Gwen Wynn Part 35

With indifferent success. It is a Metropolitan daily, having but little in it to interest her, or indeed any one else; almost barren of news, as if its columns were blank. Three or four long-winded "leaders," the impertinent outpourings of irresponsible anonymity; reports of Parliamentary speeches, four-fifths of them not worth reporting; chatter of sham statesmen, with their drivellings at public dinners; "Police intelligence," in which there is half a column devoted to Daniel Driscoll, of the Seven Dials, how he blackened the eye of Bridget Sullivan, and bit off Pat Kavanagh's ear, a _crim. con._ or two in all their prurience of detail; Court intelligence, with its odious plush and petty paltriness--this is the pabulum of a "London Daily" even the leading one supplies to its easily satisfied _clientele_ of readers!

Scarce a word of the world's news, scarce a word to tell of its real life and action--how beats the pulse, or thrills the heart of humanity!

If there be anything in England half a century behind the age, it is its Metropolitan Press--immeasurably inferior to the Provincial.

No wonder the "companion"--educated lady--with only such a sheet for her companion, cannot kill time for even so much as an hour. Ten minutes were enough to dispose of all its contents worth glancing at.

And after glancing at them, Miss Lees drops the bald broadsheet--letting it fall to the floor to be scratched by the claws of a playful kitten--about all it is worth.

Having thus settled scores with the newspaper, she hardly knows what next to do. She has already inspected the superscription of the letters, to see if there be any for herself. A poor, fortuneless girl, of course her correspondence is limited, and there is none. Two or three for Miss Linton, with quite half a dozen for Gwen. Of these last is one in a handwriting she recognises--knows it to be from Captain Ryecroft, even without the hotel stamp to aid identification.

"There was a coolness between them last night," remarks Miss Lees to herself, "if not an actual quarrel; to which, very likely, this letter has reference. If I were given to making wagers, I'd bet that it tells of his repentance. So soon, though! It must have been written after he got back to his hotel, and posted to catch the early delivery." "What!"

she exclaims, taking up another letter, and scanning the superscription.

"One from George Shenstone, too! It, I dare say, is in a different strain, if that I saw----Ha!" she e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.es, instinctively turning to the window, and letting go Mr. Shenstone's epistle, "William! Is it possible--so early?"

Not only possible, but an accomplished fact. The reverend gentleman is inside the gates of the park, sauntering on towards the house.

She does not wait for him to ring the bell, or knock; but meets him at the door, herself opening it. Nothing _outre_ in the act, on a day succeeding a night, with everything upside down, and the domestic, whose special duty it is to attend to door-opening, out of the way.

Into the morning-room Mr. Musgrave is conducted, where the table is set for breakfast. He oft comes for luncheon, and Miss Lees knows he will be made equally welcome to the earlier meal; all the more to-day, with its heavier budget of news, and grander details of gossip, which Miss Linton will be expecting and delighted to revel in. Of course the curate has been at the ball; but, like "Slippery Sam," erst Bishop of Oxford, not much in the dancing room. For all, he, too, has noticed certain peculiarities in the behaviour of Miss Wynn to Captain Ryecroft, with others having reference to the son of Sir George Shenstone--in short, a triangular play he but ill understood. Still, he could tell by the straws, as they blew about, that they were blowing adversely; though what the upshot, he is yet ignorant, having, as became his cloth, forsaken the scene of revelry at a respectably early hour.

Nor does he now care to inquire into it, any more than Miss Lees to respond to such interrogation. Their own affair is sufficient for the time; and engaging in an amorous duel of the milder type--so different from the stormy, pa.s.sionate combat between Gwendoline Wynn and Vivian Ryecroft--they forget all about these--even their existence--as little remembering that of George Shenstone.

For a time there are but two individuals in the world of whom either has a thought--one Eleanor Lees, the other William Musgrave.

CHAPTER x.x.xIV.

"WHERE'S GWEN?"

Not for long are the companion and curate permitted to carry on the confidential dialogue, in which they had become interested. Too disagreeably soon is it interrupted by a third personage appearing upon the scene. Miss Linton has at length succeeded in dragging herself out of the embrace of the somnolent divinity, and enters the breakfast room, supported by her French _femme de chambre_.

Graciously saluting Mr. Musgrave, she moves towards the table's head, where an antique silver urn sends up its curling steam--flanked by tea and coffee pot, with contents already prepared for pouring into their respectively shaped cups. Taking her seat, she asks:

"Where's Gwen?"

"Not down yet," meekly responds Miss Lees; "at least, I haven't seen anything of her."

"Ah! she beats us all to-day," remarks the ancient toast of Cheltenham, "in being late," she adds, with a laugh at her little _jeu d'esprit_.

"Usually such an early riser, too. I don't remember having ever been up before her. Well, I suppose she's fatigued, poor thing!--quite done up.

No wonder, after dancing so much, and with everybody."

"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; lovers' 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 blus.h.i.+ng, as he imagines it may be a thrust at himself.

"Of the two," proceeds the garrulous spinster, "men are the most foolish under such circ.u.mstances. No!" she exclaims, contradicting herself--"when I think of it, no. I've seen ladies, high-born, and with t.i.tles, 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 _soupcon_ 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 _cafetiere_, 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 p.r.o.nunciation 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 realize a circ.u.mstance 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."