Between Wingate’s cottage and Rugg’s Captain Ryecroft has but slight acquaintance with the river, knows it only by a glimpse had here and there from the road. Now, ascending by boat, he makes note of certain things appertaining to it—chiefly, the rate of its current, the windings of its channel, and the distance between the two places. He seems considering how long a boat might be in passing from one to the other. And just this is he thinking of: his thoughts on that boat he saw starting downward.
Whatever his object in all this, he does not reveal it to his companion. The time has not come for taking the waterman into full confidence. It will, but not to-night.
He has again relapsed into silence, which continues till he catches sight of an object on the left bank, conspicuous against the sky, beside the moon’s disc, now low. It is a cross surmounting a structure of ecclesiastical character, which he knows to be the Roman Catholic chapel at Rugg’s. Soon as abreast of it he commands—
“Hold way, Jack! Keep her steady awhile!”
The waterman obeys without questioning why this new stoppage. He is himself interrogated the instant after—thus:—
“You see that shadowed spot under the bank—by the wall?”
“I do, Captain.”
“Is there any landing-place there for a boat?”
“None, as I know of. Course a boat may put in anywhere, if the bank beant eyther a cliff or a quagmire. The reg’lar landin’ place be above—where the ferry punt lays.”
“But have you ever known of a boat being moored in there?”
The question has reference to the place first spoken of.
“I have, Captain; my own. That but once, an’ the occasion not o’ the pleasantest kind. ’Twar the night after my poor Mary wor buried, when I comed to say a prayer over her grave, an’ plant a flower on it. I may say I stole there to do it; not wishin’ to be obsarved by that sneak o’ a priest, nor any o’ their Romish lot. Exceptin’ my own, I never knew or heard o’ another boat bein’ laid along there.”
“All right! Now on!”
And on the skiff is sculled up stream for another mile, with little further speech passing between oarsman and steerer; it confined to subjects having no relation to what they have been all the evening occupied with.
For Ryecroft is once more in reverie, or rather silently thinking; his thoughts concentrated on the one theme—endeavouring to solve that problem, simple of itself—but with many complications and doubtful ambiguities—how Gwendoline Wynn came by her death.
He is still absorbed in a sea of conjectures, far as ever from its shore, when he feels the skiff at rest; as it ceases motion its oarsman asking—
“Do you weesh me to set you out here, Captain? There be the right o’ way path through Powell’s meadows. Or would ye rather be took on up to the town? Say which you’d like best, an’ don’t think o’ any difference it makes to me.”
“Thanks, Jack; it’s very kind of you, but I prefer the walk up the meadows. There’ll be moonlight enough yet. And as I shall want your boat to-morrow—it may be for the whole of the day—you’d better get home and well rested. Besides, you say you’ve an errand at Rugg’s—to the shop there. You must make haste, or it will be closed.”
“Ah! I didn’t think o’ that. Obleeged to ye much for remindin’ me. I promised mother to get them grocery things the night, and wouldn’t like to disappoint her—for a good deal.”
“Pull in, then, quick, and tilt me out! And, Jack! not a word to any one about where I’ve been, or what doing. Keep that to yourself.”
“I will—you may rely on me, Captain.”
The boat is brought against the bank; Ryecroft leaps lightly to land, calls back “good night,” and strikes off along the footpath.
Not a moment delays the waterman; but shoving off, and setting head down stream, pulls with all his strength, stimulated by the fear of finding the shop shut.
He is in good time, however; and reaches Rugg’s to see a light in the shop window, with its door standing open.
Going in he gets the groceries, and is on return to the landing-place, where he has left his skiff, when he meets with a man, who has come to the Ferry on an errand somewhat similar to his own. It is Joseph Preece, “Old Joe,” erst boatman of Llangorren Court; but now, as all his former fellow-servants, at large.
Though the acquaintance between him and Wingate is comparatively of recent date, a strong friendship has sprung up between them—stronger as the days passed, and each saw more of the other. For of late, in the exercise of their respective métiers, professionally alike, they have had many opportunities of being together, and more than one lengthened “confab” in the Gwendoline’s dock.
It is days since they have met, and there is much to talk about, Joe being chief spokesman. And now that he has done his shopping, Jack can spare the time to listen. It will throw him a little later in reaching home; but his mother won’t mind that. She saw him go up, and knows he will remember his errand.
So the two stand conversing till the gossipy Joseph has discharged himself of a budget of intelligence, taking nigh half an hour in the delivery.
Then they part, the ex-Charon going about his own business, the waterman returning to his skiff.
Stepping into it, and seating himself, he pulls out and down.
A few strokes bring him opposite the chapel burying-ground; when all at once, as if stricken by a palsy, his arms cease moving, and the oar-blades drag deep in the water. There is not much current, and the skiff floats slowly.
He in it sits with eyes turned towards the graveyard. Not that he can see anything there, for the moon has gone down, and all is darkness. But he is not gazing, only thinking.
A thought, followed by an impulse leading to instantaneous action. A back stroke or two of the starboard oar, then a strong tug, and the boat’s bow is against the bank.
He steps ashore; ties the painter to a withy; and, climbing over the wall, proceeds to the spot so sacred to him.
Dark as is now the night he has no difficulty in finding it. He has gone over that ground before, and remembers every inch of it. There are not many gravestones to guide him, for the little cemetery is of late consecration, and its humble monuments are few and far between. But he needs not their guidance. As a faithful dog by instinct finds the grave of its master, so he, with memories quickened by affection, makes his way to the place where repose the remains of Mary Morgan.
Standing over her grave he first gives himself up to an outpouring of grief, heartfelt as wild. Then becoming calmer he kneels down beside it, and says a prayer. It is the Lord’s—he knows no other. Enough that it gives him relief; which it does, lightening his overcharged heart.
Feeling better he is about to depart, and has again risen erect, when a thought stays him—a remembrance—“The flower of love-lies-bleeding.”
Is it growing? Not the flower, but the plant. He knows the former is faded, and must wait for the return of spring. But the latter—is it still alive and flourishing? In the darkness he cannot see, but will be able to tell by the touch.
Once more dropping upon his knees, and extending his hands over the grave, he gropes for it. He finds the spot, but not the plant. It is gone! Nothing left of it—not a remnant! A sacrilegious hand has been there, plucked it up, torn it out root and stalk, as the disturbed turf tells him!
In strange contrast with the prayerful words late upon his lips, are the angry exclamations to which he now gives utterance; some of them so profane as only under the circumstances to be excusable.
“It’s that d—d rascal, Dick Dempsey, as ha’ done it. Can’t a been anybody else? An’ if I can but get proof o’t, I’ll make him repent o’ the despicable trick. I will, by the livin’ God!”
Thus angrily soliloquising, he strides back to his skiff, and getting in rows off. But more than once, on the way homeward, he might be heard muttering words in the same wild strain—threats against Coracle Dick.
Mrs Wingate is again growing impatient at her son’s continued absence, now prolonged beyond all reasonable time. The Dutch dial on the kitchen wall shows it to be after ten; therefore two hours since the skiff passed upwards. Jack has often made the return trip to Rugg’s in less than one, while the shopping should not occupy him more than ten minutes, or, making every allowance, not twenty. How is the odd time being spent by him?
Her impatience becomes uneasiness as she looks out of doors, and observes the hue of the sky. For the moon having gone down it is now very dark, which always means danger on the river. The Wye is not a smooth swan pond, and, flooded or not, annually claims its victims—strong men as women. And her son is upon it!
“Where?” she asks herself, becoming more and more anxious. He may have taken his fare on up to the town, in which case it will be still later before he can get back.
While thus conjecturing a tinge of sadness steals over the widow’s thoughts, with something of that weird feeling she experienced when once before waiting for him in the same way—on the occasion of his pretended errand after whipcord and pitch.
“Poor lad!” she says, recalling the little bit of deception she pardoned, and which now more than ever seems pardonable; “he hain’t no need now deceivin’ his old mother that way. I only wish he had.”
“How black that sky do look,” she adds, rising from her seat, and going to the door; “An’ threatenin’ storm, if I bean’t mistook. Lucky, Jack ha’ intimate acquaintance wi’ the river ’tween here and Rugg’s—if he hain’t goed farther. What a blessin’ the boy don’t gie way to drink, an’s otherways careful! Well, I ’spose there an’t need for me feelin’ uneasy. For all, I don’t like his bein’ so late. Mercy me! Nigh on the stroke o’ eleven? Ha! What’s that? Him I hope.”
She steps hastily out, and behind the house, which fronting the road, has its back towards the river. On turning the corner she hears a dull thump, as of a boat brought up against the bank; then a sharper concussion of timber striking timber—the sound of oars being unshipped. It comes from the Mary, at her mooring-place; as, in a few seconds after, Mrs Wingate is made aware, by seeing her son approach with his arms full—in one of them a large brown paper parcel, while under the other are his oars. She knows it is his custom to bring the latter up to the shed—a necessary precaution due to the road running so near, and the danger of larking fellows taking a fancy to carry off his skiff.
Met by his mother outside, he delivers the grocery goods and together they go in; when he is questioned as to the cause of delay.
“Whatever ha kep’ ye, Jack? Ye’ve been a wonderful long time goin’ up to the Ferry an’ back!”
“The Ferry! I went far beyond; up to the footpath over Squire Powell’s meadows. There I set Captain out.”
“Oh! that be it.”
His answer being satisfactory he is not further interrogated. For she has become busied with an earthenware teapot, into which have been dropped three spoonfuls of “Horniman’s” just brought home—one for her son, another for herself, and the odd one for the pot—the orthodox quantity. It is a late hour for tea; but their regular evening meal was postponed by the coming of the Captain, and Mrs Wingate would not consider supper as it should be, wanting the beverage which cheers without intoxicating.
The pot set upon the hearthstone over some red-hot cinders, its contents are soon “mashed;” and, as nearly everything else had been got ready against Jack’s arrival, it but needs for him to take seat by the table, on which one of the new composite candles, just lighted, stands in its stick.
Occupied with pouring out the tea, and creaming it, the good dame does not notice anything odd in the expression of her son’s countenance; for she has not yet looked at it, in a good light. Nor till she is handing the cup across to him. Then, the fresh lit candle gleaming full in his face, she sees what gives her a start. Not the sad melancholy cast to which she has of late been accustomed. That has seemingly gone off, replaced by sullen anger, as though he were brooding over some wrong done, or insult recently received!
“Whatever be the matter wi’ ye, Jack?” she asks, the teacup still held in trembling hand. “There ha’ something happened?”
“Oh! nothin’ much, mother.”
“Nothin’ much! Then why be ye looking so black?”
“What makes you think I’m lookin’ that way?”
“How can I help thinkin’ it? Why, lad; your brow be clouded, same’s the sky outside. Come, now tell the truth! Bean’t there somethin’ amiss?”
“Well, mother; since you axe me that way I will tell the truth. Somethin’ be amiss; or I ought better say, missin’.”
“Missin’! Be’t anybody ha’ stoled the things out o’ the boat? The balin’ pan, or that bit o’ cushion in the stern?”
“No it ain’t; no trifle o’ that kind, nor anythin’ stealed eyther. ’Stead a thing as ha’ been destroyed.”
“What thing?”
“The flower—the plant.”
“Flower! plant!”
“Yes; the Love-lies-bleedin’ I set on Mary’s grave the night after she wor laid in it. Ye remember my tellin’ you, mother?”
“Yes—yes; I do.”
“Well, it ain’t there now.”
“Ye ha’ been into the chapel buryin’ groun’ then?”
“I have.”
“But what made ye go there, Jack?”
“Well, mother; passin’ the place, I took a notion to go in—a sort o’ sudden inclinashun, I couldn’t resist. I thought that kneelin’ beside her grave, an’ sayin’ a prayer might do somethin’ to lift the weight off o’ my heart. It would a done that, no doubt, but for findin’ the flower warn’t there. Fact, it had a good deal relieved me, till I discovered it wor gone.”
“But how gone? Ha’ the thing been cut off, or pulled up?”
“Clear plucked out by the roots. Not a vestige o’ it left!”
“Maybe ’twer the sheep or goats. They often get into a graveyard; and if I beant mistook I’ve seen some in that o’ the Ferry Chapel. They may have ate it up?”
The idea is new to him, and being plausible, he reflects on it, for a time misled. Not long, however; only till remembering what tells him it is fallacious; this, his having set the plant so firmly that no animal could have uprooted it. A sheep or goat might have eaten off the top, but nothing more.
“No, mother!” he at length rejoins; “it han’t been done by eyther; but by a human hand—I ought better to say the claw o’ a human tiger. No, not tiger; more o’ a stinkin’ cat!”
“Ye suspect somebody, then?”
“Suspect! I’m sure, as one can be without seein’, that bit o’ desecrashun ha’ been the work o’ Dick Dempsey. But I mean plantin’ another in its place, an’ watchin’ it too. If he pluck it up, an’ I know it, they’ll need dig another grave in the Rogue’s Ferry buryin’ groun’—that for receivin’ as big a rogue as ever wor buried there, or anywhere else—the d—d scoundrel!”
“Dear Jack! don’t let your passion get the better o’ ye, to speak so sinfully. Richard Dempsey be a bad man, no doubt; but the Lord will deal wi’ him in his own way, an’ sure punish him. So leave him to the Lord. After all, what do it matter—only a bit o’ weed?”
“Weed! Mother, you mistake. That weed, as ye call it, wor like a silken string, bindin’ my heart to Mary’s. Settin’ it in the sod o’ her grave gied me a comfort I can’t describe to ye. An’ now to find it tore up brings the bitter all back again. In the spring I hoped to see it in bloom, to remind me o’ her love as ha’ been blighted, an’ like it lies bleedin’. But—well, it seems as I can’t do nothin’ for her now she’s dead, as I warn’t able while she wor livin’.”
He covers his face with his hands to hide the tears now coursing down his cheeks.
“Oh, my son! don’t take on so. Think that she be happy now—in Heaven. Sure she is, from all I ha’ heerd o’ her.”
“Yes, mother!” he earnestly affirms, “she is. If ever woman went to the good place, she ha’ goed there.”
“Well, that ought to comfort ye.”
“It do some. But to think of havin’ lost her for good—never again to look at her sweet face. Oh! that be dreadful!”
“Sure, it be. But think also that ye an’t the only one as ha’ to suffer. Nobody escape affliction o’ that sort, some time or the other. It’s the lot o’ all—rich folks as well as we poor ones. Look at the Captain, there! He be sufferin’ like yourself. Poor man! I pity him, too.”
“So do I, mother. An’ I ought, so well understandin’ how he feel, though he be too proud to let people see it. I seed it the day—several times noticed tears in his eyes, when we wor talkin’ about things that reminded him o’ Miss Wynn. When a soldier—a grand fightin’ soldier as he ha’ been—gies way to weepin’, the sorrow must be strong an’ deep. No doubt, he be ’most heart-broke, same’s myself.”
“But that an’t right, Jack. It isn’t intended we should always gie way to grief, no matter how dear they may a’ been as are lost to us. Besides, it be sinful.”
“Well, mother, I’ll try to think more cheerful; submittin’ to the will o’ Heaven.”
“Ah! There’s a good lad! That’s the way; an’ be assured Heaven won’t forsake, but comfort ye yet. Now, let’s not say any more about it. You an’t eating your supper!”
“I han’t no great appetite after all.”
“Never mind; ye must eat, an’ the tea’ll cheer ye. Hand me your cup, an’ let me fill it again.”
He passes the empty cup across the table, mechanically.
“It be very good tea,” she says, telling a little untruth for the sake of abstracting his thoughts. “But I’ve something else for you that’s better—before you go to bed.”
“Ye take too much care o’ me, mother.”
“Nonsense, Jack. Ye’ve had a hard day’s work o’t. But ye hain’t told me what the Captain tooked ye out for, nor where ye went down the river. How far?”
“Only as far as Llangorren Court.”
“But there be new people there now, ye sayed?”
“Yes; the Murdocks. Bad lot both man an’ wife, though he wor the cousin o’ the good young lady as be gone.”
“Sure, then, the Captain han’t been to visit them?”
“No, not likely. He an’t the kind to consort wi’ such as they, for all o’ their bein’ big folks now.”
“But there were other ladies livin’ at Llangorren. What ha’ become o’ they?”
“They ha’ gone to another house somewhere down the river—a smaller one it’s sayed. The old lady as wor Miss Wynn’s aunt ha’ money o’ her own, an’ the other be livin’ ’long wi’ her. For the rest there’s been a clean out—all the sarvints sent about their business; the only one kep’ bein’ a French girl who wor lady’s-maid to the old mistress—that’s the aunt. She’s now the same to the new one, who be French, like herself.”
“Where ha’ ye heerd all this, Jack?”
“From Joseph Preece. I met him up at the Ferry, as I wor comin’ away from the shop.”
“He’s out too, then?” asks Mrs Wingate, who has of late come to know him.
“Yes; same’s the others.”
“Where be the poor man abidin’ now?”
“Well; that’s odd, too. Where do you suppose, mother?”
“How should I know, my son? Where?”
“In the old house where Coracle Dick used to live!”
“What be there so odd in that?”
“Why, because Dick’s now in his house; ha’ got his place at the Court, an’s goin’ to be somethin’ far grander than ever he wor—head keeper.”
“Ah! poacher turned gamekeeper! That be settin’ thief to catch thief!”
“Somethin’ besides thief, he! A deal worse than that!”
“But,” pursues Mrs Wingate, without reference to the reflection on Coracle’s character, “ye han’t yet tolt me what the Captain took down the river.”
“I an’t at liberty to tell any one. Ye understand me, mother?”
“Yes, yes; I do.”
“The Captain ha’ made me promise to say nothin’ o’ his doin’s; an’, to tell truth, I don’t know much about them myself. But what I do know, I’m honour bound to keep dark consarnin’ it—even wi’ you, mother.”
She appreciates his nice sense of honour; and, with her own of delicacy, does not urge him to any further explanation.
“In time,” he adds, “I’m like enough to know all o’ what he’s after. Maybe, the morrow.”
“Ye’re to see him the morrow, then?”
“Yes; he wants the boat.”
“What hour?”
“He didn’t say when, only that he might be needin’ me all the day. So I may look out for him early—first thing in the mornin’.”
“That case ye must get to your bed at oncst, an’ ha’ a good sleep, so’s to start out fresh. First take this. It be the somethin’ I promised ye—better than tea.”
The something is a mug of mulled elderberry wine, which, whether or not better than tea, is certainty superior to port prepared in the same way.
Quaffing it down, and betaking himself to bed, under its somniferous influence, the Wye waterman is soon in the land of dreams. Not happy ones, alas! but visions of a river flood-swollen, with a boat upon its seething frothy surface, borne rapidly on towards a dangerous eddy—then into it—at length capsized to a sad symphony—the shrieks of a drowning woman!
At Llangorren Court all is changed, from owner down to the humblest domestic. Lewin Murdock has become its master, as the priest told him he some day might.
There was none to say nay. By the failure of Ambrose Wynn’s heirs—in the line through his son and bearing his name—the estate of which he was the original testator reverts to the children of his daughter, of whom Lewin Murdock, an only son, is the sole survivor. He of Glyngog is therefore indisputable heritor of Llangorren; and no one disputing it, he is now in possession, having entered upon it soon as the legal formularies could be gone through with. This they have been with a haste which causes invidious remark, if not actual scandal.
Lewin Murdock is not the man to care; and, in truth, he is now scarce ever sober enough to feel sensitive, could he have felt so at any time. But in his new and luxurious home, waited on by a staff of servants, with wine at will, so unlike the days of misery spent in the dilapidated manor house, he gives loose rein to his passion for drink; leaving the management of affairs to his dexterous better half.
She has not needed to take much trouble in the matter of furnishing. Her husband, as nearest of kin to the deceased, has also come in for the personal effects, furniture included; all but some belongings of Miss Linton, which had been speedily removed by her—transferred to a little house of her own, not far off. Fortunately, the old lady is not left impecunious; but has enough to keep her in comfort, with an economy, however, that precludes all idea of longer indulging in a lady’s-maid, more especially one so expensive as Clarisse; who, as Jack Wingate said, has been dismissed from Miss Linton’s establishment—at the same time discharging herself by notice formally given. That clever demoiselle was not meant for service in a ten-roomed cottage, even though a detached one; and through the intervention of her patron, the priest, she still remains at the Court, to dance attendance on the ancien belle of Mabille, as she did on the ancient toast of Cheltenham.
Pleasantly so far; her new mistress being in fine spirits, and herself delighted with everything. The French adventuress has attained the goal of an ambition long cherished, though not so patiently awaited. Oft gazed she across the Wye at those smiling grounds of Llangorren, as the Fallen Angel back over its walls into the Garden of Eden; oft saw she there assemblages of people to her seeming as angels, not fallen, but in highest favour—ah! in her estimation, more than angels—women of rank and wealth, who could command what she coveted beyond any far-off joys celestial—the nearer pleasures of earth and sense.
Those favoured fair ones are not there now, but she herself is; owner of the very Paradise in which they disported themselves! Nor does she despair of seeing them at Llangorren again, and having them around her in friendly intercourse, as had Gwendoline Wynn. Brought up under the régime of Louis and trained in the school of Eugenie, why need she fear either social slight or exclusion? True, she is in England, not France; but she thinks it is all the same. And not without some reason for so thinking. The ethics of the two countries, so different in days past, have of late become alarmingly assimilated—ever since that hand, red with blood spilled upon the boulevards of Paris, was affectionately elapsed by a Queen on the dock head of Cherbourg. The taint of that touch felt throughout all England, has spread over it like a plague; no local or temporary epidemic, but one which still abides, still emitting its noisome effluvia in a flood of prurient literature—novel writers who know neither decency nor shame—newspaper scribblers devoid of either truth or sincerity—theatres little better than licensed bagnios, and Stock Exchange scandals smouching names once honoured in English history, with other scandals of yet more lamentable kind—all the old landmarks of England’s morality being rapidly obliterated.
And all the better for Olympe, née Renault. Like her sort living by corruption, she instinctively rejoices at it, glories in the monde immonde of the Second Empire, and admires the abnormal monster who has done so much in sowing and cultivating the noxious crop. Seeing it flourish around her, and knowing it on the increase, the new mistress of Llangorren expects to profit by it. Nor has she the slightest fear of failure in any attempt she may make to enter Society. It will not much longer taboo her. She knows that, with very little adroitness, 10,000 pounds a-year will introduce her into a Royal drawing-room—aye, take her to the steps of a throne; and none is needed to pass through the gates of Hurlingham nor those of Chiswick’s Garden. In this last she would not be the only flower of poisonous properties and tainted perfume; instead, would brush skirts with scores of dames wonderfully like those of the Restoration and Regency, recalling the painted dolls of the Second Charles, and the Delilahs of the Fourth George; in bold effrontery and cosmetic brilliance equalling either.
The wife of Lewin Murdock hopes ere long to be among them—once more a célébrité, as she was in the Bois de Boulogne, and the bals of the demi-monde.
True, the county aristocracy have not yet called upon her. For by a singular perverseness—unlike Nature’s laws in the animal and vegetable world—the outer tentacles of this called “Society” are the last to take hold. But they will yet. Money is all powerful in this free and easy age. Having that in sufficiency, it makes little difference whether she once sat by a sewing machine, or turned a mangle, as she once has done in the Faubourg Montmartre for her mother, la blanchisseuse. She is confident the gentry of the shire will in due time surrender, send in their cards and come of themselves; as they surely will, soon as they see her name in the Court Journal or Morning Post in the list of Royal receptions:—“Mrs Lewin Murdock, presented by the Countess of Devilacare.”
And to a certainty they shall so read it, with much about her besides, if Jenkins be true to his instincts. She need not fear him—he will. She can trust his fidelity to the star scintillating in a field of plush, as to the Polar that of magnetic needle.
Her husband bears his new fortunes in a manner somewhat different; in one sense more soberly, as in another the reverse. If, during his adversity he indulged in drink, in prosperity he does not spare it. But there is another passion to which he now gives loose—his old, unconquerable vice—gaming. Little cares he for the cards of visitors, while those of the gambler delight him; and though his wife has yet received none of the former, he has his callers to take a hand with him at the latter—more than enough to make up a rubber of whist. Besides, some of his old cronies of the “Welsh Harp,” who have now entrée at Llangorren, several young swells of the neighbourhood—the black sheep of their respective flocks—are not above being of his company. Where the carrion is the eagles congregate, as the vultures; and already two or three of the “leg” fraternity—in farther flight from London—have found their way into Herefordshire, and hover around the precincts of the Court.
Night after night, tables are there set out for loo, écarté, rouge et noir, or whatever may be called for—in a small way resembling the hells of Homburg, Baden, and Monaco—wanting only the women.
Among the faces now seen at Llangorren—most of them new to the place, and not a few of forbidding aspect—there is one familiar to us. Sinister as any; since it is that of Father Rogier. At no rare intervals may it be there observed; but almost continuously. Frequent as were his visits to Glyngog, they are still more so to Llangorren, where he now spends the greater part of his time; his own solitary, and somewhat humble, dwelling at Rugg’s Ferry seeing nothing of him for days together, while for nights its celibate bed is unslept in: the luxurious couch spread for him at the Court having greater attractions.
Whether made welcome to this unlimited hospitality, or not, he comports himself as though he were; seeming noways backward in the reception of it; instead as if demanding it. One ignorant of his relations with the master of the establishment might imagine him its master. Nor would the supposition be so far astray. As the King-mater controls the King, so can Gregoire Rogier the new Lord of Llangorren—influence him at his will.
And this does he; though not openly, or ostensibly. That would be contrary to the tactics taught him, and the practice to which he is accustomed. The sword of Loyola in the hands of his modern apostles has become a dagger—a weapon more suitable to Ultramontanism. Only in Protestant countries to be wielded with secrecy, though elsewhere little concealed.
But the priest of Rugg’s Ferry is not in France; and, under the roof of an English gentleman, though a Roman Catholic, bears himself with becoming modesty—before strangers and the eyes of the outside world. Even the domestics of the house see nothing amiss. They are new to their places, and as yet unacquainted with the relationships around them. Nor would they think it strange in a priest having control there or anywhere. They are all of his persuasion, else they would not be in service at Llangorren Court.
So proceed matters under its new administration.
On the same evening that Captain Ryecroft makes his quiet excursion down the river to inspect the traces on the cliff, there is a little dinner party at the Court; the diners taking seat by the table just about the time he was stepping into Wingate’s skiff.
The hour is early; but it is altogether a bachelor affair, and Lewin Murdock’s guests are men not much given to follow fashions. Besides, there is another reason; something to succeed the dinner, on which their thoughts are more bent than upon either eating or drinking. No spread of fruit, nor dessert of any kind, but a bout at card-playing, or dice for those who prefer it. On their way to the dining-room they have caught glimpse of another apartment where whist and loo tables are seen, with all the gambling paraphernalia upon them—packs of new cards still in their wrappers, ivory counters, dice boxes with their spotted cubes lying alongside.
Pretty sight to Mr Murdock’s lately picked up acquaintances; a heterogeneous circle, but all alike in one respect—each indulging in the pleasant anticipation that he will that night leave his host’s house with more or less of that host’s money in his pocket. Murdock has himself come easily by it, and why should he not be made as easily to part with it? If he has a plethora of cash, they have a determination to relieve him of at least a portion of it.
Hence dinner is eaten in haste, and with little appreciation of the dishes, however dainty; all so longing to be around those tables in another room, and get their fingers on the toys there displayed.
Their host, aware of the universal desire, does nought to frustrate it. Instead, he is as eager as any for the fray. As said, gambling is his passion—has been for most part of his life—and he could now no more live without it than go wanting drink. A hopeless victim to the last, he is equally a slave to the first. Soon, therefore, as dessert is brought in, and a glass of the heavier wines gone round, he looks significantly at his wife—the only lady at the table—who, taking the hint, retires.
The gentlemen, on their feet at her withdrawal, do not sit down again, but drink standing—only a petit verre of cognac by way of “corrector.” Then they hurry off in an unseemly ruck towards the room containing metal more attractive; from which soon after proceed the clinking of coin and the rattle of ebony counters; with words now and then spoken not over nice, but rough, even profane, as though the speakers were playing skittles in the backyard of a London beerhouse, instead of cards under the roof of a country gentleman’s mansion!
While the new master of Llangorren is thus entertaining his amiable company—as much as any of them engrossed in the game—its new mistress is also playing a part, which may be more reputable, but certainly is more mysterious. She is in the drawing-room, though not alone—Father Rogier alone with her. He, of course, has been one of the dining guests, and said an unctuous grace over the table. In his sacred sacerdotal character it could hardly be expected of him to keep along with the company; though he could take a hand at cards, and play them with as much skill as any gamester of that gathering. But just now he has other fish to fry, and wishes a word in private with the mistress of Llangorren, about the way things are going on. However much he may himself like a little game with its master, and win money from him, he does not relish seeing all the world do the same; no more she. Something must be done to put a stop to it; and it is to talk over this something the two have planned their present interview—some words about it having previously passed between them.
Seated side by side on a lounge, they enter upon the subject. But before a dozen words have been exchanged they are compelled to discontinue, and for the time forego it.
The interruption is caused by a third individual, who has taken a fancy to follow Mrs Murdock into the drawing-room; a young fellow of the squire class, but—as her husband late was—of somewhat damaged reputation and broken fortunes. For all having a whole eye to female beauty; which appears to him in great perfection in the face of the Frenchwoman—the rouge upon her cheeks looking the real rose-colour of that proverbial milk-maid nine times dipped in dew.
The wine he has been quaffing gives it this hue; for he enters half intoxicated, and with a slight stagger in his gait; to the great annoyance of the lady, and the positive chagrin of the priest, who regards him with scowling glances. But the intruder is too tipsy to notice them; and advancing invites himself to a seat in front of Mrs Murdock, at the same time commencing a conversation with her.
Rogier, rising, gives a significant side look, with a slight nod towards the window; then muttering a word of excuse saunters off out of the room.
She knows what it means, as where to follow and find him. Knows also how to disembarrass herself of such as he who remained behind. Were it upon a bench of the Bois, or an arbour in the Jardin, she would make short work of it. But the ex-cocotte is now at the head of an aristocratic establishment, and must act in accordance. Therefore she allows some time to elapse, listening to the speech of her latest admirer; some of it in compliments coarse enough to give offence to ears more sensitive than hers.
She at length gets rid of him, on the plea of having a headache, and going upstairs to get something for it. She will be down again by and by; and so bows herself out of the gentleman’s presence, leaving him in a state of fretful disappointment.
Once outside the room, instead of turning up the stair-way, she glides along the corridor; then on through the entrance-hall, and then out by the front door. Nor stays she an instant on the steps, or carriage sweep; but proceeds direct to the summer-house, where she expects to find the priest. For there have they more than once been together, conversing on matters of private and particular nature.
On reaching the place she is disappointed—some little surprised. Rogier is not there; nor can she see him anywhere around!
For all that, the gentleman is very near, without her knowing it—only a few paces off, lying flat upon his face among ferns, but so engrossed with thoughts, just then of an exciting nature, he neither hears her light footsteps, nor his own name pronounced. Not loudly though; since, while pronouncing it, she feared being heard by some other. Besides, she does not think it necessary; he will come yet, without calling.
She steps inside the pavilion, and there stands waiting. Still he does not come, nor sees she anything of him; only a boat on the river above, being rowed upwards. But without thought of its having anything to do with her or her affairs.
By this there is another boat in motion; for the priest has meanwhile forsaken his spying place upon the cliff, and proceeded down to the dock.
“Where can Gregoire have gone?” she asks herself, becoming more and more impatient.
Several times she puts the question without receiving answer; and is about starting on return to the house, when longer stayed by a rumbling noise which reaches her ears, coming up from the direction of the dock.
“Can it be he?”
Continuing to listen she hears the stroke of oars. It cannot be the boat she has seen rowing off above? That must now be far away, while this is near—in the bye-water just below her. But can it be the priest who is in it?
Yes, it is he; as she discovers, after stepping outside, to the place he so late occupied, and looking over the cliff’s edge. For then she had a view of his face, lit up by a lucifer match—itself looking like that of Lucifer!
What can he be doing down there? Why examining those things, he already knows all about, as she herself?
She would call down to him, and inquire. But possibly better not? He may be engaged upon some matter calling for secrecy, as he often is. Other eyes besides hers may be near, and her voice might draw them on him. She will wait for his coming up.
And wait she does, at the boat’s dock, on the top step of the stair; there receiving him as he returns from his short, but still unexplained, excursion.
“What is it?” she asks, soon as he has mounted up to her, “Quelque chose à tort?”
“More than that. A veritable danger!”
“Comment? Explain!”
“There’s a hound upon our track! One of sharpest scent.”
“Who?”
“Le Capitaine de hussards!”
The dialogue that succeeds, between Olympe Renault and Gregoire Rogier, has no reference to Lewin Murdock gambling away his money, but the fear of his losing it in quite another way. Which, for the rest of that night, gives them something else to think of, as also something to do.
“Am I myself? Dreaming? Or, is it insanity?”
It is a young girl who thus strangely interrogates. A beautiful girl, woman grown, of tall stature, with bright face and a wealth of hair, golden hued.
But what is beauty to her with all these adjuncts? As the flower born to blush unseen, eye of man may not look upon hers; though it is not wasting its sweetness on the desert air; but within the walls of a convent.
An English girl, though the convent is in France—in the city of Boulogne-sur-mer; the same in whose attached pensionnat the sister of Major Mahon is receiving education. She is not the girl, for Kate Mahon, though herself beautiful, is no blonde; instead, the very opposite. Besides, this creature of radiant complexion is not attending school—she is beyond the years for that. Neither is she allowed the freedom of the streets, but kept shut up within a cell in the innermost recesses of the establishment, where the pensionnaires are not permitted, save one or two who are favourites with the Lady Superior.
A small apartment the young girl occupies—bedchamber and sitting-room in one—in short, a nun’s cloister. Furnished, as such, are, in a style of austere simplicity; pallet bed along the one side, the other taken up by a plain deal dressing table, a washstand with jug and basin—these little bigger than tea-bowl and ewer—and a couple of common rush-bottom chairs—that is all.
The walls are lime-washed, but most of their surface is concealed by pictures of saints male and female; while the mother of all is honoured by an image, having a niche to itself, in a corner.
On the table are some four or five books, including a Testament and Missal; their bindings, with the orthodox cross stamped upon them, proclaiming the nature of the contents.
A literature that cannot be to the liking of the present occupant of the cloister; since she has been there several days without turning over a single leaf, or even taking up one of the volumes to look at it.
That she is not there with her own will but against it, can be told by her words, and as their tone, her manner while giving utterance to them. Seated upon the side of the bed, she has sprung to her feet, and with arms raised aloft and tossed about, strides distractedly over the floor. One seeing her thus might well imagine her to be, what she half fancies herself—insane! A supposition strengthened by an unnatural lustre in her eyes, and a hectic flush on her cheeks unlike the hue of health. Still, not as with one suffering bodily sickness, or any physical ailment, but more as from a mind diseased. Seen for only a moment—that particular moment—such would be the conclusion regarding her. But her speech coming after tells she is in full possession of her senses—only under terrible agitation—distraught with some great trouble.
“It must be a convent! But how have I come into it? Into France, too; for surely am I there? The woman who brings my meals is French. So the other—Sister of Mercy, as she calls herself, though she speaks my own tongue. The furniture—bed, table, chairs, washstand—everything of French manufacture. And in all England there is not such a jug and basin as those!”
Regarding the lavatory utensils—so diminutive as to recall “Gulliver’s Travels in Lilliput,” if ever read by her—she for a moment seems to forget her misery, as will in its very midst, and keenest, at sight of the ludicrous and grotesque.
It is quickly recalled, as her glance, wandering around the room, again rests on the little statue—not of marble, but a cheap plaster of Paris cast—and she reads the inscription underneath, “La Mère de Dieu.” The symbols tell her she is inside a nunnery, and upon the soil of France!
“Oh, yes!” she exclaims, “’tis certainly so! I am no more in my native land, but have been carried across the sea!”
The knowledge, or belief, does nought to tranquillise her feelings or explain the situation, to her all mysterious. Instead, it but adds to her bewilderment, and she once more exclaims, almost repeating herself:
“Am I myself? Is it a dream? Or have my senses indeed forsaken me?”
She clasps her hands across her forehead, the white fingers threading the thick folds of her hair which hangs dishevelled. She presses them against her temples, as if to make sure her brain is still untouched!
It is so, or she would not reason as she does.
“Everything around shows I am in France. But how came I to it? Who has brought me? What offence have I given God or man, to be dragged from home, from country—and confined—imprisoned! Convent, or whatever it be, imprisoned I am! The door constantly kept locked! That window, so high, I cannot see over its sill! The dim light it lets in telling it was not meant for enjoyment. Oh! Instead of cheering it tantalises—tortures me!”
Despairingly she reseats herself upon the side of the bed, and with head still buried in her hands, continues her soliloquy; no longer of things present, but reverting to the past.
“Let me think again! What can I remember? That night, so happy in its beginning, to end as it did! The end of my life, as I thought, if I had a thought at that time. It was not, though, or I shouldn’t be here, but in heaven I hope. Would I were in heaven now! When I recall his words—those last words and think—”
“Your thoughts are sinful, child!”
The remark, thus interrupting, is made by a woman, who appears on the threshold of the door, which she had just pushed open. A woman of mature age, dressed in a floating drapery of deep black—the orthodox garb of the Holy Sisterhood, with all its insignia, of girdle, bead-roll, and pendant crucifix. A tall thin personage, with skin like shrivelled parchment, and a countenance that would be repulsive but for the nun’s coif, which partly concealing, tones down its sinister expression. Withal, a face disagreeable to gaze upon; not the less so from its air of sanctity, evidently affected. The intruder is “Sister Ursule.”
She has opened the door noiselessly—as cloister doors are made to open—and stands between its jambs, like a shadowy silhouette in its frame, one hand still holding the knob, while in the other is a small volume, apparently well-thumbed. That she has had her ear to the keyhole before presenting herself is told by the rebuke having reference to the last words of the girl’s soliloquy, in her excitement uttered aloud.
“Yes?” she continues, “sinful—very sinful! You should be thinking of something else than the world and its wickedness. And of anything before that you have been thinking of—the wickedness of all.”
She thus spoken to had neither started at the intrusion, nor does she show surprise at what is said. It is not the first visit of Sister Ursule to her cell, made in like stealthy manner; nor the first austere speech she has heard from the same skinny lips. At the beginning she did not listen to it patiently; instead, with indignation; defiantly, almost fiercely, rejoining. But the proudest spirit can be humbled. Even the eagle, when its wings are beaten to exhaustion against the bars of its cage, will became subdued, if not tamed. Therefore the imprisoned English girl makes reply, meekly and appealingly—
“Sister of Mercy, as you are called; have mercy upon me! Tell me why I am here?”
“For the good of your soul and its salvation.”
“But how can that concern any one save myself?”
“Ah! there you mistake, child; which shows the sort of life you’ve been hitherto leading; and the sort of people surrounding you; who, in their sinfulness, imagine all as themselves. They cannot conceive that there are those who deem it a duty—nay, a direct command from God—to do all in their power for the redemption of lost sinners, and restoring them to his divine favour. He is all-merciful.”
“True: He is. I do not need to be told it. Only, who these redemptionists are that take such interest in my spiritual welfare, and how I have come to be here, surely I may know?”
“You shall in time, ma fille. Now you cannot—must not—for many reasons.”
“What reasons?”
“Well; for one, you have been very ill—nigh unto death, indeed.”
“I know that, without knowing how.”
“Of course. The accident which came so near depriving you of life was of that sudden nature; and your senses—but I mustn’t speak further about it. The doctor has given strict directions that you’re to be kept quiet, and it might excite you. Be satisfied with knowing, that they who have placed you here are the same who saved your life, and would now rescue your soul from perdition. I’ve brought you this little volume for perusal. It will help to enlighten you.”
She stretches out her long bony fingers, handing the book—one of those “Aids to Faith” relied upon by the apostles of the Propaganda.
The girl mechanically takes it, without looking at, or thinking of it; still pondering upon the unknown and mysterious benefactors, who, as she is told, have done so much for her.
“How good of them!” she rejoins, with an air of incredulity, and in tones that might be taken as derisive.
“How wicked of you!” retorts the other, taking it in this sense. “Positively ungrateful!” she adds, with the acerbity of a baffled proselytiser. “I am sorry, child, you still cling to your sinful thoughts, and keep up a rebellious spirit in face of all that is being done for your good. But I shall leave you now, and go and pray for you; hoping, on my next visit, to find you in a more proper frame of mind.”
So saying, Sister Ursule glides out of the cloister, drawing to the door, and silently turning the key in its lock.
“O God!” groans the young girl in despair, flinging herself along the pallet, and for the third time interrogating, “am I myself, and dreaming? Or am I mad? In mercy, Heaven, tell me what it means!”