Gwen Wynn Part 30

While thus gloomily cogitating, he hears a sound, which but makes still more sombre the hue of his thoughts. A voice comes pealing up the glen--a wild, wailing cry, as of some one in the extreme of distress. He can almost fancy it the shriek of a drowning woman. But his ears are too much accustomed to nocturnal sounds, and the voices of the woods, to be deceived. That heard was only a little unusual by reason of the rough night--its tone altered by the whistling of the wind.

"Bah!" he exclaims, recognising the call of the screech owl, "it's only one o' them cursed brutes. What a fool fear makes a man!"

And with this hackneyed reflection he turns back into the house, rebolts the door, and goes to his bed--not to sleep, but lie long awake, kept so by that same fear.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

THE GAME OF PIQUE.

The sun has gone down upon Gwen Wynn's natal day--its twenty-first anniversary--and Llangorren Court is in a blaze of light, for a grand entertainment is there being given--a ball.

The night is a dark one; but its darkness does not interfere with the festivities; instead, heightens their splendour, by giving effect to the illuminations. For although autumn, the weather is still warm, and the grounds are illuminated. Parti-coloured lamps are placed at intervals along the walks, and suspended in festoonery from the trees, while the cas.e.m.e.nt windows of the house stand open, people pa.s.sing in and out of them as if they were doors. The drawing-room is this night devoted to dancing; its carpet taken up, the floor made as slippery as a skating rink with beeswax--abominable custom! Though a large apartment, it does not afford s.p.a.ce for half the company to dance in; and to remedy this, supplementary quadrilles are arranged on the smooth turf outside--a string and wind band from the neighbouring town making music loud enough for all.

Besides, all do not care for the delightful exercise. A sumptuous spread in the dining-room, with wines at discretion, attracts a proportion of the guests; while there are others who have a fancy to go strolling about the lawn, even beyond the coruscation of the lamps; some who do not think it too dark anywhere, but the darker the better.

The _elite_ of at least half the shire is present, and Miss Linton, who is still the hostess, reigns supreme in fine exuberance of spirits.

Being the last entertainment at Llangorren over which she is officially to preside, one might imagine she would take things in a different way; but as she is to remain resident at the Court, with privileges but slightly, if at all, curtailed, she has no gloomy forecast of the future. Instead, on this night present she lives as in the past; almost fancies herself back at Cheltenham in its days of splendour, and dancing with the "first gentleman in Europe" redivivus. If her star be going down, it is going in glory, as the song of the swan is sweetest in its dying hour.

Strange that on such a festive occasion, with its circ.u.mstances attendant, the old spinster, hitherto mistress of the mansion, should be happier than the younger one, hereafter to be! But, in truth so is it.

Notwithstanding her great beauty and grand wealth--the latter no longer in prospective, but in actual possession--despite the gaiety and grandeur surrounding her, the friendly greetings and warm congratulations received on all sides--Gwen Wynn is herself anything but gay. Instead, sad, almost to wretchedness!

And from the most trifling of causes, though not as by her estimated; little suspecting she has but herself to blame. It has arisen out of an episode, in love's history of common and very frequent occurrence--the game of pique. She and Captain Ryecroft are playing it, with all the power and skill they can command. Not much of the last, for jealousy is but a clumsy fencer. Though accounted keen, it is often blind as love itself; and were not both under its influence, they would not fail to see through the flimsy deceptions they are mutually practising on one another. In love with each other almost to distraction, they are this night behaving as though they were the bitterest enemies, or at all events, as friends sorely estranged.

She began it; blamelessly, even with praiseworthy motive; which, known to him, no trouble could have come up between them. But when, touched with compa.s.sion for George Shenstone, she consented to dance with him several times consecutively, and in the intervals remained conversing--too familiarly, as Captain Ryecroft imagined--all this with an "engagement ring" on her finger, by himself placed upon it--not strange in him, thus _fiance_ feeling a little jealous; no more that he should endeavour to make her the same. Strategy, old as hills, or hearts themselves.

In his attempt he is, unfortunately, too successful; finding the means near by--an a.s.sistant willing and ready to his hand. This in the person of Miss Powell; she who went to church on the Sunday before in Jack Wingate's boat--a young lady so attractive as to make it a nice point whether she or Gwen Wynn be the attraction of the evening.

Though only just introduced, the Hussar officer is not unknown to her by name, with some repute of his heroism besides. His appearance speaks for itself, making such impression upon the lady as to set her pencil at work inscribing his name on her card for several dances, round and square, in rapid succession.

And so between him and Gwen Wynn the jealous feeling, at first but slightly entertained, is nursed and fanned into a burning flame--the green-eyed monster growing bigger as the night gets later.

On both sides it reaches its maximum when Miss Wynn, after a waltz, leaning on George Shenstone's arm, walks out into the grounds, and stops to talk with him in a retired, shadowy spot.

Not far off is Captain Ryecroft observing them, but too far to hear the words pa.s.sing between. Were he near enough for this, it would terminate the strife raging in his breast, as the sham flirtation he is carrying on with Miss Powell--put an end to _her_ new-sprung aspirations, if she has any.

It does as much for the hopes of George Shenstone--long in abeyance, but this night rekindled and revived. Beguiled, first by his partner's amiability in so oft dancing with, then afterwards using him as a foil, he little dreams that he is but being made a cat's-paw. Instead, drawing courage from the deception, emboldened as never before, he does what he never dared before--make Gwen Wynn a proposal of marriage. He makes it without circ.u.mlocution, at a single bound, as he would take a hedge upon his hunter.

"Gwen! you know how I love you--would give my life for you! Will you be----" Only now he hesitates, as if his horse baulked.

"Be what?" she asks, with no intention to help him over, but mechanically, her thoughts being elsewhere.

"My wife?"

She starts at the words, touched by his manly way, yet pained by their appealing earnestness, and the thought she must give denying response.

And how is she to give it, with least pain to him? Perhaps the bluntest way will be the best. So thinking, she says,--

"George, it can never be. Look at that!"

She holds out her left hand, sparkling with jewels.

"At what?" he asks, not comprehending.

"That ring." She indicates a cl.u.s.ter of brilliants, on the fourth finger, by itself, adding the word "Engaged."

"O G.o.d!" he exclaims, almost in a groan. "Is that so?"

"It is."

For a time there is silence; her answer less maddening than making him sad.

With a desperate effort to resign himself, he at length replies,--

"Dear Gwen! for I must still call you--ever hold you so--my life hereafter will be as one who walks in darkness, waiting for death--ah, longing for it!"

Despair has its poetry, as love; oft exceeding the last in fervour of expression, and that of George Shenstone causes surprise to Gwen Wynn, while still further paining her. So much she knows not how to make rejoinder, and is glad when a _fanfare_ of the band instrument gives note of another quadrille--the Lancers--about to begin.

Still engaged partners for the dance, but not to be for life, they return to the drawing-room, and join in it; he going through its figures with a sad heart and many a sigh.

Nor is she less sorrowful--only more excited; nigh unto madness as she sees Captain Ryecroft _vis-a-vis_ with Miss Powell; on his face an expression of content, calm, almost cynical; hers radiant as with triumph!

In this moment of Gwen Wynn's supreme misery--acme of jealous spite--were George Shenstone to renew his proposal, she might pluck the betrothal ring from her finger, and give answer, "I will!"

It is not to be so, however weighty the consequences. In the horoscope of her life there is yet a heavier.

CHAPTER XXIX.

JEALOUS AS A TIGER.

It is a little after two a.m., and the ball is breaking up. Not a very late hour, as many of the people live at a distance, and have a long drive homeward, over hilly roads.

By the fashion prevailing a _galop_ brings the dancing to a close. The musicians, slipping their instruments into cases and baize bags, retire from the room; soon after deserted by all, save a spare servant or two, who make the rounds to look to extinguishing the lamps, with a sharp eye for waifs in the shape of dropped ribbons or _bijouterie_.

Gentlemen guests stay longer in the dining-room over claret and champagne "cup," or the more time-honoured B. and S.; while in the hallway there is a crush, and on the stairs a stream of ladies, descending cloaked and hooded.

Soon the crowd waxes thinner, relieved by carriages called up, quickly filling, and whirled off.

That of Squire Powell is among them; and Captain Ryecroft, not without comment from certain officious observers, accompanies the young lady he has been so often dancing with to the door.

Having seen her off with the usual ceremonies of leave-taking, he returns into the porch, and there for a while remains. It is a large portico, with Corinthian columns, by one of which he takes stand, in shadow. But there is a deeper shadow on his own brow, and a darkness in his heart, such as he has never in his life experienced. He feels how he has committed himself, but not with any remorse or repentance. Instead, the jealous anger is still within his breast, ripe and ruthless as ever.

Nor is it so unnatural. Here is a woman--not Miss Powell, but Gwen Wynn--to whom he has given his heart--acknowledged the surrender, and in return had acknowledgment of hers--not only this, but offered his hand in marriage--placed the pledge upon her finger, she a.s.senting and accepting--and now, in the face of all, openly, and before his face, engaged in flirtation!