"Reverend William Musgrave."
Only to think of being thus interrupted on the eve of such an
interesting climax, which seemed about to seal the fate of the farmer's
daughter.
It is fortunate for his Reverence, that before entering within the room
another visitor is announced, and ushered in along with him. Indeed the
second caller is shown in first; for, although George Shenstone rung the
front door bell after Mr Musgrave had stepped inside the hall, there is
no domestic of Llangorren but knows the difference between a rich
baronet's son and a poor parish curate; as which should have precedence.
To this nice, if not very delicate appreciation, the Reverend William
is now indebted more than he is aware. It has saved him from an
outburst of Miss Linton's rather tart temper, which, under the
circumstances, otherwise he would have caught. For it so chances that
the son of Sir George Shenstone is a great favourite with the old lady
of Llangorren; welcome at all times, even amid the romantic gallantries
of Lord Lutestring. Not that the young country gentleman has anything
in common with the titled Lothario, who is habitually a dweller in
cities. Instead, the former is a frank, manly fellow, devoted to field
sports and rural pastimes, a little brusque in manner, but for all
well-bred, and, what is even better, well-behaved. There is nothing odd
in his calling at that early hour. Sir George is an old friend of the
Wynn family--was an intimate associate of Gwen's deceased father--and
both he and his son have been accustomed to look in at Llangorren Court
_sans ceremonie_.
No more is Mr Musgrave's matutinal visit out of order. Though but the
curate, he is in full charge of parish duties, the rector being not only
aged but an absentee--so long away from the neighbourhood as to have
become almost a myth to it. For this reason his vicarial representative
can plead scores of excuses for presenting himself at "The Court."
There is the school, the church choir, and clothing club, to say nought
of neighbouring news, which on most mornings make him a welcome visitor
to Miss Linton; and no doubt would on this, but for the glamour thrown
around her by the fascinations of the dear delightful Lutestring. It
even takes all her partiality for Mr Shenstone to remove its spell, and
get him vouchsafed friendly reception.
"Miss Linton," he says, speaking first, "I've just dropped in to ask if
the young ladies would go for a ride. The day's so fine, I thought they
might like to."
"Ah, indeed," returns the spinster, holding out her fingers to be
touched, but, under the plea of being a little invalided, excusing
herself from rising. "Yes; no doubt they would like it very much."
Mr Shenstone is satisfied with the reply; but less the curate, who
neither rides nor has a horse. And less Shenstone himself--indeed
both--as the lady proceeds. They have been listening, with ears all
alert, for the sound of soft footsteps and rustling dresses. Instead,
they hear words, not only disappointing, but perplexing.
"Nay, I am sure," continues Miss Linton, with provoking coolness, "they
would have been glad to go riding with you; delighted--"
"But why can't they?" asked Shenstone, impatiently interrupting.
"Because the thing's impossible; they've already gone rowing."
"Indeed!" cry both gentlemen in a breath, seeming alike vexed by the
intelligence, Shenstone mechanically interrogating:
"On the river?"
"Certainly!" answers the lady, looking surprised. "Why, George; where
else could they go rowing! You don't suppose they've brought the boat
up to the fishpond!"
"Oh, no," he stammers out. "I beg pardon. How very stupid of me to ask
such a question. I was only wondering why Miss Gwen--that is, I am a
little astonished--but--perhaps you'll think it impertinent of me to ask
another question?"
"Why should I? What is it?"
"Only whether--whether she--Miss Gwen, I mean--said anything about
riding to-day?"
"Not a word--at least not to me."
"How long since they went off--may I know, Miss Linton?"
"Oh, hours ago! Very early, indeed--just after taking breakfast. I
wasn't down myself--as I've told you, not feeling very well this
morning. But Gwen's maid informs me they left the house then, and I
presume they went direct to the river."
"Do you think they'll be out long?" earnestly interrogates Shenstone.
"I should hope not," returns the ancient toast of Cheltenham, with
aggravating indifference, for Lutestring is not quite out of her
thoughts. "There's no knowing, however. Miss Wynn is accustomed to
come and go, without much consulting me."
This with some acerbity--possibly from the thought that the days of her
legal guardianship are drawing to a close, which will make her a less
important personage at Llangorren.
"Surely, they won't be out all day," timidly suggests the curate; to
which she makes no rejoinder, till Mr Shenstone puts it in the shape of
an inquiry.
"Is it likely they will, Miss Linton?"
"I should say not. More like they'll be hungry, and that will bring
them home. What's the hour now? I've been reading a very interesting
book, and quite forgot myself. Is it possible?" she exclaims, looking
at the ormolu dial on the mantelshelf. "Ten minutes to one! How time
does fly, to be sure! I couldn't have believed it near so late--almost
luncheon time! Of course you'll stay, gentlemen? As for the girls, if
they're not back in time they'll have to go without. Punctuality is the
rule of this house--always will be with me. I shan't wait one minute
for them."
"But, Miss Linton; they may have returned from the river, and are now
somewhere about the grounds. Shall I run down to the boat-dock and
see?"
It is Mr Shenstone who thus interrogates.
"If you like--by all means. I shall be too thankful. Shame of Gwen to
give us so much trouble! She knows our luncheon hour, and should have
been back by this. Thanks, much, Mr Shenstone."
As he is bounding off, she calls after--"Don't you be staying too, else
you shan't have a pick. Mr Musgrave and I won't wait for any of you.
Shall we, Mr Musgrave?"
Shenstone has not tarried to hear either question or answer. A luncheon
for Apicius were, at that moment, nothing to him; and little more to the
curate, who, though staying, would gladly go along. Not from any
rivalry with, or jealousy of, the baronet's son: they revolve in
different orbits, with no danger of collision. Simply that he dislikes
leaving Miss Linton alone--indeed, dare not. She may be expecting the
usual budget of neighbourhood intelligence he daily brings her.
He is mistaken. On this particular day it is not desired. Out of
courtesy to Mr Shenstone, rather than herself, she had laid aside the
novel; and it now requires all she can command to keep her eyes off it.
She is burning to know what befel the farmer's daughter!
Volume One, Chapter VIII.