Gwen Wynn: A Romance of the Wye
“That waren’t no heequall; nor screech-owl neyther,” he says, speaking in a half whisper.
“What do you think it was?” asks the Captain, also sotto voce.
“The scream o’ a female. I’m ’most sure ’twor that.”
“It certainly did seem a woman’s voice. In the direction of the Court, too!”
“Yes; it comed that way.”
“I’ve half a mind to put back, and see if there be anything amiss. What say you, Wingate?”
“Gie the word, sir! I’m ready.”
The boatman has his oars out of water, and holds them so, Ryecroft still undecided. Both listen with bated breath. But, whether woman’s voice, or whatever the sound, they hear nothing more of it; only the monotonous ripple of the river, the wind mournfully sighing through the trees upon its banks, and a distant “brattle,” of thunder, bearing out the portent of the bird.
“Like as not,” says Jack, “’twor some o’ them sarvint girls screechin’ in play, fra havin’ had a drop too much to drink. There’s a Frenchy thing among ’em as wor gone nigh three sheets i’ the wind ’fores I left. I think, Captain, we may as well keep on.”
The waterman has an eye to the threatening rain, and dreads getting a wet jacket.
But his words are thrown away; for, meanwhile, the boat, left to itself, has drifted downward, nearly back to the entrance of the bye-way, and they are once more within sight of the kiosk on the cliff. There all is darkness; no figure distinguishable. The lamps have burnt out, or been removed by some of the servants.
“She has gone away from it,” is Ryecroft’s reflection to himself. “I wonder if the ring be still on the floor – or, has she taken it with her! I’d give something to know that.”
Beyond he sees a light in the upper window of the house – that of a bedroom no doubt. She may be in it, unrobing herself, before retiring to rest. Perhaps standing in front of a mirror, which reflects that form of magnificent outline he was once permitted to hold in his arms, thrilled by the contact, and never to be thrilled so again! Her face in the glass – what the expression upon it? Sadness, or joy? If the former, she is thinking of him; if the latter of George Shenstone.
As this reflection flits across his brain, the jealous rage returns, and he cries out to the waterman —
“Row back, Wingate! Pull hard, and let us home!”
Once more the boat’s head is turned upstream, and for a long spell no further conversation is exchanged – only now and then a word relating to the management of the craft, as between rower and steerer. Both have relapsed into abstraction – each dwelling on his own bereavement. Perhaps boat never carried two men with sadder hearts, or more bitter reflections. Nor is there so much difference in the degree of their bitterness. The sweetheart, almost bride, who has proved false, seems to her lover not less lost, than to hers she who has been snatched away by death!
As the Mary runs into the slip of backwater – her accustomed mooring-place – and they step out of her, the dialogue is renewed by the owner asking —
“Will ye want me the morrow, Captain?”
“No, Jack.”
“How soon do you think? ’Scuse me for questionin’; but young Mr Powell have been here the day, to know if I could take him an’ a friend down the river, all the way to the Channel. It’s for sea fishin’ or duck shootin’ or somethin’ o’ that sort; an’ they want to engage the boat most part o’ a week. But, if you say the word, they must look out for somebody else. That be the reason o’ my askin’ when’s you’d need me again.”
“Perhaps never.”
“Oh! Captain; don’t say that. ’Tan’t as I care ’bout the boat’s hire, or the big pay you’ve been givin’ me. Believe me it ain’t. Ye can have me an’ the Mary ’ithout a sixpence o’ expense – long’s ye like. But to think I’m niver to row you again, that ’ud vex me dreadful – maybe more’n ye gi’e me credit for, Captain.”
“More than I give you credit for! It couldn’t, Jack. We’ve been too long together for me to suppose you actuated by mercenary motives. Though I may never need your boat again, or see yourself, don’t have any fear of my forgetting you. And now, as a souvenir, and some slight recompense of your services, take this.”
The waterman feels a piece of paper pressed into his hand, its crisp rustle proclaiming it a bank-note. It is a “tenner,” but in the darkness he cannot tell, and believing it only a “fiver,” still thinks it too much. For it is all extra of his fare.
With a show of returning it, and, indeed, the desire to do so, he says protestingly —
“I can’t take it, Captain. You ha’ paid me too handsome, arredy.”
“Nonsense, man! I haven’t done anything of the kind. Besides, that isn’t for boat hire, nor yourself; only a little douceur, by way of present to the good dame inside the cottage – asleep, I take it.”
“That case I accept. But won’t my mother be grieved to hear o’ your goin’ away – she thinks so much o’ ye, Captain. Will ye let me wake her up? I’m sure she’d like to speak a partin’ word, and thank you for this big gift.”
“No, no! don’t disturb the dear old lady. In the morning you can give her my kind regards, and parting compliments. Say to her, when I return to Herefordshire – if I ever do – she shall see me. For yourself, take my word, should I ever again go rowing on this river it will be in a boat called the Mary, pulled by the best waterman on the Wye.”
Modest though Jack Wingate be, he makes no pretence of misunderstanding the recondite compliment, but accepts it in its fullest sense, rejoining —
“I’d call it flattery, Captain, if’t had come from anybody but you. But I know ye never talk nonsense; an’ that’s just why I be so sad to hear ye say you’re goin’ off for good. I feeled so bad ’bout losin’ poor Mary; it makes it worse now losin’ you. Good night!”
The Hussar officer has a horse, which has been standing in a little lean-to shed, under saddle. The lugubrious dialogue has been carried on simultaneously with the bridling, and the “Good night” is said as Ryecroft springs up on his stirrup.
Then as he rides away into the darkness, and Jack Wingate stands listening to the departing hoof-stroke, at each repetition more indistinct, he feels indeed forsaken, forlorn; only one thing in the world now worth living for – but one to keep him anchored to life – his aged mother!
Volume Two – Chapter Twelve
Making Ready for the Road
Having reached his hotel, Captain Ryecroft seeks neither rest nor sleep, but stays awake for the remainder of the night.
The first portion of his time he spends in gathering up his impedimenta, and packing. Not a heavy task. His luggage is light, according to the simplicity of a soldier’s wants; and as an old campaigner he is not long in making ready for the route.
His fishing tackle, gun-case and portmanteau, with an odd bundle or two of miscellaneous effects, are soon strapped and corded. After which he takes a seat by a table to write out the labels.
But now a difficulty occurs to him – the address! His name of course, but what the destination? Up to this moment he has not thought of where he is going; only that he must go somewhere – away from the Wye. There is no Lethe in that stream for memories like his.
To his regiment he cannot return, for he has none now. Months since he ceased to be a soldier; having resigned his commission at the expiration of his leave of absence – partly in displeasure at being refused extension of it, but more because the attractions of the “Court” and the grove had made those of the camp uncongenial. Thus his visit to Herefordshire has not only spoilt him as a salmon fisher, but put an end to his military career.
Fortunately he was not dependent on it; for Captain Ryecroft is a rich man. And yet he has no home he can call his own; the ten latest years of his life having been passed in Hindostan. Dublin is his native place; but what would or could he now do there? his nearest relatives are dead, his friends few, his schoolfellows long since scattered – many of them, as himself, waifs upon the world. Besides, since his return from India, he has paid a visit to the capital of the Emerald Isle; where, finding all so changed, he cares not to go back – at least, for the present.
Whither then?
One place looms upon the imagination – almost naturally as home itself – the metropolis of the world. He will proceed thither, though not there to stay. Only to use it as a point of departure for another metropolis – the French one. In that focus and centre of gaiety and fashion – Maelstrom of dissipation – he may find some relief from his misery, if not happiness. Little hope has he; but it may be worth the trial and he will make it.
So determining, he takes up the pen, and is about to put “London” on the labels. But as an experienced strategist, who makes no move with undue haste and without due deliberation, he sits a while longer considering.
Strange as it may seem, and a question for psychologists, a man thinks best upon his back. Better still with a cigar between his teeth – powerful help to reflection. Aware of this, Captain Ryecroft lights a “weed,” and looks around him. He is in his sleeping apartment, where, besides the bed, there is a sofa – horsehair cushion and squab hard as stones – the orthodox hotel article.
Along this he lays himself, and smokes away furiously. Spitefully, too; for he is not now thinking of either London or Paris. He cannot yet. The happy past, the wretched present, are too soul-absorbing to leave room for speculations of the future. The “fond rage of love” is still active within him. Is it to “blight his life’s bloom,” leaving him “an age all winters?” Or is there yet a chance of reconciliation? Can the chasm which angry words have created be bridged over? No. Not without confession of error – abject humiliation on his part – which in his present frame of mind he is not prepared to make – will not – could not.
“Never!” he exclaims, plucking the cigar from between his lips, but soon returning it, to continue the train of his reflections.
Whether from the soothing influence of the nicotine, or other cause, his thoughts after a time became more tranquillised – their hue sensibly changed, as betokened by some muttered words which escape him.
“After all, I may be wronging her. If so, may God forgive, as I hope He will pity me. For if so, I am less deserving forgiveness, and more to be pitied than she.”
As in ocean’s storm, between the rough surging billows foam-crested, are spots of smooth water, so in thought’s tempest are intervals of calm. It is during one of these he speaks as above; and continuing to reflect in the same strain, things, if not quite couleur de rose, assume a less repulsive aspect. Gwen Wynn may have been but dissembling – playing with him – and he would now be contented, ready – even rejoiced – to accept it in that sense; ay, to the abject humiliation that but the moment before he had so defiantly rejected. So reversed his sentiments now – modified from mad anger to gentle forgiveness – he is almost in the act of springing to his feet, tearing the straps from his packed paraphernalia, and letting all loose again!
But just at this crisis he hears the town clock tolling six, and voices in conversation under his window. It is a hit of gossip between two stable-men – attaches of the hotel – an ostler and fly-driver.
“Ye had a big time last night at Llangorren?” says the former, inquiringly.
“Ah! that ye may say,” returns the Jarvey, with a strongly accentuated hiccup, telling of heel-taps. “Never knowed a bigger, s’help me. Wine runnin’ in rivers, as if ’twas only table-beer – an’ the best kind o’t too. I’m so full o’ French champagne, I feel most like burstin’.”
“She be a grand gal, that Miss Wynn. An’t she?”
“In course is – one o’ the grandest. But she an’t going to be a girl long. By what I heerd them say in the sarvints’ hall, she’s soon to be broke into pair-horse harness.”
“Wi’ who?”
“The son o’ Sir George Shenstone.”
“A good match they’ll make, I sh’d say. Tidier chap than he never stepped inside this yard. Many’s the time he’s tipped me.”
There is more of the same sort, but Captain Ryecroft does not hear it; the men having moved off beyond earshot. In all likelihood he would not have listened, had they stayed. For again he seems to hear those other words – that last spiteful rejoinder – “Yes; let it.”
His own spleen returning, in all its keen hostility, he springs upon his feet, hastily steps back to the table, and writes on the slips of parchment —
Mr Vivian Ryecroft, Passenger to London, G.W.R.
He cannot attach them till the ink gets dry; and, while waiting for it to do so, his thoughts undergo still another revulsion; again leading him to reflect whether he may not be in the wrong, and acting inconsiderately – rashly.
In fine, he resolves on a course which had not hitherto occurred to him – he will write to her. Not in repentance, nor any confession of guilt on his part. He is too proud, and still too doubting for that. Only a test letter to draw her out, and if possible, discover how she too feels under the circumstances. Upon the answer – if he receive one – will depend whether it is to be the last.
With pen still in hand, he draws a sheet of notepaper towards him. It bears the hotel stamp and name, so that he has no need to write an address – only the date.
This done, he remains for a time considering – thinking what he should say. The larger portion of his manhood’s life spent in camp, under canvas – not the place for cultivating literary tastes or epistolary style – he is at best an indifferent correspondent, and knows it. But the occasion supplies thoughts; and as a soldier accustomed to prompt brevity he puts them down – quickly and briefly as a campaigning despatch.
With this, he does not wait for the ink to dry, but uses the blotter. He dreads another change of resolution. Folding up the sheet, he slips it into an envelope, on which he simply superscribes —
Miss Wynn, Llangorren Court.
Then rings a bell – the hotel servants are now astir – and directs the letter to be dropped into the post box.
He knows it will reach her that same day, at an early hour, and its answer him – should one be vouchsafed – on the following morning. It might that same night at the hotel where he is now staying; but not the one to which he is going – as his letter tells, the “Langham, London.”
And while it is being slowly carried by a pedestrian postman, along hilly roads towards Llangorren, he, seated in a first-class carriage of the Gr.W.R., is swiftly whisked towards the metropolis.
Volume Two – Chapter Thirteen
A Slumbering Household
As calm succeeds a storm, so at Llangorren Court on the morning after the ball there was quietude – up to a certain hour more than common. The domestics justifying themselves by the extra services of the preceding night, lie late. Outside is stirring only the gardener with an assistant, at his usual work, and in the yard a stable help or two looking after the needs of the horses. The more important functionaries of this department – coachman and head-groom still slumber, dreaming of champagne bottles brought back to the servants’ hall three parts full with but half demolished pheasants, and other fragmentary delicacies.
Inside the house things are on a parallel; there only a scullery and kitchen maid astir. The higher class servitors availing themselves of the licence allowed, are still abed, and it is ten as butler, cook, and footman make their appearance, entering on their respective rôles yawningly, and with reluctance.
There are two lady’s-maids in the establishment; the little French demoiselle attached to Miss Linton, and an English damsel of more robust build, whose special duties are to wait upon Miss Wynn. The former lies late on all days, her mistress not requiring early manipulation; but the maid “native and to the manner born,” is wont to be up betimes. This morning is an exception. After such a night of revelry, slumber holds her enthralled, as in a trance; and she is abed late as any of the others, sleeping like a dormouse.
As her dormitory window looks out upon the back yard, the stable clock, a loud striker, at length awakes her. Not in time to count the strokes, but a glance at the dial gives her the hour.
While dressing herself she is in a flutter, fearing rebuke. Not for having slept so late, but because of having gone to sleep so early. The dereliction of duty, about which she is so apprehensive, has reference to a spell of slumber antecedent – taken upon a sofa in her young mistress’s dressing-room. There awaiting Miss Wynn to assist in disrobing her after the ball, the maid dropped over and forgot everything – only remembering who she was, and what her duties, when too late to attend to them. Starting up from the sofa, and glancing at the mantel timepiece, she saw, with astonishment, its hands pointing to half-past 4 a.m!
Reflection following: —
“Miss Gwen must be in her bed by this! Wonder why she didn’t wake me up? Rang no bell? Surely I’d have heard it? If she did, and I haven’t answered – Well; the dear young lady’s just the sort not to make any ado about it. I suppose she thought I’d gone to my room, and didn’t wish to disturb me? But how could she think that? Besides, she must have passed through here, and seen me on the sofa!” The dressing-room is an ante-chamber of Miss Wynn’s sleeping apartment. “She mightn’t though,” – the contradiction suggested by the lamp burning low and dim, – “Still, it is strange, her not calling me, nor requiring my attendance?”
Gathering herself up, the girl stands for a while in cogitation. The result is a move across the carpeted floor in soft stealthy step, and an ear laid close to the keyhole of the bedchamber door.
“Sound asleep! I can’t go in now. Mustn’t – I daren’t awake her.”
Saying which the negligent attendant slips off to her own sleeping room, a flight higher; and in ten minutes after, is herself once more in the arms of Morpheus; this time retained in them till released, as already said, by the tolling of the stable clock.
Conscious of unpardonable remissness, she dresses in careless haste – any way, to be in time for attendance on her mistress, at morning toilet.
Her first move is to hurry down to the kitchen, get the can of hot water, and take it up to Miss Wynn’s sleeping room. Not to enter, but tap at the door and leave it.
She does the tapping; and, receiving no response nor summons from inside, concludes that the young lady is still asleep and not to be disturbed. It is a standing order of the house, and pleased to be precise in its observance – never more than on this morning – she sets down the painted can, and hurries back to the kitchen, soon after taking her seat by a breakfast table, unusually well spread, for the time to forget about her involuntary neglect of duty.
The first of the family proper, appearing down stairs is Eleanor Lees; she, too, much behind her accustomed time. Notwithstanding, she has to find occupation for nearly an hour before any of the others join her; and she endeavours to do this by perusing a newspaper which has come by the morning post.
With indifferent success. It is a Metropolitan daily, having but little in it to interest her, or indeed any one else; almost barren of news, as if its columns were blank. Three or four long-winded “leaders,” the impertinent outpourings of irresponsible anonymity; reports of Parliamentary speeches, four-fifths of them not worth reporting; chatter of sham statesmen, with their drivellings at public dinners; “Police intelligence,” in which there is half a column devoted to Daniel Driscoll, of the Seven Dials, how he blackened the eye of Bridget Sullivan, and bit off Pat Kavanagh’s ear, a crim. con. or two in all their prurience of detail; Court intelligence, with its odious plush and petty paltriness – this is the pabulum of a “London Daily” even the leading one supplies to its easily satisfied clientèle of readers! Scarce a word of the world’s news, scarce a word to tell of its real life and action – how beats the pulse, or thrills the heart of humanity! If there be anything in England half a century behind the age it is its Metropolitan Press – immeasurably inferior to the Provincial.
No wonder the “companion” – educated lady – with only such a sheet for her companion, cannot kill time for even so much as an hour. Ten minutes were enough to dispose of all its contents worth glancing at.
And after glancing at them, Miss Lees drops the bald broadsheet – letting it fall to the floor to be scratched by the claws of a playful kitten – about all it is worth.
Having thus settled scores with the newspaper she hardly knows what next to do. She has already inspected the superscription of the letters, to see if there be any for herself. A poor, fortuneless girl, of course her correspondence is limited, and there is none. Two or three for Miss Linton, with quite half a dozen for Gwen. Of these last is one in a handwriting she recognises – knows it to be from Captain Ryecroft, even without the hotel stamp to aid identification.
“There was a coolness between them last night,” remarks Miss Lees to herself, “if not an actual quarrel; to which, very likely, this letter has reference. If I were given to making wagers, I’d bet that it tells of his repentance. So soon, though! It must have been written after he got back to his hotel, and posted to catch the early delivery. What!” she exclaims, taking up another letter, and scanning the superscription. “One from George Shenstone, too! It, I dare say, is in a different strain, if that I saw – Ha!” she ejaculates, instinctively turning to the window, and letting go Mr Shenstone’s epistle, “William! Is it possible – so early?”
Not only possible, but an accomplished fact. The reverend gentleman is inside the gates of the park, sauntering on towards the house.
She does not wait for him to ring the bell, or knock; but meets him at the door, herself opening it. Nothing outré in the act, on a day succeeding a night, with everything upside down, and the domestic, whose special duty it is to attend to door-opening, out of the way.
Into the morning room Mr Musgrave is conducted, where the table is set for breakfast. He oft comes for luncheon, and Miss Lees knows he will be made equally welcome to the earlier meal; all the more to-day, with its heavier budget of news, and grander details of gossip, which Miss Linton will be expecting and delighted to revel in. Of course, the curate has been at the ball; but, like “Slippery Sam,” erst Bishop of Oxford, not much in the dancing room. For all, he, too, has noticed certain peculiarities in the behaviour of Miss Wynn to Captain Ryecroft, with others having reference to the son of Sir George Shenstone – in short, a triangular play he but ill understood. Still, he could tell by the straws, as they blew about, that they were blowing adversely; though what the upshot he is yet ignorant, having, as became his cloth, forsaken the scene of revelry at a respectably early hour.
Nor does he now care to inquire into it, any more than Miss Lees to respond to such interrogation. Their own affair is sufficient for the time; and engaging in an amorous duel of the milder type – so different from the stormy passionate combat between Gwendoline Wynn and Vivian Ryecroft – they forget all about these – even their existence – as little remembering that of George Shenstone.
For a time are but two individuals in the world of whom either has a thought – one Eleanor Lees, the other William Musgrave.
Volume Two – Chapter Fourteen
“Where’s Gwen?”
Not for long are the companion and curate permitted to carry on the confidential dialogue, in which they had become interested. Too disagreeably soon is it interrupted by a third personage appearing upon the scene. Miss Linton has at length succeeded in dragging herself out of the embrace of the somnolent divinity, and enters the breakfast-room, supported by her French femme de chambre.
Graciously saluting Mr Musgrave, she moves towards the table’s head, where an antique silver urn sends up its curling steam – flanked by tea and coffee pot, with contents already prepared for pouring into their respectively shaped cups. Taking her seat, she asks:
“Where’s Gwen?”
