Читать книгу Gwen Wynn: A Romance of the Wye - Reid Mayne - Страница 5

For another half mile, or so, the Gwendoline is propelled onward, though not running trimly; the fault being in her at the oars. With thoughts still preoccupied, she now and then forgets her stroke, or gives it unequally – so that the boat zig-zags from side to side, and, but for a more careful hand at the tiller, would bring up against the bank.

Observing her abstraction, as also her frequent turning to look down the river – but without suspicion of what is causing it – Miss Lees at length inquires, —

“What’s the matter with you, Gwen?”

“Oh, nothing,” she evasively answers, bringing back her eyes to the boat, and once more giving attention to the oars.

“But why are you looking so often below? I’ve noticed you do so at least a score of times.”

If the questioner could but divine the thoughts at that moment in the other’s mind, she would have no need thus to interrogate, but would know that below there is another boat with a man in it, who possesses that unseen something, like ether or electricity, and to catch sight of whom Miss Wynn has been so oft straining her eyes. She has not given all her confidence to the companion.

Not receiving immediate answer, Ellen again asks —

“Is there any danger you fear?”

“None that I know of – at least, for a long way down. Then there are some rough places.”

“But you are pulling so unsteadily! It takes all my strength to keep in the middle of the river.”

“Then you pull, and let me do the steering,” returns Miss Wynn, pretending to be in a pout; as she speaks starting up from the thwart, and leaving the oars in their thole pins.

Of course, the other does not object; and soon they have changed places.

But Gwen in the stern behaves no better, than when seated amidships. The boat still keeps going astray, the fault now in the steerer.

Soon something more than a crooked course calls the attention of both, for a time engrossing it. They have rounded an abrupt bend, and got into a reach where the river runs with troubled surface and great velocity – so swift there is no need to use oars down stream, while upward ’twill take stronger arms than theirs. Caught in its current, and rapidly, yet smoothly, borne on, for awhile they do not think of this. Only a short while; then the thought comes to them in the shape of a dilemma – Miss Lees being the first to perceive it.

“Gracious goodness!” she exclaims, “what are we to do? We can never row back up this rough water – it runs so strong here!”

“That’s true,” says Gwen, preserving her composure. “I don’t think we could.”

“But what’s to be the upshot? Joseph will be waiting for us, and auntie sure to know all – if we shouldn’t get back in time.”

“That’s true also,” again observes Miss Wynn, assentingly, and with an admirable sang froid, which causes surprise to the companion.

Then succeeds a short interval of silence, broken by an exclamatory phrase of three short words from the lips of Miss Wynn. They are – “I have it!”

“What have you?” joyfully asks Ellen.

“The way to get back – without much trouble; and without disturbing the arrangements we’ve made with old Joe – the least bit.”

“Explain yourself!”

“We’ll keep on down the river to Rock Weir. There we can leave the boat, and walk across the neck to Llangorren. It isn’t over a mile, though it’s five times that by the course of the stream. At the Weir we can engage some water fellow to take back the Gwendoline to her moorings. Meanwhile, we’ll make all haste, slip into the grounds unobserved, get to the boat-dock in good time, and give Joseph the cue to hold his tongue about what’s happened. Another half-crown will tie it firm and fast, I know.”

“I suppose there’s no help for it,” says the companion, assenting, “and we must do as you say.”

“Of course, we must. As you see, without thinking of it, we’ve drifted into a very cascade and are now a long way down it. Only a regular waterman could pull up again. Ah! ’twould take the toughest of them, I should say. So —nolens volens– we’ll have to go on to Rock Weir, which can’t be more than a mile 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 anglers 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 make 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 have 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 gooe – 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 may save her from insult – it may be worse.

There is no man in sight – no human being on either side of the river! On the right a grim cliff rising sheer, with some goats clinging to its ledges. On the left a grassy slope with browsing sheep, their lambs astretch at their feet; but no shepherd, no one to whom she can call “Help!”

Distractedly she continues to tug at the oars; despairingly as the boats draw near the bend. Before rounding it she will be in the hands of those horrid men – embraced by their brawny, bear-like arms!

The thought re-strengthens her own, giving them the energy of desperation. So inspired, she makes a final effort to elude the ruffian pursuers, and succeeds in turning the point.

Soon as round it, her face brightens up, joy dances in her eyes, as with panting breath she exclaims: —

“We’re saved, Nelly! We’re saved! Thank Heaven for it!”

Nelly does thank Heaven, rejoiced to hear they are saved – but without in the least comprehending how!