“Miss Linton,” he says, speaking first, “I’ve just dropped in to ask if the young ladies would go for a ride. The day’s so fine, I thought they might like to.”
“Ah, indeed,” returns the spinster, holding out her fingers to be touched, but, under the plea of being a little invalided, excusing herself from rising. “Yes; no doubt they would like it very much.”
Mr Shenstone is satisfied with the reply; but less the curate, who neither rides nor has a horse. And less Shenstone himself – indeed both – as the lady proceeds. They have been listening, with ears all alert, for the sound of soft footsteps and rustling dresses. Instead, they hear words, not only disappointing, but perplexing.
“Nay, I am sure,” continues Miss Linton, with provoking coolness, “they would have been glad to go riding with you; delighted – ”
“But why can’t they?” asked Shenstone, impatiently interrupting.
“Because the thing’s impossible; they’ve already gone rowing.”
“Indeed!” cry both gentlemen in a breath, seeming alike vexed by the intelligence, Shenstone mechanically interrogating:
“On the river?”
“Certainly!” answers the lady, looking surprised. “Why, George; where else could they go rowing! You don’t suppose they’ve brought the boat up to the fishpond!”
“Oh, no,” he stammers out. “I beg pardon. How very stupid of me to ask such a question. I was only wondering why Miss Gwen – that is, I am a little astonished – but – perhaps you’ll think it impertinent of me to ask another question?”
“Why should I? What is it?”
“Only whether – whether she – Miss Gwen, I mean – said anything about riding to-day?”
“Not a word – at least not to me.”
“How long since they went off – may I know, Miss Linton?”
“Oh, hours ago! Very early, indeed – just after taking breakfast. I wasn’t down myself – as I’ve told you, not feeling very well this morning. But Gwen’s maid informs me they left the house then, and I presume they went direct to the river.”
“Do you think they’ll be out long?” earnestly interrogates Shenstone.
“I should hope not,” returns the ancient toast of Cheltenham, with aggravating indifference, for Lutestring is not quite out of her thoughts. “There’s no knowing, however. Miss Wynn is accustomed to come and go, without much consulting me.”
This with some acerbity – possibly from the thought that the days of her legal guardianship are drawing to a close, which will make her a less important personage at Llangorren.
“Surely, they won’t be out all day,” timidly suggests the curate; to which she makes no rejoinder, till Mr Shenstone puts it in the shape of an inquiry.
“Is it likely they will, Miss Linton?”
“I should say not. More like they’ll be hungry, and that will bring them home. What’s the hour now? I’ve been reading a very interesting book, and quite forgot myself. Is it possible?” she exclaims, looking at the ormolu dial on the mantelshelf. “Ten minutes to one! How time does fly, to be sure! I couldn’t have believed it near so late – almost luncheon time! Of course you’ll stay, gentlemen? As for the girls, if they’re not back in time they’ll have to go without. Punctuality is the rule of this house – always will be with me. I shan’t wait one minute for them.”
“But, Miss Linton; they may have returned from the river, and are now somewhere about the grounds. Shall I run down to the boat-dock and see?”
It is Mr Shenstone who thus interrogates.
“If you like – by all means. I shall be too thankful. Shame of Gwen to give us so much trouble! She knows our luncheon hour, and should have been back by this. Thanks, much, Mr Shenstone.”
As he is bounding off, she calls after – “Don’t you be staying too, else you shan’t have a pick. Mr Musgrave and I won’t wait for any of you. Shall we, Mr Musgrave?”
Shenstone has not tarried to hear either question or answer. A luncheon for Apicius were, at that moment, nothing to him; and little more to the curate, who, though staying, would gladly go along. Not from any rivalry with, or jealousy of, the baronet’s son: they revolve in different orbits, with no danger of collision. Simply that he dislikes leaving Miss Linton alone – indeed, dare not. She may be expecting the usual budget of neighbourhood intelligence he daily brings her.
He is mistaken. On this particular day it is not desired. Out of courtesy to Mr Shenstone, rather than herself, she had laid aside the novel; and it now requires all she can command to keep her eyes off it. She is burning to know what befel the farmer’s daughter!
Volume One – Chapter Eight
A Suspicious Stranger
While Mr Musgrave is boring the elderly spinster about new scarlet cloaks for the girls of the church choir, and other parish matters, George Shenstone is standing on the topmost step of the boat stair, in a mood of mind even less enviable than hers. For he has looked down into the dock, and there sees no Gwendoline – neither boat nor lady – nor is there sign of either upon the water, far as he can command a view of it. No sounds, such as he would wish, and might expect to hear – no dipping of oars, nor, what would be still more agreeable to his ear, the soft voices of women. Instead only the note of a cuckoo, in monotonous repetition, the bird balancing itself on a branch near by; and, farther off, the hiccol, laughing, as if in mockery – and at him! Mocking his impatience; ay, something more, almost his misery! That it is so his soliloquy tells:
“Odd her being out on the river! She promised me to go riding to-day. Very odd indeed! Gwen isn’t the same she was – acting strange altogether for the last three or four days. Wonder what it means! By Jove, I can’t comprehend it!”
His noncomprehension does not hinder a dark shadow from stealing over his brow, and there staying.
It is not unobserved. Through the leaves of the evergreen Joseph notes the pained expression, and interprets it in his own shrewd way – not far from the right one.
The old servant soliloquising in less conjectural strain, says, or rather thinks —
“Master George be mad sweet on Miss Gwen. The country folk are all talkin’ o’t; thinkin’ she’s same on him, as if they knew anything about it. I knows better. An’ he ain’t no ways confident, else there wouldn’t be that queery look on’s face. It’s the token o’ jealousy for sure. I don’t believe he have suspicion o’ any rival particklar. Ah! it don’t need that wi’ sich a grand beauty as she be. He as love her might be jealous o’ the sun kissing her cheeks, or the wind tossin’ her hair!”
Joseph is a Welshman of Bardic ancestry, and thinks poetry. He continues —
“I know what’s took her on the river, if he don’t. Yes – yes, my young lady! Ye thought yerself wonderful clever leavin’ old Joe behind, tellin’ him to hide hisself, and bribin’ him to stay hid! And d’y ’spose I didn’t obsarve them glances exchanged twixt you and the salmon fisher – sly, but for all that, hot as streaks o’ fire? And d’ye think I didn’t see Mr Whitecap going down, afore ye thought o’ a row yerself. Oh, no; I noticed nothin’ o’ all that, not I? ’Twarn’t meant for me – not for Joe – ha, ha!”
With a suppressed giggle at the popular catch coming in so apropos, he once more fixes his eyes on the face of the impatient watcher, proceeding with his soliloquy, though in changed strain:
“Poor