DANGERS AHEAD.
For another half-mile, or so, the _Gwendoline_ is propelled onward,
though not running trimly; the fault being in her at the oars. With
thoughts still preoccupied, she now and then forgets her stroke, or
gives it unequally--so that the boat zig-zags from side to side, and,
but for a more careful hand at the tiller, would bring up against the
bank.
Observing her abstraction, as also her frequent turning to look down the
river--but without suspicion of what is causing it--Miss Lees at length
inquires,--
"What's the matter with you, Gwen?"
"Oh, nothing," she evasively answers, bringing back her eyes to the
boat, and once more giving attention to the oars.
"But why are you looking so often below? I've noticed you do so at least
a score of times."
If the questioner could but divine the thoughts at that moment in the
other's mind, she would have no need thus to interrogate, but would know
that below there is another boat, with a man in it who possesses that
unseen something, like ether or electricity, and to catch sight of whom
Miss Wynn has been so oft straining her eyes. She has not given all her
confidence to the companion.
Not receiving immediate answer, Ellen again asked--
"Is there any danger you fear?"
"None that I know of--at least, for a long way down. Then there are some
rough places."
"But you are pulling so unsteadily! It takes all my strength to keep in
the middle of the river."
"Then you pull, and let me do the steering," returns Miss Wynn,
pretending to be in a pout; as she speaks starting up from the thwart,
and leaving the oars in their thole pins.
Of course, the other does not object; and soon they have changed places.
But Gwen in the stern behaves no better than when seated amidships. The
boat still keeps going astray, the fault now in the steerer.
Soon something more than a crooked course calls the attention of both,
for a time engrossing it. They have rounded an abrupt bend, and got into
a reach where the river runs with troubled surface and great
velocity--so swift there is no need to use oars down stream, while
upward 'twill take stronger arms than theirs. Caught in its current, and
rapidly, yet smoothly, borne on, for a while they do not think of this.
Only a short while; then the thought comes to them in the shape of a
dilemma--Miss Lees being the first to perceive it.
"Gracious goodness!" she exclaims, "what are we to do? We can never row
back up this rough water--it runs so strong here!"
"That's true," says Gwen, preserving her composure. "I don't think we
could."
"But what's to be the upshot? Joseph will be waiting for us, and auntie
sure to know all, if we shouldn't get back in time."
"That's true also," again observes Miss Wynn assentingly, and with an
admirable _sang froid_, which causes surprise to the companion.
Then succeeds a short interval of silence, broken by an exclamatory
phrase of three short words from the lips of Miss Wynn.
They are--"I have it!"
"What have you?" joyfully asks Ellen.
"The way to get back--without much trouble, and without disturbing the
arrangements we've made with old Joe the least bit."
"Explain yourself!"
"We'll keep on down the river to Rock Weir. There we can leave the boat,
and walk across the neck to Llangorren. It isn't over a mile, though
it's five times that by the course of the stream. At the Weir we can
engage some water fellow to take back the _Gwendoline_ to her moorings.
Meanwhile, we'll make all haste, slip into the grounds unobserved, get
to the boat-dock in good time, and give Joseph the cue to hold his
tongue about what's happened. Another half-crown will tie it firm and
fast, I know."
"I suppose there's no help for it," says the companion, assenting, "and
we must do as you say."
"Of course we must. As you see, without thinking of it, we've drifted
into a very cascade, and are now a long way down it. Only a regular
waterman could pull up again. Ah! 'twould take the toughest of them, I
should say. So--_nolens volens_--we'll have to go on to Rock Weir, which
can't be more than a mile now. You may feather your oars, and float a
bit. But, by the way, I must look more carefully to the steering. Now,
that I remember, there are some awkward bars and eddies about here, and
we can't be far from them. I think they're just below the next bend."
So saying, she sets herself square in the stern sheets, and closes her
fingers firmly upon the tiller cords.
They glide on, but now in silence; the little flurry, with the prospect
of peril ahead, making speech inopportune.
Soon they are round the bend spoken of, discovering to their view a
fresh reach of the river; when again the steerer becomes neglectful of
her duty, the expression upon her features, late a little troubled,
suddenly changing to cheerfulness--almost joy. Nor is it that the
dangerous places have been passed; they are still ahead, and at some
distance below. But there is something else ahead to account for the
quick transformation--a row-boat drawn up by the river's edge, with men
upon the bank beside.
Over Gwen Wynn's countenance comes another change, sudden as before, and
as before, its expression reversed. She has mistaken the boat; it is not
that of the handsome fisherman! Instead, a four-oared craft, manned by
four men, for there is this number on the bank. The angler's skiff had
in it only two--himself and his oarsman.
But she has no need to count heads, nor scrutinise faces. Those now
before her eyes are all strange, and far from well favoured; not any of
them in the least like the one which has so prepossessed her. And while
making this observation another is forced upon her--that their natural
plainness is not improved by what they have been doing, and are
still--drinking.
Just as the young ladies made this observation, the four men, hearing
oars, face towards them. For a moment there is silence, while they in
the _Gwendoline_ are being scanned by the quartette on the shore.
Through maudlin eyes, possibly, the fellows mistake them for ordinary
country lasses, with whom they may take liberties. Whether or not one
cries out--
"Petticoats, by gee--ingo!"
"Ay!" exclaims another, "a pair o' them. An' sweet wenches they be, too.
Look at she wi' the gooldy hair--bright as the sun itself. Lord, meeats!
if we had she down in the pit, that head o' her ud gi'e as much light as
a dozen Davy's lamps. An't she a bewty? I'm boun' to have a smack fra
them red lips o' hers."
"No," protests the first speaker, "she be myen. First spoke soonest
sarved. That's Forest law."
"Never mind, Rob," rejoins the other, surrendering his claim, "she may
be the grandest to look at, but not the goodiest to go. I'll lay odds
the black 'un beats her at kissin'. Le's get grup o' 'em an' see! Coom
on, meeats!"
Down go the drinking vessels, all four making for their boat, into which
they scramble, each laying hold of an oar.
Up to this time the ladies have not felt actual alarm. The strange men
being evidently intoxicated, they might expect--were, indeed,
half-prepared for--coarse speech; perhaps indelicate, but nothing
beyond. Within a mile of their own home, and still within the boundary
of the Llangorren land, how could they think of danger such as is
threatening? For that there is danger they are now sensible--becoming
convinced of it as they draw nearer to the four fellows, and get a
better view of them. Impossible to mistake the men--roughs from the
Forest of Dean, or some other mining district, their but half-washed
faces showing it; characters not very gentle at any time, but very rude,
even dangerous, when drunk. This known from many a tale told, many a
Petty and Quarter Sessions report read in the county newspapers. But it
is visible in their countenances, too intelligible in their speech--part
of which the ladies have overheard--as in the action they are taking.
They in the pleasure-boat no longer fear, or think of bars and eddies
below. No whirlpool, not Maelstrom itself, could fright them as those
four men. For it is fear of a something more to be dreaded than
drowning.
Withal, Gwendoline Wynn is not so much dismayed as to lose presence of
mind. Nor is she at all excited, but cool as when caught in the rapid
current. Her feats in the hunting field, and dashing drives down the
steep "pitches" of the Herefordshire roads, have given her strength of
nerve to face any danger; and, as her timid companion trembles with
affright, muttering her fears, she but says--
"Keep quiet, Nell! Don't let them see you're scared. It's not the way to
treat such as they, and will only encourage them to come at us."
This counsel, before the men have moved, fails in effect; for as they
are seen rushing down the bank and into their boat, Ellen Lees utters a
terrified shriek, scarcely leaving her breath to add the words--
"Dear Gwen! what shall we do?"
"Change places," is the reply, calmly but hurriedly made. "Give me the
oars! Quick!"
While speaking she has started up from the stern, and is making for
'midships. The other, comprehending, has risen at the same instant,
leaving the oars to trail.
By this the roughs has shoved off from the bank, and are making for
mid-stream, their purpose evident--to intercept the _Gwendoline_. But
the other Gwendoline has now got settled to the oars; and pulling with
all her might, has still a chance to shoot past them.
In a few seconds the boats are but a couple of lengths apart, the heavy
craft coming bow-on for the lighter; while the faces of those in her,
slewed over their shoulders, show terribly forbidding. A glance tells
Gwen Wynn 'twould be idle making appeal to them; nor does she. Still she
is not silent. Unable to restrain her indignation, she calls out--
"Keep back, fellows! If you run against us 'twill go ill for you. Don't
suppose you'll escape punishment."
"Bah!" responds one, "we an't a-frightened at yer threats--not we. That
an't the way wi' us Forest chaps. Besides, we don't mean ye any much
harm. Only gi'e us a kiss all round, an' then--maybe, we'll let ye go."
"Yes; kisses all round!" cries another. "That's the toll ye're got to
pay at our pike; an' a bit o' squeeze by way o' boot."
The coarse jest elicits a peal of laughter from the other three.
Fortunately for those who are its butt, since it takes the attention of
the rowers from their oars, and before they can recover a stroke or two
lost, the pleasure-boat glides past them, and goes dancing on, as did
the fishing skiff.
With a yell of disappointment they bring their boat's head round, and
row after; now straining at their oars with all strength. Luckily, they
lack skill; which, fortunately for herself, the rower of the
pleasure-boat possesses. It stands her in stead now, and, for a time,
the _Gwendoline_ leads without losing ground. But the struggle is
unequal, four to one--strong men against a weak woman! Verily is she
called on to make good her words, when saying she could row almost as
ably as a man.
And so does she for a time. Withal it may not avail her. The task is too
much for her woman's strength, fast becoming exhausted. While her
strokes grow feebler, those of the pursuers seem to get stronger. For
they are in earnest now; and, despite the bad management of their boat,
it is rapidly gaining on the other.
"Pull, meeats!" cries one, the roughest of the gang, and apparently the
ringleader, "pull like--hic--hic!"--his drunken tongue refuses the
blasphemous word. "If ye lay me 'longside that girl wi' the
gooc--goeeldy hair, I'll stan' someat stiff at the 'Kite's Nest' whens
we get hic--'ome."
"All right, Bob!" is the rejoinder, "we'll do that. Ne'er a fear."
The prospect of "someat stiff" at the Forest hostelry inspires them to
increase their exertion, and their speed proportionately augmented, no
longer leaves a doubt of their being able to come up with the pursued
boat. Confident, of it they commence jeering the ladies--"wenches" they
call them--in speech profane, as repulsive.
For these, things look black. They are but a couple of boats' length
ahead, and near below is a sharp turn in the river's channel; rounding
which they will lose ground, and can scarcely fail to be overtaken. What
then?
As Gwen Wynn asks herself the question, the anger late flashing in her
eyes gives place to a look of keen anxiety. Her glances are sent to
right, to left, and again over her shoulder, as they have been all day
doing, but now with very different design. Then she was searching for a
man, with no further thought than to feast her eyes on him; now she is
looking for the same, in hopes he may save her from insult--it may be
worse.
There is no man in sight--no human being on either side of the river! On
the right a grim cliff rising sheer, with some goats clinging to its
ledges. On the left a grassy slope with browsing sheep, their lambs
astretch at their feet; but no shepherd, no one to whom she can call
"Help!"
Distractedly she continues to tug at the oars; despairingly as the boats
draw near the bend. Before rounding it she will be in the hands of those
horrid men--embraced by their brawny, bear-like arms!
The thought restrengthens her own, giving them the energy of
desperation. So inspired, she makes a final effort to elude the ruffian
pursuers, and succeeds in turning the point.
Soon as round it, her face brightens up, joy dances in her eyes, as with
panting breath she exclaims,--
"We're saved, Nelly! We're saved! Thank Heaven for it!"
Nelly does thank Heaven, rejoiced to hear they are saved; but without in
the least comprehending how!