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 headgroom—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 license 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 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 bed-chamber door.

"Sound asleep! I can't go in now. Mustn't—I daren't awake her."

Saying which, the negligent attendant slips 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 downstairs 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 outre 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 there are but two individuals in the world of whom either has a thought—one Eleanor Lees, the other William Musgrave.

"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; lovers' 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 realize 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 exertions. 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.

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, 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 head 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 an 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 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 post-mark, 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 realize 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 byewash, 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 got in his hand. He knows it is that which so pained him to see on one of Gwen Wynn's fingers—the engagement ring!

A MYSTERIOUS EMBARKATION.

Not in vain had the green woodpecker given out its warning note. As Jack Wingate predicted from it, soon after came a downpour of rain. It was raining as Captain Ryecroft returned to his hotel, as at intervals throughout that day; and now on the succeeding night it is again sluicing down as from a shower-bath. The river is in full flood, its hundreds of affluents, from Plinlimmon downward, having each contributed its quota, till Vaga, usually so pure, limpid, and tranquil, rolls on in vast turbulent volume, muddy and maddened. There is a strong wind as well, whose gusts, now and then striking the water's surface, lash it into furrows with white frothy crests.

On the Wye this night there would be danger for any boat badly manned or unskilfully steered. And yet a boat is about to embark upon it—one which throughout the afternoon has been lying moored in a little branch stream that runs in opposite the lands of Llangorren, a tributary supplied by the dingle in which stands the dwelling of Richard Dempsey. It is the same near whose mouth the poacher and the priest were seen by Gwen Wynn and Eleanor Lees on the day of their remarkable adventure with the forest roughs. And almost in the same spot is the craft now spoken of; no coracle, however, but a regular pair-oared boat of a kind in common use among Wye watermen.

It is lying with bow on the bank, its painter attached to a tree, whose branches extend over it. During the day no one has been near it, and it is not likely that any one has observed it. Some little distance up the brook, and drawn well in under the spreading boughs, that, almost touching the water, darkly shadow the surface, it is not visible from the river's channel: while, along the edge of the rivulet, there is no thoroughfare, nor path of any kind. No more a landing-place where boat is accustomed to put in or remain at moorings. That now there has evidently been brought thither for some temporary purpose.

Not till after the going down of the sun is this declared. Then, just as the purple of twilight is changing to the inky blackness of night, and another dash of rain clatters on the already saturated foliage, three men are seen moving among the trees that grow thick along the streamlet's edge. They seem not to mind it, although pouring down in torrents; for they have come through the dell, as from Dempsey's house, and are going in the direction of the boat, where there is no shelter. But if they regard not getting wet,—something they do regard; else why should they observe such caution in their movements, and talk in subdued voices? All the more strange this, in a place where there is so little likelihood of their being overheard, or encountering any one to take note of their proceedings.

It is only between two of them that conversation is carried on; the third walking far in advance, beyond earshot of speech in the ordinary tone; besides, the noise of the tempest would hinder his hearing them. Therefore, it cannot be on his account they converse guardedly. More likely their constraint is due to the solemnity of the subject; for solemn it is, as their words show.

"They'll be sure to find the body in a day or two. Possibly to-morrow, or, if not, very soon. A good deal will depend on the state of the river. If this flood continue, and the water remain discoloured as now, it may be several days before they light on it. No matter when; your course is clear, Monsieur Murdock."

"But what do you advise my doing, Père? I'd like you to lend me your counsel—give me minute directions about everything."

"In the first place, then, you must show yourself on the other side of the water, and take an active part in the search. Such a near relative, as you are, 'twould appear strange if you didn't. All the world may not be aware of the little tiff—rather prolonged though—that's been between you. And if it were, your keeping away on such an occasion would give cause for greater scandal. Spite so rancorous! that of itself should excite curious thoughts—suspicions. Naturally enough. A man, whose own cousin is mysteriously missing, not caring to know what has become of her! And when knowing—when 'Found drowned,' as she will be—not to show either sympathy or sorrow! Ma foi! they might mob you if you didn't!"

"That's true enough," grunts Murdock, thinking of the respect in which his cousin is held, and her great popularity throughout the neighbourhood.

"You advise my going over to Llangorren?"

"Decidedly I do. Present yourself there to-morrow, without fail. You may make the hour reasonably late, saying that the sinister intelligence has only just reached you at Glyngog—out of the way as it is. You'll find plenty of people at the Court on your arrival. From what I've learnt this afternoon, through my informant resident there, they'll be hot upon the search to-morrow. It would have been more earnest to-day, but for that quaint old creature with her romantic notions; the latest of them, as Clarisse tells me, that Mademoiselle had run away with the Hussar! But it appears a letter has reached the Court in his handwriting, which put a different construction on the affair, proving to them it could be no elopement—at least, with him. Under these circumstances, then, to-morrow morning, soon as the sun is up, there'll be a hue and cry all over the country; so loud you couldn't fail to hear, and will be expected to have a voice in it. To do that effectually, you must show yourself at Llangorren, and in good time."

"There's sense in what you say. You're a very Solomon, Father Rogier. I'll be there, trust me. Is there anything else you think of?"

The Jesuit is for a time silent, apparently in deep thought. It is a ticklish game the two are playing, and needs careful consideration, with cautious action.

"Yes," he at length answers. "There are a good many other things I think of; but they depend upon circumstances not yet developed by which you will have to be guided. And you must yourself, M'ssieu, as you best can. It will be quite four days, if not more, ere I can get back. They may even find the body to-morrow—if they should think of employing drags, or other searching apparatus. Still, I fancy, 'twill be some time before they come to a final belief in her being drowned. Don't you on any account suggest it. And should there be such search, endeavour, in a quiet way, to have it conducted in any direction but the right one. The longer before fishing the thing up, the better it will be for our purposes: you comprehend?"

"I do."

"When found, as it must be in time, you will know how to show becoming grief; and, if opportunity offer, you may throw out a hint having reference to Le Capitaine Ryecroft. His having gone away from his hotel this morning, no one knows why or whither—decamping in such haste too—that will be sure to fix suspicion upon him—possibly have him pursued and arrested as the murderer of Miss Wynn! Odd succession of events, is it not?"

"It is indeed."

"Seems as if the very Fates were in a conspiracy to favour our design. If we fail now, 'twill be our own fault. And that reminds me there should be no waste of time—must not. One hour of this darkness may be worth an age—or, at all events, ten thousand pounds per annum. Allons! vite-vite?"

He steps briskly onward, drawing his caped cloak closer to protect him from the rain, now running in rivers down the drooping branches of the trees.

Murdock follows; and the two, delayed by a dialogue of such grave character, draw closer to the third who had gone ahead. They do not overtake him, however, till after he has reached the boat, and therein deposited a bundle he has been bearing—of weight sufficient to make him stagger, where the ground was rough and uneven. It is a package of irregular oblong shape, and such size, that, laid along the boat's bottom timbers, it occupies most part of the space forward of the mid-thwart.

Seeing that he who has thus disposed of it is Coracle Dick, one might believe it poached salmon, or land game now in season in the act of being transported to some receiver of such commodities. But the words spoken by the priest as he comes up forbid this belief: they are an interrogatory:—

"Well, mon bracconier; have you stowed my luggage?"

"It's in the boat, Father Rogier."

"And all ready for starting?"

"The minute your reverence steps in."

"So, well! And now, M'ssieu," he adds, turning to Murdock, and again speaking in undertone, "if you play your part skilfully, on return I may find you in a fair way of getting installed as the Lord of Llangorren. Till then, adieu!"

Saying which, he steps over the boat's side, and takes seat in its stern.

Shoved off by sinewy arms, it goes brushing out from under the branches, and is rapidly drifted down towards the river.

Lewin Murdock is left standing on the brook's edge, free to go what way he wishes.

Soon he starts off, not on return to the empty domicile of the poacher, nor yet direct to his own home: but first to the Welsh Harp—there to gather the gossip of the day, and learn whether the startling tale, soon to be told, has yet reached Rugg's Ferry.

AN ANXIOUS WIFE.

Inside Glyngog House is Mrs. Murdock, alone, or with only the two female domestics. But these are back in the kitchen while the ex-cocotte is moving about in front, at intervals opening the door, and a-gazing out into the night—a dark, stormy one; for it is the same in which has occurred the mysterious embarkation of Father Rogier, only an hour later.

To her no mystery; she knows whither the priest is bound, and on what errand. It is not him, therefore, she is expecting, but her husband to bring home word that her countryman has made a safe start. So anxiously does she await this intelligence, that, after a time, she stays altogether on the doorstep, regardless of the raw night, and a fire in the drawing-room which blazes brightly. There is another in the dining-room, and a table profusely spread—set out for supper with dishes of many kinds—cold ham and tongue, fowl and game, flanked by decanters of different wines sparkling attractively.

Whence all this plenty, within walls where of late and for so long has been such scarcity?

As no one visits at Glyngog save Father Rogier, there is no one but he to ask the question. And he would not, were he there; knowing the answer better than any one else. He ought. The cheer upon Lewin Murdock's table, with a cheerfulness observable on Mrs. Murdock's face, are due to the same cause, by himself brought about, or to which he has largely contributed. As Moses lends money on post obits, at "shixty per shent," with other expectations, a stream of that leaven has found its way into the ancient manor-house of Glyngog, conducted thither by Gregoire Rogier, who has drawn it from a source of supply provided for such eventualities, and seemingly inexhaustible—the treasury of the Vatican.

Yet only a tiny rivulet of silver, but soon, if all goes well, to become a flood of gold grand and yellow as that in the Wye itself, having something to do with the waters of this same stream.

No wonder there is now brightness upon the face of Olympe Renault, so long shadowed. The sun of prosperity is again to shine upon the path of her life. Splendour, gaiety, voluptè, be hers once more, and more than ever!

As she stands in the door of Glyngog, looking down the river, at Llangorren, and through the darkness sees the Court with only one or two windows alight—they but in dim glimmer—she reflects less on how they blazed the night before, with lamps over the lawn, like constellations of stars, than how they will flame hereafter, and ere long—when she herself be the ruling spirit and mistress of the mansion.

But as the time passes and no husband home, a cloud steals over her features. From being only impatient, she becomes nervously anxious. Still standing in the door, she listens for footsteps she has oft heard making approach unsteadily, little caring. Not so to-night. She dreads to see him return intoxicated. Though not with any solicitude of the ordinary woman's kind, but for reasons purely prudential. They are manifested in her muttered soliloquy:—

"Gregoire must have got off long ere this—at least two hours ago. He said they'd set out soon as it came night. Half an hour was enough for my husband to return up the meadows home. If he has gone to the Ferry first, and sets to drinking in the Harp! Cette auberge maudit. There's no knowing what he may do or say. Saying would be worse than doing. A word in his cups—a hint of what has happened—might undo everything: draw danger upon us all! And such danger—l'prise de corps, mon Dieu!"

Her cheek blanches at thought of the ugly spectres thus conjured up.

"Surely he will not be so stupid—so insane? Sober, he can keep secrets well enough—guard them closely, like most of his countrymen. But the Cognac? Hark! Footsteps! His, I hope."

She listens without stirring from the spot. The tread is heavy, with now and then a loud stroke against stones. Were her husband a Frenchman, it would be different. But Lewin Murdock, like all English country gentlemen, affects substantial foot gear; and the step is undoubtedly his. Not as usual, however; to-night firm and regular, telling him to be sober!

"He isn't such a fool after all!"

Her reflection followed by the inquiry, called out—

"C'est vous, mon mari?"

"Of course it is. Who else could it be? You don't expect the Father, our only visitor, to-night? You'll not see him for several days to come."

"He's gone then?"

"Two hours ago. By this he should be miles away; unless he and Coracle have had a capsize, and been spilled out of their boat. No unlikely occurrence with the river running so madly."

She still shows unsatisfied, though not from any apprehension of the boat's being upset. She is thinking of what may have happened at the Welsh Harp; for the long interval, since the priest's departure, her husband could only have been there. She is less anxious, however, seeing the state in which he presents himself; so unusual, coming from the "auberge maudite."

"Two hours ago they got off, you say?"

"About that; just as it was dark enough to set out with safety, and no chance of being observed."

"They did so?"

"Oh, yes."

"Le bagage bien arrangé?"

"Parfaitement; or, as we say in English, neat as a trivet. If you prefer another form—nice as nine-pence."

She is pleased at his facetiousness, quite a new mode for Lewin Murdock. Coupled with his sobriety, it gives her confidence that things have gone on smoothly, and will to the end. Indeed, for some days Murdock has been a new man—acting as one with some grave affair on his hands—a feat to accomplish, or negotiation to effect—resolved on carrying it to completeness.

Now, less from anxiety as to what he has been saying at the Welsh Harp, than to know what he has there heard said by others, she further interrogates him:—

"Where have you been meanwhile, monsieur?"

"Part of the time at the Ferry; the rest of it I've spent on paths and roads coming and going. I went up to the Harp to hear what I could hear."

"And what did you hear?"

"Nothing much to interest us. As you know, Rugg's is an out-of-the-way corner—none more so on the Wye—and the Llangorren news hasn't reached it. The talk of the Ferry folk is all about the occurrence at Abergann, which still continues to exercise them. The other don't appear to have got much abroad, if at all, anywhere—for reasons told Father Rogier by your countrywoman, Clarisse, with whom he held an interview sometime during the afternoon."

"And has there been no search yet?"

"Search, yes; but nothing found, and not much noise made, for the reasons I allude to."

"What are they? You haven't told me."

"Oh! various. Some of them laughable enough. Whimsies of that Quixotic old lady who has been so long doing the honours at Llangorren."

"Ah! Madame Linton. How has she been taking it?"

"I'll tell you after I've had something to eat and drink. You forget, Olympe, where I've been all the day long—under the roof of a poacher, who, of late otherwise employed, hadn't so much as a head of game in his house. True, I've since made call at an hotel, but you don't give me credit for my abstemiousness! What have you got to reward me for it?"

"Entrez!" she exclaims, leading him into the dining-room, their dialogue so far having been carried on in the porch. "Voilà!"

He is gratified, though no ways surprised at the set out. He does not need to inquire whence it comes. He, too, knows it is a sacrifice to the rising sun. But he knows also what a sacrifice he will have to make in return for it—one third the estate of Llangorren.

"Well, ma chèrie," he says, as this reflection occurs to him, "we'll have to pay pretty dear for all this. But I suppose there's no help for it."

"None," she answers, with a comprehension of the circumstances clearer and fuller than his. "We've made the contract, and must abide by it. If broken by us, it wouldn't be a question of property, but life. Neither yours nor mine would be safe for a single hour. Ah, monsieur! you little comprehend the power of those gentry, les Jesuites—how sharp their claws, and far reaching!"

"Confound them!" he exclaims, angrily dropping down upon a chair by the table's side.

He eats ravenously, and drinks like a fish. His day's work is over, and he can afford the indulgence.

And while they are at supper, he imparts all details of what he has done and heard; among them Miss Linton's reasons for having put restraint upon the search.

"The old simpleton!" he says, concluding his narration; "she actually believed my cousin to have run away with that captain of Hussars—if she don't believe it still! Ha, ha, ha! She'll think differently when she sees that body brought out of the water. It will settle the business!"

Olympe Renault, retiring to rest, is long kept awake by the pleasant thought, not that for many more nights will she have to sleep in a mean bed at Glyngog, but on a grand couch in Llangorren Court.

IMPATIENT FOR THE POST.

Never man looked with more impatience for a post than Captain Ryecroft for the night mail from the West, its morning delivery in London. It may bring him a letter, on the contents of which will turn the hinges of his life's fate, assuring his happiness, or dooming him to misery. And if no letter come, its failure will make misery for him all the same.

It is scarce necessary to say the epistle thus expected, and fraught with such grave consequence, is an answer to his own; that written in Herefordshire, and posted before leaving the Wyeside Hotel. Twenty-four hours have since elapsed; and now, on the morning after, he is at the Langham, London, where the response, if any, should reach him.

He has made himself acquainted with the statistics of postal time, telling him when the night mail is due, and when the first distribution of letters in the metropolitan district. At earliest in the Langham, which has post and telegraph office within its own walls, this palatial hostelry, unrivalled for convenience, being in direct communication with all parts of the world.

It is on the stroke of 8 a.m., and, the ex-Hussar officer, pacing the tesselated tiles outside the deputy-manager's moderately sized room with its front glass-protected, watches for the incoming of the post-carrier.

It seems an inexorable certainty—though a very vexatious one—that person, or thing, awaited with unusual impatience, must needs be behind time—as if to punish the moral delinquency of the impatient one. Even postmen are not always punctual, as Vivian Ryecroft has reason to know. That amiable and active individual in coatee of coarse cloth, with red rag facings, flitting from door to door, brisk as a blue-bottle, on this particular morning does not step across the threshold of the Langham till nearly half-past eight. There is a thick fog, and the street flags are "greasy." That would be the excuse for his tardy appearance, were he called upon to give one.

Dumping down his sack, and spilling its contents upon the lead-covered sill of the booking-office window, he is off again on a fresh and further flight.

With no abatement of impatience, Captain Ryecroft stands looking at the letters being sorted—a miscellaneous lot, bearing the post-marks of many towns and many countries, with the stamps of nearly every civilized nation on the globe; enough of them to make the eyes of an ardent stamp-collector shed tears of concupiscence.

Scarcely allowing the sorter time to deposit them in their respective pigeon holes, Ryecroft approaches and asks if there be any for him—at the same time giving his name.

"No, not any," answers the clerk, after drawing out all under letter R, and dealing them off as a pack of cards.

"Are you quite sure, sir? Pardon me. I intend starting off within the hour, and, expecting a letter of some importance, may I ask you to glance over them again?"

In all the world there are no officials more affable than those of the Langham. They are, in fact, types of the highest hotel civilization. Instead of showing nettled, he thus appealed to makes assenting rejoinder, accompanying his words with a re-examination of the letters under R; soon as completed saying,—

"No, sir; none for the name of Ryecroft."

He bearing this name turns away, with an air of more than disappointment. The negative denoting that no letter had been written in reply, vexes—almost irritates him. It is like a blow repeated—a second slap in his face held up in humiliation—after having forgiven the first. He will not so humble himself—never forgive again. This his resolve as he ascends the great stairway to his room, once more to make ready for travel.

The steam-packet service between Folkestone and Boulogne is "tidal." Consulting Bradshaw, he finds the boat on that day leaves the former place at 4 p.m.; the connecting train from the Charing Cross station, 1. Therefore have several hours to be put in meanwhile.

How are they to be occupied? He is not in the mood for amusement. Nothing in London could give him that now—neither afford him a moment's gratification.

Perhaps in Paris? And he will try. There men have buried their griefs—women as well: too oft laying in the same grave their innocence, honour, and reputation. In the days of Napoleon the Little, a grand cemetery of such; hosts entering it pure and stainless, to become tainted as the Imperial regimé itself.

And he, too, may succumb to its influence, sinister as hell itself. In his present frame of mind it is possible. Nor would his be the first noble spirit broken down, wrecked on the reef of a disappointed passion—love thwarted, the loved one never again to be spoken to—in all likelihood never more met!

While waiting for the Folkestone train, he is a prey to the most harrowing reflections, and in hope of escaping them, descends to the billiard-room—in the Langham a well-appointed affair, with tables the very best.

The marker accommodates him to a hundred up, which he loses. It is not for that he drops the cue disheartened, and retires. Had he won, with Cook, Bennett, or Roberts as his adversary, 'twould have been all the same.

Once more mounting to his room, he makes an appeal to the ever-friendly Nicotian. A cigar, backed by a glass of brandy, may do something to soothe, his chafed spirit; and lighting the one, he rings for the other. This brought him, he takes seat by the window, throws up the sash, and looks down upon the street—there to see what gives him a fresh spasm of pain; though to two others affording the highest happiness on earth. For it is a wedding ceremony being celebrated at "All Souls" opposite, a church before whose altar many fashionable couples join hands to be linked together for life. Such a couple is in the act of entering the sacred edifice; carriages drawing up and off in quick succession, coachmen with white rosettes and whips ribbon-decked, footmen wearing similar favours—an unusually stylish affair.

As in shining and with smiling faces, the bridal train ascends the steps two by two, disappearing within the portals of the church, the spectators on the nave and around the enclosure rails also looking joyous, as though each—even the raggedest—had a personal interest in the event, from the window opposite Captain Ryecroft observes it with very different feelings. For the thought is before his mind, how near he has been himself to making one in such a procession—at its head—followed by the bitter reflection, he now never shall.

A sigh, succeeded by a half-angry ejaculation; then the bell rung with a violence which betrays how the sight has agitated him.

On the waiter entering, he cries out,—

"Call me a cab."

"Hansom, sir?"

"No! four-wheeler. And this luggage get downstairs soon as possible."

His impediments are all in travelling trim—but a few necessary articles having been unpacked—and a shilling tossed upon the strapped portmanteau ensures it, with the lot, a speedy descent down the lift.

A single pipe of Mr. Trafford's silver whistle brings a cab to the Langham entrance in twenty seconds time, and in twenty more a traveller's luggage, however heavy, is slung to the top, with the lighter articles stowed inside. His departure so accelerated, Captain Ryecroft—who had already settled his bill—is soon seated in the cab, and carried off.

But despatch ends on leaving the Langham. The cab, being a four-wheeler, crawls along like a tortoise. Fortunately for the fare he is in no haste now; instead, will be too early for the Folkestone train. He only wanted to get away from the scene of that ceremony, so disagreeably suggestive.

Shut up, imprisoned, in the plush-lined vehicle, shabby, and not over clean, he endeavours to beguile time by gazing out at the shop windows. The hour is too early for Regent Street promenaders. Some distraction, if not amusement, he derives from his "cabby's" arms; these working to and fro as if the man were rowing a boat. In burlesque it reminds him of the Wye, and his waterman Wingate!

But just then something else recalls the western river not ludicrously, but with another twinge of pain. The cab is passing through Leicester Square, one of the lungs of London, long diseased, and in process of being doctored. It is beset with hoardings, plastered against which are huge posters of the advertising kind. Several of them catch the eye of Captain Ryecroft, but only one holds it, causing him the sensation described. It is the announcement of a grand concert to be given at the St. James's Hall, for some charitable purpose of Welsh speciality. Programme with list of performers. At their head, in largest lettering, the queen of the eisteddfod—