Gwen Wynn: A Romance of the Wye. Reid Mayne
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Gwen Wynn: A Romance of the Wye
Volume One – Chapter One
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 façade 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 naïvely 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