What with the high hills that shut in the valley of the Wye, and the hanging woods that clothe their steep slopes, the nights there are often so dark as to justify the familiar saying, "You couldn't see your hand before you." I have been out on some, when a white kerchief held within three feet of the eye was absolutely invisible; and it required a skilful Jehu, with best patent lamps, to keep carriage wheels upon the causeway of the road.
Such a night has drawn down over Rugg's Ferry, shrouding the place in impenetrable gloom. Situated in a concavity—as it were, at the bottom of an extinct volcanic crater—the obscurity is deeper than elsewhere; to-night alike covering the Welsh Harp, detached dwelling houses, chapel, and burying-ground, as with a pall. Not a ray of light scintillates anywhere; for the hour is after midnight, and everybody has retired to rest; the weak glimmer of candles from cottage windows, as the stronger glare through those of the hotel-tavern, are no longer to be seen. In the last every lamp is extinguished, its latest-sitting guest—if it have any guest—having gone to bed.
Some of the poachers and night-netters may be astir. If so, they are abroad, and not about the place, since it is just at such hours they are away from it.
For all, two men are near by, seemingly moving with as much stealth as any trespassers after fish or game, and with even more mystery in their movements. The place occupied by them is the shadowed corner under the wall of the chapel cemetery, where Captain Ryecroft saw three men embarking on a boat. These are also in a boat; but not one in the act of rowing off from the river's edge; instead, just being brought into it.
Soon as its cutwater strikes against the bank, one of the men, rising to his feet, leaps out upon the land, and attaches the painter to a sapling, by giving it two or three turns around the stem. Then facing back towards the boat, he says,—
"Hand me them things; an' look out not to let 'em rattle!"
"Ye need ha' no fear 'bout that," rejoins the other, who has now unshipped the oars, and stowed them fore and aft along the thwarts, they not being the things asked for. Then, stooping down, he lifts something out of the boat's bottom, and passes it over the side, repeating the movement three or four times. The things thus transferred from one to the other are handled by both as delicately as though they were pheasant's or plover's eggs, instead of what they are—an ordinary set of grave-digger's tools—spade, shovel, and mattock. There is, besides, a bundle of something soft, which, as there is no danger of its making noise, is tossed up to the top of the bank.
He who has flung follows it; and the two gathering up the hardware, after some words exchanged in muttered tone, mount over the cemetery wall. The younger first leaps it, stretching back, and giving a hand to the other—an old man, who finds some difficulty in the ascent.
Inside the sacred precincts they pause, partly to apportion the tools, but as much to make sure that they have not hitherto been heard. Seen, they could not be, before or now.
Becoming satisfied that the coast is clear, the younger man says in a whisper,—
"It be all right, I think. Every livin' sinner—an' there be a good wheen o' that stripe 'bout here—have gone to bed. As for him, blackest o' the lot, who lives in the house adjoinin', ain't like he's at home. Good as sure down at Llangorren Court, where just now he finds quarters more comfortable. We hain't nothin' to fear, I take it. Let's on to the place. You lay hold o' my skirt, and I'll gie ye the lead. I know the way, every inch o' it."
Saying which he moves off, the other doing as directed, and following step for step.
A few paces further, and they arrive at a grave, beside which they again make stop. In daylight it would show recently made, though not altogether new. A month or so since the turf had been smoothed over it.
The men are now about to disturb it, as evinced by their movements and the implements brought along. But, before going further in their design—body-snatching, or whatever it be—both drop down upon their knees, and again listen intently, as though still in some fear of being interrupted.
Not a sound is heard save the wind, as it sweeps in mournful cadence through the trees along the hill slopes, and nearer below, the rippling of the river.
At length, convinced they have the cemetery to themselves, they proceed to their work, which begins by their spreading out a sheet on the grass close to and alongside the grave—a trick of body-stealers—so as to leave no traces of their theft. That done, they take up the sods with their hands, carefully, one after another; and, with like care, lay them down upon the sheet, the grass sides underneath. Then, seizing hold of the tools—spade and shovel—they proceed to scoop out the earth, placing it in a heap beside.
They have no need to make use of the mattock; the soil is loose, and lifts easily. Nor is their task as excavators of long continuance—even shorter than they anticipated. Within less than eighteen inches of the surface, their tools come into contact with a harder substance, which they can tell to be timber—the lid of a coffin.
Soon as striking it, the younger faces round to his companion, saying,—
"I tolt ye so—listen!"
With the spade's point he again gives the coffin a tap. It returns a hollow sound—too hollow for aught to be inside it!
"No body in there!" he adds.
"Hadn't we better keep on, an' make sure?" suggests the other.
"Sartint we had—an' will."
Once more they commence shovelling out the earth, and continue till it is all cleared from the coffin. Then, inserting the blade of the mattock under the edge of the lid, they raise it up; for it is not screwed down, only laid on loosely—the screws all drawn and gone!
Flinging himself on his face, and reaching forward, the younger man gropes inside the coffin—not expecting to feel any body there, but mechanically, and to see if there be aught else.
There is nothing—only emptiness. The house of the dead is untenanted—its tenant has been taken away!
"I know'd it!" he exclaims, drawing back. "I know'd my poor Mary wor no longer here!"
It is no body-snatcher who speaks thus, but Jack Wingate, his companion being Joseph Preece.
After which, the young waterman says not another word in reference to the discovery they have both made. He is less sad than thoughtful now. But he keeps his thoughts to himself, an occasional whisper to his companion being merely by way of direction, as they replace the lid upon the coffin, cover all up as before, shake in the last fragments of loose earth from the sheet, and restore the grave turf—adjusting the sods with as much exactitude as though they were laying tesselated tiles!
Then, taking up their tools, they glide back to the boat, step into it, and shove off.
On return down stream they reflect in different ways, the old boatman of Llangorren still thinking it but a case of body-snatching, done by Coracle Dick, for the doctors, with a view to earning a dishonest penny.
Far otherwise the thoughts of Jack Wingate. He thinks, nay, hopes—almost happily believes—that the body exhumed was not dead—never has been—but that Mary Morgan still lives, breathes, and has being!
"Drowned? No! Dead before she ever went under the water. Murdered, beyond the shadow of a doubt."
It is Captain Ryecroft who thus emphatically affirms. And to himself, being alone, within his room in the Wyeside Hotel; for he is still in Herefordshire.
More in conjecture, he proceeds,—
"They first smothered, I suppose, or in some way rendered her insensible; then carried her to the place and dropped her in, leaving the water to complete their diabolical work? A double death, as it were; though she may not have suffered its agonies twice. Poor girl! I hope not."
In prosecuting the inquiry to which he has devoted himself, beyond certain unavoidable communications with Jack Wingate, he has not taken any one into his confidence. This partly from having no intimate acquaintances in the neighbourhood, but more because he fears the betrayal of his purpose. It is not ripe for public exposure, far less bringing before a court of justice. Indeed, he could not yet shape an accusation against any one, all that he has learnt now serving only to satisfy him that his original suspicions were correct; which it has done, as shown by his soliloquy.
He has since made a second boat excursion down the bye-channel—made it in the daytime, to assure himself there was no mistake in his observations under the light of the lamp. It was for this he had bespoken Wingate's skiff for the following day; for certain reasons reaching Llangorren at the earliest hour of dawn. There and then to see what surprised him quite as much as the unexpected discovery of the night before—a grand breakage from the brow of the cliff; but not any more misleading him. If the first "sign" observed there failed to blind him, so does that which has obliterated it. No natural rock-slide, was the conclusion he came to, soon as setting eyes upon it; but the work of human hands! And within the hour, as he could see by the clods of loosened earth still dropping down and making muddy the water underneath; while bubbles were ascending from the detached boulder lying invisible below!
Had he been there only a few minutes earlier, himself invisible, he would have seen a man upon the cliff's crest, busy with a crowbar, levering the rock from its bed, and tilting it over—then carefully removing the marks of the iron implement, as also his own footprints!
The man saw him through the blue-grey dawn, in his skiff, coming down the river; just as on the preceding night under the light of the moon. For he thus early astir and occupied in a task as that of Sysiphus, was no other than Father Rogier.
The priest had barely time to retreat and conceal himself, as the boat drew down to the eyot—not this time crouching among the ferns, but behind some evergreens, at a farther and safer distance. Still, near enough for him to observe the other's look of blank astonishment on beholding the debâcle, and note the expression change to one of significant intelligence as he continued gazing at it.
"Un limier veritable!" A hound that has scented blood, and's determined to follow it up, till he find the body whence it flowed. Aha! The game must be got out of his way. Llangorren will have to change owners once again, and the sooner, the better.
At the very moment these thoughts were passing through the mind of Gregoire Rogier, the "veritable bloodhound" was mentally repeating the same words he had used on the night before: "No accident—no suicide—murdered!" adding, as his eyes ranged over the surface of red sandstone, so altered in appearance, "This makes me all the more sure of it. Miserable trick! Not much Mr. Lewin Murdock will gain by it."
So thought he then. But now, days after, though still believing Murdock to be the murderer, he thinks differently about the "trick." For the evidence afforded by the former traces, though slight, and pointing to no one in particular, was, nevertheless, a substantial indication of guilt against somebody; and these being blotted out, there is but his own testimony of their having ever existed. Though himself convinced that Gwendoline Wynn has been assassinated, he cannot see his way to convince others—much less a legal tribunal. He is still far from being in a position openly to accuse, or even name the criminals who ought to be arraigned.
He now knows there are more than one, or so supposes, still believing that Murdock has been the principal actor in the tragedy; though others besides have borne part in it.
"The man's wife must know all about it," he says, going on in conjectural chain; "and that French priest—he probably the instigator of it. Ay! possibly had a hand in the deed itself. There have been such cases recorded—many of them. Exercising great authority at Llangorren—as Jack has learned from his friend Joe—there commanding everybody and everything! And the fellow Dempsey—poacher, and what not—he, too, become an important personage about the place! Why all this? Only intelligible on the supposition that they have had to do with a death by which they have been all benefited. Yes; all four, acting conjointly, have brought it about!
"And how am I to bring it home to them? 'Twill be difficult indeed, if at all possible. Even that slight sign destroyed has increased the difficulty.
"No use taking the 'great unpaid' into my confidence, nor yet the sharper stipendiaries. To submit my plans to either magistrate or policeman might be but to defeat them. 'Twould only raise a hue and cry, putting the guilty ones on their guard. That isn't the way—will not do!
"And yet I must have some one to assist me; for there is truth in the old saw, 'Two heads better than one,' Wingate is good enough in his way, and willing, but he can't help me in mine. I want a man of my own class; one who——Stay! George Shenstone? No! The young fellow is true as steel and brave as a lion, but—well, lacking brains. I could trust his heart, not his head. Where is he who has both to be relied upon? Ha! Mahon! The man—the very man! Experienced in the world's wickedness, courageous, cool—except when he gets his Irish blood up against the Sassenachs—above all, devoted to me, as I know; he has never forgotten that little service I did him at Delhi. And he has nothing to do—plenty of time at his disposal. Yes; the Major's my man!
"Shall I write and ask him to come over here. On second thoughts, no! Better for me to go thither; see him first, and explain all the circumstances. To Boulogne and back's but a matter of forty-eight hours, and a day or two can't make much difference in an affair like this. The scent's cold as it can be, and may be taken up weeks hence 's well as now. If we ever succeed in finding evidence of their guilt, it will, no doubt, be mainly of the circumstantial sort; and much will depend on the character of the individuals accused. Now I think of it, something may be learnt about it in Boulogne itself; or, at all events, of the priest. Since I've had a good look at his forbidding face, I feel certain it's the same I saw inside the doorway of that convent. If not, there are two of the sacerdotal tribe so like, it would be a toss up which is one and which t'other.
"In any case, there can be no harm in my making a scout across to Boulogne, and instituting inquiries about him. Mahon's sister being at school in the establishment will enable us to ascertain whether a priest named Rogier holds relations with it, and we may learn something of the repute he bears. Perchance, also, a trifle concerning Mr. and Mrs. Lewin Murdock. It appears that both husband and wife are well known at Homburg, Baden, and other like resorts. Gaming, if not game, birds, in some of their migratory flights they have made short sojourn at the French seaport, to get their hands in for those grander hells beyond. I'll go over to Boulogne!"
A knock at the door. On the permission to enter, called out, a hotel porter presents himself.
"Well?"
"Your waterman, sir, Wingate, says he'd like to see you, if convenient?"
"Tell him to step up!"
"What can Jack be coming after? Anyhow, I'm glad he has come. 'Twill save me the trouble of sending for him, as I'd better settle his account before starting off." [Jack has a new score against the Captain for boat hire, his services having been retained, exclusively, for some length of time past.] "Besides, there's something I wish to say—a long chapter of instructions to leave with him. Come in, Jack!"
This, as a shuffling in the corridor outside tells that the waterman is wiping his feet on the door-mat.
The door opening, displays him; but with an expression on his countenance very different from that of a man coming to dun for wages due. More like one entering to announce a death, or some event which greatly agitates him.
"What is it?" asks the Captain, observing his distraught manner.
"Somethin' queer, sir; very queer indeed."
"Ah! Let me hear it!" demands Ryecroft, with an air of eagerness, thinking it relates to himself and the matter engrossing his mind.
"I will, Captain. But it'll take time in the tellin'."
"Take as much as you like. I'm at your service. Be seated."
Jack clutches hold of a chair, and draws it up close to where the Captain is sitting—by a table. Then glancing over his shoulder, and all round the room, to assure himself there is no one within earshot, he says, in a grave, solemn voice,—
"I do believe, Captain, she be still alive!"
Impossible to depict the expression on Vivian Ryecroft's face, as the words of the waterman fall upon his ear. It is more than surprise—more than astonishment—intensely interrogative, as though some secret hope once entertained, but long gone out of his heart, had suddenly returned to it.
"Still alive!" he exclaims, springing to his feet, and almost upsetting the table. "Alive!" he mechanically repeats. "What do you mean, Wingate? And who?"
"My poor girl, Captain. You know."
"His girl—not mine! Mary Morgan—not Gwendoline Wynn!" reflects Ryecroft within himself, dropping back upon his chair as one stunned by a blow.
"I'm almost sure she be still livin'," continues the waterman, in wonder at the emotion his words have called up, though little suspecting why.
Controlling it, the other asks, with diminished interest, still earnestly,—
"What leads you to think that way, Wingate? Have you a reason?"
"Yes, have I; more'n one. It's about that I ha' come to consult ye."
"You've come to astonish me! But proceed!"
"Well, sir, as I ha' sayed, it'll take a good bit o' tellin', and a lot o' explanation beside. But since ye've signified I'm free to your time, I'll try and make the story short's I can."
"Don't curtail it in any way. I wish to hear all!"
The waterman thus allowed latitude, launches forth into a full account of his own life—those chapters of it relating to his courtship of, and betrothal to, Mary Morgan. He tells of the opposition made by her mother, the rivalry of Coracle Dick, and the sinister interference of Father Rogier. In addition, the details of that meeting of the lovers under the elm—their last—and the sad episode soon after succeeding.
Something of all this Ryecroft has heard before, and part of it suspected. What he now hears new to him is the account of a scene in the farmhouse of Abergann, while Mary Morgan lay in the chamber of death, with a series of incidents that came under the observation of her sorrowing lover. The first, his seeing a shroud being made by the girl's mother, white, with a red cross, and the initial letters of her name braided over the breast: the same soon afterwards appearing upon the corpse. Then the strange behaviour of Father Rogier on the day of the funeral; the look with which he stood regarding the girl's face as she lay in her coffin; his abrupt exit out of the room; as afterwards his hurried departure from the side of the grave before it was finally closed up—a haste noticed by others as well as Jack Wingate.
"But what do you make of all that?" asks Ryecroft, the narrator having paused to gather himself for other and still stranger revelations. "How can it give you a belief in the girl being still alive? Quite its contrary, I should say."
"Stay, Captain! There be more to come."
The Captain does stay, listening on. To hear the story of the planted and plucked up flower; of another and later visit made by Wingate to the cemetery in daylight, then seeing what led him to suspect, that not only had the plant been destroyed, but all the turf on the grave disturbed! He speaks of his astonishment at this, with his perplexity. Then goes on to give account of the evening spent with Joseph Preece in his new home; of the waifs and strays there shown him; the counterfeit coins, burglars' tools, and finally the shroud—that grim remembrancer, which he recognised at sight!
His narrative concludes with his action taken after, assisted by the old boatman.
"Last night," he says, proceeding with the relation, "or I ought to say the same mornin'—for 'twar after midnight hour—Joe an' myself took the skiff, an' stole up to the chapel graveyard, where we opened her grave, an' foun' the coffin empty! Now, Captain, what do ye think o' the whole thing?"
"On my word, I hardly know what to think of it. Mystery seems the measure of the time! This you tell me of is strange—if not stranger than any! What are your own thoughts about it, Jack?"
"Well, as I've already sayed, my thoughts be, an' my hopes, that Mary's still in the land o' the livin'."
"I hope she is."
The tone of Ryecroft's rejoinder tells of his incredulity, further manifested by his questions following.
"But you saw her in her coffin? Waked for two days, as I understood you; then laid in her grave? How could she have lived throughout all that? Surely she was dead!"
"So I thought at the time, but don't now."
"My good fellow, I fear you are deceiving yourself. I'm sorry having to think so. Why the body has been taken up again is of itself a sufficient puzzle; but alive—that seems physically impossible!"
"Well, Captain, it's just about the possibility of the thing I come to ask your opinion; thinkin' ye'd be acquainted wi' the article itself."
"What article?"
"The new medicine; it as go by the name o' chloryform."
"Ha! you have a suspicion——"
"That she ha' been chloryformed, an' so kep' asleep—to be waked up when they wanted her. I've heerd say they can do such things."
"But then she was drowned also? Fell from a foot plank, you told me? And was in the water some time?"
"I don't believe it, a bit. It be true enough she got somehow into the water, an' wor took out insensible, or rather drifted out o' herself, on the bank just below, at the mouth o' the brook. But that wor short after, an' she might still ha' ben alive notwithstandin'. My notion be, that the priest had first put the chloryform into her, or did it then, an' knew all along she warn't dead, nohow."
"My dear Jack, the thing cannot be possible. Even if it were, you seem to forget that her mother, father—all of them—must have been cognizant of these facts—if facts?"
"I don't forget it, Captain. 'Stead, I believe they all wor cognizant o' them—leastways, the mother."
"But why should she assist in such a dangerous deception—at risk of her daughter's life?"
"That's easy answered. She did it partly o' herself; but more at the biddin' o' the priest, whom she daren't disobey—the weak-minded creature, most o' her time given up to sayin' prayers and paternosters. They all knowed the girl loved me, and wor sure to be my wife, whatever they might say or do against it. Wi' her willin', I could a' defied the whole lot o' them. Bein' aware o' that, their only chance wor to get her out o' my way by some trick—as they ha' indeed got her. Ye may think it strange their takin' all that trouble; but if ye'd seen her, ye wouldn't. There worn't on all Wyeside so good-lookin' a girl!"
Ryecroft again looks incredulous; not smilingly, but with a sad cast of countenance.
Despite its improbability, however, he begins to think there may be some truth in what the waterman says—Jack's earnest convictions sympathetically impressing him.
"And supposing her to be alive," he asks, "where do you think she is now? Have you any idea?"
"I have—leastways, a notion."
"Where?"
"Over the water—in France—the town o' Bolone."
"Boulogne!" exclaims the Captain, with a start. "What makes you suppose she is there?"
"Something, sir, I han't yet spoke to ye about. I'd a'most forgot the thing, an' might never ha' thought o't again, but for what ha' happened since. Ye'll remember the night we come up from the ball, my tellin' ye I had an engagement the next day to take the young Powells down the river?"
"I remember it perfectly."
"Well, I took them, as agreed; an' that day we went down's fur's Chepstow. But they wor bound for the Severn side a duck-shootin'; and next mornin' we started early, afore daybreak. As we were passin' the wharf below Chepstow Bridge, where there wor several craft lyin' in, I noticed one sloop-rigged ridin' at anchor a bit out from the rest, as if about clearin' to put to sea. By the light o' a lamp as hung over the taffrail, I read the name on her starn, showin' she wor French, an' belonged to Bolone. I shouldn't ha' thought than anythin' odd, as there be many foreign craft o' the smaller kind puts in at Chepstow. But what did appear odd, an' gied me a start too, wor my seein' a boat by the sloop's side wi' a man in it, who I could a'most sweared wor the Rogue's Ferry priest. There wor others in the boat besides, an' they appeared to be gettin' some sort o' bundle out o' it, an' takin' it up the man-ropes, aboard o' the sloop. But I didn't see anymore, as we soon passed out o' sight, goin' on down. Now, Captain, it's my firm belief that man must ha' been the priest, and that thing I supposed to be a bundle o' marchandise, neyther more nor less than the body o' Mary Morgan—not dead, but livin'!"
"You astound me, Wingate! Certainly a most singular circumstance! Coincidence too! Boulogne—Boulogne!"
"Yes, Captain; by the letterin' on her starn the sloop must ha' belonged there; an' I'm goin' there myself."
"I too, Jack! We shall go together!"
"He's gone away—given it up! Be glad, madame!"
Father Rogier so speaks on entering the drawing-room of Llangorren Court, where Mrs. Murdock is seated.
"What, Gregoire?" (Were her husband present, it would be "Père"; but she is alone.) "Who's gone away? And why am I to rejoice?"
"Le Capitaine."
"Ha!" she ejaculates, with a pleased look, showing that the two words have answered all her questions in one.
"Are you sure of it? The news seems too good for truth."
"It's true, nevertheless; so far as his having gone away. Whether to stay away is another matter. We must hope he will."
"I hope it with all my heart."
"And well you may, madame; as I myself. We had more to fear from that chien de chasse than all the rest of the pack—ay, have still, unless he's found the scent too cold, and in despair abandoned the pursuit; which I fancy he has, thrown off by that little rock slide. A lucky chance my having caught him at his reconnaisance; and rather a clever bit of strategy so to baffle him! Wasn't it, chèrie?"
"Superb! The whole thing from beginning to end! You've proved yourself a wonderful man, Gregoire Rogier."
"And I hope worthy of Olympe Renault?"
"You have."
"Merci! So far that's satisfactory; and your slave feels he has not been toiling in vain. But there's a good deal more to be done before we can take our ship safe into port. And it must be done quickly, too. I pine to cast off this priestly garb—in which I've been so long miserably masquerading—and enter into the real enjoyments of life. But there's another, and more potent reason, for using despatch; breakers around us, on which we may be wrecked, ruined any day, any hour. Le Capitaine Ryecroft was not, or is not, the only one."
"Richard—le braconnier—you're thinking of?"
"No, no, no! Of him we needn't have the slightest fear. I hold his lips sealed, by a rope around his neck; whose noose I can draw tight at the shortest notice. I am far more apprehensive of Monsieur, votre mari!"
"In what way?"
"More than one; but for one, his tongue. There's no knowing what a drunken man may do or say in his cups; and Monsieur Murdock is hardly ever out of them. Suppose he gets to babbling, and lets drop something about—well, I needn't say what. There's still suspicion abroad—plenty of it,—and, like a spark applied to tinder, a word would set it ablaze."
"C'est vrai!"
"Fortunately, Mademoiselle had no very near relatives of the male sex, nor any one much interested in her fate, save the fiancé and the other lover—the rustic and rejected one—Shenstone fils. Of him we need take no account. Even if suspicious, he hasn't the craft to unravel a clue so cunningly rolled as ours; and for the ancien hussard, let us hope he has yielded to despair, and gone back whence he came. Luck, too, in his having no intimacies here, or, I believe, anywhere in the shire of Hereford. Had it been otherwise, we might not so easily have got disembarrassed of him."
"And you do think he has gone for good?"
"I do; at least, it would seem so. On his second return to the hotel—in haste as it was—he had little luggage; and that he has all taken away with him. So I learnt from one of the hotel people, who professes our faith. Further, at the railway station, that he took ticket for London. Of course that means nothing. He may be en route for anywhere beyond—round the globe, if he feel inclined for circumnavigation. And I shall be delighted if he do."
He would not be much delighted had he heard at the railway station of what actually occurred—that in getting his ticket Captain Ryecroft had inquired whether he could not be booked through for Boulogne. Still less might Father Rogier have felt gratification to know, that there were two tickets taken for London; a first-class for the Captain himself, and a second for the waterman Wingate—travelling together, though in separate carriages, as befitted their different rank in life.
Having heard nothing of this, the sham priest—as he has now acknowledged himself—is jubilant at the thought that another hostile pawn in the game he has been so skilfully playing has disappeared from the chess-board. In short, all have been knocked over, queen, bishops, knights, and castles. Alone the king stands, he tottering; for Lewin Murdock is fast drinking himself to death. It is of him the priest speaks as king,—
"Has he signed the will?"
"Oui."
"When?"
"This morning, before he went out. The lawyer who drew it up came, with his clerk to witness——"
"I know all that," interrupts the priest, "as I should, having sent them. Let me have a look at the document. You have it in the house, I hope?"
"In my hand," she answers, diving into a drawer of the table by which she sits, and drawing forth a folded sheet of parchment: "Le voilà!"
She spreads it out, not to read what is written upon it—only to look at the signatures, and see they are right. Well knows he every word of that will, he himself having dictated it. A testament made by Lewin Murdock, which, at his death, leaves the Llangorren estate—as sole owner and last in tail he having the right so to dispose of it—to his wife Olympe—née Renault—for her life; then to his children, should there be any surviving; failing such, to Gregoire Rogier, Priest of the Roman Catholic Church; and in the event of his demise preceding that of the other heirs hereinbefore mentioned, the estate, or what remains of it, to become the property of the Convent of——, Boulogne-sur-mer, France.
"For that last clause, which is yours, Gregoire, the nuns of Boulogne should be grateful to you; or at all events, the abbess, Lady Superior, or whatever she's called."
"So she will," he rejoins, with a dry laugh, "when she gets the property so conveyed. Unfortunately for her, the reversion is rather distant, and having to pass through so many hands, there may be no great deal left of it, on coming into hers. Nay!" he adds, in exclamation, his jocular tone suddenly changing to the serious, "if some step be not taken to put a stop to what's going on, there won't be much of the Llangorren estate left for any one—not even for yourself, madame. Under the fingers of Monsieur, with the cards in them, it's being melted down as snow on the sunny side of a hill. Even at this self-same moment it may be going off in large slices—avalanches!"
"Mon Dieu!" she exclaims, with an alarmed air, quite comprehending the danger thus figuratively portrayed.
"I wouldn't be surprised," he continues, "if to-day he were made a thousand pounds the poorer. When I left the ferry, he was in the Welsh Harp, as I was told, tossing sovereigns upon its bar counter, 'Heads and tails, who wins?' Not he, you may be sure. No doubt he's now at a gaming-table inside, engaged with that gang of sharpers who have lately got around him, staking large sums on every turn of the cards—Jews' eyes, ponies, and monkeys, as these chevaliers d'industrie facetiously term their money. If we don't bring all this to a termination, that you will have in your hand won't be worth the price of the parchment it's written upon. Comprenez-vous, chèrie?"
"Parfaitement! But how is it to be brought to a termination. For myself, I haven't an idea. Has any occurred to you, Gregoire?"
As the ex-courtesan asks the question, she leans across the little table, and looks the false priest straight in the face. He knows the bent of her inquiry, told it by the tone and manner in which it has been put—both significant of something more than the words might otherwise convey. Still, he does not answer it directly. Even between these two fiends in human form, despite their mutual understanding of each other's wickedness, and the little reason either has for concealing it, there is a sort of intuitive reticence upon the matter which is in the minds of both. For it is murder—the murder of Lewin Murdock!
"Le pauvre homme!" ejaculates the man, with a pretence at compassionating, under the circumstances ludicrous. "The cognac is killin' him, not by inches, but ells; and I don't believe he can last much longer. It seems but a question of weeks; may be only days. Thanks to the school in which I was trained, I have sufficient medical knowledge to prognosticate that."
A gleam as of delight passes over the face of the woman—an expression almost demoniacal; for it is a wife hearing this about her husband!
"You think only days?" she asks, with an eagerness as if apprehensive about that husband's health. But the tone tells different, as the hungry look in her eye while awaiting the answer. Both proclaim she wishes it in the affirmative; as it is.
"Only days!" he says, as if his voice were an echo. "Still, days count in a thing of this kind—ay, even hours. Who knows but that in a fit of drunken bravado he may stake the whole estate on a single turn of cards or cast of dice? Others have done the like before now—gentlemen grander than he, with titles to their names-rich in one hour, beggars in the next. I can remember more than one."
"Ah! so can I."
"Englishmen, too, who usually wind up such matters by putting a pistol to their heads, and blowing out their brains. True, Monsieur hasn't very much to blow out; but that isn't a question which affects us—myself as well as you. I've risked everything—reputation, which I care least about, if the affair can be brought to a proper conclusion; but should it fail, then—I need not tell you. What we've done, if known, would soon make us acquainted with the inside of an English gaol. Monsieur, throwing away his money in this reckless fashion, must be restrained, or he'll bring ruin to all of us. Therefore some steps must be taken to restrain him, and promptly."
"Vraiment! I ask you again—have you thought of anything, Gregoire?"
He does not make immediate answer, but seems to ponder over, or hang back upon it. When at length given, it is itself an interrogation, apparently unconnected with what they have been speaking about.
"Would it greatly surprise you if to-night your husband didn't come home to you?"
"Certainly not—in the least. Why should it? It wouldn't be the first time by scores—hundreds—for him to stay all night away from me. Ay, and at that same Welsh Harp, too—many's the night."
"To your great annoyance, no doubt, if it did not make you dreadfully jealous?"
She breaks out into a laugh, hollow and heartless as was ever heard in an allée of the Jardin Mabille. When it is ended, she adds gravely,—
"The time was when he might have made me so; I may as well admit that; not now, as you know, Gregoire. Now, instead of feeling annoyed by it, I'd only be too glad to think I should never see his face again. Le brute ivrogne!"
To this monstrous declaration, Rogier laconically rejoins,—
"You may not." Then, placing his lips close to her ear, he adds in a whisper, "If all prosper, as planned, you will not!"
She neither starts, nor seeks to inquire further. She knows he has conceived some scheme to disembarrass her of a husband she no longer cares for—to both become inconvenient. And from what has gone before, she can rely on Rogier with its execution.
A boat upon the Wye, being pulled upward, between Llangorren Court and Rugg's Ferry. There are two men in it—not Vivian Ryecroft and Jack Wingate, but Gregoire Rogier and Richard Dempsey.
The ci-devant poacher is at the oars—for, in addition to his new post as gamekeeper, he has occasional charge of a skiff which has replaced the Gwendoline. This same morning he rowed his master up to Rugg's, leaving him there; and now, at night, he is on return to fetch him home.
The two places being on opposite sides of the river, and the road roundabout, besides difficult for wheeled vehicles, Lewin Murdock, moreover, an indifferent horseman, he prefers the water route, and often takes it, as he has done to-day.
It is the same on which Father Rogier held that dialogue of sinister innuendo with Madame, and the priest, aware of the boat having to return to the ferry, avails himself of a seat in it. Not that he dislikes walking, or is compelled to it; for he now keeps a cob, and does his rounds on horseback. But on this particular day he has left his roadster in its stable, and gone down to Llangorren afoot, knowing there would be the skiff to take him back.
No scheme of mere convenience dictated this arrangement to Gregoire Rogier. Instead, one of Satanic wickedness, preconceived, and all settled before holding that tête-à-tête with her he has called "chèrie."
Though requiring a boat for its execution, and an oarsman of a peculiar kind—adroit at something besides the handling of oars—not a word of it has yet been imparted to the one who is rowing him. For all, the ex-poacher, accustomed to the priest's moods, and familiar with his ways, can see there is something unusual in his mind, and that he himself is on the eve of being called upon for some new service or sacrifice. No supply of poached fish or game. Things have gone higher than that, and he anticipates some demand of a more serious nature. Still, he has not the most distant idea of what it is to be, though certain interrogatories put to him are evidently leading up to it. The first is,—
"You're not afraid of water, are you, Dick?"
"Not partickler, your Reverence. Why should I?"
"Well, your being so little in the habit of washing your face—if I am right in my reckoning, only once a week—may plead my excuse for asking the question."
"Oh, Father Rogier! that wor only in the time past, when I lived alone, and the thing worn't worth while. Now, going more into respectable company, I do a little washin' every day."
"I'm glad to hear of your improved habits, and that they keep pace with the promotion you've had. But my inquiry had no reference to your ablutions—rather to your capabilities as a swimmer. If I mistake not, you can swim like a fish?"
"No, not equal to a fish. That ain't possible."
"An otter, then?"
"Somethin' nearer he, if ye like," answers Coracle, laughingly.
"I supposed as much. Never mind. About the degree of your natatory powers we needn't dispute. I take it they're sufficient for reaching either bank of this river, supposing the skiff to get capsized, and you in it?"
"Lor, Father Rogier! that wouldn't be nothin'! I could swim to eyther shore, if 'twor miles off."
"But could you as you are now, with clothes on, boots, and everything?"
"Sartin could I, and carry weight beside."
"That will do," rejoins the questioner, apparently satisfied; then lapsing into silence, and leaving Dick in a very desert of conjectures why he has been so interrogated.
The speechless interregnum is not for long. After a minute or two, Rogier, as if freshly awaking from a reverie, again asks,—
"Would it upset this skiff if I were to step on the side of it—I mean, bearing upon it with all the weight of my body?"
"That would it, your Reverence, though ye be but a light weight—tip it over like a tub."
"Quite turn it upside down—as your old truckle, eh?"
"Well, not so ready as the truckle. Still, 'twould go bottom upward. Though a biggish boat, it be one o' the crankiest kind, and would sure capsize wi' the lightest o' men standin' on its gunn'l rail."
"And surer with a heavier one, as yourself, for instance?"
"I shouldn't like to try, your Reverence bein' wi' me in the boat."
"How would you like, somebody else being with you in it—if made worth your while?"
Coracle starts at this question, asked in a tone that makes more intelligible the others preceding it, and which have been hitherto puzzling him. He begins to see the drift of the sub Jove confessional to which he is being submitted.
"How'd I like it, your Reverence? Well enough, if, as you say, made worth my while. I don't mind a bit o' a wettin' when there's anythin' to be gained by it. Many's the one I've had on a chilly winter's night, as this same be, all for the sake o' a salmon I wor 'bleeged to sell at less'n half-price. If only showed the way to earn a honest penny by it, I wouldn't wait for the upsettin' o' the boat, but jump overboard at onest."
"That's game in you, Monsieur Dick. But to earn the honest penny you speak of, the upsetting of the boat might be a necessary condition."
"Be it so, your Reverence. I'm willing to fulfil that, if ye only bid me. Maybe," he continues, in a tone of confidential suggestion, "there be somebody as you think ought to get a duckin' beside myself?"
"There is somebody who ought," rejoins the priest, coming nearer to his point. "Nay, must," he continues; "for if he don't, the chances are we shall all go down together, and that soon."
Coracle skulls on without questioning. He more than half comprehends the figurative speech, and is confident he will ere long receive complete explanation of it.
He is soon led a little way further by the priest observing,—
"No doubt, mon ancien bracconnier, you've been gratified by the change that's of late taken place in your circumstances. But perhaps it hasn't quite satisfied you, and you expect to have something more—as I have the wish you should. And you would ere this, but for one who obstinately sets his face against it."
"May I know who that one is, Father Rogier?"
"You may, and shall; though I should think you scarce need telling. Without naming names, it's he who will be in this boat with you going back to Llangorren."
"I thought so. An' if I an't astray, he be the one your Reverence thinks would not be any the worse o' a wettin'?"
"Instead, all the better for it. It may cure him of his evil courses—drinking, card-playing, and the like. If he's not cured of them by some means, and soon, there won't be an acre left him of the Llangorren lands, nor a shilling in his purse. He'll have to go back to beggary, as at Glyngog; while you, Monsieur Coracle, in place of being head-gamekeeper, with other handsome preferments in prospect, will be compelled to return to your shifty life of poaching, night netting, and all the etceteras. Would you desire that?"
"Daanged if I would! An' won't do it if I can help. Shan't, if your Reverence 'll only show me the way."
"There's but one I can think of."
"What may that be, Father Rogier?"
"Simply to set your foot on the side of this skiff, and tilt it bottom upwards."
"It shall be done. When, and where?"
"When you are coming back down. The where you may choose for yourself—such place as may appear safe and convenient. Only take care you don't drown yourself."
"No fear o' that. There an't water in the Wye as'll ever drown Dick Dempsey."
"No," jocularly returns the priest; "I don't suppose there is. If it be your fate to perish by asphyxia—as no doubt it is—strong tough hemp, and not weak water, will be the agent employed—that being more appropriate to the life you have led. Ha! ha! ha!"
Coracle laughs too, but with the grimace of wolf baying the moon. For the moonlight shining full in his face, shows him not over satisfied with the coarse jest. But remembering how he shifted that treacherous plank bridging the brook at Abergann, he silently submits to it. He, too, is gradually getting his hand upon a lever, which will enable him to have a say in the affairs of Llangorren Court, that they dwelling therein will listen to him, or, like the Philistines of Gaza, have it dragged down about their ears.
But the ex-poacher is not yet prepared to enact the rôle of Samson; and however galling the jeu d'esprit of the priest, he swallows it without showing chagrin, far less speaking it.
In truth there is no time for further exchange of speech—at least, in the skiff. By this time they have arrived at the Rugg's Ferry landing-place, where Father Rogier, getting out, whispers a few words in Coracle's ear, and then goes off.
His words were—
"A hundred pounds, Dick, if you do it. Twice that for your doing it adroitly!"
Major Mahon is standing at one of the front windows of his house, waiting for his dinner to be served, when he sees a fiâcre driven up to the door, and inside it the face of a friend.
He does not stay for the bell to be rung, but with genuine Irish impulsiveness rushes forth, himself opening the door.
"Captain Ryecroft!" he exclaims, grasping the new arrival by the hand, and hauling him out of the hackney. "Glad to see you back in Boulogne." Then adding, as he observes a young man leap down from the box where he has had seat beside the driver, "Part of your belongings, isn't he?"
"Yes, Major; my old Wye waterman, Jack Wingate, of whom I spoke to you. And if it be convenient to you to quarter both of us for a day or two——"
"Don't talk about convenience, and bar all mention of time. The longer you stay with me, you'll be conferring the greater favour. Your old room is gaping to receive you; and Murtagh will rig up a berth for your boatman. Murt!" to the ex-Royal Irish, who, hearing the fracas, has also come forth, "take charge of Captain Ryecroft's traps, along with Mr. Wingate here, and see all safely bestowed. Now, old fellow, step inside. They'll look after the things. You're just in time to do dinner with me. I was about sitting down to it solus, awfully lamenting my loneliness. Well, one never knows what luck's in the wind. Rather hard lines for you, however. If I mistake not, my pot's of the poorest this blessed day. But I know you're neither gourmand nor gourmet; and that's some consolation. In!"
In go they, leaving the old soldier to settle the fiâcre fare, look after the luggage, and extend the hospitalities of the kitchen to Jack Wingate.
Soon as Captain Ryecroft has performed some slight ablutions—necessary after a sea voyage however short—his host hurries him down to the dining-room.
When seated at the table, the Major asks,—
"What on earth has delayed you, Vivian? You promised to be back in a week at most. It's months now! Despairing of your return, I had some thought of advertising the luggage you left with me, 'if not claimed within a certain time, to be sold for the payment of expenses.' Ha! ha!"
Ryecroft echoes the laugh; but so faintly, his friend can see the cloud has not yet lifted; instead, lies heavy and dark as ever.
In hopes of doing something to dissipate it, the Major rolls on in his rich Hibernian brogue,—
"You've just come in time to save your chattels from the hammer. And now I have you here, I mean to keep you. So, old boy, make up your mind to an unlimited sojourn in Boulogne-sur-mer. You will, won't you?"
"It's very kind of you, Mahon; but that must depend on——"
"On what?"
"How I prosper in my errand."
"Oh! this time you have an errand? Some business?"
"I have."
"Well, as you had none before, it gives reason to hope that other matters may be also reversed, and instead of shooting off like a comet, you'll play the part of a fixed star; neither to shoot nor be shot at, as looked likely on the last occasion. But speaking seriously, Ryecroft, as you say you're on business, may I know its nature?"
"Not only may, but it's meant you should. Nay, more, Mahon; I want your help in it."
"That you can count upon, whatever it be—from pitch-and-toss up to manslaughter. Only say how I can serve you."
"Well, Major, in the first place I would seek your assistance in some inquiries that I am about to make here."
"Inquiries! Have they regard to that young lady you said was lost—missing from her home! Surely she has been found?"
"She has—found drowned!"
"Found drowned! God bless me!"
"Yes, Mahon. The home from which she was missing knows her no more. Gwendoline Wynn is now in her long home—in heaven!"
The solemn tone of voice, with the woe-begone expression on the speaker's face, drives all thoughts of hilarity out of the listener's mind. It is a moment too sacred for mirth; and between the two friends, old comrades in arms, for an interval even speech is suspended; only a word of courtesy as the host presses his guest to partake of the viands before them.
The Major does not question further, leaving the other to take up the broken thread of the conversation.
Which he at length does, holding it in hand, till he has told all that happened since they last sat at that table together.
He gives only the facts, reserving his own deductions from them. But Mahon, drawing them for himself, says searchingly—
"Then you have a suspicion there's been what's commonly called foul play?"
"More than a suspicion. I'm sure of it."
"The devil! But whom do you suspect?"
"Whom should I but he now in possession of the property—her cousin, Mr. Lewin Murdock. Though I've reason to believe there are others mixed up in it; one of them a Frenchman. Indeed, it's chiefly to make inquiry about him I've come over to Boulogne."
"A Frenchman. You know his name?"
"I do; at least, that he goes by on the other side of the Channel. You remember that night as we were passing the back entrance of the convent where your sister's at school, our seeing a carriage there—a hackney, or whatever it was?"
"Certainly I do."
"And my saying that the man who had just got out of it, and gone inside, resembled a priest I'd seen but a day or two before?"
"Of course I remember all that, and my joking you at the time as to the idleness of you fancying a likeness among sheep, where all are so nearly of the same hue—that black. Something of the sort I said. But what's your argument?"
"No argument at all, but a conviction, that the man we saw that night was my Herefordshire priest. I've seen him several times since—had a good square look at him—and feel sure 'twas he."
"You haven't yet told me his name?"
"Rogier—Father Rogier. So he is called upon the Wye."
"And, supposing him identified, what follows?"
"A great deal follows, or rather, depends on his identification."
"Explain, Ryecroft. I shall listen with patience."
Ryecroft does explain, continuing his narrative into a second chapter, which includes the doings of the Jesuit on Wyeside, so far as known to him; the story of Jack Wingate's love and loss—the last so strangely resembling his own—the steps afterwards taken by the waterman; in short, everything he can think of that will throw light upon the subject.
"A strange tale, truly!" observes the Major, after hearing it to the end. "But does your boatman really believe the priest has resuscitated his dead sweetheart, and brought her over here with the intention of shutting her up in a nunnery?"
"He does all that; and certainly not without show of reason. Dead or alive, the priest or some one else has taken the girl out of her coffin, and her grave."
"'Twould be a wonderful story, if true—I mean the resuscitation, or resurrection; not the mere disinterment of a body. That's possible, and probable where priests of the Jesuitical school are concerned. And so should the other be, when one considers that they can make statues wink, and pictures shed tears. Oh! yes; Ultramontane magicians can do anything!"
"But why," asks Ryecroft, "should they have taken all this trouble about a poor girl—the daughter of a small Herefordshire farmer,—with possibly at the most a hundred pounds or so for her dowry? That's what mystifies me!"
"It needn't," laconically observes the Major. "These Jesuit gentry have often other motives than money for caging such birds in their convents. Was the girl good looking?" he asks, after musing a moment.
"Well, of myself I never saw her. By Jack's description she must have been a superb creature—on a par with the angels. True, a lover's judgment is not much to be relied on, but I've heard from others, that Miss Morgan was really a rustic belle—something beyond the common."
"Faith! and that may account for the whole thing. I know they like their nuns to be nice looking; prefer that stripe; I suppose, for purposes of proselytizing, if nothing more. They'd give a good deal to receive the services of my own sister in that way: have been already bidding for her. By Heavens! I'd rather see her laid in her grave!"
The Major's strong declaration is followed by a spell of silence; after which, cooling down a little, he continues,—
"You've come, then, to inquire into this convent matter, about—what's the girl's name?—ah! Morgan."
"More than the convent matter; though it's in the same connection. I've come to learn what can be learnt about this priest; get his character, with his antecedents. And, if possible, obtain some information respecting the past lives of Mr. Lewin Murdock and his French wife; for which I may probably go on to Paris, if not farther. To sum up everything, I've determined to sift this mystery to the bottom—unravel it to its last thread. I've already commenced unwinding the clue, and made some little progress. But I want one to assist me. Like a lone hunter on a lost trail, I need counsel from a companion—and help too. You'll stand by me, Mahon?"
"To the death, my dear boy! I was going to say the last shilling in my purse. As you don't need that, I say, instead, to the last breath in my body!"
"You shall be thanked with the last in mine."
"I'm sure of that. And now for a drop of the 'crayther,' to warm us to our work. Ho! there, Murt! bring in the 'matayreals.'"
Which Murtagh does, the dinner-dishes having been already removed.
Soon as punches have been mixed, the Major returns to the subject, saying,—
"Now then, to enter upon particulars. What step do you wish me to take first?"
"First, to find out who Father Rogier is, and what. That is, on this side; I know what he is on the other. If we can but learn his relations with the convent, it might give us a key capable of opening more than one lock."
"There won't be much difficulty in doing that, I take it. All the less, from my little sister Kate being a great pet of the Lady Superior, who has hopes of making a nun of her! Not if I know it! Soon as her schooling's completed, she walks out of that seminary, and goes to a place where the moral atmosphere is a trifle purer. You see, old fellow, I'm not very bigoted about our Holy Faith, and in some danger of becoming a 'vert.' As for my sister, were it not for a bit of a legacy left on condition of her being educated in a convent, she'd never have seen the inside of one with my consent; and never will again when out of this one. But money's money; and though the legacy isn't a large one, for her sake, I couldn't afford to forfeit it. You comprehend?"
"Quite. And you think she will be able to obtain the information, without in any way compromising herself?"
"Pretty sure of it. Kate's no simpleton, though she be but a child in years. She'll manage it for me, with the instructions I mean giving her. After all, it may not be so much trouble. In these nunneries, things which are secrets to the world without, are known to every mother's child of them—nuns and novices alike. Gossip's the chief occupation of their lives. If there's been an occurrence such as you speak of—a new bird caged there—above all, an English one—it's sure to have got wind—that is, inside the walls. And I can trust Kate to catch the breath, and blow it outside. So, Vivian, old boy, drink your toddy, and take things coolly. I think I can promise you that, before many days, or it may be only hours, you shall know whether such a priest as you speak of be in the habit of coming to that convent; and if so, what for, when he was there last, and everything about the reverend gentleman worth knowing."
Kate Mahon proves equal to the occasion, showing herself quick-witted, as her brother boasted her to be.
On the third day after, she is able to report to him, that some time previously—how long not exactly known—a young English girl came to the convent, brought thither by a priest named Rogier. The girl is a candidate for the Holy Sisterhood—voluntary, of course—to take the veil, soon as her probation be completed. Miss Mahon has not seen the new novice—only heard of her as being a great beauty; for personal charms make noise even in a nunnery. Nor have any of the other pensionaires been permitted to see or speak with her. All they as yet know is, that she is a blonde, with yellow hair—a grand wealth of it—and goes by the name of "Sœur Marie."
"Sister Mary!" exclaims Jack Wingate, as Ryecroft at second-hand communicates the intelligence—at the same time translating the "Sœur Marie." "It's Mary Morgan—my Mary! An' by the Heavens of Mercy," he adds, his arms angrily thrashing the air, "she shall come out o' that convent, or I'll lay my life down at its door."