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 facon_, 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!
Volume Two, Chapter XVI.