The disappearance of a dancing guest from the midst of three score
others is a thing not likely to be noticed. And if noticed, needing no
explanation--in English "best society."
There the defection may occur from a quiet dinner-party--even in a
country house, where arrivals and departures are more rare than in the
grand _routs_ of the town.
True politeness has long since discarded that insufferable ceremony of
general leave-taking, with its stiff bows and stiffer handshakings.
Sufficient to salute your host--more particularly your hostess--and bow
good-bye to any of the olive branches that may be met, as you elbow your
way out of the drawing-room.
This was the rule holding good under the roof of Sir George Vernon; and
the abrupt departure of Captain Maynard would have escaped comment, but
for one or two circumstances of a peculiar nature.
He was a stranger to Sir George's company, with romantic, if not
mysterious, antecedents; while his literary laurels freshly gained, and
still green upon his brow, had attracted attention even in that high
circle.
But what was deemed undoubtedly peculiar was the mode in which he had
made his departure. He had been seen dancing with Sir George's
daughter, and afterward stepping outside with her--through the
conservatory, and into the grounds. He had not again returned.
Some of the dancers who chanced to be cooling themselves by the bottom
of the stair, had seen his portmanteau taken out, himself following
shortly after; while the sound of carriage wheels upon the sweep told of
his having gone off for good!
There was not much in all this. He had probably taken leave of his host
outside--in a correct ceremonial manner.
But no one had seen him do so; and, as he had been for some time staying
at the house, the departure looked somewhat brusque. For certain it was
strangely timed.
Still it might not have been remarked upon, but for another
circumstance: that, after he was gone, the baronet's daughter appeared
no more among the dancers.
She had not been seen since she had stood up in the _valse_ where she
and her partner had been so closely scrutinised!
She was but a young thing. The spin may have affected her to giddiness;
and she had retired to rest awhile.
This was the reasoning of those who chanced to think of it.
They were not many. The charmers in wide skirts had enough to do
thinking of themselves; the dowagers had betaken themselves to quiet
whist in the antechambers: and the absence of Blanche Vernon brought no
blight upon the general enjoyment.
But the absence of her father did--that is, his absence of mind. During
the rest of the evening there was a strangeness in Sir George's manner
noticed by many of his guests; an abstraction, palpably, almost
painfully observable. Even his good breeding was not proof against the
blow he had sustained!
Despite his efforts to conceal it, his more intimate acquaintances could
see that something had gone astray.
Its effect was to put a damper on the night's hilarity; and perhaps
earlier than would have otherwise happened were the impatient coachmen
outside released from their chill waiting upon the sweep.
And earlier, also, did the guests staying at the house retire to their
separate sleeping apartments.
Sir George did not go direct to his; but first to his library.
He went not alone. Frank Scudamore accompanied him.
He did so, at the request of his uncle, after the others had said
good-night.
The object of this late interview between Sir George and his nephew is
made known, by the conversation that occurred between them.
"Frank," began the baronet, "I desire you to be frank with me."
Sir George said this, without intending a pun. He was in no mood for
playing upon words.
"About what, uncle?" asked Scudamore, looking a little surprised.
"About all you've seen between Blanche and this--fellow."
The "fellow" was pronounced with contemptuous emphasis--almost in a
hiss.
"All I've seen?"
"All you've seen, and all you've heard."
"What I've seen and heard I have told you. That is, up to this night--
up to an hour ago."
"An hour ago! Do you mean what occurred under the tree?"
"No uncle, not that I've seen something since."
"Since! Captain Maynard went immediately away?"
"He did. But not without taking a certain thing along with him he ought
not to have taken."
"Taken a certain thing along with him! What do you mean, nephew?"
"That your honoured guest carried out of your house a piece of paper
upon which something had been written."
"By whom?"
"By my cousin Blanche."
"When, and where?"
"Well, I suppose while he was getting ready to go; and as to the where,
I presume it was done by Blanche in her bedroom. She went there after--
what you saw."
Sir George listened to this information with as much coolness as he
could command. Still, there was a twitching of the facial muscles, and
a pallor overspreading his cheeks, his nephew could not fail to notice.
"Proceed, Frank!" he said, in a faltering voice, "go on, and tell me
all. How did you become acquainted with this?"
"By the merest accident," pursued the willing informant. "I was outside
the drawing-room, resting between two dances. It was just at the time
Captain Maynard was going off. From where I was standing, I could see
up the stairway to the top landing. He was there talking to Sabina, and
as it appeared to me, in a very confidential manner. I saw him slip
something into her hand--a piece of money, I suppose--just after she had
dropped something white into the pocket of his overcoat. I could tell
it was paper--folded in the shape of a note."
"Are you sure it was that?"
"Quite sure, uncle. I had no doubt of it at the time; and said to
myself, `It's a note that's been written by my cousin, who has sent
Sabina to give it to him.' I'd have stopped him on the stair and made
him give it up again, but for raising a row in the house. You know that
would never have done."
Sir George did not hear the boasting remark. He was not listening to it
His soul was too painfully absorbed--reflecting upon this strange doing
of his daughter.
"Poor child!" muttered he in sad soliloquy. "Poor innocent child! And
this, after all my care, my ever-zealous guardianship, my far more than
ordinary solicitude. Oh God! to think I've taken a serpent into my
house, who should thus turn and sting me!"
The baronet's feelings forbade farther conversation; and Scudamore was
dismissed to his bed.