And while searching for their young mistress, the domestics of Llangorren Court have the romantic tale in their minds. Not one of them but knows the fine old song of the "Mistletoe Bough." Male and female--all have heard it sung in that same house, at every Christmas-tide, under the "kissing bush," where the pale green branch and its waxen berries were conspicuous.
It needs not the mystic memory to stimulate them to zealous exertions. Respect for their young mistress--with many of them almost adoration--is enough; and they search as if for sister, wife, or child, according to their feelings and attachments.
In vain--all in vain. Though certain that no "old oak chest" inside the walls of Llangorren Court encloses a form destined to become a skeleton, they cannot find Gwen Wynn. Dead or living, she is not in the house.
The first hurried search, with its noisy excitement, proving fruitless, there follows an interregnum calmer with suspended activity. Indeed, Miss Linton directs it so. Now convinced that her niece has really disappeared from the place, she thinks it prudent to deliberate before proceeding further.
She has no thought that the young lady has acted otherwise than of her own will. To suppose her carried off is too absurd--a theory not to be entertained for an instant. And having gone so, the questions are, why, and whither? After all, it may be, that at the ball's departing, moved by a mad prank, she leaped into the carriage of some lady friends, and was whirled home with them, just in the dress she had been dancing in. With such an impulsive creature as Gwen Wynn, the freak was not improbable. Nor is there any one to say nay. In the bustle and confusion of departure, the other domestics were busy with their own affairs, and Gibbons sound asleep.
And if true, a "hue and cry" raised and reaching the outside world would at least beget ridicule, if it did not cause absolute scandal. To avoid this, the servants are forbidden to go beyond the confines of the Court, or carry any tale outward--for the time.
Beguiled by this hopeful belief, Miss Linton, with the companion assisting, scribbles off a number of notes, addressed to the head of three or four families in whose houses her niece must have so abruptly elected to take refuge for the night--merely to ask if such was the case, the question couched in phrase guarded, and as possible suggestive. These are dispatched by trusted messengers, cautioned to silence; Mr. Musgrave himself volunteering a round of calls at other houses, to make personal inquiry.