"A Romance of the Wye" (continued 5)

“Not everybody, aunt!” says her companion, with a significant emphasis on the everybody. “There was one gentleman she never danced with all the night. Wasn’t it a little strange?” This in a whisper and aside.

“Ah! true. You mean Captain Ryecroft?”

“Yes.”

“It was a little strange. I observed it myself. She seemed distant with him, and he with her. Have you any idea of the reason, Nelly?”

“Not in the least. Only I fancy something must have come between them.”

“The usual thing; lover’s tiff I suppose. Ah, I’ve seen a great many of them in my time. How silly men and women are—when they’re in love. Are they not, Mr Musgrave?”

The curate answers in the affirmative but somewhat confusedly, and blushing, as he imagines it may be a thrust at himself.

“Of the two,” proceeds the garrulous spinster, “men are the most foolish under such circumstances. No!” she exclaims, contradicting herself, “when I think of it, no. I’ve seen ladies, high-born, and with titles, half beside themselves about Beau Brummel, distractedly quarrelling as to which should dance with him! Beau Brummel, who ended his days in a low lodging-house! Ha! ha! ha!”

There is a soupçon of spleen in the tone of Miss Linton’s laughter, as though she had herself once felt the fascinations of the redoubtable dandy.

“What could be more ridiculous?” she goes on. “When one looks back upon it, the very extreme of absurdity. Well;” taking hold of the cafetière, and filling her cup, “it’s time for that young lady to be downstairs. If she hasn’t been lying awake ever since the people went off, she should be well rested by this. Bless me,” glancing at the ormolu dial over the mantel, “it’s after eleven, Clarisse,” to the femme de chambre, still in attendance, “tell Miss Wynn’s maid to say to her mistress we’re waiting breakfast. Veet, tray veet!” she concludes, with a pronunciation and accent anything but Parisian.

Off trips the French demoiselle, and upstairs; almost instantly returning down them, Miss Wynn’s maid along, with a report which startles the trio at the breakfast table. It is the English damsel who delivers it in the vernacular.

“Miss Gwen isn’t in her room; nor hasn’t been all the night long.”

Miss Linton is in the act of removing the top from a guinea fowl’s egg, as the maid makes the announcement. Were it a bomb bursting between her fingers, the surprise could not be more sudden or complete.

Dropping egg and cup, in stark astonishment, she demands:

“What do you mean, Gibbons?”

Gibbons is the girl’s name.

“Oh, ma’am! Just what I’ve said.”

“Say it again. I can’t believe my ears.”

“That Miss Gwen hasn’t slept in her room.”

“And where has she slept?”

“The goodness only knows.”

“But you ought to know. You’re her maid—you undressed her?”

“I did not—I am sorry to say,” stammered out the girl, confused and self-accused, “very sorry I didn’t.”

“And why didn’t you, Gibbons? explain that.”

Thus brought to book, the peccant Gibbons confesses to what has occurred in all its details. No use concealing aught—it must come out anyhow.

“And you’re quite sure she has not slept in her room?” interrogates Miss Linton, as yet unable to realise a circumstance so strange and unexpected.

“Oh, yes, ma’am. The bed hasn’t been lied upon by anybody—neither sheets or coverlet disturbed. And there’s her nightdress over the chair, just as I laid it out for her.”

“Very strange,” exclaims Miss Linton, “positively alarming.”

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 chinks. 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 exertion. 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.

Volume Two—Chapter Fifteen.

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, in the last moment when the guests were 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 assisting, scribbles off a number of notes, addressed to the heads 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 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—passing beyond the trammels of reason—leaving the bounds of probability.

But her new 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 postmark, 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 realise the fact—nor even entertain the supposition—that she is gone for good and for ever.

As time passes, 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 bye wash, 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 passed—what Gwen Wynn told him, what she showed holding up her hand—he does not even yet despair. Who so circumstanced ever does? What man in love, profoundly, passionately 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 façon, 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 in his hand. He knows it is that which so pained him to see on one of Gwen Wynn’s fingers—the engagement ring!

Volume Two—Chapter Sixteen.

A Mysterious Embarkation.

Not in vain had the green woodpecker given out its warning note. As Jack Wingate predicted from it, soon after came a downpour of rain. It was raining as Captain Ryecroft returned to his hotel, as at intervals throughout that day; and now on the succeeding night it is again sluicing down as from a shower bath. The river is in full flood, its hundreds of affluents from Plinlimmon downward, having each contributed its quota, till Vaga, usually so pure, limpid, and tranquil, rolls on in vast turbulent volume, muddy and maddened. There is a strong wind as well, whose gusts now and then, striking the water’s surface, lash it into furrows with white frothy crests.

On the Wye this night there would be danger for any boat badly manned or unskilfully steered. And yet a boat is about to embark upon it; one which throughout the afternoon has been lying moored in a little branch stream that runs in opposite the lands of Llangorren, a tributary supplied by the dingle in which stands the dwelling of Richard Dempsey. It is the same near whose mouth the poacher and the priest were seen by Gwen Wynn and Eleanor Lees on the day of their remarkable adventure with the forest roughs. And almost in the same spot is the craft now spoken of; no coracle, however, but a regular pair-oared boat of a kind in common use among Wye watermen.

It is lying with bow to the bank, its painter attached to a tree, whose branches extend over it. During the day no one has been near it, and it is not likely that any one has observed it. Some little distance up the brook, and drawn well in under the spreading boughs, that almost touching the water, darkly shadow the surface, it is not visible from the rivers channel: while, along the edge of the rivulet, there is no thoroughfare, nor path of any kind. No more a landing-place where boat is accustomed to put in or remain at moorings. That now there has evidently been brought thither for some temporary purpose.

Not till after the going down of the sun is this declared. Then, just as the purple of twilight is changing to the inky blackness of night, and another dash of rain clatters on the already saturated foliage three men are seen moving among the trees that grow thick along the streamlet’s edge. They seem not to mind it, although pouring down in torrents; for they have come through the dell, as from Dempsey’s house, and are going in the direction of the boat, where there is no shelter. But if they regard not getting wet,—something they do regard; else why should they observe such caution in their movements, and talk in subdued voices? All the more strange this, in a place where there is so little likelihood of their being overheard, or encountering any one to take note of their proceedings.

It is only between two of them that conversation is carried on; the third walking far in advance, beyond earshot of speech in the ordinary tone; besides, the noise of the tempest would hinder his hearing them. Therefore, it cannot be on his account they converse guardedly. More likely their constraint is due to the solemnity of the subject; for solemn it is, as their words show.

“They’ll be sure to find the body in a day or two. Possibly to-morrow, or if not, very soon. A good deal will depend on the state of the river. If this flood continue and the water remain discoloured as now, it may be several days before they light on it. No matter when; your course is clear, Monsieur Murdock.”

“But what do you advise my doing, Père? I’d like you to lend me your counsel—give me minute directions about everything.”

“In the first place, then, you must show yourself on the other side of the water, and take an active part in the search. Such a near relative, as you are, ’twould appear strange if you didn’t. All the world may not be aware of the little tiff—rather prolonged though—that’s been between you. And if it were, your keeping away on such an occasion would give cause for greater scandal. Spite so rancorous! that of itself should excite curious thoughts—suspicions. Naturally enough. A man, whose own cousin is mysteriously missing, not caring to know what has become of her! And when knowing—when ‘Found drowned,’ as she will be—not to show either sympathy or sorrow! Ma foi! they might mob you if you didn’t!”

“That’s true enough,” grunts Murdock, thinking of the respect in which his cousin is held, and her great popularity throughout the neighbourhood.

“You advise my going over to Llangorren?”

“Decidedly, I do. Present yourself there to-morrow, without fail. You may make the hour reasonably late; saying that the sinister intelligence has only just reached you at Glyngog—out of the way as it is. You’ll find plenty of people at the Court on your arrival. From what I’ve learnt this afternoon, through my informant resident there, they’ll be hot upon the search to-morrow. It would have been more earnest to-day, but for that quaint old creature with her romantic notions; the latest of them, as Clarisse tell me, that Mademoiselle had run away with the Hussar! But it appears a letter has reached the Court in his handwriting, which put a different construction on the affair; proving to them it could be no elopement—at least with him. Under these circumstances, then, to-morrow morning, soon as the sun is up, there’ll be a hue and cry all over the country; so loud you couldn’t fail to hear, and will be expected to have a voice in it. To do that effectually you must show yourself at Llangorren, and in good time.”

“There’s sense in what you say. You’re a very Solomon, Father Rogier. I’ll be there, trust me. Is there anything else you think of.”

The Jesuit is for a time silent, apparently in deep thought. It is a ticklish game the two are playing, and needs careful consideration, with cautious action.

“Yes,” he at length answers. “There are a good many other things, I think of. But they depend upon circumstances not yet developed by which you will have to be guided. And you must guide yourself, M’sieu, as you best can. It will be quite four days, if not more, ere I can get back. They may even find the body to-morrow—if they should think of employing drags, or other searching apparatus. Still, I fancy, ’twill be some time before they come to a final belief in her being drowned. Don’t you, on any account suggest it. And should there be such search, endeavour, in a quiet way, to have it conducted in any direction but the right one. The longer before fishing the thing up, the better it will be for our purposes: you comprehend?”

“I do.”

“When found, as it must be in time, you will know how to show becoming grief; and, if opportunity offer, you may throw out a hint, having reference to Le Capitaine Ryecroft. His having gone away from his hotel this morning, no one knows why or whither—decamping in such haste too—that will be sure to fix suspicion upon him—possibly have him pursued and arrested as the murderer of Miss Wynn! Odd succession of events, is it not?”

“It is indeed.”

“Seems as if the very Fates were in a conspiracy to favour our design. If we fail now, ’twill be our own fault. And that reminds me there should be no waste of time—must not. One hour of this darkness may be worth an age—or at all events ten thousand pounds per annum. Allons! vite-vite?”

He steps briskly onward, drawing his caped cloak closer to protect him from the rain, now running in rivers down the drooping branches of the trees.

Murdock follows; and the two, delayed by a dialogue of such grave character, draw closer to the third who had gone ahead. They do not overtake him, however, till after he has reached the boat, and therein deposited a bundle he has been bearing—of weight sufficient to make him stagger, where the ground was rough and uneven. It is a package of irregular oblong shape, and such size, that laid along the boat’s bottom timbers it occupies most part of the space forward of the mid-thwart.

Seeing that he who has thus disposed of it, is Coracle Dick, one might believe it poached salmon, or land game now in season in the act of being transported to some receiver of such commodities. But the words spoken by the priest as he comes up forbid this belief: they are an interrogatory:—

“Well, mon bracconier; have you stowed my luggage?”

“It’s in the boat, Father Rogier.”

“And all ready for starting?”

“The minute your reverence steps in.”

“So, well! And now, M’sieu,” he adds, turning to Murdock, and again speaking in undertone, “if you play your part skilfully, on return I may find you in a fair way of getting installed as the Lord of Llangorren. Till then, adieu!”

Saying which he steps over the boat’s side, and takes seat in its stern.

Shoved off by sinewy arms, it goes brushing out from under the branches, and is rapidly drifted down towards the river.

Lewin Murdock is left standing on the brook’s edge, free to go what way he wishes.

Soon he starts off, not on return to the empty domicile of the poacher, nor yet direct to his own home: but first to the Welsh Harp—there to gather the gossip of the day, and learn whether the startling tale, soon to be told, has yet reached Rugg’s Ferry.

Volume Two—Chapter Seventeen.

An Anxious Wife.

Inside Glyngog House is Mrs Murdock, alone, or with only the two female domestics. But these are back in the kitchen while the ex-cocotte is moving about in front at intervals opening the door, and gazing out into the night. A dark stormy one; for it is the same in which has occurred the mysterious embarkation of Father Rogier, only an hour later.

To her no mystery; she knows whither the priest is bound, and on what errand. It is not him therefore she is expecting, but her husband to bring home word that her countryman has made a safe start. So anxiously does she await this intelligence, that, after a time, she stays altogether on the door-step, regardless of the raw night, and a fire in the drawing-room which blazes brightly. There is another in the dining-room, and a table profusely spread—set out for supper with dishes of many kinds—cold ham and tongue, fowl and game, flanked by decanters of different wines sparkling attractively.

Whence all this plenty, within walls where of late and for so long, has been such scarcity?

As no one visits at Glyngog save Father Rogier, there is no one but he to ask the question. And he would not, were he there; knowing the answer, better than anyone else. He ought. The cheer upon Lewin Murdock’s table, with a cheerfulness observable on Mrs Murdock’s face, are due to the same cause, by himself brought about, or to which he has largely contributed. As Moses lends money on post obits, at “shixty per shent,” with other expectations, a stream of that leaven has found its way into the ancient manor-house of Glyngog, conducted thither by Gregoire Rogier, who has drawn it from a source of supply provided for such eventualities, and seemingly inexhaustible—the treasury of the Vatican.

Yet only a tiny rivulet of silver, but soon, if all goes well, to become a flood of gold grand and yellow as that in the Wye itself, having something to do with the waters of this same stream.

No wonder there is now brightness upon the face of Olympe Renault, so long shadowed. The sun of prosperity is again to shine upon the path of her life. Splendour, gaiety, volupté, be hers once more, and more than ever!

As she stands in the door of Glyngog, looking down the river, at Llangorren, and through the darkness sees the Court with only one or two windows alight—they but in dim glimmer—she reflects less on how they blazed the night before, with lamps over the lawn like constellations of stars, than how they will flame hereafter, and ere long—when she herself be the ruling spirit and mistress of that mansion.

But as the time passes and no husband home, a cloud steals over her features. From being only impatient, she becomes nervously anxious. Still standing in the door she listens for footsteps she has oft heard making approach unsteadily, little caring. Not so to-night. She dreads to see him return intoxicated. Though not with any solicitude of the ordinary woman’s kind, but for reasons purely prudential. These are manifested in her muttered soliloquy:—

“Gregoire must have got off long ere this—at least two hours ago. He said they’d set out soon as it came night. Half an hour was enough for my husband to return up the meadows home. If he has gone to the Ferry first, and sets to drinking in the Harp? Cette auberge maudit. There’s no knowing what he may do, or say. Saying would be worse than doing. A word in his cups—a hint of what has happened—might undo everything: draw danger upon us all! And such danger—l’prise de corps, mon dieu!”

Her cheek blanches at thought of the ugly spectres thus conjured up.

“Surely he will not be so stupid—so insane? Sober he can keep secrets well enough—guard them closely, like most of his countrymen. But the Cognac? Hark Footsteps! His I hope.”

She listens without stirring from the spot. The tread is heavy, with now and then a loud stroke against stones. Were her husband a Frenchman it would be different. But Lewin Murdock, like all English country gentlemen, affects substantial foot gear; and the step is undoubtedly his. Not as usual however; to-night firm and regular, telling him to be sober! “He isn’t such a fool after all!” Her reflection followed by the inquiry, called out—

“C’est vous, mon mari?”

“Of course it is. Who else could it be? You don’t expect the Father, our only visitor, to-night? You’ll not see him for several days to come.”

“He’s gone then?”

“Two hours ago. By this he should be miles away; unless he and Coracle have had a capsize, and been spilled out of their boat. No unlikely occurrence with the river running so madly.”

She still shows unsatisfied, though not from any apprehension of the boat’s being upset. She is thinking of what may have happened at the Welsh Harp; for the long interval, since the priest’s departure, her husband could only have been there. She is less anxious however, seeing the state in which he presents himself; so unusual coming from the “auberge maudite.”

“Two hours ago they got off, you say?”

“About that; just as it was dark enough to set out with safety, and no chance of being observed.”

“They did so?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Le bagage bien arrangé?”

“Parfaitment; or as we say in English, neat as a trivet. If you prefer another form; nice as ninepence.”

She is pleased at his facetiousness, quite a new mode for Lewin Murdock. Coupled with his sobriety, it gives her confidence that things have gone on smoothly, and will to the end. Indeed, for some days Murdock has been a new man—acting as one with some grave affair on his hands—feat to accomplish, or negotiation to effect—resolved on carrying it to completeness.

Now, less from anxiety as to what he has been saying at the Welsh Harp, than to know what he has there heard said by others, she further interrogates him:—“Where have you been meanwhile, monsieur?”

“Part of the time at the Ferry; the rest of it I’ve spent on paths and roads coming and going. I went up to the Harp to hear what I could hear.”

“And what did you hear?”

“Nothing much to interest us. As you know, Rugg’s is an out of the way corner—none more so on the Wye—and the Llangorren news hasn’t reached it. The talk of the Ferry folk is all about the occurrence at Abergann, which still continues to exercise them. The other don’t appear to have got much abroad, if at all, anywhere—for reasons told Father Rogier by your countrywoman, Clarisse, with whom he held an interview sometime during the afternoon.”

“And has there been no search yet?”

“Search, yes; but nothing found, and not much noise made, for the reasons I allude to.”

“What are they? You haven’t told me.”

“Oh! various. Some of them laughable enough. Whimsies of that Quixotic old lady who has been so long doing the honours at Llangorren.”

“Ah! Madame Linton. How has she been taking it?”

“I’ll tell you after I’ve had something to eat and drink. You forget, Olympe, where I’ve been all the day long—under the roof of a poacher, who, of late otherwise employed, hadn’t so much as a head of game in his house. True, I’ve since made call at an hotel, but you don’t give me credit for my abstemiousness! What have you got to reward me for it?”

“Entrez!” she exclaims, leading him into the dining-room, their dialogue so far having been carried on in the porch. “Voilà!”

He is gratified, though no ways surprised at the set out. He does not need to inquire whence it comes. He, too, knows it is a sacrifice to the rising sun. But he knows also what a sacrifice he will have to make in return for it—one third the estate of Llangorren.

“Well, ma cherie,” he says, as this reflection occurs to him, “we’ll have to pay pretty dear for all this. But I suppose there’s no help for it.”

“None,” she answers with a comprehension of the circumstances—clearer and fuller than his. “We’ve made the contract, and must abide by it. If broken by us, it wouldn’t be a question of property, but life. Neither yours nor mine would be safe for a single hour. Ah monsieur! you little comprehend the power of those gentry, les Jesuites—how sharp their claws, and far reaching!”

“Confound them!” he exclaims, angrily dropping down upon a chair by the table’s side.

He eats ravenously, and drinks like a fish. His day’s work is over, and he can afford the indulgence.

And while they are at supper, he imparts all details of what he has done and heard; among them Miss Linton’s reasons for having put restraint upon the search.

“The old simpleton!” he says, concluding his narration, “she actually believed my cousin to have run away with that captain of Hussars—if she don’t believe it still! Ha, ha, ha. She’ll think differently when she sees that body brought out of the water. It will settle the business!”

Olympe Renault, retiring to rest, is long kept awake by the pleasant thought, not that for many more nights will she have to sleep in a mean bed at Glyngog, but on a grand couch in Llangorren Court.

Volume Two—Chapter Eighteen.

Impatient for the Post.

Never man looked with more impatience for a post, than Captain Ryecroft for the night mail from the West, its morning delivery in London. It may bring him a letter, on the contents of which will turn the hinges of his life’s fate, assuring his happiness or dooming him to misery. And if no letter come, its failure will make misery for him all the same.

It is scarce necessary to say, the epistle thus expected, and fraught with such grave consequence, is an answer to his own; that written in Herefordshire, and posted before leaving the Wyeside Hotel. Twenty-four hours have since elapsed; and now, on the morning after, he is at the Langham, London, where the response, if any, should reach him.

He has made himself acquainted with the statistics of postal time, telling him when the night mail is due, and when the first distribution of letters in the metropolitan district. At earliest in the Langham, which has post and telegraph office within its own walls, this palatial hostelry, unrivalled for convenience, being in direct communication with all parts of the world.

It is on the stroke of 8 a.m., and, the ex-Hussar-officer pacing the tesselated tiles, outside the deputy-manager’s moderately-sized room with its front glass-protected, watches for the incoming of the post-carrier.

It seems an inexorable certainty—though a very vexatious one—that person, or thing, awaited with unusual impatience, must needs be behind time—as if to punish the moral delinquency of the impatient one. Even postmen are not always punctual, as Vivian Ryecroft has reason to know. That amiable and active individual in coatee of coarse cloth, with red rag facings, flitting from door to door, brisk as a blue-bottle, on this particular morning does not step across the threshold of the Langham till nearly half-past eight. There is a thick fog, and the street flags are “greasy.” That would be the excuse for his tardy appearance, were he called upon to give one.

Dumping down his sack, and spilling its contents upon the lead-covered sill of the booking-office window, he is off again on a fresh and further flight.

With no abatement of impatience Captain Ryecroft stands looking at the letters being sorted—a miscellaneous lot, bearing the post marks of many towns and many countries, with the stamps of nearly every civilised nation on the globe; enough of them to make the eyes of an ardent stamp collector shed tears of concupiscence.

Scarcely allowing the sorter time to deposit them in their respective pigeon boles, Ryecroft approaches and asks if there be any for him—at the same time giving his name.

“No, not any,” answers the clerk, after drawing out all under letter R, and dealing them off as a pack of cards.

“Are you quite sure, sir? Pardon me. I intend starting off within the hour, and expecting a letter of some importance, may I ask you to glance over them again?”

In all the world there are no officials more affable than those of the Langham. They are in fact types of the highest hotel civilisation. Instead of showing nettled, he thus appealed to makes assenting rejoinder, accompanying his words with a re-examination of the letters under R; soon as completed saying,—

“No, sir; none for the name of Ryecroft.”

He bearing this name turns away, with an air of more than disappointment. The negative denoting that no letter had been written in reply, vexes—almost irritates him. It is like a blow repeated—a second slap in his face held up in humiliation—after having forgiven the first. He will not so humble himself—never forgive again. This his resolve as he ascends the great stairway to his room, once more to make ready for travel.

The steam-packet service between Folkestone and Boulogne is “tidal.” Consulting Bradshaw, he finds the boat on that day leaves the former place at 4 p.m.; the connecting train from the Charing Cross station, 1. Therefore have several hours to be put in meanwhile.

How are they to be occupied? He is not in the mood for amusement. Nothing in London could give him that now—neither afford him a moment’s gratification.

Perhaps in Paris? And he will try. There men have buried their griefs—women as well: too oft laying in the same grave their innocence, honour, and reputation. In the days of Napoleon the Little, a grand cemetery of such; hosts entering it pure and stainless, to become tainted as the Imperial régime itself.

And he, too, may succumb to its influence, sinister as hell itself. In his present frame of mind it is possible. Nor would his be the first noble spirit broken down, wrecked on the reef of a disappointed passion—love thwarted, the loved one never again to be spoken to, in all likelihood never more met!

While waiting for the Folkestone train, he is a prey to the most harrowing reflections, and in hope of escaping them, descends to the billiard-room—in the Langham a well-appointed affair, with tables the very best.

The marker accommodates him to a hundred up, which he loses. It is not for that he drops the cue disheartened, and retires. Had he won, with Cook, Bennett, or Roberts as his adversary, ’twould have been all the same.

Once more mounting to his room, he makes an appeal to the ever-friendly Nicotian. A cigar, backed by a glass of brandy, may do something to soothe his chafed spirit; and lighting the one, he rings for the other. This brought him, he takes seat by the window, throws up the sash, and looks down upon the street. There to see what gives him a fresh spasm of pain; though to two others, affording the highest happiness on earth. For it is a wedding ceremony being celebrated at “All Souls” opposite, a church before whose altar many fashionable couples join hands to be linked together for life. Such a couple is in the act of entering the sacred edifice; carriages drawing up and off in quick succession, coachmen with white rosettes and whips ribbon-bedecked, footmen wearing similar favours—an unusually stylish affair.

As in shining and with smiling faces, the bridal train ascends the steps two by two disappearing within the portals of the church, the spectators on the nave and around the enclosure rails also looking joyous, as though each—even the raggedest—had a personal interest in the event, from the window opposite, Captain Ryecroft observes it with very different feelings. For the thought is before his mind, how near he has been himself to making one in such a procession—at its head—followed by the bitter reflection, he now never shall.

A sigh, succeeded by a half angry ejaculation; then the bell rung with a violence which betrays how the sight has agitated him.

On the waiter entering, he cries out—

“Call me a cab.”

“Hansom, sir?”

“No! four-wheeler. And this luggage; get down stairs soon as possible.”

His impediments are all in travelling trim—but a few necessary articles having been unpacked, and a shilling tossed upon the strapped portmanteau ensures it, with the lot, speedy descent down the lift.

A single pipe of Mr Trafford’s silver whistle brings a cab to the Langham entrance in twenty seconds time; and in twenty more a traveller’s luggage however heavy is slung to the top, with the lighter articles stowed inside.

His departure so accelerated, Captain Ryecroft—who had already settled his bill—is soon seated in the cab, and carried off.

But despatch ends on leaving the Langham. The cab being a four-wheeler crawls along like a tortoise. Fortunately for the fare he is in no haste now; instead will be too early for the Folkestone train. He only wanted to get away from the scene of that ceremony, so disagreeably suggestive.

Shut up, imprisoned, in the plush-lined vehicle, shabby, and not over clean, he endeavours to beguile time by gazing out at the shop windows. The hour is too early for Regent Street promenaders. Some distraction, if not amusement, he derives from his “cabby’s” arms; these working to and fro as if the man were rowing a boat. In burlesque it reminds him of the Wye, and his waterman Wingate!

But just then something else recalls the western river, not ludicrously, but with another twinge of pain. The cab is passing through Leicester Square, one of the lungs of London, long diseased, and in process of being doctored. It is beset with hoardings, plastered against which are huge posters of the advertising kind. Several of them catch the eye of Captain Ryecroft, but only one holds it, causing him the sensation described. It is the announcement of a grand concert to be given at the St. James’s Hall, for some charitable purpose of Welsh speciality. Programme with list of performers. At their head in largest lettering the queen of the eisteddfod:—

Edith Wynne!

To him in the cab now a name of galling reminiscence, notwithstanding the difference of orthography. It seems like a Nemesis pursuing him!

He grasps the leathern strap, and letting down the ill-fitting sash with a clatter, cries out to the cabman,—

“Drive on, Jarvey, or I’ll be late for my train! A shilling extra for time.”

If cabby’s arms sparred slowly before, they now work as though he were engaged in catching flies; and with their quickened action, aided by several cuts of a thick-thonged whip, the Rosinante goes rattling through the narrow defile of Heming’s Row, down King William Street, and across the Strand into the Charing Cross station.

Volume Two—Chapter Nineteen.

Journey Interrupted.

Captain Ryecroft takes a through ticket for Paris, without thought of breaking journey, and in due time reaches Boulogne. Glad to get out of the detestable packet, little better than a ferry-boat, which plies between Folkestone and the French seaport, he loses not a moment in scaling the equally detestable gang-ladder by which alone he can escape.

Having set foot upon French soil, represented by a rough cobble-stone pavement, he bethinks of passport and luggage—how he will get the former vised and the latter looked after with the least trouble to himself. It is not his first visit to France, nor is he unacquainted with that country’s customs; therefore knows that a “tip” to sergent de ville or douanier will clear away the obstructions in the shortest possible time—quicker if it be a handsome one. Peeling in his pockets for a florin or a half-crown, he is accosted by a voice familiar and of friendly tone.

“Captain Ryecroft!” it exclaims in a rich rolling brogue, as of Galway. “Is it yourself? By the powers of Moll Kelly, and it is.”

“Major Mahon!”

“That same, old boy. Give us a grip of your fist, as on that night when you pulled me out of the ditch at Delhi, just in time to clear the bayonets of the pandys. A nate thing, and a close shave, wasn’t it? But’s what brought you to Boulogne?”

The question takes the traveller aback. He is not prepared to explain the nature of his journey, and with a view to evasion he simply points to the steamer, out of which the passengers are still swarming.

“Come, old comrade!” protests the Major, good-naturedly, “that won’t do; it isn’t satisfactory for bosom friends, as we’ve been, and still are, I trust. But, maybe, I make too free, asking your business in Boulogne?”

“Not at all, Mahon. I have no business in Boulogne; I’m on the way to Paris.”

“Oh! a pleasure trip, I suppose.”

“Nothing of the kind. There’s no pleasure for me in Paris or anywhere else.”

“Aha!” ejaculated the Major, struck by the words, and their despondent tone, “what’s this, old fellow? Something wrong?”

“Oh, not much—never mind.”

The reply is little satisfactory. But seeing that further allusion to private matters might not be agreeable, the Major continues, apologetically—

“Pardon me, Ryecroft. I’ve no wish to be inquisitive; but you have given me reason to think you out of sorts, somehow. It isn’t your fashion to be low-spirited, and you shan’t be, so long as you’re in my company—if I can help it.”

“It’s very kind of you, Mahon; and for the short time I’m to be with you I’ll do the best I can to be cheerful. It shouldn’t be a great effort. I suppose the train will be starting in a few minutes?”

“What train?”

“For Paris.”

“You’re not going to Paris now—not this night?”

“I am, straight on.”

“Neither straight nor crooked, ma bohil!”

“I must.”

“Why must you? If you don’t expect pleasure there, for what should you be in such haste to reach it? Bother, Ryecroft! you’ll break your journey here, and stay a few days with me? I can promise you some little amusement. Boulogne isn’t such a dull place just now. The smash of Agra and Masterman’s, with Overend and Gurney following suite, has sent hither a host of old Indians, both soldiers and civilians. No doubt you’ll find many friends among them. There are lots of pretty girls, too—I don’t mean natives, but our countrywomen—to whom I’ll have much pleasure in presenting you.”

“Not for the world, Mahon—not one! I have no desire to extend my acquaintance in that way.”

“What, turned hater, women too. Well, leaving the fair sex on one side, there’s half a dozen of the other here—good fellows as ever stretched legs on mahogany. They’re strangers to you, I think; but will be delighted to know you, and do their best to make Boulogne agreeable. Come, old boy. You’ll stay? Say the word.”

“I would, Major, and with pleasure, were it any other time. But, I confess, just now I’m not in the mood for making new acquaintance—least of all among my countrymen.—To tell the truth, I’m going to Paris chiefly with a view of avoiding them.”

“Nonsense! You’re not the man to turn solitaire, like Simon Stylites, and spend the rest of your days on the top of a stone pillar! Besides, Paris is not the place for that sort of thing. If you’re really determined on keeping out of company for awhile—I won’t ask why—remain with me, and we’ll take strolls along the sea beach, pick up pebbles, gather shells, and make love to mermaids, or the Boulognese fish-fags, if you prefer it. Come, Ryecroft, don’t deny me. It’s so long since we’ve had a day together, I’m dying to talk over old times—recall our camaraderie in India.”

For the first time in forty-eight hours Captain Ryecroft’s countenance shows an indication of cheerfulness—almost to a smile, as he listens to the rattle of his jovial friend, all the pleasanter from its patois recalling childhood’s happy days. And as some prospect of distraction from his sad thoughts—if not a restoration of happiness—is held out by the kindly invitation, he is half inclined to accept it. What difference whether he find the grave of his griefs in Paris or Boulogne—if find it he can?

“I’m booked to Paris,” he says mechanically, and as if speaking to himself.

“Have you a through ticket?” asks the Major, in an odd way.

“Of course I have.”

“Let me have a squint at it?” further questions the other, holding out his hand.

“Certainly. Why do you wish that?”

“To see if it will allow you to shunt yourself here.”

“I don’t think it will. In fact, I know it don’t. They told me so at Charing Cross.”

“Then they told you what wasn’t true. For it does. See here!”

What the Major calls upon him to look at are some bits of pasteboard, like butterflies, fluttering in the air, and settling down over the copestone of the dock. They are the fragments of the torn ticket.

“Now, old boy! You’re booked for Boulogne.”

The melancholy smile, up to that time on Ryecroft’s face, broadens into a laugh at the stratagem employed to detain him. With cheerfulness for the time restored, he says:

“Well, Major, by that you’ve cost me at at least one pound sterling. But I’ll make you recoup it in boarding and lodging me for—possibly a week.”

“A month—a year, if you should like your lodgings and will stay in them. I’ve got a snug little compound in the Rue Tintelleries, with room to swing hammocks for us both; besides a bin or two of wine, and, what’s better, a keg of the ‘raal crayther.’ Let’s along and have a tumbler of it at once. You’ll need it to wash the channel spray out of your throat. Don’t wait for your luggage. These Custom-house gentry all know me, and will send it directly after. Is it labelled?”

“It is; my name’s on everything.”

“Let me have one of your cards.” The card is handed to him. “There, Monsieur,” he says, turning to a douanier, who respectfully salutes, “take this, and see that all the baggage bearing the name on it be kept safely till called for. My servant will come for it. Garçon!” This to the driver of a voiture, who, for some time viewing them with expectant eye, makes response by a cut of his whip, and brisk approach to the spot where they are standing.

Pushing Captain Ryecroft into the back, and following himself, the Major gives the French Jehu his address, and they are driven off over the rough, rib-cracking cobbles of Boulogne.

Volume Two—Chapter Twenty.

Hue and Cry.

The ponies and pet stag on the lawn at Llangorren wonder what it is all about. So different from the garden parties and archery-meetings, of which they have witnessed many a one! Unlike the latter in their quiet stateliness is the excited crowd at the Court this day; still more, from its being chiefly composed of men. There are a few women, also, but not the slender-waisted creatures, in silks and gossamer muslins, who make up an out-door assemblage of the aristocracy. The sturdy dames and robust damsels now rambling over its grounds and gravelled walks are the dwellers in roadside cottages, who at the words “Murdered or Missing,” drop brooms upon half-swept floors, leave babies uncared-for in their cradles, and are off to the indicated spot.

And such words have gone abroad from Llangorren Court, coupled with the name of its young mistress. Gwen Wynn is missing, if she be not also murdered.

It is the second day after her disappearance, as known to the household; and now it is known throughout the neighbourhood, near and far. The slight scandal dreaded by Miss Linton no longer has influence with her. The continued absence of her niece, with the certainty at length reached that she is not in the house of any neighbouring friend, would make concealment of the matter a grave scandal in itself. Besides, since the half-hearted search of yesterday new facts have come to light; for one, the finding of that ring on the floor of the pavilion. It has been identified not only by the finder, but by Eleanor Lees and Miss Linton herself. A rare cluster of brilliants, besides of value, it has more than once received the inspection of these ladies—both knowing the giver, as the nature of the gift.

How comes it to have been there in the summer-house? Dropped, of course; but under what circumstances?

Questions perplexing, while the thing itself seriously heightens the alarm. No one, however rich or regardless, would fling such precious stones away; above all, gems so bestowed, and, as Miss Lees has reason to know, prized and fondly treasured.

The discovery of the engagement ring deepens the mystery instead of doing aught towards its elucidation. But it also strengthens a suspicion, fast becoming belief, that Miss Wynn went not away of her own accord; instead, has been taken.

Robbed, too, before being earned off. There were other rings upon her fingers—diamonds, emeralds, and the like. Possibly in the scramble, on the robbers first seizing hold and hastily stripping her, this particular one had slipped through their fingers, fallen to the floor, and so escaped observation. At night and in the darkness, all likely enough.

So for a time run the surmises, despite the horrible suggestion attaching to them, almost as a consequence. For if Gwen Wynn had been robbed she may also be murdered. The costly jewels she wore, in rings, bracelets, and chains, worth many hundreds of pounds, may have been the temptation to plunder her; but the plunderers identified, and fearing punishment, would also make away with her person. It may be abduction, but it has now more the look of murder.

By midday the alarm has reached its height—the hue and cry is at its loudest. No longer confined to the family and domestics—no more the relatives and intimate friends—people of all classes and kinds take part in it. The pleasure grounds of Llangorren, erst private and sacred as the Garden of the Hesperides, are now trampled by heavy, hobnailed shoes; while men in smocks, slops, and sheepskin gaiters, stride excitedly to and fro, or stand in groups, all wearing the same expression on their features—that of a sincere, honest anxiety, with a fear some sinister mischance has overtaken Miss Wynn. Many a young farmer is there who has ridden beside her in the hunting-field, often behind her no-ways nettled by her giving him the “lead;” instead, admiring her courage and style of taking fences over which, on his cart nag, he dares not follow—enthusiastically proclaiming her “pluck” at markets, race meetings, and other gatherings wherever came up talk of “Tally-ho.”

Besides those on the ground drawn thither by sympathetic friendship, and others the idly curious, still others are there in the exercise of official duty. Several magistrates have arrived at Llangorren, among them Sir George Shenstone, chairman of the district bench; the police superintendent also, with several of his blue-coated subordinates.

There is a man present about whom remark is made, and who attracts more attention than either justice of the peace or policeman. It is a circumstance unprecedented—a strange sight, indeed—Lewin Murdock at the Court! He is there, nevertheless, taking an active part in the proceedings.

It seems natural enough to those who but know him to be the cousin of the missing lady, ignorant of the long family estrangement. Only to intimate friends is there aught singular in his behaving as he now does. But to these, on reflection, his behaviour is quite comprehensible. They construe it differently from the others—the outside spectators. More than one of them, observing the anxious expression upon his face, believe it but a semblance—a mask to hide the satisfaction within his heart—to become joy if Gwen Wynn be found—dead.

It is not a thing to be spoken of openly, and no one so speaks of it. The construction put upon Lewin Murdock’s motives is confined to the few; for only a few know how much he is interested in the upshot of that search.

Again it is set on foot, but not as on the day preceding. Now no mad rushing to and fro of mere physical demonstration. This day there is due deliberation; a council held, composed of the magistrates and other gentlemen of the neighbourhood, aided by a lawyer or two, and the talents of an experienced detective.

As on the day before, the premises are inspected, the grounds gone over, the fields traversed, the woods as well, while parties proceed up and down the river, and along both sides of the backwash. The eyot also is quartered, and carefully explored from end to end.

As yet the drag has not been called into requisition; the deep flood, with a swift, strong current preventing it. Partly that, but as much because the searchers do not as yet believe—cannot realise the fact—that Gwendoline Wynn is dead, and her body at the bottom of the Wye! Robbed and drowned! Surely it cannot be?

Equally incredible that she has drowned herself. Suicide is not thought of—incredible under the circumstances.

A third supposition, that she has been the victim of revenge—of a jealous lover’s spite—seems alike untenable. She, the heiress, owner of the vast Llangorren estates, to be so dealt with—pitched into the river like some poor cottage girl, who has quarrelled with a brutal sweetheart! The thing is preposterous!

And yet this very thing begins to receive credence in the minds of many—of more, as new facts are developed by the magisterial enquiry, carried on inside the house. There a strange chapter of evidence comes out, or rather is elicited. Miss Linton’s maid, Clarisse, is the author of it. This sportive creature confesses to having been out on the grounds as the ball was breaking up; and, lingering there till after the latest guest had taken departure, heard high voices, speaking as in anger. They came from the direction of the summer-house, and she recognised them as those of Mademoiselle and Le Capitaine—by the latter meaning Captain Ryecroft.

Startling testimony this, when taken in connection with the strayed ring: collateral to the ugly suspicion the latter had already conjured up.

Nor is the femme de chambre telling any untruth. She was in the grounds at that same hour, and heard the voices as affirmed. She had gone down to the boat-dock in the hope of having a word with the handsome waterman; and returned from it reluctantly, finding he had betaken himself to his boat.

She does not thus state her reason for so being abroad, but gives a different one. She was merely out to have a look at the illumination—the lamps and transparencies, still unextinguished—all natural enough. And questioned as to why she said nothing of it on the day before, her answer is equally evasive. Partly that she did not suppose the thing worth speaking of, and partly because she did not like to let people know that Mademoiselle had been behaving in that way—quarrelling with a gentleman.

In the flood of light just let in, no one any longer thinks that Miss Wynn has been robbed; though it may be that she has suffered something worse. What for could have been the angry words? And the quarrel; how did it end?

And now the name Ryecroft is on every tongue, no longer in cautious whisperings, but loudly pronounced. Why is he not here?

His absence is strange, unaccountable, under the circumstances. To none seeming more so than to those holding counsel inside, who have been made acquainted with the character of that waif—the gift ring—told he was the giver. He cannot be ignorant of what is passing at Llangorren. True, the hotel where he sojourns is in a town five miles off; but the affair has long since found its way thither, and the streets are full of it.

“I think we had better send for him,” observes Sir George Shenstone to his brother justices. “What say you, gentlemen?”

“Certainly; of course,” is the unanimous rejoinder.

“And the waterman, too?” queries another. “It appears that Captain Ryecroft came to the ball in a boat. Does anyone know who was his boatman?”

“A fellow named Wingate” is the answer given by young Shenstone. “He lives by the roadside, up the river, near Bugg’s Ferry.”

“Possibly he may be here, outside,” says Sir George. “Go see!” This to one of the policemen at the door, who hurries off. Almost immediately to return—told by the people that Jack Wingate is not among them.

“That’s strange, too!” remarks one of the magistrates. “Both should be brought hither at once—if they don’t choose to come willingly.”

“Oh!” exclaims Sir George, “they’ll come willingly,” no doubt. Let a policeman be despatched for “Wingate. As for Captain Ryecroft, don’t you think gentlemen, it would be only politeness to summon him in a different way. Suppose I write a note requesting his presence, with explanations?”

“That will be better,” say several assenting.

This note is written, and a groom gallops off with it; while a policeman on foot makes his way to the cottage of the Widow Wingate.

Nothing new transpires in their absence; but on their return—both arriving about the same time—the agitation is intense. For both come back unaccompanied; the groom bringing the report that Captain Ryecroft is no longer at the hotel—had left it on the day before by the first train for London!

The policeman’s tale is, that Jack Wingate went off on the same day, and about the same early hour; not by rail to London, but in his boat, down the river to the Bristol Channel!

Within less than a hour after a police officer is despatched to Chepstow, and further if need be; while the detective, with one of the gentlemen accompanying, takes the next train for the metropolis.

Volume Two—Chapter Twenty One.

Boulogne-sur-Mer.

Major Mahon is a soldier of the rollicking Irish type—good company as ever drank wine at a regimental mess-table, or whisky-and-water under the canvas of a tent. Brave in war, too, as evinced by sundry scars of wounds given by the sabres of rebellious sowars, and an empty sleeve dangling down by his side. This same token almost proclaims that he is no longer in the army. For he is not—having left it disabled at the close of the Indian Mutiny: after the relief of Lucknow, where he also parted with his arm.

He is not rich; one reason for his being in Boulogne—convenient place for men of moderate means. There he has rented a house, in which for nearly a twelvemonth he has been residing: a small domicile, meublé. Still, large enough for his needs: for the Major, though nigh forty years of age, has never thought of getting married; or, if so, has not carried out the intention. As a bachelor in the French watering-place, his income of five hundred per annum supplies all his wants—far better than if it were in an English one.

But economy is not his only reason for sojourning in Boulogne. There is another alike creditable to him, or more. He has a sister, much younger than himself, receiving education there; an only sister, for whom he feels the strongest affection, and likes to be beside her.

For all he sees her only at stated times, and with no great frequency. Her school is attached to a convent, and she is in it as a pensionnaire.

All these matters are made known to Captain Ryecroft on the day after his arrival at Boulogne. Not in the morning. It has been spent in promenading through the streets of the lower town and along the jetée, with a visit to the grand lion of the place, l’Establissement de Bains, ending in an hour or two passed at the “cercle” of which the Major is a member, and where his old campaigning comrade, against all protestations, is introduced to the half-dozen “good fellows as ever stretched legs under mahogany.”

It is not till a later hour, however, after a quiet dinner in the Major’s own house, and during a stroll upon the ramparts of the Haute Ville, that these confidences are given to his guest, with all the exuberant frankness of the Hibernian heart.

Ryecroft, though Irish himself, is of less communicative nature. A native of Dublin, he has Saxon in his blood, with some of its secretiveness; and the Major finds a difficulty in drawing him in reference to the particular reason of his interrupted journey to Paris. He essays, however, with as much skill as he can command, making approach as follows:

“What a time it seems, Ryecroft, since you and I have been together—an age! And yet, if I’m not wrong in my reckoning, it was but a year ago. Yes; just twelve months, or thereabout. You remember, we met at the ‘Bag,’ and dined there, with Russel, of the Artillery.”

“Of course I remember it.”

“I’ve seen Russel since; about three months ago, when I was over in England. And by the way, ’twas from him I last heard of yourself.”

“What had he to say about me?”

“Only that you were somewhere down west—on the Wye I think—salmon fishing. I know you were always good at casting a fly.”

“That all he said?”

“Well, no;” admits the Major, with a sly, inquisitive glance at the other’s face. “There was a trifle of a codicil added to the information about your whereabouts and occupation.”

“What, may I ask?”

“That you’d been wonderfully successful in your angling; had hooked a very fine fish—a big one, besides—and sold out of the army; so that you might be free to play it on your line; in fine, that you’d captured, safe landed, and intended staying by it for the rest of your days. Come, old boy! Don’t be blushing about the thing; you know you can trust Charley Mahon. Is it true?”

“Is what true?” asks the other, with an air of assumed innocence.

“That you’ve caught the richest heiress in Herefordshire, or she you, or each the other, as Russel had it, and which is best for both of you. Down on your knees, Ryecroft! Confess!”

“Major Mahon! If you wish me to remain your guest for another night—another hour—you’ll not ask me aught about that affair nor even name it. In time I may tell you all; but now to speak of it gives me a pain which even you, one of my oldest, and I believe, truest friends cannot fully understand.”

“I can at least understand that it’s something serious.” The inference is drawn less from Ryecroft’s words than their tone and the look of utter desolation which accompanies them. “But,” continues the Major, greatly moved, “you’ll forgive me, old fellow, for being so inquisitive? I promise not to press you any more. So let’s drop the subject, and speak of something else.”

“What then?” asks Ryecroft, scarce conscious of questioning.

“My little sister, if you like. I call her little because she was so when I went out to India. She’s now a grown girl, tall as that, and, as flattering friends say, a great beauty. What’s better, she’s good. You see that building below?”

They are on the outer edge of the rampart, looking upon the ground adjacent to the enceinte of the ancient cité. A slope in warlike days serving as the glacis, now occupied by dwellings, some of them pretentious, with gardens attached. That which the Major points to is one of the grandest, its enclosure large, with walls that only a man upon stilts of the Landes country could look over.

“I see—what of it!” asks the ex-Hussar.

“It’s the convent where Kate is at school—the prison in which she’s confined, I might better say,” he adds, with a laugh, but in tone more serious than jocular.

It need scarce be said that Major Mahon is a Roman Catholic. His sister being in such a seminary is evidence of that. But he is not bigoted, as Ryecroft knows, without drawing the deduction from his last remark.

His old friend and fellow-campaigner does not even ask explanation of it, only observing—

“A very fine mansion it appears—walks, shade trees, arbours, fountains. I had no idea the nuns were so well bestowed. They ought to live happily in such a pretty place. But then, shut up, domineered over, coerced, as I’ve heard they are—ah, liberty! It’s the only thing that makes the world worth living in.”

“Ditto, say I. I echo your sentiment, old fellow, and feel it. If I didn’t I might have been long ago a Benedict, with a millstone around my neck in the shape of a wife, and half a score of smaller ones of the grindstone pattern—in piccaninnies. Instead, I’m free as the breezes, and by the Moll Kelly, intend remaining so!”

The Major winds up the ungallant declaration with a laugh. But this is not echoed by his companion, to whom the subject touched upon is a tender one.

Perceiving it so, Mahon makes a fresh start in the conversation, remarking—

“It’s beginning to feel a bit chilly up here. Suppose we saunter down to the Cercle, and have a game of billiards!”

“If it be all the same to you, Mahon, I’d rather not go there to night.”

“Oh! it’s all the same to me. Let us home, then, and warm up with a tumbler of whisky toddy. There were orders left for the kettle to be kept on the boil. I see you still want cheering, and there’s nothing will do that like a drop of the crather. Allons!” Without resisting, Ryecroft follows his friend down the stairs of the rampart. From the point where they descended the shortest way to the Rue Tintelleries is through a narrow lane not much used, upon which abut only the back walls of gardens, with their gates or doors. One of these, a gaol-like affair, is the entrance to the convent in which Miss Mahon is at school. As they approach it a fiacre is standing in front, as if but lately drawn up to deliver its fare—a traveller. There is a lamp, and by its light, dim nevertheless, they see that luggage is being taken inside. Some one on a visit to the Convent, or returning after absence. Nothing strange in all that; and neither of the two men make remark upon it, but keep on.

Just however, as they are passing the back, about to drive off again, Captain Ryecroft, looking towards the door still ajar, sees a face inside it which causes him to start.

“What is it?” asks the Major, who feels the spasmodic movement—the two walking arm-in-arm.

“Well! if it wasn’t that I am in Boulogne instead of on the banks of the river Wye, I’d swear that I saw a man inside that doorway whom I met not many days ago in the shire of Hereford.”

“What sort of a man?”

“A priest!”

“Oh! black’s no mark among sheep. The prêtres are all alike, as peas or policemen. I’m often puzzled myself to tell one from t’other.”

Satisfied with this explanation, the ex-Hussar says nothing further on the subject, and they continue on to the Rue Tintelleries.

Entering his house, the Major calls for “matayrials,” and they sit down to the steaming punch. But before their glasses are half emptied, there is a ring at the door bell, and soon after a voice inquiring for “Captain Ryecroft.” The entrance-hall being contiguous to the dining-room where they are seated, they hear all this.

“Who can be asking for me?” queries Ryecroft, looking towards his host.

The Major cannot tell—cannot think—who. But the answer is given by his Irish manservant entering with a card, which he presents to Captain Ryecroft, saying:—

“It’s for you, yer honner.” The name on the card is—

“Mr George Shenstone.”

Volume Two—Chapter Twenty Two.

What Does He Want?

“Mr George Shenstone?” queries Captain Ryecroft, reading from the card. “George Shenstone!” he repeats with a look of blank astonishment—“What the deuce does it mean?”

“Does what mean?” asks the Major, catching the other’s surprise.

“Why, this gentleman being here. You see that?” He tosses the card across the table.

“Well; what of it?”

“Read the name!”

“Mr George Shenstone. Don’t know the man. Haven’t the most distant idea who he is. Have you?”

“O, yes.”

“Old acquaintance; friend, I presume? No enemy, I hope?”

“If it be the son of a Sir George Shenstone, of Herefordshire, I can’t call him either friend or enemy; and as I know nobody else of the name, I suppose it must be he. If so, what he wants with me is a question I can no more answer than the man in the moon. I must get the answer from himself. Can I take the liberty of asking him into your house, Mahon?”

“Certainly, my dear boy! Bring him in here, if you like, and let him join us.”

“Thanks, Major!” interrupts Ryecroft. “But no, I’d prefer first having a word with him alone. Instead of drinking, he may want fighting with me.”

“O ho!” ejaculates the Major. “Murtagh!” to the servant, an old soldier of the 18th, “show the gentleman into the drawing-room.”

“Mr Shenstone and I,” proceeds Ryecroft in explanation, “have but the very slightest acquaintance. I’ve only met him a few times in general company, the last at a ball—a private one—just three nights ago. ’Twas that very morning I met the priest, I supposed we’d seen up there. ’Twould seem as if everybody on the Wyeside had taken the fancy to follow me into France.”

“Ha—ha—ha! About the prêtre, no doubt you’re mistaken. And maybe this isn’t your man, either. The same name, you’re sure!”

“Quite. The Herefordshire baronet’s son is George, as his father, to whose title he is heir. I never heard of his having any other—”

“Stay!” interrupts the Major, again glancing at the card, “here’s something to help identification—an address—Ormeston Hall.”

“Ah! I didn’t observe that.” In his agitation he had not, the address being in small script at the corner. “Ormeston Hall? Yes, I remember, Sir George’s residence is so called. Of course it’s the son—must be.”

“But why do you think he means fight? Something happened between you, eh?”

“No; nothing between us, directly.”

“Ah! Indirectly, then? Of course the old trouble—a woman.”

“Well; if it be fighting the fellow’s after, I suppose it must be about that,” slowly rejoins Ryecroft, half in soliloquy and pondering over what took place on the night of the ball. Now vividly recalling that scene in the summer-house, with the angry words there spoken, he feels good as certain George Shenstone has come after him on the part of Miss Wynn.

The thought of such championship stirs his indignation, and he exclaims—

“By Heavens! he shall have what he wants. But I mustn’t keep him waiting. Give me that card, Major!”

The Major returns it to him, coolly observing—

“If it is to be a blue pill, instead of a whisky punch, I can accommodate you with a brace of barkers, good as can be got in Boulogne. You haven’t told me what your quarrel’s about; but from what I know of you, Ryecroft, I take it you’re in the right, and you can count on me as a second. Lucky it’s my left wing that’s clipped. With the right I can shoot straight as ever—should there be need for making it a four-cornered affair.”

“Thanks, Mahon! You’re just the man I’d have asked such a favour from.”

“The gentleman’s inside the dhrawin-room, surr.”

This from the ex-Royal Irish, who has again presented himself, saluting.

“Don’t yield the Sassenach an inch?” counsels the Major, a little of the old Celtic hostility stirring within him. “If he demand explanations, hand him over to me. I’ll give them to his satisfaction. So, old fellow, be firm!”

“Never fear!” returns Ryecroft, as he steps out to receive the unexpected visitor, whose business with him he fully believes to have reference to Gwendoline Wynn.

And so has it. But not in the sense he anticipates, nor about the scene on which his thoughts have dwelt. George Shenstone is not there to call him to account for angry words, or rudeness of behaviour. Something more serious; since it was the baronet’s son who left Llangorren Court in company with the plain clothes policeman. The latter is still along with him; though not inside the house. He is standing upon the street at a convenient distance; though not with any expectation of being called in, or required for any farther service now, professionally. Holding no writ, nor the right to serve such if he had it, his action hitherto has been simply to assist Mr Shenstone in finding the man suspected of either abduction or murder. But as neither crime is yet proved to have been committed, much less brought home to him, the English policeman has no further errand in Boulogne—while the English gentleman now feels that his is almost as idle and aimless. The impulse which carried him thither, though honourable and gallant, was begot in the heat of blind passion. Gwen Wynn having no brother, he determined to take the place of one, his father not saying nay. And so resolved he had set out to seek the supposed criminal, “interview” him, and then act according to the circumstances, as they should develop themselves.

In the finding of his man he has experienced no difficulty. Luggage labelled “Langham Hotel, London,” gave him hot scent, as far as the grand caravanserai at the bottom of Portland Place. Beyond it was equally fresh, and lifted with like ease. The traveller’s traps re-directed at the Langham “Paris via Folkestone and Boulogne”—the new address there noted by porters and traffic manager—was indication sufficient to guide George Shenstone across the Channel; and cross it he did by the next day’s packet for Boulogne.

Arrived in the French seaport, he would have gone straight on to Paris—had he been alone. But accompanied by the policeman the result was different. This—an old dog of the detective breed—soon as setting foot on French soil, went sniffing about among serjents de ville and douaniers, the upshot of his investigations being to bring the chase to an abrupt termination—he finding that the game had gone no further. In short, from information received at the Custom House, Captain Ryecroft was run to earth in the Rue Tintelleries, under the roof of Major Mahon.

And now that George Shenstone is himself under it, having sent in his card, and been ushered into the drawing-room, he does not feel at his ease; instead greatly embarrassed. Not from any personal fear; he has too much “pluck” for that. It is a sense of delicacy, consequent upon some dread of wrong doing. What, after all, if his suspicions prove groundless, and it turn out that Captain Ryecroft is entirely innocent? His heart, torn by sorrow, exasperated with anger, starting away from Herefordshire he did not thus interrogate. Then he supposed himself in pursuit of an abductor, who, when overtaken, would be found in the company of the abducted.

But, meanwhile, both his suspicions and sentiments have undergone a change. How could they otherwise? He pursued, has been travelling openly and without any disguise, leaving traces at every turn and deflection of his route, plain as fingerposts! A man guilty of aught illegal—much more one who has committed a capital crime—would not be acting thus? Besides, Captain Ryecroft has been journeying alone, unaccompanied by man or woman; no one seen with him until meeting his friend, Major Mahon, on the packet landing at Boulogne!

No wonder that Mr Shenstone, now au fait to all this—easily ascertained along the route of travel—feels that his errand is an awkward one. Embarrassed when ringing Major Mahon’s door bell, he is still more so inside that room, while awaiting the man to whom his card has been taken. For he has intruded himself into the house of a gentleman a perfect stranger to himself—to call his guest to account! The act is inexcusable, rude almost to grotesqueness!

But there are other circumstances attendant, of themselves unpleasant enough. The thing he has been tracking up is no timid hare, or cowardly fox; but a man, a soldier, gentleman as himself, who, like a tiger of the jungles, may turn upon and tear him.

It is no thought of this, no craven fear which makes him pace Major Mahon’s drawing-room floor so excitedly. His agitation is due to a different and nobler cause—the sensibility of the gentleman, with the dread of shame, should he find himself mistaken. But he has a consoling thought. Prompted by honour and affection, he embarked in the affair, and still urged by them he will carry it to the conclusion coûte que coûte.

Volume Two—Chapter Twenty Three.

A Guage d’Amour.

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 Twenty Four.

Suicide, or Murder.

Two more days have passed, and the crowd collected at Llangorren Court is larger than ever. But it is not now scattered, nor are people rushing excitedly about; instead, they stand thickly packed in a close clump, which covers all the carriage sweep in front of the house. For the search is over, the lost one has at length been found. Found, when the flood subsided, and the drag could do its work—found drowned!

Not far away, nor yet in the main river; but that narrow channel, deep and dark, inside the eyot. In a little angular embayment at the cliff’s base, almost directly under the summer-house was the body discovered. It came to the surface soon as touched by the grappling iron, which caught in the loose drapery around it. Left alone for another day it would have risen of itself.

Taken out of the water, and borne away to the house, it is now lying in the entrance-hall, upon a long table there set centrally.

The hall, though a spacious one, is filled with people; and but for two policemen stationed at the door would be densely crowded. These have orders to admit only the friends and intimates of the family, with those whose duty requires them to be there officially. There is again a council in deliberation; but not as on days preceding. Then it was to inquire into what had become of Gwendoline Wynn, and whether she were still alive; to-day, it is an inquest being held over her dead body!

There lies it, just as it came out of the water. But, oh! how unlike what it was before being submerged! Those gossamer things, silks and laces—the dress worn by her at the ball—no more floating and feather-like, but saturated, mud-stained, “clinging like cerements” around a form whose statuesque outlines, even in death, show the perfection of female beauty. And her chrome yellow hair, cast in loose coils about, has lost its silken gloss, and grown darker in hue: while the rich rose red is gone from her cheeks, already swollen and discoloured; so soon had the ruthless water commenced its ravages!

No one would know Gwen Wynn now. Seeing that form prostrate and pulseless, who could believe it the same, which but a few nights before was there moving about, erect, lissome, and majestic? Or in that face, dark and disfigured, who could recognise the once radiant countenance of Llangorren’s young heiress? Sad to contemplate those mute motionless lips, so late wreathed with smiles, and speaking pleasant words! And those eyes, dulled with “muddy impurity,” that so short while ago shone bright and gladsome, rejoicing in the gaiety of youth and the glory of beauty—sparkling, flashing, conquering!

All is different now; her hair dishevelled, her dress disordered and dripping, the only things upon her person unchanged being the rings on her fingers, the wrist bracelets, the locket still pendant to her neck—all gemmed and gleaming as ever, the impure water affecting not their costly purity. And their presence has a significance, proclaiming an important fact, soon to be considered.

The Coroner, summoned in haste, has got upon the ground, selected his jury, and gone through the formularies for commencing the inquest. These over, the first point to be established is the identification of the body. There is little difficulty in this; and it is solely through routine, and for form’s sake, that the aunt of the deceased lady, her cousin, the lady’s-maid, and one or two other domestics are submitted to examination. All testify to their belief that the body before them is that of Gwendoline Wynn.