DISAPPEARED FROM HER HOME.
A Novel,
IN ONE VOLUME.
BY
MRS. FRED. E. PIRKIS.
London:
REMINGTON AND CO.,
5, ARUNDEL STREET, STRAND, W.C.
1877.
[_All Rights Reserved._]
DEDICATED,
WITH ALL LOVE AND ESTEEM,
TO MY BROTHER,
GEORGE IGNATIUS PIRKIS.
CONTENTS
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
XIII
XIV
XV
DISAPPEARED FROM HER HOME.
CHAPTER I.
“£200 REWARD. Disappeared from her home, Amy, only daughter of Stephen
Warden, Esq., of the High Elms, Harleyford. Age, 17; height, 5ft. Dark
hair and eyes, oval face, small nose, mouth, and chin; remarkably small
hands and feet; dressed in dark blue silk walking costume, broad
brimmed felt hat, with light-blue ostrich feather. Jewellery worn—a
gold butterfly brooch, and butterfly earrings; on the third finger of
left hand, an antique ruby ring—one large stone, surrounded with eight
small diamonds, set in a garter with buckle; motto on garter, ‘_Sans
espoir je meurs._’ The young lady was last seen on the morning of the
14th of August, leaving the park lands, and entering the high road
leading to Dunwich. Information to be given to Inspector Smythe,
Dunwich Police Station, who will pay the above reward on the young
lady’s restoration to her family, or portions of the amount according
to the value of the information received.”
_____
The above handbill appeared one bright summer’s morning on the walls of
Dunwich Police Station, and on all the principal buildings of that busy
manufacturing town.
Hard-working men of business found time, in the midst of their buying
and selling, to stop and read, and wonder how it was possible that
any young lady, well looked after, as Miss Warden undoubtedly was,
well-known, too, in the neighbourhood, and surrounded by relations,
friends, and servants, could thus disappear from their very midst, at
noon-day, and leave no trace of any sort.
Harleyford was situated about five miles from Dunwich, and Mr. Warden’s
house about three from the local railway station. A well-traversed high
road led from his estate to the market town—Dunwich. This the young
lady had been seen to enter about ten o’clock on the morning of the
14th of August, by some country people, with whom she exchanged
greetings. From that moment nothing more had been seen nor heard of
her, and it was, as the country people expressed it in their broad
Leicestershire dialect, “as though the earth had opened, and swallowed
her up,” so completely had all traces of her been lost.
Well-to-do tradesmen and thriving farmers, passing by, read the
handbill with a sort of shudder. Here was a young lady taking her usual
morning walk on a bright summer’s day; she wishes her neighbours a gay
good morning with a nod and a smile, goes on her way, and lo! nothing
more is seen or heard of her. After this, who was safe? And with a sigh
and a shiver, and a thought of their own young daughters at home, they
went their way to ponder over the strange occurrence.
The county people by scores left their cards on Mr. and Mrs. Warden;
heard how they had waited breakfast for their daughter, then luncheon,
then dinner—how they had sent their men far and near to scour the
country—how every river had been dragged, every infirmary and hospital
searched, every railway official questioned and cross-questioned as to
whether the young lady had been seen entering either station—how the
parents had racked their brains to discover any possible or impossible
pretext which could drive their daughter from her home—how that now,
well-nigh broken-hearted, after a fortnight of wearying suspense, they
had folded their hands and prayed for any news, even the worst that
might come.
“It is beyond mystery,” said old Lady Nugent to her young lady
companion, driving along the very same high road which had seen the
last of poor Amy, and looking right and left in the hedges, as though
she expected to find some traces of her there; “If the girl had had any
love troubles, one could understand it better; for the young, foolish
things at seventeen are often driven to some desperate folly by a man’s
wicked eyes. But every one knows she could have made the best match in
the county if she had liked. There’s young Lord Hardcastle, who
absolutely worships her—fastidious and fault-finding as he is; and as
for Frank Varley, the rector’s son, with his £10,000 a year, he is
positively mad after her.”
“Yes, my lady,” responded the companion, “and it is well known that
neither Mr. nor Mrs. Warden cared in the least whom she chose. Ah! she
was always a coquette, even in the schoolroom. Those young, bright
things with so much money, and so many chances generally choose badly
after all, and run away with some groom, or footman. Depend upon it, my
lady”—
“Don’t be an idiot, Matthews,” interrupts the dowager, “talk about
things you understand. It has been ascertained beyond doubt that no one
but Miss Warden is missing, far or near. Besides, the young lady,
however playful and vivacious she might be with her equals in station,
was too well-born and well-bred to permit the slightest familiarity
from an inferior. She would not have suffered such a thing any more
than I should myself,” with a withering glance at Matthews. “Tell
George,” she added, pulling violently at the check-string, “to drive
past the police station. I want to see what they have put in the
handbills.”
And, as the old lady drives through the crowd of stragglers gathered
about the station-house doors, two others, with white, anxious faces,
are standing there, reading the printed lines. Tall, fair, muscular
Frank Varley, the rector’s scapegrace son, the best rider, runner, and
rower in the county—the first in all mischief—in all breakneck
adventures—and yet more sought after at balls and garden parties, than
the richest lord, or the most eligible unmarried baronet—his mother’s
darling and pride, and a constant source of anxiety and apprehension to
his father.
As he reads, his brow darkens. “By heaven!” he mutters through his set
teeth, “there has been foul play somewhere. She held my hand for a
moment only, at the ball the night before, under the large oleander
tree, and called me her own Frank; and then, coquette as she is, the
next minute she told me she meant her own _brother_ Frank—I had
been so good to her. Shall we all sit still with folded hands, and let
a girl like that be stolen from our very midst? A thousand times, no!”
And then aloud, with a full-drawn breath, “By heaven! no corner of the
earth shall hide her from me; by land and by sea, by night and by day,
I will search the whole world through, till I find her, living or dead.”
“You are right,” exclaims a voice at his elbow, and Lord Hardcastle’s
dark pale face, with thin, clear-cut features, looks over his shoulder.
(“Kid-gloved Hardcastle” he was sometimes called by his sporting and
boating friends, on account of his super-refinement and dainty
fastidiousness.) “You are right; there has been some foul play
here—some deed of iniquity which must be brought to light. We, who
have been rivals hitherto, may well join hands now.” He extends his
thin white hand, which Varley grasps in a strong, firm hold. “I repeat
your own words; ‘no corner of the earth shall hide her from me; by land
and by sea, by night and by day, I will search the whole world through
till I find her, living or dead.’”