Gwen Wynn: A Romance of the Wye. Reid Mayne
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 teacup. 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 spickspan 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 d – d 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.
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 Neopolitan 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 métier 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 a 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 someone 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,