Gwen Wynn: A Romance of the Wye

“Why, this gentleman being here. You see that?” He tosses the card across the table.

“Well; what of it?”

“Read the name!”

“Mr George Shenstone. Don’t know the man. Haven’t the most distant idea who he is. Have you?”

“O, yes.”

“Old acquaintance; friend, I presume? No enemy, I hope?”

“If it be the son of a Sir George Shenstone, of Herefordshire, I can’t call him either friend or enemy; and as I know nobody else of the name, I suppose it must be he. If so, what he wants with me is a question I can no more answer than the man in the moon. I must get the answer from himself. Can I take the liberty of asking him into your house, Mahon?”

“Certainly, my dear boy! Bring him in here, if you like, and let him join us.”

“Thanks, Major!” interrupts Ryecroft. “But no, I’d prefer first having a word with him alone. Instead of drinking, he may want fighting with me.”

“O ho!” ejaculates the Major. “Murtagh!” to the servant, an old soldier of the 18th, “show the gentleman into the drawing-room.”

“Mr Shenstone and I,” proceeds Ryecroft in explanation, “have but the very slightest acquaintance. I’ve only met him a few times in general company, the last at a ball – a private one – just three nights ago. ’Twas that very morning I met the priest, I supposed we’d seen up there. ’Twould seem as if everybody on the Wyeside had taken the fancy to follow me into France.”

“Ha – ha – ha! About the prêtre, no doubt you’re mistaken. And maybe this isn’t your man, either. The same name, you’re sure!”

“Quite. The Herefordshire baronet’s son is George, as his father, to whose title he is heir. I never heard of his having any other – ”

“Stay!” interrupts the Major, again glancing at the card, “here’s something to help identification – an address —Ormeston Hall.”

“Ah! I didn’t observe that.” In his agitation he had not, the address being in small script at the corner. “Ormeston Hall? Yes, I remember, Sir George’s residence is so called. Of course it’s the son – must be.”

“But why do you think he means fight? Something happened between you, eh?”

“No; nothing between us, directly.”

“Ah! Indirectly, then? Of course the old trouble – a woman.”

“Well; if it be fighting the fellow’s after, I suppose it must be about that,” slowly rejoins Ryecroft, half in soliloquy and pondering over what took place on the night of the ball. Now vividly recalling that scene in the summer-house, with the angry words there spoken, he feels good as certain George Shenstone has come after him on the part of Miss Wynn.

The thought of such championship stirs his indignation, and he exclaims —

“By Heavens! he shall have what he wants. But I mustn’t keep him waiting. Give me that card, Major!”

The Major returns it to him, coolly observing —

“If it is to be a blue pill, instead of a whisky punch, I can accommodate you with a brace of barkers, good as can be got in Boulogne. You haven’t told me what your quarrel’s about; but from what I know of you, Ryecroft, I take it you’re in the right, and you can count on me as a second. Lucky it’s my left wing that’s clipped. With the right I can shoot straight as ever – should there be need for making it a four-cornered affair.”

“Thanks, Mahon! You’re just the man I’d have asked such a favour from.”

“The gentleman’s inside the dhrawin-room, surr.”

This from the ex-Royal Irish, who has again presented himself, saluting.

“Don’t yield the Sassenach an inch?” counsels the Major, a little of the old Celtic hostility stirring within him. “If he demand explanations, hand him over to me. I’ll give them to his satisfaction. So, old fellow, be firm!”

“Never fear!” returns Ryecroft, as he steps out to receive the unexpected visitor, whose business with him he fully believes to have reference to Gwendoline Wynn.

And so has it. But not in the sense he anticipates, nor about the scene on which his thoughts have dwelt. George Shenstone is not there to call him to account for angry words, or rudeness of behaviour. Something more serious; since it was the baronet’s son who left Llangorren Court in company with the plain clothes policeman. The latter is still along with him; though not inside the house. He is standing upon the street at a convenient distance; though not with any expectation of being called in, or required for any farther service now, professionally. Holding no writ, nor the right to serve such if he had it, his action hitherto has been simply to assist Mr Shenstone in finding the man suspected of either abduction or murder. But as neither crime is yet proved to have been committed, much less brought home to him, the English policeman has no further errand in Boulogne – while the English gentleman now feels that his is almost as idle and aimless. The impulse which carried him thither, though honourable and gallant, was begot in the heat of blind passion. Gwen Wynn having no brother, he determined to take the place of one, his father not saying nay. And so resolved he had set out to seek the supposed criminal, “interview” him, and then act according to the circumstances, as they should develop themselves.

In the finding of his man he has experienced no difficulty. Luggage labelled “Langham Hotel, London,” gave him hot scent, as far as the grand caravanserai at the bottom of Portland Place. Beyond it was equally fresh, and lifted with like ease. The traveller’s traps re-directed at the Langham “Paris via Folkestone and Boulogne” – the new address there noted by porters and traffic manager – was indication sufficient to guide George Shenstone across the Channel; and cross it he did by the next day’s packet for Boulogne.

Arrived in the French seaport, he would have gone straight on to Paris – had he been alone. But accompanied by the policeman the result was different. This – an old dog of the detective breed – soon as setting foot on French soil, went sniffing about among serjents de ville and douaniers, the upshot of his investigations being to bring the chase to an abrupt termination – he finding that the game had gone no further. In short, from information received at the Custom House, Captain Ryecroft was run to earth in the Rue Tintelleries, under the roof of Major Mahon.

And now that George Shenstone is himself under it, having sent in his card, and been ushered into the drawing-room, he does not feel at his ease; instead greatly embarrassed. Not from any personal fear; he has too much “pluck” for that. It is a sense of delicacy, consequent upon some dread of wrong doing. What, after all, if his suspicions prove groundless, and it turn out that Captain Ryecroft is entirely innocent? His heart, torn by sorrow, exasperated with anger, starting away from Herefordshire he did not thus interrogate. Then he supposed himself in pursuit of an abductor, who, when overtaken, would be found in the company of the abducted.

But, meanwhile, both his suspicions and sentiments have undergone a change. How could they otherwise? He pursued, has been travelling openly and without any disguise, leaving traces at every turn and deflection of his route, plain as fingerposts! A man guilty of aught illegal – much more one who has committed a capital crime – would not be acting thus? Besides, Captain Ryecroft has been journeying alone, unaccompanied by man or woman; no one seen with him until meeting his friend, Major Mahon, on the packet landing at Boulogne!

No wonder that Mr Shenstone, now au fait to all this – easily ascertained along the route of travel – feels that his errand is an awkward one. Embarrassed when ringing Major Mahon’s door bell, he is still more so inside that room, while awaiting the man to whom his card has been taken. For he has intruded himself into the house of a gentleman a perfect stranger to himself – to call his guest to account! The act is inexcusable, rude almost to grotesqueness!

But there are other circumstances attendant, of themselves unpleasant enough. The thing he has been tracking up is no timid hare, or cowardly fox; but a man, a soldier, gentleman as himself, who, like a tiger of the jungles, may turn upon and tear him.

It is no thought of this, no craven fear which makes him pace Major Mahon’s drawing-room floor so excitedly. His agitation is due to a different and nobler cause – the sensibility of the gentleman, with the dread of shame, should he find himself mistaken. But he has a consoling thought. Prompted by honour and affection, he embarked in the affair, and still urged by them he will carry it to the conclusion coûte que coûte.

Volume Two – Chapter Twenty Three

A Guage d’Amour

Pacing to and fro, with stride jerky and irregular, Shenstone at length makes stop in front of the fireplace, not to warm himself – there is no fire in the grate – nor yet to survey his face in the mirror above. His steps are arrested by something he sees resting upon the mantelshelf; a sparkling object – in short a cigar-case of the beaded pattern.

Why should that attract the attention of the young Herefordshire squire, causing him to start, as it first catches his eye? In his lifetime he has seen scores of such, without caring to give them a second glance. But it is just because he has looked upon this one before, or fancies he has, that he now stands gazing at it; on the instant after reaching towards, and taking it up.

Ay, more than once has he seen that same cigar-case – he is now sure as he holds it in hand, turning it over and over – seen it before its embroidery was finished; watched fair fingers stitching the beads on, cunningly combining the blue and amber and gold, tastefully arranging them in rows and figures – two hearts central transfixed by a barbed and feathered shaft – all save the lettering he now looks upon, and which was never shown him. Many a time during the months past, he had hoped, and fondly imagined, the skilful contrivance and elaborate workmanship might be for himself. Now he knows better; the knowledge revealed to him by the initials Y.R. entwined in monogram, and the words underneath “From Gwen.”

Three days ago, the discovery would have caused him a spasm of keenest pain. Not so now. After being shown that betrothal ring, no gift, no pledge, could move him to further emotion. He but tosses the headed thing back upon the mantel, with the reflection that he to whom it belongs has been born under a more propitious star than himself.

Still the little incident is not without effect. It restores his firmness, with the resolution to act as originally intended. This is still further strengthened, as Ryecroft enters the room, and he looks upon the man who has caused him so much misery. A man feared but not hated – for Shenstone’s noble nature and generous disposition hinder him from being blinded either to the superior personal or mental qualities of his rival. A rival he fears only in the field of love; in that of war or strife of other kind, the doughty young west-country squire would dare even the devil. No tremor in his frame; no unsteadfastness in the glance of his eye, as he regards the other stepping inside the open door, and with the card in hand, coming towards him.

Long ago introduced, and several times in company together, but cool and distant, they coldly salute. Holding out the card Ryecroft says interrogatively —

“Is this meant for me, Mr Shenstone?”

“Yes.”

“Some matter of business, I presume. May I ask what it is?”

The formal inquiry, in tone passive and denying, throws the fox-hunter as upon his haunches. At the same time its evident cynicism stings him to a blunt if not rude rejoinder.

“I want to know – what you have done with Miss Wynn.”

He so challenged starts aback, turning pale. And looking distraught at his challenger, while he repeats the words of the latter, with but the personal pronoun changed —