Gwen Wynn: A Romance of the Wye

“I can’t take it, Captain. You ha’ paid me too handsome, arredy.”

“Nonsense, man! I haven’t done anything of the kind. Besides, that isn’t for boat hire, nor yourself; only a little douceur, by way of present to the good dame inside the cottage – asleep, I take it.”

“That case I accept. But won’t my mother be grieved to hear o’ your goin’ away – she thinks so much o’ ye, Captain. Will ye let me wake her up? I’m sure she’d like to speak a partin’ word, and thank you for this big gift.”

“No, no! don’t disturb the dear old lady. In the morning you can give her my kind regards, and parting compliments. Say to her, when I return to Herefordshire – if I ever do – she shall see me. For yourself, take my word, should I ever again go rowing on this river it will be in a boat called the Mary, pulled by the best waterman on the Wye.”

Modest though Jack Wingate be, he makes no pretence of misunderstanding the recondite compliment, but accepts it in its fullest sense, rejoining —

“I’d call it flattery, Captain, if’t had come from anybody but you. But I know ye never talk nonsense; an’ that’s just why I be so sad to hear ye say you’re goin’ off for good. I feeled so bad ’bout losin’ poor Mary; it makes it worse now losin’ you. Good night!”

The Hussar officer has a horse, which has been standing in a little lean-to shed, under saddle. The lugubrious dialogue has been carried on simultaneously with the bridling, and the “Good night” is said as Ryecroft springs up on his stirrup.

Then as he rides away into the darkness, and Jack Wingate stands listening to the departing hoof-stroke, at each repetition more indistinct, he feels indeed forsaken, forlorn; only one thing in the world now worth living for – but one to keep him anchored to life – his aged mother!

Volume Two – Chapter Twelve

Making Ready for the Road

Having reached his hotel, Captain Ryecroft seeks neither rest nor sleep, but stays awake for the remainder of the night.

The first portion of his time he spends in gathering up his impedimenta, and packing. Not a heavy task. His luggage is light, according to the simplicity of a soldier’s wants; and as an old campaigner he is not long in making ready for the route.

His fishing tackle, gun-case and portmanteau, with an odd bundle or two of miscellaneous effects, are soon strapped and corded. After which he takes a seat by a table to write out the labels.

But now a difficulty occurs to him – the address! His name of course, but what the destination? Up to this moment he has not thought of where he is going; only that he must go somewhere – away from the Wye. There is no Lethe in that stream for memories like his.

To his regiment he cannot return, for he has none now. Months since he ceased to be a soldier; having resigned his commission at the expiration of his leave of absence – partly in displeasure at being refused extension of it, but more because the attractions of the “Court” and the grove had made those of the camp uncongenial. Thus his visit to Herefordshire has not only spoilt him as a salmon fisher, but put an end to his military career.

Fortunately he was not dependent on it; for Captain Ryecroft is a rich man. And yet he has no home he can call his own; the ten latest years of his life having been passed in Hindostan. Dublin is his native place; but what would or could he now do there? his nearest relatives are dead, his friends few, his schoolfellows long since scattered – many of them, as himself, waifs upon the world. Besides, since his return from India, he has paid a visit to the capital of the Emerald Isle; where, finding all so changed, he cares not to go back – at least, for the present.

Whither then?

One place looms upon the imagination – almost naturally as home itself – the metropolis of the world. He will proceed thither, though not there to stay. Only to use it as a point of departure for another metropolis – the French one. In that focus and centre of gaiety and fashion – Maelstrom of dissipation – he may find some relief from his misery, if not happiness. Little hope has he; but it may be worth the trial and he will make it.

So determining, he takes up the pen, and is about to put “London” on the labels. But as an experienced strategist, who makes no move with undue haste and without due deliberation, he sits a while longer considering.

Strange as it may seem, and a question for psychologists, a man thinks best upon his back. Better still with a cigar between his teeth – powerful help to reflection. Aware of this, Captain Ryecroft lights a “weed,” and looks around him. He is in his sleeping apartment, where, besides the bed, there is a sofa – horsehair cushion and squab hard as stones – the orthodox hotel article.

Along this he lays himself, and smokes away furiously. Spitefully, too; for he is not now thinking of either London or Paris. He cannot yet. The happy past, the wretched present, are too soul-absorbing to leave room for speculations of the future. The “fond rage of love” is still active within him. Is it to “blight his life’s bloom,” leaving him “an age all winters?” Or is there yet a chance of reconciliation? Can the chasm which angry words have created be bridged over? No. Not without confession of error – abject humiliation on his part – which in his present frame of mind he is not prepared to make – will not – could not.

“Never!” he exclaims, plucking the cigar from between his lips, but soon returning it, to continue the train of his reflections.

Whether from the soothing influence of the nicotine, or other cause, his thoughts after a time became more tranquillised – their hue sensibly changed, as betokened by some muttered words which escape him.

“After all, I may be wronging her. If so, may God forgive, as I hope He will pity me. For if so, I am less deserving forgiveness, and more to be pitied than she.”

As in ocean’s storm, between the rough surging billows foam-crested, are spots of smooth water, so in thought’s tempest are intervals of calm. It is during one of these he speaks as above; and continuing to reflect in the same strain, things, if not quite couleur de rose, assume a less repulsive aspect. Gwen Wynn may have been but dissembling – playing with him – and he would now be contented, ready – even rejoiced – to accept it in that sense; ay, to the abject humiliation that but the moment before he had so defiantly rejected. So reversed his sentiments now – modified from mad anger to gentle forgiveness – he is almost in the act of springing to his feet, tearing the straps from his packed paraphernalia, and letting all loose again!

But just at this crisis he hears the town clock tolling six, and voices in conversation under his window. It is a hit of gossip between two stable-men – attaches of the hotel – an ostler and fly-driver.

“Ye had a big time last night at Llangorren?” says the former, inquiringly.

“Ah! that ye may say,” returns the Jarvey, with a strongly accentuated hiccup, telling of heel-taps. “Never knowed a bigger, s’help me. Wine runnin’ in rivers, as if ’twas only table-beer – an’ the best kind o’t too. I’m so full o’ French champagne, I feel most like burstin’.”

“She be a grand gal, that Miss Wynn. An’t she?”

“In course is – one o’ the grandest. But she an’t going to be a girl long. By what I heerd them say in the sarvints’ hall, she’s soon to be broke into pair-horse harness.”

“Wi’ who?”

“The son o’ Sir George Shenstone.”

“A good match they’ll make, I sh’d say. Tidier chap than he never stepped inside this yard. Many’s the time he’s tipped me.”

There is more of the same sort, but Captain Ryecroft does not hear it; the men having moved off beyond earshot. In all likelihood he would not have listened, had they stayed. For again he seems to hear those other words – that last spiteful rejoinder – “Yes; let it.”

His own spleen returning, in all its keen hostility, he springs upon his feet, hastily steps back to the table, and writes on the slips of parchment —

Mr Vivian Ryecroft, Passenger to London, G.W.R.

He cannot attach them till the ink gets dry; and, while waiting for it to do so, his thoughts undergo still another revulsion; again leading him to reflect whether he may not be in the wrong, and acting inconsiderately – rashly.

In fine, he resolves on a course which had not hitherto occurred to him – he will write to her. Not in repentance, nor any confession of guilt on his part. He is too proud, and still too doubting for that. Only a test letter to draw her out, and if possible, discover how she too feels under the circumstances. Upon the answer – if he receive one – will depend whether it is to be the last.

With pen still in hand, he draws a sheet of notepaper towards him. It bears the hotel stamp and name, so that he has no need to write an address – only the date.

This done, he remains for a time considering – thinking what he should say. The larger portion of his manhood’s life spent in camp, under canvas – not the place for cultivating literary tastes or epistolary style – he is at best an indifferent correspondent, and knows it. But the occasion supplies thoughts; and as a soldier accustomed to prompt brevity he puts them down – quickly and briefly as a campaigning despatch.

With this, he does not wait for the ink to dry, but uses the blotter. He dreads another change of resolution. Folding up the sheet, he slips it into an envelope, on which he simply superscribes —

Miss Wynn, Llangorren Court.

Then rings a bell – the hotel servants are now astir – and directs the letter to be dropped into the post box.

He knows it will reach her that same day, at an early hour, and its answer him – should one be vouchsafed – on the following morning. It might that same night at the hotel where he is now staying; but not the one to which he is going – as his letter tells, the “Langham, London.”

And while it is being slowly carried by a pedestrian postman, along hilly roads towards Llangorren, he, seated in a first-class carriage of the Gr.W.R., is swiftly whisked towards the metropolis.

Volume Two – Chapter Thirteen

A Slumbering Household

As calm succeeds a storm, so at Llangorren Court on the morning after the ball there was quietude – up to a certain hour more than common. The domestics justifying themselves by the extra services of the preceding night, lie late. Outside is stirring only the gardener with an assistant, at his usual work, and in the yard a stable help or two looking after the needs of the horses. The more important functionaries of this department – coachman and head-groom still slumber, dreaming of champagne bottles brought back to the servants’ hall three parts full with but half demolished pheasants, and other fragmentary delicacies.

Inside the house things are on a parallel; there only a scullery and kitchen maid astir. The higher class servitors availing themselves of the licence allowed, are still abed, and it is ten as butler, cook, and footman make their appearance, entering on their respective rôles yawningly, and with reluctance.

There are two lady’s-maids in the establishment; the little French demoiselle attached to Miss Linton, and an English damsel of more robust build, whose special duties are to wait upon Miss Wynn. The former lies late on all days, her mistress not requiring early manipulation; but the maid “native and to the manner born,” is wont to be up betimes. This morning is an exception. After such a night of revelry, slumber holds her enthralled, as in a trance; and she is abed late as any of the others, sleeping like a dormouse.