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GWEN WYNN:
A Romance of the Wye.
BY CAPTAIN MAYNE REID
LONDON
GEORGE ROUTLEDGE & SONS, LIMITED
NEW YORK: E. P. DUTTON & CO.
1905
[Illustration: "I THOUGHT AS MUCH!--NO ACCIDENT!--NO
SUICIDE!--MURDERED!"]
CONTENTS.
PROLOGUE
I. THE HEROINE
II. THE HERO
III. A CHARON CORRUPTED
IV. ON THE RIVER
V. DANGERS AHEAD
VI. A DUCKING DESERVED
VII. AN INVETERATE NOVEL READER
VIII. A SUSPICIOUS STRANGER
IX. JEALOUS ALREADY
X. THE CUCKOO'S GLEN
XI. A WEED BY THE WYESIDE
XII. A WOLF IN SHEEP'S CLOTHING
XIII. AMONG THE ARROWS
XIV. BEATING ABOUT THE BUSH
XV. A SPIRITUAL ADVISER
XVI. CORACLE DICK
XVII. THE "CORPSE CANDLE"
XVIII. A CAT IN THE CUPBOARD
XIX. A BLACK SHADOW BEHIND
XX. UNDER THE ELM
XXI. A TARDY MESSENGER
XXII. A FATAL STEP
XXIII. A SUSPICIOUS WAIF
XXIV. "THE FLOWER OF LOVE-LIES-BLEEDING"
XXV. A FRENCH FEMME DE CHAMBRE
XXVI. THE POACHER AT HOME
XXVII. A MYSTERIOUS CONTRACT
XXVIII. THE GAME OF PIQUE
XXIX. JEALOUS AS A TIGER
XXX. STUNNED AND SILENT
XXXI. A STARTLING CRY
XXXII. MAKING READY FOR THE ROAD
XXXIII. A SLUMBERING HOUSEHOLD
XXXIV. "WHERE'S GWEN?"
XXXV. AGAIN THE ENGAGEMENT RING
XXXVI. A MYSTERIOUS EMBARKATION
XXXVII. AN ANXIOUS WIFE
XXXVIII. IMPATIENT FOR THE POST
XXXIX. JOURNEY INTERRUPTED
XL. HUE AND CRY
XLI. BOULOGNE-SUR-MER
XLII. WHAT DOES HE WANT?
XLIII. A GAGE D'AMOUR
XLIV. SUICIDE, OR MURDER
XLV. A PLENTIFUL CORRESPONDENCE
XLVI. FOUND DROWNED
XLVII. A MAN WHO THINKS IT MURDER
XLVIII. ONCE MORE UPON THE RIVER
XLIX. THE CRUSHED JUNIPER
L. REASONING BY ANALYSIS
LI. A SUSPICIOUS CRAFT
LII. MATERNAL SOLICITUDE
LIII. A SACRILEGIOUS HAND
LIV. A LATE TEA
LV. THE NEW MISTRESS OF THE MANSION
LVI. THE GAMBLERS AT LLANGORREN
LVII. AN UNWILLING NOVICE
LVIII. A CHEERFUL KITCHEN
LIX. QUEER BRIC-A-BRAC
LX. A BRACE OF BODY-SNATCHERS
LXI. IN WANT OF HELP
LXII. STILL ALIVE
LXIII. A STRANGE FATHER CONFESSOR
LXIV. A QUEER CATECHIST
LXV. ALMOST A "VERT"
LXVI. THE LAST OF LEWIN MURDOCK
LXVII. A CHAPTER DIPLOMATIC
LXVIII. A QUICK CONVERSION
LXIX. A SUDDEN RELAPSE
LXX. A JUSTIFIABLE ABDUCTION
LXXI. STARTING ON A CONTINENTAL TOUR
LXXII. CORACLE DICK ON HIS DEATH-BED
LXXIII. THE CALM AFTER THE STORM
GWEN WYNN:
A Romance of the Wye.
PROLOGUE.
Hail to thee, Wye--famed river of Siluria! Well deserving fame, worthy
of warmest salutation! From thy fountain-head on Plinlimmon's far slope,
where thou leapest forth, gay as a girl on her skip-rope, through the
rugged rocks of Brecon and Radnor, that like rude men would detain thee,
snatching but a kiss for their pains--on, as woman grown, with statelier
step, amid the wooded hills of Herefordshire, which treat thee with more
courtly consideration--still on, and once more rudely assailed by the
bold ramparts of Monmouth--through all thou makest way--in despite all,
preserving thy purity! If defiled before espousing the ocean, the fault
is not thine, but Sabrina's--sister born of thy birth, she too cradled
on Plinlimmon's breast, but since childhood's days separated from thee,
and straying through other shrines--perchance leading a less reputable
life. No blame to thee, beautiful Vaga--from source to Severn pure as
the spring that begets thee--fair to the eye, and full of interest to
reflect on. Scarce a reach of thy channel, or curve of thy course, but
is redolent of romance, and rich in the lore of history. On thy shores,
through the long centuries, has been enacted many a scene of gayest
pleasure and sternest strife; many an exciting episode, in which love
and hate, avarice and ambition--in short, every human passion has had
play. Overjoyed were the Roman Legionaries to behold their silver eagles
reflected from thy pellucid wave; though they did not succeed in
planting them on thy western shore till after many a tough struggle with
the gallant, but ill-starred, Caractacus. Long, too, had the Saxons to
battle before they could make good their footing on the Silurian
side--as witness the Dyke of Offa. Later, the Normans obtained it only
through treachery, by the murder of the princely Llewellyn; and, later
still, did the bold Glendower make thy banks the scene of patriotic
strife; while, last of all, sawest thou conflict in still nobler
cause--as of more glorious remembrance--when the earnest soldiers of the
Parliament encountered the so-called Cavaliers, and purged thy shores of
the ribald rout, making them pure as thy waters.
But, sweet Wye! not all the scenes thou hast witnessed have been of war.
Love, too, has stamped thee with many a tender souvenir, many a tale of
warm, wild passion. Was it not upon thy banks that the handsome "Harry
of Monmouth," hero of Agincourt, first saw the light; there living, till
manhood-grown, when he appeared "armed _cap-a-pie_, with beaver on"? And
did not thy limpid waters bathe the feet of Fair Rosamond, in
childhood's days, when she herself was pure? In thee, also, was mirrored
the comely form of Owen Tudor, which caught the eye of a queen--the
stately Catherine--giving to England a race of kings; and by thy side
the beauteous Saxon, AEdgitha, bestowed her heart and hand on a Cymric
prince.
Nor are such episodes all of the remote past, but passing now; now, as
ever, pathetic--as ever impassioned. For still upon thy banks, Vaga, are
men brave, and women fair, as when Adelgisa excited the jealousy of the
Druid priestess, or the maid of Clifford Castle captured a king's heart,
to become the victim of a queen's vengeance.
Not any fairer than the heroine of my tale; and she was born there,
there brought up, and there----
Ah! that is the story to be told.
CHAPTER I.
THE HEROINE.
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 spinny 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_. Witha 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 picnicing 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 angler's 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 affect 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.