Gwen Wynn: A Romance of the Wye

Dropping her eyes lower, they rest upon a garden, or rather a strip of ornamental grounds, tree shaded, with walks, arbours, and seats, girt by a grey massive wall, high almost as the houses.

At a glance she takes in these inanimate objects; but does not dwell on any of them. For, soon as looking below, her attention becomes occupied with living forms, standing in groups, or in twos or threes strolling about the grounds. They are all women, and of every age; most of them wearing the garb of the nunnery, loose-flowing robes of sombre hue. A few, however, are dressed in the ordinary fashion of young ladies at a boarding school; and such they are – the pensionaires of the establishment.

Her eyes wandering from group to group, after a time become fixed upon two of the school-girls, who, linked arm in arm, are walking backward and forward directly in front. Why she particularly notices them, is that one of the two is acting in a singular manner; every time she passes under the window looking up to it, as though with a knowledge of something inside, in which she feels an interest! Her glances interrogative, are at the same time evidently snatched by stealth – as in fear of being observed by the others. Even her promenading companion seems unaware of them.

She inside the cloister, soon as her first surprise is over, regards this young lady with a fixed stare, forgetting all the others.

"What can it mean?" she asks herself. "So unlike the rest! Surely not French! Can she be English? She is very – very beautiful!"

The last, at least, is true, for the girl is, indeed, a beautiful creature, with features quite different from those around – all of them being of the French facial type, while hers are pronouncedly Irish.

By this the two are once more opposite the window, and the girl again looking up, sees behind the glass – dim with dust and spiders' webs – a pale face, with a pair of bright eyes gazing steadfastly at her.

She starts; but quickly recovering, keeps on as before. Then as she faces round at the end of the walk, still within view of the window, she raises her hand, with a finger laid upon her lips, seeming to say, plain as words could speak it, —

"Keep quiet! I know all about you, and why you are there."

The gesture is not lost upon the captive. But before she can reflect upon its significance, the great convent bell breaks forth in noisy clangour, causing a flutter among the figures outside, with a scattering helter-skelter; for it is the first summons to vespers, soon followed by the tinier tinkle of the angelus.

In a few seconds the grounds are deserted by all save one – the school-girl with the Irish features and eyes. She, having let go her companion's arm, and lingering behind the rest, makes a quick slant towards the window she has been watching; as she approaches it, significantly exposing something white she holds half hidden between her fingers!

It needs no further gesture to make known her intent. The English girl has already guessed it, as told by the iron casement grating back on its rusty hinges, and left standing ajar. On the instant of its opening, the white object parts from the hand that has been holding it, and, like a flash of light, passes through into the darksome cell, falling with a thud upon the floor.

Not a word goes with it; for she who has shown such dexterity, soon as delivering the missile, glides away – so speedily, she is still in time to join the queue moving on towards the convent chapel.

Cautiously reclosing the window, Sœur Marie descends the steps of her improvised ladder, and takes up the thing that had been tossed in; which she finds to be a letter shotted inside!

Despite her burning impatience, she does not open it till after restoring the bedstead to the horizontal, and replacing all as before. For now, as ever, she has need to be circumspect, and with better reasons.

At length, feeling secure, all the more from knowing the nuns are at their vesper devotions, she tears off the envelope, and reads, —

"Mary, – Monday night next, after midnight, if you look out of your window, you will see friends – among them

"JACK WINGATE."

"Jack Wingate!" she exclaims, with a look of strange intelligence lighting up her face. "A voice from dear old Wyeside! Hope of delivery at last!"

And overcome by her emotion, she sinks down upon the pallet; no longer looking sad, but with an expression contented, and beatified as that of the most devoté nun in the convent.

CHAPTER LXX

A JUSTIFIABLE ABDUCTION

It is a moonless November night, and a fog drifting down from the Pas de Calais envelopes Boulogne in its damp, clammy embrace. The great cathedral clock is tolling twelve midnight, and the streets are deserted, the last wooden-heeled soulier having ceased clattering over their cobble-stone pavements. If a foot passenger be abroad, he is some belated individual groping his way home from the Café de billars he frequents, or the Cercle to which he belongs. Even the sergens de ville are scarcer than usual, those seen being huddled up under the shelter of friendly porches, while the invisible ones are making themselves yet more snug inside cabarets, whose openness beyond licensed hours they wink at in return for the accommodation afforded.

It is, in truth, a most disagreeable night: cold as dark, for the fog has frost in it. For all, there are three men in the streets of Boulogne who regard neither its chillness nor obscurity. Instead, this last is just what they desire, and for days past have been waiting for.

They who thus delight in darkness are Major Mahon, Captain Ryecroft, and the waterman, Wingate. Not because they have thoughts of doing evil, for their purpose is of the very opposite character – to release a captive from captivity. The night has arrived when, in accordance with the promise made on that sheet of paper so dexterously pitched into her cloister, the Sœur Marie is to see friends in front of her window. They are the friends about to attempt taking her out of it.

They are not going blindly about the thing. Unlikely old campaigners as Mahon and Ryecroft would. During the interval since that warning summons was sent in, they have made thorough reconnaissance of the ground, taken stock of the convent's precincts and surroundings; in short, considered every circumstance of difficulty and danger. They are therefore prepared with all the means and appliances for effecting their design.

Just as the last stroke of the clock ceases its booming reverberation, they issue forth from Mahon's house; and, turning up the Rue Tintelleries, strike along a narrower street, which leads on toward the ancient cité.

The two officers walk arm in arm, Ryecroft, stranger to the place, needing guidance; while the boatman goes behind, with that carried aslant his shoulder, which, were it on the banks of the Wye, might be taken for a pair of oars. It is, nevertheless, a thing altogether different – a light ladder; though were it hundreds weight he would neither stagger nor groan under it. The errand he is upon knits his sinews, giving him the strength of a giant.

They proceed with extreme caution, all three silent as spectres. When any sound comes to their ears, as the shutting to of a door, or distant footfall upon the ill-paved trottoirs, they make instant stop, and stand listening – speech passing among themselves only in whispers. But as these interruptions are few, they make fair progress; and in less than twenty minutes after leaving the Major's house, they have reached the spot where the real action is to commence. This is in the narrow lane which runs along the enciente of the convent at back; a thoroughfare little used even in daytime, but after night solitary as a desert, and on this especial night dark as dungeon itself.

They know the allée well; have traversed it scores of times within the last few days and nights, and could go through it blindfold. And they also know the enclosure wall, with its exact height, just that of the cloister window beyond, and a little less than their ladder, which has been selected with an eye to dimensions.

While its bearer is easing it off his shoulder, and planting it firmly in place, a short whispered dialogue occurs between the other two, the Major saying, —

"We won't all three be needed for the work inside. One of us may remain here – nay, must! Those sergens de ville might be prowling about, or some of the convent people themselves: in which case we'll need warning before we dare venture back over the wall. If caught on the top of it, the petticoats obstructing – ay, or without them – 'twould go ill with us."

"Quite true," assents the Captain. "Which of us do you propose staying here? Jack?"

"Yes, certainly. And for more reasons than one. Excited as he is now, once getting his old flame into his arms, he'd be all on fire – perhaps with noise enough to awake the whole sleeping sisterhood, and bring them clamouring around us, like crows about an owl that had intruded into the rookery. Besides, there's a staff of male servants – for they have such – half a score of stout fellows, who'd show fight. A big bell, too, by ringing which they can rouse the town. Therefore, Master Jack must remain here. You tell him he must."

Jack is told, with reasons given, though not exactly the real ones. Endorsing them, the Major says, —

"Don't be so impatient, my good fellow! It will make but a few seconds' difference; and then you'll have your girl by your side, sure. Whereas, acting inconsiderately, you may never set eyes on her. The fight in the front will be easy. Our greatest danger's from behind; and you can do better in every way, as for yourself, by keeping the rear-guard."

He thus counselled is convinced: and, though much disliking it, yields prompt obedience. How could he otherwise? He is in the hands of men his superiors in rank as experience. And is it not for him they are there; risking liberty – it may be life?

Having promised to keep his impulsiveness in check, he is instructed what to do: simply to lie concealed under the shadow of the wall, and should any one be outside when he hears a low whistle, he is not to reply to it.

The signal so arranged, Mahon and Ryecroft mount over the wall, taking the ladder along with them, and leaving the waterman to reflect, in nervous anxiety, how near his Mary is, and yet how far off she still may be!

Once inside the garden, the other two strike off along a walk leading in the direction of the spot which is their objective point. They go as if every grain of sand pressed by their feet had a friend's life in it. The very cats of the convent could not traverse its grounds more silently.

Their caution is rewarded; for they arrive at the cloister sought, without interruption, to see its casement open, with a pale face in it – a picture of Madonna on a background of black, through the white film looking as if it were veiled.

But though dense the fog, it does not hinder them from perceiving that the expression of that face is one of expectancy; nor her from recognising them as the friends who were to be under the window. With that voice from the Wyeside still echoing in her ears, she sees her deliverers at hand! They have indeed come.

A woman of weak nerves would, under the circumstances, be excited – possibly cry out. But Sœur Marie is not such; and without uttering a word, even the slightest ejaculation, she stands still, and patiently waits while a wrench is applied to the rotten bar of iron, soon snapping it from its support, as though it were but a stick of maccaroni.

It is Ryecroft who performs this burglarious feat, and into his arms she delivers herself, to be conducted down the ladder; which is done without as yet a word having been exchanged between them.

Only after reaching the ground, and there is some feeling of safety, he whispers to her, —

"Keep up your courage, Mary! Your Jack is waiting for you outside the wall. Here, take my hand – "

"Mary! My Jack! And you – you – " Her voice becomes inaudible, and she totters back against the wall!

"She's swooning – has fainted!" mutters the Major; which Ryecroft already knows, having stretched out his arms, and caught her as she is sinking to the earth.

"It's the sudden change into the open air," he says. "We must carry her, Major. You go ahead with the ladder; I can manage the girl myself."

While speaking, he lifts the unconscious form, and bears it away. No light weight either, but to strength as his, only a feather.

The Major, going in advance with the ladder, guides him through the mist; and in a few seconds they reach the outer wall, Mahon giving a low whistle as he approaches. It is almost instantly answered by another from the outside, telling them the coast is clear.

And in three minutes after they are also on the outside, the girl still resting in Ryecroft's arms. The waterman wishes to relieve him, agonized by the thought that his sweetheart, who had passed unscathed, as it were, through the very gates of death, may, after all, be dead!

He urges it; but Mahon, knowing the danger of delay, forbids any sentimental interference, commanding Jack to re-shoulder the ladder, and follow as before.

Then striking off in Indian file, the Major first, the Captain with his burden in the centre, the boatman bringing up behind, they retrace their steps towards the Rue Tintelleries.

If Ryecroft but knew whom he is carrying, he would bear her, if not more tenderly, with far different emotions, and keener solicitude about her recovery from that swoon.

It is only after she is out of his arms, and lying upon a couch in Major Mahon's house – the hood drawn back, and the light shining on her face – that he experiences a thrill, strange and wild as ever felt by mortal man! No wonder – seeing it is Gwendoline Wynn!

"Gwen!" he exclaims, in a very ecstasy of joy, as her pulsing breast and opened eyes tell of returned consciousness.

"Vivian!" is the murmured rejoinder, their lips meeting in delirious contact.

Poor Jack Wingate!

CHAPTER LXXI

STARTING ON A CONTINENTAL TOUR

Lewin Murdock is dead, and buried – has been for days. Not in the family vault of the Wynns, though he had the right of having his body there laid. But his widow, who had control of the interment, willed it otherwise. She has repugnance to opening that receptacle of the dead, holding a secret she may well dread disclosure of.

There was no very searching inquiry into the cause of the man's death – none such seeming needed. A coroner's inquest, true; but of the most perfunctory kind. Several habitués of the Welsh Harp, with its staff of waiters, testified to having seen him at that hostelry till a late hour of the night on which he was drowned, and far gone in drink. The landlord advanced the narrative a stage, by telling how he conveyed him to the boat, and delivered him to his boatman, Richard Dempsey – all true enough; while Coracle capped the story by a statement of circumstances, in part facts, but the major part fictitious: how the inebriate gentleman, after lying awhile quiet at the bottom of the skiff, suddenly sprung upon his feet, and, staggering excitedly about, capsized the craft, spilling both into the water.

Some corroboration of this, in the boat having been found floating keel upwards, and the boatman arriving home at Llangorren soaking wet. To his having been in this condition, several of the Court domestics, at the time called out of their beds, with purpose prepense, were able to bear witness. But Dempsey's testimony is further strengthened, even to confirmation, by himself having since taken to bed, where he now lies dangerously ill of a fever, the result of a cold caught from that chilling douche.

In this latest inquest the finding of the jury is set forth in two simple words, "Drowned accidentally." No suspicion attaches to any one; and his widow, now wearing the weeds of sombre hue, sorrows profoundly.

But her grief is great only in the eyes of the outside world, and the presence of the Llangorren domestics. Alone within her chamber she shows little signs of sorrow; and, if possible, less when Gregoire Rogier is her companion; which he almost constantly is. If more than half his time at the Court while Lewin Murdock was alive, he is now there nearly the whole of it – no longer as a guest, but as much its master as she is its mistress! For that matter, indeed, more; if inference may be drawn from a dialogue occurring between them some time after her husband's death.

They are in the library, where there is a strong chest, devoted to the safe keeping of legal documents, wills, leases, and the like – all the paraphernalia of papers relating to the administration of the estate.

Rogier is at a table upon which many of these lie, with writing materials besides. A sheet of foolscap is before him, on which he has just scribbled the rough copy of an advertisement intended to be sent to several newspapers.

"I think this will do," he says to the widow, who, in an easy chair drawn up in front of the fire, is sipping Chartreuse, and smoking paper cigarettes. "Shall I read it to you?"

"No. I don't want to be bothered with the thing in detail. Enough, if you let me hear its general purport."

He gives her this in briefest epitome: —

"The Llangorren estates to be sold by public auction, with all the appurtenances, mansion, park, ornamental grounds, home and out farms, manorial rights, presentation to church living, etc., etc."

"Tres-bien! Have you put down the date? It should be soon."

"You're right, chèrie. Should, and must be. So soon, I fear we won't realize three-fourths of the value. But there's no help for it, with the ugly thing threatening – hanging over our necks like a very sword of Damocles."

"You mean the tongue of le braconnier?"

She has reason to dread it.

"No, I don't; not in the slightest. There's a sickle too near his own – in the hands of the reaper, Death."

"He's dying, then?"

She speaks with an earnestness in which there is no feeling of compassion, but the very reverse.

"He is," the other answers, in like unpitying tone. "I've just come from his bedside."

"From the cold he caught that night, I suppose?"

"Yes; that's partly the cause. But," he adds, with a diabolical grin, "more the medicine he has taken for it."

"What mean you, Gregoire?"

"Only that Monsieur Dick has been delirious, and I saw danger in it. He was talking too wildly."

"You've done something to keep him quiet?"

"I have."

"What?"

"Given him a sleeping draught."

"But he'll wake up again, and then – "

"Then I'll administer another dose of the anodyne."

"What sort of anodyne?"

"A hypodermic."

"Hypodermic! I've never heard of the thing – not even the name!"

"A wonderful cure it is – for noisy tongues!"

"You excite one's curiosity. Tell me something of its nature."

"Oh, it's very simple – exceedingly so. Only a drop of liquid introduced into the blood – not in the common roundabout way, by pouring down the throat, but direct injection into the veins. The process in itself is easy enough, as every medical practitioner knows. The skill consists in the kind of liquid to be injected. That's one of the occult sciences I learnt in Italy, land of Lucrezia and Tophana, where such branches of knowledge still flourish. Elsewhere it's not much known. And perhaps it's well it isn't, or there might be more widowers, with a still larger proportion of widows."

"Poison!" she exclaims involuntarily, adding, in a timid whisper, "Was it, Gregoire?"

"Poison!" he echoes, protestingly. "That's too plain a word, and the idea it conveys too vulgar, for such a delicate scientific operation as that I've performed. Possibly, in Monsieur Coracle's case, the effect will be somewhat similar, but not the after symptoms. If I haven't made miscalculation as to quantity, ere three days are over, it will send him to his eternal sleep; and I'll defy all the medical experts in England to detect traces of poison in him. So don't inquire further, chèrie. Be satisfied to know the hypodermic will do you a service. And," he adds, with sardonic smile, "grateful if it be never given to yourself."

She starts, recoiling in horror – not at the repulsive confessions she has listened to, but more through personal fear. Though herself steeped in crime, he beside her seems its very incarnation! She has long known him morally capable of anything, and now fancies he may have the power of the famed basilisk, to strike her dead with a glance of his eyes!

"Bah!" he exclaims, observing her trepidation, but pretending to construe it otherwise. "Why all this emotion about such a misérable? He'll have no widow to lament him – inconsolable like yourself. Ha! ha! Besides, for our safety – both of us – his death is as much needed as was the other. After killing the bird that threatened to devour our crops, it would be blind buffoonery to keep the scarecrow standing. I only wish there were nothing but he between us and complete security."

"But is there still?" she asks, her alarm taking a new turn, as she observes a slight shade of apprehension pass over his face.

"Certainly there is."

"What?"

"That little convent matter."

"Mon Dieu! I supposed it arranged beyond the possibility of danger."

"Probability is the word you mean. In this sweet world there's nothing sure except money – that, too, in hard cash coin. Even at the best we'll have to sacrifice a large slice of the estate to satisfy the greed of those who have assisted us —Messieurs les Jesuites. If I could only, as by some magician's wand, convert these clods of Herefordshire into a portable shape, I'd cheat them yet; as I've done already, in making them believe me one of their most ardent doctrinaires. Then, chère amie, we could at once move from Llangorren Court to a palace by some lake of Como, glassing softest skies, with whispering myrtles, and all the other fal-lals, by which Monsieur Bulwer's sham prince humbugged the Lyonese shopkeeper's daughter. Ha! ha! ha!"

"But why can't it be done?"

"Ah! There the word impossible, if you like. What! Convert a landed estate of several thousand acres into cash, presto-instanter, as though one were but selling a flock of sheep! The thing can't be accomplished anywhere, least of all in this slow-moving Angleterre, where men look at their money twice – twenty times – before parting with it. Even a mortgage couldn't be managed for weeks – maybe months – without losing quite the moiety of value. But a bonâ fide sale, for which we must wait, and with that cloud hanging over us! Oh, it's damnable! The thing's been a blunder from beginning to end, all through the squeamishness of Monsieur, votre mari. Had he agreed to what I first proposed, and done with Mademoiselle what should have been done, he might himself still – the simpleton, sot, soft-heart, and softer head! Well, it's of no use reviling him now. He paid the forfeit for being a fool. And 'twill do no good our giving way to apprehensions, that after all may turn out shadows, however dark. In the end everything may go right, and we can make our midnight flitting in a quiet, comfortable way. But what a flutter there'll be among my flock at the Rugg's Ferry Chapel, when they wake up some fine morning, and rub their eyes, only to see that their good shepherd has forsaken them! A comical scene, of which I'd like being a spectator. Ha! ha! ha!"

She joins him in the laugh, for the sally is irresistible. And while they are still ha-ha-ing, a touch at the door tells of a servant seeking admittance.

It is the butler who presents himself, salver in hand, on which rests a chrome-coloured envelope – at a glance seen to be a telegraphic despatch.

It bears the address "Rev. Gregoire Rogier, Rugg's Ferry, Herefordshire," and when opened, the telegram is seen to have been sent from Folkestone. Its wording is, —

"The bird has escaped from its cage. Prenez garde!"

Well for the pseudo-priest and his chère amie that before they read it the butler had left the room. For though figurative the form of expression, and cabalistic the words, both man and woman seem instantly to comprehend them; and with such comprehension, as almost to drive them distracted. He is silent, as if struck dumb, his face showing blanched and bloodless, while she utters a shriek, half terrified, half in frenzied anger.