"Surely they won't be out all day," timidly suggests the curate; to which she makes no rejoinder, till Mr. Shenstone puts it in the shape of an inquiry.
"Is it likely they will, Miss Linton?"
"I should say not. More like they'll be hungry, and that will bring them home. What's the hour now? I've been reading a very interesting book, and quite forgot myself. Is it possible?" she exclaims, looking at the ormolu dial on the mantel-shelf. "Ten minutes to one! How time does fly, to be sure! I couldn't have believed it near so late almost luncheon time! Of course you'll stay, gentlemen? As for the girls, if they are not back in time they'll have to go without. Punctuality is the rule of this house always will be with me. I shan't wait one minute for them."
"But, Miss Linton, they may have returned from the river, and are now somewhere about the grounds. Shall I run down to the boat-dock and see?"
It is Mr. Shenstone who thus interrogates.
"If you like by all means. I shall be too thankful. Shame of Gwen to give us so much trouble. She knows our luncheon hour, and should have been back by this. Thanks, much, Mr. Shenstone."
As he is bounding off, she calls after
"Don't you be staying too, else you shan't have a pick. Mr. Musgrave and I won't wait for any of you. Shall we, Mr. Musgrave?"
Shenstone has not tarried to hear either question or answer. A luncheon for Apicius were, at that moment, nothing to him; and little more to the curate, who, though staying, would gladly go along. Not from any rivalry with, or jealousy of, the baronet's son: they revolve in different orbits, with no danger of collision. Simply that he dislikes leaving Miss Linton alone indeed, dare not. She may be expecting the usual budget of neighbourhood intelligence he daily brings her.
He is mistaken. On this particular day it is not desired. Out of courtesy to Mr. Shenstone, rather than herself, she had laid aside the novel; and it now requires all she can command to keep her eyes off it. She is burning to know what befel the farmer's daughter!
CHAPTER VIII A SUSPICIOUS STRANGER
hiccol"Odd her being out on the river! She promised me to go riding to-day. Very odd indeed! Gwen isn't the same she was acting strange altogether for the last three or four days. Wonder what it means? By Jove, I can't comprehend it!"
His noncomprehension does not hinder a dark shadow from stealing over his brow, and there staying.
It is not unobserved. Through the leaves of the evergreen Joseph notes the pained expression, and interprets it in his own shrewd way not far from the right one.
The old servant soliloquizing in less conjectural strain, says, or rather thinks
"Master George be mad sweet on Miss Gwen. The country folk are all talkin' o't; thinking she's same on him, as if they knew anything about it. I knows better. An' he ain't no ways confident, else there wouldn't be that queery look on's face. It's the token o' jealousy for sure. I don't believe he have suspicion o' any rival particklar. Ah! it don't need that wi' sich a grand beauty as she be. He as love her might be jealous o' the sun kissing her cheeks, or the wind tossin' her hair!"
Joseph is a Welshman of Bardic ancestry, and thinks poetry. He continues
"I know what's took her on the river, if he don't. Yes yes, my young lady. Ye thought yerself wonderful clever, leavin' old Joe behind, tellin' him to hide hisself, and bribin' him to stay hid! And d'y 'spose I didn't obsarve them glances exchanged twixt you and the salmon fisher sly, but, for all that, hot as streaks o' fire? And d'ye think I didn't see Mr. Whitecap going down, afore ye thought o' a row yerself? Oh, no; I noticed nothin' o' all that, not I! 'Twarn't
meant for me not for Joe ha, ha!"
With a suppressed giggle at the popular catch coming in so apropos , he once more fixes his eyes on the face of the impatient watcher, proceeding with his soliloquy, though in changed strain:
"Poor young gentleman! I do pity he to be sure. He are a good sort, an' everybody likes him. So do she, but not the way he want her to. Well; things o' that kind allers do go contrarywise never seem to run smooth like. I'd help him myself if 'twar in my power, but it ain't. In such cases help can only come frae the place where they say matches be made that's Heaven. Ha! he's lookin' a bit brighter! What's cheerin' him? The boat coming back? I can't see it from here, nor I don't hear any rattle o' oars!"
The change he notes in George Shenstone's manner is not caused by the returning pleasure craft. Simply a reflection, which crossing his mind, for the moment tranquillizes him.
"What a stupid I am!" he mutters self-accusingly. "Now I remember, there was nothing said about the hour we were to go riding, and I suppose she understood in the afternoon. It was so the last time we went out together. By Jove! yes. It's all right, I take it; she'll be back in good time yet."
Thus reassured he remains listening. Still more satisfied, when a dull thumping sound, in regular repetition, tells him of oars working in their rowlocks. Were he learned in boating tactics he would know there are two pairs of them, and think this strange too; since the Gwendoline carries only one. But he is not so skilled instead, rather averse to aquatics his chosen home the hunting-field, his favourite seat in a saddle, not on a boat's thwart. It is only when the plashing of the oars in the tranquil water of the bye-way is borne clear along the cliff, that he perceives there are two pairs at work, while at the same time he observes two boats approaching the little dock, where but one belongs!