He has never listened to the like before; for never before has the pleasure-boat gone to river without his being aboard. True, it is no business of his; still, as an ancient upholder of the family, with its honour and safety, he cannot assent to this strange innovation without entering protest. He does so, asking:
“But, Miss Gwen; what will your aunt say to it? She mayent like you young ladies to go rowin’ by yourselves? Besides, Miss, ye know there be some not werry nice people as moat meet ye on the river. ’Deed some v’ the roughest and worst o’ blaggarts.”
“Nonsense, Joseph! The Wye isn’t the Niger, where we might expect the fate of poor Mungo Park. Why, man, we’ll be as safe on it as upon our own carriage drive, or the little fishpond. As for aunt, she won’t say anything, because she won’t know. Shan’t, can’t, unless you peach on us. The which, my amiable Joseph, you’ll not do – I’m sure you will not?”
“How’m I to help it, Miss Gwen? When you’ve goed off, some o’ the house sarvints’ll see me here, an’, hows’ever I keep my tongue in check – ”
“Check it now!” abruptly breaks in the heiress, “and stop palavering, Joe! The house servants won’t see you – not one of them. When we’re off on the river, you’ll be lying at anchor in those laurel bushes above. And to keep you to your anchorage, here’s some shining metal.”
Saying which, she slips several shillings into his hand, adding, as she notes the effect, —
“Do you think it sufficiently heavy? If not – but never mind now. In our absence you can amuse yourself weighing, and counting the coins. I fancy they’ll do.”
She is sure of it, knowing the man’s weakness to be money, as it now proves.
Her argument is too powerful for his resistance, and he does not resist. Despite his solicitude for the welfare of the Wynn family, with his habitual regard of duty, the ancient servitor, refraining from further protest, proceeds to undo the knot of the Gwendoline’s painter.
Stepping into the boat, the other Gwendoline takes the oars, Miss Lees seating herself to steer.
“All right! Now, Joe, give us a push off.”
Joseph, having let all loose, does as directed; which sends the light craft clear out of its dock. Then, standing on the bottom step, with an adroit twirl of the thumb, he spreads 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
