Gwen Wynn: A Romance of the Wye

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 assist 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 her 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 passed 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 bedchamber door.

“Sound asleep! I can’t go in now. Mustn’t – I daren’t awake her.”

Saying which the negligent attendant slips off 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 down stairs 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.

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 clientèle 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 ejaculates, 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 outré 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 passionate 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 are but two individuals in the world of whom either has a thought – one Eleanor Lees, the other William Musgrave.

Volume Two – Chapter Fourteen

“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; lover’s 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 blushing, as he imagines it may be a thrust at himself.

“Of the two,” proceeds the garrulous spinster, “men are the most foolish under such circumstances. No!” she exclaims, contradicting herself, “when I think of it, no. I’ve seen ladies, high-born, and with titles, 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 soupçon 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 cafetière, 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 pronunciation 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?”