Volume Two—Chapter Four.
“The Flower of Love-Lies-Bleeding.”
There is a crowd collected round the farmhouse of Abergann. Not an excited, or noisy one; instead, the people composing it are of staid demeanour, with that formal solemnity observable on the faces of those at a funeral.
And a funeral it is, or soon to be. For, inside there is a chamber of death; a coffin with a corpse—that of her, who, had she lived, would have been Jack Wingate’s wife.
Mary Morgan has indeed fallen victim to the mad spite of a monster. Down went she into that swollen stream, which, ruthless and cruel as he who committed her to it, carried her off on its engulfing tide—her form tossed to and fro, now sinking, now coming to the surface, and again going down. No one to save her—not an effort at rescue made by the cowardly Frenchman; who, rushing on to the chasm’s edge, there stopped,—only to gaze affrightedly at the flood surging below, foam-crested; only to listen to her agonised cry, further off and more freely put forth, as she was borne onward to her doom.
Once again he heard it, in that tone which tells of life’s last struggle with death—proclaiming death the conqueror. Then all was over. As he stood horror-stricken, half-bewildered, a cloud suddenly curtained the moon, bringing black darkness upon the earth, as if a pall had been thrown over it. Even the white froth on the water was for the while invisible. He could see nothing—nothing hear, save the hoarse, harsh torrent rolling relentlessly on. Of no avail, then, his hurrying back to the house, and raising the alarm. Too late it was to save Mary Morgan from drowning; and, only by the accident of her body being thrown up against a bank was it that night recovered.
It is the third day after, and the funeral about to take place. Though remote the situation of the farm-stead, and sparsely inhabited the district immediately around, the assemblage is a large one. This partly from the unusual circumstances of the girl’s death, but as much from the respect in which Evan Morgan is held by his neighbours, far and near. They are there in their best attire, men and women alike, Protestants as Catholics, to show a sympathy, which in truth many of them sincerely feel.
Nor is there among the people assembled any conjecturing about the cause of the fatal occurrence. No hint, or suspicion, that there has been foul play. How could there? So clearly an accident, as pronounced by the coroner at his inquiry held the day after the drowning—brief and purely pro forma.
Mrs Morgan herself told of her daughter sent on that errand from which she never returned; while the priest, eye-witness, stated the reason why. Taken together, this was enough; though further confirmed by the absent plank, found and brought back on the following day. Even had Wingate rowed back up the river during daylight, he would not have seen it again. The farm labourers and others, accustomed to cross by it, gave testimony as to its having been loose.
But of all whose evidence was called for, one alone could have put a different construction on the tale. Father Rogier could have done this; but did not, having his reasons for withholding the truth. He is now in possession of a secret that will make Richard Dempsey his slave for life—his instrument, willing or unwilling, for such purpose as he may need him, no matter what its iniquity.
The hour of interment has been fixed for twelve o’clock. It is now a little after eleven, and everybody has arrived at the house. The men stand outside in groups, some in the little flower garden in front, others straying into the farmyard to have a look at the fatting pigs, or about the pastures to view the white-faced Herefords and “Bye-land” sheep; of which last Evan Morgan is a noted breeder.
Inside the house are the women—some relatives of the deceased, with the farmer’s friends and more familiar acquaintances. All admitted to the chamber of death to take a last look at the dead. The corpse is in the coffin, but with lid not yet screwed on. There lies the corpse in its white drapery, still untouched by “decay’s effacing fingers,” beautiful as living bride, though now a bride for the altar of eternity.
The stream passes in and out; but besides those only curious coming and going, there are some who remain in the room. Mrs Morgan herself sits beside the coffin, at intervals giving way to wildest grief; a cluster of women around vainly essaying to comfort her.
There is a young man seated in the corner, who seems to need consoling almost as much as she. Every now and then his breast heaves in audible sobbing as though the heart within were about to break. None wonder at this; for it is Jack Wingate.
Still, there are those who think it strange his being there—above all, as if made welcome. They know not the remarkable change that has taken place in the feelings of Mrs Morgan. Beside that bed of death all who were dear to her daughter, were dear to her now. And she is aware that the young waterman was so. For he has told her, with tearful eyes and sad, earnest words, whose truthfulness could not be doubted.
But where is the other, the false one? Not there—never has been since the fatal occurrence. Came not to the inquest, came not to inquire or condole; comes not now to show sympathy, or take part in the rites of sepulture.
There are some who make remark about his absence, though none lament it—not even Mrs Morgan herself. The thought of the bereaved mother is that he would have ill-befitted being her son. Only a fleeting reflection, her whole soul being engrossed in grief for her lost daughter.
The hour for closing the coffin has come. They but await the priest to say some solemn words. He has not yet arrived, though every instant looked for. A personage so important has many duties to perform, and may be detained by them elsewhere.
For all, he does not fail. While inside the death chamber they are conjecturing the cause of his delay, a buzz outside, with a shuffling of feet in the passage, tells of way being made for him.
Presently he enters the room, and stepping up to the coffin stands beside it, all eyes turned towards him. His are upon the face of the corpse—at first with the usual look of official gravity and feigned grief. But continuing to gaze upon it, a strange expression comes over his features, as though he saw something that surprised, or unusually interested him. It affects him even to giving a start; so light, however, that no one seems to observe it. Whatever the emotion, he conceals it; and in calm voice pronounces the prayer, with all its formalities and gestures.
The lid is laid on, covering the form of Mary Morgan—for ever veiling her face from the world. Then the pall is thrown over, and all carried outside.
There is no hearse, no plumes, nor paid pall-bearers. Affection supplies the place of this heartless luxury of the tomb. On the shoulders of four men the coffin is borne away, the crowd forming into procession as it passes, and following.
On to the Rugg’s Ferry chapel,—into its cemetery, late consecrated. There lowered into a grave already prepared to receive it; and, after the usual ceremonial of the Roman Catholic religion covered up, and turfed over.
Then the mourners scatter off for their homes, singly or in groups, leaving the remains of Mary Morgan in their last resting-place, only her near relatives with thought of ever again returning to stand over them.
There is one exception; this is a mail not related to her, but who would have been had she lived. Wingate goes away with the intention ere long to return. The chapel burying-ground brinks upon the river, and when the shades of night have descended over it, he brings his boat alongside. Then, fixing her to the bank, he steps out, and proceeds in the direction of the new made grave. All this cautiously, and with circumspection, as if fearing to be seen. The darkness favouring him, he is not.
Reaching the sacred spot he kneels down, and with a knife, taken from his pockets, scoops out a little cavity in the lately laid turf. Into this he inserts a plant, which he has brought along with him—one of a common kind, but emblematic of no ordinary feeling. It is that known to country people as “The Flower of Love-lies-bleeding” (Amaranthus caudatus).
Closing the earth around its roots, and restoring the sods, he bends lower, till his lips are in contact with the grass upon the grave. One near enough might hear convulsive sobbing, accompanied by the words:—
“Mary, darling! you’re wi’ the angels now; and I know you’ll forgie me, if I’ve done ought to bring about this dreadful thing. Oh, dear, dear Mary! I’d be only too glad to be lyin’ in the grave along wi’ ye. As God’s my witness I would.”
For a time he is silent, giving way to his grief—so wild as to seem unbearable. And just for an instant he himself thinks it so, as he kneels with the knife still open in his hand, his eyes fixed upon it. A plunge with that shining blade with point to his heart, and all his misery would be over! “My mother—my poor mother—no!” These few words, with the filial thought conveyed, save him from suicide. Soon as repeating them, he shuts to his knife, rises to his feet, and returning to the boat again rows himself home—but never with so heavy a heart.
Volume Two—Chapter Five.
A French Femme de Chambre.
Of all who assisted at the ceremony of Mary Morgan’s funeral, no one seemed so impatient for its termination as the priest. In his official capacity he did all he could to hasten it; soon as it was over hurrying away from the grave, out of the burying-ground, and into his own house, near by.
Such haste would have appeared strange—even indecent—but for the belief of his having some sacerdotal duty that called him elsewhere; a belief strengthened by their shortly after seeing him start off in the direction of the Ferry-boat.
Arriving there, the Charon attendant rows him across the river; and, soon as setting foot on the opposite side, he turns face down stream, taking a path that meanders through fields and meadows. Along this he goes rapidly as his legs can carry him—in a walk. Clerical dignity hinders him from proceeding at a run, though judging by the expression of his countenance he is inclined to it.
The route he is on would conduct to Llangorren Court—several miles distant—and thither is he bound; though the house itself is not his objective point. He does not visit, nor would it serve him to show his face there—least of all to Gwen Wynn. She might not be so rude as to use her riding whip on him, as she once felt inclined in the hunting-field; but she would certainly be surprised to see him at her home.
Yet it is one within her house he wishes to see, and is now on the way for it, pretty sure of being able to accomplish his object. True to her fashionable instincts and toilette necessities, Miss Linton keeps a French maid, and it is with this damsel Father Rogier designs having an interview. He is thoroughly en rapport with the femme de chambre and through her, aided by the Confession, kept advised of everything which transpires at the Court, or all he deems it worth while to be advised about.
His confidence that he will not have long his walk for nothing rests on certain matters of pre-arrangement. With the foreign domestic he has succeeded in establishing a code of signals, by which he can communicate—with almost a certainty of being able to see her. Not inside the house, but at a place near enough to be convenient. Rare the park in Herefordshire through which there is not a right-of-way path, and one runs across that of Llangorren. Not through the ornamental grounds, nor at all close to the mansion—as is frequently the case, to the great chagrin of the owner—but several hundred yards distant. It passes from the river’s bank to the county road, all the way through trees, that screen it from view of the house. There is a point, however, where it approaches the edge of the wood, and there one traversing it might be seen from the upper windows. But only for an instant, unless the party so passing should choose to make stop in the place exposed.
It is a thoroughfare not much frequented, though free to Father Rogier as any one else; and, now hastening along it, he arrives at that spot where the break in the timber brings the house in view. Here he makes a halt, still keeping under the trees; to a branch of one of them, on the side towards the Court attaching a piece of white paper, he has taken out of his pocket. This done with due caution, and care that he be not observed in the act, he draws back to the path, and sits down upon a stile close by—to await the upshot of his telegraphy.
His haste hitherto explained by the fact, only at certain times are his signals likely to be seen, or could they be attended to. One of the surest and safest is during the early afternoon hours, just after luncheon, when the ancient toast of Cheltenham takes her accustomed siesta—before dressing herself for the drive, or reception of callers. While the mistress sleeps the maid is free to dispose of herself, as she pleases.
It was to hit this interlude of leisure Father Rogier has been hurrying; and that he has succeeded is soon known to him, by his seeing a form with floating drapery, recognisable as that of the femme de chambre. Gliding through the shrubbery, and evidently with an eye to escape observation, she is only visible at intervals; at length lost to his sight altogether as she enters among the thick standing trees. But he knows she will turn up again.
And she does, after a short time; coming along the path towards the stile where here he is seated.
“Ah! ma bonne!” he exclaims, dropping on his feet, and moving forward to meet her. “You’ve been prompt! I didn’t expect you quite so soon. Madame la Chatelaine oblivious, I apprehend; in the midst of her afternoon nap?”
“Yes, Père; she was when I stole off. But she has given me directions about dressing her, to go out for a drive—earlier than usual. So I must get back immediately.”
“I’m not going to detain you very long. I chanced to be passing, and thought I might as well have a word with you—seeing it’s the hour when you’re off duty. By the way, I hear you’re about to have grand doings at the Court—a ball, and what not?”
“Oui, m’sieu; oui.”
“When is it to be?”
“On Thursday. Mademoiselle celebrates son jour de naissance—the twenty-first, making her of age. It is to be a grand fête as you say. They’ve been all last week preparing for it.”
“Among the invited Le Capitaine Ryecroft, I presume?”
“O yes. I saw madame write the note inviting him—indeed took it myself down to the hall table for the post-boy.”
“He visits often at the Court of late?”
“Very often—once a week, sometimes twice.”
“And comes down the river by boat; doesn’t he!”
“In a boat. Yes—comes and goes that way.”
Her statement is reliable, as Father Rogier has reason to believe—having an inkling of suspicion that the damsel has of late been casting sheep’s eyes, not at Captain Ryecroft, but his young boatman, and is as much interested in the movements of the Mary as either the boat’s owner or charterer.
“Always comes by water, and returns by it,” observes the priest, as if speaking to himself. “You’re quite sure of that, ma fille?”
“Oh, quite, Père!”
“Mademoiselle appears to be very partial to him. I think, you told me she often accompanies him down to the boat stair, at his departure?”
“Often! always.”
“Always?”
“Toujours! I never knew it otherwise. Either the boat stair, or the pavilion.”
“Ah! the summer-house! They hold their tête-à-tête there at times; do they?”
“Yes; they do.”
“But not when he leaves at a late hour—as, for instance, when he dines at the Court; which I know he has done several times?”
“Oh, yes; even then. Only last week he was there for dinner; and Ma’mselle Gwen went with him to his boat, or the pavilion—to bid adieus. No matter what the time to her. Ma foi! I’d risk my word she’ll do the same after this grand ball that’s to be. And why shouldn’t she, Père Rogier? Is there any harm in it?”
The question is put with a view of justifying her own conduct, that would be somewhat similar were Jack Wingate to encourage it, which, to say truth, he never has.
“Oh, no,” answers the priest, with an assumed indifference; “no harm, whatever, and no business of ours. Mademoiselle Wynn is mistress of her own actions, and will be more, after the coming birthday number vingt-un. But,” he adds, dropping the rôle of the interrogator, now that he has got all the information wanted, “I fear I’m keeping you too long. As I’ve said, chancing to come by I signalled—chiefly to tell you, that next Sunday we have High Mass in the chapel. With special prayers for a young girl, who was drowned last Saturday night, and whom we’ve just this day interred. I suppose you’ve heard?”
“No, I haven’t. Who Père?” Her question may appear strange, Rugg’s Ferry being so near to Llangorren Court and Abergann still nearer. But for reasons already stated, as others, the ignorance of the Frenchwoman as to what has occurred at the farmhouse, is not only intelligible, but natural enough.
Equally natural, though in a sense very different, is the look of satisfaction appearing in her eyes, as the priest in answer gives the name of the drowned girl. “Marie, la fille de fermier Morgan.”
The expression that comes over her face is, under the circumstances, terribly repulsive—being almost that of joy! For not only has she seen Mary Morgan at the chapel, but something besides—heard her name coupled with that of the waterman, Wingate.
In the midst of her strong, sinful emotions, of which the priest is fully cognisant, he finds it a good opportunity for taking leave. Going back to the tree where the bit of signal paper has been left, he plucks it off, and crumbles it into his pocket. Then, returning to the path, shakes hands with her, says “Bonjour!” and departs.
She is not a beauty, or he would have made his adieus in a very different way.
Volume Two—Chapter Six.
The Poacher at Home.
Coracle Dick lives all alone. If he have relatives they are not near, nor does any one in the neighbourhood know aught about them. Only some vague report of a father away off in the colonies, where he went against his will; while the mother—is believed dead.
Not less solitary is Coracle’s place of abode. Situated in a dingle with sides thickly wooded, it is not visible from anywhere. Nor is it near any regular road; only approachable by a path, which there ends; the dell itself being a cul-de-sac. Its open end is toward the river, running in at a point where the bank is precipitous, so hindering thoroughfare along the stream’s edge, unless when its waters are at their lowest.
Coracle’s house is but a hovel, no better than the cabin of a backwoods squatter. Timber structure, too, in part, with a filling up of rough mason work. Its half-dozen perches of garden ground, once reclaimed from the wood, have grown wild again, no spade having touched them for years. The present occupant of the tenement has no taste for gardening, nor agriculture of any kind; he is a poacher, pur sang—at least, so far as is known. And it seems to pay him better than would the cultivation of cabbages—with pheasants at nine shillings the brace, and salmon three shillings the pound. He has the river, if not the mere, for his net, and the land for his game; making as free with both as ever did Alan-a-dale.
But, whatever the price of fish and game, be it high or low, Coracle is never without good store of cash, spending it freely at the Welsh Harp, as elsewhere; at times so lavishly, that people of suspicious nature think it cannot all be the product of night netting and snaring. Some of it, say scandalous tongues, is derived from other industries, also practised by night, and less reputable than trespassing after game. But, as already said, these are only rumours, and confined to the few. Indeed, only a very few have intimate acquaintance with the man. He is of a reserved, taciturn habit, somewhat surly: not talkative even in his cups. And though ever ready to stand treat in the Harp tap-room he rarely practises hospitality in his own house; only now and then, when some acquaintance of like kidney and calling pays him a visit. Then the solitary domicile has its silence disturbed by the talk of men, thick as thieves—often speech which, if heard beyond its walls, ’twould not be well for its owner.
More than half time however, the poacher’s dwelling is deserted, and oftener at night than by day. Its door shut, and padlocked, tells when the tenant is abroad. Then only a rough lurcher dog—a dangerous animal, too—is guardian of the place. Not that there are any chattels to tempt the cupidity of the kleptomaniac. The most valuable moveable inside were not worth carrying away; and outside is but the coracle standing in a lean-to shed, propped up by its paddle. It is not always there, and, when absent, it may be concluded that its owner is on some expedition up, down, or across the river. Nor is the dog always at home; his absence proclaiming the poacher engaged in the terrestrial branch of his profession—running down hares or rabbits.
It is the night of the same day that has seen the remains of Mary Morgan consigned to their resting-place in the burying-ground of the Rugg’s Ferry chapel. A wild night it has turned out, dark and stormy. The autumnal equinox is on, and its gales have commenced stripping the trees of their foliage. Around the dwelling of Dick Dempsey the fallen leaves lie thick, covering the ground as with cloth of gold; at intervals torn to shreds, as the wind swirls them up and holds them suspended.
Every now and then they are driven against the door, which is shut, but not locked. The hasp is hanging loose, the padlock with its bowed bolt open. The coracle is seen standing upright in the shed; the lurcher not anywhere outside—for the animal is within, lying upon the hearth in front of a cheerful fire. And before the same sits its master, regarding a pot which hangs over it on hooks; at intervals lifting off the lid, and stirring the contents with a long-handled spoon of white metal. What these are might be told by the aroma; a stew, smelling strongly of onions with game savour conjoined. Ground game at that, for Coracle is in the act of “jugging” a hare. Handier to no man than him were the recipe of Mrs Glass, for he comes up to all its requirements—even the primary and essential one—knows how to catch his hare as well as cook it.
The stew is done, dished, and set steaming upon the table, where already has been placed a plate—the time-honoured willow pattern—with a knife and two-pronged fork. There is, besides, a jug of water, a bottle containing brandy, and a tumbler.
Drawing his chair up, Coracle commences eating. The hare is a young one—a leveret he has just taken from the stubble—tender and juicy—delicious even without the red-currant jelly he has not got, and for which he does not care. Withal, he appears but little to enjoy the meal, and only eats as a man called upon to satisfy the cravings of hunger. Every now and then, as the fork is being carried to his head, he holds it suspended, with the morsel of flesh on its prongs, while listening to sounds outside!
At such intervals the expression upon his countenance is that of the keenest apprehension; and as a gust of wind, unusually violent, drives a leafy branch in loud clout against the door, he starts in his chair, fancying it the knock of a policeman with his muffled truncheon!
This night the poacher is suffering from no ordinary fear of being summoned for game trespass. Were that all, he could eat his leveret as composedly as if it had been regularly purchased and paid for. But there is more upon his mind; the dread of a writ being presented to him, with shackles at the same time—of being taken handcuffed to the county jail—thence before a court of assize—and finally to the scaffold!
He has reason to apprehend all this. Notwithstanding his deep cunning, and the dexterity with which he accomplished his great crime, a man must have witnessed it. Above the roar of the torrent, mingling with the cries of the drowning girl as she struggled against it, were shouts in a man’s voice, which he fancied to be that of Father Rogier. From what he has since heard he is now certain of it. The coroner’s inquest, at which he was not present, but whose report has reached him, puts that beyond doubt. His only uncertainty is, whether Rogier saw him by the footbridge, and if so to recognise him. True, the priest has nothing said of him at the ’quest; for all he, Coracle, has his suspicions; now torturing him almost as much as if sure that he was detected tampering with the plank. No wonder he eats his supper with little relish, or that after every few mouthfuls he takes a swallow of the brandy, with a view to keeping up his spirits.
Withal he has no remorse. When he recalls the hastily exchanged speeches he overheard upon Garran-hill, with that more prolonged dialogue under the trysting-tree, the expression upon his features is not one of repentance, but devilish satisfaction at the fell deed he has done. Not that his vengeance is yet satisfied. It will not be till he have the other life—that of Jack Wingate. He has dealt the young waterman a blow which at the same time afflicts himself; only by dealing a deadlier one will his own sufferings be relieved. He has been long plotting his rival’s death, but without seeing a safe way to accomplish it. And now the thing seems no nearer than ever—this night farther off. In his present frame of mind—with the dread of the gallows upon it—he would be too glad to cry quits, and let Wingate live!
Starting at every swish of the wind, he proceeds with his supper, hastily devouring it, like a wild beast; and when at length finished, he sets the dish upon the floor for the dog. Then lighting his pipe, and drawing the bottle nearer to his hand, he sits for a while smoking.
Not long before being interrupted by a noise at the door; this time no stroke of wind-tossed waif, but a touch of knuckles. Though slight and barely audible, the dog knows it to be a knock, as shown by his behaviour. Dropping the half-gnawed bone, and springing to its feet, the animal gives out an angry growling.
Its master has himself started from his chair, and stands trembling. There is a slit of a door at back convenient for escape; and for an instant his eye is on it, as though he had half a mind to make exit that way. He would blow out the light were it a candle; but cannot as it is the fire, whose faggots are still brightly ablaze.
While thus undecided, he hears the knock repeated; this time louder, and with the accompaniment of a voice, saying:
“Open your door, Monsieur Dick.”
Not a policeman, then; only the priest!
Volume Two—Chapter Seven.
A Mysterious Contract.
“Only the priest!” muttered Coracle to himself, but little better satisfied than if it were the policeman.
Giving the lurcher a kick to quiet the animal, he pulls back the bolt, and draws open the door, as he does so asking, “That you, Father Rogier?”
“C’est moi!” answers the priest, stepping in without invitation. “Ah! mon bracconier! you’re having something nice for supper. Judging by the aroma ragout of hare. Hope I haven’t disturbed you. Is it hare?”
“It was, your Reverence, a bit of leveret.”
“Was! You’ve finished then. It is all gone?”
“It is. The dog had the remains of it, as ye see.”
He points to the dish on the floor.
“I’m sorry at that—having rather a relish for leveret. It can’t be helped, however.”
“I wish I’d known ye were comin’. Dang the dog!”
“No, no! Don’t blame the poor dumb brute. No doubt, it too has a taste for hare, seeing it’s half hound. I suppose leverets are plentiful just now, and easily caught, since they can no longer retreat to the standing corn?”
“Yes, your Reverence. There be a good wheen o’ them about.”
“In that case, if you should stumble upon one, and bring it to my house, I’ll have it jugged for myself. By the way, what have you got in that black jack?”
“It’s brandy.”
“Well, Monsieur Dick; I’ll thank you for a mouthful.”
“Will you take it neat, or mixed wi’ a drop o’ water?”
“Neat—raw. The night’s that, and the two raws will neutralise one another. I feel chilled to the bones, and a little fatigued, toiling against the storm.”
“It be a fearsome night. I wonder at your Reverence bein’ out—exposin’ yourself in such weather!”
“All weathers are alike to me—when duty calls. Just now I’m abroad on a little matter of business that won’t brook delay.”
“Business—wi’ me?”
“With you, mon bracconier!”
“What may it be, your Reverence?”
“Sit down, and I shall tell you. It’s too important to be discussed standing.”
The introductory dialogue does not tranquillise the poacher; instead, further intensifies his fears. Obedient, he takes his seat one side the table, the priest planting himself on the other, the glass of brandy within reach of his hand.
After a sip, he resumes speech with the remark:
“If I mistake not, you are a poor man, Monsieur Dempsey?”
“You ain’t no ways mistaken ’bout that, Father Rogier.”
“And you’d like to be a rich one?”
Thus encouraged, the poacher’s face lights up a little. Smilingly, he makes reply:
“I can’t say as I’d have any particular objection. ’Stead, I’d like it wonderful well.”
“You can be, if so inclined.”
“I’m ever so inclined, as I’ve sayed. But how, your Reverence? In this hard work-o’-day world ’tant so easy to get rich.”
“For you, easy enough. No labour and not much more difficulty than transporting your coracle five or six miles across the meadows.”
“Somethin’ to do wi’ the coracle, have it?”
“No; ’twill need a bigger boat—one that will carry three or four people. Do you know where you can borrow such, or hire it?”
“I think I do. I’ve a friend, the name o’ Rob Trotter, who’s got just sich a boat. He’d lend it me, sure.”
“Charter it, if he doesn’t. Never mind about the price. I’ll pay.”
“When might you want it, your Reverence?”
“On Thursday night, at ten, or a little later—say half-past.”
“And where am I to bring it?”
“To the Ferry; you’ll have it against the bank by the back of the Chapel burying-ground, and keep it there till I come to you. Don’t leave it to go up to the ‘Harp,’ or anywhere else; and don’t let any one see either the boat or yourself, if you can possibly avoid it. As the nights are now dark at that hour, there need be no difficulty in your rowing up the river without being observed. Above all, you’re to make no one the wiser of what you’re to do, or anything I’m now saying to you. The service I want you for is one of a secret kind, and not to be prattled about.”
“May I have a hint o’ what it is?”
“Not now; you shall know in good time—when you meet me with the boat. There will be another along with me—may be two—to assist in the affair. What will be required of you is a little dexterity, such as you displayed on Saturday night.”
No need the emphasis on the last words to impress their meaning upon the murderer. Too well he comprehends, starting in his chair as if a hornet had stung him.
“How—where?” he gasps out in the confusion of terror.
The double interrogatory is but mechanical, and of no consequence. Hopeless any attempt at concealment or subterfuge; as he is aware on receiving the answer, cool and provokingly deliberate.
“You have asked two questions, Monsieur Dick, that call for separate replies. To the first, ‘How?’ I leave you to grope out the answer for yourself, feeling pretty sure you’ll find it. With the second I’ll be more particular, if you wish me. Place—where a certain foot plank bridges a certain brook, close to the farmhouse of Abergann. It—the plank, I mean—last Saturday night, a little after nine, took a fancy to go drifting down the Wye. Need I tell you who sent it, Richard Dempsey?”
The man thus interrogated looks more than confused—horrified, well nigh crazed. Excitedly stretching out his hand, he clutches the bottle, half fills the tumbler with brandy, and drinks it down at a gulp. He almost wishes it were poison, and would instantly kill him!
Only after dashing the glass down does he make reply—sullenly, and in a hoarse, husky voice:
“I don’t want to know, one way or the other. Damn the plank! What do I care?”
“You shouldn’t blaspheme, Monsieur Dick. That’s not becoming—above all, in the presence of your spiritual adviser. However, you’re excited, as I see, which is in some sense an excuse.”
“I beg your Reverence’s pardon. I was a bit excited about something.”
He has calmed down a little, at thought that things may not be so bad for him after all. The priest’s last words, with his manner, seem to promise secrecy. Still further quieted as the latter continues:
“Never mind about what. We can talk of it afterwards. As I’ve made you aware—more than once, if I rightly remember—there’s no sin so great but that pardon may reach it—if repented and atoned for. On Thursday night you shall have an opportunity to make some atonement. So, be there with the boat!”
“I will, your Reverence; sure as my name’s Richard Dempsey.”
Idle of him to be thus earnest in promising. He can be trusted to come as if led in a string. For he knows there is a halter around his neck, with one end of it in the hand of Father Rogier.
“Enough!” returns the priest. “If there be anything else I think of communicating to you before Thursday I’ll come again—to-morrow night. So be at home. Meanwhile, see to securing the boat. Don’t let there be any failure about that, coûte que coûte. And let me again enjoin silence—not a word to any one, even your friend Rob. Verbum sapientibus! But as you’re not much of a scholar, Monsieur Coracle, I suppose my Latin’s lost on you. Putting it in your own vernacular, I mean: keep a close mouth, if you don’t wish to wear a necktie of material somewhat coarser than either silk or cotton. You comprehend?”
To the priest’s satanical humour the poacher answers, with a sickly smile,—
“I do, Father Rogier; perfectly.”
“That’s sufficient. And now, mon bracconier, I must be gone. Before starting out, however, I’ll trench a little further on your hospitality. Just another drop, to defend me from these chill equinoctials.”
Saying which he leans towards the table, pours out a stoop of the brandy—best Cognac from the “Harp” it is—then quaffing it off, bids “bon soir!” and takes departure.
Having accompanied him to the door, the poacher stands upon its threshold looking after, reflecting upon what has passed, anything but pleasantly. Never took he leave of a guest less agreeable. True, things are not quite so bad as he might have expected, and had reason to anticipate. And yet they are bad enough. He is in the toils—the tough, strong meshes of the criminal net, which at any moment may be drawn tight and fast around him; and between policeman and priest there is little to choose. For his own purposes the latter may allow him to live; but it will be as the life of one who has sold his soul to the devil!
While thus gloomily cogitating he hears a sound, which but makes still more sombre the hue of his thoughts. A voice comes pealing up the glen—a wild, wailing cry, as of some one in the extreme of distress. He can almost fancy it the shriek of a drowning woman. But his ears are too much accustomed to nocturnal sounds, and the voices of the woods, to be deceived. That heard was only a little unusual by reason of the rough night—its tone altered by the whistling of the wind.
“Bah!” he exclaims, recognising the call of the screech-owl, “it’s only one o’ them cursed brutes. What a fool fear makes a man!”
And with this hackneyed reflection he turns back into the house, rebolts the door, and goes to his bed; not to sleep, but lie long awake—kept so by that same fear.
Volume Two—Chapter Eight.
The Game of Pique.
The sun has gone down upon Gwen Wynn’s natal day—its twenty-first anniversary—and Llangorren Court is in a blaze of light. For a grand entertainment is there being given—a ball.
The night is a dark one; but its darkness does not interfere with the festivities; instead, heightens their splendour, by giving effect to the illuminations. For although autumn, the weather is still warm, and the grounds are illuminated. Parti-coloured lamps are placed at intervals along the walks, and suspended in festoonery from the trees, while the casement windows of the house stand open, people passing in and out of them as if they were doors. The drawing-room is this night devoted to dancing; its carpet taken up, the floor made as slippery as a skating rink with beeswax—abominable custom! Though a large apartment, it does not afford space for half the company to dance in; and to remedy this, supplementary quadrilles are arranged on the smooth turf outside—a string and wind band from the neighbouring town making music loud enough for all.
Besides, all do not care for the delightful exercise. A sumptuous spread in the dining-room, with wines at discretion, attracts a proportion of the guests; while there are others who have a fancy to go strolling about the lawn, even beyond the coruscation of the lamps; some who do not think it too dark anywhere, but the darker the better.
The élite of at least half the shire is present, and Miss Linton, who is still the hostess, reigns supreme in fine exuberance of spirits. Being the last entertainment at Llangorren over which she is officially to preside, one might imagine she would take things in a different way. But as she is to remain resident at the Court, with privileges but slightly, if at all, curtailed, she has no gloomy forecast of the future. Instead, on this night present she lives as in the past; almost fancies herself back at Cheltenham in its days of splendour, and dancing with the “first gentleman in Europe” redivivus. If her star be going down, it is going in glory, as the song of the swan is sweetest in its dying hour.
Strange, that on such a festive occasion, with its circumstances attendant, the old spinster, hitherto mistress of the mansion, should be happier than the younger one, hereafter to be! But in truth, so is it. Notwithstanding her great beauty and grand wealth—the latter no longer in prospective, but in actual possession—despite the gaiety and grandeur surrounding her, the friendly greetings and warm congratulations received on all sides—Gwen Wynn is herself anything but gay. Instead, sad, almost to wretchedness!
And from the most trifling of causes, though not as by her estimated; little suspecting she has but herself to blame. It has arisen out of an episode, in love’s history of common and very frequent occurrence—the game of piques. She and Captain Ryecroft are playing it, with all the power and skill they can command. Not much of the last, for jealousy is but a clumsy fencer. Though accounted keen, it is often blind as love itself; and were not both under its influence they would not fail to see through the flimsy deceptions they are mutually practising on one another. In love with each other almost to distraction, they are this night behaving as though they were the bitterest enemies, or at all events as friends sorely estranged.
She began it; blamelessly, even with praiseworthy motive; which, known to him, no trouble could have come up between them. But when, touched with compassion for George Shenstone, she consented to dance with him several times consecutively, and in the intervals remained conversing—too familiarly, as Captain Ryecroft imagined—all this with an “engagement ring” on her finger, by himself placed upon it—not strange in him, thus fiancé, feeling a little jealous; no more that he should endeavour to make her the same. Strategy, old as hills, or hearts themselves.
In his attempt he is, unfortunately, too successful; finding the means near by—an assistant willing and ready to his hand. This in the person of Miss Powell; she also went to church on the Sunday before in Jack Wingate’s boat—a young lady so attractive as to make it a nice point whether she or Gwen Wynn be the attraction of the evening.
Though only just introduced, the Hussar officer is not unknown to her by name, with some repute of his heroism besides. His appearance speaks for itself, making such impression upon the lady as to set her pencil at work inscribing his name on her card for several dances, round and square, in rapid succession.
And so between him and Gwen Wynn the jealous feeling, at first but slightly entertained, is nursed and fanned into a burning flame—the green-eyed monster growing bigger as the night gets later.
On both sides it reaches its maximum, when Miss Wynn, after a waltz, leaning on George Shenstone’s arm, walks out into the grounds, and stops to talk with him in a retired, shadowy spot.
Not far off is Captain Ryecroft observing them, but too far to hear the words passing between. Were he near enough for this, it would terminate the strife raging in his breast, as the sham flirtation he is carrying on with Miss Powell—put at end to her new sprung aspirations, if she has any.
It does as much for the hopes of George Shenstone—long in abeyance, but this night rekindled and revived. Beguiled, first by his partner’s amiability in so oft dancing with, then afterwards using him as a foil, he little dreams that he is but being made a catspaw. Instead, drawing courage from the deception, emboldened as never before, he does what he never dared before—make Gwen Wynn a proposal of marriage. He makes it without circumlocution, at a single bound, as he would take a hedge upon his hunter.
“Gwen! you know how I love you—would give my life for you! Will you be—” Only now he hesitates, as if his horse baulked.
“Be what?” she asks, with no intention to help him over, but mechanically, her thoughts being elsewhere.
“My wife?”
She starts at the words, touched by his manly way, yet pained by their appealing earnestness, and the thought she must give denying response.
And how is she to give it, with least pain to him? Perhaps the bluntest way will be the best. So thinking, she says:—
“George, it can never be. Look at that!”
She holds out her left hand, sparkling with jewels.
“At what?” he asks, not comprehending.
“That ring.” She indicates a cluster of brilliants, on the fourth finger, by itself, adding the word “Engaged.”
“O God!” he exclaims, almost in a groan. “Is that so?”
“It is.”
For a time there is silence; her answer less maddening than making him sad.
With a desperate effort to resign himself, he at length replies:—
“Dear Gwen! for I must still call you—ever hold you so—my life hereafter will be as one who walks in darkness, waiting for death—ah, longing for it!”
Despair has its poetry, as love; oft exceeding the last in fervour of expression, and that of George Shenstone causes surprise to Gwen Wynn, while still further paining her. So much she knows not how to make rejoinder, and is glad when a fanfare of the band instruments gives note of another quadrille—the Lancers—about to begin.
Still engaged partners for the dance, but not to be for life, they return to the drawing-room, and join in it; he going through its figures with a sad heart and many a sigh.
Nor is she less sorrowful, only more excited; nigh unto madness, as she sees Captain Ryecroft vis-à-vis with Miss Powell; on his face an expression of content, calm, almost cynical; hers radiant as with triumph!
In this moment of Gwen Wynn’s supreme misery—acme of jealous spite—were George Shenstone to renew his proposal, she might pluck the betrothal ring from her finger, and give answer, “I will!”
It is not to be so, however weighty the consequence. In the horoscope of her life there is yet a heavier.
Volume Two—Chapter Nine.
Jealous as a Tiger.
It is a little after two a.m., and the ball is breaking up. Not a very late hour, as many of the people live at a distance, and have a long drive homeward, over hilly roads.
By the fashion prevailing a galop brings the dancing to a close. The musicians, slipping their instruments into cases and baize bags, retire from the room; soon after deserted by all, save a spare servant or two, who make the rounds to look to extinguishing the lamps, with a sharp eye for waifs in the shape of dropped ribbons or bijouterie.
Gentlemen guests stay longer in the dining-room over claret and champagne “cup,” or the more time-honoured B and S; while in the hallway there is a crush, and on the stairs a stream of ladies, descending cloaked and hooded.
Soon the crowd waxes thinner, relieved by carriages called up, quickly filling, and whirled off.
That of Squire Powell is among them; and Captain Ryecroft, not without comment from certain officious observers, accompanies the young lady, he has been so often dancing with, to the door.
Having seen her off with the usual ceremonies of leave-taking, he returns into the porch, and there for a while remains. It is a large portico, with Corinthian columns, by one of which he takes stand, in shadow. But there is a deeper shadow on his own brow, and a darkness in his heart, such as he has never in his life experienced. He feels how he has committed himself, but not with any remorse or repentance. Instead, the jealous anger is still within his breast, ripe and ruthless as ever. Nor is it so unnatural. Here is a woman—not Miss Powell, but Gwen Wynn—to whom he has given his heart—acknowledged the surrender, and in return had acknowledgment of hers—not only this, but offered his hand in marriage—placed the pledge upon her finger, she assenting and accepting—and now, in the face of all, openly, and before his face, engaged in flirtation!
It is not the first occasion for him to have observed familiarities between her and the son of Sir George Shenstone; trifling, it is true, but which gave him uneasiness. But to-night things have been more serious, and the pain caused him all-imbuing and bitter.
He does not reflect how he has been himself behaving. For to none more than the jealous lover is the big beam unobservable, while the little mote is sharply descried. He only thinks of her ill-behaviour, ignoring his own. If she has been but dissembling, coquetting with him, even that were reprehensible. Heartless, he deems it—sinister—something more, an indiscretion. Flirting while engaged—what might she do when married?
He does not wrong her by such direct self-interrogation. The suspicion were unworthy of himself, as of her; and as yet he has not given way to it. Still her conduct seems inexcusable, as inexplicable; and to get explanation of it he now tarries, while others are hastening away.
Not resolutely. Besides the half sad, half indignant expression upon his countenance, there is also one of indecision. He is debating within himself what course to pursue, and whether he will go off without bidding her good-bye. He is almost mad enough to be ill-mannered; and possibly, were it only a question of politeness, he would not stand upon, or be stayed by it. But there is more. The very same spiteful rage hinders him from going. He thinks himself aggrieved, and, therefore, justifiable in demanding to know the reason—to use a slang, but familiar phrase, “having it out.”
Just as has reached this determination, an opportunity is offered him. Having taken leave of Miss Linton, he has returned to the door, where he stands hat in hand, his overcoat already on. Miss Wynn is now also there, bidding good night to some guests—intimate friends—who have remained till the last. As they move off, he approaches her; she, as if unconsciously, and by the merest chance, lingering near the entrance. It is all pretence on her part, that she has not seen him dallying about; for she has several times, while giving congé to others of the company. Equally feigned her surprise, as she returns his salute, saying—
“Why, Captain Ryecroft! I supposed you were gone long ago!”
“I am sorry, Miss Wynn, you should think me capable of such rudeness.”
“Captain Ryecroft” and “Miss Wynn,” instead of “Vivian” and “Gwen!” It is a bad beginning, ominous of a worse ending.
The rejoinder, almost a rebuke, places her at a disadvantage, and she says rather confusedly—
“O! certainly not, sir. But where there are so many people, of course, one does not look for the formalities of leave-taking.”
“True; and, availing myself of that, I might have been gone long since, as you supposed, but for—”
“For what?”
“A word I wish to speak with you—alone. Can I?”
“Oh, certainly.”
“Not here?” he asks suggestingly.
She glances around. There are servants hurrying about through the hall, crossing and recrossing, with the musicians coming forth from the dining-room, where they have been making a clearance of the cold fowl, ham, and heel-taps.
With quick intelligence comprehending, but without further speech she walks out into the portico, he preceding. Not to remain there, where eyes would still be on them, and ears within hearing. She has an Indian shawl upon her arm—throughout the night carried while promenading—and again throwing it over her shoulders, she steps down upon the gravelled sweep, and on into the grounds.
Side by side they proceed in the direction of the summer-house, as many times before, though never in the same mood as now. And never, as now, so constrained and silent; for not a word passes between them till they reach the pavilion.
There is light in it. But a few hundred yards from the house, it came in for part of the illumination, and its lamps are not yet extinguished—only burning feebly.
She is the first to enter—he to resume speech, saying—
“There was a day, Miss Wynn, when, standing on this spot, I thought myself the happiest man in Herefordshire. Now I know it was but a fancy—a sorry hallucination.”
“I do not understand you, Captain Ryecroft!”
“Oh yes, you do. Pardon my contradicting you; you’ve given me reason.”
“Indeed! In what way? I beg, nay, demand, explanation.”
“You shall have it; though superfluous, I should think, after what has been passing—this night especially.”
“Oh! this night especially! I supposed you so much engaged with Miss Powell as not to have noticed anything or anybody else. What was it, pray?”
“You understand, I take it, without need of my entering into particulars.”
“Indeed, I don’t; unless you refer to my dancing with George Shenstone.”
“More than dancing with him—keeping his company all through!”
“Not strange that; seeing I was left so free to keep it! Besides, as I suppose you know, his father was my father’s oldest and most intimate friend.”
She makes this avowal condescendingly, observing he is really vexed, and thinking the game of contraries has gone far enough. He has given her a sight of his cards, and with the quick subtle instinct of woman she sees that among them Miss Powell is no longer chief trump. Were his perception keen as hers, their jealous conflict would now come to a close, and between them confidence and friendship, stronger than ever, be restored.
Unfortunately it is not to be. Still miscomprehending, yet unyielding, he rejoins, sneeringly—
“And I suppose your father’s daughter is determined to continue that intimacy with his fathers son; which might not be so very pleasant to him who should be your husband! Had I thought of that when I placed a ring upon your finger—”
Before he can finish she has plucked it off, and drawing herself up to full height, says in bitter retort—
“You insult me, sir! Take it back!” With the words, the gemmed circlet is flung upon the little rustic table, from which it rolls off.
He has not been prepared for such abrupt issue, though his rude speech tempted it. Somewhat sorry, but still too exasperated to confess or show it, he rejoins, defiantly:—
“If you wish it to end so, let it!”
“Yes; let it!”
They part without further speech. He, being nearest the door, goes out first, taking no heed of the diamond cluster which lies sparkling upon the floor.
Neither does she touch, or think of it. Were it the Koh-i-noor, she would not care for it now. A jewel more precious—the one love of her life is lost—cruelly crushed—and, with heart all but breaking, she sinks down upon the bench, draws the shawl over her face, and weeps till its rich silken tissue is saturated with her tears.
The wild spasm passed, she rises to her feet, and stands leaning upon the baluster rail, looking out and listening. Still dark, she sees nothing; but hears the stroke of a boat’s oars in measured and regular repetition—listens on till the sound becomes indistinct, blending with the sough of the river, the sighing of the breeze, and the natural voices of the night.
She may never hear his voice, never look on his face again!
At the thought she exclaims, in anguished accent, “This the ending! It is too—”
What she designed saying is not said. Her interrupted words are continued into a shriek—one wild cry—then her lips are sealed, suddenly, as if stricken dumb, or dead!
Not by the visitation of God. Before losing consciousness, she felt the embrace of brawny arms—knew herself the victim of man’s violence.