a sigh; sad as she sees him ride out through the gate – going in reckless gallop – but succeeded by one of relief, soon as he is out of sight!
In an instant after, she is gay and gladsome as ever; once more bending the bow, and making the catgut twang. But now shooting straight – hitting the target every time, and not unfrequently lodging a shaft in the "gold." For he who now attends on her, not only inspires confidence, but excites her to the display of skill. Captain Ryecroft has taken George Shenstone's place as her aide-de-camp; and while he hands the arrows, she spending them, others of a different kind pass between them – the shafts of Cupid – of which there is a full quiver in the eyes of both.
CHAPTER XIV
BEATING ABOUT THE BUSH
Naturally, Captain Ryecroft is the subject of speculation among the archers at Llangorren. A man of his mien would be so anywhere – if stranger. The old story of the unknown knight suddenly appearing on the tourney's field with closed visor, only recognisable by a love-lock or other favour of the lady whose cause he comes to champion.
He, too, wears a distinctive badge – in the white cap. For though our tale is of modern time, it antedates than when Brown began to affect the pugaree– sham of Manchester Mills – as an appendage to his cheap straw hat. That on the head of Captain Ryecroft is the regular forage cap, with quilted cover. Accustomed to it in India – whence he has but lately returned – he adheres to it in England, without thought of its attracting attention, and as little caring whether it does or not.
It does, however. Insular, we are supremely conservative – some might call it "caddish" – and view innovations with a jealous eye; as witness the so-called "moustache movement" not many years ago, and the fierce controversy it called forth.
For other reasons the officer of Hussars is at this same archery gathering a cynosure of eyes. There is a perfume of romance about him; in the way he has been introduced to the ladies of Llangorren; a question asked by others besides the importunate friend of George Shenstone. The true account of the affair with the drunken foresters has not got abroad – these keeping dumb about their own discomfiture; while Jack Wingate, a man of few words, and on this special matter admonished to silence, has been equally close-mouthed; Joseph also mute for reasons already mentioned.
Withal, a vague story has currency in the neighbourhood, of a boat, with two young ladies, in danger of being capsized – by some versions actually upset – and the ladies rescued from drowning by a stranger who chanced to be salmon-fishing near by – his name, Ryecroft. And as this tale also circulates among the archers at Llangorren, it is not strange that some interest should attach to the supposed hero of it, now present.
Still, in an assemblage so large, and composed of such distinguished people – many of whom are strangers to one another – no particular personage can be for long an object of special concern; and if Captain Ryecroft continue to attract observation, it is neither from curiosity as to how he came there, nor the peculiarity of his head-dress, but the dark handsome features beneath it. On these more than one pair of bright eyes occasionally become fixed, regarding them with admiration.
None so warmly as those of Gwen Wynn; though hers neither openly nor in a marked manner. For she is conscious of being under the surveillance of other eyes, and needs to observe the proprieties.
In which she succeeds; so well, that no one watching her could tell, much less say, there is aught in her behaviour to Captain Ryecroft beyond the hospitality of host – which in a sense she is – to guest claiming the privileges of a stranger. Even when during an interregnum of the sports the two go off together, and, after strolling for a time through the grounds, are at length seen to step inside the summer-house, it may cause, but does not merit, remark. Others are acting similarly, sauntering in pairs, loitering in shady places, or sitting on rustic benches. Good society allows the freedom, and to its credit. That which is corrupt alone may cavil at it, and shame the day when such confidence be abused and abrogated.
Side by side they take stand in the little pavilion, under the shadow of its painted zinc roof. It may not have been all chance their coming thither – no more the archery party itself. That Gwendoline Wynn, who suggested giving it, can alone tell. But standing there with their eyes bent on the river, they are for a time silent, so much, that each can hear the beating of the other's heart – both brimful of love.
At such moment one might suppose there could be no reserve or reticence, but confession, full, candid, and mutual. Instead, at no time is this farther off. If le joie fait peur, far more l'amour.
And with all that has passed is there fear between them. On her part springing from a fancy she has been over forward – in her gushing gratitude for that service done, given too free expression to it, and needs being more reserved now. On his side speech is stayed by a reflection somewhat akin, with others besides. In his several calls at the Court his reception has been both welcome and warm. Still, not beyond the bounds of well-bred hospitality. But why on each and every occasion has he found a gentleman there – the same every time – George Shenstone by name? There before him, and staying after! And this very day, what meant Mr. Shenstone by that sudden and abrupt departure? Above all, why her distraught look, with the sigh accompanying it, as the baronet's son went galloping out of the gate? Having seen the one, and heard the other, Captain Ryecroft has misinterpreted both. No wonder his reluctance to speak words of love.
And so for a time they are silent, the dread of misconception, with consequent fear of committal, holding their lips sealed. On a simple utterance now may hinge their life's happiness, or its misery.
Nor is it so strange, that in a moment fraught with such mighty consequence, conversation should be not only timid, but commonplace. They who talk of love's eloquence, but think of it in its lighter phases – perhaps its lying. When truly, deeply felt, it is dumb, as devout worshipper in the presence of the Divinity worshipped. Here, side by side, are two highly organized beings – a man handsome and courageous, a woman beautiful and aught but timid – both well up in the accomplishments, and gifted with the graces of life – loving each other to their souls' innermost depths, yet embarrassed in manner, and constrained in speech, as though they were a couple of rustics! More; for Corydon would fling his arms around his Phyllis, and give her an eloquent smack, which she, with like readiness would return.
Very different the behaviour of these in the pavilion. They stand for a time silent as statues – though not without a tremulous motion, scarce perceptible – as if the amorous electricity around stifled their breathing, for the time hindering speech. And when at length this comes, it is of no more significance than what might be expected between two persons lately introduced, and feeling but the ordinary interest in one another!
It is the lady who speaks first: —
"I understand you've been but a short while resident in our neighbourhood, Captain Ryecroft?"
"Not quite three months, Miss Wynn. Only a week or two before I had the pleasure of making your acquaintance."
"Thank you for calling it a pleasure. Not much in the manner, I should say; but altogether the contrary," she laughs, adding —
"And how do you like our Wye?"
"Who could help liking it?"
"There's been much said of its scenery – in books and newspapers. You really admire it?"
"I do, indeed." His preference is pardonable under the circumstances. "I think it the finest in the world."
"What! you such a great traveller! In the tropics too; upon rivers that run between groves of evergreen trees, and over sands of gold! Do you really mean that, Captain Ryecroft?"
"Really – truthfully. Why not, Miss Wynn?"
"Because I supposed those grand rivers we read of were all so much superior to our little Herefordshire stream; in flow of water, scenery, everything – "
"Nay, not everything!" he says interruptingly. "In volume of water they may be; but far from it in other respects. In some it is superior to them all – Rhine, Rhone, ah! Hippocrene itself!"
His tongue is at length getting loosed.
"What other respects?"