Gwen Wynn Part 42

They are on the outer edge of the rampart, looking upon the ground adjacent to the _enceinte_ of the ancient _cite_. 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 _fiacre_ 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 pa.s.sing 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 _pretres_ 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 gla.s.ses 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--

"MR. GEORGE SHENSTONE."

CHAPTER XLII.

WHAT DOES HE WANT?

"Mr. George Shenstone?" queries Captain Ryecroft, reading from the card.

"George Shenstone!" he repeats, with a look of blank astonishment--"What the deuce does it mean?"

"Does what mean?" asks the Major, catching the other's surprise.

"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?"

"Oh, 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 n.o.body 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."

"Oh, oh!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.es 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 _pretre_, 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 t.i.tle 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?"