For all, the old lady is not alarmed yet--at least, not to any great degree. Llangorren Court is a "house of many mansions," and can boast of a half-score spare bedrooms. And she, now its mistress, is a creature of many caprices. Just possible she has indulged in one after the dancing--entered the first sleeping apartment that chanced in her way, flung herself on a bed or sofa in her ball dress, fallen asleep, and is there still slumbering.
"Search them all!" commands Miss Linton, addressing a variety of domestics, whom the ringing of bells has brought around her.
They scatter off in different directions, Miss Lees along with them.
"It"s very extraordinary. Don"t you think so?"
This to the curate, the only one remaining in the room with her.
"I do, decidedly. Surely no harm has happened her. I trust not. How could there?"
"True, how? Still, I"m a little apprehensive, and won"t feel satisfied till I see her. How my heart does palpitate, to be sure!"
She lays her spread palm over the cardiac region, with an expression less of pain, than the affectation of it.
"Well, Eleanor," she calls out to the companion, re-entering the room with Gibbons behind. "What news?"
"Not any, aunt."
"And you really think she hasn"t slept in her room?"
"Almost sure she hasn"t. The bed, as Gibbons told you, has never been touched, nor the sofa. Besides, the dress she wore last night isn"t there."
"Nor anywhere else, ma"am," puts in the maid; about such matters specially intelligent. "As you know, "twas the sky-blue silk, with blonde lace over-skirt, and flower-de-loose on it. I"ve looked everywhere, and can"t find a thing she had on--not so much as a ribbon!"
The other searchers are now returning in rapid succession, all with a similar tale. No word of the missing one--neither sign nor trace of her.
At length the alarm is serious and real, reaching fever height. Bells ring, and servants are sent in every direction. They go rushing about, no longer confining their search to the sleeping apartments, but extending it to rooms where only lumber has place--to cellars almost unexplored, garrets long unvisited, everywhere. Closet and cupboard doors are drawn open, screens dashed aside, and panels parted, with keen glances sent through the c.h.i.n.ks. Just as in the baronial castle, and on that same night when young Lovel lost his "own fair bride."
And while searching for their young mistress, the domestics of Llangorren Court have the romantic tale in their minds. Not one of them but knows the fine old song of the "Mistletoe Bough." Male and female--all have heard it sung in that same house, at every Christmas-tide, under the "kissing bush," where the pale green branch and its waxen berries were conspicuous.
It needs not the mystic memory to stimulate them to zealous exertions.
Respect for their young mistress--with many of them almost adoration--is enough; and they search as if for sister, wife, or child, according to their feelings and attachments.
In vain--all in vain. Though certain that no "old oak chest" inside the walls of Llangorren Court encloses a form destined to become a skeleton, they cannot find Gwen Wynn. Dead or living, she is not in the house.
CHAPTER x.x.xV.
AGAIN THE ENGAGEMENT RING.
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, 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 a.s.sisting, scribbles off a number of notes, addressed to the head 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 an 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--pa.s.sing beyond the trammels of reason--leaving the bounds of probability.
But her 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 post-mark, 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 realize the fact--nor even entertain the supposition--that she is gone for good and for ever.
As time pa.s.ses, 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 byewash, 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 pa.s.sed--what Gwen Wynn told him, what she showed holding up her hand--he does not even yet despair. Who so circ.u.mstanced ever does? What man in love, profoundly, pa.s.sionately 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 got in his hand. He knows it is that which so pained him to see on one of Gwen Wynn"s fingers--the engagement ring!
CHAPTER x.x.xVI.
A MYSTERIOUS EMBARKATION.