Читать книгу Gwen Wynn: A Romance of the Wye - Reid Mayne - Страница 14

Naturally, Captain Ryecroft is the subject of speculation among the archers at Llangorren. A man of his mien would be so anywhere – if stranger. The old story of the unknown knight suddenly appearing on the tourney’s field with closed visor, only recognisable by a love-lock or other favour of the lady whose cause he comes to champion.

He, too, wears a distinctive badge – in the white cap. For though our tale is of modern time, it antedates that when Brown began to affect the pugaree– sham of Manchester Mills – as an appendage to his cheap straw hat. That on the head of Captain Ryecroft is the regular forage cap with quilted cover. Accustomed to it in India – whence he has but lately returned – he adheres to it in England without thought of its attracting attention and as little caring whether it do or not.

It does, however. Insular, we are supremely conservative – some might call it “caddish” – and view innovations with a jealous eye; as witness the so-called “moustache movement” not many years ago, and the fierce controversy it called forth.

For other reasons the officer of Hussars is at this same archery gathering a cynosure of eyes. There is a perfume of romance about him; in the way he has been introduced to the ladies of Llangorren; a question asked by others besides the importunate friend of George Shenstone. The true account of the affair with the drunken foresters has not got abroad – these keeping dumb about their own discomfiture; while Jack Wingate, a man of few words, and on this special matter admonished to silence, has been equally close-mouthed; Joseph also mute for reasons already mentioned.

Withal, a vague story has currency in the neighbourhood, of a boat, with two young ladies, in danger of being capsized – by some versions actually upset – and the ladies rescued from drowning by a stranger who chanced to be salmon fishing near by – his name, Ryecroft. And as this tale also circulates among the archers at Llangorren, it is not strange that some interest should attach to the supposed hero of it, now present.

Still, in an assemblage so large, and composed of such distinguished people – many of whom are strangers to one another – no particular personage can be for long an object of special concern; and if Captain Ryecroft continue to attract observation, it is neither from curiosity as to how he came there, nor the peculiarity of his head-dress, but the dark handsome features beneath it. On these more than one pair of bright eyes occasionally become fixed, regarding them with admiration.

None so warmly as those of Gwen Wynn; though hers neither openly nor in a marked manner. For she is conscious of being under the surveillance of other eyes, and needs to observe the proprieties.

In which she succeeds; so well, that no one watching her could tell, much less say, there is aught in her behaviour to Captain Ryecroft beyond the hospitality of host – which in a sense she is – to guest claiming the privileges of a stranger. Even when during an interregnum of the sports the two go off together, and, after strolling for a time through the grounds, are at length seen to step inside the summer-house, it may cause, but does not merit, remark. Others are acting similarly, sauntering in pairs, loitering in shady places, or sitting on rustic benches. Good society allows the freedom, and to its credit. That which is corrupt alone may cavil at it, and shame the day when such confidence be abused and abrogated!

Side by side they take stand in the little pavilion, under the shadow of its painted zinc roof. It may not have been all chance their coming thither – no more the archery party itself. That Gwendoline Wynn, who suggested giving it, can alone tell. But standing there with their eyes bent on the river, they are for a time silent – so much, that each can hear the beating of the other’s heart – both brimful of love.

At such moment one might suppose there could be no reserve or reticence, but confession full, candid, and mutual. Instead, at no time is this farther off. If le joie fait peur, far more l’amour.

And with all that has passed is there fear between them. On her part springing from a fancy she has been over forward – in her gushing gratitude for that service done, given too free expression to it, and needs being more reserved now. On his side speech is stayed by a reflection somewhat akin, with others besides. In his several calls at the Court his reception has been both welcome and warm. Still, not beyond the bounds of well-bred hospitality. But why on each and every occasion has he found a gentleman there – the same every time – George Shenstone by name? There before him, and staying after! And this very day, what meant Mr Shenstone by that sudden and abrupt departure? Above all, why her distraught look, with the sigh accompanying it, as the baronet’s son went galloping out of the gate? Having seen the one, and heard the other, Captain Ryecroft has misinterpreted both. No wonder his reluctance to speak words of love.

And so for a time they are silent, the dread of misconception, with consequent fear of committal, holding their lips sealed. On a simple utterance now may hinge their life’s happiness, or its misery.

Nor is it so strange, that in a moment fraught with such mighty consequence, conversation should be not only timid, but commonplace. They who talk of love’s eloquence, but think of it in its lighter phases – perhaps its lying. When truly, deeply, felt it is dumb, as devout worshipper in the presence of the divinity worshipped. Here, side by side, are two highly organised beings – a man handsome and courageous, a woman beautiful and aught but timid – both well up in the accomplishments, and gifted with the graces of life – loving each other to their souls’ innermost depths, yet embarrassed in manner, and constrained in speech, as though they were a couple of rustics! More; for Corydon would fling his arms around his Phyllis, and give her an eloquent smack, which she with like readiness would return.

Very different the behaviour of these in the pavilion. They stand for a time silent as statues – though not without a tremulous motion, scarce perceptible – as if the amorous electricity around stifled their breathing, for the time hindering speech. And when at length this comes, it is of no more significance than what might be expected between two persons lately introduced, and feeling but the ordinary interest in one another!

It is the lady who speaks first: —

“I understand you’ve been but a short while resident in our neighbourhood, Captain Ryecroft?”

“Not quite three months, Miss Wynn. Only a week or two before I had the pleasure of making your acquaintance.”

“Thank you for calling it a pleasure. Not much in the manner, I should say; but altogether the contrary,” she laughs, adding —

“And how do you like our Wye?”

“Who could help liking it?”

“There’s been much said of its scenery – in books and newspapers. You really admire it?”

“I do, indeed.” His preference is pardonable under the circumstances. “I think it the finest in the world.”

“What! you such a great traveller! In the tropics too; upon rivers that run between groves of evergreen trees, and over sands of gold! Do you really mean that, Captain Ryecroft?”

“Really – truthfully. Why not, Miss Wynn?”

“Because I supposed those grand rivers we read of were all so much superior to our little Herefordshire stream; in flow of water, scenery, everything – ”

“Nay, not everything!” he says, interruptingly. “In volume of water they may be; but far from it in other respects. In some it is superior to them all – Rhine, Rhone, ah! Hippocrene itself!”

His tongue is at length getting loosed.

“What other respects?” she asks.

“The forms reflected in it,” he answers 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 for 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 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 seance– 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.