BEATING ABOUT THE BUSH.
Naturally, Captain Ryecroft is the subject of speculation among the
archers at Llangorren. A man of his mien would be so anywhere--if
stranger. The old story of the unknown knight suddenly appearing on the
tourney's field with closed visor, only recognisable by a love-lock or
other favour of the lady whose cause he comes to champion.
He, too, wears a distinctive badge--in the white cap. For though our
tale is of modern time, it antedates than when Brown began to affect the
_pugaree_--sham of Manchester Mills--as an appendage to his cheap straw
hat. That on the head of Captain Ryecroft is the regular forage cap,
with quilted cover. Accustomed to it in India--whence he has but lately
returned--he adheres to it in England, without thought of its attracting
attention, and as little caring whether it does or not.
It does, however. Insular, we are supremely conservative--some might
call it "caddish"--and view innovations with a jealous eye; as witness
the so-called "moustache movement" not many years ago, and the fierce
controversy it called forth.
For other reasons the officer of Hussars is at this same archery
gathering a cynosure of eyes. There is a perfume of romance about him;
in the way he has been introduced to the ladies of Llangorren; a
question asked by others besides the importunate friend of George
Shenstone. The true account of the affair with the drunken foresters has
not got abroad--these keeping dumb about their own discomfiture; while
Jack Wingate, a man of few words, and on this special matter admonished
to silence, has been equally close-mouthed; Joseph also mute for reasons
already mentioned.
Withal, a vague story has currency in the neighbourhood, of a boat, with
two young ladies, in danger of being capsized--by some versions actually
upset--and the ladies rescued from drowning by a stranger who chanced to
be salmon-fishing near by--his name, Ryecroft. And as this tale also
circulates among the archers at Llangorren, it is not strange that some
interest should attach to the supposed hero of it, now present.
Still, in an assemblage so large, and composed of such distinguished
people--many of whom are strangers to one another--no particular
personage can be for long an object of special concern; and if Captain
Ryecroft continue to attract observation, it is neither from curiosity
as to how he came there, nor the peculiarity of his head-dress, but the
dark handsome features beneath it. On these more than one pair of bright
eyes occasionally become fixed, regarding them with admiration.
None so warmly as those of Gwen Wynn; though hers neither openly nor in
a marked manner. For she is conscious of being under the surveillance of
other eyes, and needs to observe the proprieties.
In which she succeeds; so well, that no one watching her could tell,
much less say, there is aught in her behaviour to Captain Ryecroft
beyond the hospitality of host--which in a sense she is--to guest
claiming the privileges of a stranger. Even when during an interregnum
of the sports the two go off together, and, after strolling for a time
through the grounds, are at length seen to step inside the summer-house,
it may cause, but does not merit, remark. Others are acting similarly,
sauntering in pairs, loitering in shady places, or sitting on rustic
benches. Good society allows the freedom, and to its credit. That which
is corrupt alone may cavil at it, and shame the day when such confidence
be abused and abrogated.
Side by side they take stand in the little pavilion, under the shadow of
its painted zinc roof. It may not have been all chance their coming
thither--no more the archery party itself. That Gwendoline Wynn, who
suggested giving it, can alone tell. But standing there with their eyes
bent on the river, they are for a time silent, so much, that each can
hear the beating of the other's heart--both brimful of love.
At such moment one might suppose there could be no reserve or reticence,
but confession, full, candid, and mutual. Instead, at no time is this
farther off. If _le joie fait peur_, far more _l'amour_.
And with all that has passed is there fear between them. On her part
springing from a fancy she has been over forward--in her gushing
gratitude for that service done, given too free expression to it, and
needs being more reserved now. On his side speech is stayed by a
reflection somewhat akin, with others besides. In his several calls at
the Court his reception has been both welcome and warm. Still, not
beyond the bounds of well-bred hospitality. But why on each and every
occasion has he found a gentleman there--the same every time--George
Shenstone by name? There before him, and staying after! And this very
day, what meant Mr. Shenstone by that sudden and abrupt departure? Above
all, why her distraught look, with the sigh accompanying it, as the
baronet's son went galloping out of the gate? Having seen the one, and
heard the other, Captain Ryecroft has misinterpreted both. No wonder his
reluctance to speak words of love.
And so for a time they are silent, the dread of misconception, with
consequent fear of committal, holding their lips sealed. On a simple
utterance now may hinge their life's happiness, or its misery.
Nor is it so strange, that in a moment fraught with such mighty
consequence, conversation should be not only timid, but commonplace.
They who talk of love's eloquence, but think of it in its lighter
phases--perhaps its lying. When truly, deeply felt, it is dumb, as
devout worshipper in the presence of the Divinity worshipped. Here, side
by side, are two highly organized beings--a man handsome and courageous,
a woman beautiful and aught but timid--both well up in the
accomplishments, and gifted with the graces of life--loving each other
to their souls' innermost depths, yet embarrassed in manner, and
constrained in speech, as though they were a couple of rustics! More;
for Corydon would fling his arms around his Phyllis, and give her an
eloquent smack, which she, with like readiness would return.
Very different the behaviour of these in the pavilion. They stand for a
time silent as statues--though not without a tremulous motion, scarce
perceptible--as if the amorous electricity around stifled their
breathing, for the time hindering speech. And when at length this comes,
it is of no more significance than what might be expected between two
persons lately introduced, and feeling but the ordinary interest in one
another!
It is the lady who speaks first:--
"I understand you've been but a short while resident in our
neighbourhood, Captain Ryecroft?"
"Not quite three months, Miss Wynn. Only a week or two before I had the
pleasure of making your acquaintance."
"Thank you for calling it a pleasure. Not much in the manner, I should
say; but altogether the contrary," she laughs, adding--
"And how do you like our Wye?"
"Who could help liking it?"
"There's been much said of its scenery--in books and newspapers. You
really admire it?"
"I do, indeed." His preference is pardonable under the circumstances. "I
think it the finest in the world."
"What! you such a great traveller! In the tropics too; upon rivers that
run between groves of evergreen trees, and over sands of gold! Do you
really mean that, Captain Ryecroft?"
"Really--truthfully. Why not, Miss Wynn?"
"Because I supposed those grand rivers we read of were all so much
superior to our little Herefordshire stream; in flow of water, scenery,
everything----"
"Nay, not everything!" he says interruptingly. "In volume of water they
may be; but far from it in other respects. In some it is superior to
them all--Rhine, Rhone, ah! Hippocrene itself!"
His tongue is at length getting loosed.
"What other respects?" she asks.
"The forms reflected in it," he answers hesitatingly.
"Not those of vegetation! Surely our oaks, elms, and poplars cannot be
compared with the tall palms and graceful tree ferns of the tropics?"
"No; not those."
"Our buildings neither, if photography tells truth, which it should.
Those wonderful structures--towers, temples, pagodas--of which it has
given us the _fac similes_--far excel anything we have on the Wye--or
anything in England. Even our Tintern, which we think so very grand,
were but as nothing to them. Isn't that so?"
"True," he says assentingly. "One must admit the superiority of Oriental
architecture."
"But you've not told me what form our English river reflects, so much to
your admiration!"
He has a fine opportunity for poetical reply. The image is in his
mind--her own--with the word upon his tongue, "woman's." But he shrinks
from giving it utterance. Instead, retreating from the position he had
assumed, he rejoins evasively:--
"The truth is, Miss Wynn, I've had a surfeit of tropical scenery, and
was only too glad once more to feast my eyes on the hill and dale
landscapes of dear old England. I know none to compare with these of the
Wyeside."
"It's very pleasing to hear you say that--to me especially. It's but
natural I should love our beautiful Wye--I, born on its banks, brought
up on them, and, I suppose, likely to----"
"What?" he asks, observing that she has paused in her speech.
"Be buried on them!" she answers laughingly. She intended to have said
"Stay on them the rest of my life." "You'll think that a very grave
conclusion," she adds, keeping up the laugh.
"One at all events very far off--it is to be hoped. An eventuality not
to arise, till after you've passed many long and happy days--whether on
the Wye, or elsewhere."
"Ah! who can tell? The future is a sealed book to all of us."
"Yours need not be--at least as regards its happiness. I think that is
assured."
"Why do you say so, Captain Ryecroft?"
"Because it seems to me, as though you had yourself the making of it."
He is saying no more than he thinks; far less. For he believes she could
make fate itself--control it, as she can his. And as he would now
confess to her--is almost on the eve of it--but hindered by recalling
that strange look and sigh sent after Shenstone. His fond fancies, the
sweet dreams he has been indulging in ever since making her
acquaintance, may have been but illusions. She may be playing with him,
as he would with a fish on his hook. As yet, no word of love has passed
her lips. Is there thought of it in her heart--for him?
"In what way? What mean you?" she asks, her liquid eyes turned upon him
with a look of searching interrogation.
The question staggers him. He does not answer it as he would, and again
replies evasively--somewhat confusedly--
"Oh! I only meant, Miss Wynn--that you so young--so--well, with all the
world before you--surely have your happiness in your own hands."
If he knew how much it is in his he would speak more courageously, and
possibly with greater plainness. But he knows not, nor does she tell
him. She, too, is cautiously retentive, and refrains taking advantage of
his words, full of suggestion.
It will need another _seance_--possibly more than one--before the real
confidence can be exchanged between them. Natures like theirs do not
rush into confession as the common kind. With them it is as with the
wooing of eagles.
She simply rejoins:
"I wish it were," adding with a sigh, "Far from it, I fear."
He feels as if he had drifted into a dilemma--brought about by his own
_gaucherie_--from which something seen up the river, on the opposite
side, offers an opportunity to escape--a house. It is the quaint old
habitation of Tudor times. Pointing to it, he says:
"A very odd building, that! If I've been rightly informed, Miss Wynn, it
belongs to a relative of yours?"
"I have a cousin who lives there."
The shadow suddenly darkening her brow, with the slightly explicit
rejoinder, tells him he is again on dangerous ground. He attributes it
to the character he has heard of Mr. Murdock. His cousin is evidently
disinclined to converse about him.
And she is; the shadow still staying. If she knew what is at that moment
passing within Glyngog--could but hear the conversation carried on at
its dining table--it might be darker. It is dark enough in her heart, as
on her face--possibly from a presentiment.
Ryecroft more than ever embarrassed, feels it a relief when Ellen Lees,
with the Rev. Mr. Musgrave as her cavalier attendant--they, too,
straying solitarily--approach near enough to be hailed, and invited into
the pavilion.
So the dialogue between the cautious lovers comes to an end--to both of
them unsatisfactory enough. For this day their love must remain
unrevealed; though never man and woman more longed to learn the sweet
secret of each other's heart.