Pacing to and fro, with stride jerky and irregular, Shenstone at length
makes stop in front of the fireplace, not to warm himself--there is no
fire in the grate--nor yet to survey his face in the mirror above. His
steps are arrested by something he sees resting upon the mantelshelf; a
sparkling object--in short a cigar-case of the beaded pattern.
Why should that attract the attention of the young Herefordshire squire,
causing him to start, as it first catches his eye? In his lifetime he
has seen scores of such, without caring to give them a second glance.
But it is just because he has looked upon this one before, or fancies he
has, that he now stands gazing at it; on the instant after reaching
towards, and taking it up.
Ay, more than once has he seen that same cigar-case--he is now sure as
he holds it in hand, turning it over and over--seen it before its
embroidery was finished; watched fair fingers stitching the beads on,
cunningly combining the blue and amber and gold, tastefully arranging
them in rows and figures--two hearts central transfixed by a barbed and
feathered shaft--all save the lettering he now looks upon, and which was
never shown him. Many a time during the months past, he had hoped, and
fondly imagined, the skilful contrivance and elaborate workmanship might
be for himself. Now he knows better; the knowledge revealed to him by
the initials Y.R. entwined in monogram, and the words underneath "From
Gwen."
Three days ago, the discovery would have caused him a spasm of keenest
pain. Not so now. After being shown that betrothal ring, no gift, no
pledge, could move him to further emotion. He but tosses the headed
thing back upon the mantel, with the reflection that he to whom it
belongs has been born under a more propitious star than himself.
Still the little incident is not without effect. It restores his
firmness, with the resolution to act as originally intended. This is
still further strengthened, as Ryecroft enters the room, and he looks
upon the man who has caused him so much misery. A man feared but not
hated--for Shenstone's noble nature and generous disposition hinder him
from being blinded either to the superior personal or mental qualities
of his rival. A rival he fears only in the field of love; in that of
war or strife of other kind, the doughty young west-country squire would
dare even the devil. No tremor in his frame; no unsteadfastness in the
glance of his eye, as he regards the other stepping inside the open
door, and with the card in hand, coming towards him.
Long ago introduced, and several times in company together, but cool and
distant, they coldly salute. Holding out the card Ryecroft says
interrogatively--
"Is this meant for me, Mr Shenstone?"
"Yes."
"Some matter of business, I presume. May I ask what it is?"
The formal inquiry, in tone passive and denying, throws the fox-hunter
as upon his haunches. At the same time its evident cynicism stings him
to a blunt if not rude rejoinder.
"I want to know--what you have done with Miss Wynn."
He so challenged starts aback, turning pale. And looking distraught at
his challenger, while he repeats the words of the latter, with but the
personal pronoun changed--
"What I have done with Miss Wynn!" Then adding, "Pray explain yourself,
sir!"
"Come, Captain Ryecroft; you know what I allude to?"
"For the life of me I don't."
"Do you mean to say you're not aware of what's happened?"
"What's happened! When? Where?"
"At Llangorren, the night of that hall. You were present; I saw you."
"And I saw you, Mr Shenstone. But you don't tell me what happened."
"Not at the hall, but after."
"Well, and what after?"
"Captain Ryecroft, you're either an innocent man, or, the most guilty on
the face of the earth."
"Stop, sir! Language like yours requires justification, of the gravest
kind. I ask an explanation--demand it!"
Thus brought to bay, George Shenstone looks straight in the face of the
man he has so savagely assailed; there to see neither consciousness of
guilt, nor fear of punishment. Instead, honest surprise mingled with
keen apprehension; the last not on his own account, but hers of whom
they are speaking. Intuitively, as if whispered by an angel in his ear,
he says, or thinks to himself: "This man knows nothing of Gwendoline
Wynn. If she has been carried off, it has not been by him; if murdered,
he is not her murderer."
"Captain Ryecroft," he at length cries out in hoarse voice, the
revulsion of feeling almost choking him, "if I've been wronging you I
ask forgiveness; and you'll forgive. For if I have, you do not--cannot
know what has occurred."
"I've told you I don't," affirms Ryecroft, now certain that the other
speaks of something different, and more serious than the affair he had
himself been thinking of. "For Heaven's sake, Mr Shenstone, explain!
What _has_ occurred there?"
"Miss Wynn is gone away!"
"Miss Wynn gone away! But whither?"
"Nobody knows. All that can be said is, she disappeared on the night of
the ball, without telling any one--no trace left behind--except--"
"Except what?"
"A ring--a diamond cluster. I found it myself in the summer-house. You
know the place--you know the ring too?"
"I do, Mr Shenstone; have reasons, painful ones. But I am not called
upon to give them now, nor to you. What could it mean?" he adds,
speaking to himself, thinking of that cry he heard when being rowed off.
It connects itself with what he hears now; seems once more resounding
in his ears, more than ever resembling a shriek! "But, sir; please
proceed! For God's sake, keep nothing back--tell me everything!"
Thus appealed to, Shenstone answers by giving an account of what has
occurred at Llangorren Court--all that had transpired previous to his
leaving; and frankly confesses his own reasons for being in Boulogne.
The manner in which it is received still further satisfying him of the
other's guiltlessness, he again begs to be forgiven for the suspicions
he had entertained.
"Mr Shenstone," returns Ryecroft, "you ask what I am ready and willing
to grant--God knows how ready, how willing. If any misfortune has
befallen her we are speaking of, however great your grief, it cannot be
greater than mine."
Shenstone is convinced. Ryecroft's speech, his looks, his whole
bearing, are those of a man not only guiltless of wrong to Gwendoline
Wynn, but one who, on her account, feels anxiety keen as his own.
He stays not to question further; but once more making apologies for his
intrusion--which are accepted without anger--he bows himself back into
the street.
The business of his travelling companion in Boulogne was over some time
ago. His is now equally ended; and though without having thrown any new
light on the mystery of Miss Wynn's disappearance, still with some
satisfaction to himself, he dares not dwell upon. Where is the man who
would not rather know his sweetheart dead than see her in the arms of a
rival? However ignoble the feeling, or base to entertain it, it is
natural to the human heart tortured by jealousy. Too natural, as George
Shenstone that night knows, with head tossing upon a sleepless pillow.
Too late to catch the Folkestone packet, his bed is in Boulogne--no bed
of roses but a couch Procrustean.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Meanwhile, Captain Ryecroft returns to the room where his friend the
Major has been awaiting him. Impatiently, though not in the interim
unemployed; as evinced by a flat mahogany box upon the table, and beside
it a brace of duelling pistols, which have evidently been submitted to
examination. They are the "best barkers that can be got in Boulogne."
"We shan't need them, Major, after all."
"The devil we shan't! He's shown the white feather?"
"No, Mahon; instead, proved himself as brave a fellow as ever stood
before sword point, or dared pistol bullet?"
"Then there's no trouble between you?"
"Ah! yes, trouble; but not between us. Sorrow shared by both. We're in
the same boat."
"In that case, why didn't you bring him in?"
"I didn't think of it."
"Well; we'll drink his health. And since you say you've both embarked
in the same boat--a bad one--here's to your reaching a good haven, and
in safety!"
"Thanks, Major! The haven I now want to reach, and intend entering ere
another sun sets, is the harbour of Folkestone."
The Major almost drops his glass. "Why, Ryecroft, you're surely
joking?"
"No, Mahon; I'm in earnest--dead anxious earnest."
"Well, I wonder! No, I don't," he adds, correcting himself. "A man
needn't be surprised at anything where there's a woman concerned. May
the devil take her, who's taking you away from me!"
"Major Mahon!"
"Well--well, old boy! Don't be angry. I meant nothing personal,
knowing neither the lady, nor the reason for thus changing your mind,
and so soon leaving me. Let my sorrow at that be my excuse."
"You shall be told it, this night--now!" In another hour Major Mahon is
in possession of all that relates to Gwendoline Wynn, known to Vivian
Ryecroft; no more wondering at the anxiety of his guest to get back to
England; nor doing aught to detain him. Instead, he counsels his
immediate return; accompanies him to the first morning packet for
Folkestone; and at the parting hand-shake again reminds him of that
well-timed grip in the ditch of Delhi, exclaiming--
"God bless you, old boy! Whatever the upshot, remember you've a friend,
and a bit of a tent to shelter you in Boulogne--not forgetting a little
comfort from the _crayther_!"
Volume Two, Chapter XXIV.