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--Gwendolyn 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
loose-strife--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 Rev. 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 have
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.
But for a brief interval is their silence between them, Miss Wynn again
breaking it by a startled exclamation:--
"See!"
"Where? where?"
"Up yonder! We've been talking of kites and magpies. Behold, two birds
of worse augury than either!"
They are passing the mouth of a little influent stream, up which at some
distance are seen two men, one of them seated in a small boat, the other
standing on the bank talking down to him. He in the boat is a stout,
thick-set fellow in velveteens and coarse fur cap, the one above a spare
thin man, habited in a suit of black--of clerical, or rather sacerdotal,
cut. Though both are partially screened by the foliage, the little
stream running between wooded banks, Miss Wynn has recognised them. So,
too, does the companion; who rejoins, as if speaking to herself--
"One's the French priest who has a chapel up the river, on the opposite
side; the other's that fellow who's said to be such an incorrigible
poacher."
"Priest and poacher it is! An oddly-assorted pair; though in a sense not
so ill-matched either. I wonder what they're about up there, with their
heads so close together. They appeared as if not wishing we should see
them. Didn't it strike you so, Nelly?"
The men are now out of sight, the boat having passed the rivulet's
mouth.
"Indeed, yes," answered Miss Lees; "the priest, at all events. He drew
back among the bushes on seeing us."
"I'm sure his reverence is welcome. I've no desire ever to set eyes on
him--quite the contrary."
"I often meet him on the roads."
"I too--and off them. He seems to be about everywhere skulking and
prying into people's affairs. I noticed him the last day of our hunting,
among the rabble--on foot, of course. He was close to my horse, and kept
watching me out of his owlish eyes all the time; so impertinently I
could have laid the whip over his shoulders. There's something repulsive
about the man; I can't bear the sight of him."
"He's said to be a great friend and very intimate associate of your
worthy cousin, Mr.----."
"Don't name _him_, Nell! I'd rather not think, much less talk of him.
Almost the last words my father ever spoke--never to let Lewin Murdock
cross the threshold of Llangorren. No doubt, he had his reasons. My
word! this day with all its sunny brightness seems to abound in dark
omens. Birds of prey, priests, and poachers! It's enough to bring on one
of my fear fits. I now rather regret leaving Joseph behind. Well, we
must make haste and get home again."
"Shall I turn the boat back?" asks the steerer.
"No; not just yet. I don't wish to repass those two uncanny creatures.
Better leave them awhile, so that on returning we mayn't see them, to
disturb the priest's equanimity--more like his conscience."
The reason is not exactly as assigned; but Miss Lees, accepting it
without suspicion, holds the tiller cords so as to keep the course on
down stream.