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 loose-strife – 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 some who deny being superstitious. But a kite – I never heard of that being ominous of evil. No more its shadow; which as you see it there is but a small speck compared with the wide bright surface around. If your future sorrows be only in like proportion to your joys, they won't signify much. See! Both the bird and its shadow are passing away – as will your troubles, if you ever have any."
"Passing – perhaps, soon to return. Ha! look there. As I've said!"
This, as the kite swoops down upon a wood-quest, and strikes at it with outstretched talons. Missing it, nevertheless; for the strong-winged pigeon, forewarned by the other's shadow, has made a quick double in its flight, and so shunned the deadly clutch. Still, it is not yet safe; its tree covert is far off on the wooded slope, and the tyrant continues the chase. But the hawk has its enemy too, in a gamekeeper with his gun. Suddenly it is seen to suspend the stroke of its wings, and go whirling downward; while a shot rings out on the air, and the cushat, unharmed, flies on for the hill.
"Good!" exclaims Gwen, resting the oars across her knees, and clapping her hands in an ecstasy of delight. "The innocent has escaped!"
"And for that you ought to be assured, as well as gratified," puts in the companion, "taking it as a symbol of yourself, and those imaginary dangers you've been dreaming about."
"True," assents Miss Wynn musingly; "but, as you see, the bird found a protector – just by chance, and in the nick of time."
"So will you; without any chance, and at such time as may please you."
"Oh!" exclaims Gwen, as if endowed with fresh courage. "I don't want one – not I! I'm strong to stand alone." Another tug at the oars to show it. "No," she continues, speaking between the plunges, "I want no protector – at least not yet: nor for a long while."
"But there's one wants you," says the companion, accompanying her words with an interrogative glance. "And soon – soon as he can have you."
"Indeed! I suppose you mean Master George Shenstone. Have I hit the nail upon the head?"
"You have."
"Well; what of him?"
"Only that everybody observes his attentions to you."
"Everybody is a very busy body. Being so observant, I wonder if this everybody has also observed how I receive them?"
"Indeed,
