Kitabı oku: «Gwen Wynn: A Romance of the Wye», sayfa 17
CHAPTER XXXIX
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. Feeling 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!"
"The 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 what's 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 & Masterman's, with Overend & Gurney following suit, 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 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 bagage 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 hack, and following himself, the Major gives the French Jehu his address, and they are driven off over the rough, rib-cracking cobbles of Boulogne.
CHAPTER XL
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 outdoor 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 carried 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, noways 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 on 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 realize 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 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 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 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 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.
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, 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 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-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 fiâcre 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 hack, 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 —
