Gwen Wynn Part 41

Equally incredible that she has drowned herself. Suicide is not thought of--incredible under the circ.u.mstances.

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 inquiry, 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 in 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 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 p.r.o.nounced. Why is he not here?

His absence is strange, unaccountable under the circ.u.mstances. 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 pa.s.sing 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 any one 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 Rugg'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 a.s.senting.

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.

CHAPTER XLI.

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 also 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 twelve-month he has been residing: a small domicile, _meuble_.

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 _jetee_, with a visit to the grand lion of the place, _l'Establiss.e.m.e.nt de Bains_, ending in an hour or two pa.s.sed at the "cercle," of which the Major is a member, and where his old campaigning comrades, 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 a 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 'Rag,' 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-fis.h.i.+ng. 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 blus.h.i.+ng about the thing; you know you can trust Charley Mahon. Is it true?"

"Is what true?" asks the other, with an air of a.s.sumed innocence.

"That you've caught the richest heiress in Herefords.h.i.+re, 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?"