Volume One—Chapter Five.
Dangers Ahead.
For another half mile, or so, the Gwendoline is propelled onward, though not running trimly; the fault being in her at the oars. With thoughts still preoccupied, she now and then forgets her stroke, or gives it unequally—so that the boat zig-zags from side to side, and, but for a more careful hand at the tiller, would bring up against the bank.
Observing her abstraction, as also her frequent turning to look down the river—but without suspicion of what is causing it—Miss Lees at length inquires,—
“What’s the matter with you, Gwen?”
“Oh, nothing,” she evasively answers, bringing back her eyes to the boat, and once more giving attention to the oars.
“But why are you looking so often below? I’ve noticed you do so at least a score of times.”
If the questioner could but divine the thoughts at that moment in the other’s mind, she would have no need thus to interrogate, but would know that below there is another boat with a man in it, who possesses that unseen something, like ether or electricity, and to catch sight of whom Miss Wynn has been so oft straining her eyes. She has not given all her confidence to the companion.
Not receiving immediate answer, Ellen again asks—
“Is there any danger you fear?”
“None that I know of—at least, for a long way down. Then there are some rough places.”
“But you are pulling so unsteadily! It takes all my strength to keep in the middle of the river.”
“Then you pull, and let me do the steering,” returns Miss Wynn, pretending to be in a pout; as she speaks starting up from the thwart, and leaving the oars in their thole pins.
Of course, the other does not object; and soon they have changed places.
But Gwen in the stern behaves no better, than when seated amidships. The boat still keeps going astray, the fault now in the steerer.
Soon something more than a crooked course calls the attention of both, for a time engrossing it. They have rounded an abrupt bend, and got into a reach where the river runs with troubled surface and great velocity—so swift there is no need to use oars down stream, while upward ’twill take stronger arms than theirs. Caught in its current, and rapidly, yet smoothly, borne on, for awhile they do not think of this. Only a short while; then the thought comes to them in the shape of a dilemma—Miss Lees being the first to perceive it.
“Gracious goodness!” she exclaims, “what are we to do? We can never row back up this rough water—it runs so strong here!”
“That’s true,” says Gwen, preserving her composure. “I don’t think we could.”
“But what’s to be the upshot? Joseph will be waiting for us, and auntie sure to know all—if we shouldn’t get back in time.”
“That’s true also,” again observes Miss Wynn, assentingly, and with an admirable sang froid, which causes surprise to the companion.
Then succeeds a short interval of silence, broken by an exclamatory phrase of three short words from the lips of Miss Wynn. They are—“I have it!”
“What have you?” joyfully asks Ellen.
“The way to get back—without much trouble; and without disturbing the arrangements we’ve made with old Joe—the least bit.”
“Explain yourself!”
“We’ll keep on down the river to Rock Weir. There we can leave the boat, and walk across the neck to Llangorren. It isn’t over a mile, though it’s five times that by the course of the stream. At the Weir we can engage some water fellow to take back the Gwendoline to her moorings. Meanwhile, we’ll make all haste, slip into the grounds unobserved, get to the boat-dock in good time, and give Joseph the cue to hold his tongue about what’s happened. Another half-crown will tie it firm and fast, I know.”
“I suppose there’s no help for it,” says the companion, assenting, “and we must do as you say.”
“Of course, we must. As you see, without thinking of it, we’ve drifted into a very cascade and are now a long way down it. Only a regular waterman could pull up again. Ah! ’twould take the toughest of them, I should say. So—nolens volens—we’ll have to go on to Rock Weir, which can’t be more than a mile now. You may feather your oars, and float a bit. But, by the way, I must look more carefully to the steering. Now, that I remember, there are some awkward bars and eddies about here, and we can’t be far from them. I think they’re just below the next bend.”
So saying, she sets herself square in the stern sheets, and closes her fingers firmly upon the tiller-cords.
They glide on, but now in silence; the little flurry, with the prospect of peril ahead, making speech inopportune.
Soon they are round the bend spoken of, discovering to their view a fresh reach of the river; when again the steerer becomes neglectful of her duty, the expression upon her features, late a little troubled, suddenly changing to cheerfulness, almost joy. Nor is it that the dangerous places have been passed; they are still ahead, and at some distance below. But there is something else ahead to account for the quick transformation—a row-boat drawn up by the river’s edge, with men upon the bank beside.
Over Gwen Wynn’s countenance comes another change, sudden as before, and as before, its expression reversed. She has mistaken the boat; it is not that of the handsome fisherman! Instead, a four-oared craft, manned by four men, for there is this number on the bank. The anglers skiff had in it only two—himself and his oarsman.
But she has no need to count heads, nor scrutinise faces. Those now before her eyes are all strange, and far from well favoured; not any of them in the least like the one which has so prepossessed her. And while making this observation another is forced upon her—that their natural plainness is not improved by what they have been doing, and are still—drinking.
Just as the young ladies make this observation, the four men, hearing oars, face towards them. For a moment there is silence, while they in the Gwendoline are being scanned by the quartette on the shore. Through maudlin eyes, possibly, the fellows mistake them for ordinary country lasses, with whom they may take liberties. Whether or not one cries out—
“Petticoats, by gee—ingo!”
“Ay!” exclaims another, “a pair o’ them. An’ sweet wenches they be, too. Look at she wi’ the gooldy hair—bright as the sun itself. Lord, meeats! if we had she down in the pit, that head o’ her ud gi’e as much light as a dozen Davy’s lamps. An’t she a bewty? I’m boun’ to have a smack fra them red lips o’ hers.”
“No,” protests the first speaker, “she be myen. First spoke soonest sarved. That’s Forest law.”
“Never mind, Rob,” rejoins the other, surrendering his claim, “she may be the grandest to look at, but not the goodiest to go. I’ll lay odds the black ’un beats her at kissin’. Le’s get grup o’ ’em an’ see! Coom on, meeats!”
Down go the drinking vessels, all four making for their boat, into which they scramble, each laying hold of an oar.
Up to this time the ladies have not felt actual alarm. The strange men being evidently intoxicated, they might expect—were, indeed, half-prepared for—coarse speech; perhaps indelicate, but nothing beyond. Within a mile of their own home, and still within the boundary of the Llangorren land, how could they think of danger such as is threatening? For that there is danger they are now sensible—becoming convinced of it, as they draw nearer to the four fellows, and get a better view of them. Impossible to mistake the men—roughs from the Forest of Dean, or some other mining district, their but half-washed faces showing it; characters not very gentle at any time, but very rude, even dangerous, when drunk. This known, from many a tale told, many a Petty and Quarter Sessions report read in the county newspapers. But it is visible in their countenances, too intelligible in their speech—part of which the ladies have overheard—as in the action they are taking.
They in the pleasure-boat no longer fear, or think of, bars and eddies below. No whirlpool—not Maelstrom itself, could fright them as those four men. For it is fear of a something more to be dreaded than drowning.
Withal, Gwendoline Wynn is not so much dismayed as to lose presence of mind. Nor is she at all excited, but cool as when caught in the rapid current. Her feats in the hunting field, and dashing drives down the steep “pitches” of the Herefordshire roads, have given her strength of nerve to face any danger; and, as her timid companion trembles with affright, muttering her fears, she but says—
“Keep quiet, Nell! Don’t let them see you’re scared. It’s not the way to treat such as they, and will only encourage them to come at us.”
This counsel, before the men have moved, fails in effect; for as they are seen rushing down the bank and into their boat, Ellen Lees utters a terrified shriek, scarcely leaving her breath to add the words—“Dear Gwen! what shall we do?”
“Change places,” is the reply, calmly but hurriedly made. “Give me the oars! Quick!”
While speaking she has started up from the stern, and is making for ’midships. The other, comprehending, has risen at the same instant, leaving the oars to trail.
By this the roughs have shoved off from the bank, and are making for mid-stream, their purpose evident—to intercept the Gwendoline. But the other Gwendoline has now got settled to the oars; and pulling with all her might, has still a chance to shoot past them.
In a few seconds the boats are but a couple of lengths apart, the heavy craft coming bow-on for the lighter; while the faces of those in her, slewed over their shoulders, show terribly forbidding. A glance tells Gwen Wynn ’twould be idle making appeal to them; nor does she. Still she is not silent. Unable to restrain her indignation, she calls out—
“Keep back, fellows! If you run against us, ’twill go ill for you. Don’t suppose you’ll escape punishment.”
“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!”
At this fresh sally of professional spleen the soldier again smiles, but says nothing, uncertain what action he should take, or how soon he may be called on to commence it. Almost instantly after he is called on to take action, though not against the four riotous Foresters, but a silly salmon, which has conceived a fancy for his fly. A purl on the water, with a pluck quick succeeding, tells of one on the hook, while the whizz of the wheel and rapid rolling out of catgut proclaims it a fine one.
For some minutes neither he nor his oarsman has eye or ear for aught save securing the fish, and both bend all their energies to “fighting” it. The line runs out, to be spun up and run off again; his river majesty, maddened at feeling himself so oddly and painfully restrained in his desperate efforts to escape, now rushing in one direction, now another, all the while the angler skilfully playing him, the equally skilled oarsman keeping the boat in concerted accordance.
Absorbed by their distinct lines of endeavour they do not hear high words, mingled with exclamations, coming from above; or hearing, do not heed, supposing them to proceed from the four men they had met, in all likelihood now more inebriated than ever. Not till they have well-nigh finished their “fight,” and the salmon, all but subdued, is being drawn towards the boat—Wingate, gaff in hand, bending over ready to strike it. Not till then do they note other sounds, which even at that critical moment make them careless about the fish, in its last feeble throes, when its capture is good as sure, causing Ryecroft to stop winding his wheel, and stand listening.
Only for an instant. Again the voices of men, but now also heard the cry of a woman, as if she sending it forth were in danger or distress!
They have no need for conjecture, nor are they long left to it. Almost simultaneously they see a boat sweeping round the bend, with another close in its wake, evidently in chase, as told by the attitudes and gestures of those occupying both—in the one pursued two young ladies, in that pursuing four rough men readily recognisable. At a glance the Hussar officer takes in the situation—the waterman as well. The sight saves a salmon’s life, and possibly two innocent women from outrage. Down goes Ryecroft’s rod, the boatman simultaneously dropping his gaff; as he does so hearing thundered in his ears—
“To yours oars, Jack! Make straight for them! Row with all your might!”
Jack Wingate needs neither command to act nor word to stimulate him. As a man he remembers the late indignity to himself; as a gallant fellow he now sees others submitted to the like. No matter about their being ladies; enough that they are women suffering insult; and more than enough at seeing who are the insulters.
In ten seconds’ time he is on his thwart, oars in hand, the officer at the tiller; and in five more, the Mary, brought stem up stream, is surging against the current, going swiftly as if with it. She is set for the big boat pursuing—not now to shun a collision, but seek it.
As yet some two hundred yards are between the chased craft and that hastening to its rescue. Ryecroft, measuring the distance with his eyes, is in thought tracing out a course of action. His first instinct was to draw a pistol, and stop the pursuit with a shot. But no. It would not be English. Nor does he need resort to such deadly weapon. True there will be four against two; but what of it?
“I think we can manage them, Jack,” he mutters through his teeth, “I’m good for two of them—the biggest and best.”
“An’ I t’other two—sich clumsy chaps as them! Ye can trust me takin’ care o’ ’em, Captin.”
“I know it. Keep to your oars, till I give the word to drop them.”
“They don’t ’pear to a sighted us yet. Too drunk I take it. Like as not when they see what’s comin’ they’ll sheer off.”
“They shan’t have the chance. I intend steering bow dead on to them. Don’t fear the result. If the Mary get damaged I’ll stand the expense of repairs.”
“Ne’er a mind ’bout that, Captain. I’d gi’e the price o’ a new boat to see the lot chastised—specially that big black fellow as did most o’ the talkin’.”
“You shall see it, and soon!”
He lets go the ropes, to disembarrass himself of his angling accoutrements; which he hurriedly does, flinging them at his feet. When he again takes hold of the steering tackle the Mary is within six lengths of the advancing boats, both now nearly together, the bow of the pursuer overlapping the stern of the pursued. Only two of the men are at the oars; two standing up, one amidships, the other at the head. Both are endeavouring to lay hold of the pleasure-boat, and bring it alongside. So occupied they see not the fishing skiff, while the two rowing, with backs turned, are equally unconscious of its approach. They only wonder at the “wenches,” as they continue to call them, taking it so coolly, for these do not seem so much frightened as before.
“Coom, sweet lass!” cries he in the bow—the black fellow it is—addressing Miss Wynn. “’Tain’t no use you tryin’ to get away. I must ha’ my kiss. So drop yer oars, and ge’et to me!”
“Insolent fellow!” she exclaims, her eyes ablaze with anger. “Keep your hands off my boat. I command you!”
“But I ain’t to be c’mmanded, ye minx. Not till I’ve had a smack o’ them lips; an’ by Gad I s’ll have it.”
Saying which he reaches out to the full stretch of his long, ape-like arms, and with one hand succeeds in grasping the boat’s gunwale, while with the other he gets hold of the lady’s dress, and commences dragging her towards him.
Gwen Wynn neither screams, nor calls “Help!” She knows it is near.
“Hands off!” cries a voice in a volume of thunder, simultaneous with a dull thud against the side of the larger boat, followed by a continued crashing as her gunwale goes in. The roughs, facing round, for the first time see the fishing skiff, and know why it is there. But they are too far gone in drink to heed or submit—at least their leader seems determined to resist. Turning savagely on Ryecroft, he stammers out—
“Hic—ic—who the blazes be you, Mr White Cap! An’ what d’ye want wi’ me?”
“You’ll see.”
At the words he bounds from his own boat into the other; and, before the fellow can raise an arm, those of Ryecroft are around him in tight hug. In another minute the hulking scoundrel is hoisted from his feet, as though but a feather’s weight, and flung overboard.
Wingate has meanwhile also boarded, grappled on to the other on foot, and is threatening to serve him the same.
A plunge, with a wild cry—the man going down like a stone; another, as he comes up among his own bubbles; and a third, yet wilder, as he feels himself sinking for the second time!
The two at the oars, scared into a sort of sobriety, one of them cries out—
“Lor’ o’ mercy! Rob’ll be drownded! He can’t sweem a stroke.”
“He’s a-drownin’ now!” adds the other.
It is true. For Rob has again come to the surface, and shouts with feebler voice, while his arms tossed frantically about tell of his being in the last throes of suffocation!
Ryecroft looks regretful—rather alarmed. In chastising the fellow he had gone too far. He must save him!
Quick as the thought off goes his coat, with his boots kicked into the bottom of the boat; then himself over its side!
A splendid swimmer, with a few bold sweeps he is by the side of the drowning man. Not a moment too soon—just as the latter is going down for the third—likely the last time. With the hand of the officer grasping his collar, he is kept above water. But not yet saved. Both are now imperilled—the rescuer and he he would rescue. For, far from the boats, they have drifted into a dangerous eddy, and are being whirled rapidly round!
A cry from Gwen Wynn—a cry of real alarm, now—the first she has uttered! But before she can repeat it, her fears are allayed—set to rest again—at sight of still another rescuer. The young waterman has leaped back to his own boat, and is pulling straight for the strugglers. A few strokes, and he is beside them; then, dropping his oars, he soon has both safe in the skiff.
The half-drowned, but wholly frightened, Bob is carried back to his comrades’ boat, and dumped in among them; Wingate handling him as though he were but a wet coal sack or piece of old tarpaulin. Then giving the “Forest chaps” a bit of his mind he bids them “be off!”
And off go they, without saying word; as they drop down stream their downcast looks showing them subdued, if not quite sobered, and rather feeling grateful than aggrieved.
The other two boats soon proceed upward, the pleasure craft leading. But not now rowed by its owner; for Captain Ryecroft has hold of the oars. In the haste, or the pleasurable moments succeeding, he has forgotten all about the salmon left struggling on his line, or caring not to return for it, most likely will lose rod, line, and all. What matter? If he has lost a fine fish, he may have won the finest woman on the Wye!
And she has lost nothing—risks nothing now—not even the chiding of her aunt! For now the pleasure-boat will be back in its dock in time to keep undisturbed the understanding with Joseph.
Volume One—Chapter Seven.
An Inveterate Novel Reader.
While these exciting incidents are passing upon the river, Llangorren Court is wrapped in that stately repose becoming an aristocratic residence—especially where an elderly spinster is head of the house, and there are no noisy children to go romping about. It is thus with Llangorren, whose ostensible mistress is Miss Linton, the aunt and legal guardian already alluded to. But, though presiding over the establishment, it is rather in the way of ornamental figure-head; since she takes little to do with its domestic affairs, leaving them to a skilled housekeeper who carries the keys.
Kitchen matters are not much to Miss Linton’s taste, being a dame of the antique brocaded type, with pleasant memories of the past, that go back to Bath and Cheltenham; where, in their days of glory, as hers of youth, she was a belle, and did her share of dancing, with a due proportion of flirting, at the Regency balls. No longer able to indulge in such delightful recreations, the memory of them has yet charms for her, and she keeps it alive and warm by daily perusal of the Morning Post with a fuller hebdomadal feast from the Court Journal, and other distributors of fashionable intelligence. In addition she reads no end of novels, her favourites being those which tell of Cupid in his most romantic escapades and experiences, though not always the chastest. Of the prurient trash there is a plenteous supply, furnished by scribblers of both sexes, who ought to know better, and doubtless do; but knowing also how difficult it is to make their lucubrations interesting within the legitimate lines of literary art, and how easy out of them, thus transgress the moralities.
Miss Linton need have no fear that the impure stream will cease to flow, any more than the limpid waters of the Wye. Nor has she; but reads on, devouring volume after volume, in triunes as they issue from the press, and are sent her from the Circulating Library.
At nearly all hours of the day, and some of the night, does she so occupy herself. Even on this same bright April morn, when all nature rejoices, and every living thing seems to delight in being out of doors—when the flowers expand their petals to catch the kisses of the warm Spring sun, Dorothea Linton is seated in a shady corner of the drawing-room, up to her ears in a three-volume novel, still odorous of printer’s ink and binder’s paste; absorbed in a love dialogue between a certain Lord Lutestring and a rustic damsel—daughter of one of his tenant-farmers—whose life he is doing his best to blight, and with much likelihood of succeeding. If he fail, it will not be for want of will on his part, nor desire of the author to save the imperilled one. He will make the tempted iniquitous as the tempter, should this seem to add interest to the tale, or promote the sale of the book.
Just as his lordship has gained a point and the girl is about to give way, Miss Linton herself receives a shock, caused by a rat-tat at the drawing-room door, light, such as well-trained servants are accustomed to give before entering a room occupied by master or mistress.
To her command “Come in!” a footman presents himself, silver waiter in hand, on which is a card.
She is more than annoyed, almost angry, as taking the card, she reads—
“Reverend William Musgrave.”
Only to think of being thus interrupted on the eve of such an interesting climax, which seemed about to seal the fate of the farmer’s daughter.
It is fortunate for his Reverence, that before entering within the room another visitor is announced, and ushered in along with him. Indeed the second caller is shown in first; for, although George Shenstone rung the front door bell after Mr Musgrave had stepped inside the hall, there is no domestic of Llangorren but knows the difference between a rich baronet’s son and a poor parish curate; as which should have precedence. To this nice, if not very delicate appreciation, the Reverend William is now indebted more than he is aware. It has saved him from an outburst of Miss Linton’s rather tart temper, which, under the circumstances, otherwise he would have caught. For it so chances that the son of Sir George Shenstone is a great favourite with the old lady of Llangorren; welcome at all times, even amid the romantic gallantries of Lord Lutestring. Not that the young country gentleman has anything in common with the titled Lothario, who is habitually a dweller in cities. Instead, the former is a frank, manly fellow, devoted to field sports and rural pastimes, a little brusque in manner, but for all well-bred, and, what is even better, well-behaved. There is nothing odd in his calling at that early hour. Sir George is an old friend of the Wynn family—was an intimate associate of Gwen’s deceased father—and both he and his son have been accustomed to look in at Llangorren Court sans cérémonie.
No more is Mr Musgrave’s matutinal visit out of order. Though but the curate, he is in full charge of parish duties, the rector being not only aged but an absentee—so long away from the neighbourhood as to have become almost a myth to it. For this reason his vicarial representative can plead scores of excuses for presenting himself at “The Court.” There is the school, the church choir, and clothing club, to say nought of neighbouring news, which on most mornings make him a welcome visitor to Miss Linton; and no doubt would on this, but for the glamour thrown around her by the fascinations of the dear delightful Lutestring. It even takes all her partiality for Mr Shenstone to remove its spell, and get him vouchsafed friendly reception.
“Miss Linton,” he says, speaking first, “I’ve just dropped in to ask if the young ladies would go for a ride. The day’s so fine, I thought they might like to.”
“Ah, indeed,” returns the spinster, holding out her fingers to be touched, but, under the plea of being a little invalided, excusing herself from rising. “Yes; no doubt they would like it very much.”
Mr Shenstone is satisfied with the reply; but less the curate, who neither rides nor has a horse. And less Shenstone himself—indeed both—as the lady proceeds. They have been listening, with ears all alert, for the sound of soft footsteps and rustling dresses. Instead, they hear words, not only disappointing, but perplexing.
“Nay, I am sure,” continues Miss Linton, with provoking coolness, “they would have been glad to go riding with you; delighted—”
“But why can’t they?” asked Shenstone, impatiently interrupting.
“Because the thing’s impossible; they’ve already gone rowing.”
“Indeed!” cry both gentlemen in a breath, seeming alike vexed by the intelligence, Shenstone mechanically interrogating:
“On the river?”
“Certainly!” answers the lady, looking surprised. “Why, George; where else could they go rowing! You don’t suppose they’ve brought the boat up to the fishpond!”
“Oh, no,” he stammers out. “I beg pardon. How very stupid of me to ask such a question. I was only wondering why Miss Gwen—that is, I am a little astonished—but—perhaps you’ll think it impertinent of me to ask another question?”
“Why should I? What is it?”
“Only whether—whether she—Miss Gwen, I mean—said anything about riding to-day?”
“Not a word—at least not to me.”
“How long since they went off—may I know, Miss Linton?”
“Oh, hours ago! Very early, indeed—just after taking breakfast. I wasn’t down myself—as I’ve told you, not feeling very well this morning. But Gwen’s maid informs me they left the house then, and I presume they went direct to the river.”
“Do you think they’ll be out long?” earnestly interrogates Shenstone.
“I should hope not,” returns the ancient toast of Cheltenham, with aggravating indifference, for Lutestring is not quite out of her thoughts. “There’s no knowing, however. Miss Wynn is accustomed to come and go, without much consulting me.”
This with some acerbity—possibly from the thought that the days of her legal guardianship are drawing to a close, which will make her a less important personage at Llangorren.
“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 mantelshelf. “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’re 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!
Volume One—Chapter Eight.
A Suspicious Stranger.
While Mr Musgrave is boring the elderly spinster about new scarlet cloaks for the girls of the church choir, and other parish matters, George Shenstone is standing on the topmost step of the boat stair, in a mood of mind even less enviable than hers. For he has looked down into the dock, and there sees no Gwendoline—neither boat nor lady—nor is there sign of either upon the water, far as he can command a view of it. No sounds, such as he would wish, and might expect to hear—no dipping of oars, nor, what would be still more agreeable to his ear, the soft voices of women. Instead only the note of a cuckoo, in monotonous repetition, the bird balancing itself on a branch near by; and, farther off, the hiccol, laughing, as if in mockery—and at him! Mocking his impatience; ay, something more, almost his misery! That it is so his soliloquy tells:
“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 soliloquising in less conjectural strain, says, or rather thinks—
“Master George be mad sweet on Miss Gwen. The country folk are all talkin’ o’t; thinkin’ 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 contrary wise—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 tranquillises 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!
Alone at that leading boat does he look; with eyes in which, as he continues to gaze, surprise becomes wonderment, dashed with something like displeasure. The boat he has recognised at the first glance—the Gwendoline—as also the two ladies in the stern. But there is also a man on the mid thwart plying the oars. “Who the deuce is he?” Thus to himself George Shenstone puts it. Not old Joe, not the least like him. Nor is it the family Charon who sits solitary on the thwarts of that following. Instead, Joseph is now by Mr Shenstone’s side, passing him in haste—making to go down the boat stairs!
“What’s the meaning of all this, Joe?” asks the young man, in stark astonishment.
“Meanin’ o’ what, sir?” returns the old boatman, with an air of assumed innocence. “Be there anythin’ amiss?”
“Oh, nothing,” stammers Shenstone. “Only I supposed you were out with the young ladies. How is it you haven’t gone?”
“Well, sir, Miss Gwen didn’t wish it. The day bein’ fine, an’ nothing o’ flood in the river, she sayed she’d do the rowin’ herself.”
“She hasn’t been doing it for all that,” mutters Shenstone to himself, as Joseph glides past and on down the stair; then repeating, “Who the deuce is he?” the interrogation as before, referring to him who rows the pleasure-boat.
By this it has been brought, bow in, to the dock, its stern touching the bottom of the stair; and, as the ladies step out of it, George Shenstone overhears a dialogue, which, instead of quieting his perturbed spirit, but excites him still more—almost to madness. It is Miss Wynn who has commenced it, saying.
“You’ll come up to the house, and let me introduce you to my aunt?”
This to the gentleman who has been pulling her boat, and has just abandoned the oars soon as seeing its painter in the hands of the servant.
“Oh, thank you!” he returns. “I would, with pleasure; but, as you see, I’m not quite presentable just now—anything but fit for a drawing-room. So I beg you’ll excuse me to-day.”
His saturated shirt-front, with other garments dripping, tells why the apology; but does not explain either that or aught else to him on the top of the stair; who, hearkening further, hears other speeches which, while perplexing him, do nought to allay the wild tempest now surging through his soul. Unseen himself—for he has stepped behind the tree lately screening Joseph—he sees Gwen Wynn hold out her hand to be pressed in parting salute—hears her address the stranger in words of gratitude, warm as though she were under some great obligation to him!
Then the latter leaps out of the pleasure-boat into the other brought alongside, and is rowed away by his waterman; while the ladies ascend the stair—Gwen, lingeringly, at almost every step, turning her face towards the fishing skiff, till this, pulled around the upper end of the eyot, can no more be seen.
All this George Shenstone observes, drawing deductions which send the blood in chill creep through his veins. Though still puzzled by the wet garments, the presence of the gentleman wearing them seems to solve that other enigma, unexplained as painful—the strangeness he has of late observed in the ways of Miss Wynn. Nor is he far out in his fancy, bitter though it be.
Not until the two ladies have reached the stair head do they become aware of his being there; and not then, till Gwen has made some observations to the companion, which, as those addressed to the stranger, unfortunately for himself, George Shenstone overhears.
“We’ll be in time for luncheon yet, and aunt needn’t know anything of what’s delayed us—at least, not just now. True, if the like had happened to herself—say some thirty or forty years ago—she’d want all the world to hear of it, particularly that portion of the world yclept Cheltenham. The dear old lady! Ha, ha!” After a laugh, continuing: “But, speaking seriously, Nell, I don’t wish any one to be the wiser about our bit of an escapade—least of all, a certain young gentleman, whose Christian name begins with a G, and surname with an S.”
“Those initials answer for mine,” says George Shenstone, coming forward and confronting her. “If your observation was meant for me, Miss Wynn, I can only express regret for my bad luck in being within earshot of it.”
At his appearance, so unexpected and abrupt, Gwen Wynn had given a start—feeling guilty, and looking it. Soon, however, reflecting whence he has come, and hearing what said, she feels less self-condemned than indignant, as evinced by her rejoinder.
“Ah! you’ve been overhearing us, Mr Shenstone! Bad luck, you call it. Bad or good, I don’t think you are justified in attributing it to chance. When a gentleman deliberately stations himself behind a shady bush, like that laurustinus, for instance, and there stands listening—intentionally—”
Suddenly she interrupts herself, and stands silent too—this on observing the effect of her words, and that they have struck terribly home. With bowed head the baronet’s son is stooping towards her, the cloud on his brow telling of sadness—not anger. Seeing it, the old tenderness returns to her, with its familiarity, and she exclaims:—
“Come, George! there must be no quarrel between you and me. What you’ve just seen and heard, will be all explained by something you have yet to hear. Miss Lees and I have had a little bit of an adventure; and if you’ll promise it shan’t go further, we’ll make you acquainted with it.”
Addressed in this style, he readily gives the promise—gladly, too. The confidence so offered seems favourable to himself. But, looking for explanation on the instant, he is disappointed. Asking for it, it is denied him, with reason assigned thus:
“You forget we’ve been full four hours on the river, and are as hungry as a pair of kingfishers—hawks, I suppose, you’d say, being a game preserver. Never mind about the simile. Let us in to luncheon, if not too late.”
She steps hurriedly off towards the house, the companion following, Shenstone behind both.
However hungry they, never man went to a meal with less appetite than he. All Gwen’s cajoling has not tranquillised his spirit, nor driven out of his thoughts that man with the bronzed complexion, dark moustache, and white helmet hat.
Volume One—Chapter Nine.
Jealous Already.
Captain Ryecroft has lost more than rod and line; his heart is as good as gone too—given to Gwendoline Wynn. He now knows the name of the yellow haired Naiad—for this, with other particulars, she imparted to him on return up stream.
Neither has her confidence thus extended, nor the conversation leading to it, belied the favourable impression made upon him by her appearance. Instead, so strengthened it, that for the first time in his life he contemplates becoming a benedict. He feels that his fate is sealed—or no longer in his hands, but hers.
As Wingate pulls him on homeward, he draws out his cigar case, sets fire to a fresh weed, and, while the blue smoke wreaths up round the rim of his topee, reflects on the incidents of the day,—reviewing them in the order of their occurrence.
Circumstances apparently accidental have been strangely in his favour. Helped as by Heaven’s own hand, working with the rudest instruments. Through the veriest scum of humanity he has made acquaintance with one of its fairest forms. More than mere acquaintance, he hopes; for surely those warm words, and glances far from cold, could not be the sole offspring of gratitude! If so, a little service on the Wye goes a long way. Thus reflects he, in modest appreciation of himself, deeming that he has done but little. How different the value put upon it by Gwen Wynn!
Still he knows not this, or at least cannot be sure of it. If he were, his thoughts would be all rose-coloured, which they are not. Some are dark as the shadows of the April showers now and then drifting across the sun’s disc.
One that has just settled on his brow is no reflection from the firmament above—no vague imagining—but a thing of shape and form—the form of a man, seen at the top of the boat stair, as the ladies were ascending, and not so far off as to have hindered him from observing the man’s face, and noting that he was young, and rather handsome. Already the eyes of love have caught the keenness of jealousy. A gentleman evidently on terms of intimacy with Miss Wynn. Strange, though, that the look with which he regarded her on saluting, seemed to speak of something amiss! What could it mean! Captain Ryecroft has asked this question as his boat was rounding the end of the eyot, with another in the selfsame formulary of interrogation, of which but the moment before he was himself the subject:—“Who the deuce can he be?” Out upon the river, and drawing hard at his Regalia, he goes on:—
“Wonderfully familiar the fellow seemed! Can’t be a brother? I understood her to say she had none. Does he live at Llangorren? No. She said there was no one there in the shape of masculine relative—only an old aunt, and that little dark damsel, who is cousin or something of the kind. But who the deuce is the gentleman? Might he be a cousin?”
So propounding questions without being able to answer them, he at length addresses himself to the waterman, saying:
“Jack, did you observe a gentleman at the head of the stair?”
“Only the head and shoulders o’ one, captain.”
“Head and shoulders; that’s enough. Do you chance to know him?”
“I ain’t thorough sure; but I think he be a Mr Shenstone.”
“Who is Mr Shenstone?”
“The son o’ Sir George.”
“Sir George! What do you know of him?”
“Not much to speak of—only that he be a big gentleman, whose land lies along the river, two or three miles below.”
The information is but slight, and slighter the gratification it gives. Captain Ryecroft has heard of the rich baronet whose estate adjoins that of Llangorren, and whose title, with the property attached, will descend to an only son. It is the torso of this son he has seen above the red sandstone rock. In truth, a formidable rival! So he reflects, smoking away like mad.
After a time, he again observes:—“You’ve said you don’t know the ladies we’ve helped out of their little trouble?”
“Parsonally, I don’t, captain. But, now as I see where they live, I know who they be. I’ve heerd talk ’bout the biggest o’ them—a good deal.”
The biggest of them! As if she were a salmon! In the boatman’s eyes, bulk is evidently her chief recommendation!
Ryecroft smiles, further interrogating:—“What have you heard of her?”
“That she be a tidy young lady. Wonderful fond o’ field sport, such as hunting and that like. Fr’ all, I may say that up to this day, I never set eyes on her afore.”
The Hussar officer has been long enough in Herefordshire to have learnt the local signification of “tidy”—synonymous with “well-behaved.” That Miss Wynn is fond of field sports—flood pastimes included—he has gathered from herself while rowing her up the river.
One thing strikes him as strange—that the waterman should not be acquainted with every one dwelling on the river’s bank, at least for a dozen miles up and down. He seeks an explanation:—
“How is it, Jack, that you, living but a short league above, don’t know all about these people?”
He is unaware that Wingate, though born on the Wye’s banks, as he has told him, is comparatively a stranger to its middle waters—his birthplace being far up in the shire of Brecon. Still, that is not the solution of the enigma, which the young waterman gives in his own way,—
“Lord love ye, sir! That shows how little you understand this river. Why, captain; it crooks an’ crooks, and goes wobblin’ about in such a way, that folks as lives less’n a mile apart knows no more o’ one the other than if they wor ten. It comes o’ the bridges bein’ so few and far between. There’s the ferry boats, true; but people don’t take to ’em more’n they can help; ’specially women—seein’ there be some danger at all times, and a good deal o’t when the river’s a-flood. That’s frequent, summer well as winter.”
The explanation is reasonable; and, satisfied with it, Ryecroft remains for a time wrapt in a dreamy reverie, from which he is aroused as his eyes rest upon a house—a quaint antiquated structure, half timber, half stone, standing not on the river’s edge, but at some distance from it up a dingle. The sight is not new to him; he has before noticed the house—struck with its appearance, so different from the ordinary dwellings.
“Whose is it, Jack?” he asks.
“B’longs to a man, name o’ Murdock.”
“Odd-looking domicile!”
“’Ta’nt a bit more that way than he be—if half what they say ’bout him be true.”
“Ah! Mr Murdock’s a character, then?”
“Ay; an’ a queery one.”
“In what respect? what way?”
“More’n one—a goodish many.”
“Specify, Jack?”
“Well; for one thing, he a’nt sober to say half o’ his time.”
“Addicted to dipsomania?”
“’Dicted to getting dead drunk. I’ve seen him so, scores o’ ’casions.”
“That’s not wise of Mr Murdock.”
“No, captain; ’ta’nt neyther wise nor well. All the worse, considerin’ the place where mostly he go to do his drinkin’.”
“Where may that be?”
“The Welsh Harp—up at Rogue’s Ferry.”
“Rogue’s Ferry? Strange appellation! What sort of place is it? Not very nice, I should say—if the name be at all appropriate.”
“It’s parfitly ’propriate, though I b’lieve it wa’nt that way bestowed. It got so called after a man the name o’ Rugg, who once keeped the Welsh Harp and the ferry too. It’s about two mile above, a little ways back. Besides the tavern, there be a cluster o’ houses, a bit scattered about, wi’ a chapel an’ a grocery shop—one as deals trackways, an’ a’nt partickler as to what they take in change—stolen goods welcome as any—ay, welcomer, if they be o’ worth. They got plenty o’ them, too. The place be a regular nest o’ poachers, an’ worse than that—a good many as have sarved their spell in the Penitentiary.”
“Why, Wingate, you astonish me! I was under the impression your Wyeside was a sort of Arcadia, where one only met with innocence and primitive simplicity.”
“You won’t meet much o’ either at Rogue’s Ferry. If there be an uninnocent set on earth it’s they as live there. Them Forest chaps we came ’cross a’nt no ways their match in wickedness. Just possible drink made them behave as they did—some o’ ’em. But drink or no drink it be all the same wi’ the Ferry people—maybe worse when they’re sober. Any ways they’re a rough lot.”
“With a place of worship in their midst! That ought to do something towards refining them.”
“Ought; and would, I dare say, if ’twar the right sort—which it a’nt. Instead, o’ a kind as only the more corrupts ’em—being Roman.”
“Oh! A Roman Catholic chapel. But how does it corrupt them?”
“By makin’ ’em believe they can get cleared of their sins, hows’ever black they be. Men as think that way a’nt like to stick at any sort of crime—’specialty if it brings ’em the money to buy what they calls absolution.”
“Well, Jack; it’s very evident you’re no friend, or follower, of the Pope.”
“Neyther o’ Pope nor priest. Ah! captain; if you seed him o’ the Rogue’s Ferry Chapel, you wouldn’t wonder at my havin’ a dislike for the whole kit o’ them.”
“What is there specially repulsive about him?”
“Don’t know as there be any thin’ very special, in partickler. Them priests all look bout the same—such o’ ’em as I’ve ever set eyes on. And that’s like stoats and weasels, shootin’ out o’ one hole into another. As for him we’re speakin’ about, he’s here, there, an’ everywhere; sneakin’ along the roads an’ paths, hidin’ behind bushes like a cat after birds, an’ poppin’ out where nobody expects him. If ever there war a spy meaner than another it’s the priest of Rogue’s Ferry.”
“No?” he adds, correcting himself. “There be one other in these parts worse than he—if that’s possible. A different sort o’ man, true; and yet they be a good deal thegither.”
“Who is this other?”
“Dick Dempsey—better known by the name of Coracle Dick.”
“Ah, Coracle Dick! He appears to occupy a conspicuous place in your thoughts, Jack; and rather a low one in your estimation. Why, may I ask? What sort of fellow is he?”
“The biggest blaggard as lives on the Wye, from where it springs out o’ Plinlimmon to its emptying into the Bristol Channel. Talk o’ poachers an’ night netters. He goes out by night to catch somethin’ beside salmon. ’Taint all fish as comes into his net, I know.”
The young waterman speaks in such hostile tone both about priest and poacher, that Ryecroft suspects a motive beyond the ordinary prejudice against men who wear the sacerdotal garb, or go trespassing after game. Not caring to inquire into it now, he returns to the original topic, saying:—
“We’ve strayed from our subject, Jack—which was the hard drinking owner of yonder house.”
“Not so far, captain; seein’ as he be the most intimate friend the priest have in these parts; though if what’s said be true, not nigh so much as his Missus.”
“Murdock is married, then?”
“I won’t say that—leastwise I shouldn’t like to swear it. All I know is, a woman lives wi’ him, s’posed to be his wife. Odd thing she.”
“Why odd?”
“’Cause she beant like any other o’ womankind ’bout here.”
“Explain yourself, Jack. In what does Mrs Murdock differ from the rest of your Herefordshire fair?”
“One way, captain, in her not bein’ fair at all. ’Stead, she be dark complected; most as much as one o’ them women I’ve seed ’bout Cheltenham, nursin’ the children o’ old officers as brought ’em from India—ayers they call ’em. She a’nt one o’ ’em, but French, I’ve heerd say; which in part, I suppose explains the thickness ’tween her an’ the priest—he bein’ the same.”
“Oh! His reverence is a Frenchman, is he?”
“All o’ that, captain. If he wor English, he wouldn’t—couldn’t—be the contemptible sneakin’ hound he is. As for Mrs Murdock, I can’t say I’ve seed her more’n twice in my life. She keeps close to the house; goes nowhere; an’ it’s said nobody visits her nor him—leastwise none o’ the old gentry. For all Mr Murdock belongs to the best of them.”
“He’s a gentleman, is he?”
“Ought to be—if he took after his father.”
“Why so?”
“Because he wor a squire—regular of the old sort. He’s not been so long dead. I can remember him myself, though I hadn’t been here such a many years—the old lady too—this Murdock’s mother. Ah! now I think on’t, she wor t’other squire’s sister—father to the tallest o’ them two young ladies—the one with the reddish hair.”
“What! Miss Wynn?”
“Yes, captain; her they calls Gwen.”
Ryecroft questions no farther. He has learnt enough to give him food for reflection—not only during the rest of that day, but for a week, a month—it may be throughout the remainder of his life.