CHAPTER VI.--THREE GRACES.

Already having met and been welcomed by my host and his daughters, my

first glances round the room were in search of Lady Estelle and her

mother. About eighteen persons were present, mostly gentlemen, and I

instinctively made my way to where she I sought was seated, idling

over a book of prints. Two or three gentlemen were exclusively in

conversation with her; Sir Madoc, who was now in evening costume, for

one.

"Come, Harry," said he, "here is a fair friend to whom I wish to

present you."

"You forget, Sir Madoc, that I said we had met before; Mr. Hardinge

and I are almost old friends--the friends of a season, at least,"

said Lady Estelle, presenting her hand to me with a bright but

calm and decidedly conventional smile, and with the most perfect

self-possession.

"It makes me so very happy to meet you again," said I in a low voice,

the tone of which she could not mistake.

"Mamma, too, will be _so_ delighted--you were quite a favourite with

her."

I bowed, as if accepting for fact a sentiment of which I was extremely

doubtful, and then after a little pause she added,--

"Mamma always preferred your escort, you remember."

Of that I was aware, when she wished to leave some more eligible

_parti_--old Lord Pottersleigh, for instance--to take charge of her

daughter.

"I am so pleased that we are to see a little more of you, ere you

depart for the East; whence, I hear, you are bound," said she after a

little pause.

Simple though the words, they made my heart beat happily, and I

dreaded that some sharp observer might read in my eyes the expression

which I knew could not be concealed from her; and now I turned to look

for some assistance from Winifred Lloyd; but, though observing us, she

was apparently busy with Caradoc; luckily for me, perhaps, as there

was something of awkwardness in my position with her. I had flirted

rather too much at one time with Winny--been almost tender--but

nothing more. Now I loved Lady Estelle, and that love was indeed

destitute of all ambition, though the known difficulties attendant on

the winning of such a hand as hers, added zest and keenness to its

course.

When I looked at Winifred and saw how fair and attractive she was, "a

creature so compact and complete," as Caradoc phrased it, with such

brilliance of complexion, such deep violet eyes and thick dark wavy

hair; and when I thought of the girl's actual wealth, and her kind old

father's great regard for me, it seemed indeed that I might do well in

offering my heart where there was little doubt it would be accepted;

but the more stately and statuesque beauty, the infinitely greater

personal attractions of Lady Estelle dazzled me, and rendered me blind

to Winny's genuine goodness of soul The latter was every way a most

attractive girl Dora was quite as much so, in her own droll and jolly

way; but Lady Estelle possessed that higher style of loveliness and

bearing so difficult to define; and though less natural perhaps than

the Lloyds, she had usually that calm, placid, and unruffled or

settled expression of features so peculiar to many Englishwomen of

rank and culture, yet they could light up at times; then, indeed, she

became radiant; and now, in full dinner dress, she seemed to look

pretty much as I had seemed to see her in that haughty full-length by

the President of the R.A., with an admiring and critical crowd about

it.

The three girls I have named were all handsome--each sufficiently so

to have been the belle of any room; yet, though each was different in

type from the other, they were all thoroughly English; perhaps Sir

Madoc would have reminded me that two were Welsh. The beauty of

Winifred and Dora was less regular; yet, like Lady Estelle, in their

faces each feature seemed so charmingly suited to the rest, and all so

perfect, that I doubt much the story that Canova had sixty models for

his single Venus, or that Zeuxis of Heraclea had even five for his

Helen. Lady Estelle Cressingham was tall and full in form, with a neck

that rose from her white shoulders like that of some perfect Greek

model; her smile, when real, was very captivating; her eyes were dark

and deep, and softly lidded with long lashes; they had neither the

inquiring nor soft pleading expression of Winifred's, nor the saucy

drollery of Dora's, yet at times they seemed to have the power of

both; for they were eloquent eyes, and, as a writer has it, "could

light up her whole _personnel_ as if her whole body thought." Her

colour was pale, almost creamy; her features clearly cut and delicate.

She had a well-curved mouth, a short upper lip and chin, that

indicated what she did not quite possess--decision. Her thick hair,

which in its darkness contrasted so powerfully with her paleness, came

somewhat well down, in what is called "a widow's peak," on a forehead

that was broad rather than low. Her taste was perfect in dress and

jewelry; for though but a girl in years, she had been carefully

trained, and knew nearly as much of the world--at least of _the_

exclusive world in which she lived--as her cold and unimpressionable

mamma, who seemed to be but a larger, fuller, older, and more stately

version of herself; certainly much more of that selfish world than I,

a line subaltern of seven years' foreign service, could know.

A few words more, concerning my approaching departure for the East,

were all that could pass between us then; for the conversation was, of

course, general, and of that enforced and heavy nature which usually

precedes a dinner-party; but our memories and our thoughts were

nevertheless our own still, as I could see when her glance met mine

occasionally.

War was new to Britain then, and thus, even in the society at

Craigaderyn Court, Caradoc and I, as officers whose regiment had

already departed--more than all, as two of the Royal Welsh

Fusileers--found ourselves rather objects of interest, and at a high

premium.

"Ah, the dooce! Hardinge, how d'you do, how d'you do? Not off to the

seat of war" (he pronounced it _waw_), "to tread the path of glory

that leads to--where _does_ old Gray say it leads to?" said a thin

wiry-looking man of more than middle height and less than middle age,

his well-saved hair carefully parted in the centre, a glass in his

eye, and an easy _insouciance_ that bordered on insolence in his tone

and bearing, as he came bluntly forward, and interrupted me while

paying the necessary court to "Mamma Cressingham," who received me

with simple politeness, nothing more. I could not detect the slightest

cordiality in her tone or eye. Though in the _Army List_, my name was

unchronicled by Debrett, and might never be.

I bowed to the speaker, who was the identical Mr. Hawkesby Guilfoyle

of whom I have already spoken, and with whom I felt nettled for

presuming to place himself on such a footing of apparent familiarity

with me, from the simple circumstance that I had more than once--I

scarcely knew how--lost money to him.

"I am going Eastward ere long, at all events," said I; "and I cannot

help thinking that some of you many idlers here could not do better

than take a turn of service against the Russians too."

"It don't pay, my dear fellow; moreover, I prefer to be one of the

gentlemen of England, who live at home at ease. I shall be quite

satisfied with reading all about it, and rejoicing in your exploits."

I smiled and bowed, but felt that he was closely scrutinising me

through his glass, which he held in its place by a muscular

contraction of the left eye; and I felt moreover, instinctively and

intuitively, by some magnetic influence, that this man was my enemy,

and yet I had done him no wrong. The aversion was certainly mutual. It

was somewhat of the impulse that led Tom Brown of old to dislike Dr.

Fell, yet, in my instance, it was not exactly without knowing "why."

I had quickly read the character of this Mr. Guilfoyle. He had cold,

cunning, and shifty eyes of a greenish yellow colour. They seldom

smiled, even when his mouth did, if that can be called a smile which

is merely a grin from the teeth outwards. He was undoubtedly

gentlemanlike in air and appearance, always correct in costume, suave

to servility when it suited his purpose, but daringly insolent when he

could venture to be so with impunity. He had that narrowness of mind

which made him counterfeit regret for the disaster of his best friend,

while secretly exulting in it, if that friend could serve his purposes

no more; the praise or success of another never failed to excite

either his envy or his malice; and doating on himself, he thought that

all who knew him should quarrel with those against whom he conceived

either spleen or enmity. A member of a good club in town, he was

fashionable, moderately dissipated, and rather handsome in person. No

one knew exactly from what source his income was derived; but vague

hints of India stock, foreign bonds, and so forth, served to satisfy

the few--and in the world of London few they were indeed--who cared a

jot about the matter. Such was Mr. Hawkesby Guilfoyle, of whom the

reader shall hear more in these pages.

"And so you don't approve of risking your valuable person in the

service of the country?" said I, in a tone which I felt to be a

sneering one.

"No; I am disposed to be rather economical of it--think myself too

good-looking, perhaps, to fill a hole in a trench. Ha, ha! Moreover,

what the deuce do I want with glory or honour?" said he, in a lower

tone; "are not self-love or interest, rather than virtue, the true

motives of most of our actions?"

"Do you think so?"

"Yes, by Jove! I do."

"A horrid idea, surely!"

"Not at all. Besides, virtues, as they are often called, are too often

only vices disguised."

"The deuce!" said Caradoc, who overheard us; "I don't understand this

paradox."

"Nor did I intend _you_ to do so," replied the other, in a tone that,

to say the least of it, was offensive, and made Phil's eyes sparkle.

"But whether in pursuit of vice or virtue, it is an awkward thing when

the ruling passion makes one take a wrong turn in life."

"The ruling passion?" said I, thinking of the money I had lost to him.

"Yes, whether it be ambition, avarice, wine, or love," he replied, his

eyes going involuntarily towards Lady Estelle; "but at all times there

is nothing like taking precious good care of number one; and so, were

I a king, I should certainly reign for myself."

"And be left to yourself," said I, almost amused by this avowed

cynicism and selfishness.

"Well, as Prince Esterhazy said, when he did me the honour to present

me with this ring," he began, playing the while with a splendid

brilliant, which sparkled on one of his fingers.

But what the Prince had said I was never fated to know; for the

aphorisms of Mr. Guilfoyle were cut short by the welcome sound of the

dinner-gong, and in file we proceeded through the corridor and hall to

the dining-room, duly marshalled between two rows of tall liverymen in

powder and plush, Sir Madoc leading the way with the Countess on his

arm, her long sweeping skirt so stiff with brocade, that, as Caradoc

whispered, it looked like our regimental colours.

Lady Estelle was committed to the care of a stout old gentleman, who

was the exact counterpart of our host, and whose conversation, as it

evidently failed to amuse, bored her. Miss Lloyd was led by Caradoc,

and Dora fell to my care. Of the other ladies I took little heed;

neither did I much of the sumptuous dinner, which passed away as other

dinners do, through all its courses, with entrées and relays of

various wines, the serving up of the latter proving in one sense a

nuisance, from the absurd breaks caused thereby in the conversation.

The buzz of voices was pretty loud at times, for many of the guests

were country gentlemen, hale and hearty old fellows some of them, who

laughed with right good will, not caring whether to do so was good

_ton_ or not. But while listening to the lively prattle of Dora Lloyd,

I could not refrain from glancing ever and anon to where Estelle

Cressingham, looking so radiant, yet withal "so delicately white" in

her complexion, her slender throat and dazzling shoulders, her thick

dark hair and tiny ears, at which the diamond pendants sparkled, sat

listening to her elderly bore, smiling assents from time to time out

of pure complaisance, and toying with her fruit knife when the dessert

came, her hands and arms seeming so perfect in form and colour, and on

more than one occasion--when her mamma was engrossed by courteous old

Sir Madoc, who could "talk peerage," and knew the quartering of arms

better than the Garter King or Rouge Dragon--giving me a bright

intelligent smile, that made my heart beat happily; all the more so

that I had been afflicted by some painful suspicion of coldness in her

first reception of me--a coldness rather deduced from her perfect

self-possession--while I had been farther annoyed to find that her

somewhat questionable admirer, Guilfoyle, was seated by her side, with

a lady whose presence he almost ignored in his desire to be pleasing

elsewhere. Yet, had it been otherwise, if anything might console a man

for fancied coldness in the woman he loved, or for a partial

separation from her by a few yards of mahogany, it should be the

lively rattle of a lovely girl of eighteen; but while listening and

replying to Dora, my thoughts and wishes were with another.

"I told you how it would be, Mr. Hardinge," whispered Dora; "that the

staple conversation of the gentlemen, if it didn't run on the county

pack, would be about horses and cattle, sheep, horned and South Down;

or on the British Constitution, which must be a very patched

invention, to judge by all they say of it."

I confessed inwardly that much of what went on around me was so

provincial and local--the bishop's visitation, the--parish poor,

crops and game, grouse and turnips--and proved such boredom that, but

for the smiling girl beside me, with her waggish eyes and pretty ways,

and the longing and hope to have more of the society of Lady Estelle,

I could have wished myself back at the mess of the depôt battalion in

Winchester. Yet this restlessness was ungrateful; for Craigaderyn was

as much a home to me as if I had been a son of the house, and times

there were when the girls, like their father, called me simply

"Harry," by my Christian name.

The long and stately dining-room, like other parts of the house, was

well hung with portraits. At one end was a full-length of Sir Madoc in

his scarlet coat and yellow-topped boots, seated on his favourite bay

mare, "Irish Jumper," with mane and reins in hand, a brass horn slung

over his shoulder, and looking every inch like what he was--the M.F.H.

of the county, trotting to cover. Opposite, of course, was his

lady--it might almost have passed for a likeness of Winifred--done

several years ago, her dress of puce velvet cut low to show her

beautiful outline, but otherwise very full indeed, as she leaned in

the approved fashion against a vase full of impossible flowers beside

a column and draped curtain, in what seemed a windy and draughty

staircase, a view of Snowdon in the distance. "Breed and blood," as

Sir Madoc used to say, "in every line of her portrait, from the bridge

of her nose to the heel of her slipper;" for she was a lineal

descendant of _y Marchog gwyllt o' Cae Hywel_, or "the wild Knight of

Caehowel," a circumstance he valued more than all her personal merits

and goodness of heart.

Some of Dora's remarks about the family portraits elicited an

occasional glance of reprehension from the Dowager of Naseby, who

thought such relics or evidences of descent were not to be treated

lightly. On my enquiring who that lady in the very low dress with the

somewhat dishevelled hair was, I had for answer, "A great favourite of

Charles II., Mr. Hardinge--an ancestress of ours. Papa knows her name.

There was some lively scandal about her, of course. And that is her

brother beside her--he in the rose-coloured doublet and black wig. He

was killed in a duel about a young lady--run clean through the heart

by one of the Wynnes of Llanrhaidr, at the Ring in Hyde Park."

"When men risked their lives so, love must have been very earnest in

those days," said Lady Estelle.

"And very fearful," said the gentler Winny. "It is said the lady's

name was engraved on the blade of the sword that slew him."

"A duel! How delightful to be the heroine of a duel!" exclaimed the

volatile Dora.

"And who is that pretty woman in the sacque and puffed cap?" asked

Caradoc, pointing to a brisk-looking dame in a long stomacher. She was

well rouged, rather _décolletée_, had a roguish kissing-patch in the

corner of her mouth, and looked very like Dora indeed.

"Papa's grandmother, who insisted on wearing a white rose when she was

presented to the Elector at St. James's," replied Dora; "and her

marriage to the heir of Craigaderyn is chronicled in the fashion of

the Georgian era, by gossipping Mr. Sylvanus Urban, as that of

'Mistress Betty Temple, an agreeable and modest young lady with

50,000_l_. fortune, from the eastward of Temple Bar.' I don't think

people were such tuft-hunters in those days as they are now. Do _you_

think so, Mr. Guilfoyle? O, I am sure, that if all we read in novels

is true, there must have been more romantic marriages and much more

honest love long ago than we find in society now. What do you say to

this, Estelle?"

But the fair Estelle only fanned herself, and replied by a languid

smile, that somehow eluded when it might have fallen on _me_. So while

we lingered over the dessert (the pineapples, peaches, grapes, and so

forth being all the produce of Sir Madoc's own hothouses), Dora

resumed:

"And so, poor Harry Hardinge, in a few weeks more you will be far away

from us, and face to face with those odious Russians--in a real

battle, perhaps. It is something terrible to think of! Ah, heavens, if

you should be killed!" she added, as her smile certainly passed away

for a moment.

"I don't think somehow there is very much danger of that--at least I

can but hope--"

"Or wounded! If you should lose a leg--two legs perhaps--"

"He could scarcely lose _more_," said Mr. Guilfoyle.

"And come home with wooden ones!" she continued, lowering her voice.

"You will look so funny! O, I could never love or marry a man with

wooden stumps!"

"But," said I, a little irritated that she should see anything so very

amusing in this supposed contingency, "I don't mean to marry _you_."

"Of course not--I know that. It is Winny, papa thinks--or is it

Estelle Cressingham you prefer?"

Lowly and whispered though the heedless girl said this, it reached the

ears of Lady Estelle, and caused her to grow if possible paler, while

I felt my face suffused with scarlet; but luckily all now rose from

the table, as the ladies, led by Winifred, filed back alone to the

drawing-room; and I felt that Dora's too palpable hints must have done

much to make or mar my cause--perhaps to gain me the enmity of both

her sister and the Lady Estelle.

Sir Madoc assumed his daughter's place at the head of the table, and

beckoned _me_ to take his chair at the foot. Owen Gwyllim replenished

the various decanters and the two great silver jugs of claret and

burgundy, and the flow of conversation became a little louder in tone,

and of course less reserved. I listened now with less patience to all

that passed around me, in my anxiety to follow the ladies to the

drawing-room. Every moment spent out of _her_ presence seemed doubly

long and doubly lost. The chances of the coming war--_where_ our

troops were to land, whether at Eupatoria or Perecop, or were to await

an attack where they were literally rotting in the camp upon the

Bulgarian shore; their prospects of success, the proposed bombardment

of Cronstadt, the bewildering orders issued to our admirals, the inane

weakness and pitiful vacillation, if not worse, of Lord Aberdeen's

government, our total want of all preparation in the ambulance and

commissariat services, even to the lack of sufficient shot, shell, and

gunpowder--were all freely descanted on, and attacked, explained, or

defended according to the politics or the views of those present; and

Guilfoyle--who, on the strength of having been attaché at the petty

German court of Catzenelnbogen, affected a great knowledge of

continental affairs--indulged in much "tall talk" on the European

situation till once more the county pack and hunting became the chief

topic, and then too he endeavoured, but perhaps vainly, to take the

lead.

"You talk of fox-hunting, gentlemen," said he, raising his voice after

a preliminary cough, "and some of the anecdotes you tell of wonderful

leaps, mistakes, and runs, with the cunning displayed by reynard on

various occasions, such as hiding in a pool up to the snout, feigning

death--a notion old as the days of Olaus Magnus--throwing dogs off the

scent by traversing a running stream, and so forth, are all remarkable

enough; but give me a good buck-hunt, such as I have seen in Croatia!

When travelling there among the mountains that lie between Carlstadt

and the Adriatic, I had the good fortune to reside for a few weeks

with my kind friend Ladislaus Count Mosvina, Grand Huntsman to the

Emperor of Austria, and captain of the German Guard of Arzieres, and

who takes his title from that wine-growing district, the vintage of

which is fully equal to the finest burgundy. The season was winter.

The snow lay deep among the frightful valleys and precipices of the

Vellibitch range, and an enormous _rehbock_, or roebuck, fully five

feet in height to the shoulder, with antlers of vast size--five feet,

if an inch, from tip to tip--driven from the mountains by the storm

and _la bora_, the biting north-east wind, took shelter in a thicket

near the house. Several shots were fired; but no one, not even _I_,

could succeed in hitting him, till at last he defiantly and coolly

fed among the sheep, in the yard of the Count's home farm, where, by

the use of his antlers, he severely wounded and disabled all who

attempted to dislodge him. At last four of the Count's farmers or

foresters--some of those Croatian boors who are liable to receive

twenty-five blows of a cudgel yearly if they fail to engraft at least

twenty-five fruit-trees--undertook to slay or capture the intruder.

But though they were powerful, hardy, and brave men, this devil

of a _rehbock_, by successive blows of its antlers, fractured the

skulls of two and the thigh-bones of the others, smashing them like

tobacco-pipes, and made an escape to the mountains. A combined hunt

was now ordered by my friend Mosvina, and all the gentlemen and

officers in the _generalat_ or district commanded by him set off,

mounted and in pursuit. There were nearly a thousand horsemen; but the

cavalry there are small and weak. _I_ was perhaps the best-mounted man

in the field. We pursued it for twenty-five miles, by rocky hills and

almost pathless woods, by ravines and rivers. Many of our people fell.

Some got staked, were pulled from their saddles by trees, or tumbled

off by running foul of wild swine. Many missed their way, grew weary,

got imbogged in the half-frozen marshes, and so forth, till at last

only the Count and I with four dogs were on his track, and when on it,

we leaped no less than four frozen cataracts, each at least a hundred

feet in height--'pon honour they were. We had gone almost neck and

neck for a time; but the Grand Huntsman's horse began to fail him now

(for we had come over terrible ground, most of it being uphill), and

ultimately it fell dead lame. Then whoop--tally-ho! I spurred onward

alone. Just as the furious giant was coming to bay in a narrow gorge,

and, fastening on his flanks and neck, the maddened dogs were tearing

him down, their red jaws steaming in the frosty air, the Count came up

on foot, breathless and thoroughly blown, to have the honour of

slaying this antlered monarch of the Dinovian Alps. But I was too

quick for him. I had sprung from my horse, and with my unsheathed

_hanshar_ or Croatian knife had flung myself, fearlessly and

regardless of all danger, upon the buck, eluding a last and desperate

butt made at me with his pointed horns. Another moment saw my knife

buried to the haft in his throat, and a torrent of crimson blood

flowing upon the snow, then I courteously tendered my weapon by the

hilt to the Count, who, in admiration of my adroitness, presented me

with this ring--a very fine brilliant, you may perceive--which his

grandfather had received from the Empress Maria Theresa, and the pure

gold of which is native, from the sand upon the banks of the Drave."

And as he concluded his anecdote, which he related with considerable

pomposity and perfect coolness, he twirled round his finger this

remarkable ring, of which I was eventually to hear more from time to

time.

"So, out of a thousand Croatian horsemen, _you_ were the only one in at

the death! It says little for their manhood," said an old fox-hunter,

as he filled his glass with burgundy, and pretty palpably winked to

Sir Madoc, under cover of an épergne.

"This may all be true, Harry, or not--only _entre nous_, I don't

believe it is," said Phil Caradoc aside to me; "for who here knows

anything of Croatia? He might as well talk to old Gwyllim the butler,

or any chance medley Englishman, of the land of Memnon and the

hieroglyphics. This fellow Guilfoyle beats Munchausen all to nothing;

but did he not before tell something _else_ about that ring?"

"I don't remember; but now, Phil, that you have seen her," said I, in

a tone of tolerably-affected carelessness, "what do you think of _la

belle_ Cressingham?"

"She is very handsome, certainly," replied Phil, in the same

undertone, and luckily looking at his glass, and not at me, "a

splendid specimen of her class--a proud and by no means a bashful

beauty."

"Most things in this world are prized just as they are difficult of

attainment, or are scarce. I reckon beauty among these, and no woman

holds it cheap," said I, not knowing exactly what to think of

Caradoc's criticism. "There is Miss Lloyd, for instance--"

"Ah," said he, with honest animation, "she is a beauty too, but a

gentle and retiring one--a girl that is all sweetness and genuine

goodness of heart."

"With some dairy-farms in the midland counties, eh?"

"The graces of such a girl are always the most attractive. We men are

so constituted that we are apt to decline admiration where it is

loftily courted or seemingly expected--as I fear it is in the case of

Lady Cressingham--and to bestow it on the gentle and retiring."

I felt there was much truth in my friend's remarks, and yet they

piqued me so that I rather turned from him coldly for the remainder of

the evening.

"Her mother is haughty, intensely ambitious, and looks forward to a

title for her as high, if not higher, than that her father bore," I

heard Sir Madoc say to a neighbour who had been talking on the same

subject--the beauty of Lady, Estelle; "the old lady is half Irish and

half Welsh."

"Rather a combustible compound, I should think," added Guilfoyle, as,

after coffee and curaçoa, we all rose to join the ladies in the

drawing-room.