Gwen Wynn: A Romance of the Wye

"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!"

CHAPTER LXIII

A STRANGE FATHER CONFESSOR

"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.

CHAPTER LXIV

A QUEER CATECHIST

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!"

CHAPTER LXV

ALMOST A "VERT."

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!"