Volume Two—Chapter Ten.
Stunned and Silent.
Down in the boat-dock, upon the thwarts of his skiff, sits the young waterman awaiting his fare. He has been up to the house and there hospitably entertained—feasted. But with the sorrow of his recent bereavement still fresh, the revelry of the servants’ hall had no fascination for him—instead, only saddening the more. Even the blandishments of the French femme de chambre could not detain him; and fleeing them, he has returned to his boat long before he expects being called upon to use the oars.
Seated, pipe in mouth—for Jack too indulges in tobacco—he is endeavouring to put in the time as well as he can; irksome at best with that bitter grief upon him. And it is present all the while, with scarce a moment of surcease, his thoughts ever dwelling on her who is sleeping her last sleep in the burying-ground at Rugg’s Ferry.
While thus disconsolately reflecting, a sound falls upon his ears, which claims his attention, and for an instant or two occupies it. If anything, it was the dip of an oar; but so light that only one with ears well-trained to distinguish noises of the kind could tell it to be that. He, however, has no doubt of it, muttering to himself—
“Wonder whose boat can be on the river this time o’ night—mornin’, I ought to say? Wouldn’t be a tourist party—starting off so early? No, can’t be that. Like enough Dick Dempsey out a-salmon stealin’! The night so dark—just the sort for the rascal to be about on his unlawful business.”
While thus conjecturing, a scowl, dark as the night itself, flits over his own face.
“Yes; a coracle!” he continues; “must ’a been the plash o’ a paddle. If’t had been a regular boat’s oar I’d a heerd the thumpin’ against the thole pins.”
For once the waterman is in error. It is no paddle whose stroke he has heard, nor a coracle impelled by it; but a boat rowed by a pair of oars. And why there is no “thumpin’ against the thole pins” is because the oars are muffled. Were he out in the main channel—two hundred yards above the bye-way—he would see the craft itself with three men in it. But only at that instant; as in the next it is headed into a bed of “witheys”—flooded by the freshet—and pushed on through them to the bank beyond.
Soon it touches terra firma, the men spring out; two of them going off towards the grounds of Llangorren Court. The third remains by the boat.
Meanwhile, Jack Wingate, in his skiff, continues listening. But hearing no repetition of the sound that had so slightly reached his ear, soon ceases to think of it; again giving way to his grief, as he returns to reflect on what lies in the chapel cemetery. If he but knew how near the two things were together—the burying-ground and the boat—he would not be long in his own.
Relieved he is, when at length voices are heard up at the house—calls for carriages—proclaiming the ball about to break up. Still more gratified, as the banging of doors, and the continuous rumble of wheels, tell of the company fast clearing off.
For nigh half an hour the rattling is incessant; then there is a lull, and he listens for a sound of a different sort—a footfall on the stone stairs that lead down to the little dock—that of his fare, who may at any moment be expected.
Instead of footstep, he hears voices on the cliff above, off in the direction of the summer-house. Nothing to surprise him that? It is not first time he has listened to the same, and under very similar circumstances; for soon as hearing he recognises them. But it is the first time for him to note their tone as it is now—to his astonishment that of anger.
“They be quarrelling, I declare,” he says to himself. “Wonder what for! Somethin’ crooked’s come between ’em at the ball—bit o’ jealousy, maybe? I shudn’t be surprised if it’s about young Mr Shenstone. Sure as eggs is eggs, the Captain have ugly ideas consarnin’ him. He needn’t, though; an’ wouldn’t, if he seed through the eyes o’ a sensible man. Course, bein’ deep in love, he can’t. I seed it long ago. She be mad about him as he o’ her—if not madder. Well; I daresay it be only a lovers’ quarrel an’ll soon blow over. Woe’s me! I weesh—”
He would say “I weesh ’twar only that ’twixt myself an’ Mary,” but the words break upon his lips, while a scalding tear trickles down his cheek.
Fortunately his anguished sorrow is not allowed further indulgence for the time.
The footstep, so long listened for, is at length upon the boat stair; not firm, in its wonted way, but as though he making it were intoxicated!
But Wingate does not believe it is that. He knows the Captain to be abstemious, or, at all events, not greatly given to drink. He has never seen him overcome by it; and surely he would not be, on this night in particular. Unless, indeed, it may have to do with the angry speech overheard, or the something thought of preceding it!
The conjectures of the waterman, are brought to an end by the arrival of his fare at the bottom of the boat stair, where he stops only to ask—“Are you there, Jack?” The pitchy darkness accounts for the question.
Receiving answer in the affirmative, he gropes his way along the ledge of rock, reeling like a drunken man. Not from drink, but the effects of that sharp, defiant rejoinder still ringing in his ears. He seems to hear, in every gust of the wind swirling down from the cliff above, the words, “Yes; let it!”
He knows where the skiff should be—where it was left—beyond the pleasure boat. The dock is not wide enough for both abreast, and to reach his own he must go across the other—make a gang-plank of the Gwendoline.
As he sets foot upon the thwarts of the pleasure craft, has he a thought of what were his feelings when he first planted it there, after ducking the Forest of Dean fellow? Or, stepping off, does he spurn the boat with angry heel, as in angry speech he has done her whose name it bears? Neither. He is too excited and confused to think of the past, or aught but the black bitter present.
Still staggering, he drops down upon the stern sheets of the skiff, commanding the waterman to shove off.
A command promptly obeyed, and in silence. Jack can see the Captain is out of sorts, and suspecting the reason, naturally supposes that speech at such time might not be welcome. He says nothing, therefore; but, bending to his oars, pulls on up the bye-way.
Just outside its entrance a glimpse can be got of the little pavilion—by looking back. And Captain Ryecroft does this, over his shoulder; for, seated at the tiller, his face is from it. The light is still there, burning dimly as ever. For all, he is enabled to trace the outlines of a figure, in shadowy silhouette—a woman standing by the baluster rail, as if looking out over it.
He knows who it is; it can only be Gwen Wynn. Well were it for both could he but know what she is at that moment thinking. If he did, back would go his boat, and the two again be together—perhaps never more to part in spite.
Just then, as if ominous, and in spiteful protest against such consummation, the sombre sandstone cliff draws between, and Captain Ryecroft is carried onward, with heart dark and heavy as the rock.
Volume Two—Chapter Eleven.
A Startling Cry.
During all this while Wingate has not spoken a word, though he also has observed the same figure in the pavilion. With face that way he could not avoid noticing it, and easily guesses who she is. Had he any doubt the behaviour of the other would remove it.
“Miss Wynn, for sartin,” he thinks to himself, but says nothing.
Again turning his eyes upon his patron, he notes the distraught air, with head drooping, and feels the effect in having to contend against the rudder ill directed. But he forbears making remark. At such a moment his interference might not be tolerated—perhaps resented. And so the silence continues.
Not much longer. A thought strikes the waterman, and he ventures a word about the weather. It is done for a kindly feeling—for he sees how the other suffers—but in part because he has a reason for it. The observation is—
“We’re goin’ to have the biggest kind o’ a rainpour Captain.”
The Captain makes no immediate response. Still in the morose mood, communing with his own thoughts, the words fall upon his ear unmeaningly, as if from a distant echo.
After a time it occurs to him he has been spoken to and asks—
“What did you observe, Wingate?”
“That there be a rain storm threatening o’ the grandest sort. There’s flood enough now; but afore long it’ll be all over the meadows.”
“Why do you think that? I see no sign. The sky’s very much clouded true; but it has been just the same for the last several days.”
“’Tan’t the sky as tells me, Captain.”
“What then?”
“The heequall.”
“The heequall?”
“Yes. It’s been a cacklin’ all through the afternoon and evenin’—especial loud just as the sun wor settin’. I niver know’d it do that ’ithout plenty o’ wet comin’ soon after.”
Ryecroft’s interest is aroused, and for the moment forgetting his misery, he says:—
“You’re talking enigmas, Jack! At least they are so to me. What is this barometer you seem to place such confidence in? Beast, bird, or fish?”
“It be a bird, Captain? I believe the gentry folks calls it a woodpecker; but ’bout here it be more generally known by the name heequall.”
The orthography is according to Jack’s orthoepy, for there are various spellings of the word.
“Anyhow,” he proceeds, “it gies warnin’ o’ rain, same as a weather-glass. When it ha’ been laughin’ in the mad way it wor most part o’ this day, you may look out for a downpour. Besides, the owls ha’ been a-doin’ their best, too. While I wor waiting for ye in that darksome hole, one went sailin’ up an’ down the backwash, every now an’ then swishin’ close to my ear and giein’ a screech—as if I hadn’t enough o’ the disagreeable to think o’. They allus come that way when one’s feelin’ out o’ sorts—just as if they wanted to make things worse. Hark! Did ye hear that, Captain?”
“I did.”
They speak of a sound that has reached their ears from below—down the river.
Both show agitation, but most the waterman; for it resembled a shriek, as of a woman in distress. Distant, just as one he heard across the wooded ridge, on that fatal night after parting with Mary Morgan. He knows now, that must have been her drowning cry, and has often thought since whether, if aware of it at the time, he could have done aught to rescue her. Not strange, that with such a recollection he is now greatly excited by a sound so similar!
“That waren’t no heequall; nor screech-owl neyther,” he says, speaking in a half whisper.
“What do you think it was?” asks the Captain, also sotto voce.
“The scream o’ a female. I’m ’most sure ’twor that.”
“It certainly did seem a woman’s voice. In the direction of the Court, too!”
“Yes; it comed that way.”
“I’ve half a mind to put back, and see if there be anything amiss. What say you, Wingate?”
“Gie the word, sir! I’m ready.”
The boatman has his oars out of water, and holds them so, Ryecroft still undecided. Both listen with bated breath. But, whether woman’s voice, or whatever the sound, they hear nothing more of it; only the monotonous ripple of the river, the wind mournfully sighing through the trees upon its banks, and a distant “brattle,” of thunder, bearing out the portent of the bird.
“Like as not,” says Jack, “’twor some o’ them sarvint girls screechin’ in play, fra havin’ had a drop too much to drink. There’s a Frenchy thing among ’em as wor gone nigh three sheets i’ the wind ’fores I left. I think, Captain, we may as well keep on.”
The waterman has an eye to the threatening rain, and dreads getting a wet jacket.
But his words are thrown away; for, meanwhile, the boat, left to itself, has drifted downward, nearly back to the entrance of the bye-way, and they are once more within sight of the kiosk on the cliff. There all is darkness; no figure distinguishable. The lamps have burnt out, or been removed by some of the servants.
“She has gone away from it,” is Ryecroft’s reflection to himself. “I wonder if the ring be still on the floor—or, has she taken it with her! I’d give something to know that.”
Beyond he sees a light in the upper window of the house—that of a bedroom no doubt. She may be in it, unrobing herself, before retiring to rest. Perhaps standing in front of a mirror, which reflects that form of magnificent outline he was once permitted to hold in his arms, thrilled by the contact, and never to be thrilled so again! Her face in the glass—what the expression upon it? Sadness, or joy? If the former, she is thinking of him; if the latter of George Shenstone.
As this reflection flits across his brain, the jealous rage returns, and he cries out to the waterman—
“Row back, Wingate! Pull hard, and let us home!”
Once more the boat’s head is turned upstream, and for a long spell no further conversation is exchanged—only now and then a word relating to the management of the craft, as between rower and steerer. Both have relapsed into abstraction—each dwelling on his own bereavement. Perhaps boat never carried two men with sadder hearts, or more bitter reflections. Nor is there so much difference in the degree of their bitterness. The sweetheart, almost bride, who has proved false, seems to her lover not less lost, than to hers she who has been snatched away by death!
As the Mary runs into the slip of backwater—her accustomed mooring-place—and they step out of her, the dialogue is renewed by the owner asking—
“Will ye want me the morrow, Captain?”
“No, Jack.”
“How soon do you think? ’Scuse me for questionin’; but young Mr Powell have been here the day, to know if I could take him an’ a friend down the river, all the way to the Channel. It’s for sea fishin’ or duck shootin’ or somethin’ o’ that sort; an’ they want to engage the boat most part o’ a week. But, if you say the word, they must look out for somebody else. That be the reason o’ my askin’ when’s you’d need me again.”
“Perhaps never.”
“Oh! Captain; don’t say that. ’Tan’t as I care ’bout the boat’s hire, or the big pay you’ve been givin’ me. Believe me it ain’t. Ye can have me an’ the Mary ’ithout a sixpence o’ expense—long’s ye like. But to think I’m niver to row you again, that ’ud vex me dreadful—maybe more’n ye gi’e me credit for, Captain.”
“More than I give you credit for! It couldn’t, Jack. We’ve been too long together for me to suppose you actuated by mercenary motives. Though I may never need your boat again, or see yourself, don’t have any fear of my forgetting you. And now, as a souvenir, and some slight recompense of your services, take this.”
The waterman feels a piece of paper pressed into his hand, its crisp rustle proclaiming it a bank-note. It is a “tenner,” but in the darkness he cannot tell, and believing it only a “fiver,” still thinks it too much. For it is all extra of his fare.
With a show of returning it, and, indeed, the desire to do so, he says protestingly—
“I can’t take it, Captain. You ha’ paid me too handsome, arredy.”
“Nonsense, man! I haven’t done anything of the kind. Besides, that isn’t for boat hire, nor yourself; only a little douceur, by way of present to the good dame inside the cottage—asleep, I take it.”
“That case I accept. But won’t my mother be grieved to hear o’ your goin’ away—she thinks so much o’ ye, Captain. Will ye let me wake her up? I’m sure she’d like to speak a partin’ word, and thank you for this big gift.”
“No, no! don’t disturb the dear old lady. In the morning you can give her my kind regards, and parting compliments. Say to her, when I return to Herefordshire—if I ever do—she shall see me. For yourself, take my word, should I ever again go rowing on this river it will be in a boat called the Mary, pulled by the best waterman on the Wye.”
Modest though Jack Wingate be, he makes no pretence of misunderstanding the recondite compliment, but accepts it in its fullest sense, rejoining—
“I’d call it flattery, Captain, if’t had come from anybody but you. But I know ye never talk nonsense; an’ that’s just why I be so sad to hear ye say you’re goin’ off for good. I feeled so bad ’bout losin’ poor Mary; it makes it worse now losin’ you. Good night!”
The Hussar officer has a horse, which has been standing in a little lean-to shed, under saddle. The lugubrious dialogue has been carried on simultaneously with the bridling, and the “Good night” is said as Ryecroft springs up on his stirrup.
Then as he rides away into the darkness, and Jack Wingate stands listening to the departing hoof-stroke, at each repetition more indistinct, he feels indeed forsaken, forlorn; only one thing in the world now worth living for—but one to keep him anchored to life—his aged mother!
Volume Two—Chapter Twelve.
Making Ready for the Road.
Having reached his hotel, Captain Ryecroft seeks neither rest nor sleep, but stays awake for the remainder of the night.
The first portion of his time he spends in gathering up his impedimenta, and packing. Not a heavy task. His luggage is light, according to the simplicity of a soldier’s wants; and as an old campaigner he is not long in making ready for the route.
His fishing tackle, gun-case and portmanteau, with an odd bundle or two of miscellaneous effects, are soon strapped and corded. After which he takes a seat by a table to write out the labels.
But now a difficulty occurs to him—the address! His name of course, but what the destination? Up to this moment he has not thought of where he is going; only that he must go somewhere—away from the Wye. There is no Lethe in that stream for memories like his.
To his regiment he cannot return, for he has none now. Months since he ceased to be a soldier; having resigned his commission at the expiration of his leave of absence—partly in displeasure at being refused extension of it, but more because the attractions of the “Court” and the grove had made those of the camp uncongenial. Thus his visit to Herefordshire has not only spoilt him as a salmon fisher, but put an end to his military career.
Fortunately he was not dependent on it; for Captain Ryecroft is a rich man. And yet he has no home he can call his own; the ten latest years of his life having been passed in Hindostan. Dublin is his native place; but what would or could he now do there? his nearest relatives are dead, his friends few, his schoolfellows long since scattered—many of them, as himself, waifs upon the world. Besides, since his return from India, he has paid a visit to the capital of the Emerald Isle; where, finding all so changed, he cares not to go back—at least, for the present.
Whither then?
One place looms upon the imagination—almost naturally as home itself—the metropolis of the world. He will proceed thither, though not there to stay. Only to use it as a point of departure for another metropolis—the French one. In that focus and centre of gaiety and fashion—Maelstrom of dissipation—he may find some relief from his misery, if not happiness. Little hope has he; but it may be worth the trial and he will make it.
So determining, he takes up the pen, and is about to put “London” on the labels. But as an experienced strategist, who makes no move with undue haste and without due deliberation, he sits a while longer considering.
Strange as it may seem, and a question for psychologists, a man thinks best upon his back. Better still with a cigar between his teeth—powerful help to reflection. Aware of this, Captain Ryecroft lights a “weed,” and looks around him. He is in his sleeping apartment, where, besides the bed, there is a sofa—horsehair cushion and squab hard as stones—the orthodox hotel article.
Along this he lays himself, and smokes away furiously. Spitefully, too; for he is not now thinking of either London or Paris. He cannot yet. The happy past, the wretched present, are too soul-absorbing to leave room for speculations of the future. The “fond rage of love” is still active within him. Is it to “blight his life’s bloom,” leaving him “an age all winters?” Or is there yet a chance of reconciliation? Can the chasm which angry words have created be bridged over? No. Not without confession of error—abject humiliation on his part—which in his present frame of mind he is not prepared to make—will not—could not.
“Never!” he exclaims, plucking the cigar from between his lips, but soon returning it, to continue the train of his reflections.
Whether from the soothing influence of the nicotine, or other cause, his thoughts after a time became more tranquillised—their hue sensibly changed, as betokened by some muttered words which escape him.
“After all, I may be wronging her. If so, may God forgive, as I hope He will pity me. For if so, I am less deserving forgiveness, and more to be pitied than she.”
As in ocean’s storm, between the rough surging billows foam-crested, are spots of smooth water, so in thought’s tempest are intervals of calm. It is during one of these he speaks as above; and continuing to reflect in the same strain, things, if not quite couleur de rose, assume a less repulsive aspect. Gwen Wynn may have been but dissembling—playing with him—and he would now be contented, ready—even rejoiced—to accept it in that sense; ay, to the abject humiliation that but the moment before he had so defiantly rejected. So reversed his sentiments now—modified from mad anger to gentle forgiveness—he is almost in the act of springing to his feet, tearing the straps from his packed paraphernalia, and letting all loose again!
But just at this crisis he hears the town clock tolling six, and voices in conversation under his window. It is a hit of gossip between two stable-men—attaches of the hotel—an ostler and fly-driver.
“Ye had a big time last night at Llangorren?” says the former, inquiringly.
“Ah! that ye may say,” returns the Jarvey, with a strongly accentuated hiccup, telling of heel-taps. “Never knowed a bigger, s’help me. Wine runnin’ in rivers, as if ’twas only table-beer—an’ the best kind o’t too. I’m so full o’ French champagne, I feel most like burstin’.”
“She be a grand gal, that Miss Wynn. An’t she?”
“In course is—one o’ the grandest. But she an’t going to be a girl long. By what I heerd them say in the sarvints’ hall, she’s soon to be broke into pair-horse harness.”
“Wi’ who?”
“The son o’ Sir George Shenstone.”
“A good match they’ll make, I sh’d say. Tidier chap than he never stepped inside this yard. Many’s the time he’s tipped me.”
There is more of the same sort, but Captain Ryecroft does not hear it; the men having moved off beyond earshot. In all likelihood he would not have listened, had they stayed. For again he seems to hear those other words—that last spiteful rejoinder—“Yes; let it.”
His own spleen returning, in all its keen hostility, he springs upon his feet, hastily steps back to the table, and writes on the slips of parchment—
Mr Vivian Ryecroft, Passenger to London, G.W.R.
He cannot attach them till the ink gets dry; and, while waiting for it to do so, his thoughts undergo still another revulsion; again leading him to reflect whether he may not be in the wrong, and acting inconsiderately—rashly.
In fine, he resolves on a course which had not hitherto occurred to him—he will write to her. Not in repentance, nor any confession of guilt on his part. He is too proud, and still too doubting for that. Only a test letter to draw her out, and if possible, discover how she too feels under the circumstances. Upon the answer—if he receive one—will depend whether it is to be the last.
With pen still in hand, he draws a sheet of notepaper towards him. It bears the hotel stamp and name, so that he has no need to write an address—only the date.
This done, he remains for a time considering—thinking what he should say. The larger portion of his manhood’s life spent in camp, under canvas—not the place for cultivating literary tastes or epistolary style—he is at best an indifferent correspondent, and knows it. But the occasion supplies thoughts; and as a soldier accustomed to prompt brevity he puts them down—quickly and briefly as a campaigning despatch.
With this, he does not wait for the ink to dry, but uses the blotter. He dreads another change of resolution. Folding up the sheet, he slips it into an envelope, on which he simply superscribes—
Miss Wynn, Llangorren Court.
Then rings a bell—the hotel servants are now astir—and directs the letter to be dropped into the post box.
He knows it will reach her that same day, at an early hour, and its answer him—should one be vouchsafed—on the following morning. It might that same night at the hotel where he is now staying; but not the one to which he is going—as his letter tells, the “Langham, London.”
And while it is being slowly carried by a pedestrian postman, along hilly roads towards Llangorren, he, seated in a first-class carriage of the Gr.W.R., is swiftly whisked towards the metropolis.
Volume Two—Chapter Thirteen.
A Slumbering Household.
As calm succeeds a storm, so at Llangorren Court on the morning after the ball there was quietude—up to a certain hour more than common. The domestics justifying themselves by the extra services of the preceding night, lie late. Outside is stirring only the gardener with an assistant, at his usual work, and in the yard a stable help or two looking after the needs of the horses. The more important functionaries of this department—coachman and head-groom still slumber, dreaming of champagne bottles brought back to the servants’ hall three parts full with but half demolished pheasants, and other fragmentary delicacies.
Inside the house things are on a parallel; there only a scullery and kitchen maid astir. The higher class servitors availing themselves of the licence allowed, are still abed, and it is ten as butler, cook, and footman make their appearance, entering on their respective rôles yawningly, and with reluctance.
There are two lady’s-maids in the establishment; the little French demoiselle attached to Miss Linton, and an English damsel of more robust build, whose special duties are to wait upon Miss Wynn. The former lies late on all days, her mistress not requiring early manipulation; but the maid “native and to the manner born,” is wont to be up betimes. This morning is an exception. After such a night of revelry, slumber holds her enthralled, as in a trance; and she is abed late as any of the others, sleeping like a dormouse.
As her dormitory window looks out upon the back yard, the stable clock, a loud striker, at length awakes her. Not in time to count the strokes, but a glance at the dial gives her the hour.
While dressing herself she is in a flutter, fearing rebuke. Not for having slept so late, but because of having gone to sleep so early. The dereliction of duty, about which she is so apprehensive, has reference to a spell of slumber antecedent—taken upon a sofa in her young mistress’s dressing-room. There awaiting Miss Wynn to assist in disrobing her after the ball, the maid dropped over and forgot everything—only remembering who she was, and what her duties, when too late to attend to them. Starting up from the sofa, and glancing at the mantel timepiece, she saw, with astonishment, its hands pointing to half-past 4 a.m!
Reflection following:—
“Miss Gwen must be in her bed by this! Wonder why she didn’t wake me up? Rang no bell? Surely I’d have heard it? If she did, and I haven’t answered—Well; the dear young lady’s just the sort not to make any ado about it. I suppose she thought I’d gone to my room, and didn’t wish to disturb me? But how could she think that? Besides, she must have passed through here, and seen me on the sofa!” The dressing-room is an ante-chamber of Miss Wynn’s sleeping apartment. “She mightn’t though,”—the contradiction suggested by the lamp burning low and dim,—“Still, it is strange, her not calling me, nor requiring my attendance?”
Gathering herself up, the girl stands for a while in cogitation. The result is a move across the carpeted floor in soft stealthy step, and an ear laid close to the keyhole of the bedchamber door.
“Sound asleep! I can’t go in now. Mustn’t—I daren’t awake her.”
Saying which the negligent attendant slips off to her own sleeping room, a flight higher; and in ten minutes after, is herself once more in the arms of Morpheus; this time retained in them till released, as already said, by the tolling of the stable clock.
Conscious of unpardonable remissness, she dresses in careless haste—any way, to be in time for attendance on her mistress, at morning toilet.
Her first move is to hurry down to the kitchen, get the can of hot water, and take it up to Miss Wynn’s sleeping room. Not to enter, but tap at the door and leave it.
She does the tapping; and, receiving no response nor summons from inside, concludes that the young lady is still asleep and not to be disturbed. It is a standing order of the house, and pleased to be precise in its observance—never more than on this morning—she sets down the painted can, and hurries back to the kitchen, soon after taking her seat by a breakfast table, unusually well spread, for the time to forget about her involuntary neglect of duty.
The first of the family proper, appearing down stairs is Eleanor Lees; she, too, much behind her accustomed time. Notwithstanding, she has to find occupation for nearly an hour before any of the others join her; and she endeavours to do this by perusing a newspaper which has come by the morning post.
With indifferent success. It is a Metropolitan daily, having but little in it to interest her, or indeed any one else; almost barren of news, as if its columns were blank. Three or four long-winded “leaders,” the impertinent outpourings of irresponsible anonymity; reports of Parliamentary speeches, four-fifths of them not worth reporting; chatter of sham statesmen, with their drivellings at public dinners; “Police intelligence,” in which there is half a column devoted to Daniel Driscoll, of the Seven Dials, how he blackened the eye of Bridget Sullivan, and bit off Pat Kavanagh’s ear, a crim. con. or two in all their prurience of detail; Court intelligence, with its odious plush and petty paltriness—this is the pabulum of a “London Daily” even the leading one supplies to its easily satisfied clientèle of readers! Scarce a word of the world’s news, scarce a word to tell of its real life and action—how beats the pulse, or thrills the heart of humanity! If there be anything in England half a century behind the age it is its Metropolitan Press—immeasurably inferior to the Provincial.
No wonder the “companion”—educated lady—with only such a sheet for her companion, cannot kill time for even so much as an hour. Ten minutes were enough to dispose of all its contents worth glancing at.
And after glancing at them, Miss Lees drops the bald broadsheet—letting it fall to the floor to be scratched by the claws of a playful kitten—about all it is worth.
Having thus settled scores with the newspaper she hardly knows what next to do. She has already inspected the superscription of the letters, to see if there be any for herself. A poor, fortuneless girl, of course her correspondence is limited, and there is none. Two or three for Miss Linton, with quite half a dozen for Gwen. Of these last is one in a handwriting she recognises—knows it to be from Captain Ryecroft, even without the hotel stamp to aid identification.
“There was a coolness between them last night,” remarks Miss Lees to herself, “if not an actual quarrel; to which, very likely, this letter has reference. If I were given to making wagers, I’d bet that it tells of his repentance. So soon, though! It must have been written after he got back to his hotel, and posted to catch the early delivery. What!” she exclaims, taking up another letter, and scanning the superscription. “One from George Shenstone, too! It, I dare say, is in a different strain, if that I saw—Ha!” she ejaculates, instinctively turning to the window, and letting go Mr Shenstone’s epistle, “William! Is it possible—so early?”
Not only possible, but an accomplished fact. The reverend gentleman is inside the gates of the park, sauntering on towards the house.
She does not wait for him to ring the bell, or knock; but meets him at the door, herself opening it. Nothing outré in the act, on a day succeeding a night, with everything upside down, and the domestic, whose special duty it is to attend to door-opening, out of the way.
Into the morning room Mr Musgrave is conducted, where the table is set for breakfast. He oft comes for luncheon, and Miss Lees knows he will be made equally welcome to the earlier meal; all the more to-day, with its heavier budget of news, and grander details of gossip, which Miss Linton will be expecting and delighted to revel in. Of course, the curate has been at the ball; but, like “Slippery Sam,” erst Bishop of Oxford, not much in the dancing room. For all, he, too, has noticed certain peculiarities in the behaviour of Miss Wynn to Captain Ryecroft, with others having reference to the son of Sir George Shenstone—in short, a triangular play he but ill understood. Still, he could tell by the straws, as they blew about, that they were blowing adversely; though what the upshot he is yet ignorant, having, as became his cloth, forsaken the scene of revelry at a respectably early hour.
Nor does he now care to inquire into it, any more than Miss Lees to respond to such interrogation. Their own affair is sufficient for the time; and engaging in an amorous duel of the milder type—so different from the stormy passionate combat between Gwendoline Wynn and Vivian Ryecroft—they forget all about these—even their existence—as little remembering that of George Shenstone.
For a time are but two individuals in the world of whom either has a thought—one Eleanor Lees, the other William Musgrave.
Volume Two—Chapter Fourteen.
“Where’s Gwen?”
Not for long are the companion and curate permitted to carry on the confidential dialogue, in which they had become interested. Too disagreeably soon is it interrupted by a third personage appearing upon the scene. Miss Linton has at length succeeded in dragging herself out of the embrace of the somnolent divinity, and enters the breakfast-room, supported by her French femme de chambre.
Graciously saluting Mr Musgrave, she moves towards the table’s head, where an antique silver urn sends up its curling steam—flanked by tea and coffee pot, with contents already prepared for pouring into their respectively shaped cups. Taking her seat, she asks:
“Where’s Gwen?”
“Not down yet,” meekly responds Miss Lees, “at least I haven’t seen anything of her.”
“Ah! she beats us all to-day,” remarks the ancient toast of Cheltenham, “in being late,” she adds, with a laugh at her little jeu d’esprit. “Usually such an early riser, too. I don’t remember having ever been up before her. Well, I suppose she’s fatigued, poor thing!—quite done up. No wonder, after dancing so much, and with everybody.”
“Not everybody, aunt!” says her companion, with a significant emphasis on the everybody. “There was one gentleman she never danced with all the night. Wasn’t it a little strange?” This in a whisper and aside.
“Ah! true. You mean Captain Ryecroft?”
“Yes.”
“It was a little strange. I observed it myself. She seemed distant with him, and he with her. Have you any idea of the reason, Nelly?”
“Not in the least. Only I fancy something must have come between them.”
“The usual thing; lover’s tiff I suppose. Ah, I’ve seen a great many of them in my time. How silly men and women are—when they’re in love. Are they not, Mr Musgrave?”
The curate answers in the affirmative but somewhat confusedly, and blushing, as he imagines it may be a thrust at himself.
“Of the two,” proceeds the garrulous spinster, “men are the most foolish under such circumstances. No!” she exclaims, contradicting herself, “when I think of it, no. I’ve seen ladies, high-born, and with titles, half beside themselves about Beau Brummel, distractedly quarrelling as to which should dance with him! Beau Brummel, who ended his days in a low lodging-house! Ha! ha! ha!”
There is a soupçon of spleen in the tone of Miss Linton’s laughter, as though she had herself once felt the fascinations of the redoubtable dandy.
“What could be more ridiculous?” she goes on. “When one looks back upon it, the very extreme of absurdity. Well;” taking hold of the cafetière, and filling her cup, “it’s time for that young lady to be downstairs. If she hasn’t been lying awake ever since the people went off, she should be well rested by this. Bless me,” glancing at the ormolu dial over the mantel, “it’s after eleven, Clarisse,” to the femme de chambre, still in attendance, “tell Miss Wynn’s maid to say to her mistress we’re waiting breakfast. Veet, tray veet!” she concludes, with a pronunciation and accent anything but Parisian.
Off trips the French demoiselle, and upstairs; almost instantly returning down them, Miss Wynn’s maid along, with a report which startles the trio at the breakfast table. It is the English damsel who delivers it in the vernacular.
“Miss Gwen isn’t in her room; nor hasn’t been all the night long.”
Miss Linton is in the act of removing the top from a guinea fowl’s egg, as the maid makes the announcement. Were it a bomb bursting between her fingers, the surprise could not be more sudden or complete.
Dropping egg and cup, in stark astonishment, she demands:
“What do you mean, Gibbons?”
Gibbons is the girl’s name.
“Oh, ma’am! Just what I’ve said.”
“Say it again. I can’t believe my ears.”
“That Miss Gwen hasn’t slept in her room.”
“And where has she slept?”
“The goodness only knows.”
“But you ought to know. You’re her maid—you undressed her?”
“I did not—I am sorry to say,” stammered out the girl, confused and self-accused, “very sorry I didn’t.”
“And why didn’t you, Gibbons? explain that.”
Thus brought to book, the peccant Gibbons confesses to what has occurred in all its details. No use concealing aught—it must come out anyhow.
“And you’re quite sure she has not slept in her room?” interrogates Miss Linton, as yet unable to realise a circumstance so strange and unexpected.
“Oh, yes, ma’am. The bed hasn’t been lied upon by anybody—neither sheets or coverlet disturbed. And there’s her nightdress over the chair, just as I laid it out for her.”
“Very strange,” exclaims Miss Linton, “positively alarming.”
For all, the old lady is not alarmed yet—at least, not to any great degree. Llangorren Court is a “house of many mansions,” and can boast of a half-score spare bedrooms. And she, now its mistress, is a creature of many caprices. Just possible she has indulged in one after the dancing—entered the first sleeping apartment that chanced in her way, flung herself on a bed or sofa in her ball dress, fallen asleep, and is there still slumbering.
“Search them all!” commands Miss Linton, addressing a variety of domestics, whom the ringing of bells has brought around her.
They scatter off in different directions, Miss Lees along with them.
“It’s very extraordinary. Don’t you think so?”
This to the curate, the only one remaining in the room with her.
“I do, decidedly. Surely no harm has happened her. I trust not. How could there?”
“True, how? Still I’m a little apprehensive, and won’t feel satisfied till I see her. How my heart does palpitate, to be sure.”
She lays her spread palm over the cardiac region, with an expression less of pain, than the affectation of it.
“Well, Eleanor,” she calls out to the companion, re-entering the room with Gibbons behind. “What news?”
“Not any, aunt.”
“And you really think she hasn’t slept in her room?”
“Almost sure she hasn’t. The bed, as Gibbons told you, has never been touched, nor the sofa. Besides, the dress she wore last night isn’t there.”
“Nor anywhere else, ma’am,” puts in the maid; about such matters specially intelligent. “As you know, ’twas the sky-blue silk, with blonde lace over-skirt, and flower-de-loose on it. I’ve looked everywhere, and can’t find a thing she had on—not so much as a ribbon!”
The other searchers are now returning in rapid succession, all with a similar tale. No word of the missing one—neither sign nor trace of her.
At length the alarm is serious and real, reaching fever height. Bells ring, and servants are sent in every direction. They go rushing about, no longer confining their search to the sleeping apartments, but extending it to rooms where only lumber has place—to cellars almost unexplored, garrets long unvisited, everywhere. Closet and cupboard doors are drawn open, screens dashed aside, and panels parted, with keen glances sent through the chinks. Just as in the baronial castle, and on that same night when young Lovel lost his “own fair bride.”
And while searching for their young mistress, the domestics of Llangorren Court have the romantic tale in their minds. Not one of them but knows the fine old song of the “Mistletoe Bough.” Male and female—all have heard it sung in that same house, at every Christmas-tide, under the “kissing bush,” where the pale green branch and its waxen berries were conspicuous.
It needs not the mystic memory to stimulate them to zealous exertion. Respect for their young mistress—with many of them almost adoration—is enough; and they search as if for sister, wife, or child according to their feelings and attachments.
In vain—all in vain. Though certain that no “old oak chest” inside the walls of Llangorren Court encloses a form destined to become a skeleton, they cannot find Gwen Wynn. Dead, or living, she is not in the house.
Volume Two—Chapter Fifteen.
Again the Engagement Ring.
The first hurried search, with its noisy excitement, proving fruitless, there follows an interregnum calmer with suspended activity. Indeed, Miss Linton directs it so. Now convinced that her niece has really disappeared from the place, she thinks it prudent to deliberate before proceeding further.
She has no thought that the young lady has acted otherwise than of her own will. To suppose her carried off is too absurd—a theory not to be entertained for an instant. And having gone so, the questions are, why and whither? After all, it may be, that at the ball’s departing, in the last moment when the guests were departing, moved by a mad prank, she leaped into the carriage of some lady friends, and was whirled home with them, just in the dress she had been dancing in. With such an impulsive creature as Gwen Wynn, the freak was not improbable. Nor is there any one to say nay. In the bustle and confusion of departure the other domestics were busy with their own affairs, and Gibbons sound asleep.
And if true a “hue and cry” raised and reaching the outside world would at least beget ridicule, if it did not cause absolute scandal. To avoid this the servants are forbidden to go beyond the confines of the Court, or carry any tale outward—for the time.
Beguiled by this hopeful belief, Miss Linton, with the companion assisting, scribbles off a number of notes, addressed to the heads of three or four families in whose houses her niece must have so abruptly elected to take refuge for the night. Merely to ask if such was the case, the question couched in phrase guarded, and as possible suggestive. These are dispatched by trusted messengers, cautioned to silence; Mr Musgrave himself volunteering a round of calls, at other houses, to make personal inquiry.
This matter settled, the old lady waits the result, though without any very sanguine expectations of success. For another theory has presented itself to her mind—that Gwen has run away with Captain Ryecroft!
Improbable as the thing might appear—Miss Linton, nevertheless, for a while has faith in it. It was as she might have done, some forty years before, had she but met the right man—such as he. And measuring her niece by the same romantic standard—with Gwen’s capriciousness thrown into the account—she ignores everything else; even the absurdity of such a step from its sheer causelessness. That to her is of little weight; no more the fact of the young lady taking flight in a thin dress, with only a shawl upon her shoulders. For Gibbons called upon to give account of her wardrobe, has taken stock, and found everything in its place—every article of her mistress’s drapery save the blue silk dress and Indian shawl—hats and bonnets hung up, or in their boxes, but all there, proving her to have gone off bareheaded?
Not the less natural, reasons Miss Linton—instead, only a component part in the chapter of contrarieties.
So, too, the coolness observed between the betrothed sweethearts throughout the preceding night—their refraining from partnership in the dances—all dissembling on their part, possibly to make the surprise of the after event more piquant and complete.
So runs the imagination of the novel-reading spinster, fresh and fervid as in her days of girlhood—passing beyond the trammels of reason—leaving the bounds of probability.
But her new theory is short lived. It receives a death blow from a letter which Miss Lees brings under her notice. It is that superscribed in the handwriting of Captain Ryecroft, which the companion had for the time forgotten; she having no thought that it would have anything to do with the young lady’s disappearance. And the letter proves that he can have nothing to do with it. The hotel stamp, the postmark, the time of deposit and delivery are all understood, all contributing to show it must have been posted, if not written, that same morning. Were she with him it would not be there.
Down goes the castle of romance Miss Linton has been constructing—wrecked—scattered as a house of cards.
It is quite possible that letter contains something that would throw light upon the mystery, perhaps clear all up; and the old lady would like to open it. But she may not, dare not. Gwen Wynn is not one to allow tampering with her correspondence; and as yet her aunt cannot realise the fact—nor even entertain the supposition—that she is gone for good and for ever.
As time passes, however, and the different messengers return, with no news of the missing lady—Mr Musgrave is also back without tidings—the alarm is renewed, and search again set up. It extends beyond the precincts of the house, and the grounds already explored, off into woods and fields, along the banks of river and bye wash, everywhere that offers a likelihood, the slightest, of success. But neither in wood, spinney, or coppice can they find traces of Gwen Wynn; all “draw blank,” as George Shenstone would say of a cover where no fox is found.
And just as this result is reached, that gentleman himself steps upon the ground, to receive a shock such as he has rarely experienced. The news communicated is a surprise to him; for he has arrived at the Court, knowing nought of the strange incident which has occurred. He has come thither on an afternoon call, not altogether dictated by ceremony. Despite all that has passed—what Gwen Wynn told him, what she showed holding up her hand—he does not even yet despair. Who so circumstanced ever does? What man in love, profoundly, passionately as he, could believe his last chance eliminated; or have his ultimate hope extinguished? He had not. Instead, when bidding adieu to her, after the ball, he felt some revival of it, several causes having contributed to its rekindling. Among others, her gracious behaviour to himself, so gratifying; but more, her distant manner towards his rival, which he could not help observing, and saw with secret satisfaction.
And still thus reflecting on it, he enters the gates at Llangorren, to be stunned by the strange intelligence there awaiting him—Miss Wynn missing! gone away! run away! perhaps carried off! lost, and cannot be found! For in these varied forms, and like variety of voices, is it conveyed to him.
Needless to say, he joins in the search with ardour, but distractedly; suffering all the sadness of a torn and harrowed heart. But to no purpose; no result to soothe or console him. His skill at drawing a cover is of no service here. It is not for a fox “stole away,” leaving hot scent behind; but a woman goes without print of foot or trace to indicate the direction; without word left to tell the cause of departure.
Withal, George Shenstone continues to seek for her long after the others have desisted. For his views differ from those entertained by Miss Linton, and his apprehensions are of a keener nature. He remains at the Court throughout the evening, making excursions into the adjacent woods, searching, and again exploring everywhere. None of the servants think it strange; all know of his intimate relations with the family.
Mr Musgrave remains also; both of them asked to stay dinner—a meal this day eaten sans façon, in haste, and under agitation.
When, after it, the ladies retire to the drawing-room—the curate along with them—George Shenstone goes out again, and over the grounds. It is now night, and the darkness lures him on; for it was in such she disappeared. And although he has no expectation of seeing her there, some vague thought has drifted into his mind, that in darkness he may better reflect, and something be suggested to avail him.
He strays on to the boat stair, looks down into the dock, and there sees the Gwendoline at her moorings. But he thinks only of the other boat, which, as he now knows, on the night before lay alongside her. Has it indeed carried away Gwen Wynn? He fancies it has—he can hardly have a doubt of it. How else is her disappearance to be accounted for? But has she been borne off by force, or went she willingly? These are the questions which perplex him; the conjectured answer to either causing him keenest anxiety.
After remaining a short while on the top of the stair, he turns away with a sigh, and saunters on towards the pavilion. Though under the shadow of its roof the obscurity is complete, he, nevertheless, enters and sits down. He is fatigued with the exertions of the afternoon, and the strain upon his nerves through the excitement.
Taking a cigar from his case and nipping off the end, he rasps a fusee to light it. But, before the blue fizzing blaze dims down he drops the cigar—to clutch at an object on the floor, whose sparkle has caught his eye. He succeeds in getting hold of it, though not till the fusee has ceased flaming. But he needs no light to tell him what he has in his hand. He knows it is that which so pained him to see on one of Gwen Wynn’s fingers—the engagement ring!