A tourist descending the Wye by boat from the town of Hereford to the
ruined Abbey of Tintern, may observe on its banks a small pagoda-like
structure; its roof, with a portion of the supporting columns,
o'er-topping a spray of evergreens. It is simply a summer-house, of the
kiosk or pavilion pattern, standing in the ornamental grounds of a
gentleman's residence. Though placed conspicuously on an elevated
point, the boat traveller obtains view of it only from a reach of the
river above. When opposite he loses sight of it; a spinney of tall
poplars drawing curtain-like between him and the higher bank. These
stand on an oblong island, which extends several hundred yards down the
stream, formed by an old channel, now forsaken. With all its wanderings
the Wye is not suddenly capricious; still, in the lapse of long ages it
has here and there changed its course, forming _aits_, or _eyots_, of
which this is one.
The tourist will not likely take the abandoned channel. He is bound and
booked for Tintern--possibly Chepstow--and will not be delayed by lesser
"lions." Besides, his hired boatmen would not deviate from their terms
of charter, without adding an extra to their fare.
Were he free, and disposed for exploration, entering this unused water
way, he would find it tortuous, with scarce any current, save in times
of flood; on one side the eyot, a low marshy flat, thickly overgrown
with trees; on the other a continuous cliff, rising forty feet sheer,
its _facade_ grim and grey, with flakes of reddish hue, where the frost
has detached pieces from the rock--the old red sandstone of
Herefordshire. Near its entrance he would catch a glimpse of the kiosk
on its crest; and, proceeding onward, will observe the tops of laurels
and other exotic evergreens, mingling their glabrous foliage with that
of the indigenous holly, ivy, and ferns; these last trailing over the
cliff's brow, and wreathing it with fillets of verdure, as if to conceal
its frowning corrugations.
About midway down the old river's bed he will arrive opposite a little
embayment in the high bank, partly natural, but in part quarried out of
the cliff--as evinced by a flight of steps, leading up at back,
chiselled out of the rock _in situ_.
The cove thus contrived is just large enough to give room to a row-boat;
and, if not out upon the river, one will be in it, riding upon its
painter; this attached to a ring in the red sandstone. It is a light
two-oared affair--a pleasure-boat, ornamentally painted, with cushioned
thwarts, and tiller ropes of coloured cord athwart its stern, which the
tourist will have turned towards him, in gold lettering, "The
Gwendoline."
Charmed by this Idyllic picture, he may forsake his own craft, and
ascend to the top of the stair. If so, he will have before his eyes a
lawn of park-like expanse, mottled with clumps of coppice, here and
there a grand old tree--oak, elm, or chestnut--standing solitary; at the
upper end a shrubbery of glistening evergreens, with gravelled walks,
fronting a handsome house; or, in the parlance of the estate agent, a
noble mansion. That is Llangorren Court, and there dwells the owner of
the pleasure-boat, as also prospective owner of the house, with some two
thousand acres of land lying adjacent.
The boat bears her baptismal name, the surname being Wynn, while people,
in a familiar way, speak of her as "Gwen Wynn;" this on account of her
being a lady of proclivities and habits that make her somewhat of a
celebrity in the neighbourhood. She not only goes boating, but hunts,
drives a pair of spirited horses, presides over the church choir, plays
its organ, looks after the poor of the parish--nearly all of it her own,
or soon to be--and has a bright smile, with a pleasant word, for
everybody.
If she be outside, upon the lawn, the tourist, supposing him a
gentleman, will withdraw; for across the grounds of Llangorren Court
there is no "right of way," and the presence of a stranger upon them
would be deemed an intrusion. Nevertheless, he would go back down the
boat stair reluctantly, and with a sigh of regret, that good manners do
not permit his making the acquaintance of Gwen Wynn without further loss
of time, or any ceremony of introduction.
But my readers are not thus debarred; and to them I introduce her, as
she saunters over this same lawn, on a lovely April morn.
She is not alone; another lady, by name Eleanor Lees, being with her.
They are nearly of the same age--both turned twenty--but in all other
respects unlike, even to contrast, though there is kinship between them.
Gwendoline Wynn is tall of form, fully developed; face of radiant
brightness, with blue-grey eyes, and hair of that chrome-yellow almost
peculiar to the Cymri--said to have made such havoc with the hearts of
the Roman soldiers, causing these to deplore the day when recalled home
to protect their seven-hilled city from Goths and Visigoths.
In personal appearance Eleanor Lees is the reverse of all this; being of
dark complexion, brown-haired, black-eyed, with a figure slender and
_petite_. Withal she is pretty; but it is only prettiness--a word
inapplicable to her kinswoman, who is pronouncedly beautiful.
Equally unlike are they in mental characteristics; the first-named being
free of speech, courageous, just a trifle fast, and possibly a little
imperious. The other of a reserved, timid disposition, and habitually
of subdued mien, as befits her station; for in this there is also
disparity between them--again a contrast. Both are orphans; but it is
an orphanage under widely different circumstances and conditions: the
one heiress to an estate worth some ten thousand pounds per annum; the
other inheriting nought save an old family name--indeed, left without
other means of livelihood, than what she may derive from a superior
education she has received.
Notwithstanding their inequality of fortune, and the very distant
relationship--for they are not even near as cousins--the rich girl
behaves towards the poor one as though they were sisters. No one seeing
them stroll arm-in-arm through the shrubbery, and hearing them hold
converse in familiar, affectionate tones, would suspect the little dark
damsel to be the paid "companion" of the lady by her side. Yet in such
capacity is she residing at Llangorren Court.
It is just after the hour of breakfast, and they have come forth in
morning robes of light muslin--dresses suitable to the day and the
season. Two handsome ponies are upon the lawn, its herbage dividing
their attention with the horns of a pet stag, which now and then
threaten to assail them.
All three, soon as perceiving the ladies, trot towards them; the ponies
stretching out their necks to be patted; the cloven-hoofed creature
equally courting caresses. They look especially to Miss Wynn, who is
more their mistress.
On this particular morning she does not seem in the humour for dallying
with them; nor has she brought out their usual allowance of lump sugar;
but, after a touch with her delicate fingers, and a kindly exclamation,
passes on, leaving them behind, to all appearance disappointed.
"Where are you going, Gwen?" asks the companion, seeing her step out
straight, and apparently with thoughts preoccupied. Their arms are now
disunited, the little incident with the animals having separated them.
"To the summer-house," is the response. "I wish to have a look at the
river. It should show fine this bright morning."
And so it does; as both perceive after entering the pavilion, which
commands a view of the valley, with a reach of the river above--the
latter, under the sun, glistening like freshly polished silver.
Gwen views it through a glass--a binocular she has brought out with her;
this of itself proclaiming some purpose aforethought, but not confided
to the companion. It is only after she has been long holding it
steadily to her eye, that the latter fancies there must be some object
within its field of view more interesting than the Wye's water, or the
greenery on its banks.
"What is it?" she naively asks. "You see something?"
"Only a boat," answers Gwen, bringing down the glass with a guilty look,
as if conscious of being caught. "Some tourist, I suppose, making down
to Tintern Abbey--like as not, a London cockney."
The young lady is telling a "white lie." She knows the occupant of that
boat is nothing of the kind. From London he may be--she cannot tell--
but certainly no sprig of cockneydom--unlike it as Hyperion to the
Satyr; at least so she thinks. But she does not give her thought to the
companion; instead, concealing it, she adds,--"How fond those town
people are of touring it upon our Wye!"
"Can you wonder at that?" asks Ellen. "Its scenery is so grand--I
should say, incomparable; nothing equal to it in England."
"I don't wonder," says Miss Wynn, replying to the question. "I'm only a
little bit vexed seeing them there. It's like the desecration of some
sacred stream, leaving scraps of newspapers in which they wrap their
sandwiches, with other picnicking debris on its banks! To say nought of
one's having to encounter the rude fellows that in these degenerate days
go a-rowing--shopboys from the towns, farm labourers, colliers,
hauliers, all sorts. I've half a mind to set fire to the _Gwendoline_,
burn her up, and never again lay hand on an oar."
Ellen Lees laughs incredulously as she makes rejoinder.
"It would be a pity," she says, in serio-comic tone. "Besides, the poor
people are entitled to a little recreation. They don't have too much of
it."
"Ah, true," rejoins Gwen, who, despite her grandeeism, is neither Tory
nor aristocrat. "Well, I've not yet decided on that little bit of
incendiarism, and shan't burn the _Gwendoline_--at all events not till
we've had another row out of her."
Not for a hundred pounds would she set fire to that boat, and never in
her life was she less thinking of such a thing. For just then she has
other views regarding the pretty pleasure craft, and intends taking seat
on its thwarts within less than twenty minutes' time.
"By the way," she says, as if the thought had suddenly occurred to her,
"we may as well have that row now--whether it's to be the last or not."
Cunning creature! She has had it in her mind all the morning; first
from her bed-chamber window, then from that of the breakfast-room,
looking up the river's reach, with the binocular at her eye, too, to
note if a certain boat, with a salmon-rod bending over it, passes down.
For one of its occupants is an angler.
"The day's superb," she goes on; "sun's not too hot--gentle breeze--just
the weather for a row. And the river looks so inviting--seems calling
us to come! What say you, Nell?"
"Oh! I've no objections."
"Let us in, then, and make ready. Be quick about it! Remember it's
April, and there may be showers. We mustn't miss a moment of that sweet
sunshine."
At this the two forsake the summer-house; and, lightly recrossing the
lawn, disappear within the dwelling.
While the anglers boat is still opposite the grounds, going on, eyes are
observing it from an upper window of the house; again those of Miss Wynn
herself, inside her dressing-room, getting ready for the river.
She had only short glimpses of it, over the tops of the trees on the
eyot, and now and then through breaks in their thinner spray. Enough,
however, to assure her that it contains two men, neither of them
cockneys. One at the oars she takes to be a professional waterman. But
he, seated in the stern is altogether unknown to her, save by sight--
that obtained when twice meeting him out on the river. She knows not
whence he comes, or where he is residing; but supposes him a stranger to
the neighbourhood, stopping at some hotel. If at the house of any of
the neighbouring gentry, she would certainly have heard of it. She is
not even acquainted with his name, though longing to learn it. But she
is shy to inquire, lest that might betray her interest in him. For such
she feels, has felt, ever since setting eyes on his strangely handsome
face.
As the boat again disappears behind the thick foliage, she sets, in
haste, to effect the proposed change of dress, saying, in soliloquy--for
she is now alone:--
"I wonder who, and what he can be? A gentleman, of course. But, then,
there are gentlemen, and gentlemen; single ones and--"
She has the word "married" on her tongue, but refrains speaking it.
Instead, she gives utterance to a sigh, followed by the reflection--
"Ah, me! That would be a pity--a dis--"
Again she checks herself, the thought being enough unpleasant without
the words.
Standing before the mirror, and sticking long pins into her hair, to
keep its rebellious plaits in their place, she continues soliloquising--
"If one only had a word with that young waterman who rows him! And were
it not that my own boatman is such a chatterer, I'd put him up to
getting that word. But no! It would never do. He'd tell aunt about
it; and then Madame la Chatelaine would be talking all sorts of serious
things to me--the which I mightn't relish. Well; in six months more the
old lady's trusteeship of this young lady is to terminate--at least
legally. Then I'll be my own mistress; and then--'twill be time enough
to consider whether I ought to have--a master. Ha, ha, ha!"
So laughing, as she surveys her superb figure in a cheval glass, she
completes the adjustment of her dress, by setting a hat upon her head,
and tightening the elastic, to secure against its being blown off while
in the boat. In fine, with a parting glance at the mirror, which shows
a satisfied expression upon her features, she trips lightly out of the
room, and on down the stairway.
Volume One, Chapter II.