"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 _clientele_ 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 are but two individuals in the world of whom either has a
thought--one Eleanor Lees, the other William Musgrave.
Volume Two, Chapter XIV.
"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 _soupcon_ 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
_cafetiere_, 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 XV.