Gwen Wynn: A Romance of the Wye

THE LAST OF LEWIN MURDOCK.

Once more a boat upon the Wye, passing between Rugg's Ferry and Llangorren Court, but this time descending. It is the same boat, and, as before, with two men in it; though they are not both the same who went up. One of them is Coracle Dick, still at the oars; while Father Rogier's place in the stern is now occupied by another—not sitting upright, as was the priest, but lying along the bottom timbers with head coggled over, and somewhat uncomfortably supported by the thwart.

This man is Lewin Murdock, in a state of helpless inebriety—in common parlance, drunk. He has been brought to the boat landing by the landlord of the Welsh Harp, where he has been all day carousing, and delivered to Dempsey, who now, at a late hour of the night, is conveying him homeward. His hat is down by his feet, instead of upon his head; and the moonbeams, falling unobstructed on his face, show it of a sickly whitish hue; while his eyes, sunk deep in their sockets, have each a demilune of dark purplish colour underneath. But for an occasional twitching of the facial muscles, with a spasmodic movement of the lips, and at intervals, a raucous noise through his nostrils, he might pass for dead, as readily as dead drunk.

Verily is the priest's prognosis based upon reliable data; for by the symptoms now displayed, Lewin Murdock is doing his best to destroy himself—drinking suicidally!

For all, he is not destined thus to die. His end will come even sooner, and, it may be, easier.

It is not distant now, but ominously near, as may be told by looking into the eyes of the man who sits opposite, and recalling the conversation late exchanged between him and Father Rogier. For in those dark orbs a fierce light scintillates, such as is seen in the eyes of the assassin contemplating assassination, or the jungle tiger when within springing distance of its prey.

Nothing of all this sees the sot, but lies unconscious, every now and then giving out a snore, regardless of danger, as though everything around were innocent as the pale moonbeams shimmering down upon his cadaverous cheeks.

Possibly he is dreaming, and if so, in all likelihood it is of a grand gas-lighted salon, with tables of tapis vert, carrying packs of playing cards, dice cubes, and ivory counters. Or the mise en scène of his visionary vagaries may be a drinking saloon, where he carouses with boon companions, their gambling limited to a simple tossing of odd and even, "heads or tails."

But if dreaming at all, it is not of what is near him; else, far gone as he is, he would be aroused—instinctively—to make a last struggle for life. For the thing so near is death.

The fiend who sits regarding him in this helpless condition—as it were holding Lewin Murdock's life, or the little left of it, in his hand—has unquestionably determined upon taking it. Why he does not do so at once is not because he is restrained by any motive of mercy, or reluctance to the spilling of blood. The heart of the ci-devant poacher, counterfeiter, and cracksman, has been long ago steeled against such silly and sensitive scruples. The postponement of his hellish purpose is due to a mere question of convenience. He dislikes the idea of having to trudge over miles of meadow in dripping garments!

True, he could drown the drunken man, and keep himself dry—every stitch. But that would not do; for there will be another coroner's inquest, at which he will have to be present. He has escaped the two preceding; but at this he will be surely called upon, and as principal witness. Therefore he must be able to say he was wet, and prove it as well. Into the river, then, will he go, along with his victim; though there is no need for his taking the plunge till he has got nearer to Llangorren.

So ingeniously contriving, he sits with arms mechanically working the oars; his eyes upon the doomed man, as those of a cat having a crippled mouse within easy reach of her claws, at any moment to be drawn in and destroyed!

Silently, but rapidly, he rows on, needing no steerer. Between Rugg's Ferry and Llangorren Court he is as familiar with the river's channel as a coachman with the carriage-drive to and from his master's mansion; knows its every curve and crook, every purl and pool, having explored them while paddling his little "truckle." And now, sculling the larger craft, it is all the same. And he pulls on, without once looking over his shoulder; his eyes alone given to what is directly in front of him—Lewin Murdock lying motionless at his feet.

As if himself moved by a sudden impulse—impatience, or the thought it might be as well to have the dangerous work over—he ceases pulling, and acts as though he were about to unship the oars.

But again he seems suddenly to change his intention; on observing a white fleck by the river's edge, which he knows to be the lime-washed walls of the widow Wingate's cottage, at the same time remembering that the main road passes by it.

What if there be some one on the road, or the river's bank, and be seen in the act of capsizing his own boat? True, it is after midnight, and not likely any one abroad—even the latest wayfarer. But there might be; and in such clear moonlight his every movement could be made out.

That place will not do for the deed of darkness he is contemplating; and he trembles to think how near he has been to committing himself!

Thus warned to the taking of precautions hitherto not thought of, he proceeds onward, summoning up before his mind the different turns and reaches of the river, all the while mentally anathematising the moon. For, besides convenience of place, time begins to press, even trouble him, as he recalls the proverb of the cup and the lip.

He is growing nervously impatient—almost apprehensive of failure, through fear of being seen—when, rounding a bend, he has before him the very thing he is in search of—the place itself. It is a short, straight reach, where the channel is narrow, with high banks on both sides, and trees overhanging, whose shadows, meeting across, shut off the hated light, shrouding the whole water surface in deep obscurity. It is but a little way above the lone farmhouse of Abergann, and the mouth of the brook which there runs in. But Coracle Dick is not thinking of either—only of the place being appropriate for his diabolical design.

And, becoming satisfied it is so, he delays no longer, but sets about its execution—carrying it out with an adroitness which should fairly entitle him to the double reward promised by the priest. Having unshipped the oars, he starts to his feet; and mounting upon the thwart, there for a second or two stands poised and balancing. Then, stepping to the side, he sets foot on the gunwale rail with his whole body's weight borne upon it.

In an instant over goes the boat, careening bottom upwards, and spilling Lewin Murdock, as himself, into the mad, surging river!

The drunken man goes down like a lump of lead; possibly without pain, or the consciousness of being drowned; only supposing it the continuation of his dream!

Satisfied he has gone down, the assassin cares not how. He has enough to think of in saving himself, enough to do swimming in his clothes, even to the boots.

He reaches the bank, nevertheless, and climbs up it, exhausted; shivering like a water spaniel, for snow has fallen on Plinlimmon, and its thaw has to do with the freshet in the stream.

But the chill of the Wye's water is nought compared with that sent through his flesh, to the very marrow of his bones, on discovering he has crawled out upon the spot—the self-same spot—where the waves gave back another body he had consigned to them—that of Mary Morgan!

For a moment he stands horror-struck, with hair on end, the blood curdling in his veins. Then, nerving himself to the effort, he hitches up his dripping trousers, and hurries away from the accursed place—by himself accursed—taking the direction of Llangorren, but giving a wide berth to Abergann.

He has no fear of approaching the former in wet garments; instead, knows that in this guise he will be all the more warmly welcomed—as he is!

Mrs. Murdock sits up late for Lewin—though with little expectation of his coming home. Looking out of the window, in the moonlight she sees a man, who comes striding across the carriage sweep, and up into the portico.

Rushing to the door to receive him, she exclaims, in counterfeit surprise,—

"You, Monsieur Richard! Not my husband!"

When Coracle Dick has told his sad tale, shaped to suit the circumstances, her half-hysterical ejaculation might be supposed a cry of distress. Instead, it is one of ecstatic delight she is unable to restrain at knowing herself now sole owner of the house over her head, and the land for miles around it!

A CHAPTER DIPLOMATIC.

Another day has dawned, another sun set upon Boulogne; and Major Mahon is again in his dining-room, with Captain Ryecroft, his sole guest.

The cloth has been removed, the Major's favourite after-dinner beverage brought upon the table, and, with punches "brewed" and cigars set alight, they have commenced conversation upon the incidents of the day—those especially relating to Ryecroft's business in Boulogne.

The Major has had another interview with his sister—a short one, snatched while she was out with her school companions for afternoon promenade. It has added some further particulars to those they had already learnt, both about the English girl confined within the nunnery, and the priest who conveyed her thither. That the latter was Father Rogier is placed beyond a doubt by a minute description of his person given to Miss Mahon, well known to the individual who gave it. To the nuns within that convent the man's name is familiar—even to his baptismal appellation, Gregoire; for although the Major has pronounced all the sacerdotal fraternity alike, in being black, this particular member of it is of a shade deeper than common—a circumstance of itself going a good way towards his identification. Even within that sacred precinct where he is admitted, a taint attaches to him; though what its nature the young lady has not yet been able to ascertain.

The information thus obtained tallies with the estimate of the priest's character, already formed; in correspondence, too, with the theory that he is capable of the crime Captain Ryecroft believes him to have abetted, if not actually committed. Nor is it contradicted by the fact of his being a frequent visitor to the nunnery, and a favourite with the administration thereof; indeed, an intimate friend of the Abbess herself. Something more, in a way accounting for all: that the new novice is not the first agneau d'Angleterre he has brought over to Boulogne, and guided into that same fold, more than one of them having ample means, not only to provision themselves, but a surplus for the support of the general sisterhood.

There is no word about any of these English lambs having been other than voluntary additions to the French flock; but a whisper circulates within the convent walls, that Father Rogier's latest contribution is a recusant, and if she ever becomes a nun, it will be a forced one; that the thing is contre cœur—in short, she protests against it.

Jack Wingate can well believe that; still under full conviction that "Sœur Marie" is Mary Morgan; and, despite all its grotesque strangeness and wild improbability, Captain Ryecroft has pretty nearly come to the same conclusion; while the Major, with less knowledge of antecedent circumstances, but more of nunneries, never much doubted it.

"About the best way to get the girl out. What's your idea, Mahon?"

Ryecroft asks the question in no careless or indifferent way; on the contrary, with a feeling earnestness. For, although the daughter of the Wyeside farmer is nought to him, the Wye waterman is; and he has determined on seeing the latter through—to the end of the mysterious affair. In difficulties Jack Wingate has stood by him, and he will stand by Jack, coûte-que-coûte. Besides, figuratively speaking, they are still in the same boat. For if Wingate's dead sweetheart, so strangely returned to life, can be also restored to liberty, the chances are she may be the very one wanted to throw light on the other and, alas! surer death. Therefore, Captain Ryecroft is not all unselfish in backing up his boatman; nor, as he puts the question, being anxious about the answer.

"We'll have to use strategy," returns the Major; not immediately, but after taking a grand gulp out of his tumbler, and a vigorous draw at his regalia.

"But why should we?" impatiently demands the Captain. "If the girl have been forced in there, and's kept against her will—which, by all the probabilities, she is—surely she can be got out, on demand being made by her friends?"

"That's just what isn't sure—though the demand were made by her own mother, with the father to back it. You forget, old fellow, that you're in France, not England."

"But there's a British Consul in Boulogne."

"Ay, and a British Foreign Minister, who gives that Consul his instructions; with some queer ideas besides, neither creditable to himself nor his country. I'm speaking of that jaunty diplomat—the "judicious bottle-holder," who is accustomed to cajole the British public with his blarney about civis Romanus sum."

"True; but does that bear upon our affair?"

"It does—almost directly."

"In what way? I do not comprehend."

"Because you're not up to what's passing over here—I mean at headquarters—the Tuilleries, or St. Cloud, if you prefer it. There the man—if man he can be called—is ruled by the woman; she in her turn the devoted partisan of Pio Nono and the unprincipled Antonelli."

"I can understand all that; still, I don't quite see its application, or how the English Foreign Minister can be interested in those you allude to!"

"I do. But for him, not one of the four worthies spoken of would be figuring as they are. In all probability France would still be a republic instead of an empire, wicked as the world ever saw; and Rome another republic—it may be all Italy—with either Mazzini or Garibaldi at its head. For, certain as you sit there, old boy, it was the judicious bottle-holder who hoisted Nap into an imperial throne, over that Presidential chair, so ungratefully spurned—scurvily kicked behind after it had served his purpose. A fact of which the English people appear to be yet in purblind ignorance! as they are of another, equally notable, and alike misunderstood: that it was this same civis Romanus sum who restored old Pio to his apostolic chair; those red-breeched ruffians, the Zouaves, being but so much dust thrown into people's eyes—a bone to keep the British bull-dog quiet. He would have growled then, and will yet, when he comes to understand all these transactions; when the cloak of that scoundrelly diplomacy which screens them has rotted into shreds, letting the light of true history shine upon them."

"Why, Mahon! I never knew you were such a politician! much less such a Radical!"

"Nothing much of either, old fellow; only a man who hates tyranny in every shape and form—whether religious or political. Above all, that which owes its existence to the cheapest, the very shabbiest, chicanery the world was ever bamboozled with. I like open dealing in all things."

"But you are not recommending it now—in this little convent matter?"

"Ah! that's quite a different affair! There are certain ends that justify certain means—when the devil must be fought with his own weapons. Ours is of that kind, and we must either use strategy, or give the thing up altogether. By open measures there wouldn't be the slightest chance of our getting this girl out of the convent's clutches. Even then we may fail; but, if successful, it will only be by great craft, some luck, and possibly a good deal of time spent before we accomplish our purpose."

"Poor fellow!" rejoins Ryecroft, speaking of the Wye waterman, "he won't like the idea of long waiting. He's madly, terribly impatient. This afternoon, as we were passing the convent, I had a difficulty to restrain him from rushing up to its door, ringing the bell, and demanding an interview with the 'Sœur Marie'—having his Mary, as he calls her, restored to him on the instant."

"It's well you succeeded in hindering that little bit of rashness. Had he done so, 'twould have ended not only in the door being slammed in his face, but another door shut behind his back—that of a gaol, from which he would never have issued till embarking on a voyage to New Caledonia or Cayenne. Ay, both of you might have been so served. For would you believe it, Ryecroft, that you, an officer of the boasted H.B.R.A., rich, and with powerful friends—even you could be not only here imprisoned, but deporté, without any one who has interest in you being the wiser; or, if so, having no power to prevent it. France, under the régime of Napoleon le Petit, is not so very different from what it was under the rule of Louis le Grand, and lettres de cachet are now rife as then. Nay, more of them now written, consigning men to a hundred bastilles instead of one. Never was a people so enslaved as these Johnny Crapauds are at this present time; not only their speech fettered, but their very thoughts held in bondage, or so constrained, they may not impart them to one another. Even intimate friends forbear exchanging confidences, lest one prove false to the other! Nothing free but insincerity and sin; both fostered and encouraged from that knowledge intuitive among tyrants; that wickedness weakens a people, making them easier to rule and ride over. So, my boy, you perceive the necessity of our acting with caution in this business, whatever trouble or time it may take—don't you?"

"I do."

"After all," pursues the Major, "it seems to me that time isn't of so much consequence. As regards the girl, they're not going to eat her up. And for the other matters concerning yourself, they'll keep, too. As you say, the scent's become cold; and a few days more or less can't make any difference. Beside, the trails we intend following may in the end all run into one. I shouldn't be at all surprised if this captive damsel has come to the knowledge of something connected with the other affair. Faith, that may be the very reason for their having her conveyed over here, to be cooped up for the rest of her life. In any case, the fact of her abduction, in such an odd, outrageous way, would of itself be damning collateral evidence against whoever has done it, showing him or them good for anything. So, the first work on our hands, as the surest, is to get the waterman's sweetheart out of the convent, and safe back to her home in Herefordshire."

"That's our course, clearly. But have you any thoughts as to how we should proceed?"

"I have; more than thoughts—hopes of success—and sanguine ones."

"Good! I'm glad to hear it. Upon what do you base them?"

"On that very near relative of mine—Sister Kate. As I've told you, she's a pet of the Lady Superior; admitted into the very arcana of the establishment. And with such privilege, if she can't find a way to communicate with any one therein closeted, she must have lost the mother wit born to her, and brought thither from the 'brightest gem of the say.' I don't think she has, or that it's been a bit blunted in Boulogne. Instead, somewhat sharpened by communion with these Holy Sisters; and I've no fear but that 'twill be sharp to serve us in the little scheme I've in part sketched out."

"Let me hear it, Mahon."

"Kate must obtain an interview with the English girl; or, enough if she can slip a note into her hand. That would go some way towards getting her out—by giving her intimation that friends are near."

"I see what you mean," rejoins the Captain, pulling away at his cigar, the other left to finish giving details of the plan he has been mentally projecting.

"We'll have to do a little bit of burglary, combined with abduction. Serve them out in their own coin; as it were, hoisting the priest on his own petard!"

"It will be difficult, I fear."

"Of course it will, and dangerous. Likely more the last than the first. But it'll have to be done, else we may drop the thing entirely."

"Never, Mahon! No matter what the danger, I for one am willing to risk it. And we can reckon on Jack Wingate. He'll be only too ready to rush into it."

"Ah! there might be more danger through his rashness. But it must be held in check. After all, I don't apprehend so much difficulty if things be dexterously managed. Fortunately there's a circumstance in our favour."

"What is it?"

"A window."

"Ah! Where?"

"In the convent, of course. That which gives light—not much of it either—to the cloister where the girl is confined. By a lucky chance my sister has learnt the particular one, and seen the window from the outside. It looks over the grounds where the nuns take recreation, now and then allowed intercourse with the school girls. She says it's high up, but not higher than the top of the garden wall; so a ladder that will enable us to scale the one should be long enough to reach the other. I'm more dubious about the dimensions of the window itself. Kate describes it as only a small affair, with an upright bar in the middle—iron, she believes. Wood or iron, we may manage to remove that; but if the Herefordshire bacon has made your farmer's daughter too big to screw herself through the aperture, then it'll be all up a tree with us. However, we must find out before making the attempt to extract her. From what sister has told me, I fancy we can see the window from the Ramparts above. If so, we may make a distant measurement of it by guess work. Now," continues the Major, coming to his programme of action, "what's got to be done first is that your Wye boatman write a billet doux to his old sweetheart—in the terms I shall dictate to him. Then my sister must contrive, in some way, to put it in the girl's hands, or see that she gets it."

"And what after?"

"Well, nothing much after; only that we must make preparations for the appointment the waterman will make in his epistle."

"It may as well be written now—may it not?"

"Certainly; I was just thinking of that. The sooner, the better. Shall I call him in?"

"Do as you think proper, Mahon. I trust everything to you."

The Major, rising, rings a bell, which brings Murtagh to the dining-room door.

"Murt, tell your guest in the kitchen we wish a word with him."

The face of the Irish soldier vanishes from view, soon after replaced by that of the Welsh waterman.

"Step inside, Wingate!" says the Captain; which the other does, and remains standing to hear what the word was wanted.

"You can write, Jack, can't you?"

It is Ryecroft who puts the inquiry.

"Well, Captain, I ain't much o' a penman, but I can scribble a sort o' rough hand after a fashion."

"A fair enough hand for Mary Morgan to read it, I dare say."

"Oh, sir, I only weesh there wor a chance o' her gettin' a letter from me!"

"There is a chance. I think we can promise that. If you'll take this pen and put down what my friend Major Mahon dictates to you, it will in all probability be in her hands ere long."

Never was pen more eagerly laid hold of than that offered to Jack Wingate. Then, sitting down to the table as directed, he waits to be told what he is to write.

The Major, bent over him, seems cogitating what it should be. Not so, however. Instead, he is occupied with an astronomical problem which is puzzling him. For its solution he appeals to Ryecroft, asking,—

"How about the moon?"

"The moon?"

"Yes. Which quarter is she in? For the life of me, I can't tell."

"Nor I," rejoins the Captain. "I never think of such a thing."

"She's in her last," puts in the boatman, accustomed to take note of lunar changes. "It be an old moon now shining all the night, when the sky an't clouded."

"You're right, Jack!" says Ryecroft. "Now I remember; it is the old moon."

"In which case," adds the Major, "we must wait for the new one. We want darkness after midnight—must have it—else we cannot act. Let me see; when will that be?"

"The day week," promptly responds the waterman. "Then she'll be goin' down, most as soon as the sun's self."

"That'll do," says the Major. "Now to the pen!"

Squaring himself to the table, and the sheet of paper spread before him, Wingate writes to dictation. No words of love, but what inspires him with a hope he may once more speak such in the ears of his beloved Mary!

A QUICK CONVERSION.

"When is this horror to have an end? Only with my life? Am I, indeed, to pass the remainder of my days within this dismal cell? Days so happy, till that the happiest of all—its ill-starred night! And my love so strong, so confident—its reward seeming so nigh—all to be for nought—sweet dreams and bright hopes suddenly, cruelly extinguished! Nothing but darkness now; within my heart, in this gloomy place, everywhere around me! Oh, it is agony! When will it be over?"

It is the English girl who thus bemoans her fate—still confined in the convent, and the same cloister. Herself changed, however. Though but a few weeks have passed, the roses of her cheeks have become lilies, her lips wan, her features of sharper outline, the eyes retired in their sockets, with a look of woe unspeakable. Her form, too, has fallen away from the full ripe rounding that characterized it, though the wreck is concealed by a loose drapery of ample folds. For Sœur Marie now wears the garb of the Holy Sisterhood—hating it, as her words show.

She is seated on the pallet's edge while giving utterance to her sombre soliloquy; and without change of attitude, continues it,—

"Imprisoned I am—that's certain! And for no crime. It may be without hostility on the part of those who have done it. Perhaps, better it were so. Then there might be hope of my captivity coming to an end. As it is, there is none—none! I comprehend all now—the reason for bringing me here—keeping me—everything. And that reason remains—must, as long as I am alive! Merciful heaven!"

This exclamatory phrase is almost a shriek; despair sweeping through her soul, as she thinks of why she is there shut up. For hinging upon that is the hopelessness, almost a dead, drear certainty, she will never have deliverance!

Stunned by the terrible reflection, she pauses—even thought for the time stayed. But the throe passing, she again pursues her soliloquy, now in more conjectural strain,—

"Strange that no friend has come after me! No one caring for my fate—even to inquire! And he—no, that is not strange—only sadder, harder to think of. How could I expect or hope he would?

"But surely it is not so. I may be wronging them all—friends—relatives—even him. They may not know where I am? Cannot! How could they? I know not myself! only that it is France, and in a nunnery. But what part of France, and how I came to it, likely they are ignorant as I.

"And they may never know—never find out! If not, oh! what is to become of me? Father in heaven! Merciful Saviour! help me in my helplessness!"

After this phrensied outburst, a calmer interval succeeds, in which human instincts as thoughts direct her. She thinks,—

"If I could but find means to communicate with my friends—make known to them where I am, and how, then—Ah! 'tis hopeless. No one allowed near me but the attendant and that Sister Ursule. For compassion from either, I might just as well make appeal to the stones of the floor! The Sister seems to take delight in torturing me—every day doing or saying some disagreeable thing. I suppose, to humble, break, bring me to her purpose—that the taking of the veil. A nun! Never! It is not in my nature, and I would rather die than dissemble it!"

"Dissemble!" she repeats in a different accent. "That word helps me to a thought. Why should I not dissemble? I will."

Thus emphatically pronouncing, she springs to her feet, the expression of her features changing suddenly as her attitude. Then paces the floor to and fro, with hands clasped across her forehead, the white, attenuated fingers writhingly entwined in her hair.

"They want me to take the veil—the black one! So shall I, the blackest in all the convent's wardrobe if they wish it—ay, crape if they insist on it. Yes, I am resigned now—to that—anything. They can prepare the robes, vestments, all the adornments of their detested mummery; I am prepared, willing, to put them on. It's the only way—my only hope of regaining liberty. I see—am sure of it!"

She pauses, as if still but half resolved, then goes on,—

"I am compelled to this deception! Is it a sin? If so, God forgive me! But no—it cannot be! 'Tis justified by my wrongs—my sufferings!"

Another and longer pause, during which she seems profoundly to reflect. After it, saying,—

"I shall do so—pretend compliance; and begin this day—this very hour, if the opportunity arise. What should be my first pretence? I must think of it; practise, rehearse it. Let me see. Ah! I have it. The world has forsaken, forgotten me. Why then should I cling to it? Instead, why not in angry spite fling it off—as it has me? That's the way!"

A creaking at the cloister door tells of its key turning in the lock. Slight as is the sound, it acts on her as an electric shock, suddenly and altogether changing the cast of her countenance. The instant before half angry, half sad, it is now a picture of pious resignation. Her attitude different also. From striding tragically over the floor she has taken a seat, with a book in her hand, which she seems industriously perusing. It is that "Aid to Faith" recommended, but hitherto unread.

She is to all appearance so absorbed in its pages as not to notice the opening of the door, nor the footsteps of one entering. How natural her start, as she hears a voice, and, looking up, beholds Sœur Ursule!

"Ah!" ejaculates the latter, with an exultant air, as of a spider that sees a fly upon the edge of its web, "Glad, Marie, to find you so employed! It promises well, both for the peace of your mind and the good of your soul. You've been foolishly lamenting the world left behind: wickedly too. What is to compare with that to come? As dross-dirt, to gold or diamonds! The book you hold in your hand will tell you so. Doesn't it?"

"It does, indeed."

"Then profit by its instructions, and be sorry you have not sooner taken counsel from it."

"I am sorry, Sister Ursule."

"It would have comforted you—will now."

"It has already. Ah! so much! I would not have believed any book could give me the view of life it has done. I begin to understand what you've been telling me—to see the vanities of this earthly existence, how poor and empty they are in comparison with the bright joys of that other life. Oh! why did I not know it before?"

At this moment a singular tableau is exhibited within that convent cell—two female figures, one seated, the other standing—novice and nun; the former fair and young, the latter ugly and old. And still in greater contrast the expression upon their faces. That of the girl's downcast, demure lids over the eyes, less as if in innocence than repentant of some sin, while the glances of the woman show pleased surprise, struggling against incredulity!

Her suspicion still in the ascendant, Sœur Ursule stands regarding the disciple, so suddenly converted, with a look which seems to penetrate her very soul. It is borne without sign of quailing, and she at length comes to believe the penitence sincere, and that her proselytising powers have not been exerted in vain. Nor is it strange she should so deceive herself. It is far from being the first novice contre cœur she has broken upon the wheel of despair, and made content to taking a vow of lifelong seclusion from the world.

Convinced she has subdued the proud spirit of the English girl, and gloating over a conquest she knows will bring substantial reward to herself, she exclaims prayerfully, in mock-pious tone,—

"Blessed be Holy Mary for this new mercy! On your knees ma fille, and pray to her to complete the work she has begun!"

And upon her knees drops the novice, while the nun, as if deeming herself de trop in the presence of prayer, slips out of the cloister, silently shutting the door.

A SUDDEN RELAPSE.

For some time after the exit of Sœur Ursule, the English girl retains her seat, with the same demure look she had worn in the presence of the nun; while before her face the book is again open, as though she had returned to reading it. One seeing this might suppose her intensely interested in its contents. But she is not even thinking of them! Instead, of a sharp skinny ear, and a steel-grey eye—one or other of which she suspects to be covering the keyhole.

Her own ear is on the alert to catch sounds outside—the shuffling of feet, the rattle of rosary beads, or the swishing of a dress against the door.

She hears none; and at length satisfied that Sister Ursule's suspicions are spent, or her patience exhausted, she draws a free breath—the first since the séance commenced.

Then rising to her feet, she steps to a corner of the cell not commanded by the keyhole, and there dashes the book down, as though it had been burning her fingers!

"My first scene of deception," she mutters to herself—"first act of hypocrisy. Have I not played it to perfection?"

She draws a chair into the angle, and sits down upon it. For she is still not quite sure that the spying eye has been withdrawn from the aperture, or whether it may not have returned to it.

"Now that I've made a beginning," she murmurs on, "I must think what's to be done in continuance, and how the false pretence is to be kept up. What will they do?—and think? They'll be suspicious for a while, no doubt; look sharply after me, as ever! But that cannot last always; and surely they won't doom me to dwell for ever in this dingy hole! When I've proved my conversion real, by penance, obedience, and the like, I may secure their confidence, and by way of reward, get transferred to a more comfortable chamber. Ah! little care I for the comfort, if convenient,—with a window out of which one could look. Then I might have a hope of seeing—speaking to some one with heart less hard than Sister Ursule's, and that other creature—a very hag!"

"I wonder where the place is? Whether in the country, or in a town among houses? It may be the last—in the very heart of a great city, for all this death-like stillness! They build these religious prisons with walls so thick! And the voices I from time to time hear are all women's. Not one of a man amongst them! They must be the convent people themselves! Nuns and novices! Myself one of the latter! Ha! ha! I shouldn't have known it if Sister Ursule hadn't informed me. Novice, indeed—soon to be a nun! No! but a free woman—or dead! Death would be better than life like this!"

The derisive smile that for a moment played upon her features passes off, replaced by the same forlorn woe-begone look, as despair comes back to her heart. For she again recalls what she has read in books—very different from that so contemptuously tossed aside—of girls young and beautiful as herself—high-born ladies—surreptitiously taken from their homes—shut up as she—never more permitted to look on the sun's light, or bask in its beams, save within the gloomy cloisters of a convent, or its dismally shadowed grounds.

The prospect of such future for herself appals her, eliciting an anguished sigh—almost a groan.

"Ha!" she exclaims the instant after, and again with altered air, as though something had arisen to relieve her. "There are voices now! Still of women! Laughter! How strange it sounds! So sweet! I've not heard such since I've been here. It's the voice of a girl! It must be—so clear, so joyous. Yes! Surely it cannot come from any of the sisters? They are never joyful—never laugh."

She remains listening, soon to hear the laughter again, a second voice joining in it, both with the cheery ring of school girls at play. The sound comes in with the light—it could not well enter otherwise—and aware of this, she stands facing that way, with eyes turned upward. For the window is far above her head.

"Would that I could see out! If I only had something on which to stand!"

She sweeps the cell with her eyes, to see only the pallet, the frail chairs, a little table with slender legs, and a washstand—all too low. Standing upon the highest, her eyes would still be under the level of the sill.

She is about giving it up, when an artifice suggests itself. With wits sharpened, rather than dulled by her long confinement—she bethinks her of a plan, by which she may at least look out of the window. She can do that by upending the bedstead!

Rash, she would raise it on the instant. But she is not so; instead, considerate, more than ever cautious. And so proceeding, she first places a chair against the door in such position that its back blocks the keyhole. Then, dragging bed-clothes, mattress, and all to the floor, she takes hold of the wooden framework; and, exerting her whole strength, hoists it on end, tilted like a ladder against the wall. And as such it will answer her purpose, the strong webbing, crossed and stayed, to serve for steps.

A moment more, and she has mounted up, and stands, her chin resting on the window's ledge.

The window itself is a casement on hinges; one of those antique affairs, iron framed, with the panes set in lead. Small, though big enough for a human body to pass through, but for an upright bar centrally bisecting it.

She, balancing upon the bedstead, and looking out, thinks not of the bar now, nor takes note of the dimensions of the aperture. Her thoughts, as her glances, are all given to what she sees outside. At the first coup d'œil, the roofs and chimneys of houses, with all their appurtenances of patent smoke-curers, weathercocks, and lightning conductors; among them domes and spires, showing it a town with several churches.

Dropping her eyes lower, they rest upon a garden, or rather a strip of ornamental grounds, tree shaded, with walks, arbours, and seats, girt by a grey massive wall, high almost as the houses.

At a glance she takes in these inanimate objects; but does not dwell on any of them. For, soon as looking below, her attention becomes occupied with living forms, standing in groups, or in twos or threes strolling about the grounds. They are all women, and of every age; most of them wearing the garb of the nunnery, loose-flowing robes of sombre hue. A few, however, are dressed in the ordinary fashion of young ladies at a boarding school; and such they are—the pensionaires of the establishment.

Her eyes wandering from group to group, after a time become fixed upon two of the school-girls, who, linked arm in arm, are walking backward and forward directly in front. Why she particularly notices them, is that one of the two is acting in a singular manner; every time she passes under the window looking up to it, as though with a knowledge of something inside, in which she feels an interest! Her glances interrogative, are at the same time evidently snatched by stealth—as in fear of being observed by the others. Even her promenading companion seems unaware of them.

She inside the cloister, soon as her first surprise is over, regards this young lady with a fixed stare, forgetting all the others.

"What can it mean?" she asks herself. "So unlike the rest! Surely not French! Can she be English? She is very—very beautiful!"

The last, at least, is true, for the girl is, indeed, a beautiful creature, with features quite different from those around—all of them being of the French facial type, while hers are pronouncedly Irish.

By this the two are once more opposite the window, and the girl again looking up, sees behind the glass—dim with dust and spiders' webs—a pale face, with a pair of bright eyes gazing steadfastly at her.

She starts; but quickly recovering, keeps on as before. Then as she faces round at the end of the walk, still within view of the window, she raises her hand, with a finger laid upon her lips, seeming to say, plain as words could speak it,—

"Keep quiet! I know all about you, and why you are there."

The gesture is not lost upon the captive. But before she can reflect upon its significance, the great convent bell breaks forth in noisy clangour, causing a flutter among the figures outside, with a scattering helter-skelter; for it is the first summons to vespers, soon followed by the tinier tinkle of the angelus.

In a few seconds the grounds are deserted by all save one—the school-girl with the Irish features and eyes. She, having let go her companion's arm, and lingering behind the rest, makes a quick slant towards the window she has been watching; as she approaches it, significantly exposing something white she holds half hidden between her fingers!

It needs no further gesture to make known her intent. The English girl has already guessed it, as told by the iron casement grating back on its rusty hinges, and left standing ajar. On the instant of its opening, the white object parts from the hand that has been holding it, and, like a flash of light, passes through into the darksome cell, falling with a thud upon the floor.

Not a word goes with it; for she who has shown such dexterity, soon as delivering the missile, glides away—so speedily, she is still in time to join the queue moving on towards the convent chapel.

Cautiously reclosing the window, Sœur Marie descends the steps of her improvised ladder, and takes up the thing that had been tossed in; which she finds to be a letter shotted inside!

Despite her burning impatience, she does not open it till after restoring the bedstead to the horizontal, and replacing all as before. For now, as ever, she has need to be circumspect, and with better reasons.

At length, feeling secure, all the more from knowing the nuns are at their vesper devotions, she tears off the envelope, and reads,—

"Mary,—Monday night next, after midnight, if you look out of your window, you will see friends—among them

"Jack Wingate."

"Jack Wingate!" she exclaims, with a look of strange intelligence lighting up her face. "A voice from dear old Wyeside! Hope of delivery at last!"

And overcome by her emotion, she sinks down upon the pallet; no longer looking sad, but with an expression contented, and beatified as that of the most devoté nun in the convent.

A JUSTIFIABLE ABDUCTION.

It is a moonless November night, and a fog drifting down from the Pas de Calais envelopes Boulogne in its damp, clammy embrace. The great cathedral clock is tolling twelve midnight, and the streets are deserted, the last wooden-heeled soulier having ceased clattering over their cobble-stone pavements. If a foot passenger be abroad, he is some belated individual groping his way home from the Café de billars he frequents, or the Cercle to which he belongs. Even the sergens de ville are scarcer than usual, those seen being huddled up under the shelter of friendly porches, while the invisible ones are making themselves yet more snug inside cabarets, whose openness beyond licensed hours they wink at in return for the accommodation afforded.

It is, in truth, a most disagreeable night: cold as dark, for the fog has frost in it. For all, there are three men in the streets of Boulogne who regard neither its chillness nor obscurity. Instead, this last is just what they desire, and for days past have been waiting for.

They who thus delight in darkness are Major Mahon, Captain Ryecroft, and the waterman, Wingate. Not because they have thoughts of doing evil, for their purpose is of the very opposite character—to release a captive from captivity. The night has arrived when, in accordance with the promise made on that sheet of paper so dexterously pitched into her cloister, the Sœur Marie is to see friends in front of her window. They are the friends about to attempt taking her out of it.

They are not going blindly about the thing. Unlikely old campaigners as Mahon and Ryecroft would. During the interval since that warning summons was sent in, they have made thorough reconnaissance of the ground, taken stock of the convent's precincts and surroundings; in short, considered every circumstance of difficulty and danger. They are therefore prepared with all the means and appliances for effecting their design.

Just as the last stroke of the clock ceases its booming reverberation, they issue forth from Mahon's house; and, turning up the Rue Tintelleries, strike along a narrower street, which leads on toward the ancient cité.

The two officers walk arm in arm, Ryecroft, stranger to the place, needing guidance; while the boatman goes behind, with that carried aslant his shoulder, which, were it on the banks of the Wye, might be taken for a pair of oars. It is, nevertheless, a thing altogether different—a light ladder; though were it hundreds weight he would neither stagger nor groan under it. The errand he is upon knits his sinews, giving him the strength of a giant.

They proceed with extreme caution, all three silent as spectres. When any sound comes to their ears, as the shutting to of a door, or distant footfall upon the ill-paved trottoirs, they make instant stop, and stand listening—speech passing among themselves only in whispers. But as these interruptions are few, they make fair progress; and in less than twenty minutes after leaving the Major's house, they have reached the spot where the real action is to commence. This is in the narrow lane which runs along the enciente of the convent at back; a thoroughfare little used even in daytime, but after night solitary as a desert, and on this especial night dark as dungeon itself.

They know the allée well; have traversed it scores of times within the last few days and nights, and could go through it blindfold. And they also know the enclosure wall, with its exact height, just that of the cloister window beyond, and a little less than their ladder, which has been selected with an eye to dimensions.

While its bearer is easing it off his shoulder, and planting it firmly in place, a short whispered dialogue occurs between the other two, the Major saying,—

"We won't all three be needed for the work inside. One of us may remain here—nay, must! Those sergens de ville might be prowling about, or some of the convent people themselves: in which case we'll need warning before we dare venture back over the wall. If caught on the top of it, the petticoats obstructing—ay, or without them—'twould go ill with us."

"Quite true," assents the Captain. "Which of us do you propose staying here? Jack?"

"Yes, certainly. And for more reasons than one. Excited as he is now, once getting his old flame into his arms, he'd be all on fire—perhaps with noise enough to awake the whole sleeping sisterhood, and bring them clamouring around us, like crows about an owl that had intruded into the rookery. Besides, there's a staff of male servants—for they have such—half a score of stout fellows, who'd show fight. A big bell, too, by ringing which they can rouse the town. Therefore, Master Jack must remain here. You tell him he must."

Jack is told, with reasons given, though not exactly the real ones. Endorsing them, the Major says,—

"Don't be so impatient, my good fellow! It will make but a few seconds' difference; and then you'll have your girl by your side, sure. Whereas, acting inconsiderately, you may never set eyes on her. The fight in the front will be easy. Our greatest danger's from behind; and you can do better in every way, as for yourself, by keeping the rear-guard."

He thus counselled is convinced: and, though much disliking it, yields prompt obedience. How could he otherwise? He is in the hands of men his superiors in rank as experience. And is it not for him they are there; risking liberty—it may be life?

Having promised to keep his impulsiveness in check, he is instructed what to do: simply to lie concealed under the shadow of the wall, and should any one be outside when he hears a low whistle, he is not to reply to it.

The signal so arranged, Mahon and Ryecroft mount over the wall, taking the ladder along with them, and leaving the waterman to reflect, in nervous anxiety, how near his Mary is, and yet how far off she still may be!

Once inside the garden, the other two strike off along a walk leading in the direction of the spot which is their objective point. They go as if every grain of sand pressed by their feet had a friend's life in it. The very cats of the convent could not traverse its grounds more silently.

Their caution is rewarded; for they arrive at the cloister sought, without interruption, to see its casement open, with a pale face in it—a picture of Madonna on a background of black, through the white film looking as if it were veiled.

But though dense the fog, it does not hinder them from perceiving that the expression of that face is one of expectancy; nor her from recognising them as the friends who were to be under the window. With that voice from the Wyeside still echoing in her ears, she sees her deliverers at hand! They have indeed come.

A woman of weak nerves would, under the circumstances, be excited—possibly cry out. But Sœur Marie is not such; and without uttering a word, even the slightest ejaculation, she stands still, and patiently waits while a wrench is applied to the rotten bar of iron, soon snapping it from its support, as though it were but a stick of maccaroni.