CHAPTER LX.--A HONEYMOON.

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 Winifred _would_ ever 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 the _Briodasferch_ (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 was _so_ delightful 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. It _had_

seemed 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 with _you!_"

"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 she _has been_ something 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."