AMONG THE ARROWS.
The invited to the archery meeting have nearly all arrived, and the
shooting has commenced; half a dozen arrows in the air at a time, making
for as many targets.
Only a limited number of ladies compete for the first score, each having
a little coterie of acquaintances at her back.
Gwen Wynn herself is in this opening contest. Good with the bow, as at
the oar--indeed with county celebrity as an archer--carrying the
champion badge of her club--it is almost a foregone conclusion she will
come off victorious.
Soon, however, those who are backing her begin to anticipate
disappointment. She is not shooting with her usual skill, nor yet
earnestness. Instead, negligently, and, to all appearance, with thoughts
abstracted; her eyes every now and then straying over the ground,
scanning the various groups, as if in search of a particular individual.
The gathering is large--nearly a hundred people present--and one might
come or go without attracting observation. She evidently expects one to
come who is not yet there; and oftener than elsewhere her glances go
towards the boat-dock, as if the personage expected should appear in
that direction. There is a nervous restlessness in her manner, and after
each reconnaissance of this kind, an expression of disappointment on her
countenance.
It is not unobserved. A gentleman by her side notes it, and with some
suspicion of its cause--a suspicion that pains him. It is George
Shenstone; who is attending on her, handing the arrows--in short acting
as her _aide-de-camp_. Neither is he adroit in the exercise of his duty;
instead performs it bunglingly; his thoughts preoccupied, and eyes
wandering about. His glances, however, are sent in the opposite
direction--to the gate entrance of the park, visible from the place
where the targets are set up.
They are both "prospecting" for the self-same individual, but with very
different ideas--one eagerly anticipating his arrival, the other as
earnestly hoping he may not come. For the expected one is a
gentleman--no other than Vivian Ryecroft.
Shenstone knows the Hussar officer has been invited, and, however hoping
or wishing it, has but little faith he will fail. Were it himself, no
ordinary obstacle could prevent his being present at that archery
meeting, any more than would five-barred gate, or bullfinch, hinder him
from keeping up with hounds.
As time passes without any further arrivals, and the tardy guest has not
yet put in appearance, Shenstone begins to think he will this day have
Miss Wynn to himself, or at least without any very formidable
competitor. There are others present who seek her smiles--some aspiring
to her hand--but none he fears so much as the one still absent.
Just as he is becoming calm and confident, he is saluted by a gentleman
of the genus "swell," who, approaching, drawls out the interrogatory:--
"Who is that fella, Shenstone?"
"What fellow?"
"He with the vewy peculya head gear. Indian affair--_topee_, I bewieve
they call it."
"Where?" asks Shenstone, starting and staring to all sides.
"Yondaw! Appwoaching from the diwection of the rivaw. Looks a fwesh
awival. I take it he must have come by bawt! Knaw him?"
George Shenstone, strong man though he be, visibly trembles. Were Gwen
Wynn at that moment to face about, and aim one of her arrows at his
breast, it would not bring more pallor upon his cheeks, nor pain to his
heart. For he wearing the "peculya head gear" is the man he most fears,
and whom he had hoped not to see this day.
So much is he affected, he does not answer the question put to him; nor
indeed has he opportunity, as just then Miss Wynn, sighting the _topee_
too, suddenly turning, says to him:--
"George! be good enough to take charge of these things." She holds her
bow with an arrow she had been affixing to the string. "Yonder's a
gentleman just arrived; who you know is a stranger. Aunt will expect me
to receive him. I'll be back soon as I've discharged my duty."
Delivering the bow and unspent shaft, she glides off without further
speech or ceremony.
He stands looking after; in his eyes anything but a pleased expression.
Indeed sullen, almost angry, as watching her every movement he notes the
manner of her reception--greeting the new comer with a warmth and
cordiality he, Shenstone, thinks uncalled for, however much stranger the
man may be. Little irksome to her seems the discharge of that so-called
duty; but so exasperating to the baronet's son, he feels like crushing
the bow stick between his fingers, or snapping it in twain across his
knee!
As he stands with eyes glaring upon them, he is again accosted by his
inquisitive acquaintance, who asks:
"What's the matter, Jawge? Yaw haven't answered my intewogatowy!"
"What was it? I forget."
"Aw, indeed! That's stwange. I merely wished to knaw who Mr. White Cap
is?"
"Just what I'd like to know myself. All I can tell you is, that he's an
army fellow--in the Cavalry I believe--by name Ryecroft."
"Aw yas; Cavalwy. That's evident by the bend of his legs.
Wyquoft--Wyquoft, you say?"
"So he calls himself--a captain of Hussars--his own story."
This in a tone and with a shrug of insinuation.
"But yaw don't think he's an adventuwer?"
"Can't say whether he is, or not."
"Who's his endawser? How came he intwoduced at Llangowen?"
"That I can't tell you."
He could though; for Miss Wynn, true to her promise, has made him
acquainted with the circumstances of the river adventure, though not
those leading to it; and he, true to his, has kept them a secret. In a
sense therefore, he could not tell, and the subterfuge is excusable.
"By Jawve! The Light Bob appears to have made good use of his
time--however intwoduced. Miss Gwen seems quite familiaw with him; and
yondaw the little Lees shaking hands, as though the two had been
acquainted evaw since coming out of their cwadles! See! They're dwagging
him up to the ancient spinster, who sits enthawned in her chair like a
queen of the Tawnament times. Vewy mediaeval the whole affair--vewy!"
"Instead, very modern; in my opinion disgustingly so!"
"Why d'yaw say that, Jawge?"
"Why! Because in either olden or mediaeval times such a thing couldn't
have occurred--here in Herefordshire."
"What thing, pway?"
"A man admitted into good society without endorsement or introduction.
Now-a-days any one may be so; claim acquaintance with a lady, and force
his company upon her, simply from having had the chance to pick up a
dropped pocket-handkerchief, or offer his umbrella in a skiff of a
shower!"
"But, shawly, that isn't how the gentleman yondaw made acquaintance with
the fair Gwendoline?"
"Oh! I don't say that," rejoins Shenstone, with forced attempt at a
smile--more natural, as he sees Miss Wynn separate from the group they
are gazing at, and come back to reclaim her bow. Better satisfied, now,
he is rather worried by his importunate friend, and to get rid of him
adds:
"If you are really desirous to know how Miss Wynn became acquainted with
him, you can ask the lady herself."
Not for all the world would the swell put that question to Gwen Wynn. It
would not be safe; and thus snubbed he saunters away, before she is up
to the spot.
Ryecroft, left with Miss Linton, remains in conversation with her. It is
not his first interview; for several times already has he been a visitor
at Llangorren--introduced by the young ladies as the gentleman who, when
the pleasure-boat was caught in a dangerous whirl, out of which old
Joseph was unable to extricate it, came to their rescue--possibly to the
saving of their lives! Thus, the version of the adventure vouchsafed to
the aunt--sufficient to sanction his being received at the Court.
And the ancient toast of Cheltenham has been charmed with him. In the
handsome Hussar officer she beholds the typical hero of her romance
reading; so much like it, that Lord Lutestring has long ago gone out of
her thoughts--passed from her memory as though he had been but a musical
sound. Of all who bend before her this day, the worship of none is so
welcome as that of the martial stranger.
* * * * *
Resuming her bow, Gwen shoots no better than before. Her thoughts,
instead of being concentrated on the painted circles, as her eyes, are
half the time straying over her shoulders to him behind, still in a
_tete-a-tete_ with the aunt. Her arrows fly wild and wide, scarce one
sticking in the straw. In fine, among all the competitors, she counts
lowest score--the poorest she has herself ever made. But what matters
it? She is only too pleased when her quiver is empty, and she can have
excuse to return to Miss Linton, on some question connected with the
hospitalities of the house.
Observing all this, and much more besides, George Shenstone feels
aggrieved--indeed exasperated--so terribly, it takes all his best
breeding to withhold him from an exhibition of bad behaviour. He might
not succeed were he to remain much longer on the ground--which he does
not. As if misdoubting his power of restraint, and fearing to make a
fool of himself, he too frames excuse, and leaves Llangorren long before
the sports come to a close. Not rudely, or with any show of spleen. He
is a gentleman, even in his anger; and bidding a polite, and formal,
adieu to Miss Linton, with one equally ceremonious, but more distant, to
Miss Wynn, he slips round to the stables, orders his horse, leaps into
the saddle, and rides off.
Many the day he has entered the gates of Llangorren with a light and
happy heart--this day he goes out of them with one heavy and sad.
If missed from the archery meeting, it is not by Miss Wynn. Instead, she
is glad of his being gone. Notwithstanding the love passion for another
now occupying her heart--almost filling it--there is still room there
for the gentler sentiment of pity. She knows how Shenstone suffers--how
could she help knowing?--and pities him.
Never more than at this same moment, despite that distant,
half-disdainful adieu, vouchsafed to her at parting; by him intended to
conceal his thoughts, as his sufferings, while but the better revealing
them. How men underrate the perception of women! In matters of this kind
a very intuition.
None keener than that of Gwen Wynn. She knows why he has gone so short
away--well as if he had told her. And with the compassionate thought
still lingering, she heaves a sigh; sad as she sees him ride out through
the gate--going in reckless gallop--but succeeded by one of relief, soon
as he is out of sight!
In an instant after, she is gay and gladsome as ever; once more bending
the bow, and making the catgut twang. But now shooting straight--hitting
the target every time, and not unfrequently lodging a shaft in the
"gold." For he who now attends on her, not only inspires confidence, but
excites her to the display of skill. Captain Ryecroft has taken George
Shenstone's place as her aide-de-camp; and while he hands the arrows,
she spending them, others of a different kind pass between them--the
shafts of Cupid--of which there is a full quiver in the eyes of both.