Gwen Wynn: A Romance of the Wye

Soon, however, those who are backing her begin to anticipate disappointment. She is not shooting with her usual skill, nor yet earnestness. Instead, negligently, and to all appearance, with thoughts abstracted; her eyes every now and then straying over the ground, scanning the various groups, as if in search of a particular individual. The gathering is large – nearly a hundred people present – and one might come or go without attracting observation. She evidently expects one to come who is not yet there; and oftener than elsewhere her glances go towards the boat-dock, as if the personage expected should appear in that direction. There is a nervous restlessness in her manner, and after each reconnaissance of this kind, an expression of disappointment on her countenance.

It is not unobserved. A gentleman by her side notes it, and with some suspicion of its cause – a suspicion that pains him. It is George Shenstone; who is attending on her, handing the arrows – in short, acting as her aide-de-camp. Neither is he adroit in the exercise of his duty; instead performs it bunglingly; his thoughts preoccupied, and eyes wandering about. His glances, however, are sent in the opposite direction – to the gate entrance of the park, visible from the place where the targets are set up.

They are both “prospecting” for the selfsame individual, but with very different ideas – one eagerly anticipating his arrival, the other as earnestly hoping he may not come. For the expected one is a gentleman – no other than Vivian Ryecroft.

Shenstone knows the Hussar officer has been invited; and, however hoping or wishing it, has but little faith he will fail. Were it himself no ordinary obstacle could prevent his being present at that archery meeting, any more than would five-barred gate, or bullfinch, hinder him from keeping up with hounds.

As time passes without any further arrivals, and the tardy guest has not yet put in appearance, Shenstone begins to think he will this day have Miss Wynn to himself, or at least without any very formidable competitor. There are others present who seek her smiles – some aspiring to her hand – but none he fears so much as the one still absent.

Just as he is becoming calm, and confident, he is saluted by a gentleman of the genus “swell,” who, approaching, drawls out the interrogatory: —

“Who is that fella, Shenstone?”

“What fellow?”

“He with the vewy peculya head gear? Indian affair —topee, I bewieve they call it.”

“Where?” asks Shenstone, starting and staring to all sides.

“Yondaw! Appwoaching from the diwection of the rivaw. Looks a fwesh awival. I take it, he must have come by bawt! Knaw him?”

George Shenstone, strong man though he be, visibly trembles. Were Gwen Wynn at that moment to face about, and aim one of her arrows at his breast, it would not bring more pallor upon his cheeks, nor pain to his heart. For he wearing the “peculya head gear” is the man he most fears, and whom he had hoped not to see this day.

So much is he affected, he does not answer the question put to him; nor indeed has he opportunity, as just then Miss Wynn, sighting the topee too, suddenly turning, says to him: —

“George! be good enough to take charge of these things.” She holds her bow with an arrow she had been affixing to the string. “Yonder’s a gentleman just arrived; who you know is a stranger. Aunt will expect me to receive him. I’ll be back soon as I’ve discharged my duty.”

Delivering the bow and unspent shaft, she glides off without further speech or ceremony.

He stands looking after; in his eyes anything but a pleased expression. Indeed, sullen, almost angry, as watching her every movement, he notes the manner of her reception – greeting the new comer with a warmth and cordiality he, Shenstone, thinks uncalled for, however much stranger the man may be. Little irksome to her seems the discharge of that so-called duty; but so exasperating to the baronet’s son, he feels like crushing the bow stick between his fingers, or snapping it in twain across his knee!

As he stands with eyes glaring upon them, he is again accosted by his inquisitive acquaintance, who asks:

“What’s the matter, Jawge? Yaw haven’t answered my intewogatowy!”

“What was it? I forget.”

“Aw, indeed! That’s stwange. I merely wished to know who Mr White Cap is?”

“Just what I’d like to know myself. All I can tell you is, that he’s an army fellow – in the Cavalry I believe – by name Ryecroft.”

“Aw yas; Cavalwy. That’s evident by the bend of his legs. Wyquoft – Wyquoft, you say?”

“So he calls himself – a captain of Hussars – his own story.”

This in a tone and with a shrug of insinuation.

“But yaw don’t think he’s an adventuwer?”

“Can’t say whether he is, or not.”

“Who’s his endawser? How came he intwoduced at Llangowen?”

“That I can’t tell you.” He could though; for Miss Wynn, true to her promise, has made him acquainted with the circumstances of the river adventure, though not those leading to it; and he, true to his, has kept them a secret. In a sense therefore, he could not tell, and the subterfuge is excusable.

“By Jawve! The Light Bob appears to have made good use of his time – however intwoduced. Miss Gwen seems quite familiaw with him; and yondaw the little Lees shaking hands, as though the two had been acquainted evaw since coming out of their cwadles! See! They’re dwagging him up to the ancient spinster, who sits enthawned in her chair like a queen of the Tawnament times. Vewy mediaeval the whole affair – vewy!”

“Instead, very modern; in my opinion, disgustingly so!”

“Why d’y aw say that, Jawge?”

“Why! Because in either olden or mediaeval times such a thing couldn’t have occurred – here in Herefordshire.”

“What thing, pway?”

“A man admitted into good society without endorsement or introduction. Now-a-days, any one may be so; claim acquaintance with a lady, and force his company upon her, simply from having had the chance to pick up a dropped pocket-handkerchief, or offer his umbrella in a skiff of a shower!”

“But, shawly, that isn’t how the gentleman yondaw made acquaintance with the fair Gwendoline?”

“Oh! I don’t say that,” rejoins Shenstone with forced attempt at a smile – more natural, as he sees Miss Wynn separate from the group they are gazing at, and come back to reclaim her bow. Better satisfied, now, he is rather worried by his importunate friend, and to get rid of him adds:

“If you are really desirous to know how Miss Wynn became acquainted with him, you can ask the lady herself.”

Not for all the world would the swell put that question to Gwen Wynn. It would not be safe; and thus snubbed he saunters away, before she is up to the spot.

Ryecroft, left with Miss Linton, remains in conversation with her. It is not his first interview; for several times already has he been a visitor at Llangorren – introduced by the young ladies as the gentleman who, when the pleasure-boat was caught in a dangerous whirl, out of which old Joseph was unable to extricate it, came to their rescue – possibly to the saving of their lives! Thus, the version of the adventure, vouchsafed to the aunt – sufficient to sanction his being received at the Court.

And the ancient toast of Cheltenham has been charmed with him. In the handsome Hussar officer she beholds the typical hero of her romance reading; so much like it, that Lord Lutestring has long ago gone out of her thoughts – passed from her memory as though he had been but a musical sound. Of all who bend before her this day, the worship of none is so welcome as that of the martial stranger.

Resuming her bow, Gwen shoots no better than before. Her thoughts, instead of being concentrated on the painted circles, as her eyes, are half the time straying over her shoulders to him behind, still in a tête-à-tête with the aunt. Her arrows fly wild and wide, scarce one sticking in the straw. In fine, among all the competitors, she counts lowest score – the poorest she has herself ever made. But what matters it? She is only too pleased when her quiver is empty, and she can have excuse to return to Miss Linton, on some question connected with the hospitalities of the house.

Observing all this, and much more besides, George Shenstone feels aggrieved – indeed exasperated – so terribly, it takes all his best breeding to withhold him from an exhibition of bad behaviour. He might not succeed were he to remain much longer on the ground – which he does not. As if misdoubting his power of restraint, and fearing to make a fool of himself, he too frames excuse, and leaves Llangorren long before the sports come to a close. Not rudely, or with any show of spleen. He is a gentleman, even in his anger; and bidding a polite, and formal, adieu to Miss Linton, with one equally ceremonious, but more distant, to Miss Wynn, he slips round to the stables, orders his horse, leaps into the saddle, and rides off.

Many the day he has entered the gates of Llangorren with a light and happy heart – this day he goes out of them with one heavy and sad.

If missed from the archery meeting, it is not by Miss Wynn. Instead, she is glad of his being gone. Notwithstanding the love passion for another now occupying her heart – almost filling it – there is still room there for the gentler sentiment of pity. She knows how Shenstone suffers – how could she help knowing? and pities him.

Never more than at this same moment, despite that distant, half disdainful adieu, vouchsafed to her at parting; by him intended to conceal his thoughts, as his sufferings, while but the better revealing them. How men underrate the perception of women! In matters of this kind a very intuition.

None keener than that of Gwen Wynn. She knows why he has gone so short away, – well as if he had told her. And with the compassionate thought still lingering, she heaves a sigh; sad as she sees him ride out through the gate – going in reckless gallop – but succeeded by one of relief, soon as he is out of sight!

In an instant after, she is gay and gladsome as ever; once more bending the bow, and making the catgut twang. But now shooting straight – hitting the target every time, and not unfrequently lodging a shaft in the “gold.” For he who now attends on her, not only inspires confidence, but excites her to the display of skill. Captain Ryecroft has taken George Shenstone’s place, as her aide-de-camp; and while he hands the arrows, she spending them, others of a different kind pass between – the shafts of Cupid – of which there is a full quiver in the eyes of both.

Volume One – Chapter Fourteen

Beating about the Bush

Naturally, Captain Ryecroft is the subject of speculation among the archers at Llangorren. A man of his mien would be so anywhere – if stranger. The old story of the unknown knight suddenly appearing on the tourney’s field with closed visor, only recognisable by a love-lock or other favour of the lady whose cause he comes to champion.

He, too, wears a distinctive badge – in the white cap. For though our tale is of modern time, it antedates that when Brown began to affect the pugaree– sham of Manchester Mills – as an appendage to his cheap straw hat. That on the head of Captain Ryecroft is the regular forage cap with quilted cover. Accustomed to it in India – whence he has but lately returned – he adheres to it in England without thought of its attracting attention and as little caring whether it do or not.

It does, however. Insular, we are supremely conservative – some might call it “caddish” – and view innovations with a jealous eye; as witness the so-called “moustache movement” not many years ago, and the fierce controversy it called forth.

For other reasons the officer of Hussars is at this same archery gathering a cynosure of eyes. There is a perfume of romance about him; in the way he has been introduced to the ladies of Llangorren; a question asked by others besides the importunate friend of George Shenstone. The true account of the affair with the drunken foresters has not got abroad – these keeping dumb about their own discomfiture; while Jack Wingate, a man of few words, and on this special matter admonished to silence, has been equally close-mouthed; Joseph also mute for reasons already mentioned.

Withal, a vague story has currency in the neighbourhood, of a boat, with two young ladies, in danger of being capsized – by some versions actually upset – and the ladies rescued from drowning by a stranger who chanced to be salmon fishing near by – his name, Ryecroft. And as this tale also circulates among the archers at Llangorren, it is not strange that some interest should attach to the supposed hero of it, now present.

Still, in an assemblage so large, and composed of such distinguished people – many of whom are strangers to one another – no particular personage can be for long an object of special concern; and if Captain Ryecroft continue to attract observation, it is neither from curiosity as to how he came there, nor the peculiarity of his head-dress, but the dark handsome features beneath it. On these more than one pair of bright eyes occasionally become fixed, regarding them with admiration.

None so warmly as those of Gwen Wynn; though hers neither openly nor in a marked manner. For she is conscious of being under the surveillance of other eyes, and needs to observe the proprieties.

In which she succeeds; so well, that no one watching her could tell, much less say, there is aught in her behaviour to Captain Ryecroft beyond the hospitality of host – which in a sense she is – to guest claiming the privileges of a stranger. Even when during an interregnum of the sports the two go off together, and, after strolling for a time through the grounds, are at length seen to step inside the summer-house, it may cause, but does not merit, remark. Others are acting similarly, sauntering in pairs, loitering in shady places, or sitting on rustic benches. Good society allows the freedom, and to its credit. That which is corrupt alone may cavil at it, and shame the day when such confidence be abused and abrogated!

Side by side they take stand in the little pavilion, under the shadow of its painted zinc roof. It may not have been all chance their coming thither – no more the archery party itself. That Gwendoline Wynn, who suggested giving it, can alone tell. But standing there with their eyes bent on the river, they are for a time silent – so much, that each can hear the beating of the other’s heart – both brimful of love.

At such moment one might suppose there could be no reserve or reticence, but confession full, candid, and mutual. Instead, at no time is this farther off. If le joie fait peur, far more l’amour.

And with all that has passed is there fear between them. On her part springing from a fancy she has been over forward – in her gushing gratitude for that service done, given too free expression to it, and needs being more reserved now. On his side speech is stayed by a reflection somewhat akin, with others besides. In his several calls at the Court his reception has been both welcome and warm. Still, not beyond the bounds of well-bred hospitality. But why on each and every occasion has he found a gentleman there – the same every time – George Shenstone by name? There before him, and staying after! And this very day, what meant Mr Shenstone by that sudden and abrupt departure? Above all, why her distraught look, with the sigh accompanying it, as the baronet’s son went galloping out of the gate? Having seen the one, and heard the other, Captain Ryecroft has misinterpreted both. No wonder his reluctance to speak words of love.

And so for a time they are silent, the dread of misconception, with consequent fear of committal, holding their lips sealed. On a simple utterance now may hinge their life’s happiness, or its misery.

Nor is it so strange, that in a moment fraught with such mighty consequence, conversation should be not only timid, but commonplace. They who talk of love’s eloquence, but think of it in its lighter phases – perhaps its lying. When truly, deeply, felt it is dumb, as devout worshipper in the presence of the divinity worshipped. Here, side by side, are two highly organised beings – a man handsome and courageous, a woman beautiful and aught but timid – both well up in the accomplishments, and gifted with the graces of life – loving each other to their souls’ innermost depths, yet embarrassed in manner, and constrained in speech, as though they were a couple of rustics! More; for Corydon would fling his arms around his Phyllis, and give her an eloquent smack, which she with like readiness would return.

Very different the behaviour of these in the pavilion. They stand for a time silent as statues – though not without a tremulous motion, scarce perceptible – as if the amorous electricity around stifled their breathing, for the time hindering speech. And when at length this comes, it is of no more significance than what might be expected between two persons lately introduced, and feeling but the ordinary interest in one another!

It is the lady who speaks first: —

“I understand you’ve been but a short while resident in our neighbourhood, Captain Ryecroft?”

“Not quite three months, Miss Wynn. Only a week or two before I had the pleasure of making your acquaintance.”

“Thank you for calling it a pleasure. Not much in the manner, I should say; but altogether the contrary,” she laughs, adding —

“And how do you like our Wye?”

“Who could help liking it?”

“There’s been much said of its scenery – in books and newspapers. You really admire it?”

“I do, indeed.” His preference is pardonable under the circumstances. “I think it the finest in the world.”

“What! you such a great traveller! In the tropics too; upon rivers that run between groves of evergreen trees, and over sands of gold! Do you really mean that, Captain Ryecroft?”

“Really – truthfully. Why not, Miss Wynn?”

“Because I supposed those grand rivers we read of were all so much superior to our little Herefordshire stream; in flow of water, scenery, everything – ”

“Nay, not everything!” he says, interruptingly. “In volume of water they may be; but far from it in other respects. In some it is superior to them all – Rhine, Rhone, ah! Hippocrene itself!”

His tongue is at length getting loosed.

“What other respects?” she asks.

“The forms reflected in it,” he answers hesitatingly.

“Not those of vegetation! Surely our oaks, elms, and poplars cannot be compared with the tall palms and graceful tree ferns of the tropics?”

“No; not those.”

“Our buildings neither, if photography tells truth, which it should. Those wonderful structures – towers, temples, pagodas – of which it has given us the fac similes– far excel anything we have on the Wye – or anything in England. Even our Tintern, which we think so very grand, were but as nothing to them. Isn’t that so?”

“True,” he says, assentingly. “One must admit the superiority of Oriental architecture.”

“But you’ve not told me what form our English river reflects, so much to your admiration!”

He has a fine opportunity for poetical reply. The image is in his mind – her own – with the word upon his tongue, “woman’s.” But he shrinks from giving it utterance. Instead, retreating from the position he had assumed, he rejoins evasively: —

“The truth is, Miss Wynn, I’ve had a surfeit of tropical scenery, and was only too glad once more to feast my eyes on the hill and dale landscapes of dear old England. I know none to compare with these of the Wyeside.”

“It’s very pleasing to hear you say that – to me especially. It’s but natural I should love our beautiful Wye – I, born on its banks, brought up on them, and, I suppose, likely to – ”

“What?” he asks, observing that she has paused in her speech.

“Be buried on them!” she answers, laughingly. She intended to have said “Stay on them for the rest of my life.”

“You’ll think that a very grave conclusion,” she adds, keeping up the laugh.

“One at all events very far off – it is to be hoped. An eventuality not to arise, till after you’ve passed many long and happy days – whether on the Wye, or elsewhere.”

“Ah! who can tell? The future is a sealed book to all of us.”

“Yours need not be – at least as regards its happiness. I think that is assured.”

“Why do you say so, Captain Ryecroft?”

“Because it seems to me, as though you had yourself the making of it.”

He saying no more than he thinks; far less. For he believes she could make fate itself – control it, as she can his. And as he would now confess to her – is almost on the eve of it – but hindered by recalling that strange look and sigh sent after Shenstone. His fond fancies, the sweet dreams he has been indulging in ever since making her acquaintance, may have been but illusions. She may be playing with him, as he would with a fish on his hook. As yet, no word of love has passed her lips. Is there thought of it in her heart – for him?

“In what way? What mean you?” she asks, her liquid eyes turned upon him with a look of searching interrogation.

The question staggers him. He does not answer it as he would, and again replies evasively – somewhat confusedly.

“Oh! I only meant, Miss Wynn – that you so young – so – well, with all the world before you – surely have your happiness in your own hands.”

If he knew how much it is in his he would speak more courageously, and possibly with greater plainness. But he knows not, nor does she tell him. She, too, is cautiously retentive, and refrains taking advantage of his words, full of suggestion.

It will need another seance– possibly more than one – before the real confidence can be exchanged between them. Natures like theirs do not rush into confession as the common kind. With them it is as with the wooing of eagles.

She simply rejoins:

“I wish it were,” adding with a sigh, “Far from it, I fear.”

He feels as if he had drifted into a dilemma – brought about by his own gaucherie– from which something seen up the river, on the opposite side, offers an opportunity to escape – a house. It is the quaint old habitation of Tudor times. Pointing to it, he says:

“A very odd building, that! If I’ve been rightly informed, Miss Wynn, it belongs to a relative of yours?”

“I have a cousin who lives there.” The shadow suddenly darkening her brow, with the slightly explicit rejoinder, tells him he is again on dangerous ground. He attributes it to the character he has heard of Mr Murdock. His cousin is evidently disinclined to converse about him.

And she is; the shadow still staying. If she knew what is at that moment passing within Glyngog – could but hear the conversation carried on at its dining table – it might be darker. It is dark enough in her heart, as on her face – possibly from a presentiment.

Ryecroft more than ever embarrassed, feels it a relief when Ellen Lees, with the Rev. Mr Musgrave as her cavalier attendant – they, too, straying solitarily – approach near enough to be hailed, and invited into the pavilion.

So the dialogue between the cautious lovers comes to an end – to both of them unsatisfactory enough. For this day their love must remain unrevealed; though never man and woman more longed to learn the sweet secret of each other’s heart.

Volume One – Chapter Fifteen

A Spiritual Adviser

While the sports are in progress outside Llangorren Court, inside Glyngog House is being eaten that dinner to commence with salmon in season and end with pheasant out.

It is early; but the Murdocks, often glad to eat what Americans call a “square meal,” have no set hours for eating, while the priest is not particular.

In the faces of the trio seated at the table, a physiognomist might find interesting study, and note expressions that would puzzle Lavater himself. Nor could they be interpreted by the conversation which, at first, only refers to topics of a trivial nature. But now and then, a mot of double meaning let down by Rogier, and a glance surreptitiously exchanged between him and his countryman, tell that the thoughts of these two are running upon themes different from those about which are their words.

Murdock, by no means of a trusting disposition, but ofttimes furiously jealous – has nevertheless, in this respect, no suspicion of the priest, less from confidence than a sort of contempt for the pallid puny creature, whom he feels he could crush in a moment of mad anger. And broken though he be, the stalwart, and once strong, Englishman could still do that. To imagine such a man as Rogier a rival in the affections of his own wife, would be to be little himself. Besides, he holds fast to that proverbial faith in the spiritual adviser, not always well founded – in his case certainly misplaced. Knowing nought of this, however, their exchanged looks, however markedly significant, escape his observation. Even if he did observe, he could not read in them aught relating to love. For, this day there is not; the thoughts of both are absorbed by a different passion – cupidity. They are bent upon a scheme of no common magnitude, but grand and comprehensive – neither more nor less than to get possession of an estate worth 10,000 pounds a year – that Llangorren. They know its value as well as the steward who gives receipts for its rents.