WILL-O'-THE-WISP.
A new year was opening on the just and the unjust--the fortunate and
the unfortunate. Lady Gethin had arrived in town after a prolonged
Christmas visit to some attentive relatives in one of the midland
counties.
She was always pleased to be at home; she liked to exercise a friendly
hospitality, and she was by no means afraid of a lonely evening, of
which she never had too many.
It was the day after her return. Night had closed in; her dainty dinner
was over, and she was established in her favorite chair beside a bright
wood and coal fire in the smaller and cosier of her two drawing-rooms,
which was lighted only by the ruddy glow of the fire and a shaded
reading-lamp, by which she was perusing a new novel. She had laid down
the book and was thinking, with an unusually softened expression on
her strong face, of her favorite, Hugh Glynn. She had been intensely
anxious about him during his severe illness. She had constantly visited
his sick-room, and satisfied herself that nurses and servants were
doing their duty. When his life was despaired of, she was grimly still,
silent, and enduring, but _she_ knew that all the woman in her somewhat
masculine nature had gone out, in maternal affection, to her husband's
nephew.
When he was slowly struggling back to life and strength she accompanied
him to a south coast bathing-place, and gave him the great benefit of
her companionship, for she knew how to be sympathetically silent, as
well as congenially talkative. In this prolonged _tête-à-tête_ Glynn
grew sincerely and gratefully attached to the outspoken free-thinking
old woman, whose frank kindness was never oppressive, and whose
uncompromising sincerity might convince the hardest sceptic of its
reality.
Attachment brought confidence, and before they parted Hugh Glynn had
told her the strange history of his sudden love for Elsie Lambert, of
the hold it had taken of him in spite of reason, prudence, worldly
wisdom--every motive that ought to guide a man of his maturity and
experience. He even confessed to the weakness of regretting he had
rejected Lambert's proposal of marriage with his daughter.
In the story of Elsie's disappearance, Lady Gethin was profoundly
interested, though, to Glynn's disappointment and indignation, she
did not hesitate to declare her belief that the young lady eloped
voluntarily, and had probably since informed her father of her
whereabouts--a fact which he might think it wiser not to divulge. She
further declared that although she did not think the worse of Glynn for
his infatuation, she thought he had had a great escape, and believed
he would come to think so himself when he had recovered his health and
resumed the ordinary routine of his life.
Reviewing these conversations Lady Gethin sat forgetful of her book,
when the object of her thoughts was announced.
"Why didn't you come to dinner?" she exclaimed, holding out her hand.
"Because I have been dining earlier than usual at the house of a cousin
of mine in the suburbs, where I have been officiating as god-father to
his first-born son."
"A very patriarchal proceeding. Who is this cousin--do I not know him?"
"I think not; he is a cousin on my mother's side, and has a cure of
souls at Clapham."
"Well, Hugh, and how are you? You look better and stronger."
"I am! I have turned the corner, and am beginning to pull mechanically
against the collar once more."
Lady Gethin looked earnestly at him. He seemed taller than ever--gaunt
and bony. His dark face was very colorless, his eyes sunken; yet his
attitude and air had less of lassitude than when they had parted last.
"You have been across the Channel?"
"Yes, I ran over to Paris for a little change, just before Christmas.
Paris draws me like a magnet."
"A magnetism you ought to resist. How is the beautiful city?"
"Beautiful as ever; but there is mischief in the air. However, I am no
prophet. I wandered about the old scenes like a troubled ghost, and I
saw Lambert."
"Indeed! I wish, Hugh, you would break away from all the painful
associations with that man, you can do him no good."
"True; but I have the most profound pity for him, all the more that
he seems by no means glad to see me. I fancy his terrible misfortune
has affected his brain. He is sullen, and averse to speak of anything
that leads up to the subject of his lost daughter, and yet he looks in
surprisingly good health."
"_He_ has not had a brain fever!" said Lady Gethin, significantly. "I
suppose no trace whatever has been discovered?"
"Not the faintest. I succeeded in obtaining an interview with M.
Claude, who reluctantly admitted that the French police have rarely
been so baffled."
"It is a most extraordinary case," said Lady Gethin, and then hastened
to change the subject. "I have had rather a pleasant time of it at the
Kingsfords'. I went down the day before Christmas and only returned
yesterday. The Deerings put up there for two nights on their way to
Lord Arthur Saville's. Lady Frances was looking a little more alive;
and really Deering can be very agreeable."
"He is, I suspect, a tremendously white-washed sepulchre."
"I cannot understand your suspicions of Deering," returned Lady Gethin;
"as to his being mixed up with the Lambert affair, it is mere nonsense.
What on earth could he have to do with such a man as you describe
Lambert? He might have met him in a train, or on a steamboat, or a
race-course, but it is impossible he could have _known_ much of him."
"He did, however, I am certain," said Glynn, slowly and thoughtfully;
"and you would agree with me had you seen them together. There was
deadly enmity as well as acquaintanceship between them."
"Well, perhaps so," she returned. "Will you have a cup of coffee,
Hugh? It will rouse you, you look sleepy and _distrait_."
"Thank you; a cup of _your_ coffee will do me good."
Lady Gethin rang and ordered some to be brought, talking cheerfully on
a variety of topics. But Glynn's attention wandered while he sipped the
refreshing beverage, and as he put down his cup Lady Gethin exclaimed,
"I don't think you have heard a word I have been saying!"
"Yes," he exclaimed, starting from his thoughts, "I have heard, but,
I confess, not taken in the sense of what you have been saying. I
am, perhaps foolishly, excited by an incident which occurred to-day,
and as you are tolerably acquainted with all my weakness you may as
well hear this instance too. I was, as I told you, at Clapham to-day;
after the christening of my little godson we returned to luncheon at
Heathcote's--at my cousin's house, and when the other guests had left
he asked me to smoke a cigar with him in the garden. As we talked and
walked up and down beside a railing and hedge of holly, which separates
Heathcote's garden from the next, I heard some one speaking at the
other side, and as I listened I could have sworn that the voice was
Elsie Lambert's. It was soft and low, yet wonderfully distinct; then a
highly-pitched woman's voice declared in French that she feared some
task would be difficult. Again the voice that made my heart stand still
said, 'Difficult, but not insurmountable; kindness and steadiness
will overcome so much; I would trust them too----' Then I ceased to
catch the words, though the well-known tones came to me again, as the
speakers evidently turned away. Great heavens! I hear it still, it was
Elsie's voice! I lost my head for a moment; I rushed to the railing,
and thrusting my arms between them, tried to tear away some of the
branches to look through. My cousin thought I had lost my senses, and
begged for an explanation. I told him I felt certain that a lady I had
been seeking in every direction was at the other side of the hedge. He
said the adjoining grounds belonged to a ladies' school, and I asked
him to accompany me to the house, and back me up in my inquiries, as
he was known to the owner and the teachers. At last he consented. The
parleying occupied some time, then we had to walk round by a road
which ran the length of the two gardens, to turn again on reaching the
common, and go a little way back to the gates of Montpellier House;
altogether twenty minutes must have elapsed from the time I first heard
the voice before I rang the bell at Mrs. Storrer's. As we approached a
cab was driving away. On asking for the head of the establishment, we
were informed that no one was at home but the head governess and the
French teacher. Heathcote sent up his card, and begged to be allowed to
speak to one or both of the ladies."
"Well," ejaculated Lady Gethin, "what did you find?"
"After a little delay we were ushered up stairs and were received by a
lady, who recognized Heathcote. He left me to explain myself, which I
did as well as I could, though it was not easy."
"'You heard a voice you recognized speaking in our grounds,' repeated
the lady; 'it must have been either Mademoiselle Laroche, or
Mademoiselle Moppert. They were in the grounds just now.'
"'May I see these ladies?'
"'Mademoiselle Moppert,--yes; but Mademoiselle Laroche has just
driven away. Mademoiselle Moppert has come to replace her as French
governess.' I confess I lost hope as she spoke, still I begged for an
interview with the incoming teacher, and a servant was sent to request
her presence. A glance at her was enough. She was a short, stout,
elderly young lady, with piercing black eyes and distinct moustaches. I
had to muster my best French and apologize elaborately. Then I begged
for some information touching Mademoiselle Laroche. Was she French?
'Yes, undoubtedly,--from Picardy.' 'Was she tall, or short? slight,
or stout?' 'She was,' the French governess said, 'about her height,
and a little, yes, a very little thinner.' The Englishwoman added
that she did not look in good health. 'Did she sing?' I asked. No,
she had never sang or played while in Mrs. Storrer's establishment.
How long had she been there? About seven months. She had been engaged
in May last, but did not come till the middle of June. Where had she
gone? It was understood she had made an engagement to go to India, but
she was extremely reserved. No one knew much about her except Mrs.
Storrer, who was spending the holidays with a friend at Cheltenham.
This was all I could extract. Heathcote was desperately put out by my
eccentric proceedings. I was obliged to return with him and to give
some explanation of my conduct. Then I went to the cab-stand, and found
out the number of the cab; and to the police-station, and commissioned
a constable to ascertain where the cab had taken Mademoiselle Laroche."
"I think your time and trouble have been thrown away," said Lady
Gethin. "A fancied resemblance to Miss Lambert's voice was but shallow
ground to build any hopes upon."
"It was not fancied," said Glynn, leaning back and looking straight
before him with fixed, dreamy eyes. "The tones struck my ear, my heart,
with instantaneous recognition. I cannot believe that any two people
could speak so much alike. I must say the description doesn't tally,
nor is it possible to account for her being in a ladies' school in
England; still, that voice!"
"My dear Hugh, your imagination is so saturated with the tragic
ideas you associate with that unhappy girl's flight--I mean her
disappearance," for Glynn turned sharply towards her, "that you can
hardly trust your own impressions. I wish you would put the affair out
of your head. You were quite right to help the poor father as much as
you could; but now--let this chapter of your life be closed, and begin
afresh."
"Excellent advice, but useless to me. I can _not_ forget!"
"Is it possible that on so short an acquaintance you were so severely
hit?"
"Ay, in the first twenty-four hours of our acquaintance she touched
my heart as no other woman ever did, and every subsequent interview
added to her power. There was a sweet gravity about her which would be
as charming in her white-haired age as in her fair youth! And yet so
miserably faithless is this human nature of ours, there are moments
when doubt plunges its jagged darts into me;--and for a hideous moment
I think it possible she may have gone willingly with some unknown
lover, but at any suggestion of the kind from another the doubt
vanishes. It only gathers at rare intervals when I brood alone and
grow morbid. In my saner moments I never doubt her; but the horror of
the thing!--nothing diminishes that!"
He started up and began to pace the room. The anguish of his voice
touched Lady Gethin, in spite of her conviction that he was weakly
credulous.
"It is a terrible business altogether. What do you think of doing now?"
"I shall go down by an early train to Cheltenham to-morrow and see this
Mrs. Storrer. My future movements will depend on what I gather from
her."
"Shall you write to the father?"
"Not unless I have something definite to report. It would be cruel to
rouse him out of his apathy by a gleam of false hope."
"You are a most unlucky fellow, Hugh; your life is quite spoilt by this
entanglement."
"It is my fate," said Glynn. He rested his elbow on the mantelpiece and
his head on his hand.
"You will return to-morrow night, I suppose?" said Lady Gethin.
"Most probably. I don't fancy I shall get any intelligence that will
send me further afield."
"You must come and tell me your news as soon as possible."
"Of course I shall, gladly."
"Then dine with me the day after to-morrow. I shall not ask any one to
break our solitude _à deux_."
"Thank you. It is an infinite comfort to talk to you, though I know
very well you are sceptical on some points where I cling to belief."
After some more conversation they parted, and Glynn, disturbed, but
scarcely hopeful, went home to snatch what repose he could before his
early start next day.
* * * * *
While Glynn was making his way to Mrs. Storrer's temporary abode
through muddy streets and a chilling shower of sleet, Deering sat over
a glowing fire in the particular apartment occupied by him in his town
house. He was in London for a few days on his way to visit a sporting
friend in Leicestershire, and was utilizing the time by an interview
with his solicitor, who had already risen to take leave, when
Deering's valet entered and handed a card to his master, who, glancing
at it with a frown, said:
"Ask him to sit down; I will see him presently," and he continued the
conversation with his legal adviser, though his eyes wandered more than
once to the card which lay beside him.
As soon as he was alone, Deering rang and desired that the gentleman
who was waiting should be shown up. In another moment the door closed
on Vincent, who was magnificent in a grand overcoat, with a sable
collar and cuffs, and a pair of sealskin gloves. His finery, however,
was no stay to his self-esteem, for his light-colored, hatchety face
had an uneasy, crestfallen expression.
"Well," said Deering, without further salutation, "have you any news?
There--sit down."
"Yes, I have news; not very satisfactory news," said Vincent in his
nasal, drawling tones. "He's off!"
"Lambert! And to America?" cried Deering.
The other nodded. "I tracked him myself, saw him on board the New York
steamer, and saw her steam away down the Mersey."
"Then he sailed from Liverpool? What was the meaning of that?"
"Can't tell. I think you are wrong in your conjectures. I don't think
he knows any more about his daughter than we do."
"His start for America proves nothing."
"Perhaps not; but for over seven months he has been watched night and
day, as you know, and not a trace of any communication with any one
except business men and that woman who brought up the girl has been
found."
"We don't know what his communication with her may have masked?"
"Well, not more than three letters have passed between them in all
this time; nor has he remitted money in any direction, or made any
expeditions beyond his daily round. He has been pretty steady in his
attendance at the Bourse, and done well in a quiet way, but his life
has been visible and regular. He has bothered M. Claude periodically,
and he looks a good deal changed; but, no! if he knew his daughter's
whereabouts he never could keep from giving some sign. He is a fiery,
impulsive, open-mouthed fellow, who would be too proud of doing you to
keep silent about it. If he were not within reach of the policeman he'd
give _me_ my quietus."
"No doubt," said Deering, with calm, complete acquiescence. "What is
the name of the woman in Wales?"
"Mrs. Kellett."
"I thought we might have got something out of her."
"Well, I did not," returned Vincent. "Lambert was so ready to apply to
her. Moreover, the man that went down to the place found she had been
ill in bed at the very time Miss Lambert disappeared."
There was a pause. "It is the strangest case, I should think, that
French detective ever came across," resumed Deering. "I suppose he
never was baffled before. Who has any interest in taking her away? Have
you any theory?"
"Not much of one. I am sometimes inclined to think she went off with
Glynn. He was, I suspect, far gone about her."
"No," said Deering, thoughtfully. "No; he was with me when Lambert
broke in like a madman, and no one could have aped the horror and
astonishment _he_ betrayed. No, he doesn't know anything,--or didn't
a few weeks ago; but I wish to heaven he hadn't got over that fever.
Should we ever find the girl we shall have to reckon with him, and he
is a formidable antagonist."
"He can be dealt with, I suppose."
Deering did not heed him; he moved uneasily in his chair. His brow
contracted with a look of fierce resolution. "Have you telegraphed to
the New York police?"
"I waited to see you first."
"You had better do so. They have a description of Lambert, I suppose?"
"I rather think not."
"Send it then."
"What, by wire?"
"Yes;--but wait,--do it through the French detective. I don't want
to appear in the matter. They were rather taken with the notion that
Lambert himself had made away with his daughter?"
"At first, yes; but the last time I saw M. Claude he seemed to have
quite given up the idea."
"You never know what he thinks. Now, what has your journey cost you?"
"I don't care to take any money at present; I will write when----"
"No," interrupted Deering, imperiously, "no letters--I will neither
write nor receive them--a telegram, if absolutely necessary. If you
have anything to tell, come and tell it, you can always find my
address at the Club, and never give up the search. Here are twenty
sovereigns,--I have no more gold about me, and I'll not give you
notes,--take them, I insist. It suits me better to pay when I have the
opportunity. Remember--the sum originally promised if you can find her
dead, double if you find her alive. Now you may go--stop--wait till
the servant comes." Vincent paused, and as the door opened, Deering
said distinctly in courteous tones, "I am very much obliged to you for
taking the trouble to call--I am interested in your search--and wish
you all success. Good-morning."
* * * * *
Lady Gethin was restless and expectant until the hour arrived at
which Glynn was due. She was profoundly interested in the mysterious
disappearance of the girl who had made so deep an impression on her
favorite nephew. She would like her to be discovered safe and well;
but above all things, married to some worthy person, and so secure
from doing or receiving harm. Then she should like to see her, perhaps
assist at her reconciliation with her father. Anyhow it was a great
mercy that she was well out of Hugh's way, for really the folly and
weakness of men were such, etc., etc.
Glynn was a few minutes late, but was cordially welcomed.
"I see you have found nothing," exclaimed Lady Gethin, as soon as they
were alone.
"It was a wild-goose chase," he replied with a weary look.
"You must tell me all about it after dinner. You seem in want of a
glass of wine,--you shall have some of my best Burgundy, it is a
splendid tonic."
The friendly hostess was greatly distressed at her guest's want of
appetite; she pressed, him to eat, and prescribed various nostrums,
which he rejected. As soon as the servants had left the room he
brightened a little, and drawing his chair nearer hers, began his story
in compliance with her reiterated entreaty, "Come, tell me everything."
He had, he said, found the head of the Clapham establishment easy
enough; she was a composed, ceremonious, typical school-mistress;
civil, but guarded. She listened attentively to his story, and declared
her willingness to tell all she knew about the young French lady who
had just quitted her service. She had been recommended by some English
friends at Dinan; and her chief attraction was the fact of her being
a Protestant. Hitherto Mrs. Storrer feared the introduction of a
foreigner into her select and sacred household, but had no reason to
regret the entrance of Mademoiselle Laroche within its precincts. It
was early in May last that negotiations between herself and the French
teacher began; but she did not enter upon her duties till the 15th of
June.
"That," said Glynn, interrupting himself, "was the day of the
ball,--the day before her disappearance."
Mrs. Storrer described Mademoiselle Laroche as about middle height,
inclined to be stout, with hair and eyes between dark and fair; not
particularly graceful; and as to age,--well, it was hard to say--she
might be twenty-one,--she might be twenty-five,--appearances are
deceptive. As to her voice--yes, it was pleasant, unusually soft for
a French woman; but nothing remarkable! If he wished for Mademoiselle
Laroche's address, Mrs. Storrer would be happy to furnish it, though
that would not be of much avail, as the family to whom she had gone
were to start to-morrow or next day for India. She had not her
address-book with her, but would send a note to the governess to
forward it to Mr. Glynn.
"Finally, I showed her Miss Lambert's photograph, which I always carry
about with me. She looked at it with a slow smile, and then turning it
said: 'No, this is not Mademoiselle Laroche, this is a charming young
lady.' Her quiet unconsciousness of any resemblance convinced me even
more than her words that she could not know Elsie."
"Indeed," added Glynn, "a quiet young ladies' boarding-school seems
the very last place where one could expect to find a girl so strangely
and tragically lost. Yet even now, as I recall the voice I heard the
day before yesterday, I cannot believe that I was mistaken! Is it not
possible that a visitor might have entered and walked round the garden
with the other two? unknown to the head governess."
"Of course it is possible, but very improbable. If Miss Lambert was
carried away against her own will (which I do not believe), her captors
would not let her go visiting; and if she aided in concealing herself,
why, she would not seek acquaintances."
"True, and unanswerable. Still, when I think of the voice I heard
little more than forty-eight hours ago, I cannot resist the conviction
that if I could have burst through that accursed hedge I should have
clasped Elsie--the real Elsie--in my arms."
"Good heavens, Hugh! _would_ you have clasped her in your arms?"
"I would! if she had not repelled me! I tell you I would give life
itself,--to find--the Elsie Lambert I believed in."
"Yes, but can you hope to do so? Must you not admit that the balance of
evidence is _against_ such a find?" cried Lady Gethin, distressed, yet
deeply interested.
"There are beliefs and instincts," returned Glynn, "the deepest--the
strangest, respecting which one cannot reason! Shall we ever understand
the 'wherefore' that is beyond and above our material sense?"
"Never," said Lady Gethin, sharply. "There is a something we cannot
define or fathom that stirs us as though a second self was being
evolved from the coarser everyday serviceable ego; but it will always
escape our ken! Nor will it do to trust these bewildering, shadowy
promptings; we must act in the living present by the light of that most
uncommon faculty, common sense. These dreamy tendencies are not like
you! This unlucky business has upset your mental balance, Hugh. You
have done your best to find this poor girl; she has no claim whatever
upon you. You must try to put her out of your head, and take up your
life again."
"I suppose I must," he returned thoughtfully; "but it will be hard.
Curiously enough I found a letter awaiting me when I returned, from
Lambert, dated Liverpool, informing me he was to sail next day for New
York, where he had some faint hope of finding a clue to his daughter.
He must have passed through London. I am surprised he did not call on
me. I did not think he would have avoided me."
"It looks odd," said Lady Gethin. "By the way, let me see the
daughter's photograph; I did not know you carried it about, or I should
have asked for it before."
Glynn took out the little case in which the picture was carefully
enclosed, and gave it to her. Lady Gethin looked long and thoughtfully
at it.
"A sweet face," she said, "somewhat sad; but a fine expression;
it seems somehow familiar to me. Photographs are seldom true
representations, and she may be very unlike the idea this suggests; but
I wish I could remember who it is she reminds of."
"It has not been fortunate for Elsie that her face suggests memories,"
said Glynn. "I have a strong conviction that if she had not attracted
Deering's attention at those Auteuil races she would be still safe
under her father's care."
"You mean to say you think that a man of Deering's position, character,
standing, would give himself up to such scoundrelism. Hugh! it is too
absurd!"
"I know it is; I always dismiss the thought, and then it gathers again
like a mist over the morass of doubt in which I am plunged. However,
if he is responsible for her disappearance he certainly does not
know where she is now; but he is seeking for her. Claude, the French
detective, let out as much the last time I saw him."
"Depend upon it the father knows she is in America."
"You think so? _I_ doubt it."
"I wonder he is not more confidential with you. Does he know you were
in love with her?"
"No, certainly not!"
"The whole affair is incomprehensible!--let me look at that photograph
again! Who is it she reminds me of?"
Finding no reply in the stores of her memory, Lady Gethin shut up the
case and restored it to Glynn, and to change the subject began to urge
him to resume his former social habits and mix with his kind. "It
will not render your chances of finding your lost love any the worse,
perhaps better; for if you ever get a clue to her, I suspect it will be
by accident. No one was ever really lost in this small world of ours
unless, indeed, death folds its pall over the missing one."
"Yes, I shall probably find her; but how? and where?" said Glynn,
with a sound of pain in his voice. "At any rate I shall follow your
advice! I will try to shake off this despairing apathy; and, though I
cannot turn phrases prettily, believe me I am warmly grateful for your
sympathy, your forbearance; indeed, I do not know what I should do
without it."