Ellen Lees laughs incredulously as she makes rejoinder.
“It would be a pity,” she says, in serio-comic tone. “Besides, the poor people are entitled to a little recreation. They don’t have too much of it.”
“Ah, true,” rejoins Gwen, who, despite her grandeeism, is neither Tory nor aristocrat. “Well, I’ve not yet decided on that little bit of incendiarism, and shan’t burn the Gwendoline– at all events not till we’ve had another row out of her.”
Not for a hundred pounds would she set fire to that boat, and never in her life was she less thinking of such a thing. For just then she has other views regarding the pretty pleasure craft, and intends taking seat on its thwarts within less than twenty minutes’ time.
“By the way,” she says, as if the thought had suddenly occurred to her, “we may as well have that row now – whether it’s to be the last or not.”
Cunning creature! She has had it in her mind all the morning; first from her bed-chamber window, then from that of the breakfast-room, looking up the river’s reach, with the binocular at her eye, too, to note if a certain boat, with a salmon-rod bending over it, passes down. For one of its occupants is an angler.
“The day’s superb,” she goes on; “sun’s not too hot – gentle breeze – just the weather for a row. And the river looks so inviting – seems calling us to come! What say you, Nell?”
“Oh! I’ve no objections.”
“Let us in, then, and make ready. Be quick about it! Remember it’s April, and there may be showers. We mustn’t miss a moment of that sweet sunshine.”
At this the two forsake the summer-house; and, lightly recrossing the lawn, disappear within the dwelling.
While the anglers boat is still opposite the grounds, going on, eyes are observing it from an upper window of the house; again those of Miss Wynn herself, inside her dressing-room, getting ready for the river.
She had only short glimpses of it, over the tops of the trees on the eyot, and now and then through breaks in their thinner spray. Enough, however, to assure her that it contains two men, neither of them cockneys. One at the oars she takes to be a professional waterman. But he, seated in the stern is altogether unknown to her, save by sight – that obtained when twice meeting him out on the river. She knows not whence he comes, or where he is residing; but supposes him a stranger to the neighbourhood, stopping at some hotel. If at the house of any of the neighbouring gentry, she would certainly have heard of it. She is not even acquainted with his name, though longing to learn it. But she is shy to inquire, lest that might betray her interest in him. For such she feels, has felt, ever since setting eyes on his strangely handsome face.
As the boat again disappears behind the thick foliage, she sets, in haste, to effect the proposed change of dress, saying, in soliloquy – for she is now alone: —
“I wonder who, and what he can be? A gentleman, of course. But, then, there are gentlemen, and gentlemen; single ones and – ”
She has the word “married” on her tongue, but refrains speaking it. Instead, she gives utterance to a sigh, followed by the reflection —
“Ah, me! That would be a pity – a dis – ”
Again she checks herself, the thought being enough unpleasant without the words.
Standing before the mirror, and sticking long pins into her hair, to keep its rebellious plaits in their place, she continues soliloquising —
“If one only had a word with that young waterman who rows him! And were it not that my own boatman is such a chatterer, I’d put him up to getting that word. But no! It would never do. He’d tell aunt about it; and then Madame la Chatelaine would be talking all sorts of serious things to me – the which I mightn’t relish. Well; in six months more the old lady’s trusteeship of this young lady is to terminate – at least legally. Then I’ll be my own mistress; and then – ’twill be time enough to consider whether I ought to have – a master. Ha, ha, ha!”
So laughing, as she surveys her superb figure in a cheval glass, she completes the adjustment of her dress, by setting a hat upon her head, and tightening the elastic, to secure against its being blown off while in the boat. In fine, with a parting glance at the mirror, which shows a satisfied expression upon her features, she trips lightly out of the room, and on down the stairway.
Volume One – Chapter Two
The Hero
Than Vivian Ryecroft – handsomer man never carried sling-jacket over his shoulder, or sabretasche on his hip. For he is in the Hussars – a captain.
He is not on duty now, nor anywhere near the scene of it. His regiment is at Aldershot, himself rusticating in Herefordshire – whither he has come to spend a few weeks’ leave of absence.
Nor is he, at the time of our meeting him, in the saddle, which he sits so gracefully; but in a row-boat on the river Wye – the same just sighted by Gwen Wynn through the double lens of her lorgnette. No more is he wearing the braided uniform and “busby;” but, instead, attired in a suit of light Cheviots, piscator-cut, with a helmet-shaped cap of quilted cotton on his head, its rounded rim of spotless white in striking, but becoming, contrast with his bronzed complexion and dark military moustache.
For Captain Ryecroft is no mere stripling nor beardless youth, but a man turned thirty, browned by exposure to Indian suns, experienced in Indian campaigns, from those of Scinde and the Punjaub to that most memorable of all – the Mutiny.
Still is he personally as attractive as he ever was – to women, possibly more; among these causing a flutter, with rapprochement towards him almost instinctive, when and wherever they may meet him. In the present many a bright English lady sighs for him, as in the past many a dark damsel of Hindostan. And without his heaving sigh, or even giving them a thought in return. Not that he is of cold nature, or in any sense austere; instead, warm-hearted, of cheerful disposition, and rather partial to female society. But he is not, and never has been, either man-flirt or frivolous trifler; else he would not be fly-fishing on the Wye – for that is what he is doing there – instead of in London, taking part in the festivities of the “season,” by day dawdling in Rotten Row, by night exhibiting himself in opera-box or ball-room. In short, Vivian Ryecroft is one of those rare individuals, to a high degree endowed, physically as mentally, without being aware of it, or appearing so; while to all others it is very perceptible.
He has been about a fortnight in the neighbourhood, stopping at the chief hotel of a riverine town much affected by fly-fishermen and tourists. Still, he has made no acquaintance with the resident gentry. He might, if wishing it; which he does not, his purpose upon the Wye not being to seek society, but salmon, or rather the sport of taking it. An ardent disciple of the ancient Izaak, he cares for nought else – at least, in the district where he is for the present sojourning.
Such is his mental condition, up to a certain morning; when a change comes over it, sudden as the spring of a salmon at the gaudiest or most tempting of his flies – this brought about by a face, of which he has caught sight by merest accident, and while following his favourite occupation. Thus it has chanced: —
Below the town where he is staying, some four or five miles by the course of the stream, he has discovered one of those places called “catches,” where the king of river fish delights to leap at flies, whether natural or artificial – a sport it has oft reason to rue. Several times so, at the end of Captain Ryecroft’s line and rod; he having there twice hooked a twenty-pounder, and once a still larger specimen, which turned the scale at thirty. In consequence