Gwen Wynn: A Romance of the Wye. Reid Mayne
hesitatingly.
"Not those of vegetation! Surely our oaks, elms, and poplars cannot be compared with the tall palms and graceful tree ferns of the tropics?"
"No; not those."
"Our buildings neither, if photography tells truth, which it should. Those wonderful structures – towers, temples, pagodas – of which it has given us the fac similes– far excel anything we have on the Wye – or anything in England. Even our Tintern, which we think so very grand, were but as nothing to them. Isn't that so?"
"True," he says assentingly. "One must admit the superiority of Oriental architecture."
"But you've not told me what form our English river reflects, so much to your admiration!"
He has a fine opportunity for poetical reply. The image is in his mind – her own – with the word upon his tongue, "woman's." But he shrinks from giving it utterance. Instead, retreating from the position he had assumed, he rejoins evasively: —
"The truth is, Miss Wynn, I've had a surfeit of tropical scenery, and was only too glad once more to feast my eyes on the hill and dale landscapes of dear old England. I know none to compare with these of the Wyeside."
"It's very pleasing to hear you say that – to me especially. It's but natural I should love our beautiful Wye – I, born on its banks, brought up on them, and, I suppose, likely to – "
"What?" he asks, observing that she has paused in her speech.
"Be buried on them!" she answers laughingly. She intended to have said "Stay on them the rest of my life." "You'll think that a very grave conclusion," she adds, keeping up the laugh.
"One at all events very far off – it is to be hoped. An eventuality not to arise, till after you've passed many long and happy days – whether on the Wye, or elsewhere."
"Ah! who can tell? The future is a sealed book to all of us."
"Yours need not be – at least as regards its happiness. I think that is assured."
"Why do you say so, Captain Ryecroft?"
"Because it seems to me, as though you had yourself the making of it."
He is saying no more than he thinks; far less. For he believes she could make fate itself – control it, as she can his. And as he would now confess to her – is almost on the eve of it – but hindered by recalling that strange look and sigh sent after Shenstone. His fond fancies, the sweet dreams he has been indulging in ever since making her acquaintance, may have been but illusions. She may be playing with him, as he would with a fish on his hook. As yet, no word of love has passed her lips. Is there thought of it in her heart – for him?
"In what way? What mean you?" she asks, her liquid eyes turned upon him with a look of searching interrogation.
The question staggers him. He does not answer it as he would, and again replies evasively – somewhat confusedly —
"Oh! I only meant, Miss Wynn – that you so young – so – well, with all the world before you – surely have your happiness in your own hands."
If he knew how much it is in his he would speak more courageously, and possibly with greater plainness. But he knows not, nor does she tell him. She, too, is cautiously retentive, and refrains taking advantage of his words, full of suggestion.
It will need another séance– 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.
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 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 Gregorie Rogier have entertained thoughts of them – if not more. In the third is the obstructor. Lewin Murdock would cheat at dice and cards, do money-lenders 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