Gwen Wynn: A Romance of the Wye

Major Mahon is a soldier of the rollicking Irish type – good company as ever drank wine at a regimental mess-table, or whisky-and-water under the canvas of a tent. Brave in war, too, as evinced by sundry scars of wounds given by the sabres of rebellious sowars, and an empty sleeve dangling down by his side. This same token almost proclaims that he is no longer in the army. For he is not – having left it disabled at the close of the Indian Mutiny: after the relief of Lucknow, where he also parted with his arm.

He is not rich; one reason for his being in Boulogne – convenient place for men of moderate means. There he has rented a house, in which for nearly a twelvemonth he has been residing: a small domicile, meublé. Still, large enough for his needs: for the Major, though nigh forty years of age, has never thought of getting married; or, if so, has not carried out the intention. As a bachelor in the French watering-place, his income of five hundred per annum supplies all his wants – far better than if it were in an English one.

But economy is not his only reason for sojourning in Boulogne. There is another alike creditable to him, or more. He has a sister, much younger than himself, receiving education there; an only sister, for whom he feels the strongest affection, and likes to be beside her.

For all he sees her only at stated times, and with no great frequency. Her school is attached to a convent, and she is in it as a pensionnaire.

All these matters are made known to Captain Ryecroft on the day after his arrival at Boulogne. Not in the morning. It has been spent in promenading through the streets of the lower town and along the jetée, with a visit to the grand lion of the place, l’Establissement de Bains, ending in an hour or two passed at the “cercle” of which the Major is a member, and where his old campaigning comrade, against all protestations, is introduced to the half-dozen “good fellows as ever stretched legs under mahogany.”

It is not till a later hour, however, after a quiet dinner in the Major’s own house, and during a stroll upon the ramparts of the Haute Ville, that these confidences are given to his guest, with all the exuberant frankness of the Hibernian heart.

Ryecroft, though Irish himself, is of less communicative nature. A native of Dublin, he has Saxon in his blood, with some of its secretiveness; and the Major finds a difficulty in drawing him in reference to the particular reason of his interrupted journey to Paris. He essays, however, with as much skill as he can command, making approach as follows:

“What a time it seems, Ryecroft, since you and I have been together – an age! And yet, if I’m not wrong in my reckoning, it was but a year ago. Yes; just twelve months, or thereabout. You remember, we met at the ‘Bag,’ and dined there, with Russel, of the Artillery.”

“Of course I remember it.”

“I’ve seen Russel since; about three months ago, when I was over in England. And by the way, ’twas from him I last heard of yourself.”

“What had he to say about me?”

“Only that you were somewhere down west – on the Wye I think – salmon fishing. I know you were always good at casting a fly.”

“That all he said?”

“Well, no;” admits the Major, with a sly, inquisitive glance at the other’s face. “There was a trifle of a codicil added to the information about your whereabouts and occupation.”

“What, may I ask?”

“That you’d been wonderfully successful in your angling; had hooked a very fine fish – a big one, besides – and sold out of the army; so that you might be free to play it on your line; in fine, that you’d captured, safe landed, and intended staying by it for the rest of your days. Come, old boy! Don’t be blushing about the thing; you know you can trust Charley Mahon. Is it true?”

“Is what true?” asks the other, with an air of assumed innocence.

“That you’ve caught the richest heiress in Herefordshire, or she you, or each the other, as Russel had it, and which is best for both of you. Down on your knees, Ryecroft! Confess!”

“Major Mahon! If you wish me to remain your guest for another night – another hour – you’ll not ask me aught about that affair nor even name it. In time I may tell you all; but now to speak of it gives me a pain which even you, one of my oldest, and I believe, truest friends cannot fully understand.”

“I can at least understand that it’s something serious.” The inference is drawn less from Ryecroft’s words than their tone and the look of utter desolation which accompanies them. “But,” continues the Major, greatly moved, “you’ll forgive me, old fellow, for being so inquisitive? I promise not to press you any more. So let’s drop the subject, and speak of something else.”

“What then?” asks Ryecroft, scarce conscious of questioning.

“My little sister, if you like. I call her little because she was so when I went out to India. She’s now a grown girl, tall as that, and, as flattering friends say, a great beauty. What’s better, she’s good. You see that building below?”

They are on the outer edge of the rampart, looking upon the ground adjacent to the enceinte of the ancient cité. A slope in warlike days serving as the glacis, now occupied by dwellings, some of them pretentious, with gardens attached. That which the Major points to is one of the grandest, its enclosure large, with walls that only a man upon stilts of the Landes country could look over.

“I see – what of it!” asks the ex-Hussar.

“It’s the convent where Kate is at school – the prison in which she’s confined, I might better say,” he adds, with a laugh, but in tone more serious than jocular.

It need scarce be said that Major Mahon is a Roman Catholic. His sister being in such a seminary is evidence of that. But he is not bigoted, as Ryecroft knows, without drawing the deduction from his last remark.

His old friend and fellow-campaigner does not even ask explanation of it, only observing —

“A very fine mansion it appears – walks, shade trees, arbours, fountains. I had no idea the nuns were so well bestowed. They ought to live happily in such a pretty place. But then, shut up, domineered over, coerced, as I’ve heard they are – ah, liberty! It’s the only thing that makes the world worth living in.”

“Ditto, say I. I echo your sentiment, old fellow, and feel it. If I didn’t I might have been long ago a Benedict, with a millstone around my neck in the shape of a wife, and half a score of smaller ones of the grindstone pattern – in piccaninnies. Instead, I’m free as the breezes, and by the Moll Kelly, intend remaining so!”

The Major winds up the ungallant declaration with a laugh. But this is not echoed by his companion, to whom the subject touched upon is a tender one.

Perceiving it so, Mahon makes a fresh start in the conversation, remarking —

“It’s beginning to feel a bit chilly up here. Suppose we saunter down to the Cercle, and have a game of billiards!”

“If it be all the same to you, Mahon, I’d rather not go there to night.”

“Oh! it’s all the same to me. Let us home, then, and warm up with a tumbler of whisky toddy. There were orders left for the kettle to be kept on the boil. I see you still want cheering, and there’s nothing will do that like a drop of the crather. Allons!” Without resisting, Ryecroft follows his friend down the stairs of the rampart. From the point where they descended the shortest way to the Rue Tintelleries is through a narrow lane not much used, upon which abut only the back walls of gardens, with their gates or doors. One of these, a gaol-like affair, is the entrance to the convent in which Miss Mahon is at school. As they approach it a fiacre is standing in front, as if but lately drawn up to deliver its fare – a traveller. There is a lamp, and by its light, dim nevertheless, they see that luggage is being taken inside. Some one on a visit to the Convent, or returning after absence. Nothing strange in all that; and neither of the two men make remark upon it, but keep on.

Just however, as they are passing the back, about to drive off again, Captain Ryecroft, looking towards the door still ajar, sees a face inside it which causes him to start.

“What is it?” asks the Major, who feels the spasmodic movement – the two walking arm-in-arm.

“Well! if it wasn’t that I am in Boulogne instead of on the banks of the river Wye, I’d swear that I saw a man inside that doorway whom I met not many days ago in the shire of Hereford.”

“What sort of a man?”

“A priest!”

“Oh! black’s no mark among sheep. The prêtres are all alike, as peas or policemen. I’m often puzzled myself to tell one from t’other.”

Satisfied with this explanation, the ex-Hussar says nothing further on the subject, and they continue on to the Rue Tintelleries.

Entering his house, the Major calls for “matayrials,” and they sit down to the steaming punch. But before their glasses are half emptied, there is a ring at the door bell, and soon after a voice inquiring for “Captain Ryecroft.” The entrance-hall being contiguous to the dining-room where they are seated, they hear all this.

“Who can be asking for me?” queries Ryecroft, looking towards his host.

The Major cannot tell – cannot think – who. But the answer is given by his Irish manservant entering with a card, which he presents to Captain Ryecroft, saying: —

“It’s for you, yer honner.” The name on the card is —

“Mr George Shenstone.”

Volume Two – Chapter Twenty Two

What Does He Want?

“Mr George Shenstone?” queries Captain Ryecroft, reading from the card. “George Shenstone!” he repeats with a look of blank astonishment – “What the deuce does it mean?”

“Does what mean?” asks the Major, catching the other’s surprise.