Gwen Wynn: A Romance of the Wye

All act likewise, for it is a four-oared craft that carries them; and in a few seconds’ time they are rowing it straight for that of the angler’s.

With astonishment, and fast gathering indignation, the Hussar officer sees the heavy barge coming bow-on for his light fishing skiff, and is thoroughly sensible of the danger; the waterman becoming aware of it at the same instant of time.

“They mean mischief,” mutters Wingate; “what’d we best do, Captain? If you like I can keep clear, and shoot the Mary past ’em – easy enough.”

“Do so,” returns the salmon fisher, with the cigar still between his teeth – but now held bitterly tight, almost to biting off the stump. “You can keep on!” he adds, speaking calmly, and with an effort to keep down his temper; “that will be the best way, as things stand now. They look like they’d come up from below; and, if they show any ill manners at meeting, we can call them to account on return. Don’t concern yourself about your course. I’ll see to the steering. There! hard on the starboard oar!”

This last, as the two boats have arrived within less than three lengths of one another. At the same time Ryecroft, drawing tight the port tiller-cord, changes course suddenly, leaving just sufficient sea-way for his oarsman to shave past, and avoid the threatened collision.

Which is done the instant after – to the discomfiture of the would-be capsizers. As the skiff glides lightly beyond their reach, dancing over the river swell, as if in triumph and to mock them, they drop their oars, and send after it a chorus of yells, mingled with blasphemous imprecations.

In a lull between, the Hussar officer at length takes the cigar from his lips, and calls back to them —

“You ruffians! You shall rue it! Shout on – till you’re hoarse. There’s a reckoning for you, perhaps sooner than you expect.”

“Yes, ye damned scoun’rels!” adds the young waterman, himself so enraged as almost to foam at the mouth. “Ye’ll have to pay dear for sich a dastartly attemp’ to waylay Jack Wingate’s boat. That will ye.”

“Bah!” jeeringly retorts one of the roughs. “To blazes wi’ you, an’ yer boat!”

“Ay, to the blazes wi’ ye!” echo the others in drunken chorus; and, while their voices are still reverberating along the adjacent cliffs, the fishing skiff drifts round a bend of the river, bearing its owner and his fare out of their sight, as beyond earshot of their profane speech.

Volume One – Chapter Three

A Charon Corrupted

The lawn of Llangorren Court, for a time abandoned to the dumb quadrupeds, that had returned to their tranquil pasturing, is again enlivened by the presence of the two young ladies; but so transformed, that they are scarce recognisable as the same late seen upon it. Of course, it is their dresses that have caused the change; Miss Wynn now wearing a pea-jacket of navy blue, with anchor buttons, and a straw hat set coquettishly on her head, its ribbons of azure hue trailing over, and prettily contrasting with the plaits of her chrome-yellow hair, gathered in a grand coil behind. But for the flowing skirt below, she might be mistaken for a young mid, whose cheeks as yet show only the down – one who would “find sweethearts in every port.”

Miss Lees is less nautically attired; having but slipped over her morning dress a paletot of the ordinary kind, and on her head a plumed hat of the Neapolitan pattern. For all, a costume becoming; especially the brigand-like head gear which sets off her finely-chiselled features, and skin dark as any daughter of the South.

They are about starting towards the boat-dock, when a difficulty presents itself – not to Gwen, but the companion.

“We have forgotten Joseph!” she exclaims.

Joseph is an ancient retainer of the Wynn family, who, in its domestic affairs, plays parts of many kinds – among them the métier of boatman. It is his duty to look after the Gwendoline, see that she is snug in her dock, with oars and steering apparatus in order; go out with her when his young mistress takes a row on the river, or ferry any one of the family who has occasion to cross it – the last a need by no means rare, since for miles above and below there is nothing in the shape of bridge.

“No, we haven’t,” rejoins Joseph’s mistress, answering the exclamation of the companion. “I remembered him well enough – too well.”

“Why too well?” asks the other, looking a little puzzled.

“Because we don’t want him.”

“But surely, Gwen, you wouldn’t think of our going alone.”

“Surely I would, and do. Why not?”

“We’ve never done so before.”

“Is that any reason we shouldn’t now?”

“But Miss Linton will be displeased, if not very angry. Besides, as you know, there may be danger on the river.”

For a short while Gwen is silent, as if pondering on what the other has said. Not on the suggested danger. She is far from being daunted by that. But Miss Linton is her aunt – as already hinted, her legal guardian till of age – head of the house, and still holding authority, though exercising it in the mildest manner. And just on this account it would not be right to outrage it, nor is Miss Wynn the one to do so. Instead, she prefers a little subterfuge, which is in her mind as she makes rejoinder —

“I suppose we must take him along; though it’s very vexatious, and for various reasons.”

“What are they? May I know them?”

“You’re welcome. For one, I can pull a boat just as well as he, if not better. And for another, we can’t have a word of conversation without his hearing it – which isn’t at all nice, besides being inconvenient. As I’ve reason to know, the old curmudgeon is an incorrigible gossip, and tattles all over the parish, I only wish we’d some one else. What a pity I haven’t a brother, to go with us! But not to-day.”

The reserving clause, despite its earnestness, is not spoken aloud. In the aquatic excursion intended, she wants no companion of the male kind – above all, no brother. Nor will she take Joseph; though she signifies her consent to it, by desiring the companion to summon him.

As the latter starts off for the stable-yard, where the ferryman is usually to be found, Gwen says, in soliloquy —

“I’ll take old Joe as far as the boat stairs; but not a yard beyond. I know what will stay him there – steady as a pointer with a partridge six feet from its nose. By the way, have I got my purse with me?”

She plunges her hand into one of her pea-jacket pockets; and, there feeling the thing sought for, is satisfied.

By this Miss Lees has got back, bringing with her the versatile Joseph – a tough old servitor of the respectable family type, who has seen some sixty summers, more or less.

After a short colloquy, with some questions as to the condition of the pleasure-boat, its oars, and steering gear, the three proceed in the direction of the dock.

Arrived at the bottom of the boat stairs, Joseph’s mistress, turning to him, says —

“Joe, old boy, Miss Lees and I are going for a row. But, as the day’s fine, and the water smooth as glass, there’s no need for our having you along with us. So you can stay here till we return.”

The venerable retainer is taken aback by the proposal. He has never listened to the like before; for never before has the pleasure-boat gone to river without his being aboard. True, it is no business of his; still, as an ancient upholder of the family, with its honour and safety, he cannot assent to this strange innovation without entering protest. He does so, asking:

“But, Miss Gwen; what will your aunt say to it? She mayent like you young ladies to go rowin’ by yourselves? Besides, Miss, ye know there be some not werry nice people as moat meet ye on the river. ’Deed some v’ the roughest and worst o’ blaggarts.”

“Nonsense, Joseph! The Wye isn’t the Niger, where we might expect the fate of poor Mungo Park. Why, man, we’ll be as safe on it as upon our own carriage drive, or the little fishpond. As for aunt, she won’t say anything, because she won’t know. Shan’t, can’t, unless you peach on us. The which, my amiable Joseph, you’ll not do – I’m sure you will not?”

“How’m I to help it, Miss Gwen? When you’ve goed off, some o’ the house sarvints’ll see me here, an’, hows’ever I keep my tongue in check – ”

“Check it now!” abruptly breaks in the heiress, “and stop palavering, Joe! The house servants won’t see you – not one of them. When we’re off on the river, you’ll be lying at anchor in those laurel bushes above. And to keep you to your anchorage, here’s some shining metal.”

Saying which, she slips several shillings into his hand, adding, as she notes the effect, —

“Do you think it sufficiently heavy? If not – but never mind now. In our absence you can amuse yourself weighing, and counting the coins. I fancy they’ll do.”

She is sure of it, knowing the man’s weakness to be money, as it now proves.

Her argument is too powerful for his resistance, and he does not resist. Despite his solicitude for the welfare of the Wynn family, with his habitual regard of duty, the ancient servitor, refraining from further protest, proceeds to undo the knot of the Gwendoline’s painter.

Stepping into the boat, the other Gwendoline takes the oars, Miss Lees seating herself to steer.

“All right! Now, Joe, give us a push off.”

Joseph, having let all loose, does as directed; which sends the light craft clear out of its dock. Then, standing on the bottom step, with an adroit twirl of the thumb, he spreads the silver pieces over his palm – so that he may see how many – and, after counting and contemplating with pleased expression, slips them into his pocket, muttering to himself —

“I dar say it’ll be all right. Miss Gwen’s a oner to take care o’ herself; an’ the old lady neen’t a know any thin’ about it.”

To make his last words good, he mounts briskly back up the boat stairs, and ensconces himself in the heart of a thick-leaved laurestinus – to the great discomfort of a pair of missel-thrushes, which have there made nest, and commenced incubation.

Volume One – Chapter Four

On the River

The fair rower, vigorously bending to the oars, soon brings through the bye-way, and out into the main channel of the river.

Once in mid-stream, she suspends her stroke, permitting the boat to drift down with the current; which, for a mile below Llangorren, flows gently through meadow land, but a few feet above its own level, and flush with it in times of flood.

On this particular day there is none such – no rain having fallen for a week – and the Wye’s water is pure and clear. Smooth, too, as the surface of a mirror; only where, now and then, a light zephyr, playing upon it, stirs up the tiniest of ripples; a swallow dips its scimitar wings; or a salmon in bolder dash causes a purl, with circling eddies, whose wavelets extend wider and wider as they subside. So, with the trace of their boat’s keel; the furrow made by it instantly closing up, and the current resuming its tranquillity; while their reflected forms – too bright to be spoken of as shadows – now fall on one side, now on the other, as the capricious curving of the river makes necessary a change of course.

Never went boat down the Wye carrying freight more fair. Both girls are beautiful, though of opposite types, and in a different degree; while with one – Gwendoline Wynn – no water Nymph, or Naiad, could compare; her warm beauty in its real embodiment far excelling any conception of fancy, or flight of the most romantic imagination.

She is not thinking of herself now; nor, indeed, does she much at any time – least of all in this wise. She is anything but vain; instead, like Vivian Ryecroft, rather underrates herself. And possibly more than ever this morning; for it is with him her thoughts are occupied – surmising whether his may be with her, but not in the most sanguine hope. Such a man must have looked on many a form fair as hers, won smiles of many a woman beautiful as she. How can she expect him to have resisted, or that his heart is still whole?

While thus conjecturing, she sits half turned on the thwart, with oars out of water, her eyes directed down the river, as though in search of something there. And they are; that something a white helmet hat.

She sees it not; and as the last thought has caused her some pain, she lets down the oars with a plunge, and recommences pulling; now, and as in spite, at each dip of the blades breaking her own bright image!

During all this while Ellen Lees is otherwise occupied; her attention partly taken up with the steering, but as much given to the shores on each side – to the green pasture-land, of which, at intervals, she has a view, with the white-faced “Herefords” straying over it, or standing grouped in the shade of some spreading trees, forming pastoral pictures worthy the pencil of a Morland or Cuyp. In clumps, or apart, tower up old poplars, through whose leaves, yet but half unfolded, can be seen the rounded burrs of the mistletoe, looking like nests of rooks. Here and there, one overhangs the river’s bank, shadowing still deep pools, where the ravenous pike lies in ambush for “salmon pink” and such small fry; while on a bare branch above may be observed another of their persecutors – the kingfisher – its brilliant azure plumage in strong contrast with everything on the earth around, and like a bit of sky fallen from above. At intervals it is seen darting from side to side, or in longer flight following the bend of the stream, and causing scamper among the minnows – itself startled and scared by the intrusion of the boat upon its normally peaceful domain.

Miss Lees, who is somewhat of a naturalist, and has been out with the District Field Club on more than one “ladies’ day,” makes note of all these things. As the Gwendoline glides on, she observes beds of the water ranunculus, whose snow-white corollas, bending to the current, are oft rudely dragged beneath; while on the banks above, their cousins of golden sheen, mingling with the petals of yellow and purple loosestrife – for both grow here – with anemones, and pale, lemon-coloured daffodils – are but kissed, and gently fanned, by the balmy breath of Spring.

Easily guiding the craft down the slow-flowing stream, she has a fine opportunity of observing Nature in its unrestrained action – and takes advantage of it. She looks with delighted eye at the freshly-opened flowers, and listens with charmed ear to the warbling of the birds – a chorus, on the Wye, sweet and varied as anywhere on earth. From many a deep-lying dell in the adjacent hills she can hear the song of the thrush, as if endeavouring to outdo, and cause one to forget, the matchless strain of its nocturnal rival, the nightingale; or making music for its own mate, now on the nest, and occupied with the cares of incubation. She hears, too, the bold whistling carol of the blackbird, the trill of the lark soaring aloft, the soft sonorous note of the cuckoo, blending with the harsh scream of the jay, and the laughing cackle of the green woodpecker – the last loud beyond all proportion to the size of the bird, and bearing close resemblance to the cry of an eagle. Strange coincidence besides, in the woodpecker being commonly called “eekol” – a name, on the Wye, pronounced with striking similarity to that of the royal bird!

Pondering upon this very theme, Ellen has taken no note of how her companion is employing herself. Nor is Miss Wynn thinking of either flowers, or birds. Only when a large one of the latter – a kite – shooting out from the summit of a wooded hill, stays awhile soaring overhead, does she give thought to what so interests the other.

“A pretty sight!” observes Ellen, as they sit looking up at the sharp, slender wings, and long bifurcated tail, cut clear as a cameo against the cloudless sky. “Isn’t it a beautiful creature?”

“Beautiful, but bad;” rejoins Gwen, “like many other animated things – too like, and too many of them. I suppose, it’s on the look-out for some innocent victim, and will soon be swooping down at it. Ah, me! it’s a wicked world, Nell, with all its sweetness! One creature preying upon another – the strong seeking to devour the weak – these ever needing protection! Is it any wonder we poor women, weakest of all, should wish to – ”

She stays her interrogatory, and sits in silence, abstractedly toying with the handles of the oars, which she is balancing above water.

“Wish to do what?” asked the other.

“Get married!” answers the heiress of Llangorren, elevating her arms, and letting the blades fall with a plash, as if to drown a speech so bold; withal, watching its effect upon her companion, as she repeats the question in a changed form. “Is it strange, Ellen?”

“I suppose not,” Ellen timidly replies; blushingly too, for she knows how nearly the subject concerns herself, and half believes the interrogatory aimed at her. “Not at all strange,” she adds, more affirmatively. “Indeed very natural, I should say – that is, for women who are poor and weak, and really need a protector. But you, Gwen – who are neither one nor the other, but instead rich and strong, have no such need.”

“I’m not so sure of that. With all my riches and strength – for I am a strong creature; as you see, can row this boat almost as ably as a man,” – she gives a vigorous pull or two, as proof, then continuing, “Yes; and I think I’ve got great courage too. Yet, would you believe it, Nelly, notwithstanding all, I sometimes have a strange fear upon me?”

“Fear of what?”

“I can’t tell. That’s the strangest part of it; for I know of no actual danger. Some sort of vague apprehension that now and then oppresses me – lies on my heart, making it heavy as lead – sad and dark as the shadow of that wicked bird upon the water. Ugh!” she exclaims, taking her eyes off it, as if the sight, suggestive of evil, had brought on one of the fear spells she is speaking of.

“If it were a magpie,” observes Ellen, laughingly, “you might view it with suspicion. Most people do – even some who deny being superstitious. But a kite – I never heard of that being ominous of evil. No more its shadow; which as you see it there is but a small speck compared with the wide bright surface around. If your future sorrows be only in like proportion to your joys, they won’t signify much. See! Both the bird and its shadow are passing away – as will your troubles, if you ever have any.”

“Passing – perhaps, soon to return. Ha! look there. As I’ve said!”

This, as the kite swoops down upon a wood-quest, and strikes at it with outstretched talons. Missing it, nevertheless; for the strong-winged pigeon, forewarned by the other’s shadow, has made a quick double in its flight, and so shunned the deadly clutch. Still, it is not yet safe; its tree covert is far off on the wooded slope, and the tyrant continues the chase. But the hawk has its enemy too, in a gamekeeper with his gun. Suddenly it is seen to suspend the stroke of its wings, and go whirling downward; while a shot rings out on the air, and the cushat, unharmed, flies on for the hill.

“Good!” exclaims Gwen, resting the oars across her knees, and clapping her hands in an ecstasy of delight. “The innocent has escaped!”

“And for that you ought to be assured, as well as gratified;” puts in the companion, “taking it as a symbol of yourself, and those imaginary dangers you’ve been dreaming about.”

“True,” assents Miss Wynn, musingly, “but, as you see, the bird found a protector – just by chance, and in the nick of time.”

“So will you; without any chance, and at such time as may please you.”

“Oh!” exclaims Gwen, as if endowed with fresh courage. “I don’t want one – not I! I’m strong to stand alone.”

Another tug at the oars to show it. “No,” she continues, speaking between the plunges, “I want no protector – at least not yet – nor for a long while.”

“But there’s one wants you,” says the companion, accompanying her words with an interrogative glance. “And soon – soon as he can have you.”

“Indeed! I suppose you mean Master George Shenstone. Have I hit the nail upon the head?”

“You have.”

“Well; what of him?”

“Only that everybody observes his attentions to you.”

“Everybody is a very busy body. Being so observant, I wonder if this everybody has also observed how I receive them?”

“Indeed, yes.”

“How then?”

“With favour. ’Tis said you think highly of him.”

“And so I do. There are worse men in the world than George Shenstone – possibly few better. And many a good woman would, and might, be glad to become his wife. For all, I know one of a very indifferent sort who wouldn’t – that’s Gwen Wynn.”

“But he’s very good-looking?” Ellen urges; “the handsomest gentleman in the neighbourhood. Everybody says so.”

“There your everybody would be wrong again – if they thought as they say. But they don’t. I know one who thinks somebody else much handsomer than he.”

“Who?” asks Miss Lees, looking puzzled. For she has never heard of Gwendoline having a preference, save that spoken of.

“The Reverend William Musgrave,” replies Gwen, in turn bending inquisitive eyes on her companion, to whose cheeks the answer has brought a flush of colour, with a spasm of pain at the heart. Is it possible her rich relative – the heiress of Llangorren Court – can have set her eyes upon the poor curate of Llangorren Church, where her own thoughts have been secretly straying? With an effort to conceal them now, as the pain caused her, she rejoins interrogatively, but in faltering tone —

“You think Mr Musgrave handsomer than Mr Shenstone?”

“Indeed I don’t. Who says I do?”

“Oh – I thought,” stammers out the other, relieved – too pleased just then to stand up for the superiority of the curate’s personal appearance – “I thought you meant it that way.”

“But I didn’t. All I said was, that somebody thinks so; and that isn’t I. Shall I tell you who it is?”

Ellen’s heart is again quiet; she does not need to be told, already divining who it is – herself.

“You may as well let me,” pursues Gwen, in a bantering way. “Do you suppose, Miss Lees, I haven’t penetrated your secret long ago? Why, I knew it last Christmas, when you were assisting his demure reverence to decorate the church! Who could fail to observe that pretty hand play, when you two were twining the ivy around the altar-rail? And the holly, you were both so careless in handling – I wonder it didn’t prick your fingers to the bone! Why, Nell, ’twas as plain to me, as if I’d been at it myself. Besides, I’ve seen the same thing scores of times – so has everybody in the parish. Ha! you see, I’m not the only one with whose name this everybody has been busy; the difference being, that about me they’ve been mistaken, while concerning yourself they haven’t; instead, speaking pretty near the truth. Come, now, confess! Am I not right? Don’t have any fear, you can trust me.”

She does confess; though not in words. Her silence is equally eloquent; drooping eyelids, and blushing cheeks, making that eloquence emphatic. She loves Mr Musgrave.

“Enough!” says Gwendoline, taking it in this sense; “and, since you’ve been candid with me, I’ll repay you in the same coin. But mind you; it mustn’t go further.”

“Oh! certainly not,” assents the other, in her restored confidence about the curate, willing to promise anything in the world.

“As I’ve said,” proceeds Miss Wynn, “there are worse men in the world than George Shenstone, and but few better. Certainly none behind hounds, and I’m told he’s the crack shot of the county, and the best billiard player of his club. All accomplishments that have weight with us women – some of us. More still; he’s deemed good-looking, and is, as you say; known to be of good family and fortune. For all, he lacks one thing that’s wanted by – ”

She stays her speech till dipping the oars – their splash, simultaneous with, and half-drowning, the words, “Gwen Wynn.”

“What is it?” asks Ellen, referring to the deficiency thus hinted at.

“On my word, I can’t tell – for the life of me I cannot. It’s something undefinable; which one feels without seeing or being able to explain – just as ether, or electricity. Possibly it is the last. At all events, it’s the thing that makes us women fall in love; as no doubt you’ve found when your fingers were – were – well, so near being pricked by that holly. Ha, ha, ha!”

With a merry peal she once more sets to rowing; and for a time no speech passes between them – the only sounds heard being the songs of the birds, in sweet symphony with the rush of the water along the boat’s sides, and the rumbling of the oars in their rowlocks.