Gwen Wynn Part 46

The explanation, however, is given--a reason evident and easily understood. They have seen the state of mind in which the two ladies of the establishment are--Miss Linton almost beside herself, Eleanor Lees not far from the same. In the excitement of occurrences, neither has given thought to letters, even having forgotten the one which so occupied their attention on that day when Gwen was missed from her seat at the breakfast table. It might not have been seen by them then, but for Gibbons not being in the way to take it upstairs as usual. These facts, or rather deductions, are informal, and discussed while the maid is absent on her errand.

She is gone but for a few seconds, returning, waiter in hand, with a pile of letters upon it, which she presents in the orthodox fas.h.i.+on.

Counted, there are more than a dozen of them, the deceased lady having largely corresponded. A general favourite--to say nothing of her youth, beauty, and riches--she had friends far and near; and, as the butler had stated, letters coming by "almost every post"--that but once a day, however, Llangorren lying far from a postal town, and having but one daily delivery. Those upon the tray are from ladies, as can be told by the delicate angular chirography--all except two, that show a rounder and bolder hand. In the presence of her to whom they were addressed--now speechless and unprotesting--no breach of confidence to open them. One after another their envelopes are torn off, and they are submitted to the jury--those of the lady correspondents first. Not to be deliberately read, but only glanced at, to see if they contain aught relating to the matter in hand. Still, it takes time; and would more were they all of the same pattern--double sheets, with the scrip crossed, and full to the four corners.

Fortunately, but a few of them are thus prolix and puzzling; the greater number being notes about the late ball, birthday congratulations, invitations to "at homes," dinner parties, and such like.

Recognising their character, and that they have no relation to the subject of inquiry, the jurymen pa.s.s them through their fingers speedily as possible, and then turn with greater expectancy to the two in masculine handwriting. These the coroner has meanwhile opened, and read to himself, finding one signed "George Shenstone," the other "Vivian Ryecroft."

n.o.body present is surprised to hear that one of the letters is Ryecroft's. They have been expecting it so. But not that the other is from the son of Sir George Shenstone. A word, however, from the young man himself explains how it came there, leaving the epistle to tell its own tale. For as both undoubtedly bear upon the matter of inquiry, the Coroner has directed both to be read aloud.

Whether by chance or otherwise, that of Shenstone is taken first. It is headed--

"Ormeston Hall, 4 a.m., _Apres le bal_."

The date, thus oddly indicated, seems to tell of the writer being in better spirits than might have been expected just at that time; possibly from a still lingering belief that all is not yet hopeless with him.

Something of the same runs through the tone of his letter, if not its contents, which are--

"DEAR GWEN,--I've got home, but can't turn in without writing you a word, to say that, however sad I feel at what you've told me--and sad I am, G.o.d knows--if you think I shouldn't come near you any more--and from what I noticed last night, perhaps I ought not--only say so, and I will not. Your slightest word will be a command to one who, though no longer hoping to have your hand, will still hope and pray for your happiness. That one is,

"Yours devotedly, if despairingly,

"GEORGE SHENSTONE.

"P.S.--Do not take the trouble of writing an answer. I would rather get it from your lips; and that you may have the opportunity of so giving it, I will call at the Court in the afternoon. Then you can say whether it is to be my last visit there.--G. S."

The writer, present and listening, bravely bears himself. It is a terrible infliction, nevertheless, having his love secret thus revealed--his heart, as it were, laid open before all the world. But he is too sad to feel it now, and makes no remark, save a word or two explanatory, in answer to questions from the coroner.

Nor are any comments made upon the letter itself. All are too anxious as to the contents of that other, bearing the signature of the man who is to most of them a stranger.

It carries the address of the hotel in which he has been all summer sojourning, and its date is only an hour or two later than that of Shenstone's. No doubt, at the self-same moment, the two men were pondering upon the words they intended writing to Gwendoline Wynn--she who now can never read them.

Very different in spirit are their epistles, unlike as the men themselves. But, so too, are the circ.u.mstances that dictated them; that of Ryecroft reads thus:--

"GWENDOLINE,--While you are reading this, I shall be on my way to London, where I shall stay to receive your answer--if you think it worth while to give one. After parting as we've done, possibly you will not. When you so scornfully cast away that little love-token, it told me a tale--I may say a bitter one--that you never really regarded the gift, nor cared for the giver. Is that true, Gwendoline? If not, and I am wronging you, may G.o.d forgive me. And I would crave your forgiveness; entreat you to let me replace the ring upon your finger. But if true--and you know best--then you can take it up--supposing it is still upon the floor where you flung it--fling it into the river, and forget him who gave it.

"VIVIAN RYECROFT."

To this half-doubting, half-defiant epistle there is also a postscript:--

"I shall be at the Langham Hotel, London, till to-morrow noon, where your answer, if any, will reach me. Should none come, I shall conclude that all is ended between us, and henceforth you will neither need, nor desire, to know my address.

"V. R."

The contents of the letter make a vivid impression on all present. Its tone of earnestness, almost anger, could not be a.s.sumed or pretended.

Beyond doubt, it was written under the circ.u.mstances stated; and, taken in conjunction with the writer's statement of other events, given in such a clear, straightforward manner, there is again complete revulsion of feeling in his favour, and once more a full belief in his innocence which questioning him by cross-examination fails to shake, instead strengthens; and when, at length, having given explanation of everything, he is permitted to take his place among the spectators and mourners, it is with little fear of being dragged away from Llangorren Court in the character of a criminal.

CHAPTER XLVI.

FOUND DROWNED.

As a pack of hounds thrown off the scent, but a moment before hot, now cold, are the coroner and his jury.

But only in one sense like the dogs these human searchers. There is nothing of the sleuth in their search, and they are but too glad to find the game they have been pursuing and lost is a n.o.ble stag, instead of a treacherous, wicked wolf.

Not a doubt remains in their minds of the innocence of Captain Ryecroft--not the shadow of one. If there were, it is soon to be dissipated. For while they are deliberating on what had best next be done, a noise outside, a buzz of voices, excited exclamations, at length culminating in a cheer, tell of someone fresh arrived and received triumphantly.

They are not left long to conjecture who the new arrival is. One of the policemen stationed at the door stepping aside tells who--the man after Captain Ryecroft himself most wanted. No need saying it is Jack Wingate.

But a word about how the waterman has come thither, arriving at such a time, and why not sooner. It is all in a nutsh.e.l.l. But the hour before he returned from the duck-shooting expedition on the sh.o.r.es of the Severn sea, with his boat brought back by road--on a donkey-cart. On arrival at his home, and hearing of the great event at Llangorren, he had launched his skiff, leaped into it, and pulled himself down to the Court as if rowing in a regatta.

In the _patois_ of the American prairies he is now "arrove," and, still panting for breath, is brought before the Coroner's Court, and submitted to examination. His testimony confirms that of his old fare--in every particular about which he can testify. All the more credible is it from his own character. The young waterman is well known as a man of veracity--incapable of bearing false witness.

When he tells them that after the Captain had joined him, and was still with him in the boat, he not only saw a lady in the little house overhead, but recognised her as the young mistress of Llangorren--when he positively swears to the fact--no one any more thinks that she whose body lies dead was drowned or otherwise injured by the man standing bowed and broken over it. Least of all the other, who alike suffers and sorrows. For soon as Wingate has finished giving evidence, George Shenstone steps forward, and holding out his hand to his late rival, says, in the hearing of all,--

"Forgive me, sir, for having wronged you by suspicion! I now make reparation for it in the only way I can--by declaring that I believe you as innocent as myself."

The generous behaviour of the baronet's son strikes home to every heart, and his example is imitated by others. Hands from every side are stretched towards that of the stranger, giving it a grasp which tells of their owners being also convinced of his innocence.

But the inquest is not yet ended--not for hours. Over the dead body of one in social rank as she, no mere perfunctory investigation would satisfy the public demand, nor would any coroner dare to withdraw till everything has been thoroughly sifted, and to the bottom.

In view of the new facts brought out by Captain Ryecroft and his boatman--above all, that cry heard by them--suspicions of foul play are rife as ever, though no longer pointed at him.

As everything in the shape of verbal testimony worth taking has been taken, the coroner calls upon his jury to go with him to the place where the body was taken out of the water. Leaving it in charge of two policemen, they sally forth from the house two and two, he preceding, the crowd pressing close.

First they visit the little dock, in which they see two boats--the _Gwendoline_ and _Mary_--lying just as they were on that night when Captain Ryecroft stepped across the one to take his seat in the other.

He is with the coroner, so is Wingate, and both questioned give minute account of that embarkation, again in brief _resume_ going over the circ.u.mstances that preceded and followed it.

The next move is to the summer-house, to which the distance from the dock is noted, one of the jurymen stepping it--the object to discover how time will correspond to the incidents as detailed. Not that there is any doubt about the truth of Captain Ryecroft's statements, nor those of the boatman; for both are fully believed. The measuring is only to a.s.sist in making calculation how long time may have intervened between the lovers' quarrel and the death-like cry, without thought of their having any connection--much less that the one was either cause or consequence of the other.

Again there is consultation at the summer-house, with questions asked, some of which are answered by George Shenstone, who shows the spot where he picked up the ring. And outside, standing on the cliff's brink, Ryecroft and the waterman point to the place, near as they can fix it, where their boat was when the sad sound reached their ears, again recounting what they did after.

Remaining a while longer on the cliff, the coroner and jury, with craned necks, look over its edge. Directly below is the little embayment in which the body was found. It is angular, somewhat horse-shoe shaped; the water within stagnant, which accounts for the corpse not having been swept away. There is not much current in the backwash at any part; enough to have carried it off had the drowning been done elsewhere. But beyond doubt it has been there. Such is the conclusion arrived at by the Coroner's jury, firmly established in their minds, at sight of something hitherto unnoticed by them. For though not in a body, individually each had already inspected the place, negligently. But now in official form, with wits on the alert, one looking over detects certain abrasions on the face of the cliff--scratches on the red sandstone--distinguishable by the fresher tint of the rock--unquestionably made by something that had fallen from above, and what but the body of Gwendoline Wynn? They see, moreover, some branches of a juniper bush near the cliff's base, broken, but still clinging. Through that the falling form must have descended!

There is no further doubting the fact. There went she over; the only questions undetermined being, whether with her own will, by misadventure, or man's violence. In other words, was it suicide, accident, or murder.

To the last many circ.u.mstances point, and especially the fact of the body remaining where it went into the water. A woman being drowned accidentally, or drowning herself, in the death-struggle would have worked away some distance from the spot she had fallen, or thrown herself in. Still, the same would occur if thrown in by another; only that this other might by some means have extinguished life before-hand.

This last thought, or surmise, carries coroner and jury back to the house, and to a more particular examination of the body. In which they are a.s.sisted by medical men--surgeons and physicians--several of both being present, unofficially; among them the one who administers to the ailings of Miss Linton. There is none of them who has attended Gwendoline Wynn, who never knew ailment of any kind.

Their _post-mortem_ examining does not extend to dissection. There is no need. Without it there are tests which tell the cause of death--that of drowning.

Beyond this they can throw no light on the affair, which remains mysterious as ever.

Flung back on reasoning of the a.n.a.lytical kind, the coroner and his jury can come to no other conclusion than that the first plunge into the water, in whatever way made, was almost instantly fatal; and if a struggle followed, it ended by the body returning to, and sinking in the same place where it first went down.