Gwen Wynn: A Romance of the Wye. Reid Mayne
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 angler's 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 made 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 has 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 gooc – 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