"You forget we've been full four hours on the river, and are as hungry as a pair of kingfishers – hawks, I suppose, you'd say, being a game preserver. Never mind about the simile. Let us in to luncheon, if not too late."
She steps hurriedly off towards the house, the companion following, Shenstone behind both.
However hungry they, never man went to a meal with less appetite than he. All Gwen's cajoling has not tranquillized his spirit, nor driven out of his thoughts that man with the bronzed complexion, dark moustache, and white helmet hat.
CHAPTER IX
JEALOUS ALREADY
Captain Ryecroft has lost more than rod and line; his heart is as good as gone too – given to Gwendoline Wynn. He now knows the name of the yellow-haired Naiad – for this, with other particulars, she imparted to him on return up stream.
Neither has her confidence thus extended, nor the conversation leading to it, belied the favourable impression made upon him by her appearance. Instead, so strengthened it, that for the first time in his life he contemplates becoming a benedict. He feels that his fate is sealed – or no longer in his hands, but hers.
As Wingate pulls him on homeward, he draws out his cigar case, sets fire to a fresh weed, and, while the blue smoke wreaths up round the rim of his topee, reflects on the incidents of the day, – reviewing them in the order of their occurrence.
Circumstances apparently accidental have been strangely in his favour. Helped as by Heaven's own hand, working with the rudest instruments. Through the veriest scum of humanity he has made acquaintance with one of its fairest forms. More than mere acquaintance, he hopes; for surely those warm words, and glances far from cold, could not be the sole offspring of gratitude! If so a little service on the Wye goes a long way. Thus reflects he in modest appreciation of himself, deeming that he has done but little. How different the value put upon it by Gwen Wynn!
Still he knows not this, or at least cannot be sure of it. If he were, his thoughts would be all rose-coloured, which they are not. Some are dark as the shadows of the April showers now and then drifting across the sun's disc.
One that has just settled on his brow is no reflection from the firmament above – no vague imagining – but a thing of shape and form – the form of a man, seen at the top of the boat-stair, as the ladies were ascending, and not so far off as to have hindered him from observing the man's face, and noting that he was young and rather handsome. Already the eyes of love have caught the keenness of jealousy. A gentleman evidently on terms of intimacy with Miss Wynn. Strange, though, that the look with which he regarded her on saluting seemed to speak of something amiss! What could it mean? Captain Ryecroft has asked this question as his boat was rounding the end of the eyot, with another in the self-same formulary of interrogation, of which but the moment before he was himself the subject: —
"Who the deuce can he be?"
Out upon the river, and drawing hard at his Regalia, he goes on: —
"Wonderfully familiar the fellow seemed! Can't be a brother! I understood her to say she had none. Does he live at Llangorren? No. She said there was no one there in the shape of masculine relative – only an old aunt, and that little dark damsel, who is cousin or something of the kind. But who in the deuce is the gentleman? Might he be a cousin?"
So propounding questions without being able to answer them, he at length addresses himself to the waterman – saying:
"Jack, did you observe a gentleman at the head of the stair?"
"Only the head and shoulders o' one, captain."
"Head and shoulders? that's enough. Do you chance to know him?"
"I ain't thorough sure; but I think he be a Mr. Shenstone."
"Who is Mr. Shenstone?"
"The son o' Sir George."
"Sir George! What do you know of him?"
"Not much to speak of – only that he be a big gentleman, whose land lies along the river, two or three miles below."
The information is but slight, and slighter the gratification it gives. Captain Ryecroft has heard of the rich baronet whose estate adjoins that of Llangorren, and whose title, with the property attached, will descend to an only son. It is the torso of this son he has seen above the red sandstone rock. In truth, a formidable rival! So he reflects, smoking away like mad.
After a time, he again observes, —
"You've said you don't know the ladies we've helped out of their little trouble?"
"Parsonally, I don't, captain. But, now as I see where they live, I know who they be. I've heerd talk 'bout the biggest o' them – a good deal."
The biggest of them! As if she were a salmon! In the boatman's eyes, bulk is evidently her chief recommendation!
Ryecroft smiles, further interrogating: —
"What have you heard of her?"
"That she be a tidy young lady. Wonderful fond o' field sport, such as hunting and that like. Fr' all, I may say that up to this day, I never set eyes on her afore."
The Hussar officer has been long enough in Herefordshire to have learnt the local signification of "tidy" – synonymous with "well-behaved." That Miss Wynn is fond of field sports – flood pastimes included – he has gathered from herself while rowing her up the river.
One thing strikes him as strange – that the waterman should not be acquainted with every one dwelling on the river's bank, at least for a dozen miles up and down. He seeks an explanation.
"How is it, Jack, that you, living but a short league above, don't know all about these people?"
He is unaware that Wingate though born on the Wye's banks, as he has told him, is comparatively a stranger to its middle waters – his birthplace being far up in the shire of Brecon. Still that is not the solution of the enigma, which the young waterman gives in his own way, —
"Lord love ye, sir! That shows how little you understand this river. Why, captain, it crooks an' crooks, and goes wobblin' about in such a way, that folks as lives less'n a mile apart knows no more o' one the other than if they wor ten. It comes o' the bridges bein' so few and far between. There's the ferry boats, true; but people don't take to 'em more'n they can help 'specially women – seein' there be some danger at all times, and a good deal o't when the river's aflood. That's frequent, summer well as winter."
The explanation is reasonable; and, satisfied with it, Ryecroft remains for a time wrapt in a dreamy reverie, from which he is aroused as his eyes rest upon a house – a quaint antiquated structure, half timber, half stone, standing not on the river's edge, but at some distance from it up a dingle. The sight is not new to him; he has before noticed the house – struck with its appearance, so different from the ordinary dwellings.
"Whose is it, Jack?" he asks.
"B'longs to a man, name o' Murdock."
"Odd looking domicile!"
"Ta'nt a bit more that way than he be – if half what they say 'bout him be true."
"Ah! Mr. Murdock's a character, then?"
"Ay; an' a queery one."
"In what respect? what way?"
"More'n one – a goodish many."
"Specify, Jack."
"Well; for one thing, he a'nt sober to say half o' his time."
"Addicted to dipsomania."
"'Dicted to getting dead drunk. I've seen him so, scores o' 'casions."
"That's not wise of Mr. Murdock."
"No, captain; 'ta'nt neyther wise nor well. All the worse, considerin' the place where mostly he go to do his drinkin'."
"Where may that be?"
"The