Gwen Wynn: A Romance of the Wye. Reid Mayne

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      “Bah!” responds one, “we an’t a-frightened at yer threats – not we. That an’t the way wi’ us Forest chaps. Besides, we don’t mean ye any much harm. Only gi’e us a kiss all round, an’ then – maybe, we’ll let ye go.”

      “Yes; kisses all round!” cries another. “That’s the toll ye’re got to pay at our pike; an’ a bit o’ squeeze by way o’ boot.”

      The coarse jest elicits a peal of laughter from the other three. Fortunately for those who are its butt, since it takes the attention of the rowers from their oars, and before they can recover a stroke or two lost – the pleasure-boat glides past them, and goes dancing on, as did the fishing skiff.

      With a yell of disappointment they bring their boat’s head round, and row after; now straining at their oars with all strength. Luckily, they lack skill; which, fortunately for herself, the rower of the pleasure-boat possesses. It stands her in stead now, and, for a time, the Gwendoline leads without losing ground. But the struggle is unequal – four to one – strong men, against a weak woman! Verily is she called on to make good her words, when saying she could row almost as ably as a man.

      And so does she for a time. Withal it may not avail her. The task is too much for her woman’s strength, fast becoming exhausted. While her strokes grow feebler, those of the pursuers seem to get stronger. For they are in earnest now; and, despite the bad management of their boat, it is rapidly gaining on the other.

      “Pull, meeats!” cries one, the roughest of the gang, and apparently the ringleader, “pull like – hic – hic!” – his drunken tongue refuses the blasphemous word. “If ye lay me ’longside that girl wi’ the gooe – goeeldy hair, I’ll stan’ someat stiff at the ‘Kite’s Nest’ whens we get hic – ’ome.”

      “All right, Bob!” is the rejoinder, “we’ll do that. Ne’er a fear.”

      The prospect of “someat stiff” at the Forest hostelry inspires them to increase their exertion, and their speed proportionately augmented, no longer leaves a doubt of their being able to come up with the pursued boat. Confident of it they commence jeering the ladies – “wenches” they call them – in speech profane, as repulsive.

      For these, things look black. They are but a couple of boats’ length ahead, and near below is a sharp turn in the river’s channel; rounding which they will lose ground, and can scarcely fail to be overtaken. What then?

      As Gwen Wynn asks herself the question, the anger late flashing in her eyes gives place to a look of keen anxiety. Her glances are sent to right, to left, and again over her shoulder, as they have been all day doing, but now with very different design. Then she was searching for a man, with no further thought than to feast her eyes on him; now she is looking for the same, in hopes he may save her from insult – it may be worse.

      There is no man in sight – no human being on either side of the river! On the right a grim cliff rising sheer, with some goats clinging to its ledges. On the left a grassy slope with browsing sheep, their lambs astretch at their feet; but no shepherd, no one to whom she can call “Help!”

      Distractedly she continues to tug at the oars; despairingly as the boats draw near the bend. Before rounding it she will be in the hands of those horrid men – embraced by their brawny, bear-like arms!

      The thought re-strengthens her own, giving them the energy of desperation. So inspired, she makes a final effort to elude the ruffian pursuers, and succeeds in turning the point.

      Soon as round it, her face brightens up, joy dances in her eyes, as with panting breath she exclaims: —

      “We’re saved, Nelly! We’re saved! Thank Heaven for it!”

      Nelly does thank Heaven, rejoiced to hear they are saved – but without in the least comprehending how!

      Volume One – Chapter Six

      A Ducking Deserved

      Captain Ryecroft has been but a few minutes at his favourite fishing place – just long enough to see his tackle in working condition, and cast his line across the water; as he does the last, saying —

      “I shouldn’t wonder, Wingate, if we don’t see a salmon to-day. I fear that sky’s too bright for his dainty kingship to mistake feathers for flies.”

      “Ne’er a doubt the fish’ll be a bit shy,” returns the boatman; “but,” he adds, assigning their shyness to a different cause, “’tain’t so much the colour o’ the sky; more like it’s that lot of Foresters has frightened them, with their hulk o’ a boat makin’ as much noise as a Bristol steamer. Wonder what brings such rubbish on the river anyhow. They han’t no business on’t; an’ in my opinion theer ought to be a law ’gainst it – same’s for trespassin’ after game.”

      “That would be rather hard lines, Jack. These mining gentry need out-door recreation as much as any other sort of people. Rather more I should say, considering that they’re compelled to pass the greater part of their time underground. When they emerge from the bowels of the earth to disport themselves on its surface, it’s but natural they should like a little aquatics; which you, by choice, an amphibious creature, cannot consistently blame them for. Those we’ve just met are doubtless out for a holiday, which accounts for their having taken too much drink – in some sense an excuse for their conduct. I don’t think it at all strange seeing them on the water.”

      “Their faces han’t seed much o’ it anyhow,” observes the waterman, seeming little satisfied with the Captain’s reasoning. “And as for their being out on holiday, if I an’t mistook, it be holiday as lasts all the year round. Two o’ ’em may be miners – them as got the grimiest faces. As for t’other two, I don’t think eyther ever touch’t pick or shovel in their lives. I’ve seed both hangin’ about Lydbrook, which be a queery place. Besides, one I’ve seed ’long wi’ a man whose company is enough to gi’e a saint a bad character – that’s Coracle Dick. Take my word for’t, Captain, there ain’t a honest miner ’mong that lot – eyther in the way of iron or coal. If there wor I’d be the last man to go again them havin’ their holiday; ’cepting I don’t think they ought to take it on the river. Ye see what comes o’ sich as they humbuggin’ about in a boat?”

      At the last clause of this speech – its Conservatism due to a certain professional jealousy – the Hussar officer cannot resist smiling. He had half forgiven the rudeness of the revellers – attributing it to intoxication – and more than half repented of his threat to bring them to a reckoning, which might not be called for, but might, and in all likelihood would be inconvenient. Now, reflecting on Wingate’s words, the frown which had passed from off his face again returns to it. He says nothing, however, but sits rod in hand, less thinking of the salmon than how he can chastise the “damned scoun’rels,” as his companion has pronounced them, should he, as he anticipates, again come in collision with them.

      “Lissen!” exclaims the waterman; “that’s them shoutin’! Comin’ this way, I take it. What should we do to ’em, Captain?”

      The salmon fisher is half determined to reel in his line, lay aside the rod, and take out a revolving pistol he chances to have in his pocket – not with any intention to fire it at the fellows, but only frighten them.

      “Yes,” goes on Wingate, “they be droppin’ down again – sure; I dar’ say, they’ve found the tide a bit too strong for ’em up above. An’ I don’t wonder; sich louty chaps as they thinkin’ they cud guide a boat ’bout the Wye! Jist like mountin’ hogs a-horseback!”

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