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Gwen Wynn: A Romance of the Wye

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Title: Gwen Wynn: A Romance of the Wye

Author: Mayne Reid


        
Release date: February 7, 2011 [eBook #35196]

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/35196

Credits: Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GWEN WYNN: A ROMANCE OF THE WYE ***




Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England




Gwen Wynn
A Romance of the Wye
By Captain Mayne Reid
Published by Tinsley Brothers, 8 Catherine Street, Strand, London.
This edition dated 1877.

Volume One, Chapter I.

THE HEROINE.

A tourist descending the Wye by boat from the town of Hereford to the
ruined Abbey of Tintern, may observe on its banks a small pagoda-like
structure; its roof, with a portion of the supporting columns,
o'er-topping a spray of evergreens.  It is simply a summer-house, of the
kiosk or pavilion pattern, standing in the ornamental grounds of a
gentleman's residence.  Though placed conspicuously on an elevated
point, the boat traveller obtains view of it only from a reach of the
river above.  When opposite he loses sight of it; a spinney of tall
poplars drawing curtain-like between him and the higher bank.  These
stand on an oblong island, which extends several hundred yards down the
stream, formed by an old channel, now forsaken.  With all its wanderings
the Wye is not suddenly capricious; still, in the lapse of long ages it
has here and there changed its course, forming _aits_, or _eyots_, of
which this is one.

The tourist will not likely take the abandoned channel.  He is bound and
booked for Tintern--possibly Chepstow--and will not be delayed by lesser
"lions."  Besides, his hired boatmen would not deviate from their terms
of charter, without adding an extra to their fare.

Were he free, and disposed for exploration, entering this unused water
way, he would find it tortuous, with scarce any current, save in times
of flood; on one side the eyot, a low marshy flat, thickly overgrown
with trees; on the other a continuous cliff, rising forty feet sheer,
its _facade_ grim and grey, with flakes of reddish hue, where the frost
has detached pieces from the rock--the old red sandstone of
Herefordshire.  Near its entrance he would catch a glimpse of the kiosk
on its crest; and, proceeding onward, will observe the tops of laurels
and other exotic evergreens, mingling their glabrous foliage with that
of the indigenous holly, ivy, and ferns; these last trailing over the
cliff's brow, and wreathing it with fillets of verdure, as if to conceal
its frowning corrugations.

About midway down the old river's bed he will arrive opposite a little
embayment in the high bank, partly natural, but in part quarried out of
the cliff--as evinced by a flight of steps, leading up at back,
chiselled out of the rock _in situ_.

The cove thus contrived is just large enough to give room to a row-boat;
and, if not out upon the river, one will be in it, riding upon its
painter; this attached to a ring in the red sandstone.  It is a light
two-oared affair--a pleasure-boat, ornamentally painted, with cushioned
thwarts, and tiller ropes of coloured cord athwart its stern, which the
tourist will have turned towards him, in gold lettering, "The
Gwendoline."

Charmed by this Idyllic picture, he may forsake his own craft, and
ascend to the top of the stair.  If so, he will have before his eyes a
lawn of park-like expanse, mottled with clumps of coppice, here and
there a grand old tree--oak, elm, or chestnut--standing solitary; at the
upper end a shrubbery of glistening evergreens, with gravelled walks,
fronting a handsome house; or, in the parlance of the estate agent, a
noble mansion.  That is Llangorren Court, and there dwells the owner of
the pleasure-boat, as also prospective owner of the house, with some two
thousand acres of land lying adjacent.

The boat bears her baptismal name, the surname being Wynn, while people,
in a familiar way, speak of her as "Gwen Wynn;" this on account of her
being a lady of proclivities and habits that make her somewhat of a
celebrity in the neighbourhood.  She not only goes boating, but hunts,
drives a pair of spirited horses, presides over the church choir, plays
its organ, looks after the poor of the parish--nearly all of it her own,
or soon to be--and has a bright smile, with a pleasant word, for
everybody.

If she be outside, upon the lawn, the tourist, supposing him a
gentleman, will withdraw; for across the grounds of Llangorren Court
there is no "right of way," and the presence of a stranger upon them
would be deemed an intrusion.  Nevertheless, he would go back down the
boat stair reluctantly, and with a sigh of regret, that good manners do
not permit his making the acquaintance of Gwen Wynn without further loss
of time, or any ceremony of introduction.

But my readers are not thus debarred; and to them I introduce her, as
she saunters over this same lawn, on a lovely April morn.

She is not alone; another lady, by name Eleanor Lees, being with her.
They are nearly of the same age--both turned twenty--but in all other
respects unlike, even to contrast, though there is kinship between them.
Gwendoline Wynn is tall of form, fully developed; face of radiant
brightness, with blue-grey eyes, and hair of that chrome-yellow almost
peculiar to the Cymri--said to have made such havoc with the hearts of
the Roman soldiers, causing these to deplore the day when recalled home
to protect their seven-hilled city from Goths and Visigoths.

In personal appearance Eleanor Lees is the reverse of all this; being of
dark complexion, brown-haired, black-eyed, with a figure slender and
_petite_.  Withal she is pretty; but it is only prettiness--a word
inapplicable to her kinswoman, who is pronouncedly beautiful.

Equally unlike are they in mental characteristics; the first-named being
free of speech, courageous, just a trifle fast, and possibly a little
imperious.  The other of a reserved, timid disposition, and habitually
of subdued mien, as befits her station; for in this there is also
disparity between them--again a contrast.  Both are orphans; but it is
an orphanage under widely different circumstances and conditions: the
one heiress to an estate worth some ten thousand pounds per annum; the
other inheriting nought save an old family name--indeed, left without
other means of livelihood, than what she may derive from a superior
education she has received.

Notwithstanding their inequality of fortune, and the very distant
relationship--for they are not even near as cousins--the rich girl
behaves towards the poor one as though they were sisters.  No one seeing
them stroll arm-in-arm through the shrubbery, and hearing them hold
converse in familiar, affectionate tones, would suspect the little dark
damsel to be the paid "companion" of the lady by her side.  Yet in such
capacity is she residing at Llangorren Court.

It is just after the hour of breakfast, and they have come forth in
morning robes of light muslin--dresses suitable to the day and the
season.  Two handsome ponies are upon the lawn, its herbage dividing
their attention with the horns of a pet stag, which now and then
threaten to assail them.

All three, soon as perceiving the ladies, trot towards them; the ponies
stretching out their necks to be patted; the cloven-hoofed creature
equally courting caresses.  They look especially to Miss Wynn, who is
more their mistress.

On this particular morning she does not seem in the humour for dallying
with them; nor has she brought out their usual allowance of lump sugar;
but, after a touch with her delicate fingers, and a kindly exclamation,
passes on, leaving them behind, to all appearance disappointed.

"Where are you going, Gwen?" asks the companion, seeing her step out
straight, and apparently with thoughts preoccupied.  Their arms are now
disunited, the little incident with the animals having separated them.

"To the summer-house," is the response.  "I wish to have a look at the
river.  It should show fine this bright morning."

And so it does; as both perceive after entering the pavilion, which
commands a view of the valley, with a reach of the river above--the
latter, under the sun, glistening like freshly polished silver.

Gwen views it through a glass--a binocular she has brought out with her;
this of itself proclaiming some purpose aforethought, but not confided
to the companion.  It is only after she has been long holding it
steadily to her eye, that the latter fancies there must be some object
within its field of view more interesting than the Wye's water, or the
greenery on its banks.

"What is it?" she naively asks.  "You see something?"

"Only a boat," answers Gwen, bringing down the glass with a guilty look,
as if conscious of being caught.  "Some tourist, I suppose, making down
to Tintern Abbey--like as not, a London cockney."

The young lady is telling a "white lie."  She knows the occupant of that
boat is nothing of the kind.  From London he may be--she cannot tell--
but certainly no sprig of cockneydom--unlike it as Hyperion to the
Satyr; at least so she thinks.  But she does not give her thought to the
companion; instead, concealing it, she adds,--"How fond those town
people are of touring it upon our Wye!"

"Can you wonder at that?" asks Ellen.  "Its scenery is so grand--I
should say, incomparable; nothing equal to it in England."

"I don't wonder," says Miss Wynn, replying to the question.  "I'm only a
little bit vexed seeing them there.  It's like the desecration of some
sacred stream, leaving scraps of newspapers in which they wrap their
sandwiches, with other picnicking debris on its banks!  To say nought of
one's having to encounter the rude fellows that in these degenerate days
go a-rowing--shopboys from the towns, farm labourers, colliers,
hauliers, all sorts.  I've half a mind to set fire to the _Gwendoline_,
burn her up, and never again lay hand on an oar."

Ellen Lees laughs incredulously as she makes rejoinder.

"It would be a pity," she says, in serio-comic tone.  "Besides, the poor
people are entitled to a little recreation.  They don't have too much of
it."

"Ah, true," rejoins Gwen, who, despite her grandeeism, is neither Tory
nor aristocrat.  "Well, I've not yet decided on that little bit of
incendiarism, and shan't burn the _Gwendoline_--at all events not till
we've had another row out of her."

Not for a hundred pounds would she set fire to that boat, and never in
her life was she less thinking of such a thing.  For just then she has
other views regarding the pretty pleasure craft, and intends taking seat
on its thwarts within less than twenty minutes' time.

"By the way," she says, as if the thought had suddenly occurred to her,
"we may as well have that row now--whether it's to be the last or not."

Cunning creature!  She has had it in her mind all the morning; first
from her bed-chamber window, then from that of the breakfast-room,
looking up the river's reach, with the binocular at her eye, too, to
note if a certain boat, with a salmon-rod bending over it, passes down.
For one of its occupants is an angler.

"The day's superb," she goes on; "sun's not too hot--gentle breeze--just
the weather for a row.  And the river looks so inviting--seems calling
us to come!  What say you, Nell?"

"Oh!  I've no objections."

"Let us in, then, and make ready.  Be quick about it!  Remember it's
April, and there may be showers.  We mustn't miss a moment of that sweet
sunshine."

At this the two forsake the summer-house; and, lightly recrossing the
lawn, disappear within the dwelling.

While the anglers boat is still opposite the grounds, going on, eyes are
observing it from an upper window of the house; again those of Miss Wynn
herself, inside her dressing-room, getting ready for the river.

She had only short glimpses of it, over the tops of the trees on the
eyot, and now and then through breaks in their thinner spray.  Enough,
however, to assure her that it contains two men, neither of them
cockneys.  One at the oars she takes to be a professional waterman.  But
he, seated in the stern is altogether unknown to her, save by sight--
that obtained when twice meeting him out on the river.  She knows not
whence he comes, or where he is residing; but supposes him a stranger to
the neighbourhood, stopping at some hotel.  If at the house of any of
the neighbouring gentry, she would certainly have heard of it.  She is
not even acquainted with his name, though longing to learn it.  But she
is shy to inquire, lest that might betray her interest in him.  For such
she feels, has felt, ever since setting eyes on his strangely handsome
face.

As the boat again disappears behind the thick foliage, she sets, in
haste, to effect the proposed change of dress, saying, in soliloquy--for
she is now alone:--

"I wonder who, and what he can be?  A gentleman, of course.  But, then,
there are gentlemen, and gentlemen; single ones and--"

She has the word "married" on her tongue, but refrains speaking it.
Instead, she gives utterance to a sigh, followed by the reflection--

"Ah, me!  That would be a pity--a dis--"

Again she checks herself, the thought being enough unpleasant without
the words.

Standing before the mirror, and sticking long pins into her hair, to
keep its rebellious plaits in their place, she continues soliloquising--

"If one only had a word with that young waterman who rows him!  And were
it not that my own boatman is such a chatterer, I'd put him up to
getting that word.  But no!  It would never do.  He'd tell aunt about
it; and then Madame la Chatelaine would be talking all sorts of serious
things to me--the which I mightn't relish.  Well; in six months more the
old lady's trusteeship of this young lady is to terminate--at least
legally.  Then I'll be my own mistress; and then--'twill be time enough
to consider whether I ought to have--a master.  Ha, ha, ha!"

So laughing, as she surveys her superb figure in a cheval glass, she
completes the adjustment of her dress, by setting a hat upon her head,
and tightening the elastic, to secure against its being blown off while
in the boat.  In fine, with a parting glance at the mirror, which shows
a satisfied expression upon her features, she trips lightly out of the
room, and on down the stairway.

Volume One, Chapter II.

THE HERO.

Than Vivian Ryecroft--handsomer man never carried sling-jacket over his
shoulder, or sabretasche on his hip.  For he is in the Hussars--a
captain.

He is not on duty now, nor anywhere near the scene of it.  His regiment
is at Aldershot, himself rusticating in Herefordshire--whither he has
come to spend a few weeks' leave of absence.

Nor is he, at the time of our meeting him, in the saddle, which he sits
so gracefully; but in a row-boat on the river Wye--the same just sighted
by Gwen Wynn through the double lens of her lorgnette.  No more is he
wearing the braided uniform and "busby;" but, instead, attired in a suit
of light Cheviots, piscator-cut, with a helmet-shaped cap of quilted
cotton on his head, its rounded rim of spotless white in striking, but
becoming, contrast with his bronzed complexion and dark military
moustache.

For Captain Ryecroft is no mere stripling nor beardless youth, but a man
turned thirty, browned by exposure to Indian suns, experienced in Indian
campaigns, from those of Scinde and the Punjaub to that most memorable
of all--the Mutiny.

Still is he personally as attractive as he ever was--to women, possibly
more; among these causing a flutter, with _rapprochement_ towards him
almost instinctive, when and wherever they may meet him.  In the present
many a bright English lady sighs for him, as in the past many a dark
damsel of Hindostan.  And without his heaving sigh, or even giving them
a thought in return.  Not that he is of cold nature, or in any sense
austere; instead, warm-hearted, of cheerful disposition, and rather
partial to female society.  But he is not, and never has been, either
man-flirt or frivolous trifler; else he would not be fly-fishing on the
Wye--for that is what he is doing there--instead of in London, taking
part in the festivities of the "season," by day dawdling in Rotten Row,
by night exhibiting himself in opera-box or ball-room.  In short, Vivian
Ryecroft is one of those rare individuals, to a high degree endowed,
physically as mentally, without being aware of it, or appearing so;
while to all others it is very perceptible.

He has been about a fortnight in the neighbourhood, stopping at the
chief hotel of a riverine town much affected by fly-fishermen and
tourists.  Still, he has made no acquaintance with the resident gentry.
He might, if wishing it; which he does not, his purpose upon the Wye not
being to seek society, but salmon, or rather the sport of taking it.  An
ardent disciple of the ancient Izaak, he cares for nought else--at
least, in the district where he is for the present sojourning.

Such is his mental condition, up to a certain morning; when a change
comes over it, sudden as the spring of a salmon at the gaudiest or most
tempting of his flies--this brought about by a face, of which he has
caught sight by merest accident, and while following his favourite
occupation.  Thus it has chanced:--

Below the town where he is staying, some four or five miles by the
course of the stream, he has discovered one of those places called
"catches," where the king of river fish delights to leap at flies,
whether natural or artificial--a sport it has oft reason to rue.
Several times so, at the end of Captain Ryecroft's line and rod; he
having there twice hooked a twenty-pounder, and once a still larger
specimen, which turned the scale at thirty.  In consequence that portion
of the stream has become his choicest angling ground, and at least three
days in the week he repairs to it.  The row is not much going down, but
a good deal returning; five miles up stream, most of it strong adverse
current.  That, however, is less his affair than his oarsman's--a young
waterman by name Wingate, whose boat and services the hussar officer has
chartered by the week--indeed, engaged them for so long as he may remain
upon the Wye.

On the morning in question, dropping down the river to his accustomed
whipping-place, but at a somewhat later hour than usual, he meets
another boat coming up--a pleasure craft, as shown by its style of
outside ornament and inside furniture.  Of neither does the salmon
fisher take much note; his eyes all occupied with those upon the
thwarts.  There are three of them, two being ladies seated in the stern
sheets, the third an oarsman on a thwart well forward, to make better
balance.  And to the latter the hussar officer gives but a glance--just
to observe that he is a serving-man--wearing some of its insignia in the
shape of a cockaded hat, and striped stable-waistcoat.  And not much
more than a glance at one of the former; but a gaze, concentrated and
long as good manners will permit, at the other, who is steering; when
she passes beyond sight, her face remaining in his memory, vivid as if
still before his eyes.

All this at a first encounter; repeated in a second, which occurs on the
day succeeding, under similar circumstances, and almost in the selfsame
spot; then the face, if possible, seeming fairer, and the impression
made by it on Vivian Ryecroft's mind sinking deeper--indeed, promising
to be permanent.  It is a radiant face, set in a luxuriance of bright
amber hair--for it is that of Gwendoline Wynn.

On the second occasion he has a better view of her, the boats passing
nearer to one another; still, not so near as he could wish, good manners
again interfering.  For all, he feels well satisfied--especially with
the thought, that his own gaze earnestly given, though under such
restraint, has been with earnestness returned.  Would that his secret
admiration of its owner were in like manner reciprocated!

Such is his reflective wish as the boats widen the distance between; one
labouring slowly up, the other gliding swiftly down.

His boatman cannot tell who the lady is, nor where she lives.  On the
second day he is not asked--the question having been put to him on that
preceding.  All the added knowledge now obtained is the name of the
craft that carries her; which, after passing, the waterman, with face
turned towards its stern, makes out to be the _Gwendoline_--just as on
his own boat--the _Mary_,--though not in such grand golden letters.

It may assist Captain Ryecroft in his inquiries, already contemplated,
and he makes note of it.

Another night passes; another sun shines over the Wye; and he again
drops down stream to his usual place of sport--this day only to draw
blank, neither catching salmon, nor seeing hair of amber hue; his
reflecting on which is, perchance, a cause of the fish not taking to his
flies, cast carelessly.

He is not discouraged; but goes again on the day succeeding--that same
when his boat is viewed through the binocular.  He has already formed a
half suspicion that the home of the interesting water nymph is not far
from that pagoda-like structure, he has frequently noticed on the right
bank of the river.  For, just below the outlying eyot is where he has
met the pleasure-boat, and the old oarsman looked anything but equal to
a long pull up stream.  Still, between that and the town are several
other gentlemen's residences on the river side, with some standing
inland.  It may be any of them.

But it is not, as Captain Ryecroft now feels sure, at sight of some
floating drapery in the pavilion, with two female heads showing over its
baluster rail; one of them with tresses glistening in the sunlight,
bright as sunbeams themselves.

He views it through a telescope--for he, too, has come out provided for
distant observation--this confirming his conjectures just in the way he
would wish.  Now there will be no difficulty in learning who the lady
is--for of one only does he care to make inquiry.

He would order Wingate to hold way, but does not relish the idea of
letting the waterman into his secret; and so, remaining silent, he is
soon carried beyond sight of the summer-house, and along the outer edge
of the islet, with its curtain of tall trees coming invidiously between.

Continuing on to his angling ground, he gives way to reflections--at
first of a pleasant nature.  Satisfactory to think that she, the subject
of them, at least lives in a handsome house; for a glimpse got of its
upper storey tells it to be this.  That she is in social rank a lady, he
has hitherto had no doubt.  The pretty pleasure craft and its
appendages, with the venerable domestic acting as oarsman, are all
proofs of something more than mere respectability--rather evidences of
style.

Marring these agreeable considerations is the thought, he may not to-day
meet the pleasure-boat.  It is the hour that, from past experience, he
might expect it to be out--for he has so timed his own piscatorial
excursion.  But, seeing the ladies in the summer-house, he doubts
getting nearer sight of them--at least for another twenty-four hours.
In all likelihood they have been already on the river, and returned home
again.  Why did he not start earlier?

While thus fretting himself, he catches sight of another boat--of a sort
very different from the _Gwendoline_--a heavy barge-like affair, with
four men in it; hulking fellows, to whom rowing is evidently a new
experience.  Notwithstanding this, they do not seem at all frightened at
finding themselves upon the water.  Instead, they are behaving in a way
that shows them either very courageous, or very regardless of a danger--
which, possibly, they are not aware of.  At short intervals one or other
is seen starting to his feet, and rushing fore or aft--as if on an empty
coal-waggon, instead of in a boat--and in such fashion, that were the
craft at all crank, it would certainly be upset!

On drawing nearer them Captain Ryecroft and his oarsman get the
explanation of their seemingly eccentric behaviour--its cause made clear
by a black bottle, which one of them is holding in his hand, each of the
others brandishing tumbler, or tea cup.  They are drinking; and that
they have been so occupied for some time is evident by their loud
shouts, and grotesque gesturing.

"They look an ugly lot!" observes the young waterman, viewing them over
his shoulder; for, seated at the oars, his back is towards them.  "Coal
fellows, from the Forest o' Dean, I take it."

Ryecroft, with a cigar between his teeth, dreamily thinking of a boat
with people in it so dissimilar, simply signifies assent with a nod.

But soon he is roused from his reverie, at hearing an exclamation louder
than common, followed by words whose import concerns himself and his
companion.  These are:--

"Dang it, lads! le's goo in for a bit o' a lark!  Yonner be a boat
coomin' down wi' two chaps in 't; some o' them spick-span city gents!
S'pose we gie 'em a capsize?"

"Le's do it!  Le's duck 'em!" shouted the others, assentingly; he with
the bottle dropping it into the boat's bottom, and laying hold of an oar
instead.

All act likewise, for it is a four-oared craft that carries them; and in
a few seconds' time they are rowing it straight for that of the
angler's.

With astonishment, and fast gathering indignation, the Hussar officer
sees the heavy barge coming bow-on for his light fishing skiff, and is
thoroughly sensible of the danger; the waterman becoming aware of it at
the same instant of time.

"They mean mischief," mutters Wingate; "what'd we best do, Captain?  If
you like I can keep clear, and shoot the _Mary_ past 'em--easy enough."

"Do so," returns the salmon fisher, with the cigar still between his
teeth--but now held bitterly tight, almost to biting off the stump.
"You can keep on!" he adds, speaking calmly, and with an effort to keep
down his temper; "that will be the best way, as things stand now.  They
look like they'd come up from below; and, if they show any ill manners
at meeting, we can call them to account on return.  Don't concern
yourself about your course.  I'll see to the steering.  There! hard on
the starboard oar!"

This last, as the two boats have arrived within less than three lengths
of one another.  At the same time Ryecroft, drawing tight the port
tiller-cord, changes course suddenly, leaving just sufficient sea-way
for his oarsman to shave past, and avoid the threatened collision.

Which is done the instant after--to the discomfiture of the would-be
capsizers.  As the skiff glides lightly beyond their reach, dancing over
the river swell, as if in triumph and to mock them, they drop their
oars, and send after it a chorus of yells, mingled with blasphemous
imprecations.

In a lull between, the Hussar officer at length takes the cigar from his
lips, and calls back to them--

"You ruffians!  You shall rue it!  Shout on--till you're hoarse.
There's a reckoning for you, perhaps sooner than you expect."

"Yes, ye damned scoun'rels!" adds the young waterman, himself so enraged
as almost to foam at the mouth.  "Ye'll have to pay dear for sich a
dastartly attemp' to waylay Jack Wingate's boat.  That will ye."

"Bah!" jeeringly retorts one of the roughs.  "To blazes wi' you, an' yer
boat!"

"Ay, to the blazes wi' ye!" echo the others in drunken chorus; and,
while their voices are still reverberating along the adjacent cliffs,
the fishing skiff drifts round a bend of the river, bearing its owner
and his fare out of their sight, as beyond earshot of their profane
speech.

Volume One, Chapter III.

A CHARON CORRUPTED.

The lawn of Llangorren Court, for a time abandoned to the dumb
quadrupeds, that had returned to their tranquil pasturing, is again
enlivened by the presence of the two young ladies; but so transformed,
that they are scarce recognisable as the same late seen upon it.  Of
course, it is their dresses that have caused the change; Miss Wynn now
wearing a pea-jacket of navy blue, with anchor buttons, and a straw hat
set coquettishly on her head, its ribbons of azure hue trailing over,
and prettily contrasting with the plaits of her chrome-yellow hair,
gathered in a grand coil behind.  But for the flowing skirt below, she
might be mistaken for a young mid, whose cheeks as yet show only the
down--one who would "find sweethearts in every port."

Miss Lees is less nautically attired; having but slipped over her
morning dress a paletot of the ordinary kind, and on her head a plumed
hat of the Neapolitan pattern.  For all, a costume becoming; especially
the brigand-like head gear which sets off her finely-chiselled features,
and skin dark as any daughter of the South.

They are about starting towards the boat-dock, when a difficulty
presents itself--not to Gwen, but the companion.

"We have forgotten Joseph!" she exclaims.

Joseph is an ancient retainer of the Wynn family, who, in its domestic
affairs, plays parts of many kinds--among them the _metier_ of boatman.
It is his duty to look after the _Gwendoline_, see that she is snug in
her dock, with oars and steering apparatus in order; go out with her
when his young mistress takes a row on the river, or ferry any one of
the family who has occasion to cross it--the last a need by no means
rare, since for miles above and below there is nothing in the shape of
bridge.

"No, we haven't," rejoins Joseph's mistress, answering the exclamation
of the companion.  "I remembered him well enough--too well."

"Why too well?" asks the other, looking a little puzzled.

"Because we don't want him."

"But surely, Gwen, you wouldn't think of our going alone."

"Surely I would, and do.  Why not?"

"We've never done so before."

"Is that any reason we shouldn't now?"

"But Miss Linton will be displeased, if not very angry.  Besides, as you
know, there may be danger on the river."

For a short while Gwen is silent, as if pondering on what the other has
said.  Not on the suggested danger.  She is far from being daunted by
that.  But Miss Linton is her aunt--as already hinted, her legal
guardian till of age--head of the house, and still holding authority,
though exercising it in the mildest manner.  And just on this account it
would not be right to outrage it, nor is Miss Wynn the one to do so.
Instead, she prefers a little subterfuge, which is in her mind as she
makes rejoinder--

"I suppose we must take him along; though it's very vexatious, and for
various reasons."

"What are they?  May I know them?"

"You're welcome.  For one, I can pull a boat just as well as he, if not
better.  And for another, we can't have a word of conversation without
his hearing it--which isn't at all nice, besides being inconvenient.  As
I've reason to know, the old curmudgeon is an incorrigible gossip, and
tattles all over the parish, I only wish we'd some one else.  What a
pity I haven't a brother, to go with us!  _But not to-day_."

The reserving clause, despite its earnestness, is not spoken aloud.  In
the aquatic excursion intended, she wants no companion of the male
kind--above all, no brother.  Nor will she take Joseph; though she
signifies her consent to it, by desiring the companion to summon him.

As the latter starts off for the stable-yard, where the ferryman is
usually to be found, Gwen says, in soliloquy--

"I'll take old Joe as far as the boat stairs; but not a yard beyond.  I
know what will stay him there--steady as a pointer with a partridge six
feet from its nose.  By the way, have I got my purse with me?"

She plunges her hand into one of her pea-jacket pockets; and, there
feeling the thing sought for, is satisfied.

By this Miss Lees has got back, bringing with her the versatile Joseph--
a tough old servitor of the respectable family type, who has seen some
sixty summers, more or less.

After a short colloquy, with some questions as to the condition of the
pleasure-boat, its oars, and steering gear, the three proceed in the
direction of the dock.

Arrived at the bottom of the boat stairs, Joseph's mistress, turning to
him, says--

"Joe, old boy, Miss Lees and I are going for a row.  But, as the day's
fine, and the water smooth as glass, there's no need for our having you
along with us.  So you can stay here till we return."

The venerable retainer is taken aback by the proposal.  He has never
listened to the like before; for never before has the pleasure-boat gone
to river without his being aboard.  True, it is no business of his;
still, as an ancient upholder of the family, with its honour and safety,
he cannot assent to this strange innovation without entering protest.
He does so, asking:

"But, Miss Gwen; what will your aunt say to it?  She mayent like you
young ladies to go rowin' by yourselves?  Besides, Miss, ye know there
be some not werry nice people as moat meet ye on the river.  'Deed some
v' the roughest and worst o' blaggarts."

"Nonsense, Joseph!  The Wye isn't the Niger, where we might expect the
fate of poor Mungo Park.  Why, man, we'll be as safe on it as upon our
own carriage drive, or the little fishpond.  As for aunt, she won't say
anything, because she won't know.  Shan't, can't, unless you peach on
us.  The which, my amiable Joseph, you'll not do--I'm sure you will
not?"

"How'm I to help it, Miss Gwen?  When you've goed off, some o' the house
sarvints'll see me here, an', hows'ever I keep my tongue in check--"

"Check it now!" abruptly breaks in the heiress, "and stop palavering,
Joe!  The house servants won't see you--not one of them.  When we're off
on the river, you'll be lying at anchor in those laurel bushes above.
And to keep you to your anchorage, here's some shining metal."

Saying which, she slips several shillings into his hand, adding, as she
notes the effect,--

"Do you think it sufficiently heavy?  If not--but never mind now.  In
our absence you can amuse yourself weighing, and counting the coins.  I
fancy they'll do."

She is sure of it, knowing the man's weakness to be money, as it now
proves.

Her argument is too powerful for his resistance, and he does not resist.
Despite his solicitude for the welfare of the Wynn family, with his
habitual regard of duty, the ancient servitor, refraining from further
protest, proceeds to undo the knot of the _Gwendoline's_ painter.

Stepping into the boat, the other Gwendoline takes the oars, Miss Lees
seating herself to steer.

"All right!  Now, Joe, give us a push off."

Joseph, having let all loose, does as directed; which sends the light
craft clear out of its dock.  Then, standing on the bottom step, with an
adroit twirl of the thumb, he spreads the silver pieces over his palm--
so that he may see how many--and, after counting and contemplating with
pleased expression, slips them into his pocket, muttering to himself--

"I dar say it'll be all right.  Miss Gwen's a oner to take care o'
herself; an' the old lady neen't a know any thin' about it."

To make his last words good, he mounts briskly back up the boat stairs,
and ensconces himself in the heart of a thick-leaved laurestinus--to the
great discomfort of a pair of missel-thrushes, which have there made
nest, and commenced incubation.

Volume One, Chapter IV.

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--Gwendoline 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
loosestrife--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 Reverend 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've
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 there 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.

Volume One, Chapter V.

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 asks--

"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 awhile 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 anglers 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 make 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 have 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 gooe--
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 re-strengthens 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!

Volume One, Chapter VI.

A DUCKING DESERVED.

Captain Ryecroft has been but a few minutes at his favourite fishing
place--just long enough to see his tackle in working condition, and cast
his line across the water; as he does the last, saying--

"I shouldn't wonder, Wingate, if we don't see a salmon to-day.  I fear
that sky's too bright for his dainty kingship to mistake feathers for
flies."

"Ne'er a doubt the fish'll be a bit shy," returns the boatman; "but," he
adds, assigning their shyness to a different cause, "'tain't so much the
colour o' the sky; more like it's that lot of Foresters has frightened
them, with their hulk o' a boat makin' as much noise as a Bristol
steamer.  Wonder what brings such rubbish on the river anyhow.  They
han't no business on't; an' in my opinion theer ought to be a law
'gainst it--same's for trespassin' after game."

"That would be rather hard lines, Jack.  These mining gentry need
out-door recreation as much as any other sort of people.  Rather more I
should say, considering that they're compelled to pass the greater part
of their time underground.  When they emerge from the bowels of the
earth to disport themselves on its surface, it's but natural they should
like a little aquatics; which you, by choice, an amphibious creature,
cannot consistently blame them for.  Those we've just met are doubtless
out for a holiday, which accounts for their having taken too much
drink--in some sense an excuse for their conduct.  I don't think it at
all strange seeing them on the water."

"Their faces han't seed much o' it anyhow," observes the waterman,
seeming little satisfied with the Captain's reasoning.  "And as for
their being out on holiday, if I an't mistook, it be holiday as lasts
all the year round.  Two o' 'em may be miners--them as got the grimiest
faces.  As for t'other two, I don't think eyther ever touch't pick or
shovel in their lives.  I've seed both hangin' about Lydbrook, which be
a queery place.  Besides, one I've seed 'long wi' a man whose company is
enough to gi'e a saint a bad character--that's Coracle Dick.  Take my
word for't, Captain, there ain't a honest miner 'mong that lot--eyther
in the way of iron or coal.  If there wor I'd be the last man to go
again them havin' their holiday; 'cepting I don't think they ought to
take it on the river.  Ye see what comes o' sich as they humbuggin'
about in a boat?"

At the last clause of this speech--its Conservatism due to a certain
professional jealousy--the Hussar officer cannot resist smiling.  He had
half forgiven the rudeness of the revellers--attributing it to
intoxication--and more than half repented of his threat to bring them to
a reckoning, which might not be called for, but might, and in all
likelihood would be inconvenient.  Now, reflecting on Wingate's words,
the frown which had passed from off his face again returns to it.  He
says nothing, however, but sits rod in hand, less thinking of the salmon
than how he can chastise the "damned scoun'rels," as his companion has
pronounced them, should he, as he anticipates, again come in collision
with them.

"Lissen!" exclaims the waterman; "that's them shoutin'!  Comin' this
way, I take it.  What should we do to 'em, Captain?"

The salmon fisher is half determined to reel in his line, lay aside the
rod, and take out a revolving pistol he chances to have in his pocket--
not with any intention to fire it at the fellows, but only frighten
them.

"Yes," goes on Wingate, "they be droppin' down again--sure; I dar' say,
they've found the tide a bit too strong for 'em up above.  An' I don't
wonder; sich louty chaps as they thinkin' they cud guide a boat 'bout
the Wye!  Jist like mountin' hogs a-horseback!"

At this fresh sally of professional spleen the soldier again smiles, but
says nothing, uncertain what action he should take, or how soon he may
be called on to commence it.  Almost instantly after he is called on to
take action, though not against the four riotous Foresters, but a silly
salmon, which has conceived a fancy for his fly.  A purl on the water,
with a pluck quick succeeding, tells of one on the hook, while the whizz
of the wheel and rapid rolling out of catgut proclaims it a fine one.

For some minutes neither he nor his oarsman has eye or ear for aught
save securing the fish, and both bend all their energies to "fighting"
it.  The line runs out, to be spun up and run off again; his river
majesty, maddened at feeling himself so oddly and painfully restrained
in his desperate efforts to escape, now rushing in one direction, now
another, all the while the angler skilfully playing him, the equally
skilled oarsman keeping the boat in concerted accordance.

Absorbed by their distinct lines of endeavour they do not hear high
words, mingled with exclamations, coming from above; or hearing, do not
heed, supposing them to proceed from the four men they had met, in all
likelihood now more inebriated than ever.  Not till they have well-nigh
finished their "fight," and the salmon, all but subdued, is being drawn
towards the boat--Wingate, gaff in hand, bending over ready to strike
it.  Not till then do they note other sounds, which even at that
critical moment make them careless about the fish, in its last feeble
throes, when its capture is good as sure, causing Ryecroft to stop
winding his wheel, and stand listening.

Only for an instant.  Again the voices of men, but now also heard the
cry of a woman, as if she sending it forth were in danger or distress!

They have no need for conjecture, nor are they long left to it.  Almost
simultaneously they see a boat sweeping round the bend, with another
close in its wake, evidently in chase, as told by the attitudes and
gestures of those occupying both--in the one pursued two young ladies,
in that pursuing four rough men readily recognisable.  At a glance the
Hussar officer takes in the situation--the waterman as well.  The sight
saves a salmon's life, and possibly two innocent women from outrage.
Down goes Ryecroft's rod, the boatman simultaneously dropping his gaff;
as he does so hearing thundered in his ears--

"To yours oars, Jack!  Make straight for them!  Row with all your
might!"

Jack Wingate needs neither command to act nor word to stimulate him.  As
a man he remembers the late indignity to himself; as a gallant fellow he
now sees others submitted to the like.  No matter about their being
ladies; enough that they are women suffering insult; and more than
enough at seeing who are the insulters.

In ten seconds' time he is on his thwart, oars in hand, the officer at
the tiller; and in five more, the _Mary_, brought stem up stream, is
surging against the current, going swiftly as if with it.  She is set
for the big boat pursuing--not now to shun a collision, but seek it.

As yet some two hundred yards are between the chased craft and that
hastening to its rescue.  Ryecroft, measuring the distance with his
eyes, is in thought tracing out a course of action.  His first instinct
was to draw a pistol, and stop the pursuit with a shot.  But no.  It
would not be English.  Nor does he need resort to such deadly weapon.
True there will be four against two; but what of it?

"I think we can manage them, Jack," he mutters through his teeth, "I'm
good for two of them--the biggest and best."

"An' I t'other two--sich clumsy chaps as them!  Ye can trust me takin'
care o' 'em, Captin."

"I know it.  Keep to your oars, till I give the word to drop them."

"They don't 'pear to a sighted us yet.  Too drunk I take it.  Like as
not when they see what's comin' they'll sheer off."

"They shan't have the chance.  I intend steering bow dead on to them.
Don't fear the result.  If the _Mary_ get damaged I'll stand the expense
of repairs."

"Ne'er a mind 'bout that, Captain.  I'd gi'e the price o' a new boat to
see the lot chastised--specially that big black fellow as did most o'
the talkin'."

"You shall see it, and soon!"

He lets go the ropes, to disembarrass himself of his angling
accoutrements; which he hurriedly does, flinging them at his feet.  When
he again takes hold of the steering tackle the _Mary_ is within six
lengths of the advancing boats, both now nearly together, the bow of the
pursuer overlapping the stern of the pursued.  Only two of the men are
at the oars; two standing up, one amidships, the other at the head.
Both are endeavouring to lay hold of the pleasure-boat, and bring it
alongside.  So occupied they see not the fishing skiff, while the two
rowing, with backs turned, are equally unconscious of its approach.
They only wonder at the "wenches," as they continue to call them, taking
it so coolly, for these do not seem so much frightened as before.

"Coom, sweet lass!" cries he in the bow--the black fellow it is--
addressing Miss Wynn.  "'Tain't no use you tryin' to get away.  I must
ha' my kiss.  So drop yer oars, and ge'et to me!"

"Insolent fellow!" she exclaims, her eyes ablaze with anger.  "Keep your
hands off my boat.  I command you!"

"But I ain't to be c'mmanded, ye minx.  Not till I've had a smack o'
them lips; an' by Gad I s'll have it."

Saying which he reaches out to the full stretch of his long, ape-like
arms, and with one hand succeeds in grasping the boat's gunwale, while
with the other he gets hold of the lady's dress, and commences dragging
her towards him.

Gwen Wynn neither screams, nor calls "Help!"  She knows it is near.

"Hands off!" cries a voice in a volume of thunder, simultaneous with a
dull thud against the side of the larger boat, followed by a continued
crashing as her gunwale goes in.  The roughs, facing round, for the
first time see the fishing skiff, and know why it is there.  But they
are too far gone in drink to heed or submit--at least their leader seems
determined to resist.  Turning savagely on Ryecroft, he stammers out--

"Hic--ic--who the blazes be you, Mr White Cap!  An' what d'ye want wi'
me?"

"You'll see."

At the words he bounds from his own boat into the other; and, before the
fellow can raise an arm, those of Ryecroft are around him in tight hug.
In another minute the hulking scoundrel is hoisted from his feet, as
though but a feather's weight, and flung overboard.

Wingate has meanwhile also boarded, grappled on to the other on foot,
and is threatening to serve him the same.

A plunge, with a wild cry--the man going down like a stone; another, as
he comes up among his own bubbles; and a third, yet wilder, as he feels
himself sinking for the second time!

The two at the oars, scared into a sort of sobriety, one of them cries
out--

"Lor' o' mercy!  Rob'll be drownded!  He can't sweem a stroke."

"He's a-drownin' now!" adds the other.

It is true.  For Rob has again come to the surface, and shouts with
feebler voice, while his arms tossed frantically about tell of his being
in the last throes of suffocation!

Ryecroft looks regretful--rather alarmed.  In chastising the fellow he
had gone too far.  He must save him!

Quick as the thought off goes his coat, with his boots kicked into the
bottom of the boat; then himself over its side!

A splendid swimmer, with a few bold sweeps he is by the side of the
drowning man.  Not a moment too soon--just as the latter is going down
for the third--likely the last time.  With the hand of the officer
grasping his collar, he is kept above water.  But not yet saved.  Both
are now imperilled--the rescuer and he he would rescue.  For, far from
the boats, they have drifted into a dangerous eddy, and are being
whirled rapidly round!

A cry from Gwen Wynn--a cry of real alarm, now--the first she has
uttered!  But before she can repeat it, her fears are allayed--set to
rest again--at sight of still another rescuer.  The young waterman has
leaped back to his own boat, and is pulling straight for the strugglers.
A few strokes, and he is beside them; then, dropping his oars, he soon
has both safe in the skiff.

The half-drowned, but wholly frightened, Bob is carried back to his
comrades' boat, and dumped in among them; Wingate handling him as though
he were but a wet coal sack or piece of old tarpaulin.  Then giving the
"Forest chaps" a bit of his mind he bids them "be off!"

And off go they, without saying word; as they drop down stream their
downcast looks showing them subdued, if not quite sobered, and rather
feeling grateful than aggrieved.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

The other two boats soon proceed upward, the pleasure craft leading.
But not now rowed by its owner; for Captain Ryecroft has hold of the
oars.  In the haste, or the pleasurable moments succeeding, he has
forgotten all about the salmon left struggling on his line, or caring
not to return for it, most likely will lose rod, line, and all.  What
matter?  If he has lost a fine fish, he may have won the finest woman on
the Wye!

And she has lost nothing--risks nothing now--not even the chiding of her
aunt!  For now the pleasure-boat will be back in its dock in time to
keep undisturbed the understanding with Joseph.

Volume One, Chapter VII.

AN INVETERATE NOVEL READER.

While these exciting incidents are passing upon the river, Llangorren
Court is wrapped in that stately repose becoming an aristocratic
residence--especially where an elderly spinster is head of the house,
and there are no noisy children to go romping about.  It is thus with
Llangorren, whose ostensible mistress is Miss Linton, the aunt and legal
guardian already alluded to.  But, though presiding over the
establishment, it is rather in the way of ornamental figure-head; since
she takes little to do with its domestic affairs, leaving them to a
skilled housekeeper who carries the keys.

Kitchen matters are not much to Miss Linton's taste, being a dame of the
antique brocaded type, with pleasant memories of the past, that go back
to Bath and Cheltenham; where, in their days of glory, as hers of youth,
she was a belle, and did her share of dancing, with a due proportion of
flirting, at the Regency balls.  No longer able to indulge in such
delightful recreations, the memory of them has yet charms for her, and
she keeps it alive and warm by daily perusal of the _Morning Post_ with
a fuller hebdomadal feast from the _Court Journal_, and other
distributors of fashionable intelligence.  In addition she reads no end
of novels, her favourites being those which tell of Cupid in his most
romantic escapades and experiences, though not always the chastest.  Of
the prurient trash there is a plenteous supply, furnished by scribblers
of both sexes, who ought to know better, and doubtless do; but knowing
also how difficult it is to make their lucubrations interesting within
the legitimate lines of literary art, and how easy out of them, thus
transgress the moralities.

Miss Linton need have no fear that the impure stream will cease to flow,
any more than the limpid waters of the Wye.  Nor has she; but reads on,
devouring volume after volume, in triunes as they issue from the press,
and are sent her from the Circulating Library.

At nearly all hours of the day, and some of the night, does she so
occupy herself.  Even on this same bright April morn, when all nature
rejoices, and every living thing seems to delight in being out of
doors--when the flowers expand their petals to catch the kisses of the
warm Spring sun, Dorothea Linton is seated in a shady corner of the
drawing-room, up to her ears in a three-volume novel, still odorous of
printer's ink and binder's paste; absorbed in a love dialogue between a
certain Lord Lutestring and a rustic damsel--daughter of one of his
tenant-farmers--whose life he is doing his best to blight, and with much
likelihood of succeeding.  If he fail, it will not be for want of will
on his part, nor desire of the author to save the imperilled one.  He
will make the tempted iniquitous as the tempter, should this seem to add
interest to the tale, or promote the sale of the book.

Just as his lordship has gained a point and the girl is about to give
way, Miss Linton herself receives a shock, caused by a rat-tat at the
drawing-room door, light, such as well-trained servants are accustomed
to give before entering a room occupied by master or mistress.

To her command "Come in!" a footman presents himself, silver waiter in
hand, on which is a card.

She is more than annoyed, almost angry, as taking the card, she reads--

"Reverend William Musgrave."

Only to think of being thus interrupted on the eve of such an
interesting climax, which seemed about to seal the fate of the farmer's
daughter.

It is fortunate for his Reverence, that before entering within the room
another visitor is announced, and ushered in along with him.  Indeed the
second caller is shown in first; for, although George Shenstone rung the
front door bell after Mr Musgrave had stepped inside the hall, there is
no domestic of Llangorren but knows the difference between a rich
baronet's son and a poor parish curate; as which should have precedence.
To this nice, if not very delicate appreciation, the Reverend William
is now indebted more than he is aware.  It has saved him from an
outburst of Miss Linton's rather tart temper, which, under the
circumstances, otherwise he would have caught.  For it so chances that
the son of Sir George Shenstone is a great favourite with the old lady
of Llangorren; welcome at all times, even amid the romantic gallantries
of Lord Lutestring.  Not that the young country gentleman has anything
in common with the titled Lothario, who is habitually a dweller in
cities.  Instead, the former is a frank, manly fellow, devoted to field
sports and rural pastimes, a little brusque in manner, but for all
well-bred, and, what is even better, well-behaved.  There is nothing odd
in his calling at that early hour.  Sir George is an old friend of the
Wynn family--was an intimate associate of Gwen's deceased father--and
both he and his son have been accustomed to look in at Llangorren Court
_sans ceremonie_.

No more is Mr Musgrave's matutinal visit out of order.  Though but the
curate, he is in full charge of parish duties, the rector being not only
aged but an absentee--so long away from the neighbourhood as to have
become almost a myth to it.  For this reason his vicarial representative
can plead scores of excuses for presenting himself at "The Court."
There is the school, the church choir, and clothing club, to say nought
of neighbouring news, which on most mornings make him a welcome visitor
to Miss Linton; and no doubt would on this, but for the glamour thrown
around her by the fascinations of the dear delightful Lutestring.  It
even takes all her partiality for Mr Shenstone to remove its spell, and
get him vouchsafed friendly reception.

"Miss Linton," he says, speaking first, "I've just dropped in to ask if
the young ladies would go for a ride.  The day's so fine, I thought they
might like to."

"Ah, indeed," returns the spinster, holding out her fingers to be
touched, but, under the plea of being a little invalided, excusing
herself from rising.  "Yes; no doubt they would like it very much."

Mr Shenstone is satisfied with the reply; but less the curate, who
neither rides nor has a horse.  And less Shenstone himself--indeed
both--as the lady proceeds.  They have been listening, with ears all
alert, for the sound of soft footsteps and rustling dresses.  Instead,
they hear words, not only disappointing, but perplexing.

"Nay, I am sure," continues Miss Linton, with provoking coolness, "they
would have been glad to go riding with you; delighted--"

"But why can't they?" asked Shenstone, impatiently interrupting.

"Because the thing's impossible; they've already gone rowing."

"Indeed!" cry both gentlemen in a breath, seeming alike vexed by the
intelligence, Shenstone mechanically interrogating:

"On the river?"

"Certainly!" answers the lady, looking surprised.  "Why, George; where
else could they go rowing!  You don't suppose they've brought the boat
up to the fishpond!"

"Oh, no," he stammers out.  "I beg pardon.  How very stupid of me to ask
such a question.  I was only wondering why Miss Gwen--that is, I am a
little astonished--but--perhaps you'll think it impertinent of me to ask
another question?"

"Why should I?  What is it?"

"Only whether--whether she--Miss Gwen, I mean--said anything about
riding to-day?"

"Not a word--at least not to me."

"How long since they went off--may I know, Miss Linton?"

"Oh, hours ago!  Very early, indeed--just after taking breakfast.  I
wasn't down myself--as I've told you, not feeling very well this
morning.  But Gwen's maid informs me they left the house then, and I
presume they went direct to the river."

"Do you think they'll be out long?" earnestly interrogates Shenstone.

"I should hope not," returns the ancient toast of Cheltenham, with
aggravating indifference, for Lutestring is not quite out of her
thoughts.  "There's no knowing, however.  Miss Wynn is accustomed to
come and go, without much consulting me."

This with some acerbity--possibly from the thought that the days of her
legal guardianship are drawing to a close, which will make her a less
important personage at Llangorren.

"Surely, they won't be out all day," timidly suggests the curate; to
which she makes no rejoinder, till Mr Shenstone puts it in the shape of
an inquiry.

"Is it likely they will, Miss Linton?"

"I should say not.  More like they'll be hungry, and that will bring
them home.  What's the hour now?  I've been reading a very interesting
book, and quite forgot myself.  Is it possible?" she exclaims, looking
at the ormolu dial on the mantelshelf.  "Ten minutes to one!  How time
does fly, to be sure!  I couldn't have believed it near so late--almost
luncheon time!  Of course you'll stay, gentlemen?  As for the girls, if
they're not back in time they'll have to go without.  Punctuality is the
rule of this house--always will be with me.  I shan't wait one minute
for them."

"But, Miss Linton; they may have returned from the river, and are now
somewhere about the grounds.  Shall I run down to the boat-dock and
see?"

It is Mr Shenstone who thus interrogates.

"If you like--by all means.  I shall be too thankful.  Shame of Gwen to
give us so much trouble!  She knows our luncheon hour, and should have
been back by this.  Thanks, much, Mr Shenstone."

As he is bounding off, she calls after--"Don't you be staying too, else
you shan't have a pick.  Mr Musgrave and I won't wait for any of you.
Shall we, Mr Musgrave?"

Shenstone has not tarried to hear either question or answer.  A luncheon
for Apicius were, at that moment, nothing to him; and little more to the
curate, who, though staying, would gladly go along.  Not from any
rivalry with, or jealousy of, the baronet's son: they revolve in
different orbits, with no danger of collision.  Simply that he dislikes
leaving Miss Linton alone--indeed, dare not.  She may be expecting the
usual budget of neighbourhood intelligence he daily brings her.

He is mistaken.  On this particular day it is not desired.  Out of
courtesy to Mr Shenstone, rather than herself, she had laid aside the
novel; and it now requires all she can command to keep her eyes off it.
She is burning to know what befel the farmer's daughter!

Volume One, Chapter VIII.

A SUSPICIOUS STRANGER.

While Mr Musgrave is boring the elderly spinster about new scarlet
cloaks for the girls of the church choir, and other parish matters,
George Shenstone is standing on the topmost step of the boat stair, in a
mood of mind even less enviable than hers.  For he has looked down into
the dock, and there sees no Gwendoline--neither boat nor lady--nor is
there sign of either upon the water, far as he can command a view of it.
No sounds, such as he would wish, and might expect to hear--no dipping
of oars, nor, what would be still more agreeable to his ear, the soft
voices of women.  Instead only the note of a cuckoo, in monotonous
repetition, the bird balancing itself on a branch near by; and, farther
off, the _hiccol_, laughing, as if in mockery--and at him!  Mocking his
impatience; ay, something more, almost his misery!  That it is so his
soliloquy tells:

"Odd her being out on the river!  She promised me to go riding to-day.
Very odd indeed!  Gwen isn't the same she was--acting strange altogether
for the last three or four days.  Wonder what it means!  By Jove, I
can't comprehend it!"

His noncomprehension does not hinder a dark shadow from stealing over
his brow, and there staying.

It is not unobserved.  Through the leaves of the evergreen Joseph notes
the pained expression, and interprets it in his own shrewd way--not far
from the right one.

The old servant soliloquising in less conjectural strain, says, or
rather thinks--

"Master George be mad sweet on Miss Gwen.  The country folk are all
talkin' o't; thinkin' she's same on him, as if they knew anything about
it.  I knows better.  An' he ain't no ways confident, else there
wouldn't be that queery look on's face.  It's the token o' jealousy for
sure.  I don't believe he have suspicion o' any rival particklar.  Ah!
it don't need that wi' sich a grand beauty as she be.  He as love her
might be jealous o' the sun kissing her cheeks, or the wind tossin' her
hair!"

Joseph is a Welshman of Bardic ancestry, and thinks poetry.  He
continues--

"I know what's took her on the river, if he don't.  Yes--yes, my young
lady!  Ye thought yerself wonderful clever leavin' old Joe behind,
tellin' him to hide hisself, and bribin' him to stay hid!  And d'y
'spose I didn't obsarve them glances exchanged twixt you and the salmon
fisher--sly, but for all that, hot as streaks o' fire?  And d'ye think I
didn't see Mr Whitecap going down, afore ye thought o' a row yerself.
Oh, no; I noticed nothin' o' all that, not I?  'Twarn't meant for me--
not for Joe--ha, ha!"

With a suppressed giggle at the popular catch coming in so _apropos_, he
once more fixes his eyes on the face of the impatient watcher,
proceeding with his soliloquy, though in changed strain:

"Poor young gentleman!  I do pity he to be sure.  He are a good sort,
an' everybody likes him.  So do she, but not the way he want her to.
Well; things o' that kind allers do go contrary wise--never seem to run
smooth like.  I'd help him myself if 'twar in my power, but it ain't.
In such cases help can only come frae the place where they say matches
be made--that's Heaven.  Ha! he's lookin' a bit brighter!  What's
cheerin' him?  The boat coming back?  I can't see it from here, nor I
don't hear any rattle o' oars!"

The change he notes in George Shenstone's manner is not caused by the
returning pleasure craft.  Simply a reflection which crossing his mind,
for the moment tranquillises him.

"What a stupid I am!" he mutters self-accusingly.  "Now I remember,
there was nothing said about the hour we were to go riding, and I
suppose she understood in the afternoon.  It was so the last time we
went out together.  By Jove! yes.  It's all right, I take it; she'll be
back in good time yet."

Thus reassured he remains listening.  Still more satisfied, when a dull
thumping sound, in regular repetition, tells him of oars working in
their rowlocks.  Were he learned in boating tactics he would know there
are two pairs of them, and think this strange too; since the
_Gwendoline_ carries only one.  But he is not so skilled--instead,
rather averse to aquatics--his chosen home the hunting field, his
favourite seat in a saddle, not on a boat's thwart.  It is only when the
plashing of the oars in the tranquil water of the bye-way is borne clear
along the cliff, that he perceives there are two pairs at work, while at
the same time he observes two boats approaching the little dock, where
but one belongs!

Alone at that leading boat does he look; with eyes in which, as he
continues to gaze, surprise becomes wonderment, dashed with something
like displeasure.  The boat he has recognised at the first glance--the
_Gwendoline_--as also the two ladies in the stern.  But there is also a
man on the mid thwart plying the oars.  "Who the deuce is he?"  Thus to
himself George Shenstone puts it.  Not old Joe, not the least like him.
Nor is it the family Charon who sits solitary on the thwarts of that
following.  Instead, Joseph is now by Mr Shenstone's side, passing him
in haste--making to go down the boat stairs!

"What's the meaning of all this, Joe?" asks the young man, in stark
astonishment.

"Meanin' o' what, sir?" returns the old boatman, with an air of assumed
innocence.  "Be there anythin' amiss?"

"Oh, nothing," stammers Shenstone.  "Only I supposed you were out with
the young ladies.  How is it you haven't gone?"

"Well, sir, Miss Gwen didn't wish it.  The day bein' fine, an' nothing
o' flood in the river, she sayed she'd do the rowin' herself."

"She hasn't been doing it for all that," mutters Shenstone to himself,
as Joseph glides past and on down the stair; then repeating, "Who the
deuce is he?" the interrogation as before, referring to him who rows the
pleasure-boat.

By this it has been brought, bow in, to the dock, its stern touching the
bottom of the stair; and, as the ladies step out of it, George Shenstone
overhears a dialogue, which, instead of quieting his perturbed spirit,
but excites him still more--almost to madness.  It is Miss Wynn who has
commenced it, saying.

"You'll come up to the house, and let me introduce you to my aunt?"

This to the gentleman who has been pulling her boat, and has just
abandoned the oars soon as seeing its painter in the hands of the
servant.

"Oh, thank you!" he returns.  "I would, with pleasure; but, as you see,
I'm not quite presentable just now--anything but fit for a drawing-room.
So I beg you'll excuse me to-day."

His saturated shirt-front, with other garments dripping, tells why the
apology; but does not explain either that or aught else to him on the
top of the stair; who, hearkening further, hears other speeches which,
while perplexing him, do nought to allay the wild tempest now surging
through his soul.  Unseen himself--for he has stepped behind the tree
lately screening Joseph--he sees Gwen Wynn hold out her hand to be
pressed in parting salute--hears her address the stranger in words of
gratitude, warm as though she were under some great obligation to him!

Then the latter leaps out of the pleasure-boat into the other brought
alongside, and is rowed away by his waterman; while the ladies ascend
the stair--Gwen, lingeringly, at almost every step, turning her face
towards the fishing skiff, till this, pulled around the upper end of the
eyot, can no more be seen.

All this George Shenstone observes, drawing deductions which send the
blood in chill creep through his veins.  Though still puzzled by the wet
garments, the presence of the gentleman wearing them seems to solve that
other enigma, unexplained as painful--the strangeness he has of late
observed in the ways of Miss Wynn.  Nor is he far out in his fancy,
bitter though it be.

Not until the two ladies have reached the stair head do they become
aware of his being there; and not then, till Gwen has made some
observations to the companion, which, as those addressed to the
stranger, unfortunately for himself, George Shenstone overhears.

"We'll be in time for luncheon yet, and aunt needn't know anything of
what's delayed us--at least, not just now.  True, if the like had
happened to herself--say some thirty or forty years ago--she'd want all
the world to hear of it, particularly that portion of the world yclept
Cheltenham.  The dear old lady!  Ha, ha!"  After a laugh, continuing:
"But, speaking seriously, Nell, I don't wish any one to be the wiser
about our bit of an escapade--least of all, a certain young gentleman,
whose Christian name begins with a G, and surname with an S."

"Those initials answer for mine," says George Shenstone, coming forward
and confronting her.  "If your observation was meant for me, Miss Wynn,
I can only express regret for my bad luck in being within earshot of
it."

At his appearance, so unexpected and abrupt, Gwen Wynn had given a
start--feeling guilty, and looking it.  Soon, however, reflecting whence
he has come, and hearing what said, she feels less self-condemned than
indignant, as evinced by her rejoinder.

"Ah! you've been overhearing us, Mr Shenstone!  Bad luck, you call it.
Bad or good, I don't think you are justified in attributing it to
chance.  When a gentleman deliberately stations himself behind a shady
bush, like that laurustinus, for instance, and there stands listening--
intentionally--"

Suddenly she interrupts herself, and stands silent too--this on
observing the effect of her words, and that they have struck terribly
home.  With bowed head the baronet's son is stooping towards her, the
cloud on his brow telling of sadness--not anger.  Seeing it, the old
tenderness returns to her, with its familiarity, and she exclaims:--

"Come, George! there must be no quarrel between you and me.  What you've
just seen and heard, will be all explained by something you have yet to
hear.  Miss Lees and I have had a little bit of an adventure; and if
you'll promise it shan't go further, we'll make you acquainted with it."

Addressed in this style, he readily gives the promise--gladly, too.  The
confidence so offered seems favourable to himself.  But, looking for
explanation on the instant, he is disappointed.  Asking for it, it is
denied him, with reason assigned thus:

"You forget we've been full four hours on the river, and are as hungry
as a pair of kingfishers--hawks, I suppose, you'd say, being a game
preserver.  Never mind about the simile.  Let us in to luncheon, if not
too late."

She steps hurriedly off towards the house, the companion following,
Shenstone behind both.

However hungry they, never man went to a meal with less appetite than
he.  All Gwen's cajoling has not tranquillised his spirit, nor driven
out of his thoughts that man with the bronzed complexion, dark
moustache, and white helmet hat.

Volume One, Chapter IX.

JEALOUS ALREADY.

Captain Ryecroft has lost more than rod and line; his heart is as good
as gone too--given to Gwendoline Wynn.  He now knows the name of the
yellow haired Naiad--for this, with other particulars, she imparted to
him on return up stream.

Neither has her confidence thus extended, nor the conversation leading
to it, belied the favourable impression made upon him by her appearance.
Instead, so strengthened it, that for the first time in his life he
contemplates becoming a benedict.  He feels that his fate is sealed--or
no longer in his hands, but hers.

As Wingate pulls him on homeward, he draws out his cigar case, sets fire
to a fresh weed, and, while the blue smoke wreaths up round the rim of
his topee, reflects on the incidents of the day,--reviewing them in the
order of their occurrence.

Circumstances apparently accidental have been strangely in his favour.
Helped as by Heaven's own hand, working with the rudest instruments.
Through the veriest scum of humanity he has made acquaintance with one
of its fairest forms.  More than mere acquaintance, he hopes; for surely
those warm words, and glances far from cold, could not be the sole
offspring of gratitude!  If so, a little service on the Wye goes a long
way.  Thus reflects he, in modest appreciation of himself, deeming that
he has done but little.  How different the value put upon it by Gwen
Wynn!

Still he knows not this, or at least cannot be sure of it.  If he were,
his thoughts would be all rose-coloured, which they are not.  Some are
dark as the shadows of the April showers now and then drifting across
the sun's disc.

One that has just settled on his brow is no reflection from the
firmament above--no vague imagining--but a thing of shape and form--the
form of a man, seen at the top of the boat stair, as the ladies were
ascending, and not so far off as to have hindered him from observing the
man's face, and noting that he was young, and rather handsome.  Already
the eyes of love have caught the keenness of jealousy.  A gentleman
evidently on terms of intimacy with Miss Wynn.  Strange, though, that
the look with which he regarded her on saluting, seemed to speak of
something amiss!  What could it mean!  Captain Ryecroft has asked this
question as his boat was rounding the end of the eyot, with another in
the selfsame formulary of interrogation, of which but the moment before
he was himself the subject:--"Who the deuce can _he_ be?"  Out upon the
river, and drawing hard at his Regalia, he goes on:--

"Wonderfully familiar the fellow seemed!  Can't be a brother?  I
understood her to say she had none.  Does he live at Llangorren?  No.
She said there was no one there in the shape of masculine relative--only
an old aunt, and that little dark damsel, who is cousin or something of
the kind.  But who the deuce is the gentleman?  Might _he_ be a cousin?"

So propounding questions without being able to answer them, he at length
addresses himself to the waterman, saying:

"Jack, did you observe a gentleman at the head of the stair?"

"Only the head and shoulders o' one, captain."

"Head and shoulders; that's enough.  Do you chance to know him?"

"I ain't thorough sure; but I think he be a Mr Shenstone."

"Who is Mr Shenstone?"

"The son o' Sir George."

"Sir George!  What do you know of _him_?"

"Not much to speak of--only that he be a big gentleman, whose land lies
along the river, two or three miles below."

The information is but slight, and slighter the gratification it gives.
Captain Ryecroft has heard of the rich baronet whose estate adjoins that
of Llangorren, and whose title, with the property attached, will descend
to an only son.  It is the _torso_ of this son he has seen above the red
sandstone rock.  In truth, a formidable rival!  So he reflects, smoking
away like mad.

After a time, he again observes:--"You've said you don't know the ladies
we've helped out of their little trouble?"

"Parsonally, I don't, captain.  But, now as I see where they live, I
know who they be.  I've heerd talk 'bout the biggest o' them--a good
deal."

The biggest of them!  As if she were a salmon!  In the boatman's eyes,
bulk is evidently her chief recommendation!

Ryecroft smiles, further interrogating:--"What have you heard of her?"

"That she be a _tidy_ young lady.  Wonderful fond o' field sport, such
as hunting and that like.  Fr' all, I may say that up to this day, I
never set eyes on her afore."

The Hussar officer has been long enough in Herefordshire to have learnt
the local signification of "tidy"--synonymous with "well-behaved."  That
Miss Wynn is fond of field sports--flood pastimes included--he has
gathered from herself while rowing her up the river.

One thing strikes him as strange--that the waterman should not be
acquainted with every one dwelling on the river's bank, at least for a
dozen miles up and down.  He seeks an explanation:--

"How is it, Jack, that you, living but a short league above, don't know
all about these people?"

He is unaware that Wingate, though born on the Wye's banks, as he has
told him, is comparatively a stranger to its middle waters--his
birthplace being far up in the shire of Brecon.  Still, that is not the
solution of the enigma, which the young waterman gives in his own way,--

"Lord love ye, sir!  That shows how little you understand this river.
Why, captain; it crooks an' crooks, and goes wobblin' about in such a
way, that folks as lives less'n a mile apart knows no more o' one the
other than if they wor ten.  It comes o' the bridges bein' so few and
far between.  There's the ferry boats, true; but people don't take to
'em more'n they can help; 'specially women--seein' there be some danger
at all times, and a good deal o't when the river's a-flood.  That's
frequent, summer well as winter."

The explanation is reasonable; and, satisfied with it, Ryecroft remains
for a time wrapt in a dreamy reverie, from which he is aroused as his
eyes rest upon a house--a quaint antiquated structure, half timber, half
stone, standing not on the river's edge, but at some distance from it up
a dingle.  The sight is not new to him; he has before noticed the
house--struck with its appearance, so different from the ordinary
dwellings.

"Whose is it, Jack?" he asks.

"B'longs to a man, name o' Murdock."

"Odd-looking domicile!"

"'Ta'nt a bit more that way than he be--if half what they say 'bout him
be true."

"Ah!  Mr Murdock's a character, then?"

"Ay; an' a queery one."

"In what respect? what way?"

"More'n one--a goodish many."

"Specify, Jack?"

"Well; for one thing, he a'nt sober to say half o' his time."

"Addicted to dipsomania?"

"'Dicted to getting dead drunk.  I've seen him so, scores o' 'casions."

"That's not wise of Mr Murdock."

"No, captain; 'ta'nt neyther wise nor well.  All the worse, considerin'
the place where mostly he go to do his drinkin'."

"Where may that be?"

"The Welsh Harp--up at Rogue's Ferry."

"Rogue's Ferry?  Strange appellation!  What sort of place is it?  Not
very nice, I should say--if the name be at all appropriate."

"It's parfitly 'propriate, though I b'lieve it wa'nt that way bestowed.
It got so called after a man the name o' Rugg, who once keeped the Welsh
Harp and the ferry too.  It's about two mile above, a little ways back.
Besides the tavern, there be a cluster o' houses, a bit scattered about,
wi' a chapel an' a grocery shop--one as deals trackways, an' a'nt
partickler as to what they take in change--stolen goods welcome as any--
ay, welcomer, if they be o' worth.  They got plenty o' them, too.  The
place be a regular nest o' poachers, an' worse than that--a good many as
have sarved their spell in the Penitentiary."

"Why, Wingate, you astonish me!  I was under the impression your Wyeside
was a sort of Arcadia, where one only met with innocence and primitive
simplicity."

"You won't meet much o' either at Rogue's Ferry.  If there be an
uninnocent set on earth it's they as live there.  Them Forest chaps we
came 'cross a'nt no ways their match in wickedness.  Just possible drink
made them behave as they did--some o' 'em.  But drink or no drink it be
all the same wi' the Ferry people--maybe worse when they're sober.  Any
ways they're a rough lot."

"With a place of worship in their midst!  That ought to do something
towards refining them."

"Ought; and would, I dare say, if 'twar the right sort--which it a'nt.
Instead, o' a kind as only the more corrupts 'em--being Roman."

"Oh!  A Roman Catholic chapel.  But how does it corrupt them?"

"By makin' 'em believe they can get cleared of their sins, hows'ever
black they be.  Men as think that way a'nt like to stick at any sort of
crime--'specialty if it brings 'em the money to buy what they calls
absolution."

"Well, Jack; it's very evident you're no friend, or follower, of the
Pope."

"Neyther o' Pope nor priest.  Ah! captain; if you seed him o' the
Rogue's Ferry Chapel, you wouldn't wonder at my havin' a dislike for the
whole kit o' them."

"What is there specially repulsive about him?"

"Don't know as there be any thin' very special, in partickler.  Them
priests all look bout the same--such o' 'em as I've ever set eyes on.
And that's like stoats and weasels, shootin' out o' one hole into
another.  As for him we're speakin' about, he's here, there, an'
everywhere; sneakin' along the roads an' paths, hidin' behind bushes
like a cat after birds, an' poppin' out where nobody expects him.  If
ever there war a spy meaner than another it's the priest of Rogue's
Ferry."

"_No_?" he adds, correcting himself.  "There be one other in these parts
worse than he--if that's possible.  A different sort o' man, true; and
yet they be a good deal thegither."

"Who is this other?"

"Dick Dempsey--better known by the name of Coracle Dick."

"Ah, Coracle Dick!  He appears to occupy a conspicuous place in your
thoughts, Jack; and rather a low one in your estimation.  Why, may I
ask?  What sort of fellow is he?"

"The biggest blaggard as lives on the Wye, from where it springs out o'
Plinlimmon to its emptying into the Bristol Channel.  Talk o' poachers
an' night netters.  He goes out by night to catch somethin' beside
salmon.  'Taint all fish as comes into his net, I know."

The young waterman speaks in such hostile tone both about priest and
poacher, that Ryecroft suspects a motive beyond the ordinary prejudice
against men who wear the sacerdotal garb, or go trespassing after game.
Not caring to inquire into it now, he returns to the original topic,
saying:--

"We've strayed from our subject, Jack--which was the hard drinking owner
of yonder house."

"Not so far, captain; seein' as he be the most intimate friend the
priest have in these parts; though if what's said be true, not nigh so
much as his Missus."

"Murdock is married, then?"

"I won't say that--leastwise I shouldn't like to swear it.  All I know
is, a woman lives wi' him, s'posed to be his wife.  Odd thing she."

"Why odd?"

"'Cause she beant like any other o' womankind 'bout here."

"Explain yourself, Jack.  In what does Mrs Murdock differ from the rest
of your Herefordshire fair?"

"One way, captain, in her not bein' fair at all.  'Stead, she be dark
complected; most as much as one o' them women I've seed 'bout
Cheltenham, nursin' the children o' old officers as brought 'em from
India--_ayers_ they call 'em.  She a'nt one o' 'em, but French, I've
heerd say; which in part, I suppose explains the thickness 'tween her
an' the priest--he bein' the same."

"Oh!  His reverence is a Frenchman, is he?"

"All o' that, captain.  If he wor English, he wouldn't--couldn't--be the
contemptible sneakin' hound he is.  As for Mrs Murdock, I can't say
I've seed her more'n twice in my life.  She keeps close to the house;
goes nowhere; an' it's said nobody visits her nor him--leastwise none o'
the old gentry.  For all Mr Murdock belongs to the best of them."

"He's a gentleman, is he?"

"Ought to be--if he took after his father."

"Why so?"

"Because he wor a squire--regular of the old sort.  He's not been so
long dead.  I can remember him myself, though I hadn't been here such a
many years--the old lady too--this Murdock's mother.  Ah! now I think
on't, she wor t'other squire's sister--father to the tallest o' them two
young ladies--the one with the reddish hair."

"What!  Miss Wynn?"

"Yes, captain; her they calls Gwen."

Ryecroft questions no farther.  He has learnt enough to give him food
for reflection--not only during the rest of that day, but for a week, a
month--it may be throughout the remainder of his life.

Volume One, Chapter X.

THE CUCKOO'S GLEN.

About a mile above Llangorren Court, but on the opposite side of the
Wye, stands the house which had attracted the attention of Captain
Ryecroft; known to the neighbourhood as "Glyngog"--Cymric synonym for
"Cuckoo's Glen."  Not immediately on the water's edge, but several
hundred yards back, near the head of a lateral ravine which debouches on
the valley of the river, to the latter contributing a rivulet.

Glyngog House is one of those habitations, common in the county of
Hereford as other western shires--puzzling the stranger to tell whether
they be gentleman's residence, or but the dwelling of a farmer.  This
from an array of walls, enclosing yard, garden, even the orchard--a
plenitude due to the red sandstone being near, and easily shaped for
building purposes.

About Glyngog House, however, there is something besides the
circumvallation to give it an air of grandeur beyond that of the
ordinary farm homestead; certain touches of architectural style which
speak of the Elizabethan period--in short that termed Tudor.  For its
own walls are not altogether stone; instead a framework of oaken
uprights, struts, and braces, black with age, the panelled masonry
between plastered and white-washed, giving to the structure a quaint,
almost fantastic, appearance, heightened by an irregular roof of steep
pitch, with projecting dormers, gables acute angled, overhanging
windows, and carving at the coigns.  Of such ancient domiciles there are
yet many to be met with on the Wye--their antiquity vouched for by the
materials used in their construction, when bricks were a costly
commodity, and wood to be had almost for the asking.

About this one, the enclosing stone walls have been a later erection, as
also the pillared gate entrance to its ornamental grounds, through which
runs a carriage drive to the sweep in front.  Many a glittering equipage
may have gone round on that sweep; for Glyngog was once a Manor-house.
Now it is but the remains of one, so much out of repair as to show
smashed panes in several of its windows, while the _enceinte_ walls are
only upright where sustained by the upholding ivy; the shrubbery run
wild; the walks and carriage drive weed-covered; on the latter neither
recent track of wheel, nor hoof-mark of horse.

For all, the house is not uninhabited.  Three or four of the windows
appear sound, with blinds inside them; while at most hours smoke may be
seen ascending from at least two of the chimneys.

Few approach near enough the place to note its peculiarities.  The
traveller gets but a distant glimpse of its chimney-pots; for the
country road, avoiding the dip of the ravine, is carried round its head,
and far from the house.  It can only be approached by a long, narrow
lane, leading nowhere else, so steep as to deter any explorer save a
pedestrian; while he, too, would have to contend with an obstruction of
overgrowing thorns and trailing brambles.

Notwithstanding these disadvantages, Glyngog has something to recommend
it--a prospect not surpassed in the western shires of England.  He who
selected its site must have been a man of tastes rather aesthetic, than
utilitarian.  For the land attached and belonging--some fifty or sixty
acres--is barely arable; lying against the abruptly sloping sides of the
ravine.  But the view is superb.  Below, the Wye, winding through a
partially wood-covered plain, like some grand constrictor snake; its
sinuosities only here and there visible through the trees, resembling a
chain of detached lakes--till sweeping past the Cuckoo's Glen, it runs
on in straight reach towards Llangorren.

Eye of man never looked upon lovelier landscape; mind of man could not
contemplate one more suggestive of all that is, or ought to be,
interesting in life.  Peaceful smokes ascending out of far-off chimneys;
farm-houses, with their surrounding walls, standing amid the greenery of
old homestead trees--now in full leaf, for it is the month of June--here
and there the sharp spire of a church, or the showy facade of a
gentleman's mansion--in the distant background, the dark blue mountains
of Monmouthshire; among them conspicuous the Blorenge, Skerrid, and
Sugar Loaf.  The man who could look on such a picture, without drawing
from it inspirations of pleasure, must be out of sorts with the world,
if not weary of it.

And yet just such a man is now viewing it from Glyngog House, or rather
the bit of shrubbery ground in front.  He is seated on a rustic bench
partly shattered, barely enough of it whole to give room beside him for
a small japanned tray, on which are tumbler, bottle and jug--the two
last respectively containing brandy and water; while in the first is an
admixture of both.  He is smoking a meerschaum pipe, which at short
intervals he removes from his mouth to give place to the drinking glass.

The personal appearance of this man is in curious correspondence with
the bench on which he sits, the walls around, and the house behind.
Like all these, he looks dilapidated.  Not only is his apparel out of
repair, but his constitution too, as shown by hollow cheeks and sunken
eyes, with crows' feet ramifying around them.  This due not, as with the
surrounding objects, to age; for he is still under forty.  Nor yet any
of the natural infirmities to which flesh is heir; but evidently to
drink.  Some reddish spots upon his nose and flecks on the forehead,
with the glass held in shaking hand, proclaims this the cause.  And it
is.

Lewin Murdock--such is the man's name--has led a dissipated life.  Not
much of it in England; still less in Herefordshire; and only its earlier
years in the house he now inhabits--his paternal home.  Since boyhood he
has been abroad, staying none can say where, and straying no one knows
whither--often seen, however, at Baden, Homburg, and other "hells,"
punting high or low, as the luck has gone for or against him.  At a
later period in Paris, during the Imperial _regime_--worst hell of all.
It has stripped him of everything; driven him out and home, to seek
asylum at Glyngog, once a handsome property, now but a _pied a terre_,
on which he may only set his foot, with a mortgage around his neck.  For
even the little land left to it is let out to a farmer, and the rent
goes not to him.  He is, in fact, only a tenant on his patrimonial
estate; holding but the house at that, with the ornamental grounds and
an acre or two of orchard, of which he takes no care.  The farmer's
sheep may scale the crumbling walls, and browse the weedy enclosure at
will; give Lewin Murdock his meerschaum pipe, with enough brandy and
water, and he but laughs.  Not that he is of a jovial disposition, not
at all given to mirth; only that it takes something more than the
pasturage of an old orchard to excite his thoughts, or turn them to
cupidity.

For all, land does this--the very thing.  No limited tract; but one of
many acres in extent--even miles--the land of Llangorren.

It is now before his face, and under his eyes, as a map unfolded.  On
the opposite side of the river it forms the foreground of the landscape;
in its midst the many-windowed mansion, backed by stately trees, with
well-kept grounds, and green pastures; at a little distance the
"Grange," or home-farm, and farther off others that look of the same
belonging--as they are.  A smiling picture it is; spread before the eyes
of Lewin Murdock, whenever he sits in his front window, or steps outside
the door.  And the brighter the sun shines on it, the darker the shadow
on his brow!

Not much of an enigma either.  That land of Llangorren belonged to his
grandfather, but now is, or soon will be, the property of his cousin--
Gwendoline Wynn.  Were she not, it would be his.  Between him and it
runs the Wye, a broad deep river.  But what its width or depth, compared
with that other something between?  A barrier stronger and more
impassable than the stream, yet seeming slight as a thread.  For it is
but _the thread of a life_.  Should it snap, or get accidentally
severed, Lewin Murdock would only have to cross the river, proclaim
himself master of Llangorren, and take possession.

He would scarce he human not to think of all this.  And being human he
does--has thought of it oft, and many a time.  With feelings too, beyond
the mere prompting of cupidity.  These due to a legend handed down to
him, telling of an unfair disposal of the Llangorren property; but a
pittance given to his mother who married Murdock of Glyngog; while the
bulk went to her brother, the father of Gwen Wynn.  All matters of
testament, since the estate is unentailed; the only grace of the
grandfather towards the Murdock branch being a clause entitling them to
possession, in the event of the collateral heirs dying out.  And of
these but one is living--the heroine of our tale.

"Only she--but she!" mutters Lewin Murdock, in a tone of such
bitterness, that, as if to drown it, he plucks the pipe out of his
mouth, and gulps down the last drop in the glass.

Volume One, Chapter XI.

A WEED BY THE WYESIDE.

"Only she--but she!" he repeats, grasping the bottle by the neck, and
pouring more brandy into the tumbler.

Though speaking _sotto voce_, and not supposing himself overheard, he
is, nevertheless--by a woman, who, coming forth from the house, has
stepped silently behind him, there pausing.

Odd-looking apparition she, seen upon the Wyeside; altogether unlike a
native of it, but altogether like one born upon the banks of the Seine,
and brought up to tread the Boulevards of Paris--like the latter from
the crown of her head to the soles of her high-heeled boots, on whose
toes she stands poised and balancing.  In front of that ancient English
manor-house, she seems grotesquely out of place--as much as a
costermonger driving his moke-drawn cart among the Pyramids, or smoking
a "Pickwick" by the side of the Sphinx.

For all there is nothing mysterious, or even strange in her presence
there.  She is Lewin Murdoch's wife.  If he has left his fortune in
foreign lands, with the better part of his life and health, he has
thence brought her, his better-half.

Physically a fine-looking woman, despite some ravages due to time, and
possibly more to crime.  Tall and dark as the daughters of the Latinic
race, with features beautiful in the past--even still attractive to
those not repelled by the beguiling glances of sin.

Such were hers, first given to him in a _cafe chantant_ of the
Tuileries--oft afterwards repeated in _jardin, bois_, and _bals_ of the
demi-monde, till at length she gave him her hand in the Eglise La
Madeleine.

Busied with his brandy, and again gazing at Llangorren, he has not yet
seen her; nor is he aware of her proximity till hearing an
exclamation:--

"_Eh, bien_?"

He starts at the interrogatory, turning round.

"You think too loud, Monsieur--that is if you wish to keep your thoughts
to yourself.  And you might--seeing that it's a love secret!  May I ask
who is this _she_ you're soliloquising about?  Some of your old English
_bonnes amies_, I suppose?"

This, with an air of affected jealousy, she is far from feeling.  In the
heart of the _ex-cocotte_ there is no place for such a sentiment.

"Got nothing to do with _bonnes amies_, young or old," he gruffly
replies.  "Just now I've got something else to think of than
sweethearts.  Enough occupation for my thoughts in the how I'm to
support a wife--yourself, madame."

"It wasn't me you meant.  No, indeed.  Some other, in whom you appear to
feel a very profound interest."

"There, you're right, it was one other, in whom I feel all that."

"_Merci, Monsieur!  Ma foi_! your candour deserves all thanks.  Perhaps
you'll extend it, and favour me with the lady's name?  A lady, I
presume.  The grand Seigneur Lewin Murdock would not be giving his
thoughts to less."

Ignorance pretended.  She knows, or surmises, to whom he has been giving
them.  For she has been watching him from a window, and observed the
direction of his glances.  And she has more than a suspicion as to the
nature of his reflections; since she is well aware as he of that
something besides a river separating them from Llangorren.

"Her name?" she again asks, in tone of more demand, her eyes bent
searchingly on his.

Avoiding her glance, he still pulls away at his pipe, without making
answer.

"It is a love secret, then?  I thought so.  It's cruel of you, Lewin!
This is the return for giving you--all I had to give!"

She may well speak hesitatingly, and hint at a limited sacrifice.  Only
her hand; and it more than tenderly pressed by scores--ay hundreds--of
others, before being bestowed upon him.  No false pretence, however, on
her part.  He knew all that, or should have known it.  How could he
help?  Olympe, the belle of the Jardin Mabille, was no obscurity in the
_demi-monde_ of Paris--even in its days of glory under Napoleon le
Petite.

Her reproach is also a pretence, though possibly with some sting felt.
She is drawing on to that term of life termed _passe_, and begins to
feel conscious of it.  He may be the same.  Not that for his opinion she
cares a straw--save in a certain sense, and for reasons altogether
independent of slighted affection--the very purpose she is now working
upon, and for which she needs to hold over him the power she has
hitherto had.  And well knows she how to retain it, rekindling love's
fire when it seems in danger of dying out, either through appeal to his
pity, or exciting his jealousy, which she can adroitly do, by her artful
French ways and dark flashing eyes.

As he looks in them now, the old flame flickers up, and he feels almost
as much her slave as when he first became her husband.

For all he does not show it.  This day he is out of sorts with himself,
and her and all the world besides; so instead of reciprocating her sham
tenderness--as if knowing it such--he takes another swallow of brandy,
and smokes on in silence.

Now really incensed, or seeming so, she exclaims:--

"_Perfide_!" adding with a disdainful toss of the head, such as only the
dames of the _demi-monde_ know how to give, "Keep your secret!  What
care I?"  Then changing tone, "_Mon Dieu_!  France--dear France!  Why
did I ever leave you?"

"Because your dear France became too dear to live in."

"Clever _double entendre_!  No doubt you think it witty!  Dear, or not,
better a garret there--a room in its humblest _entresol_ than this.  I'd
rather serve in a cigar shop--keep a _gargot_ in the Faubourg
Montmartre--than lead such a _triste_ life as we're now doing.  Living
in this wretched kennel of a house, that threatens to tumble on our
heads!"

"How would you like to live in that over yonder?"

He nods towards Llangorren Court.

"You are merry, Monsieur.  But your jests are out of place--in presence
of the misery around us."

"You may some day," he goes on, without heeding her observation.

"Yes; when the sky falls we may catch larks.  You seem to forget that
Mademoiselle Wynn is younger than either of us, and by the natural laws
of life will outlive both.  Must, unless she break her neck in the
hunting field, get drowned out of a boat, or meet _some other
mischance_."

She pronounces the last three words slowly and with marked emphasis,
pausing after she has spoken them, and looking fixedly in his face, as
if to note their effect.

Taking the meerschaum from his mouth, he returns her look--almost
shuddering as his eyes meet hers, and he reads in them a glance such as
might have been given by Messalina, or the murderess of Duncan.
Hardened as his conscience has become through a long career of sin, it
is yet tender in comparison with hers.  And he knows it, knowing her
history, or enough of it--her nature as well--to make him think her
capable of anything, even the crime her speech seems to point to--
neither more nor less than--

He dares not think, let alone pronounce, the word.  He is not yet up to
that; though day by day, as his desperate fortunes press upon him, his
thoughts are being familiarised with something akin to it--a dread, dark
design, still vague, but needing not much to assume shape, and tempt to
execution.  And that the tempter is by his side he is more than half
conscious.  It is not the first time for him to listen to fell speech
from those fair lips.

To-day he would rather shun allusion to a subject so grave, yet so
delicate.  He has spent part of the preceding night at the Welsh Harp--
the tavern spoken of by Wingate--and his nerves are unstrung, yet not
recovered from the revelry.  Instead of asking her what she means by
"some other mischance," he but remarks, with an air of careless
indifference,--

"True, Olympe; unless something of that sort were to happen, there seems
no help for us but to resign ourselves to patience, and live on
expectations."

"Starve on them, you mean?"  This in a tone, and with a shrug, which
seem to convey reproach for its weakness.

"Well, _cherie_;" he rejoins, "we can at least feast our eyes on the
source whence our fine fortunes are to come.  And a pretty sight it is,
isn't it?  _Un coup d'oeil charmant_!"

He again turns his eyes upon Llangorren, as also she, and for some time
both are silent.

Attractive at any time, the Court is unusually so on this same summer's
day.  For the sun, lighting up the verdant lawn, also shines upon a
large white tent there erected--a marquee--from whose ribbed roof
projects a signal staff, with flag floating at its peak.  They have had
no direct information of what all this is for--since to Lewin Murdock
and his wife the society of Herefordshire is tabooed.  But they can
guess from the symbols that it is to be a garden party, or something of
the sort, there often given.  While they are still gazing its special
kind is declared, by figures appearing upon the lawn and taking stand in
groups before the tent.  There are ladies gaily attired--in the distance
looking like bright butterflies--some dressed _a la Diane_, with bows in
hand, and quivers slung by their sides, the feathered shafts showing
over their shoulders; a proportionate number of gentlemen attendant;
while liveried servants stride to and fro erecting the ringed targets.

Murdock himself cares little for such things.  He has had his surfeit of
fashionable life; not only sipped its sweets, but drank its dregs of
bitterness.  He regards Llangorren with something in his mind more
substantial than its sports and pastimes.

With different thoughts looks the Parisian upon them--in her heart a
chagrin only known to those whose zest for the world's pleasure is of
keenest edge, yet checked and baffled from indulgence--ambitions
uncontrollable, but never to be attained.  As Satan gazed back when
hurled out of the Garden of Eden, so she at that scene upon the lawn of
Llangorren.  No _jardin_ of Paris--not the Bois itself--ever seemed to
her so attractive as those grounds, with that aristocratic gathering--a
heaven none of her kind can enter, and but few of her country.

After long regarding it with envy in her eyes, and spleen in her soul--
tantalised, almost to torture--she faces towards her husband, saying--

"And you've told me, between all that and us, there's but one life--"

"Two!" interrupts a voice--not his.  Both turning, startled,
behold--_Father Rogier_!

Volume One, Chapter XII.

A WOLF IN SHEEP'S CLOTHING.

Father Rogier is a French priest of a type too well known over all the
world--the Jesuitical.  Spare of form, thin-lipped, nose with the
cuticle drawn across it tight as drum parchment, skin dark and
cadaverous, he looks Loyola from head to heel.

He himself looks no one straight in the face.  Confronted, his eyes fall
to his feet, or turn to either side, not in timid abashment, but as
those of one who feels himself a felon.  And but for his habiliments he
might well pass for such; though even the sacerdotal garb, and assumed
air of sanctity, do not hinder the suspicion of a wolf in sheep's
clothing--rather suggesting it.  And in truth is he one; a very
Pharisee--Inquisitor to boot, cruel and keen as ever sate in secret
Council over an _Auto da Fe_.

What is such a man doing in Herefordshire?  What, in Protestant England?

Time was, and not so long ago, when these questions would have been
asked with curiosity, and some degree of indignation.  As for instance,
when our popular Queen added to her popularity, by somewhat
ostentatiously declaring, that "no foreign priest should take tithe or
toll in her dominions," even forbidding them their distinctive dress.
Then they stole timidly, and sneakingly, through the streets, usually
seen hunting in couples, and looking as if conscious their pursuit was
criminal, or, at the least, illegal.

All that is over now; the ban removed, the boast unkept--to all
appearance forgotten!  Now they stalk boldly abroad, or saunter in
squads, exhibiting their shorn crowns and pallid faces, without fear or
shame; instead, triumphantly flouting their vestments in public walks or
parks, or loitering in the vestibules of convents and monasteries, which
begin to show thick over the land--threatening us with a curse as that
anterior to the time of bluff King Hal.  No one now thinks it strange to
see shovel-hatted priest, or sandalled monk--no matter in what part of
England, nor would wonder at one of either being resident upon Wyeside.
Father Rogier, one of the former, is there with similar motive, and for
the same purpose, his sort are sent everywhere--to enslave the souls of
men and get money out of their purses, in order that other men, princes,
and priests like himself, may lead luxurious lives, without toil and by
trickery.  The same old story, since the beginning of the world, or
man's presence upon it.  The same craft as the rain maker of South
Africa, or the medicine man of the North American Indian; differing only
in some points of practice; the religious juggler of a higher
civilisation, finding his readiest tools not in roots, snake-skins, and
rattles, but the weakness of woman.  Through this, as by sap and mine,
many a strong citadel has been carried, after bidding defiance to the
boldest and most determined assault.

_Pere_ Rogier well knows all this; and by experience, having played the
propagandist game with some success since his settling in Herefordshire.
He has not been quite three years resident on Wyeside, and yet has
contrived to draw around him a considerable coterie of weak-minded
Marthas and Marys, built him a little chapel, with a snug
dwelling-house, and is in a fair way of further feathering his nest.
True, his neophytes are nearly all of the humbler class, and poor.  But
the Peter's pence count up in a remarkable manner, and are paid with a
regularity which only blind devotion, or the zeal of religious
partisanship, can exact.  Fear of the Devil, and love of him, are like
effective in drawing contributions to the box of the Rugg's Ferry
chapel, and filling the pockets of its priest.

And if he have no grand people among his flock, and few disciples of the
class called middle, he can boast of at least two claiming to be
genteel--the Murdocks.  With the man no false assumption either; neither
does he assume, or value it.  Different the woman.  Born in the Faubourg
Montmartre, her father a common _ouvrier_, her mother a
_blanchisseuse_--herself a beautiful girl--Olympe Renault soon found her
way into a more fashionable quarter.  The same ambition made her Lewin
Murdock's wife, and has brought her on to England.  For she did not many
him without some knowledge of his reversionary interest in the land of
which they have just been speaking, and at which they are still looking.
That was part of the inducement held out for obtaining her hand; her
heart he never had.

That the priest knows something of the same, indeed all, is evident from
the word he has respondingly pronounced.  With step, silent and
cat-like--his usual mode of progression--he has come upon them unawares,
neither having note of his approach till startled by his voice.  On
hearing it, and seeing who, Murdock rises to his feet, as he does so
saluting.  Notwithstanding long years of a depraved life, his early
training has been that of a gentleman, and its instincts at times return
to him.  Besides, born and brought up Roman Catholic, he has that
respect for his priest, habitual to a proverb--would have, even if
knowing the latter to be the veriest Pharisee that ever wore
single-breasted black-coat.

Salutations exchanged, and a chair brought out for the new comer to sit
upon, Murdock demands explanation of the interrupting monosyllable,
asking:

"What do you mean, Father Rogier, by `two'?"

"What I've said, M'sieu; that there are two between you and that over
yonder, or soon will be--in time perhaps ten.  A fair paysage it is!" he
continues, looking across the river; "a very vale of Tempe, or Garden of
the Hesperides.  _Parbleu_!  I never believed your England so beautiful.
Ah! what's going on at Llangorren?"  This as his eyes rest upon the
tent, the flags, and gaily-dressed figures.  "A _fete champetre_:
Mademoiselle making, merry!  In honour of the anticipated change, no
doubt."

"Still I don't comprehend," says Murdock, looking puzzled.  "You speak
in riddles, Father Rogier."

"Riddles easily read, M'sieu.  Of this particular one you'll find the
interpretation there."

This, pointing to a plain gold ring on the fourth finger of Mrs
Murdock's left hand, put upon it by Murdock himself on the day he became
her husband.

He now comprehends--his quick-witted wife sooner.

"Ha!" she exclaims, as if pricked by a pin, "Mademoiselle to be
married?"

The priest gives an assenting nod.

"That's news to me," mutters Murdock, in a tone more like he was
listening to the announcement of a death.

"_Moi aussi_!  Who, _Pere_?  Not Monsieur Shenstone, after all?"

The question shows how well she is acquainted with Miss Wynn--if not
personally, with her surroundings and predilections!

"No," answers the priest.  "Not he."

"Who then?" asked the two simultaneously.

"A man likely to make many heirs to Llangorren--widen the breach between
you and it--ah! to the impossibility of that ever being bridged."

"_Pere Rogier_!" appeals Murdock, "I pray you speak out!  Who is to do
this?  His name?"

"_Le Capitaine Ryecroft_."

"Captain Ryecroft!  Who--what is he?"

"An officer of Hussars--a fine-looking fellow--sort of combination of
Mars and Apollo; strong as Hercules!  As I've said, likely to be father
to no end of sons and daughters, with Gwen Wynn for their mother.
_Helas_!  I can fancy seeing them now--at play over yonder, on the
lawn!"

"Captain Ryecroft!" repeats Murdock, musingly; "I never saw--never heard
of the man!"

"You hear of him now, and possibly see him too.  No doubt he's among
those gay toxophilites--Ha! no, he's nearer!  What a strange
coincidence!  The old saw, `speak of the fiend.'  There's _your_ fiend,
Monsieur Murdock!"

He points to a boat on the river with two men in it; one of them wearing
a white cap.  It is dropping down in the direction of Llangorren Court.

"Which?" asks Murdock, mechanically.

"He with the _chapeau blanc_.  That's whom you have to fear.  The
other's but the waterman Wingate--honest fellow enough, whom no one need
fear--unless indeed our worthy friend Coracle Dick, his competitor for
the smiles of the pretty Mary Morgan.  Yes, _mes amis_!  Under that
conspicuous _kepi_ you behold the future lord of Llangorren."

"Never!" exclaims Murdock, angrily gritting his teeth.  "Never!"

The French priest and ci-devant French courtesan exchange secret, but
significant, glances; a pleased expression showing on the faces of both.

"You speak excitedly, M'sieu," says the priest, "emphatically, too.  But
how is it to be hindered?"

"I don't know," sourly rejoins Murdock; "I suppose it can't be," he
adds, drawing back, as if conscious of having committed himself.  "Never
mind, now; let's drop the disagreeable subject.  You'll stay to dinner
with us, Father Rogier?"

"If not putting you to inconvenience."

"Nay; it's you who'll be inconvenienced--starved, I should rather say.
The butchers about here are not of the most amiable type; and, if I
mistake not, our _menu_ for to-day is a very primitive one--bacon and
potatoes, with some greens from the old garden."

"Monsieur Murdock!  It's not the fare, but the fashion, which makes a
meal enjoyable.  A crust and welcome is to me better cheer than a
banquet with a grudging host at the head of the table.  Besides, your
English bacon is a most estimable dish, and with your succulent cabbages
delectable.  With a bit of Wye salmon to precede, and a pheasant to
follow, it were food to satisfy Lucullus himself."

"Ah! true," assents the broken-down gentleman, "with the salmon and
pheasant.  But where are they?  My fishmonger, who is, conjointly also a
game-dealer, is at present as much out with me as is the butcher; I
suppose, from my being too much in with them--in their books.  Still,
they have not ceased acquaintance, so far as calling is concerned.  That
they do with provoking frequency.  Even this morning, before I was out
of bed, I had the honour of a visit from both the gentlemen.
Unfortunately, they brought neither fish nor meat; instead, two sheets
of that detestable blue paper, with red lines and rows of figures--an
arithmetic not nice to be bothered with at one's breakfast.  So, _Pere_;
I am sorry I can't offer you any salmon; and as for pheasant--you may
not be aware, that it is out of season."

"It's never out of season, any more than barn-door fowl; especially if a
young last year's _coq_, that hasn't been successful in finding a mate."

"But it's close time now," urges the Englishman, stirred by his old
instincts of gentleman sportsman.

"Not to those who know how to open it," returns the Frenchman, with a
significant shrug.  "And suppose we do that to-day?"

"I don't understand.  Will your Reverence enlighten me?"

"Well, M'sieu; being Whit-Monday, and coming to pay you a visit, I
thought you mightn't be offended by my bringing along with me a little
present--for Madame here--that we're talking of--salmon and pheasant."

The husband, more than the wife, looks incredulous.  Is the priest
jesting?  Beneath the _froc_, fitting tight his thin spare form, there
is nothing to indicate the presence of either fish or bird.

"Where are they?" asks Murdock mechanically.  "You say you've brought
them along?"

"Ah! that was metaphorical.  I meant to say I had sent them.  And if I
mistake not, they are near now.  Yes; there's my messenger!"

He points to a man making up the glen, threading his way through the
tangle of wild bushes that grow along the banks of the rivulet.

"Coracle Dick!" exclaims Murdock, recognising the poacher.

"The identical individual," answers the priest, adding, "who, though a
poacher, and possibly has been something worse, is not such a bad fellow
in his way--for certain purposes.  True, he's neither the most devout
nor best behaved of my flock; still a useful individual, especially on
Fridays, when one has to confine himself to a fish diet.  I find him
convenient in other ways as well; as so might you, Monsieur Murdock--
some day.  Should you ever have need of a strong hard hand, with a heart
in correspondence, Richard Dempsey possesses both, and would no doubt
place them at your service--for a consideration."

While Murdock is cogitating on what the last words are meant to convey,
the individual so recommended steps upon the ground.  A stout, thick-set
fellow, with a shock of black curly hair coming low down, almost to his
eyes, thus adding to their sinister and lowering look.  For all a face
not naturally uncomely, but one on which crime has set its stamp, deep
and indelible.

His garb is such as gamekeepers usually wear, and poachers almost
universally affect, a shooting coat of velveteen, corduroy smalls, and
sheepskin gaiters buttoned over thick-soled shoes iron-tipped at the
toes.  In the ample skirt pockets of the coat--each big as a game-bag--
appear two protuberances, that about balance one another--the present of
which the priest has already delivered the invoice--in the one being a
salmon "blotcher" weighing some three or four pounds, in the other a
young cock pheasant.

Having made obeisance to the trio in the grounds of Glyngog, he is about
drawing them forth when the priest prevents him, exclaiming:--

"_Arretez_!  They're not commodities that keep well in the sun.  Should
a water-bailiff, or one of the Llangorren gamekeepers chance to set eyes
on them, they'd spoil at once.  Those lynx-eyed fellows can see a long
way, especially on a day bright as this.  So, worthy Coracle, before
uncarting, you'd better take them back to the kitchen."

Thus instructed, the poacher strides off round to the rear of the house;
Mrs Murdock entering by the front door to give directions about
dressing the dinner.  Not that she intends to take any hand in cooking
it--not she.  That would be _infra dig_ for the _ancien belle of
Mabille_.  Poor as is the establishment of Glyngog, it can boast of a
plain cook, with a _slavey_ to assist.

The other two remain outside, the guest joining his host in a glass of
brandy and water.  More than one; for Father Rogier, though French, can
drink like a born Hibernian.  Nothing of the Good Templar in him.

After they have been for nigh an hour hobnobbing, conversing, Murdock
still fighting shy of the subject, which is nevertheless uppermost in
the minds of both, the priest once more approaches it, saying:--

"_Parbleu_!  They appear to be enjoying themselves over yonder!"  He is
looking at the lawn where the bright forms are flitting to and fro.
"And most of all, I should say, Monsieur White Cap--foretasting the
sweets of which he'll ere long enter into full enjoyment; when he
becomes master of Llangorren."

"That--never!" exclaims Murdock, this time adding an oath.  "Never while
I live.  When I'm dead--"

"_Diner_!" interrupts a female voice from the house, that of its
mistress seen standing on the doorstep.

"Madame summons us," says the priest, "we must in, M'sieu.  While
picking the bones of the pheasant, you can complete your unfinished
speech.  _Allons_!"

Volume One, Chapter XIII.

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 selfsame 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 know 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'y aw 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--the shafts of Cupid--of which there is a full quiver in the
eyes of both.

Volume One, Chapter XIV.

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 that 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 do 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 organised 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 for 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 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.

Volume One, Chapter XV.

A SPIRITUAL ADVISER.

While the sports are in progress outside Llangorren Court, inside
Glyngog House is being eaten that dinner to commence with salmon in
season and end with pheasant out.

It is early; but the Murdocks, often glad to eat what Americans call a
"square meal," have no set hours for eating, while the priest is not
particular.

In the faces of the trio seated at the table, a physiognomist might find
interesting study, and note expressions that would puzzle Lavater
himself.  Nor could they be interpreted by the conversation which, at
first, only refers to topics of a trivial nature.  But now and then, a
_mot_ of double meaning let down by Rogier, and a glance surreptitiously
exchanged between him and his countryman, tell that the thoughts of
these two are running upon themes different from those about which are
their words.

Murdock, by no means of a trusting disposition, but ofttimes furiously
jealous--has nevertheless, in this respect, no suspicion of the priest,
less from confidence than a sort of contempt for the pallid puny
creature, whom he feels he could crush in a moment of mad anger.  And
broken though he be, the stalwart, and once strong, Englishman could
still do that.  To imagine such a man as Rogier a rival in the
affections of his own wife, would be to be little himself.  Besides, he
holds fast to that proverbial faith in the spiritual adviser, not always
well founded--in his case certainly misplaced.  Knowing nought of this,
however, their exchanged looks, however markedly significant, escape his
observation.  Even if he did observe, he could not read in them aught
relating to love.  For, this day there is not; the thoughts of both are
absorbed by a different passion--cupidity.  They are bent upon a scheme
of no common magnitude, but grand and comprehensive--neither more nor
less than to get possession of an estate worth 10,000 pounds a year--
that Llangorren.  They know its value as well as the steward who gives
receipts for its rents.

It is no new notion with them; but one for some time entertained, and
steps considered.  Still nothing definite either conceived, or
determined on.  A task, so herculean, as dangerous and difficult, will
need care in its conception, and time for its execution.  True, it might
be accomplished, almost instantaneously with six inches of steel, or as
many drops of belladonna.  Nor would two of the three seated at the
table stick at employing such means.  Olympe Renault, and Gregoire
Rogier have entertained thoughts of them--if not more.  In the third is
the obstructor.  Lewin Murdock would cheat at dice and cards, do
moneylenders without remorse, and tradesmen without mercy, ay, steal, if
occasion offered; but murder--that is different--being a crime not only
unpleasant to contemplate, but perilous to commit.  He would be willing
to rob Gwendoline Wynn of her property--glad to do it--if he only knew
how--but to take away her life, he is not yet up to that.

But he is drawing up to it, urged by desperate circumstances, and
spurred on by his wife, who loses no opportunity of bewailing their
broken fortunes, and reproaching him for them; at her back the Jesuit
secretly instructing, and dictating.

Not till this day have they found him in the mood for being made more
familiar with their design.  Whatever his own disposition, his ear has
been hitherto deaf to their hints, timidly, and ambiguously given.  But
to-day things appear more promising, as evinced by his angry exclamation
"Never!"  Hence their delight at hearing it.

During the earlier stages of the dinner, as already said, they converse
about ordinary subjects, like the lovers in the pavilion, silent upon
that paramount in their minds.  How different the themes--as love itself
from murder!  And just as the first word was unspoken in the
summer-house at Llangorren, so is the last unheard in the dining-room of
Glyngog.

While the blotcher is being carved with a spoon--there is no fish slice
among the chattels of Mr Murdock--the priest in good appetite, and high
glee, pronounces it "crimp."  He speaks English like a native, and is
even up in its provincialisms; few in Herefordshire whose dialect is of
the purest.

The phrase of the fishmonger received smilingly, the salmon is
distributed and handed across the table; the attendance of the slavey,
with claws not over clean, and ears that might be unpleasantly sharp,
having been dispensed with.

There is wine without stint; for although Murdoch's town tradesmen may
be hard of heart, in the Welsh Harp there is a tender string he can
still play upon; the Boniface of the Rugg's Ferry hostelry having a
belief in his _post obit_ expectations.  Not such an indifferent wine
either, but some of the choicest vintage.  The guests of the Harp,
however rough in external appearance and rude in behaviour--have
wonderfully refined ideas about drink, and may be often heard calling
for "fizz"--some of them as well acquainted with the qualities of Moet
and Cliquot, as a connoisseur of the most fashionable club.

Profiting by their aesthetic tastes, Lewin Murdock is enabled to set
wines upon his table of the choicest brands.  Light Bordeaux first with
the fish, then sherry with the heavier greens and bacon, followed by
champagne as they get engaged upon the pheasant.

At this point the conversation approaches a topic, hitherto held in
reserve, Murdock himself starting it:--

"So, my cousin Gwen's going to get married, eh! are you sure of that,
Father Rogier?"

"I wish I were as sure of going to heaven."

"But what sort of man is he? you haven't told us."

"Yes, I have.  You forget my description, Monsieur--cross between Mars
and Phoebus--strength herculean; sure to be father to a progeny numerous
as that which spring from the head of Medusa--enough of them to make
heirs for Llangorren to the end of time--keep you out of the property if
you lived to be the age of Methuselah.  Ah! a fine-looking fellow, I can
assure you; against whom the baronet's son, with his rubicund cheeks and
hay-coloured hair, wouldn't stand the slightest chance--even were there
nothing: more to recommend the martial stranger.  But there is."

"What more?"

"The mode of his introduction to the lady--that quite romantic."

"How was he introduced?"

"Well, he made her acquaintance on the water.  It appears Mademoiselle
Wynn and her companion Lees, were out on the river for a row alone.
Unusual that!  Thus out, some fellows--Forest of Dean dwellers--offered
them insult; from which a gentleman angler, who chanced to be whipping
the stream close by, saved them--he no other than _le Capitaine
Ryecroft_.  With such commencement of acquaintance, a man couldn't be
much worth, who didn't know how to improve it--even to terminating in
marriage if he wished.  And with such a rich heiress as Mademoiselle
Gwendoline Wynn--to say nought of her personal charms--there are few men
who wouldn't wish it so to end.  That he, the Hussar officer, captain,
colonel, or whatever his rank, does, I've good reason to believe, as
also that he will succeed in accomplishing his desires; no more doubt of
it than of my being seated at this table.  Yes; sure as I sit here that
man will be the master of Llangorren."

"I suppose he will;" "must," rejoins Murdock, drawing out the words as
though not greatly concerned, one way, or the other.

Olympe looks dissatisfied, but not Rogier nor she, after a glance from
the priest, which seems to say "Wait."  He himself intends waiting till
the drink has done its work.

Taking the hint she remains silent, her countenance showing calm, as
with the content of innocence, while in her heart is the guilt of hell,
and the deceit of the devil.

She preserves her composure all through, and soon as the last course is
ended, with a show of dessert placed upon the table--poor and _pro
forma_--obedient to a look from Rogier, with a slight nod in the
direction of the door, she makes her _conge_, and retires.

Murdock lights his meerschaum, the priest one of his paper cigarettes--
of which he carries a case--and for some time they sit smoking and
drinking; talking, too, but upon matters with no relation to that
uppermost in their minds.  They seem to fear touching it, as though it
were a thing to contaminate.  It is only after repeatedly emptying their
glasses, their courage comes up to the standard required; that of the
Frenchman first; who, nevertheless, approaches the delicate subject with
cautious circumlocution.

"By the way, M'sieu," he says, "we've forgotten what we were conversing
about, when summoned to dinner--a meal I've greatly enjoyed--
notwithstanding your depreciation of the _menu_.  Indeed, a very _bonne
bouche_ your English bacon, and the greens excellent, as also the
_pommes de terre_.  You were speaking of some event, or circumstance, to
be conditional on your death.  What is it?  Not the deluge, I hope!
True, your Wye is subject to sudden floods; might it have ought to do
with them?"

"Why should it?" asks Murdock, not comprehending the drift.

"Because people sometimes get drowned in these inundations; indeed,
often.  Scarce a week passes without some one falling into the river,
and there remaining, at least till life is extinct.  What with its
whirls and rapids, it's a very dangerous stream.  I wonder at
Mademoiselle Wynne venturing so courageously--so _carelessly_ upon it."

The peculiar intonation of the last speech, with emphasis on the word
carelessly, gives Murdock a glimpse of what it is intended to point to.

"She's got courage enough," he rejoins, without appearing to comprehend.
"About her carelessness, I don't know."

"But the young lady certainly is careless--recklessly so.  That affair
of her going out alone is proof of it.  What followed may make her more
cautious; still, boating is a perilous occupation, and boats, whether
for pleasure or otherwise, are awkward things to manage--fickle and
capricious as women themselves.  Suppose hers should some day go to the
bottom she being in it?"

"That would be bad."

"Of course it would.  Though, Monsieur Murdock, many men situated as
you, instead of grieving over such an accident, would but rejoice at
it."

"No doubt they would.  But what's the use of talking of a thing not
likely to happen?"

"Oh, true!  Still, boat accidents being of such common occurrence, one
is as likely to befall Mademoiselle Wynn as anybody else.  A pity if it
should--a misfortune!  But so is the other thing."

"What other thing?"

"That such a property as Llangorren should be in the hands of heretics,
having but a lame title too.  If what I've heard be true, you yourself
have as much right to it as your cousin.  It were better it belonged to
a true son of the Church, as I know you to be, M'sieu."

Murdock receives the compliment with a grimace.  He is no hypocrite;
still with all his depravity he has a sort of respect for religion, or
rather its outward forms--regularly attends Rogier's chapel, and goes
through all the ceremonies and genuflexions, just as the Italian bandit
after cutting a throat will drop on his knees and repeat a _paternoster_
at hearing the distant bell of the Angelus.

"A very poor one," he replies, with a half smile, half grin.

"In a worldly sense, you mean?  I'm aware, you're not very rich."

"In more senses than that.  Your Reverence, I've been a great sinner, I
admit."

"Admission is a good sign--giving promise of repentance, which need
never come too late if a man be disposed to it.  It is a deep sin the
Church cannot condone--a dark crime indeed."

"Oh, I haven't done anything deserving the name.  Only such as a great
many others."

"But you might be tempted some day.  Whether or not it's my duty, as
your spiritual adviser, to point out the true doctrine--how the Vatican
views such things.  It's after all only a question of balance between
good and evil; that is, how much evil a man may have done, and the
amount of good he may do.  This world is a ceaseless war between God and
the devil; and those who wage it in the cause of the former have often
to employ the weapons of the latter.  In our service the end justifies
the means, even though these be what the world calls criminal--ay, even
to the taking of life, else why should the great and good Loyola have
counselled drawing the sword, himself using it?"

"True," grunts Murdock, smoking hard, "you're a great theologian, Father
Rogier.  I confess ignorance in such matters; still, I see reason in
what you say."

"You may see it clearer if I set the application before you.  As for
instance, if a man have the right to a certain property, or estate, and
is kept out of it by a quibble, any steps he might take to possess
himself would be justifiable providing he devote a portion of his gains
to the good cause--that is, upholding the true faith, and so benefiting
humanity at large.  Such an act is held by the best of our Church
authorities to compensate for any sin committed--supposing the money
donation sufficient to make the amount of good it may do preponderate
over the evil.  And such a man would not only merit absolution, but
freely receive it.  Now, Monsieur, do you comprehend me?"

"Quite," says Murdock, taking the pipe from his mouth and gulping down a
half tumbler of brandy--for he has dropped the wine.  Withal, he
trembles at the programme thus metaphorically put before him, and fears
admitting the application to himself.

Soon the more potent spirit takes away his last remnant of timidity,
which the tempter perceiving, says:--

"You say you have sinned, Monsieur.  And if it were only for that you
ought to make amends."

"In what way could I?"

"The way I've been speaking of.  Bestow upon the Church the means of
doing good, and so deserve indulgence."

"Ah! where am I to find this means?"

"On the other side of the river."

"You forget that there's more than the stream between."

"Not much to a man who would be true to himself."

"I'm that man all over."  The brandy has made him bold, at length
untying his tongue, while unsteadying it.  "Yes, Pere Rogier; I'm ready
for anything that will release me from this damnable fix--debt over the
ears--duns every day.  Ha!  I'd be true to myself, never fear!"

"It needs being true to the Church as well."

"I'm willing to be that when I have the chance, if ever I have it.  And
to get it I'd risk life.  Not much if I lose it.  It's become a burden
to me, heavier than I can bear."

"You may make it as light as a feather, M'sieu; cheerful as that of any
of those gay gentry you saw disporting themselves on the lawn at
Llangorren--even that of its young mistress."

"How, _Pere_?"

"By yourself becoming its master."

"Ah! if I could."

"You can!"

"With safety?"

"Perfect safety."

"And without committing,"--he fears to speak the ugly English word, but
expresses the idea in French--"_cette dernier coup_?"

"Certainly!  Who dreams of that?  Not I, M'sieu."

"But how is it to be avoided?"

"Easily."

"Tell me, Father Rogier!"

"Not to-night, Murdock!"--he has dropped the distant M'sieu--"Not
to-night.  It's a matter that calls for reflection--consideration, calm
and careful.  Time, too.  Ten thousand _livres esterlies_ per annum!  We
must both ponder upon it--sleep nights, and think days, over it--
possibly have to draw Coracle Dick into our deliberations.  But not
to-night--_Pardieu_! it's ten o'clock!  And I have business to do before
going to bed.  I must be off."

"No, your Reverence; not till you've had another glass of wine."

"One more then.  But let me take it standing--the _tasse d'estrope_, as
you call it."

Murdock assents; and the two rise up to drink the stirrup cup.  But only
the Frenchman keeps his feet till the glasses are emptied; the other,
now dead drunk, dropping back into his chair.

"_Bon soir, Monsieur_!" says the priest, slipping out of the room, his
host answering only by a snore.

For all, Father Rogier does not leave the house so unceremoniously.  In
the porch outside he takes more formal leave of a woman he there finds
waiting for him.  As he joins her going out, she asks, _sotto voce_:--

"_C'est arrange_?"

"Pas encore serait tout suite."  This the sole speech that passes
between them; but something besides, which, if seen by her husband,
would cause him to start from his chair--perhaps some little sober him.

Volume One, Chapter XVI.

CORACLE DICK.

A traveller making the tour of the Wye will now and then see moving
along its banks, or across the contiguous meadows, what he might take
for a gigantic tortoise walking upon its tail!  Mystified by a sight so
abnormal, and drawing nigh to get an explanation of it, he will discover
that the moving object is after all but a man, carrying a boat upon his
back!  Still the tourist will be astonished at a feat so herculean--
rival to that of Atlas--and will only be altogether enlightened when the
boat-bearer lays down his burden--which, if asked, he will obligingly
do--and permits him, the stranger, to satisfy his curiosity by an
inspection of it.  Set square on the sward at his feet, he will look
upon a craft quaint as was ever launched on lake, stream, or tidal wave.
For he will be looking at a "coracle."

Not only quaint in construction, but singularly ingenious in design,
considering the ends to be accomplished.  In addition, historically
interesting; so much as to deserve more than passing notice, even in the
pages of a novel.  Nor will I dismiss it without a word, however it may
seem out of place.

In shape the coracle bears resemblance to the half of a humming-top, or
Swedish turnip cloven longitudinally, the cleft face scooped out leaving
but the rind.  The timbers consist of slender saplings--peeled and split
to obtain lightness--disposed, some fore and aft, others athwart-ships,
still others diagonally, as struts and ties, all having their ends in a
band of wickerwork, which runs round the gunwale, holding them firmly in
place, itself forming the rail.  Over this framework is stretched a
covering of tarred, and, of course, waterproof canvas, tight as a drum.
In olden times it was the skin of ox or horse, but the modern material
is better, because lighter, and less liable to decay, besides being
cheaper.  There is but one seat, or thwart, as the coracle is designed
for only a single occupant, though in a pinch it can accommodate two.
This is a thin board, placed nearly amidships, partly supported by the
wicker rail, and in part by another piece of light scantling, set
edgeways underneath.

In all things ponderosity is as much as possible avoided, since one of
the essential purposes of the coracle is "portage;" and to facilitate
this it is furnished with a leathern strap, the ends attached near each
extremity of the thwart, to be passed across the breast when the boat is
borne overland.  The bearer then uses his oar--there is but one, a
broad-bladed paddle--by way of walking-stick; and so proceeds, as
already said, like a tortoise travelling on its tail!

In this convenience of carriage lies the ingenuity of the structure--
unique and clever beyond anything in the way of water-craft I have
observed elsewhere, either among savage or civilised nations.  The only
thing approaching it in this respect is the birch bark canoe of the
Esquimaux and the Chippeway Indians.  But, though more beautiful this,
it is far behind our native craft in an economic sense--in cheapness and
readiness.  For while the Chippewayan would be stripping his bark from
the tree, and re-arming it--to say nought of fitting to the frame
timbers, stitching, and paying it--a subject of King Caradoc would have
launched his coracle upon the Wye, and paddled it from Plinlimmon to
Chepstow; as many a modern Welshman would the same.

Above all, is the coracle of rare historic interest--as the first
venture upon water of a people--the ancestors of a nation that now rules
the sea--their descendants proudly styling themselves its "Lords"--not
without right and reason.

Why called "coracle" is a matter of doubt and dispute; by most admitted
as a derivative from the Latin _corum_--a skin; this being its original
covering.  But certainly a misconception; since we have historic
evidence of the basket and hide boat being in use around the shores of
Albion hundreds of years before these ever saw Roman ship or standard.
Besides, at the same early period, under the almost homonym of
"corragh," it floated--still floats--on the waters of the Lerne, far
west of anywhere the Romans ever went.  Among the common people on the
Wye it bears a less ancient appellation--that of "truckle."

From whatever source the craft derives its name, it has itself given a
sobriquet to one of the characters of our tale--Richard Dempsey.  Why
the poacher is thus distinguished it is not easy to tell; possibly
because he, more than any other in his neighbourhood, makes use of it,
and is often seen trudging about the river bottoms with the huge
carapace on his shoulders.  It serves his purpose better than any other
kind of boat, for Dick, though a snarer of hares and pheasants, is more
of a salmon poacher, and for this--the water branch of his amphibious
calling--the coracle has a special adaptation.  It can be lifted out of
the river, or launched upon it anywhere, without leaving trace; whereas
with an ordinary skiff the moorings might be marked, the embarkation
observed, and the night netter followed to his netting-place by the
watchful water-bailiff.

Despite his cunning and the handiness of his craft, Dick has not always
come off scot-free.  His name has several times figured in the reports
of Quarter Sessions, and himself in the cells of the county gaol.  This
only for poaching; but he has also served a spell in prison for crime of
a less venal kind--burglary.  As the "job" was done in a distant shire,
there has been nothing heard of it in that where he now resides.  The
worst known of him in the neighbourhood is his game and fish
trespassing, though there is worse suspected.  He whose suspicions are
strongest being the waterman, Wingate.

But Jack may be wronging him, for a certain reason--the most powerful
that ever swayed the passion or warped the judgment of man--rivalry for
the affections of a woman.

No heart, however hardened, is proof against the shafts of Cupid; and
one has penetrated the heart of Coracle Dick, as deeply as has another
that of Jack Wingate.  And both from the same how and quiver--the eyes
of Mary Morgan.

She is the daughter of a small farmer who lives by the Wyeside; and
being a farmer's daughter, above both in social rank, still not so high
but that Love's ladder may reach her, and each lives in hope he may some
day scale it.  For Evan Morgan holds as a tenant, and his land is of
limited acreage.  Dick Dempsey and Jack Wingate are not the only ones
who wish to have him for a father-in-law, but the two most earnest, and
whose chances seem best.  Not that these are at all equal; on the
contrary, greatly disproportionate, Dick having the advantage.  In his
favour is the fact that Farmer Morgan is a Roman Catholic--his wife
fanatically so--he, Dempsey, professing the same faith; while Wingate is
a Protestant of pronounced type.

Under these circumstances Coracle has a friend at head-quarters, in Mrs
Morgan, and an advocate who visits there, in the person of Father
Rogier.

With this united influence in his favour, the odds against the young
waterman are great, and his chances might appear slight--indeed would
he, were it not for an influence to counteract.  He, too, has a partisan
inside the citadel, and a powerful one; since it is the girl herself.
He knows--is sure of it, as man may be of any truth, communicated to him
by loving lips amidst showers of kisses.  For all this has passed
between Mary Morgan and himself.

And nothing of it between her and Richard Dempsey.  Instead, on her
part, coldness and distant reserve.  It would be disdain--ay, scorn--if
she dare show it; for she hates the very sight of the man.  But,
controlled and close watched, she has learnt to smile when she would
frown.

The world--or that narrow circle of it immediately surrounding and
acquainted with the Morgan family--wonders at the favourable reception
it vouchsafes to Richard Dempsey--a known and noted poacher.

But in justice to Mrs Morgan it should be said, she has but slight
acquaintance with the character of the man--only knows it as represented
by Rogier.  Absorbed in her paternosters, she gives little heed to ought
else; her thoughts, as her actions, being all of the dictation, and
under the direction, of the priest.  In her eyes Coracle Dick is as the
latter has painted him, thus--

"A worthy fellow--poor it is true, but honest withal; a little addicted
to fish and game taking, as many another good man.  Who wouldn't with
such laws--unrighteous--oppressive to the poor?  Were they otherwise,
the poacher would be a patriot.  As for Dempsey, they who speak ill of
him are only the envious--envying his good looks, and fine mental
qualities.  For he's clever, and they can't say nay--energetic, and
likely to make his way in the world.  Yet, one thing he would make--
that's a good husband to your daughter Mary--one who has the strength
and courage to take care of her."

So counsels the priest; and as he can make Mrs Morgan believe black
white, she is ready to comply with his counsel.  If the result rested on
her, Coracle Dick would have nothing to fear.

But it does not--he knows it does not--and is troubled.  With all the
influence in his favour, he fears that other influence against him--if
against him, far more than a counterpoise to Mrs Morgan's religious
predilections, or the partisanship of his priest.  Still he is not sure;
one day the slave of sweet confidence, the next a prey to black bitter
jealousy.  And thus he goes on doting and doubting, as if he were never
to know the truth.

A day comes when he is made acquainted with it, or, rather, a night; for
it is after sundown the revelation reaches him--indeed, nigh on to
midnight.  His favoured, yet defeated, aspirations, are more than twelve
months old.  They have been active all through the preceding winter,
spring, and summer.  It is now autumn; the leaves are beginning to turn
sere, and the last sheaves have been gathered to the stack.

No shire than that of Hereford more addicted to the joys of the Harvest
Home; this often celebrated in a public and general way, instead of at
the private and particular farm-house.  One such is given upon the
summit of Garran Hill--a grand gathering, to which all go of the class
who attend such assemblages--small farmers with their families, their
servants too, male and female.  There is a cromlech on the hill's top,
around which they annually congregate, and beside this ancient relic are
set up the symbols of a more modern time--the Maypole--though it is
Autumn--with its strings and garlands; the show booths and the
refreshment tents, with their display of cakes, fruits, perry, and
cider.  And there are sports of various kinds, pitching the stone,
climbing the greased pole--that of May now so slippery--jumping, racing
in sacks, dancing--among other dances the Morris--with a grand _finale_
of fireworks.

At this year's fete Farmer Morgan is present, accompanied by his wife
and daughter.  It need not be said that Dick Dempsey and Jack Wingate
are there too.  They are, and have been all the afternoon--ever since
the gathering began.  But during the hours of daylight neither
approaches the fair creature to which his thoughts tend, and on which
his eyes are almost constantly turning.  The poacher is restrained by a
sense of his own unworthiness--a knowledge that there is not the place
to make show of his aspirations to one all believe so much above him;
while the waterman is kept back and aloof by the presence of the
watchful mother.

With all her watchfulness he finds opportunity to exchange speech with
the daughter--only a few words, but enough to make hell in the heart of
Dick Dempsey, who overhears them.

It is at the closing scene of the spectacle, when the pyrotechnists are
about to send up their final _feu de joie_, Mrs Morgan, treated by
numerous acquaintances to aniseed and other toothsome drinks, has grown
less thoughtful of her charge, which gives Jack Wingate the opportunity
he has all along been looking for.  Sidling up to the girl, he asks in a
tone which tells of lovers _en rapport_, mutually, unmistakably--

"When, Mary?"

"Saturday night next.  The priest's coming to supper.  I'll make an
errand to the shop, soon as it gets dark."

"Where?"

"The old place under the big elm."

"You're sure you'll be able?"

"Sure, never fear, I'll find a way."

"God bless you, dear gir

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