Gwen Wynn: A Romance of the Wye

“Gwen! you know how I love you – would give my life for you! Will you be – ” Only now he hesitates, as if his horse baulked.

“Be what?” she asks, with no intention to help him over, but mechanically, her thoughts being elsewhere.

“My wife?”

She starts at the words, touched by his manly way, yet pained by their appealing earnestness, and the thought she must give denying response.

And how is she to give it, with least pain to him? Perhaps the bluntest way will be the best. So thinking, she says: —

“George, it can never be. Look at that!”

She holds out her left hand, sparkling with jewels.

“At what?” he asks, not comprehending.

“That ring.” She indicates a cluster of brilliants, on the fourth finger, by itself, adding the word “Engaged.”

“O God!” he exclaims, almost in a groan. “Is that so?”

“It is.”

For a time there is silence; her answer less maddening than making him sad.

With a desperate effort to resign himself, he at length replies: —

“Dear Gwen! for I must still call you – ever hold you so – my life hereafter will be as one who walks in darkness, waiting for death – ah, longing for it!”

Despair has its poetry, as love; oft exceeding the last in fervour of expression, and that of George Shenstone causes surprise to Gwen Wynn, while still further paining her. So much she knows not how to make rejoinder, and is glad when a fanfare of the band instruments gives note of another quadrille – the Lancers – about to begin.

Still engaged partners for the dance, but not to be for life, they return to the drawing-room, and join in it; he going through its figures with a sad heart and many a sigh.

Nor is she less sorrowful, only more excited; nigh unto madness, as she sees Captain Ryecroft vis-à-vis with Miss Powell; on his face an expression of content, calm, almost cynical; hers radiant as with triumph!

In this moment of Gwen Wynn’s supreme misery – acme of jealous spite – were George Shenstone to renew his proposal, she might pluck the betrothal ring from her finger, and give answer, “I will!”

It is not to be so, however weighty the consequence. In the horoscope of her life there is yet a heavier.

Volume Two – Chapter Nine

Jealous as a Tiger

It is a little after two a.m., and the ball is breaking up. Not a very late hour, as many of the people live at a distance, and have a long drive homeward, over hilly roads.

By the fashion prevailing a galop brings the dancing to a close. The musicians, slipping their instruments into cases and baize bags, retire from the room; soon after deserted by all, save a spare servant or two, who make the rounds to look to extinguishing the lamps, with a sharp eye for waifs in the shape of dropped ribbons or bijouterie.

Gentlemen guests stay longer in the dining-room over claret and champagne “cup,” or the more time-honoured B and S; while in the hallway there is a crush, and on the stairs a stream of ladies, descending cloaked and hooded.

Soon the crowd waxes thinner, relieved by carriages called up, quickly filling, and whirled off.

That of Squire Powell is among them; and Captain Ryecroft, not without comment from certain officious observers, accompanies the young lady, he has been so often dancing with, to the door.

Having seen her off with the usual ceremonies of leave-taking, he returns into the porch, and there for a while remains. It is a large portico, with Corinthian columns, by one of which he takes stand, in shadow. But there is a deeper shadow on his own brow, and a darkness in his heart, such as he has never in his life experienced. He feels how he has committed himself, but not with any remorse or repentance. Instead, the jealous anger is still within his breast, ripe and ruthless as ever. Nor is it so unnatural. Here is a woman – not Miss Powell, but Gwen Wynn – to whom he has given his heart – acknowledged the surrender, and in return had acknowledgment of hers – not only this, but offered his hand in marriage – placed the pledge upon her finger, she assenting and accepting – and now, in the face of all, openly, and before his face, engaged in flirtation!

It is not the first occasion for him to have observed familiarities between her and the son of Sir George Shenstone; trifling, it is true, but which gave him uneasiness. But to-night things have been more serious, and the pain caused him all-imbuing and bitter.

He does not reflect how he has been himself behaving. For to none more than the jealous lover is the big beam unobservable, while the little mote is sharply descried. He only thinks of her ill-behaviour, ignoring his own. If she has been but dissembling, coquetting with him, even that were reprehensible. Heartless, he deems it – sinister – something more, an indiscretion. Flirting while engaged – what might she do when married?

He does not wrong her by such direct self-interrogation. The suspicion were unworthy of himself, as of her; and as yet he has not given way to it. Still her conduct seems inexcusable, as inexplicable; and to get explanation of it he now tarries, while others are hastening away.

Not resolutely. Besides the half sad, half indignant expression upon his countenance, there is also one of indecision. He is debating within himself what course to pursue, and whether he will go off without bidding her good-bye. He is almost mad enough to be ill-mannered; and possibly, were it only a question of politeness, he would not stand upon, or be stayed by it. But there is more. The very same spiteful rage hinders him from going. He thinks himself aggrieved, and, therefore, justifiable in demanding to know the reason – to use a slang, but familiar phrase, “having it out.”

Just as has reached this determination, an opportunity is offered him. Having taken leave of Miss Linton, he has returned to the door, where he stands hat in hand, his overcoat already on. Miss Wynn is now also there, bidding good night to some guests – intimate friends – who have remained till the last. As they move off, he approaches her; she, as if unconsciously, and by the merest chance, lingering near the entrance. It is all pretence on her part, that she has not seen him dallying about; for she has several times, while giving congé to others of the company. Equally feigned her surprise, as she returns his salute, saying —

“Why, Captain Ryecroft! I supposed you were gone long ago!”

“I am sorry, Miss Wynn, you should think me capable of such rudeness.”

“Captain Ryecroft” and “Miss Wynn,” instead of “Vivian” and “Gwen!” It is a bad beginning, ominous of a worse ending.

The rejoinder, almost a rebuke, places her at a disadvantage, and she says rather confusedly —

“O! certainly not, sir. But where there are so many people, of course, one does not look for the formalities of leave-taking.”

“True; and, availing myself of that, I might have been gone long since, as you supposed, but for – ”

“For what?”

“A word I wish to speak with you – alone. Can I?”

“Oh, certainly.”

“Not here?” he asks suggestingly.

She glances around. There are servants hurrying about through the hall, crossing and recrossing, with the musicians coming forth from the dining-room, where they have been making a clearance of the cold fowl, ham, and heel-taps.

With quick intelligence comprehending, but without further speech she walks out into the portico, he preceding. Not to remain there, where eyes would still be on them, and ears within hearing. She has an Indian shawl upon her arm – throughout the night carried while promenading – and again throwing it over her shoulders, she steps down upon the gravelled sweep, and on into the grounds.

Side by side they proceed in the direction of the summer-house, as many times before, though never in the same mood as now. And never, as now, so constrained and silent; for not a word passes between them till they reach the pavilion.

There is light in it. But a few hundred yards from the house, it came in for part of the illumination, and its lamps are not yet extinguished – only burning feebly.

She is the first to enter – he to resume speech, saying —

“There was a day, Miss Wynn, when, standing on this spot, I thought myself the happiest man in Herefordshire. Now I know it was but a fancy – a sorry hallucination.”

“I do not understand you, Captain Ryecroft!”

“Oh yes, you do. Pardon my contradicting you; you’ve given me reason.”