Gwen Wynn: A Romance of the Wye. Reid Mayne
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 Four
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