Chapter VII: Part 7

"Sit down, and I shall tell you. It's too important to be discussed standing."

The introductory dialogue does not tranquillise the poacher; instead, further intensifies his fears. Obedient, he takes his seat one side the table, the priest planting himself on the other, the glass of brandy within reach of his hand.

After a sip, he resumes speech with the remark:

"If I mistake not, you are a poor man, Monsieur Dempsey?"

"You ain't no ways mistaken 'bout that, Father Rogier."

"And you'd like to be a rich one?"

Thus encouraged, the poacher's face lights up a little. Smilingly, he makes reply:

"I can't say as I'd have any particular objection. 'Stead, I'd like it wonderful well."

"You can be, if so inclined."

"I'm ever so inclined, as I've sayed. But how, your Reverence? In this hard work-o'-day world 'tant so easy to get rich."

"For you, easy enough. No labour and not much more difficulty than transporting your coracle five or six miles across the meadows."

"Somethin' to do wi' the coracle, have it?"

"No; 'twill need a bigger boat--one that will carry three or four people. Do you know where you can borrow such, or hire it?"

"I think I do. I've a friend, the name o' Rob Trotter, who's got just sich a boat. He'd lend it me, sure."

"Charter it, if he doesn't. Never mind about the price. I'll pay."

"When might you want it, your Reverence?"

"On Thursday night, at ten, or a little later--say half-past."

"And where am I to bring it?"

"To the Ferry; you'll have it against the bank by the back of the Chapel burying-ground, and keep it there till I come to you. Don't leave it to go up to the `Harp,' or anywhere else; and don't let any one see either the boat or yourself, if you can possibly avoid it. As the nights are now dark at that hour, there need be no difficulty in your rowing up the river without being observed. Above all, you're to make no one the wiser of what you're to do, or anything I'm now saying to you. The service I want you for is one of a secret kind, and not to be prattled about."

"May I have a hint o' what it is?"

"Not now; you shall know in good time--when you meet me with the boat. There will be another along with me--may be two--to assist in the affair. What will be required of you is a little dexterity, _such as you displayed on Saturday night_."

No need the emphasis on the last words to impress their meaning upon the murderer. Too well he comprehends, starting in his chair as if a hornet had stung him.

"How--where?" he gasps out in the confusion of terror.

The double interrogatory is but mechanical, and of no consequence. Hopeless any attempt at concealment or subterfuge; as he is aware on receiving the answer, cool and provokingly deliberate.

"You have asked two questions, Monsieur Dick, that call for separate replies. To the first, `How?' I leave you to grope out the answer for yourself, feeling pretty sure you'll find it. With the second I'll be more particular, if you wish me. Place--where a certain foot plank bridges a certain brook, close to the farmhouse of Abergann. It--the plank, I mean--last Saturday night, a little after nine, took a fancy to go drifting down the Wye. Need I tell you who sent it, Richard Dempsey?"

The man thus interrogated looks more than confused--horrified, well nigh crazed. Excitedly stretching out his hand, he clutches the bottle, half fills the tumbler with brandy, and drinks it down at a gulp. He almost wishes it were poison, and would instantly kill him!

Only after dashing the glass down does he make reply--sullenly, and in a hoarse, husky voice:

"I don't want to know, one way or the other. Damn the plank! What do I care?"

"You shouldn't blaspheme, Monsieur Dick. That's not becoming--above all, in the presence of your spiritual adviser. However, you're excited, as I see, which is in some sense an excuse."

"I beg your Reverence's pardon. I was a bit excited about something."

He has calmed down a little, at thought that things may not be so bad for him after all. The priest's last words, with his manner, seem to promise secrecy. Still further quieted as the latter continues:

"Never mind about what. We can talk of it afterwards. As I've made you aware--more than once, if I rightly remember--there's no sin so great but that pardon may reach it--if repented and atoned for. On Thursday night you shall have an opportunity to make some atonement. So, be there with the boat!"

"I will, your Reverence; sure as my name's Richard Dempsey."

Idle of him to be thus earnest in promising. He can be trusted to come as if led in a string. For he knows there is a halter around his neck, with one end of it in the hand of Father Rogier.

"Enough!" returns the priest. "If there be anything else I think of communicating to you before Thursday I'll come again--to-morrow night. So be at home. Meanwhile, see to securing the boat. Don't let there be any failure about that, _coute que coute_. And let me again enjoin silence--not a word to any one, even your friend Rob. _Verbum sapientibus_! But as you're not much of a scholar, Monsieur Coracle, I suppose my Latin's lost on you. Putting it in your own vernacular, I mean: keep a close mouth, if you don't wish to wear a necktie of material somewhat coarser than either silk or cotton. You comprehend?"

To the priest's satanical humour the poacher answers, with a sickly smile,--

"I do, Father Rogier; perfectly."

"That's sufficient. And now, _mon bracconier_, I must be gone. Before starting out, however, I'll trench a little further on your hospitality. Just another drop, to defend me from these chill equinoctials."

Saying which he leans towards the table, pours out a stoop of the brandy--best Cognac from the "Harp" it is--then quaffing it off, bids "bon soir!" and takes departure.

Having accompanied him to the door, the poacher stands upon its threshold looking after, reflecting upon what has passed, anything but pleasantly. Never took he leave of a guest less agreeable. True, things are not quite so bad as he might have expected, and had reason to anticipate. And yet they are bad enough. He is in the toils--the tough, strong meshes of the criminal net, which at any moment may be drawn tight and fast around him; and between policeman and priest there is little to choose. For his own purposes the latter may allow him to live; but it will be as the life of one who has sold his soul to the devil!

While thus gloomily cogitating he hears a sound, which but makes still more sombre the hue of his thoughts. A voice comes pealing up the glen--a wild, wailing cry, as of some one in the extreme of distress. He can almost fancy it the shriek of a drowning woman. But his ears are too much accustomed to nocturnal sounds, and the voices of the woods, to be deceived. That heard was only a little unusual by reason of the rough night--its tone altered by the whistling of the wind.

"Bah!" he exclaims, recognising the call of the screech-owl, "it's only one o' them cursed brutes. What a fool fear makes a man!"

And with this hackneyed reflection he turns back into the house, rebolts the door, and goes to his bed; not to sleep, but lie long awake--kept so by that same fear.

Volume Two, Chapter VIII.

THE GAME OF PIQUE.

The sun has gone down upon Gwen Wynn's natal day--its twenty-first anniversary--and Llangorren Court is in a blaze of light. For a grand entertainment is there being given--a ball.

The night is a dark one; but its darkness does not interfere with the festivities; instead, heightens their splendour, by giving effect to the illuminations. For although autumn, the weather is still warm, and the grounds are illuminated. Parti-coloured lamps are placed at intervals along the walks, and suspended in festoonery from the trees, while the casement windows of the house stand open, people passing in and out of them as if they were doors. The drawing-room is this night devoted to dancing; its carpet taken up, the floor made as slippery as a skating rink with beeswax--abominable custom! Though a large apartment, it does not afford space for half the company to dance in; and to remedy this, supplementary quadrilles are arranged on the smooth turf outside--a string and wind band from the neighbouring town making music loud enough for all.

Besides, all do not care for the delightful exercise. A sumptuous spread in the dining-room, with wines at discretion, attracts a proportion of the guests; while there are others who have a fancy to go strolling about the lawn, even beyond the coruscation of the lamps; some who do not think it too dark anywhere, but the darker the better.

The _elite_ of at least half the shire is present, and Miss Linton, who is still the hostess, reigns supreme in fine exuberance of spirits. Being the last entertainment at Llangorren over which she is officially to preside, one might imagine she would take things in a different way. But as she is to remain resident at the Court, with privileges but slightly, if at all, curtailed, she has no gloomy forecast of the future. Instead, on this night present she lives as in the past; almost fancies herself back at Cheltenham in its days of splendour, and dancing with the "first gentleman in Europe" redivivus. If her star be going down, it is going in glory, as the song of the swan is sweetest in its dying hour.

Strange, that on such a festive occasion, with its circumstances attendant, the old spinster, hitherto mistress of the mansion, should be happier than the younger one, hereafter to be! But in truth, so is it. Notwithstanding her great beauty and grand wealth--the latter no longer in prospective, but in actual possession--despite the gaiety and grandeur surrounding her, the friendly greetings and warm congratulations received on all sides--Gwen Wynn is herself anything but gay. Instead, sad, almost to wretchedness!

And from the most trifling of causes, though not as by her estimated; little suspecting she has but herself to blame. It has arisen out of an episode, in love's history of common and very frequent occurrence--the game of piques. She and Captain Ryecroft are playing it, with all the power and skill they can command. Not much of the last, for jealousy is but a clumsy fencer. Though accounted keen, it is often blind as love itself; and were not both under its influence they would not fail to see through the flimsy deceptions they are mutually practising on one another. In love with each other almost to distraction, they are this night behaving as though they were the bitterest enemies, or at all events as friends sorely estranged.

She began it; blamelessly, even with praiseworthy motive; which, known to him, no trouble could have come up between them. But when, touched with compassion for George Shenstone, she consented to dance with him several times consecutively, and in the intervals remained conversing-- too familiarly, as Captain Ryecroft imagined--all this with an "engagement ring" on her finger, by himself placed upon it--not strange in him, thus _fiance_, feeling a little jealous; no more that he should endeavour to make her the same. Strategy, old as hills, or hearts themselves.

In his attempt he is, unfortunately, too successful; finding the means near by--an assistant willing and ready to his hand. This in the person of Miss Powell; she also went to church on the Sunday before in Jack Wingate's boat--a young lady so attractive as to make it a nice point whether she or Gwen Wynn be the attraction of the evening.

Though only just introduced, the Hussar officer is not unknown to her by name, with some repute of his heroism besides. His appearance speaks for itself, making such impression upon the lady as to set her pencil at work inscribing his name on her card for several dances, round and square, in rapid succession.

And so between him and Gwen Wynn the jealous feeling, at first but slightly entertained, is nursed and fanned into a burning flame--the green-eyed monster growing bigger as the night gets later.

On both sides it reaches its maximum, when Miss Wynn, after a waltz, leaning on George Shenstone's arm, walks out into the grounds, and stops to talk with him in a retired, shadowy spot.

Not far off is Captain Ryecroft observing them, but too far to hear the words passing between. Were he near enough for this, it would terminate the strife raging in his breast, as the sham flirtation he is carrying on with Miss Powell--put at end to _her_ new sprung aspirations, if she has any.

It does as much for the hopes of George Shenstone--long in abeyance, but this night rekindled and revived. Beguiled, first by his partner's amiability in so oft dancing with, then afterwards using him as a foil, he little dreams that he is but being made a catspaw. Instead, drawing courage from the deception, emboldened as never before, he does what he never dared before--make Gwen Wynn a proposal of marriage. He makes it without circumlocution, at a single bound, as he would take a hedge upon his hunter.

"Gwen! you know how I love you--would give my life for you! Will you be--" Only now he hesitates, as if his horse baulked.

"Be what?" she asks, with no intention to help him over, but mechanically, her thoughts being elsewhere.

"My wife?"

She starts at the words, touched by his manly way, yet pained by their appealing earnestness, and the thought she must give denying response.

And how is she to give it, with least pain to him? Perhaps the bluntest way will be the best. So thinking, she says:--

"George, it can never be. Look at that!"

She holds out her left hand, sparkling with jewels.

"At what?" he asks, not comprehending.

"That ring." She indicates a cluster of brilliants, on the fourth finger, by itself, adding the word "Engaged."

"O God!" he exclaims, almost in a groan. "Is that so?"

"It is."

For a time there is silence; her answer less maddening than making him sad.

With a desperate effort to resign himself, he at length replies:--

"Dear Gwen! for I must still call you--ever hold you so--my life hereafter will be as one who walks in darkness, waiting for death--ah, longing for it!"

Despair has its poetry, as love; oft exceeding the last in fervour of expression, and that of George Shenstone causes surprise to Gwen Wynn, while still further paining her. So much she knows not how to make rejoinder, and is glad when a _fanfare_ of the band instruments gives note of another quadrille--the Lancers--about to begin.

Still engaged partners for the dance, but not to be for life, they return to the drawing-room, and join in it; he going through its figures with a sad heart and many a sigh.

Nor is she less sorrowful, only more excited; nigh unto madness, as she sees Captain Ryecroft _vis-a-vis_ with Miss Powell; on his face an expression of content, calm, almost cynical; hers radiant as with triumph!

In this moment of Gwen Wynn's supreme misery--acme of jealous spite-- were George Shenstone to renew his proposal, she might pluck the betrothal ring from her finger, and give answer, "I will!"

It is not to be so, however weighty the consequence. In the horoscope of her life there is yet a heavier.

Volume Two, Chapter IX.

JEALOUS AS A TIGER.

It is a little after two a.m., and the ball is breaking up. Not a very late hour, as many of the people live at a distance, and have a long drive homeward, over hilly roads.

By the fashion prevailing a _galop_ brings the dancing to a close. The musicians, slipping their instruments into cases and baize bags, retire from the room; soon after deserted by all, save a spare servant or two, who make the rounds to look to extinguishing the lamps, with a sharp eye for waifs in the shape of dropped ribbons or _bijouterie_.

Gentlemen guests stay longer in the dining-room over claret and champagne "cup," or the more time-honoured B and S; while in the hallway there is a crush, and on the stairs a stream of ladies, descending cloaked and hooded.

Soon the crowd waxes thinner, relieved by carriages called up, quickly filling, and whirled off.

That of Squire Powell is among them; and Captain Ryecroft, not without comment from certain officious observers, accompanies the young lady, he has been so often dancing with, to the door.

Having seen her off with the usual ceremonies of leave-taking, he returns into the porch, and there for a while remains. It is a large portico, with Corinthian columns, by one of which he takes stand, in shadow. But there is a deeper shadow on his own brow, and a darkness in his heart, such as he has never in his life experienced. He feels how he has committed himself, but not with any remorse or repentance. Instead, the jealous anger is still within his breast, ripe and ruthless as ever. Nor is it so unnatural. Here is a woman--not Miss Powell, but Gwen Wynn--to whom he has given his heart--acknowledged the surrender, and in return had acknowledgment of hers--not only this, but offered his hand in marriage--placed the pledge upon her finger, she assenting and accepting--and now, in the face of all, openly, and before his face, engaged in flirtation!

It is not the first occasion for him to have observed familiarities between her and the son of Sir George Shenstone; trifling, it is true, but which gave him uneasiness. But to-night things have been more serious, and the pain caused him all-imbuing and bitter.

He does not reflect how he has been himself behaving. For to none more than the jealous lover is the big beam unobservable, while the little mote is sharply descried. He only thinks of her ill-behaviour, ignoring his own. If she has been but dissembling, coquetting with him, even that were reprehensible. Heartless, he deems it--sinister--something more, an indiscretion. Flirting while engaged--what might she do when married?

He does not wrong her by such direct self-interrogation. The suspicion were unworthy of himself, as of her; and as yet he has not given way to it. Still her conduct seems inexcusable, as inexplicable; and to get explanation of it he now tarries, while others are hastening away.

Not resolutely. Besides the half sad, half indignant expression upon his countenance, there is also one of indecision. He is debating within himself what course to pursue, and whether he will go off without bidding her good-bye. He is almost mad enough to be ill-mannered; and possibly, were it only a question of politeness, he would not stand upon, or be stayed by it. But there is more. The very same spiteful rage hinders him from going. He thinks himself aggrieved, and, therefore, justifiable in demanding to know the reason--to use a slang, but familiar phrase, "having it out."

Just as has reached this determination, an opportunity is offered him. Having taken leave of Miss Linton, he has returned to the door, where he stands hat in hand, his overcoat already on. Miss Wynn is now also there, bidding good night to some guests--intimate friends--who have remained till the last. As they move off, he approaches her; she, as if unconsciously, and by the merest chance, lingering near the entrance. It is all pretence on her part, that she has not seen him dallying about; for she has several times, while giving _conge_ to others of the company. Equally feigned her surprise, as she returns his salute, saying--

"Why, Captain Ryecroft! I supposed you were gone long ago!"

"I am sorry, Miss Wynn, you should think me capable of such rudeness."

"Captain Ryecroft" and "Miss Wynn," instead of "Vivian" and "Gwen!" It is a bad beginning, ominous of a worse ending.

The rejoinder, almost a rebuke, places her at a disadvantage, and she says rather confusedly--

"O! certainly not, sir. But where there are so many people, of course, one does not look for the formalities of leave-taking."

"True; and, availing myself of that, I might have been gone long since, as you supposed, but for--"

"For what?"

"A word I wish to speak with you--alone. Can I?"

"Oh, certainly."

"Not here?" he asks suggestingly.

She glances around. There are servants hurrying about through the hall, crossing and recrossing, with the musicians coming forth from the dining-room, where they have been making a clearance of the cold fowl, ham, and heel-taps.

With quick intelligence comprehending, but without further speech she walks out into the portico, he preceding. Not to remain there, where eyes would still be on them, and ears within hearing. She has an Indian shawl upon her arm--throughout the night carried while promenading--and again throwing it over her shoulders, she steps down upon the gravelled sweep, and on into the grounds.

Side by side they proceed in the direction of the summer-house, as many times before, though never in the same mood as now. And never, as now, so constrained and silent; for not a word passes between them till they reach the pavilion.

There is light in it. But a few hundred yards from the house, it came in for part of the illumination, and its lamps are not yet extinguished--only burning feebly.

She is the first to enter--he to resume speech, saying--

"There was a day, Miss Wynn, when, standing on this spot, I thought myself the happiest man in Herefordshire. Now I know it was but a fancy--a sorry hallucination."

"I do not understand you, Captain Ryecroft!"

"Oh yes, you do. Pardon my contradicting you; you've given me reason."

"Indeed! In what way? I beg, nay, demand, explanation."

"You shall have it; though superfluous, I should think, after what has been passing--this night especially."

"Oh! this night especially! I supposed you so much engaged with Miss Powell as not to have noticed anything or anybody else. What was it, pray?"

"You understand, I take it, without need of my entering into particulars."

"Indeed, I don't; unless you refer to my dancing with George Shenstone."

"More than dancing with him--keeping his company all through!"

"Not strange that; seeing I was left so free to keep it! Besides, as I suppose you know, his father was my father's oldest and most intimate friend."

She makes this avowal condescendingly, observing he is really vexed, and thinking the game of contraries has gone far enough. He has given her a sight of his cards, and with the quick subtle instinct of woman she sees that among them Miss Powell is no longer chief trump. Were his perception keen as hers, their jealous conflict would now come to a close, and between them confidence and friendship, stronger than ever, be restored.

Unfortunately it is not to be. Still miscomprehending, yet unyielding, he rejoins, sneeringly--

"And I suppose your father's daughter is determined to continue that intimacy with his fathers son; which might not be so very pleasant to him who should be your husband! Had I thought of that when I placed a ring upon your finger--"

Before he can finish she has plucked it off, and drawing herself up to full height, says in bitter retort--

"You insult me, sir! Take it back!" With the words, the gemmed circlet is flung upon the little rustic table, from which it rolls off.

He has not been prepared for such abrupt issue, though his rude speech tempted it. Somewhat sorry, but still too exasperated to confess or show it, he rejoins, defiantly:--

"If you wish it to end so, let it!"

"Yes; let it!"

They part without further speech. He, being nearest the door, goes out first, taking no heed of the diamond cluster which lies sparkling upon the floor.

Neither does she touch, or think of it. Were it the Koh-i-noor, she would not care for it now. A jewel more precious--the one love of her life is lost--cruelly crushed--and, with heart all but breaking, she sinks down upon the bench, draws the shawl over her face, and weeps till its rich silken tissue is saturated with her tears.

The wild spasm passed, she rises to her feet, and stands leaning upon the baluster rail, looking out and listening. Still dark, she sees nothing; but hears the stroke of a boat's oars in measured and regular repetition--listens on till the sound becomes indistinct, blending with the sough of the river, the sighing of the breeze, and the natural voices of the night.

She may never hear _his_ voice, never look on his face again!

At the thought she exclaims, in anguished accent, "This the ending! It is too--"

What she designed saying is not said. Her interrupted words are continued into a shriek--one wild cry--then her lips are sealed, suddenly, as if stricken dumb, or dead!

Not by the visitation of God. Before losing consciousness, she felt the embrace of brawny arms--knew herself the victim of man's violence.

Volume Two, Chapter X.

STUNNED AND SILENT.

Down in the boat-dock, upon the thwarts of his skiff, sits the young waterman awaiting his fare. He has been up to the house and there hospitably entertained--feasted. But with the sorrow of his recent bereavement still fresh, the revelry of the servants' hall had no fascination for him--instead, only saddening the more. Even the blandishments of the French _femme de chambre_ could not detain him; and fleeing them, he has returned to his boat long before he expects being called upon to use the oars.

Seated, pipe in mouth--for Jack too indulges in tobacco--he is endeavouring to put in the time as well as he can; irksome at best with that bitter grief upon him. And it is present all the while, with scarce a moment of surcease, his thoughts ever dwelling on her who is sleeping her last sleep in the burying-ground at Rugg's Ferry.

While thus disconsolately reflecting, a sound falls upon his ears, which claims his attention, and for an instant or two occupies it. If anything, it was the dip of an oar; but so light that only one with ears well-trained to distinguish noises of the kind could tell it to be that. He, however, has no doubt of it, muttering to himself--

"Wonder whose boat can be on the river this time o' night--mornin', I ought to say? Wouldn't be a tourist party--starting off so early? No, can't be that. Like enough Dick Dempsey out a-salmon stealin'! The night so dark--just the sort for the rascal to be about on his unlawful business."

While thus conjecturing, a scowl, dark as the night itself, flits over his own face.

"Yes; a coracle!" he continues; "must 'a been the plash o' a paddle. If't had been a regular boat's oar I'd a heerd the thumpin' against the thole pins."

For once the waterman is in error. It is no paddle whose stroke he has heard, nor a coracle impelled by it; but a boat rowed by a pair of oars. And why there is no "thumpin' against the thole pins" is because the oars are muffled. Were he out in the main channel--two hundred yards above the bye-way--he would see the craft itself with three men in it. But only at that instant; as in the next it is headed into a bed of "witheys"--flooded by the freshet--and pushed on through them to the bank beyond.

Soon it touches _terra firma_, the men spring out; two of them going off towards the grounds of Llangorren Court. The third remains by the boat.

Meanwhile, Jack Wingate, in his skiff, continues listening. But hearing no repetition of the sound that had so slightly reached his ear, soon ceases to think of it; again giving way to his grief, as he returns to reflect on what lies in the chapel cemetery. If he but knew how near the two things were together--the burying-ground and the boat--he would not be long in his own.

Relieved he is, when at length voices are heard up at the house--calls for carriages--proclaiming the ball about to break up. Still more gratified, as the banging of doors, and the continuous rumble of wheels, tell of the company fast clearing off.

For nigh half an hour the rattling is incessant; then there is a lull, and he listens for a sound of a different sort--a footfall on the stone stairs that lead down to the little dock--that of his fare, who may at any moment be expected.

Instead of footstep, he hears voices on the cliff above, off in the direction of the summer-house. Nothing to surprise him that? It is not first time he has listened to the same, and under very similar circumstances; for soon as hearing he recognises them. But it is the first time for him to note their tone as it is now--to his astonishment that of anger.

"They be quarrelling, I declare," he says to himself. "Wonder what for! Somethin' crooked's come between 'em at the ball--bit o' jealousy, maybe? I shudn't be surprised if it's about young Mr Shenstone. Sure as eggs is eggs, the Captain have ugly ideas consarnin' him. He needn't, though; an' wouldn't, if he seed through the eyes o' a sensible man. Course, bein' deep in love, he can't. I seed it long ago. She be mad about him as he o' her--if not madder. Well; I daresay it be only a lovers' quarrel an'll soon blow over. Woe's me! I weesh--"

He would say "I weesh 'twar only that 'twixt myself an' Mary," but the words break upon his lips, while a scalding tear trickles down his cheek.

Fortunately his anguished sorrow is not allowed further indulgence for the time.

The footstep, so long listened for, is at length upon the boat stair; not firm, in its wonted way, but as though he making it were intoxicated!

But Wingate does not believe it is that. He knows the Captain to be abstemious, or, at all events, not greatly given to drink. He has never seen him overcome by it; and surely he would not be, on this night in particular. Unless, indeed, it may have to do with the angry speech overheard, or the something thought of preceding it!

The conjectures of the waterman, are brought to an end by the arrival of his fare at the bottom of the boat stair, where he stops only to ask--"Are you there, Jack?" The pitchy darkness accounts for the question.

Receiving answer in the affirmative, he gropes his way along the ledge of rock, reeling like a drunken man. Not from drink, but the effects of that sharp, defiant rejoinder still ringing in his ears. He seems to hear, in every gust of the wind swirling down from the cliff above, the words, "Yes; let it!"

He knows where the skiff should be--where it was left--beyond the pleasure boat. The dock is not wide enough for both abreast, and to reach his own he must go across the other--make a gang-plank of the _Gwendoline_.

As he sets foot upon the thwarts of the pleasure craft, has he a thought of what were his feelings when he first planted it there, after ducking the Forest of Dean fellow? Or, stepping off, does he spurn the boat with angry heel, as in angry speech he has done her whose name it bears? Neither. He is too excited and confused to think of the past, or aught but the black bitter present.

Still staggering, he drops down upon the stern sheets of the skiff, commanding the waterman to shove off.

A command promptly obeyed, and in silence. Jack can see the Captain is out of sorts, and suspecting the reason, naturally supposes that speech at such time might not be welcome. He says nothing, therefore; but, bending to his oars, pulls on up the bye-way.

Just outside its entrance a glimpse can be got of the little pavilion-- by looking back. And Captain Ryecroft does this, over his shoulder; for, seated at the tiller, his face is from it. The light is still there, burning dimly as ever. For all, he is enabled to trace the outlines of a figure, in shadowy _silhouette_--a woman standing by the baluster rail, as if looking out over it.

He knows who it is; it can only be Gwen Wynn. Well were it for both could he but know what she is at that moment thinking. If he did, back would go his boat, and the two again be together--perhaps never more to part in spite.

Just then, as if ominous, and in spiteful protest against such consummation, the sombre sandstone cliff draws between, and Captain Ryecroft is carried onward, with heart dark and heavy as the rock.

Volume Two, Chapter XI.

A STARTLING CRY.

During all this while Wingate has not spoken a word, though he also has observed the same figure in the pavilion. With face that way he could not avoid noticing it, and easily guesses who she is. Had he any doubt the behaviour of the other would remove it.

"Miss Wynn, for sartin," he thinks to himself, but says nothing.

Again turning his eyes upon his patron, he notes the distraught air, with head drooping, and feels the effect in having to contend against the rudder ill directed. But he forbears making remark. At such a moment his interference might not be tolerated--perhaps resented. And so the silence continues.

Not much longer. A thought strikes the waterman, and he ventures a word about the weather. It is done for a kindly feeling--for he sees how the other suffers--but in part because he has a reason for it. The observation is--

"We're goin' to have the biggest kind o' a rainpour Captain."

The Captain makes no immediate response. Still in the morose mood, communing with his own thoughts, the words fall upon his ear unmeaningly, as if from a distant echo.

After a time it occurs to him he has been spoken to and asks--

"What did you observe, Wingate?"

"That there be a rain storm threatening o' the grandest sort. There's flood enough now; but afore long it'll be all over the meadows."

"Why do you think that? I see no sign. The sky's very much clouded true; but it has been just the same for the last several days."

"'Tan't the sky as tells me, Captain."

"What then?"

"The _heequall_."

"The heequall?"

"Yes. It's been a cacklin' all through the afternoon and evenin'-- especial loud just as the sun wor settin'. I niver know'd it do that 'ithout plenty o' wet comin' soon after."

Ryecroft's interest is aroused, and for the moment forgetting his misery, he says:--

"You're talking enigmas, Jack! At least they are so to me. What is this barometer you seem to place such confidence in? Beast, bird, or fish?"

"It be a bird, Captain? I believe the gentry folks calls it a woodpecker; but 'bout here it be more generally known by the name _heequall_."

The orthography is according to Jack's orthoepy, for there are various spellings of the word.

"Anyhow," he proceeds, "it gies warnin' o' rain, same as a weather-glass. When it ha' been laughin' in the mad way it wor most part o' this day, you may look out for a downpour. Besides, the owls ha' been a-doin' their best, too. While I wor waiting for ye in that darksome hole, one went sailin' up an' down the backwash, every now an' then swishin' close to my ear and giein' a screech--as if I hadn't enough o' the disagreeable to think o'. They allus come that way when one's feelin' out o' sorts--just as if they wanted to make things worse. Hark! Did ye hear that, Captain?"

"I did."

They speak of a sound that has reached their ears from below--down the river.

Both show agitation, but most the waterman; for it resembled a shriek, as of a woman in distress. Distant, just as one he heard across the wooded ridge, on that fatal night after parting with Mary Morgan. He knows now, that must have been her drowning cry, and has often thought since whether, if aware of it at the time, he could have done aught to rescue her. Not strange, that with such a recollection he is now greatly excited by a sound so similar!

"That waren't no heequall; nor screech-owl neyther," he says, speaking in a half whisper.

"What do you think it was?" asks the Captain, also _sotto voce_.

"The scream o' a female. I'm 'most sure 'twor that."

"It certainly did seem a woman's voice. In the direction of the Court, too!"

"Yes; it comed that way."

"I've half a mind to put back, and see if there be anything amiss. What say you, Wingate?"

"Gie the word, sir! I'm ready."

The boatman has his oars out of water, and holds them so, Ryecroft still undecided. Both listen with bated breath. But, whether woman's voice, or whatever the sound, they hear nothing more of it; only the monotonous ripple of the river, the wind mournfully sighing through the trees upon its banks, and a distant "brattle," of thunder, bearing out the portent of the bird.

"Like as not," says Jack, "'twor some o' them sarvint girls screechin' in play, fra havin' had a drop too much to drink. There's a Frenchy thing among 'em as wor gone nigh three sheets i' the wind 'fores I left. I think, Captain, we may as well keep on."

The waterman has an eye to the threatening rain, and dreads getting a wet jacket.

But his words are thrown away; for, meanwhile, the boat, left to itself, has drifted downward, nearly back to the entrance of the bye-way, and they are once more within sight of the kiosk on the cliff. There all is darkness; no figure distinguishable. The lamps have burnt out, or been removed by some of the servants.

"She has gone away from it," is Ryecroft's reflection to himself. "I wonder if the ring be still on the floor--or, has she taken it with her! I'd give something to know that."

Beyond he sees a light in the upper window of the house--that of a bedroom no doubt. She may be in it, unrobing herself, before retiring to rest. Perhaps standing in front of a mirror, which reflects that form of magnificent outline he was once permitted to hold in his arms, thrilled by the contact, and never to be thrilled so again! Her face in the glass--what the expression upon it? Sadness, or joy? If the former, she is thinking of him; if the latter of George Shenstone.

As this reflection flits across his brain, the jealous rage returns, and he cries out to the waterman--

"Row back, Wingate! Pull hard, and let us home!"

Once more the boat's head is turned upstream, and for a long spell no further conversation is exchanged--only now and then a word relating to the management of the craft, as between rower and steerer. Both have relapsed into abstraction--each dwelling on his own bereavement. Perhaps boat never carried two men with sadder hearts, or more bitter reflections. Nor is there so much difference in the degree of their bitterness. The sweetheart, almost bride, who has proved false, seems to her lover not less lost, than to hers she who has been snatched away by death!

As the _Mary_ runs into the slip of backwater--her accustomed mooring-place--and they step out of her, the dialogue is renewed by the owner asking--

"Will ye want me the morrow, Captain?"

"No, Jack."

"How soon do you think? 'Scuse me for questionin'; but young Mr Powell have been here the day, to know if I could take him an' a friend down the river, all the way to the Channel. It's for sea fishin' or duck shootin' or somethin' o' that sort; an' they want to engage the boat most part o' a week. But, if you say the word, they must look out for somebody else. That be the reason o' my askin' when's you'd need me again."

"Perhaps never."

"Oh! Captain; don't say that. 'Tan't as I care 'bout the boat's hire, or the big pay you've been givin' me. Believe me it ain't. Ye can have me an' the _Mary_ 'ithout a sixpence o' expense--long's ye like. But to think I'm niver to row you again, that 'ud vex me dreadful--maybe more'n ye gi'e me credit for, Captain."

"More than I give you credit for! It couldn't, Jack. We've been too long together for me to suppose you actuated by mercenary motives. Though I may never need your boat again, or see yourself, don't have any fear of my forgetting you. And now, as a souvenir, and some slight recompense of your services, take this."

The waterman feels a piece of paper pressed into his hand, its crisp rustle proclaiming it a bank-note. It is a "tenner," but in the darkness he cannot tell, and believing it only a "fiver," still thinks it too much. For it is all extra of his fare.

With a show of returning it, and, indeed, the desire to do so, he says protestingly--

"I can't take it, Captain. You ha' paid me too handsome, arredy."

"Nonsense, man! I haven't done anything of the kind. Besides, that isn't for boat hire, nor yourself; only a little douceur, by way of present to the good dame inside the cottage--asleep, I take it."

"That case I accept. But won't my mother be grieved to hear o' your goin' away--she thinks so much o' ye, Captain. Will ye let me wake her up? I'm sure she'd like to speak a partin' word, and thank you for this big gift."

"No, no! don't disturb the dear old lady. In the morning you can give her my kind regards, and parting compliments. Say to her, when I return to Herefordshire--if I ever do--she shall see me. For yourself, take my word, should I ever again go rowing on this river it will be in a boat called the _Mary_, pulled by the best waterman on the Wye."

Modest though Jack Wingate be, he makes no pretence of misunderstanding the recondite compliment, but accepts it in its fullest sense, rejoining--

"I'd call it flattery, Captain, if't had come from anybody but you. But I know ye never talk nonsense; an' that's just why I be so sad to hear ye say you're goin' off for good. I feeled so bad 'bout losin' poor Mary; it makes it worse now losin' you. Good night!"

The Hussar officer has a horse, which has been standing in a little lean-to shed, under saddle. The lugubrious dialogue has been carried on simultaneously with the bridling, and the "Good night" is said as Ryecroft springs up on his stirrup.

Then as he rides away into the darkness, and Jack Wingate stands listening to the departing hoof-stroke, at each repetition more indistinct, he feels indeed forsaken, forlorn; only one thing in the world now worth living for--but one to keep him anchored to life--his aged mother!

Volume Two, Chapter XII.

MAKING READY FOR THE ROAD.

Having reached his hotel, Captain Ryecroft seeks neither rest nor sleep, but stays awake for the remainder of the night.

The first portion of his time he spends in gathering up his _impedimenta_, and packing. Not a heavy task. His luggage is light, according to the simplicity of a soldier's wants; and as an old campaigner he is not long in making ready for the _route_.

His fishing tackle, gun-case and portmanteau, with an odd bundle or two of miscellaneous effects, are soon strapped and corded. After which he takes a seat by a table to write out the labels.

But now a difficulty occurs to him--the address! His name of course, but what the destination? Up to this moment he has not thought of where he is going; only that he must go somewhere--away from the Wye. There is no Lethe in that stream for memories like his.

To his regiment he cannot return, for he has none now. Months since he ceased to be a soldier; having resigned his commission at the expiration of his leave of absence--partly in displeasure at being refused extension of it, but more because the attractions of the "Court" and the grove had made those of the camp uncongenial. Thus his visit to Herefordshire has not only spoilt him as a salmon fisher, but put an end to his military career.

Fortunately he was not dependent on it; for Captain Ryecroft is a rich man. And yet he has no home he can call his own; the ten latest years of his life having been passed in Hindostan. Dublin is his native place; but what would or could he now do there? his nearest relatives are dead, his friends few, his schoolfellows long since scattered--many of them, as himself, waifs upon the world. Besides, since his return from India, he has paid a visit to the capital of the Emerald Isle; where, finding all so changed, he cares not to go back--at least, for the present.

Whither then?

One place looms upon the imagination--almost naturally as home itself-- the metropolis of the world. He will proceed thither, though not there to stay. Only to use it as a point of departure for another metropolis--the French one. In that focus and centre of gaiety and fashion--Maelstrom of dissipation--he may find some relief from his misery, if not happiness. Little hope has he; but it may be worth the trial and he will make it.

So determining, he takes up the pen, and is about to put "London" on the labels. But as an experienced strategist, who makes no move with undue haste and without due deliberation, he sits a while longer considering.

Strange as it may seem, and a question for psychologists, a man thinks best upon his back. Better still with a cigar between his teeth-- powerful help to reflection. Aware of this, Captain Ryecroft lights a "weed," and looks around him. He is in his sleeping apartment, where, besides the bed, there is a sofa--horsehair cushion and squab hard as stones--the orthodox hotel article.

Along this he lays himself, and smokes away furiously. Spitefully, too; for he is not now thinking of either London or Paris. He cannot yet. The happy past, the wretched present, are too soul-absorbing to leave room for speculations of the future. The "fond rage of love" is still active within him. Is it to "blight his life's bloom," leaving him "an age all winters?" Or is there yet a chance of reconciliation? Can the chasm which angry words have created be bridged over? No. Not without confession of error--abject humiliation on his part--which in his present frame of mind he is not prepared to make--will not--could not.

"Never!" he exclaims, plucking the cigar from between his lips, but soon returning it, to continue the train of his reflections.

Whether from the soothing influence of the nicotine, or other cause, his thoughts after a time became more tranquillised--their hue sensibly changed, as betokened by some muttered words which escape him.

"After all, I may be wronging her. If so, may God forgive, as I hope He will pity me. For if so, I am less deserving forgiveness, and more to be pitied than she."

As in ocean's storm, between the rough surging billows foam-crested, are spots of smooth water, so in thought's tempest are intervals of calm. It is during one of these he speaks as above; and continuing to reflect in the same strain, things, if not quite _couleur de rose_, assume a less repulsive aspect. Gwen Wynn may have been but dissembling--playing with him--and he would now be contented, ready--even rejoiced--to accept it in that sense; ay, to the abject humiliation that but the moment before he had so defiantly rejected. So reversed his sentiments now-- modified from mad anger to gentle forgiveness--he is almost in the act of springing to his feet, tearing the straps from his packed paraphernalia, and letting all loose again!

But just at this crisis he hears the town clock tolling six, and voices in conversation under his window. It is a hit of gossip between two stable-men--attaches of the hotel--an ostler and fly-driver.

"Ye had a big time last night at Llangorren?" says the former, inquiringly.

"Ah! that ye may say," returns the Jarvey, with a strongly accentuated hiccup, telling of heel-taps. "Never knowed a bigger, s'help me. Wine runnin' in rivers, as if 'twas only table-beer--an' the best kind o't too. I'm so full o' French champagne, I feel most like burstin'."

"She be a grand gal, that Miss Wynn. An't she?"

"In course is--one o' the grandest. But she an't going to be a _girl_ long. By what I heerd them say in the sarvints' hall, she's soon to be broke into pair-horse harness."

"Wi' who?"

"The son o' Sir George Shenstone."

"A good match they'll make, I sh'd say. Tidier chap than he never stepped inside this yard. Many's the time he's tipped me."

There is more of the same sort, but Captain Ryecroft does not hear it; the men having moved off beyond earshot. In all likelihood he would not have listened, had they stayed. For again he seems to hear those other words--that last spiteful rejoinder--"Yes; let it."

His own spleen returning, in all its keen hostility, he springs upon his feet, hastily steps back to the table, and writes on the slips of parchment--

_Mr Vivian Ryecroft, Passenger to London_, _G.W.R_.

He cannot attach them till the ink gets dry; and, while waiting for it to do so, his thoughts undergo still another revulsion; again leading him to reflect whether he may not be in the wrong, and acting inconsiderately--rashly.

In fine, he resolves on a course which had not hitherto occurred to him--he will write to her. Not in repentance, nor any confession of guilt on his part. He is too proud, and still too doubting for that. Only a test letter to draw her out, and if possible, discover how she too feels under the circumstances. Upon the answer--if he receive one-- will depend whether it is to be the last.

With pen still in hand, he draws a sheet of notepaper towards him. It bears the hotel stamp and name, so that he has no need to write an address--only the date.

This done, he remains for a time considering--thinking what he should say. The larger portion of his manhood's life spent in camp, under canvas--not the place for cultivating literary tastes or epistolary style--he is at best an indifferent correspondent, and knows it. But the occasion supplies thoughts; and as a soldier accustomed to prompt brevity he puts them down--quickly and briefly as a campaigning despatch.

With this, he does not wait for the ink to dry, but uses the blotter. He dreads another change of resolution. Folding up the sheet, he slips it into an envelope, on which he simply superscribes--

_Miss Wynn_, _Llangorren Court_.

Then rings a bell--the hotel servants are now astir--and directs the letter to be dropped into the post box.

He knows it will reach her that same day, at an early hour, and its answer him--should one be vouchsafed--on the following morning. It might that same night at the hotel where he is now staying; but not the one to which he is going--as his letter tells, the "Langham, London."

And while it is being slowly carried by a pedestrian postman, along hilly roads towards Llangorren, he, seated in a first-class carriage of the Gr.W.R., is swiftly whisked towards the metropolis.

Volume Two, Chapter XIII.

A SLUMBERING HOUSEHOLD.

As calm succeeds a storm, so at Llangorren Court on the morning after the ball there was quietude--up to a certain hour more than common. The domestics justifying themselves by the extra services of the preceding night, lie late. Outside is stirring only the gardener with an assistant, at his usual work, and in the yard a stable help or two looking after the needs of the horses. The more important functionaries of this department--coachman and head-groom still slumber, dreaming of champagne bottles brought back to the servants' hall three parts full with but half demolished pheasants, and other fragmentary delicacies.

Inside the house things are on a parallel; there only a scullery and kitchen maid astir. The higher class servitors availing themselves of the licence allowed, are still abed, and it is ten as butler, cook, and footman make their appearance, entering on their respective _roles_ yawningly, and with reluctance.

There are two lady's-maids in the establishment; the little French demoiselle attached to Miss Linton, and an English damsel of more robust build, whose special duties are to wait upon Miss Wynn. The former lies late on all days, her mistress not requiring early manipulation; but the maid "native and to the manner born," is wont to be up betimes. This morning is an exception. After such a night of revelry, slumber holds her enthralled, as in a trance; and she is abed late as any of the others, sleeping like a dormouse.