CHAPTER III--By EXPRESS.

Leave granted, our acceptance of Sir Madoc's invitation duly

telegraphed--"wired," as the phrase is now--our uniforms doffed and

mufti substituted, the morning of the second day ensuing saw Caradoc

and myself on the Birmingham railway _en route_ for Chester; the

exclusive occupants of a softly cushioned compartment, where, by the

influence of a couple of florins slipped deftly and judiciously into

the palm of an apparently unconscious and incorruptible official, we

could lounge at our ease, and enjoy without intrusion the _Times_,

_Punch_, or our own thoughts, and the inevitable cigar. Though in

mufti we had uniform with us; we _believed_ in it then, and in its

influence; for certain German ideas of military tailoring subsequent

to the Crimean war had not shorn us of our epaulettes, and otherwise

reduced the character of our regimentals to something akin to the

livery of a penny postman or a railway guard.

Somehow, I felt more hopeful of my prospects, when, with the bright

sunshine of July around us, I found myself spinning at the rate of

fifty miles per hour by the express train--the motion was almost as

imperceptible as the speed was exhilarating--and swiftly passed the

scenes on either side, the broad green fields of growing grain, the

grassy paddocks, the village churches, the snug and picturesque

homesteads of Warwick and Worcestershire. We glided past Rugby, where

Caradoc had erewhile conned his tasks in that great Elizabethan pile

which is built of white brick with stone angles and cornices, and

where in the playing fields he had gallantly learned to keep his

wicket with that skill which made him our prime regimental bat and

bowler too. Coventry next, where of course we laughed as we thought of

"peeping Tom" and Earl Leofric's pretty countess, when we saw its

beautiful and tapering spires rise over the dark and narrow streets

below. Anon, we paused amid the busy but grimy world of Birmingham,

which furnishes half the world with the implements of destruction;

Stafford, with its ruined castle on a well-wooded eminence; and ere

long we halted in quaint old Chester by the Dee, where the stately red

stone tower of the cathedral rises darkly over its picturesque

thoroughfares of the middle ages. There the rail went no farther then;

but a carriage sent by Sir Madoc awaited us at the station, and we had

before us the prospect of a delightful drive for nearly thirty miles

amid the beautiful Welsh hills ere we reached his residence.

"This whiff of the country is indeed delightful!" exclaimed Caradoc,

as we bowled along on a lovely July evening, the changing shadows of

the rounded hills deepening as the sun verged westward; "it makes one

half inclined to cut the service, and turn farmer or cattle-breeding

squire--even to chuck ambition, glory, and oneself away upon a landed

heiress, if such could be found ready to hand."

"Even upon Winifred Lloyd, with her dairy-farms in the midland

counties, eh?"

Phil coloured a little, but laughed good-humouredly as he replied,

"Well, I must confess that she is somewhat more than my weakness--at

present."

At Aber-something we found a relay of fresh horses, sent on by Sir

Madoc, awaiting us, the Welsh roads not being quite so smooth as a

billiard-table; and there certain hoarse gurgling expletives, uttered

by ostlers and stable-boys, might have warned us that we were in the

land of Owen and Hughes, Griffiths and Davies, and all the men of the

Twelve Royal Tribes, even if there had not been the green mountains

towering into the blue sky, and the pretty little ivy-covered inn, at

the porch of which sat a white-haired harper (on the watch for patrons

and customers), performing the invariable "Jenny Jones" or

_Ar-hyd-y-nos_ (the live-long night), and all the while keeping a

sharp Celtic eye to the expected coin.

Everything around us indicated that we were drawing nearer to the

abode of Sir Madoc, and that ere long--in an hour or so, perhaps--I

should again see one who, by _name_ as well as circumstance, was a

star that I feared and hoped would greatly influence all my future.

The Eastern war, and, more than all, the novelty of any war after

forty years of European peace, occupied keenly the minds of all

thinking people. My regiment was already gone, and I certainly should

soon have to follow it. I knew that, individually and collectively,

all bound for the seat of the coming strife had a romantic and even

melancholy interest, in the hearts of women especially; and I was not

without some hope that this sentiment might add to my chances of

finding favour with the rather haughty Estelle Cressingham.

It was a glorious summer evening when our open barouche swept along

the white dusty road that wound by the base of Mynedd Hiraethrog, that

wild and bleak mountain chain which rises between the Dee and its

tributaries the Elwey and the Aled. Westward in the distance towered

blue Snowdon, above the white floating clouds of mist, with all its

subordinate peaks. In the immediate foreground were a series of

beautiful hills that were glowing, and, to the eye, apparently

vibrating, under a burning sunset. The Welsh woods were in all the

wealth of their thickest foliage--the umbrageous growth of centuries;

and where the boughs cast their deepest shadows, the dun deer and the

fleet hare lurked among the fragrant fern, and the yellow sunlight

fell in golden patches on the passing runnel, that leaped flashing

from rock to rock, to mingle with the Alwen, or crept slowly and

stealthily under the long rank grass towards Llyn-Aled.

That other accessories might not be wanting to remind us that we were

in the land of the Cymri, we passed occasionally the _Carneddau_, or

heaps of stones that mark the old places of battle or burial; and

perched high on the hills the _Hafodtai_ or summer farms, where

enormous flocks of sheep--the boasted Welsh mutton--were pasturing.

Then we heard at times the melancholy sound of the horn, by which

inmates summon the shepherds to their meals, and the notes of which,

when waking the echoes of the silent glen, have an effect so weird and

mournful.

"By Jove, but we have a change here, Phil," said I, "a striking

change, indeed, from the hot and dusty gravelled yard of Winchester

barracks, the awkward squads at incessant drill with dumb-bell, club,

or musket; the pipeclay, the pacing-stick, and the tap of the drum!"

Through a moss-grown gateway, the design of Inigo Jones, we turned

down the long straight avenue of limes that leads to Craigaderyn; a

fine old mansion situated in a species of valley, its broad lawn

overlooked by the identical craig from which it takes its name, "the

Rock of Birds," a lofty and insulated mass, the resort of innumerable

hawks, wood-pigeons, and even of hoarse-croaking cormorants from the

cliffs about Orme's Head and Llandulas. On its summit are the ruins of

an ancient British fort, wherein Sir Jorwerth Goch (_i. e_. Red Edward)

Lloyd of Craigaderyn had exterminated a band of Rumpers and Roundheads

in the last year of Charles I., using as a war-cry the old Welsh shout

of "Liberty, loyalty, and the long head of hair!" On either side of

the way spread the lawn, closely shorn and carefully rolled, the

turf being like velvet of emerald greenness, having broad winding

carriage-ways laid with gravel, the bright red of which contrasted so

strongly with the verdant hue of the grass. The foliage of the timber

was heavy and leafy, and there, at times, could be seen the lively

squirrel leaping from branch to branch of some ancient oak, in the

hollow of which lay its winter store of nuts; the rabbit bounding

across the path, from root to fern tuft; and the _bela-goed_, or

yellow-breasted martin (still a denizen of the old Welsh woods), with

rounded ears and sharp white claws, the terror of the poultry-yard,

appeared occasionally, despite the gamekeeper's gun. In one place a

herd of deer were browsing near the half-leafless ruins of a mighty

oak--one so old, that Owen Glendower had once reconnoitred an English

force from amid its branches.

We had barely turned into the avenue, when a gentleman and two ladies,

all mounted, came galloping from a side path to meet us. He and one of

his companions cleared the wire fence in excellent style by a flying

leap; but the other, who was less pretentiously mounted, adroitly

opened the iron gate with the handle of her riding switch, and came a

few paces after them to meet us. They proved to be Sir Madoc and his

two daughters, Winifred and Dora.

"True in the direction of time, 'by Shrewsbury clock'!" said he,

cantering up; "welcome to Craigaderyn, gentlemen! We were just looking

for you."

He was a fine hale-looking man, about sixty years old, with a ruddy

complexion, and a keen, clear, dark eye; his hair, once of raven

blackness, was white as silver now, though very curly or wavy still;

his eyebrows were bushy and yet dark as when in youth. He was a Welsh

gentleman, full of many local prejudices and sympathies; a man of the

old school--for such a school has existed in all ages, and still

exists even in ours of rapid progress, scientific marvels, and

moneymaking. His manners were easy and polished, yet without anything

either of style or fashion about them; for he was simple in all his

tastes and ways, and was almost as plainly attired as one of his own

farmers. His figure and costume, his rubicund face, round merry eyes,

and series of chins, his amplitude of paunch and stunted figure, his

bottle-green coat rather short in the skirts, his deep waistcoat and

low-crowned hat, were all somewhat Pickwickian in their character and

_tout-ensemble_, save that in lieu of the tights and gaiters of our

old friend he wore white corded breeches, and orthodox dun-coloured

top-boots with silver spurs, and instead of green goggles had a gold

eyeglass dangling at the end of a black-silk ribbon. Strong

riding-gloves and a heavy hammer-headed whip completed his attire.

"Glad to see you, Harry, and you too, Mr. Caradoc," resumed Sir Madoc,

who was fond of remembering that which Phil--more a man of the

world--was apt to forget or to set little store on--that he was

descended from Sir Matthew Caradoc, who in the days of Perkin Warbeck

(an epoch but as yesterday in Sir Madoc's estimation) was chancellor

of Glamorgan and steward of Gower and Helvie; for what true Welshman

is without a pedigree? "Let me look at you again, Harry. God bless me!

is it possible that you, a tall fellow with a black moustache, can be

the curly fair-haired boy I have so often carried on my back and

saddle-bow, and taught to make flies of red spinner and drakes' wings,

when we trouted together at Llyn Cwellyn among the hills yonder?"

"I think, papa, you would be more surprised if you found him a

curly-pated boy still," said Miss Lloyd.

"And it is seven years since he joined the service; what a fine fellow

he has grown!"

"Papa, you are quite making Mr. Hardinge blush!" said Dora, laughing.

"Almost at the top of the lieutenants, too; there is luck for you!" he

continued.

"More luck than merit, perhaps; more the Varna fever than either, Sir

Madoc," said I, as he slowly relinquished my hand, which he had held

for a few seconds in his, while looking kindly and earnestly into my

face.

It was well browned by the sun and sea of the Windward Isles,

tolerably well whiskered and moustached too; so I fear that if the

good old gentleman was seeking for some resemblance to the sweet Mary

Vassal of the past times, he sought in vain. Our horses were all

walking now; Sir Madoc rode on one side of the barouche, and his two

daughters on the other.

"You saw my girls last season in town," said he; "but when you were

last here, Winifred was in her first long frock, and Dora little more

than a baby."

"But Craigaderyn is all unchanged, though _we_ may be," said Winifred,

whose remark had some secret point in it so far as referred to me.

"And Wales is unchanged too," added Dora; "Mr. Hardinge will find the

odious hat of the women still lingers in the more savage regions; the

itinerant harper and the goat too are not out of fashion; and we still

wear our leek on the first of March."

"And long may all this be so!" said her father; "for since those

pestilent railways have come up by Shrewsbury and Chester, with their

tides of tourists, greed, dissipation, and idleness are on the

increase, and all our good old Welsh customs are going to Caerphilly

and the devil! Without the wants of over-civilisation we were

contented; but now--_Gwell y chydig gait rad, na llawr gan avrard_,"

he added with something like an angry sigh, quoting a Welsh proverb to

the effect that a little with a blessing is better than much with

prodigality.