Gwen Wynn Part 39

In all the world there are no officials more affable than those of the Langham. They are, in fact, types of the highest _hotel civilization_.

Instead of showing nettled, he thus appealed to makes a.s.senting rejoinder, accompanying his words with a re-examination of the letters under R; soon as completed saying,--

"No, sir; none for the name of Ryecroft."

He bearing this name turns away, with an air of more than disappointment. The negative denoting that no letter had been written in reply, vexes--almost irritates him. It is like a blow repeated--a second slap in his face held up in humiliation--after having forgiven the first. He will not so humble himself--never forgive again. This his resolve as he ascends the great stairway to his room, once more to make ready for travel.

The steam-packet service between Folkestone and Boulogne is "tidal."

Consulting Bradshaw, he finds the boat on that day leaves the former place at 4 p.m.; the connecting train from the Charing Cross station, 1.

Therefore have several hours to be put in meanwhile.

How are they to be occupied? He is not in the mood for amus.e.m.e.nt.

Nothing in London could give him that now--neither afford him a moment's gratification.

Perhaps in Paris? And he will try. There men have buried their griefs--women as well: too oft laying in the same grave their innocence, honour, and reputation. In the days of Napoleon the Little, a grand cemetery of such; hosts entering it pure and stainless, to become tainted as the Imperial _regime_ itself.

And he, too, may succ.u.mb to its influence, sinister as h.e.l.l itself. In his present frame of mind it is possible. Nor would his be the first n.o.ble spirit broken down, wrecked on the reef of a disappointed pa.s.sion--love thwarted, the loved one never again to be spoken to--in all likelihood never more met!

While waiting for the Folkestone train, he is a prey to the most harrowing reflections, and in hope of escaping them, descends to the billiard-room--in the Langham a well-appointed affair, with tables the very best.

The marker accommodates him to a hundred up, which he loses. It is not for that he drops the cue disheartened, and retires. Had he won, with Cook, Bennett, or Roberts as his adversary, 'twould have been all the same.

Once more mounting to his room, he makes an appeal to the ever-friendly Nicotian. A cigar, backed by a gla.s.s of brandy, may do something to soothe, his chafed spirit; and lighting the one, he rings for the other.

This brought him, he takes seat by the window, throws up the sash, and looks down upon the street--there to see what gives him a fresh spasm of pain; though to two others affording the highest happiness on earth. For it is a wedding ceremony being celebrated at "All Souls" opposite, a church before whose altar many fashionable couples join hands to be linked together for life. Such a couple is in the act of entering the sacred edifice; carriages drawing up and off in quick succession, coachmen with white rosettes and whips ribbon-decked, footmen wearing similar favours--an unusually stylish affair.

As in shining and with smiling faces, the bridal train ascends the steps two by two, disappearing within the portals of the church, the spectators on the nave and around the enclosure rails also looking joyous, as though each--even the raggedest--had a personal interest in the event, from the window opposite Captain Ryecroft observes it with very different feelings. For the thought is before his mind, how near he has been himself to making one in such a procession--at its head--followed by the bitter reflection, he now never shall.

A sigh, succeeded by a half-angry e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n; then the bell rung with a violence which betrays how the sight has agitated him.

On the waiter entering, he cries out,--

"Call me a cab."

"Hansom, sir?"

"No! four-wheeler. And this luggage get downstairs soon as possible."

His impediments are all in travelling trim--but a few necessary articles having been unpacked--and a shilling tossed upon the strapped portmanteau ensures it, with the lot, a speedy descent down the lift.

A single pipe of Mr. Trafford's silver whistle brings a cab to the Langham entrance in twenty seconds time, and in twenty more a traveller's luggage, however heavy, is slung to the top, with the lighter articles stowed inside. His departure so accelerated, Captain Ryecroft--who had already settled his bill--is soon seated in the cab, and carried off.

But despatch ends on leaving the Langham. The cab, being a four-wheeler, crawls along like a tortoise. Fortunately for the fare he is in no haste now; instead, will be too early for the Folkestone train. He only wanted to get away from the scene of that ceremony, so disagreeably suggestive.

Shut up, imprisoned, in the plush-lined vehicle, shabby, and not over clean, he endeavours to beguile time by gazing out at the shop windows.

The hour is too early for Regent Street promenaders. Some distraction, if not amus.e.m.e.nt, he derives from his "cabby's" arms; these working to and fro as if the man were rowing a boat. In burlesque it reminds him of the Wye, and his waterman Wingate!

But just then something else recalls the western river not ludicrously, but with another twinge of pain. The cab is pa.s.sing through Leicester Square, one of the lungs of London, long diseased, and in process of being doctored. It is beset with h.o.a.rdings, plastered against which are huge posters of the advertising kind. Several of them catch the eye of Captain Ryecroft, but only one holds it, causing him the sensation described. It is the announcement of a grand concert to be given at the St. James's Hall, for some charitable purpose of Welsh speciality.

Programme with list of performers. At their head, in largest lettering, the queen of the eisteddfod--

EDITH WYNNE!

To him in the cab now a name of galling reminiscence notwithstanding the difference of orthography. It seems like a Nemesis pursuing him!

He grasps the leathern strap, and letting down the ill-fitting sash with a clatter, cries out to the cabman,--

"Drive on, Jarvey, or I'll be late for my train! A shilling extra for time."

If cabby's arms sparred slowly before, they now work as though he were engaged in catching flies; and with their quickened action, aided by several cuts of a thick-thonged whip, the Rosinante goes rattling through the narrow defile of Heming's Row, down King William Street, and across the Strand into the Charing Cross station.

CHAPTER x.x.xIX.

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 pa.s.sport 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 pa.s.sengers 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!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed 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?"