Gwen Wynn Part 34

To his regiment he cannot return, for he has none now. Months since he ceased to be a soldier, having resigned his commission at the expiration of his leave of absence--partly in displeasure at being refused extension of it, but more because the attractions of the "Court" and the grove had made those of the camp uncongenial. Thus his visit to Herefords.h.i.+re has not only spoilt him as a salmon-fisher, but put an end to his military career.

Fortunately he was not dependent on it; for Captain Ryecroft is a rich man. And yet he has no home he can call his own; the last ten years of his life having been pa.s.sed in Hindostan. Dublin is his native place; but what would or could he now do there? his nearest relatives are dead, his friends few, his schoolfellows long since scattered--many of them, as himself, waifs upon the world. Besides, since his return from India, he has paid a visit to the capital of the Emerald Isle; where, finding all so changed, he cares not to go back--at least, for the present.

Whither then?

One place looms upon the imagination--almost naturally as home itself--the metropolis of the world. He will proceed thither, though not there to stay. Only to use it as a point of departure for another metropolis--the French one. In that focus and centre of gaiety and fas.h.i.+on--Maelstrom of dissipation--he may find some relief from his misery, if not happiness. Little hope has he; but it may be worth the trial, and he will make it.

So determining, he takes up the pen, and is about to put "London" on the labels. But as an experienced strategist, who makes no move with undue haste and without due deliberation, he sits a while longer considering.

Strange as it may seem, and a question for psychologists, a man thinks best upon his back; better still with a cigar between his teeth--powerful help to reflection. Aware of this Captain Ryecroft lights a "weed," and looks around him. He is in his sleeping apartment, where, beside the bed, there is a sofa--horsehair cus.h.i.+on and squab hard as stones--the orthodox hotel article.

Along this he lays himself, and smokes away furiously. Spitefully, too; for he is not now thinking of either London or Paris. He cannot yet. The happy past, the wretched present, are too soul-absorbing to leave room for speculations of the future. The "fond rage of love" is still active within him. It is to "blight his life's bloom," leaving him "an age all winters?" Or is there yet a chance of reconciliation? Can the chasm which angry words have created be bridged over? No. Not without confession of error--abject humiliation on his part--which in his present frame of mind he is not prepared to make--will not--could not.

"Never!" he exclaims, plucking the cigar from between his lips, but soon returning it, to continue the train of his reflections.

Whether from the soothing influence of the nicotine, or other cause, his thoughts after a time became more tranquillized--their hue sensibly changed, as betokened by some muttered words which escape him.

"After all, I may be wronging her. If so, may G.o.d forgive, as I hope He will pity me. For if so, I am less deserving forgiveness, and more to be pitied than she."

As in ocean's storm, between the rough, surging billows, foam-crested, are spots of smooth water, so in thought's tempest are intervals of calm. It is during one of these he speaks as above; and continuing to reflect in the same strain, things, if not quite _couleur de rose_, a.s.sume a less repulsive aspect. Gwen Wynn may have been but dissembling--playing with him--and he would now be contented, ready--even rejoiced--to accept it in that sense; ay, to the abject humiliation that but the moment before he had so defiantly rejected. So reversed his sentiments now--modified from mad anger to gentle forgiveness--he is almost in the act of springing to his feet, tearing the straps from his packed paraphernalia, and letting all loose again!

But just at this crisis he hears the town clock tolling six, and voices in conversation under his window. It is a bit of a gossip between two stable-men--_attaches_ of the hotel--an ostler and fly-driver.

"Ye had a big time last night at Llangorren?" says the former inquiringly.

"Ah! that ye may say," returns the Jarvey, with a strongly accentuated hiccup, telling of heel-taps. "Never knowed a bigger, s'help me. Wine runnin' in rivers, as if 'twas only table-beer--an' the best kind o't too. I'm so full o' French champagne, I feel most like burstin'."

"She be a grand gal, that Miss Wynn. An't she?"

"In course is--one of the grandest. But she an't going to be a _girl_ long. By what I heerd them say in the sarvints' hall, she's soon to be broke into pair-horse harness."

"Wi' who?"

"The son o' Sir George Shenstone."

"A good match they'll make, I sh'd say. Tidier chap than he never stepped inside this yard. Many's the time he's tipped me."

There is more of the same sort, but Captain Ryecroft does not hear it; the men have moved off beyond ear shot. In all likelihood he would not have listened had they stayed. For again he seems to hear those other words--that last spiteful rejoinder, "Yes; let it."

His own spleen returning, in all its keen hostility, he springs upon his feet, hastily steps back to the table, and writes on the slip of parchment,--

_Mr. Vivian Ryecroft,_ _Pa.s.senger to London._ _G.W.R._

He cannot attach them till the ink gets dry; and, while waiting for it to do so, his thoughts undergo still another revulsion, again leading him to reflect whether he may not be in the wrong, and acting inconsiderately--rashly.

In fine, he resolves on a course which had not hitherto occurred to him--he will write to her. Not in repentance, nor any confession of guilt on his part. He is too proud, and still too doubting for that.

Only a test letter to draw her out, and, if possible, discover how she too feels under the circ.u.mstances. Upon the answer--if he receive one--will depend whether it is to be the last.

With pen still in hand, he draws a sheet of note-paper towards him. It bears the hotel stamp and name, so that he has no need to write an address--only the date.

This done, he remains for a time considering--thinking what he should say. The larger portion of his manhood's life spent in camp, under canvas--not the place for cultivating literary tastes or epistolary style--he is at best an indifferent correspondent, and knows it. But the occasion supplies thoughts; and as a soldier accustomed to prompt brevity, he puts them down--quickly and briefly as a campaigning despatch.

With this, he does not wait for the ink to dry, but uses the blotter. He dreads another change of resolution. Folding up the sheet, he slips it into an envelope, on which he simply superscribes--

_Miss Wynn,_ _Llangorren Court_.

Then rings a bell--the hotel servants are now astir--and directs the letter to be dropped into the post-box.

He knows it will reach her that same day at an early hour, and its answer him--should one be vouchsafed--on the following morning. It might that same night at the hotel where he is now staying; but not the one to which he is going--as his letter tells, the "Langham, London."

And while it is being slowly carried by a pedestrian postman along hilly roads towards Llangorren, he, seated in a first-cla.s.s carriage of the G.W.R., is swiftly whisked towards the metropolis.

CHAPTER x.x.xIII.

A SLUMBERING HOUSEHOLD.

As calm succeeds a storm, so at Llangorren Court on the morning after the ball there was quietude--up to a certain hour more than common. The domestics justifying themselves by the extra services of the preceding night, lie late. Outside is stirring only the gardener with an a.s.sistant, at his usual work, and in the yard a stable help or two looking after the needs of the horses. The more important functionaries of this department--coachman and headgroom--still slumber, dreaming of champagne bottles brought back to the servants' hall three parts full, with but half-demolished pheasants, and other fragmentary delicacies.

Inside the house, things are on a parallel; there only a scullery and kitchen maid astir. The higher cla.s.s servitors availing themselves of the license allowed, are still abed, and it is ten as butler, cook, and footman make their appearance, entering on their respective _roles_ yawningly, and with reluctance.

There are two lady's-maids in the establishment--the little French demoiselle attached to Miss Linton, and an English damsel of more robust build, whose special duties are to wait upon Miss Wynn. The former lies late on all days, her mistress not requiring early manipulation; but the maid, "native and to the manner born," is wont to be up betimes. This morning is an exception. After such a night of revelry, slumber holds her enthralled, as in a trance; and she is abed late as any of the others, sleeping like a dormouse.

As her dormitory window looks out upon the back yard, the stable clock, a loud striker, at length awakes her--not in time to count the strokes, but a glance at the dial gives her the hour.

While dressing herself, she is in a flutter, fearing rebuke--not for having slept so late, but because of having gone to sleep so early. The dereliction of duty, about which she is so apprehensive, has reference to a spell of slumber antecedent--taken upon a sofa in her young mistress's dressing-room. There awaiting Miss Wynn to a.s.sist in disrobing her after the ball, the maid dropped over and forgot everything--only remembering who she was, and what her duties, when too late to attend to them. Starting up from the sofa, and glancing at the mantel timepiece, she saw, with astonishment, its hands pointing to half-past 4 a.m.!

Reflection following:--

"Miss Gwen must be in bed by this! Wonder why she didn't wake me up?

Rang no bell? Surely I'd have heard it? If she did, and I haven't answered--well, the dear young lady's just the sort not to make any ado about it. I suppose she thought I'd gone to my room, and didn't wish to disturb me? But how could she think that? Besides, she must have pa.s.sed through here, and seen me on the sofa!" The dressing-room is an ante-chamber of Miss Wynn's sleeping apartment. "She mightn't though,"--the contradiction suggested by the lamp burning low and dim.

"Still, it _is_ strange, her not calling me, nor requiring my attendance?"

Gathering herself up, the girl stands for a while in cogitation. The result is a move across the carpeted floor in soft, stealthy step, and an ear laid close to the keyhole of the bed-chamber door.

"Sound asleep! I can't go in now. Mustn't--I daren't awake her."

Saying which, the negligent attendant slips to her own sleeping room, a flight higher; and in ten minutes after, is herself once more in the arms of Morpheus; this time retained in them till released, as already said, by the tolling of the stable clock.

Conscious of unpardonable remissness, she dresses in careless haste--any way, to be in time for attendance on her mistress, at morning toilet.

Her first move is to hurry down to the kitchen, get the can of hot water, and take it up to Miss Wynn's sleeping room. Not to enter, but tap at the door and leave it.

She does the tapping; and, receiving no response nor summons from inside, concludes that the young lady is still asleep and not to be disturbed. It is a standing order of the house, and, pleased to be precise in its observance--never more than on this morning--she sets down the painted can, and hurries back to the kitchen, soon after taking her seat by a breakfast table, unusually well spread, for the time to forget about her involuntary neglect of duty.

The first of the family proper appearing downstairs is Eleanor Lees; she, too, much behind her accustomed time. Notwithstanding, she has to find occupation for nearly an hour before any of the others join her; and she endeavours to do this by perusing a newspaper which has come by the morning post.