“You may as well let me,” pursues Gwen, in a bantering way. “Do you suppose, Miss Lees, I haven’t penetrated your secret long ago? Why, I knew it last Christmas, when you were assisting his demure reverence to decorate the church! Who could fail to observe that pretty hand play, when you two were twining the ivy around the altar-rail? And the holly, you were both so careless in handling—I wonder it didn’t prick your fingers to the bone! Why, Nell, ’twas as plain to me, as if I’d been at it myself. Besides, I’ve seen the same thing scores of times—so has everybody in the parish. Ha! you see, I’m not the only one with whose name this everybody has been busy; the difference being, that about me they’ve been mistaken, while concerning yourself they haven’t; instead, speaking pretty near the truth. Come, now, confess! Am I not right? Don’t have any fear, you can trust me.”
She does confess; though not in words. Her silence is equally eloquent; drooping eyelids, and blushing cheeks, making that eloquence emphatic. She loves Mr Musgrave.
“Enough!” says Gwendoline, taking it in this sense; “and, since you’ve been candid with me, I’ll repay you in the same coin. But mind you; it mustn’t go further.”
“Oh! certainly not,” assents the other, in her restored confidence about the curate, willing to promise anything in the world.
“As I’ve said,” proceeds Miss Wynn, “there are worse men in the world than George Shenstone, and but few better. Certainly none behind hounds, and I’m told he’s the crack shot of the county, and the best billiard player of his club. All accomplishments that have weight with us women—some of us. More still; he’s deemed good-looking, and is, as you say; known to be of good family and fortune. For all, he lacks one thing that’s wanted by—”
She stays her speech till dipping the oars—their splash, simultaneous with, and half-drowning, the words, “Gwen Wynn.”
“What is it?” asks Ellen, referring to the deficiency thus hinted at.
“On my word, I can’t tell—for the life of me I cannot. It’s something undefinable; which one feels without seeing or being able to explain—just as ether, or electricity. Possibly it is the last. At all events, it’s the thing that makes us women fall in love; as no doubt you’ve found when your fingers were—were—well, so near being pricked by that holly. Ha, ha, ha!”
With a merry peal she once more sets to rowing; and for a time no speech passes between them—the only sounds heard being the songs of the birds, in sweet symphony with the rush of the water along the boat’s sides, and the rumbling of the oars in their rowlocks.
But for a brief interval is there silence between them; Miss Wynn again breaking it by a startled exclamation:—“See!”