Майн Рид
Gwen Wynn: A Romance of the Wye
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!
