While Mr Musgrave is boring the elderly spinster about new scarlet
cloaks for the girls of the church choir, and other parish matters,
George Shenstone is standing on the topmost step of the boat stair, in a
mood of mind even less enviable than hers. For he has looked down into
the dock, and there sees no Gwendoline--neither boat nor lady--nor is
there sign of either upon the water, far as he can command a view of it.
No sounds, such as he would wish, and might expect to hear--no dipping
of oars, nor, what would be still more agreeable to his ear, the soft
voices of women. Instead only the note of a cuckoo, in monotonous
repetition, the bird balancing itself on a branch near by; and, farther
off, the _hiccol_, laughing, as if in mockery--and at him! Mocking his
impatience; ay, something more, almost his misery! That it is so his
soliloquy tells:
"Odd her being out on the river! She promised me to go riding to-day.
Very odd indeed! Gwen isn't the same she was--acting strange altogether
for the last three or four days. Wonder what it means! By Jove, I
can't comprehend it!"
His noncomprehension does not hinder a dark shadow from stealing over
his brow, and there staying.
It is not unobserved. Through the leaves of the evergreen Joseph notes
the pained expression, and interprets it in his own shrewd way--not far
from the right one.
The old servant soliloquising in less conjectural strain, says, or
rather thinks--
"Master George be mad sweet on Miss Gwen. The country folk are all
talkin' o't; thinkin' she's same on him, as if they knew anything about
it. I knows better. An' he ain't no ways confident, else there
wouldn't be that queery look on's face. It's the token o' jealousy for
sure. I don't believe he have suspicion o' any rival particklar. Ah!
it don't need that wi' sich a grand beauty as she be. He as love her
might be jealous o' the sun kissing her cheeks, or the wind tossin' her
hair!"
Joseph is a Welshman of Bardic ancestry, and thinks poetry. He
continues--
"I know what's took her on the river, if he don't. Yes--yes, my young
lady! Ye thought yerself wonderful clever leavin' old Joe behind,
tellin' him to hide hisself, and bribin' him to stay hid! And d'y
'spose I didn't obsarve them glances exchanged twixt you and the salmon
fisher--sly, but for all that, hot as streaks o' fire? And d'ye think I
didn't see Mr Whitecap going down, afore ye thought o' a row yerself.
Oh, no; I noticed nothin' o' all that, not I? 'Twarn't meant for me--
not for Joe--ha, ha!"
With a suppressed giggle at the popular catch coming in so _apropos_, he
once more fixes his eyes on the face of the impatient watcher,
proceeding with his soliloquy, though in changed strain:
"Poor young gentleman! I do pity he to be sure. He are a good sort,
an' everybody likes him. So do she, but not the way he want her to.
Well; things o' that kind allers do go contrary wise--never seem to run
smooth like. I'd help him myself if 'twar in my power, but it ain't.
In such cases help can only come frae the place where they say matches
be made--that's Heaven. Ha! he's lookin' a bit brighter! What's
cheerin' him? The boat coming back? I can't see it from here, nor I
don't hear any rattle o' oars!"
The change he notes in George Shenstone's manner is not caused by the
returning pleasure craft. Simply a reflection which crossing his mind,
for the moment tranquillises him.
"What a stupid I am!" he mutters self-accusingly. "Now I remember,
there was nothing said about the hour we were to go riding, and I
suppose she understood in the afternoon. It was so the last time we
went out together. By Jove! yes. It's all right, I take it; she'll be
back in good time yet."
Thus reassured he remains listening. Still more satisfied, when a dull
thumping sound, in regular repetition, tells him of oars working in
their rowlocks. Were he learned in boating tactics he would know there
are two pairs of them, and think this strange too; since the
_Gwendoline_ carries only one. But he is not so skilled--instead,
rather averse to aquatics--his chosen home the hunting field, his
favourite seat in a saddle, not on a boat's thwart. It is only when the
plashing of the oars in the tranquil water of the bye-way is borne clear
along the cliff, that he perceives there are two pairs at work, while at
the same time he observes two boats approaching the little dock, where
but one belongs!
Alone at that leading boat does he look; with eyes in which, as he
continues to gaze, surprise becomes wonderment, dashed with something
like displeasure. The boat he has recognised at the first glance--the
_Gwendoline_--as also the two ladies in the stern. But there is also a
man on the mid thwart plying the oars. "Who the deuce is he?" Thus to
himself George Shenstone puts it. Not old Joe, not the least like him.
Nor is it the family Charon who sits solitary on the thwarts of that
following. Instead, Joseph is now by Mr Shenstone's side, passing him
in haste--making to go down the boat stairs!
"What's the meaning of all this, Joe?" asks the young man, in stark
astonishment.
"Meanin' o' what, sir?" returns the old boatman, with an air of assumed
innocence. "Be there anythin' amiss?"
"Oh, nothing," stammers Shenstone. "Only I supposed you were out with
the young ladies. How is it you haven't gone?"
"Well, sir, Miss Gwen didn't wish it. The day bein' fine, an' nothing
o' flood in the river, she sayed she'd do the rowin' herself."
"She hasn't been doing it for all that," mutters Shenstone to himself,
as Joseph glides past and on down the stair; then repeating, "Who the
deuce is he?" the interrogation as before, referring to him who rows the
pleasure-boat.
By this it has been brought, bow in, to the dock, its stern touching the
bottom of the stair; and, as the ladies step out of it, George Shenstone
overhears a dialogue, which, instead of quieting his perturbed spirit,
but excites him still more--almost to madness. It is Miss Wynn who has
commenced it, saying.
"You'll come up to the house, and let me introduce you to my aunt?"
This to the gentleman who has been pulling her boat, and has just
abandoned the oars soon as seeing its painter in the hands of the
servant.
"Oh, thank you!" he returns. "I would, with pleasure; but, as you see,
I'm not quite presentable just now--anything but fit for a drawing-room.
So I beg you'll excuse me to-day."
His saturated shirt-front, with other garments dripping, tells why the
apology; but does not explain either that or aught else to him on the
top of the stair; who, hearkening further, hears other speeches which,
while perplexing him, do nought to allay the wild tempest now surging
through his soul. Unseen himself--for he has stepped behind the tree
lately screening Joseph--he sees Gwen Wynn hold out her hand to be
pressed in parting salute--hears her address the stranger in words of
gratitude, warm as though she were under some great obligation to him!
Then the latter leaps out of the pleasure-boat into the other brought
alongside, and is rowed away by his waterman; while the ladies ascend
the stair--Gwen, lingeringly, at almost every step, turning her face
towards the fishing skiff, till this, pulled around the upper end of the
eyot, can no more be seen.
All this George Shenstone observes, drawing deductions which send the
blood in chill creep through his veins. Though still puzzled by the wet
garments, the presence of the gentleman wearing them seems to solve that
other enigma, unexplained as painful--the strangeness he has of late
observed in the ways of Miss Wynn. Nor is he far out in his fancy,
bitter though it be.
Not until the two ladies have reached the stair head do they become
aware of his being there; and not then, till Gwen has made some
observations to the companion, which, as those addressed to the
stranger, unfortunately for himself, George Shenstone overhears.
"We'll be in time for luncheon yet, and aunt needn't know anything of
what's delayed us--at least, not just now. True, if the like had
happened to herself--say some thirty or forty years ago--she'd want all
the world to hear of it, particularly that portion of the world yclept
Cheltenham. The dear old lady! Ha, ha!" After a laugh, continuing:
"But, speaking seriously, Nell, I don't wish any one to be the wiser
about our bit of an escapade--least of all, a certain young gentleman,
whose Christian name begins with a G, and surname with an S."
"Those initials answer for mine," says George Shenstone, coming forward
and confronting her. "If your observation was meant for me, Miss Wynn,
I can only express regret for my bad luck in being within earshot of
it."
At his appearance, so unexpected and abrupt, Gwen Wynn had given a
start--feeling guilty, and looking it. Soon, however, reflecting whence
he has come, and hearing what said, she feels less self-condemned than
indignant, as evinced by her rejoinder.
"Ah! you've been overhearing us, Mr Shenstone! Bad luck, you call it.
Bad or good, I don't think you are justified in attributing it to
chance. When a gentleman deliberately stations himself behind a shady
bush, like that laurustinus, for instance, and there stands listening--
intentionally--"
Suddenly she interrupts herself, and stands silent too--this on
observing the effect of her words, and that they have struck terribly
home. With bowed head the baronet's son is stooping towards her, the
cloud on his brow telling of sadness--not anger. Seeing it, the old
tenderness returns to her, with its familiarity, and she exclaims:--
"Come, George! there must be no quarrel between you and me. What you've
just seen and heard, will be all explained by something you have yet to
hear. Miss Lees and I have had a little bit of an adventure; and if
you'll promise it shan't go further, we'll make you acquainted with it."
Addressed in this style, he readily gives the promise--gladly, too. The
confidence so offered seems favourable to himself. But, looking for
explanation on the instant, he is disappointed. Asking for it, it is
denied him, with reason assigned thus:
"You forget we've been full four hours on the river, and are as hungry
as a pair of kingfishers--hawks, I suppose, you'd say, being a game
preserver. Never mind about the simile. Let us in to luncheon, if not
too late."
She steps hurriedly off towards the house, the companion following,
Shenstone behind both.
However hungry they, never man went to a meal with less appetite than
he. All Gwen's cajoling has not tranquillised his spirit, nor driven
out of his thoughts that man with the bronzed complexion, dark
moustache, and white helmet hat.
Volume One, Chapter IX.