"Oh, yes, ma'am. The bed hasn't been lied upon by anybody--neither sheets or coverlet disturbed. And there's her nightdress over the chair, just as I laid it out for her."
"Very strange," exclaims Miss Linton; "positively alarming."
For all, the old lady is not alarmed yet--at least, not to any great degree. Llangorren Court is a "house of many mansions," and can boast of a half-score spare bedrooms. And she, now its mistress, is a creature of many caprices. Just possible she has indulged in one after the dancing--entered the first sleeping apartment that chanced in her way, flung herself on a bed or sofa in her ball dress, fallen asleep, and is there still slumbering.
"Search them all!" commands Miss Linton, addressing a variety of domestics, whom the ringing of bells has brought around her.
They scatter off in different directions, Miss Lees along with them.
"It's very extraordinary. Don't you think so?"
This to the curate, the only one remaining in the room with her.
"I do, decidedly. Surely no harm has happened her. I trust not. How could there?"
"True, how? Still, I'm a little apprehensive, and won't feel satisfied till I see her. How my heart does palpitate, to be sure!"
She lays her spread palm over the cardiac region, with an expression less of pain, than the affectation of it.
"Well, Eleanor," she calls out to the companion, re-entering the room with Gibbons behind. "What news?"
"And you really think she hasn't slept in her room?"
"Almost sure she hasn't. The bed, as Gibbons told you, has never been touched, nor the sofa. Besides, the dress she wore last night isn't there."
"Nor anywhere else, ma'am," puts in the maid; about such matters specially intelligent. "As you know, 'twas the sky-blue silk, with blonde lace over-skirt, and flower-de-loose on it. I've looked everywhere, and can't find a thing she had on--not so much as a ribbon!"
The other searchers are now returning in rapid succession, all with a similar tale. No word of the missing one--neither sign nor trace of her.
At length the alarm is serious and real, reaching fever height. Bells ring, and servants are sent in every direction. They go rushing about, no longer confining their search to the sleeping apartments, but extending it to rooms where only lumber has place--to cellars almost unexplored, garrets long unvisited, everywhere. Closet and cupboard doors are drawn open, screens dashed aside, and panels parted, with keen glances sent through the chinks. Just as in the baronial castle, and on that same night when young Lovel lost his "own fair bride."