length and rapidity of my journey, I actually dozed quietly off to sleep.
Brief though my nap of "forty winks," I had within it a little dream, induced, no doubt, by my return to Wales, and by my surroundings, as it was of Winifred Lloyd, of past tenderness, and our old kind, flirting, cousinly intercourse, beforeotherscame between us; for Winifred had ever been as a sister to me, and dearer, perhaps. Now I thought she was hanging over me with much of sorrowful yearning in her soft face, and saying,
"Papa will not be here for an hour, perhaps, and for that hour I may have him all to myself, to watch. Poor Harry, so bruised, so battered, and so ill-used by those odious wretches!"
Her lips were parted; her breath came in short gasps.
Was it imagination or reality that a kiss or a tress of her hair touched my cheek so lightly? There was certainly a tear, too!
I started and awoke fully, to see her I dreamt of standing at the side of my chair, with one hand resting on it, while her soft eyes regarded me sadly, earnestly, and--there is no use evading it--lovingly. She wore her blue riding-habit, her skirt gathered in the hand which held her switch and buff gauntlets; and though her fine hair was beautifully dressed under her riding-hat, one tresswasloose.
"Dear Winifred, my appearance does not shock you, I hope?" said I, clasping her hand tenderly, and perhaps with some of that energy peculiar to those who have but one.
"Thank Heaven, it is no worse!" she replied; "but, poor Harry Hardinge, an arm is a serious loss."
"Yet I might have come home, likeLe Diable Boiteux, on two wooden stumps, as Dora once half predicted; but even as it is, my round-dancing is at an end now. By the way, I have a sorrowful message for you."
"Then I don't want to hear it. But from whom?"
"One who can return no more, but one who loved you well--Phil Caradoc."
A shade of irritation crossed her face for a moment; and then, with something of sorrow, she asked,
"And this message?--poor fellow, he fell at the Redan!"
"His last thoughts and words were of you, Winny--amid the anguish of a mortal wound," said I; and then I told her the brief story of his death, and of his interment in the fifth parallel. Her eyes were very full of tears; yet none fell, and somehow my little narrative failed to excite her quite so much as I expected.
"Did you not love him?"
"No," she replied, curtly, and gathering up the skirt of her habit more tightly, as if to leave me.
"Did you never do so?"
"Why those questions?--never, save as a friend--poor dear Mr. Caradoc! But let us change the subject," she added, her short lip quivering, and her half-drooped eyelids, too.
I was silent for a minute. I knew that, with a knowledge of the secret sentiment which Winifred treasured in her heart for myself, I was wrong in pursuing thus the unwelcome theme of Caradoc's rejection; moreover, there are few men, if any, who would not have felt immensely flattered by the preferences of a girl so bright and beautiful, so soft and artless, as Miss Lloyd; and I found myself rapidly yielding to the whole charm of the situation.
"How odd that you should have returned on my birthday!" said she, playing with her jewelled switch, and permitting me to retain her ungloved hand in mine.
"Your birthday."
"Yes; I am just twenty-three."
"The number of the old corps, Winifred--the number, see it when he may, a soldier never forgets."
"But I hope you have bidden good-bye to it for ever."
"Too probably; and you cannot know, dear Winifred, how deep is the pleasure I feel in being here again, after all I have undergone--here in pleasant Craigaderyn; and more than all with you--hearing your familiar voice, and looking into your eyes."
"Why?" she asked, looking out on the sunlit chase.
"Can you ask me why, when you know that I love you, Winny, and have always loved you?"
"As a friend, of course," said she, trembling very much; "yes--but nothing more."
"I repeat that I love you tenderly and truly; have I not ever known your worth, your goodness--"
"Is this true, Harry Hardinge?" she asked, in a low voice, as my arm encircled her, and she looked coyly but tremblingly down.
"True as that God now hears us, my darling, whom I hope yet to call my wife!"
"O, say it again and again, dear Harry," said she, in a low voice like a whisper; "I did so doubt it once--did so doubt that you would ever, ever love me, who--who--loved you so," she continued, growing very pale. "It may be unwomanly in me to say this, Harry; but I am not ashamed to own it now."
"To a poor cripple, a warlike fragment from the Crimea," said I, with a smile, as caressingly I drew her head down on my shoulder; and while I toyed with her dark-brown hair, and gazed into her tender violet-coloured eyes, I thought, "How can a man love any but a woman with eyes and hair like Winny's?"
(At that moment I quite forgot how fatuously I had worshipped the thick golden tresses, the snow-white skin, and deep black eyes of Valerie. And it was formethat Winny had declined poor Phil, Sir Watkins, and some one else! O, I certainly owed her some reparation!)
"Bless you, darling, for your love," said I; "and I think our marriage will make good Sir Madoc so happy."
"You were ever his favourite, Harry."
"And you have actually loved me, Winny--"
"Ever since I was quite a little girl," she replied, in a low voice, while blushing deeply now.
"Ah, how blind I have been to the best interests of my heart! I always loved you, Winifred; but I never knew how much until now."
"I am sure, Harry, that I--that I shall--"
"What, love?"
"Make you a very, very good little wife, and be so kind to you after all you have undergone."
As she said this, with something between coyness and artlessness that proved very bewitching, I pressed her close to me, and there flashed upon my memory the dream of her, as I lay wounded and athirst near the ditch of the Redan, and also the singular coincidence of her pet goat leading to my discovery when lying half buried under the dead horse and cannon-wheel on the field of Inkermann.
"Papa and Dora," said she, in a low broken voice, "on that day when my great grief came--"
"Which grief?"
"The tidings of your being drowned," she continued, weeping at the recollection, "and when I let out the long-hidden secret of my heart, told me not to weep for you, Harry; that you were far happier elsewhere than on earth; that you were in Heaven; and poor papa said over and over again the Welsh prayer which ends Gogoniant ir Tad, ac ir Mab, ac ir Yspryd Glan."
"What on earth is all that!" I asked, smiling.
"Glory to the Father, the Son, and so on. Well, Harry, it was all in vain. I felt that in losing you I had lost the desire of my eyes, the love of my girl's heart--for I always did love you, and I care not to tell you so openly again," she added, as the tender arms went round me, and the loving lips sought mine. "My crave for news from the seat of war, and the terror with which I read those horrible lists, Harry, are known to myself only; yet why should I say so? many others, whose dearest were there, must have felt and endured as I did."
"All that is over now, pet Winny."
"And you are here with us again, Harry."
"And am yours--yours only!"
"But there is the bell to dress for dinner, Harry--and here come Dora and Gwenny Vaughan," she added, giving a hasty smooth to her hair, which somehow had been a little rumpled during the preceding conversation.
The two girls came in for a minute or so, in their hats and riding habits; the last-named was a very beautiful and distinguished-looking blonde, who could talk about hunting like an old whipper-in, and who received me with kind interest, while Dora did so with her usual gushingempressement.
The dinner, which came subsequently in due course, was rather a tame affair to Winny and me, when contrasted with our recent interview in the drawing-room; but the tender secret we now shared, and the perfect consciousness that no obstacle existed to our marriage, made us both so radiantly happy, that Sir Madoc's rubicund face wore a comical and somewhat perplexed expression, till we had our postprandial cigar together in the conservatory. So the whole affair came about in the fashion I have narrated; yet but a day or two before, I had been affecting a desire to visit the Russian prisoners at Lewes!
At table, of course, I required much assistance, and though I urged that Owen Gwyllim or one of the footmen should attend me, there was often a friendly contention among the three girls to cut my food for me, as if I were a great baby; and like something of that kind, I was flattered, petted, and made much of; and there was something so pleasant in being thus made a fuss with, and viewed as a "Crimean hero," that I scarcely regretted the bones I had left at the Redan.
"And so, poor Harry," said Dora, after hearing the story of that affair, "you had no brave beautiful Sister of Mercy to nurse you?"
"No; I had only Corporal Mulligan, a true and brave-hearted Irishman, who lost an eye at Alma; and a kind-hearted fellow he was!"
Winifred did not talk much; but in her place as hostess seemed brilliantly happy, and quite her old self. We had all a thousand things to talk of, to tell, and to ask each other; and the fate of that strange creature Guilfoyle, or rather the mystery which then attended it, excited almost the commiseration of Sir Madoc, who, once upon a time, was on the point of horse-whipping him. On certain points connected with my residence at Yalta, I was, of course, as mute as a fish.
Of Caradoc he spoke with genuine sorrow--the more so, as he was the last of an old, old Welsh line.
"Poor fellow!" said he; "Phil was a man of whom we may say that which was averred of Colonel Mountain, of the Cameronians, 'that though he were cut into twenty pieces, yet every piece would be a gentleman!'"
Over our cigars, I told Sir Madoc all that had passed between Winifred and me, and begged his approbation; and I have no words to express how enthusiastic the large-hearted and jolly old man became; how rejoiced, and how often he shook my hand, assuring me that he had ever loved me quite as much as if I had been a son of his own; that his Winny was one of the best girls in all Wales--true as steel, and one who, when she loved, did so for ever.
"I thank Heaven," he added, "you didn't get that slippery eel, my Lady Aberconway!"
"So do I, now, Sir Madoc," was my earnest response.
But I had not yet seen quite the last of Estelle Cressingham.
Of her Winifred must, at times, have been keenly and bitterly jealous, yet she was too gentle, too ladylike and enduring, to permit such an emotion to be visible to others.
And so it came to pass, as perhaps Sir Madoc had foreseen, by the doctrine of chances, and without any romance or sensationalism, that in the bright season of summer, Winifred and I--after a short engagement, and many a delicious ramble by the Elwey and Llyn Aled, in the Martens' dingle and by the old rocking-stone--were married in Craigaderyn Church, by her secret admirer, the tall pale curate in the long, long coat, "assisted" by another (as if aid in such cases were necessary); and amid the summer sounds that came floating through the open porch and pointed windows, with the yellow flakes of hazy sunshine, when I heard the voice of the pastor uniting us, I remembered the Sunday we were all last in the same place, and the daydreams in which I had indulged during the prosy sermon, when I fancied the same solemn service being said, and when, by some magic, the image of Winifredwouldever come in the place of another.
Sir Watkins Vaughan, a purpose-like and gentlemanly young fellow, a prime bat and bowler, a good shot and good horseman, a thorough Englishman and lover of all field sports, and who acted as my groomsman, was so intent on looking at Dora--radiant in white crape and tulle as one of her sister's bridesmaids--that he made, as he said, "a regular mull" of drawing off my glove, an office which I could not have done for myself.
At last the whole was over; the golden hoop had been slid on the slender figure of a tremulous little hand; we were made one "till death do us part;" and after the usual kisses and congratulations, came forth into the glorious sunshine, while overhead the marriage chimes rang merrily in the old square tower which Jorwerth ap Davydd Lloyd had founded in honour of St. David five hundred years ago. Then came the cheers in the churchyard--cheers that might wake the dead below the green turf; the guttural Celtic voices of the tenants and peasantry, the general jollity, with much twangle-dangling of harps borne by certain itinerant and tipsy bards, attracted thither by the coin and the well-known Cymric proclivities of Sir Madoc; and loud on all hands were praises of the beauty of theBriodasferch(Welsh euphony for bride), with prayers for her future happiness, as we drove away to luncheon.
All the household held high festival. Owen Gwyllim wept in his glee, and drank our healths in mulled port with Mrs. Davis (for whom he had a tenderness) in her room; and Bob Spurrit and Morgan Roots, and all the valets and gamekeepers, did ditto with mulled ale in the "servants' 'all," while we, leaving all to feast and speechify at Craigaderyn, were speeding, as fast as four horses could take us, to hide our blushes at Brighton. . . . After the stormy life I had led how sweet and blessed were home-rest with Winifred! No tempests of thought, of pique or jealousy, of disappointment or bitterness, agitated me now. It was all like first love, and calmly as the summer gloaming among the mountains, the joyous time glided away with us. I felt how truly she had clung to me, and loved me as only those who have long been loved in secret, and whose value, to the heart at least, has been ascertained, by having been to all appearance lost in life, and lost in death, too--for had I not been so to her?--and been mourned for as only the dead, who can return no more, are mourned. Yet I had survived all the perils of war, and her arms were round me now.
How strange it seemed, that I should once have been so indifferent to all the graces of her mind and person; that I had been wont to quiz poor Caradoc about her, and had more than once actually suggested that he should "propose;" and so, when I looked into her tender and loving eyes, I recalled her words on that day when, on a time that seemed so long ago, we had a ramble by the rocking-stone, and when she said, "the eye may be pleased, the vanity flattered, and ambition excited by a woman of beauty, especially if she is one of rank; yet the heart may be won by one her inferior." But I considered my little wife inferior to none and second to none. After all my wild work in the field and trenches, there was something wonderfully refreshing, bewitching, and attractive in having her hovering and gliding about me, and all her sweet companionship; and it wassodelightful and novel to have those quick and white and fairy-like fingers to adjust one's necktie, to settle one's collar, and give, perhaps, just a finishing touch with a carved ivory brush to the back-parting of one's hair. Ithadseemed odd to me, at first, those bracelets, tiny rings, and hair-pins at times on my toilet table; and equally odd to her my collars, ties, studs, and razors sometimes left on hers; and we were laughing and chatting merrily of this community in matters one lovely morning at Brighton, when the sun was shining on the sea, that was dotted by a thousand pleasure-boats, and was all rippling in golden light from the snow-white cliffs of Beachy Head to Selsea Bill, and while the merry voices of children came pleasantly on the warm air from the Marine Parade, as we were seated at breakfast with the hotel windows open.
Winifred was looking as only a young bride in her first bloom can look. She was more radiant than she had ever seemed even at Craigaderyn; and through the frills of her morning dress, a marvel of white lace and millinery, her slender throat and delicate arms, without necklet or bracelet, were seen to perfection, and I thought she never seemed so charming, as she sat smiling at me over the silver urn. Thus one quite forgot the fragrant coffee, the French rolls that lay cosily hidden in the damask napkin, the dainty fresh eggs, the game-pie, the ham done up in Madeira, and as for the well-aired morning papers, they were never thought of at all. On the morning in question my valet, Lance-corporal Mulligan, entered the room with our letters on a salver. I had picked up the poor fellow by the merest chance one night at the Brighton Theatre, where he had been receiving, as a super and sham soldier in a suit of tin armour, one shilling per night, exactly what he got from her Majesty's most liberal government for risking his life night and day as a real one; and so, minus an eye, he had betaken himself, after fighting at Alma and storming the Redan, to figuring at the Battle of Bosworth and marching to Dunsinane. So he came to me gladly, while his Biddy and a chubby Pat, born under canvas among the tents of the Connaught Rangers, were snugly located in one of the gate-lodges at Craigaderyn.
Erect as a pike he marched up to the table and laid the letters before Winny, all save one, which he handed to me. It was oblong, official, and inscribed "On her Majesty's Service," words at the sight of which his solitary eye brightened, while he regarded them with respect, as an Osmanli might the cipher of the Sultan; and then he stood at "attention," lingering by, napkin in hand, to hear what the contents were. They were, as usual in such communications from the Horse Guards, very brief, but not the less gratifying. The Military Secretary had the honour to inform me that her Majesty had been graciously pleased to signify her intention of conferring the new order of merit, entitled the Victoria Cross, on certain officers, seamen, and soldiers, for acts of bravery during the late war; that my name was on the list for it, on the recommendation of Brigadier-general Windham, as a reward for volunteering with the ladder party at the storming and capture of the Redan on the 8th September; and that my presence was required at a parade before her Majesty, on a certain day named.
"That is all, Mulligan--you may go," said I, and he wheeled about sharply, as if on a pivot, and stalked out; while Winny kissed me, ran her white fingers caressingly through my hair, her face beaming with delight.
"But, Winny, by Jove, I've done nothing to deserve this. I only tumbled into an embrasure of the Redan, to be tumbled out again," said I; "and I got jambed among the dead."
"Nothing, darling--do you call that nothing?" she exclaimed. "O, this is indeed delightful--a real decoration! How proud I am of you! and yet--and yet--I am loth to leave Brighton for town. We are so happy here; we have been so jolly, Harry."
"But, Winny, we shall return; we have 'done' the pier, the parade, and the pavilion, again and again."
"Have you wearied?"
"When withyou!"
"And I with you, Harry! But I am so happy that I fear at times such happiness cannot last."
"Town will be a pleasant change for a time; and then the spectacle in the Park will be most brilliant, and--all the world of fashion will be there."
"And one, perhaps, whom--I don't wish to see," said she, pouting.
"One--who?"
"Lady Aberconway will be there, no doubt," she replied, with a little nervous laugh.
"What of that, in the world of London? And what now is Es--the Marchioness of Aberconway, or Aber-anything-else, to me, Winny, darling?"
"Nothing now, of course--but--but--"
"But what?"
"I cannot forget that shehas beensomething to you."
"Never what you are now," said I, clasping her to my breast with one arm, and kissing her on the eyes and hair.
"You pet me too much, Harry, and I fear will quite spoil me," said she, laughing merrily again.
"Who could live with you and not pet you? Would you have me to wrap myself up in a toga, a mantle of marital dignity, and remain solemnly on a pedestal like an armless statue, for my little wife to worship? But there was something in one of your letters that made you laugh?"
"It is from Dora."
"And her news?"
"Is that she has accepted Vaughan."
"I am so glad to hear it! Then we shall have another marriage, and more feasting and harping at Craigaderyn?"
"Yes; about the middle of August, or after the grouse-shooting begins, as dear papa would date it."
It was in the height of the gay London season that this interesting ceremony, which formed the last scene connected with the Crimean War--the last chapter in its glorious yet melancholy history--was to be closed under the auspices of Royalty on a day in June, when the air was clear, bright, and sunny, the sky without a cloud. The place selected for the celebration, though perhaps not the most suitable in London, was appropriate enough, by its local and historical associations; and Hyde Park seemed beautiful and stirring when viewed through the mellow haze of the midsummer morning, with its long rows of trees and far expanse of green grass, on which the masses of cavalry and infantry, chiefly of the Household Brigade, were ranged, their arms and gay appointments flashing and glittering in the sun, and the mighty assemblage of fashionables, in splendid carriages, on horseback, or on foot--such an assemblage as London alone can produce--with the bronze Achilles, the trophy of another and far more glorious war, towering over all.
There were present not less than a hundred thousand of the sight-loving Londoners, full of generous enthusiasm. A grand review formed a portion of the programme; but as such displays are all alike, I shall skip that part of the day's proceedings; though there were present the 79th Highlanders, whom I had last seen in the trenches before the Redan, preparing for the final assault at daybreak; the 19th, that with the 23rd went side by side in the uphill charge at Alma; the showy 11th Hussars in blue with scarlet pelisses, who had ridden in the terrible death ride at Balaclava; and with glittering brass helmets the gallant Enniskillens, who, with the Greys, had followed Scarlett in the task of avenging them. And there, too, commanding the whole, in his plumed bonnet and tartan trews, was old Colin Campbell, riding as quietly and as grimly, amid the youth, rank, and beauty of London, as when he brought his Highland Brigade in stately échelon of regiments along the green slopes of the Kourgané Hill, and heard the gray Kazan columns, ere they fled, send up their terrible wail to heaven, that "the angel of Death had come!" This veteran soldier, who had carried the colours of the 9th Regiment under Moore at Corunna, looked old now, worn, and service-stricken, yet he had the wars of the Indian Mutiny before him still. By his side rode the hero of Kars in artillery uniform, and that brilliant Hussar officer, the Earl of Cardigan, mounted on the same horse he had ridden at Balaclava. The royal stand, as yet empty, was elaborately decorated; gilded chairs of state were placed within it; and in front, covered with scarlet cloth, was a table whereon lay sixty-two of those black crosses, cast from Russian cannon, rude in design, but named after her Majesty, and inscribed "For Valour"--sixty-two being the number who, on that day, were to receive them.
We, "the observed of all observers," had not as yet fallen in, so I lingered near the stand, where Winifred, Dora, and Gwenny Vaughan, and many other ladies were seated, and seeking, by the aid of parasol and fan, to shield themselves from the heat of the sun, and using their lorgnettes freely in looking for friends among the crowd, and in watching the proceedings, chatting and laughing gaily the while, with all the freedom of happy and heedless girls; for the troops were "standing at ease," and her Majesty had not yet come. Winifred was looking charming in her bridal bonnet, charming amid the loveliest women in the world--and they were there by thousands; for she had the beauty of perfect goodness, and of the purest and gentlest attributes of woman-kind; for she was an artless and generous creature, too simpleminded at times, even in this cold-blooded and well-bred age, to have the power of concealing her emotions.
I wore my old and faded red coat of the Welsh Fusileers for thelasttime; and though there was something sad in the conviction that it was so, I never felt so proud of it, or of my looped-up sleeve, as on that day in Hyde Park. I felt that my occupation was gone, and that any other was unsuited to me, for "it is the speciality of a soldier's career, that it unfits most men for any other life. They cannot throw off the old habitudes. They cannot turn from the noisy stir of war to the tame quiet of every-day life; and even when they fancy themselves wearied and worn out, and willing to retire from the service, their souls are stirred by every sound of the distant contest, as the war-steed is roused by the blast of a trumpet." Often in fancy before this, for I was ever addicted to daydreams, I had pictured some such fête, some such ceremony, some such reward, for all our army had endured in Bulgaria, and done by the shores of the Black Sea; but the reality far exceeded all I had ever imagined. In my school-days, how I had longed, with all a boy's ardour, to fight for my country and Queen! Well, Ihadfought--not for either, certainly, but for the lazy, wretched, and contemptible Turks--and her royal hand was about to reward me, by placing an order on my breast.
The longing, the wild desire to achieve, to do something great, or grand, or dashing, had ever since those school-boy days been mine; now that mysterious "something" was achieved, and I was about to be made a V.C. before that vast multitude, and more than all, beneath the soft kind eyes of one who loved me more than all the world.
"Who the dooce is that handsome woman, on whom----" (I failed to catch the name) "of ours is so devilish spooney?" I heard one tall Plunger, in a marvellously new panoply, lisp to another, as he checked his beautiful black horse for a moment in passing.
"What! can it be possible you don't know? It is the talk of all town," replied the other, laughing, and in a low tone; "she is Lady Aberconway, old Pottersleigh's wife--a more ill-mated pair don't exist in Europe, by Jove!"
"So she has found consolation?"
"Rather."
And the two glittering warriors with black boots, shining breastplates, and fly-away whiskers, winked to each other knowingly, and separated.
I looked in the direction they had indicated. Close by me an officer of the Oxford Blues, with his horse reined in close to the stand, was engaged in a conversation, by turns gay and animated, or low and confidential, with--Estelle! She was seated near her mother, Lady Naseby, who looked as impassible and passionless as ever, with her cold and imperious dignity of face and manner, and her odious white shock, now somewhat aged and wheezy, in her lap.
"Love," it is said, "is hard as any snake to kill." Perhaps so; but I could regard her daughter now without any special throb of my pulse, or thrill in my heart.
Still I could not but confess that her high class of beauty, in style, polish, and finish, was wonderful, and when in repose, cold and aristocratic to a degree. She had achieved already that which has been justly described as "that queenly standard women so often attain after marriage, while losing none of their early charms," unless I except a little heartless flippancy of manner in the conversation, which, as I was pressed near her by the crowd, I was compelled to overhear. Her toilette was as perfect as lace, tulle, and flowers could make it. How often had I gazed tenderly and passionately on that face, so false and yet so fair, and kissed it on lips, and eyes, and cheek! and now it was turned, smilingly, laughingly, and, I am sorry to add, lovingly, to the boyish and insipid face of that long-legged, curled, and pomatumed Guardsman, who had "never set a squadron in the field," nor smelt powder elsewhere than at Wormwood Scrubs or Bushey Park.
I turned from her with something of sublime contempt, and yet, odd to say, I felt a nervous twinge, as if in the arm that was now no longer in my sleeve, when her voice reached me; but after all that had come and gone, that voice could find no echo now in my heart. Sweetly modulated it was still, but seemed to me only "low and clear as the song of a snake-charmer."
"It will be the ball of the season--you will be there, of course?" she asked.
"Only ifyougo, Lady Aberconway--not unless," replied the trooper, in a low tone; "what or who else should take me there?"
"So they have made your uncle a K.C.B."
"Yes--and somebody is going to marry him on Tuesday at eleven in Hanover-square."
"And your brother is coming up for his little exam. I have heard also."
"Yes--at Woolwich. The idea of any fellow fancying the Artillery!"
"Is he handsome--is he anything likeyou?" Then, without waiting for a reply to these important queries, she suddenly said, "Gracious, mamma, there is another poor creature without an arm!"
"Poor deyvil--so there is," drawled her male friend, and then I knew by these flattering remarks that their august regards were turned on me; but my bushy Crimean beard, my empty sleeve, and, as yet, rather pale cheek, and moreover my face being half averted, prevented Estelle from recognising me; or it might be, that I dwelt but little in her memory.
"What is that officer's regiment?" she asked, adding doubtfully, "he is an officer, isn't he--but his uniform is deplorable!"
"Twenty-third--Welsh Fusileers."
"Ah, indeed!"
I now turned fully round; for a moment our eyes met, and then I moved back to where Winifred sat. Estelle eyed me keenly enough now, and fanned herself, as I thought, with a little air of vexation, from time to time. Yet that was not flattering; for I knew that though a woman may forget, she does not like the idea of being forgotten, or that even when flirting with another, her empire over an old lover's heart is at an end.
She had deteriorated in style, and her tone of flippancy was not that of the Estelle I had once loved; and as for the boy Guardsman, with whom gossip was already linking her name, poor fool! his love for her and her extravagance soon ruined him. Bills were dishonoured thick and threefold; cent. per cent., London, and Judea between them cleaned him out. A meeting of the Guards' Club passed such resolutions that he was compelled to begin the sliding scale--from "the Guards to Line, and from thence to the devil," as the phrase is--and to recruiting for H.M. 2nd West India Regiment in Sierra Leone, where drink and fever finished him; and he lies now by the bank of the Bunce river, as completely forgotten by Estelle as if he never had been.
"Do you see who is there, Harry?" asked Winifred, with a rather agitated voice.
"Yes; what of it, little one?"
"Only that I--hate her!"
"Why?"
"For her treatment of you."
"How odd!" said I, laughing; "had it been otherwise, Winny, we should not have had our delightful little trip to Brighton. Think of that, my British matron!"
"I am not a matron yet, but only your bride; the honeymoon is not yet over, sir."
"Thank God you are so, darling! What an escape I have had from being in old Pottersleigh's place! But there sound the trumpets, and I must fall in--fall in for the last time."
And as drum and bugle sounded on all sides, and the arms flashed in the sunshine when the order was given to "shoulder," a brightness seemed to pass over all the eyes and expectant faces in the grand stand. The Queen had come, and all that passed subsequently was like a dream to me then, and is more so now. The sixty-two officers and men who were to receive the cross (and twelve of whom belonged to the navy) were all, irrespective of rank, marshalled according to the number of their regiment under Lieutenant John Knox, of the Rifles, who, like myself, had an empty sleeve. The braided breast of his dark-green uniform seemed ablaze with medals, for he had been with the ladder party in the attack on the Redan, where he lost an arm by a grape-shot. There were but two officers of the 23rd to win the decoration, and we were posted between two privates of the 19th, and two of the 34th; but all passed the royal stand in single file. I had never seen the Queen hitherto, and suddenly I found myself before her--a smiling-faced, graceful, though stout little lady, in a low hat, adorned with a beautiful plume, and wearing a scarlet tunic and blue skirt; and I certainly felt my heart vibrate, as with her own hands she pinned the decoration on my breast--vibrate with a flush of pride and joy only to be felt at such a time and at such a ceremony; and yet amid it all I thought of the dear little wife who, with her eyes dim with tears of happiness, was watching me. I then passed on, giving place to a lame private of the 34th Foot, the Prince Consort saluting each recipient as they passed him--many slowly, painfully, and with difficulty; for some poor maimed and haggard-faced fellows were hobbling on sticks and crutches, and some, like the gallant Sir Thomas Trowbridge, who had lost both legs, were wheeled to the very feet of the Queen in Bath-chairs. At last all was over--this closing episode of our war in the Crimea; and as we drove from the crowded park to get the train for Brighton--the honeymoon was not yet finished--I had forgotten all about Estelle and her Plunger; and I thanked God in my heart that I was not lying where so many lay in the land we had left, and for the tender and true-hearted wife He had given me, as I laughingly hung round her pretty neck the black-iron order of valour--the Victoria Cross.
Fifteen years have passed since that auspicious day. And now, as I write these closing lines, I can see, through the lozenged and mullioned windows of the library, the old woods of Craigaderyn tossing their leafy branches on the evening wind, and the sunset lingering redly on the lofty peaks of Snowdon and Carneydd Llewellyn. Old Sir Madoc--too old now to back even his most favourite hunter--is sitting yonder in the sunshine, looking dreamily down the far-stretched vista of the chase to where the bright sea is rippling in the distance.
The flowers are blooming as gaily on the terrace as they did on the day of Dora's fête, and she has long beenAuntVaughan; for at Craigaderyn there are little ones now--a violet-eyed Winifred, who scampers through the park on a Welsh pony; a dark-haired Madoc, who can almost handle a gun; and a golden-curled Harry to run after the tossing leaves, to shout to the deer and hare as they lurk among the fern; to seek for birds' nests among the shrubbery; to grab at the gold fish in the fountain with his fat little fists; to clamber about Sir Madoc's chair and knees; to ride on the backs of Owen Gwyllim and old Corporal Mulligan, and in whom we see mamma's eyes, papa's expression--nods, winks, and blinks, and so forth, all so exactly reproduced and blended, that our best friends don't know which of us he most resembles; so "Time, the avenger" of all things, has brought nothing but joy and happiness to us at Craigaderyn.