"I am almost a stranger here," said I, "as I belong to the garrison at Winchester."
"You are an officer?"
"Yes, madam, of the Royal Welsh Fusileers."
She simply bowed, but did not respond to my information by saying _who_ she was.
"Though a soldier, sir," said she, after a pause, "I dare say you will be aware that the hardest battles of this world are _not_ fought in the field."
"Where then?"
"Where we might least look for struggles of the soul: in many a well-ordered drawing-room; in many a poor garret; in many a lovely bower and sunny garden, or in a green and shady lane like this; fought in secrecy and the silence of the heart, and in tears that are hot and salt as blood!"
She _is_ very pretty, thought I; but I hope she won't become melodramatic, hysterical, or anything of that sort!
"Darkness will be set in ere you can reach Whitchurch, at our present rate of progression," said I; "and your--your--" (I was about to say husband) "relations or friends will be anxious about you."
"Alas, no, sir! I have no one to miss or to regret me," she replied, mournfully; "but I must not intrude selfishly my sorrows on a stranger."
"There is no appearance of the--the person who annoyed you returning," said I, looking backward up the long narrow lane we were descending.
"Little chance is there of that," said she, bitterly; "_he_ will return no more."
"You are certain of that?"
"Too fatally certain!"
"You have quarrelled, then?"
"No; it is worse than a quarrel," said she, with her pale lips quivering.
"He is an enemy?"
"My enemy?--my tempter--my evil spirit--he is my husband!"
"Pardon me; I did not mean to be curious, when I have no right to be so; but here is the highway; I too am going towards Whitchurch--my way to the barracks lies in that direction; and I shall have much pleasure in escorting you to your home, if you will permit me," said I, seized by an impulse of gallantry, humanity, or both, which I ere long had cause to repent.
"Sir, I thank you, and shall detain you no longer," she replied, hurriedly; "I am something of a wanderer now, and my rooms are at the ivy-clad inn by the roadside."
This was the place where I had seen Guilfoyle's roan mare, an evening or so past.
We had now reached the end of the narrow and secluded lane, a famous one in that locality as the trysting-place of lovers, and were standing irresolutely near the main road that leads to Whitchurch and Winchester, when a large and handsome carriage, drawn by a pair of spanking dark gray horses, approached us rapidly.
Throwing my nag's bridle over my left arm, I was in the act of offering my right hand to this mysterious lady in farewell, when her eyes caught sight of the carriage; a half-stifled sob escaped her; she reeled again, and would have fallen, had I not thrown my arm round her, and by its firm support upheld her. At that moment the carriage bowled past. The face of a lady was at the open window, looking out upon us with wonder and interest, as she saw a lady and gentleman to all appearance embracing, or at least on very good terms with each other, at the corner of a shady lane, a little way off the Queen's highway; and something like an exclamation of dismay escaped me on recognising the colourless haughty face, the dark eyes, the black hair, and bonnet of that orange tint so becoming to one of her complexion--she of whom my whole soul was full, Lady Estelle Cressingham!
CHAPTER XXI .-GEORGETTE FRANKLIN.
Had Estelle recognised me? If so, what might she--nay, what must she--think, and how misconstrue the whole situation? Should I ride after the carriage, or write at all risks, and explain the matter, or commit the event to fate? That might be perilous. She may not have recognised me, I thought: the twilight, the shade, the place might have concealed my identity; but if not, they were all the more against me. I was now in greater and more horrible perplexity than ever, and I wished the unhappy little woman, the cause of all, in a very warm climate indeed.
Thus, while longing with all the energies of my life to see Estelle, to be seen by her _there_, at a time so liable to misconception if left unexplained, might be death to my dearest hopes, and destruction to the success I had achieved.
"Why were you so agitated by the sight of Lady Naseby's carriage?" I asked, with an annoyance of tone that I cared not to conceal.
"Giddiness, perhaps; but was I agitated?"
"Of course you were--nearly fell; would have fallen flat, indeed, but for me."
"I thank you, sir," was the gentle reply; for my asperity of manner was either unnoticed or unheeded by her; "but you seemed scarcely less so."
"I, madam!--why the deuce should I have been agitated?"
"Unless I greatly err, you were, and are so still."
"Indeed!"
"Do you know the ladies?"
"Were there two?" asked I, with increased annoyance.
"The Countess and her daughter."
"I saw but one."
"And--O, pardon my curiosity, dear sir--you know them?"
"Intimately;--and what then?" I asked, with growing irritation.
"Intimately!" she repeated, with surprise.
"There is nothing very singular in that, I suppose?"
"And, sir, you visit them?"
"I have not as yet, but hope to do soon. We were all together in the same house in North Wales."
"Ah! at Craigaderyn Court?"
"Yes; Sir Madoc Lloyd's. Do you know Sir Madoc?"
"I have not that pleasure."
"Who, then, that you are acquainted with knows him?"
"My husband."
"Your husband!" said I, glancing at the plain hoop on the delicate little hand, which she was now gloving nervously.
"He was there with you; must have been conversing with you often. I saw you all at church together one Sunday afternoon, and frequently on the terraces and on the lawn; while!"--she covered her face with her hands--"while I loitered and lurked like an outcast!"
"Your husband, madam?" I queried again.
"Mr. Hawkesby Guilfoyle."
Whew! Here was a discovery: it quite took my breath away, and I looked with deeper interest on the sweet and pale and patient little face.
I now remembered the letter I had picked up and returned to him; his confusion about it, and the horse he alleged to have lost by at a race that had not come off; his irritation, the postal marks, and the name of _Georgette_.
After such a termination to his visit to Craigaderyn, I could fancy that his situation as a guest or visitor at Walcot Park, even after he found the ladies there were ignorant of the nature of Sir Madoc's curt note to him, must be far from enviable, for such as he must live in hourly dread of insult, slight, or exposure; but how was I now situated with regard to her I loved?
Deemed, perhaps, guilty in her eyes, and without a crime; and if aware of the situation, the malevolent Guilfoyle would be sure to avail himself of it to the fullest extent.
"Lady Estelle is very lovely, as I could see," said my companion.
"Very; but you saw her--when?"
"In Craigaderyn church, most fully and favourably."
And now I recalled the pale-faced little woman in black, who had been pointed out to me by Winifred Lloyd, and who had been found in a swoon among the gravestones by old Farmer Rhuddlan.
In all this there was some mystery, which I felt curious enough to probe, as Guilfoyle had never by word or hint at any time given those among whom he moved reason to believe he was aught else than a bachelor, and a very eligible one, too; for if my once rival, as I believed him to be, was not a creditable, he was certainly a plausible, one; and here lay with me the means of an _exposé_ beyond even that which had taken place at Craigaderyn Court.
"You are his wife, madam, and yet--does he, for purposes of his own, disavow you?" said I, after a pause, not knowing very well how to put my leading question.
"It is so, sir--for infamous purposes of his own."
"But you have him in your power; you have all the air of a lady of birth and education--why not come forward and assert your position?"
The woman's soft gray eyes were usually filled by an expression of great and deep sadness; but there were times when, as she spoke, they flashed with fire, and there were others, when her whole face seemed to glitter with "the white light of passion" as she thought of her wrongs. Restraining her emotion, she replied,
"To assert my claims; that is exactly what I cannot do--now at least."
"Why?"
"Because he has destroyed all the proofs that existed of our unhappy and most miserable marriage."
"Destroyed them! how?"
"Very simply, by putting them in the fire before my face."
"But a record--a register--must exist somewhere."
"We were married at sea, and the ship, in the chaplain's books of which the marriage I have no doubt was recorded, perished. Proofs I have none. But tell me, sir, is it true, that--that he is to be married to the daughter of Lady Naseby?"
"To Estelle Cressingham?" I exclaimed, while much of amusement mingled with the angry scorn of my manner.
"Yes," she replied, eagerly.
"No, certainly not; what on earth can have put such an idea into your head, my good woman?"
My hauteur of tone passed unheeded, as she replied:
"I saw her portrait in the Royal Academy, and heard a gentleman who stood near me say to another, that it was so rumoured; that he--Mr. Guilfoyle--had come with her from the Continent, and that he was going after her down to North Wales. He had said so at the club."