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Gwen Wynn: A Romance of the Wye

Volume Two – Chapter One
A Tardy Messenger

Father Rogier has arrived at Abergann; slipped off his goloshes, left them with his hat in the entrance passage; and stepped inside the parlour.

There is a bright coal fire chirping in the grate; for, although not absolutely cold, the air is damp and raw from the rain which has fallen during the earlier hours of the day. He has not come direct from his house at the Ferry, but up the meadows from below, along paths that are muddy, with wet grass overhanging. Hence his having on india-rubber overshoes. Spare of flesh, and thin-blooded, he is sensitive to cold.

Feeling it now, he draws a chair to the fire, and sits down with his feet rested on the fender.

For a time he has it all to himself. The farmer is still outside, looking after his cattle, and setting things up for the night; while Mrs Morgan, after receiving him, has made excuse to the kitchen – to set the frying-pan on the coals. Already the sausages can be heard frizzling, while their savoury odour is borne everywhere throughout the house.

Before sitting down the priest had helped himself to a glass of sherry; and, after taking a mouthful or two, set it on the mantelshelf, within convenient reach. It would have been brandy were there any on the table; but, for the time satisfied with the wine, he sits sipping it, his eyes now and then directed towards the door. This is shut, Mrs Morgan having closed it after her as she went out.

There is a certain restlessness in his glances, as though he were impatient for the door to be reopened, and some one to enter.

And so is he, though Mrs Morgan herself is not the some one – but her daughter. Gregoire Rogier has been a fast fellow in his youth – before assuming the cassock a very mauvais sujet. Even now in the maturer age, and despite his vows of celibacy, he has a partiality for the sex, and a keen eye to female beauty. The fresh, youthful charms of the farmer’s daughter have many a time made it water, more than the now stale attractions of Olympe, née Renault. She is not the only disciple of his flock he delights in drawing to the confessional.

But there is a vast difference between the mistress of Glyngog and the maiden of Abergann. Unlike are they as Lucrezia Borgia to that other Lucretia – victim of Tarquin fils. And the priest knows he must deal with them in a very different manner. He cannot himself have Mary Morgan for a wife – he does not wish to – but it may serve his purpose equally well were she to become the wife of Richard Dempsey. Hence his giving support to the pretensions of the poacher – not all unselfish.

Eagerly watching the door, he at length sees it pushed open; and by a woman, but not the one he is wishing for. Only Mrs Morgan re-entering to speak apologies for delay in serving supper. It will be on the table in a trice.

Without paying much attention to what she says, or giving thought to her excuses, he asks in a drawl of assumed indifference, —

“Where is Ma’mselle Marie? Not on the sick list, I hope?”

“Oh no, your reverence. She was never in better health in her life, I’m happy to say.”

“Attending to culinary matters, I presume? Bothering herself – on my account, too! Really, madame, I wish you wouldn’t take so much trouble when I come to pay you these little visits – calls of duty. Above all, that ma’mselle should be scorching her fair cheeks before a kitchen fire.”

“She’s not – nothing of the kind, Father Rogier.”

“Dressing, may be? That isn’t needed either – to receive poor me.”

“No; she’s not dressing.”

“Ah! What then? Pardon me for appearing inquisitive. I merely wish to have a word with her before monsieur, your husband, comes in – relating to a matter of the Sunday school. She’s at home, isn’t she?”

“Not just this minute. She soon will be.”

“What! Out at this hour?”

“Yes; she has gone up to the Ferry on an errand. I wonder you didn’t meet her! Which way did you come, Father Rogier – the path or the lane?”

“Neither – nor from the Ferry. I’ve been down the river on visitation duty, and came up through the meadows. It’s rather a dark night for your daughter to have gone upon an errand! Not alone, I take it?”

“Yes; she went alone.”

“But why, madame?”

Mrs Morgan had not intended to say anything about the nature of the message, but it must come out now.

“Well, your reverence,” she answers, laughing, “it’s rather an amusing matter – as you’ll say yourself, when I tell it you.”

“Tell it, pray!”

“It’s all through a cat – our big Tom.”

“Ah, Tom! What jeu d’esprit has he been perpetrating?”

“Not much of a joke, after all; but more the other way. The mischievous creature got into the pantry, and somehow upset a bottle – indeed, broke it to pieces.”

“Chat maudit! But what has that to do with your daughter’s going to the Ferry?”

“Everything. It was a bottle of best French brandy – unfortunately the only one we had in the house. And as they say misfortunes never do come single, it so happened our boy was away after the cows, and nobody else I could spare. So I’ve sent Mary to the Welsh Harp for another. I know your reverence prefers brandy to wine.”

“Madame, your very kind thoughtfulness deserves my warmest thanks. But I’m really sorry at your having taken all this trouble to entertain me. Above all, I regret its having entailed such a disagreeable duty upon your Mademoiselle Marie. Henceforth I shall feel reluctance in setting foot over your threshold.”

“Don’t say that, Father Rogier. Please don’t. Mary didn’t think it disagreeable. I should have been angry with her if she had. On the contrary, it was herself proposed going; as the boy was out of the way, and our girl in the kitchen, busy about supper. But poor it is – I’m sorry to tell you – and will need the drop of Cognac to make it at all palatable.”

“You underrate your menu, madame; if it be anything like what I’ve been accustomed to at your table. Still, I cannot help feeling regret at ma’mselle’s having been sent to the Ferry – the roads in such condition. And so dark, too – she may have a difficulty in finding her way. Which did she go by – the path or the lane? Your own interrogatory to myself – almost verbatim —c’est drôle!”

With but a vague comprehension of the interpolated French and Latin phrases, the farmer’s wife makes rejoinder:

“Indeed, I can’t say which. I never thought of asking her. However, Mary’s a sensible lass, and surely wouldn’t think of venturing over the foot plank a night like this. She knows it’s loose. Ah!” she continues, stepping to the window, and looking out, “there be the moon up! I’m glad of that; she’ll see her way now, and get sooner home.”

“How long is it since she went off?” Mrs Morgan glances at the clock over the mantel; soon she sees where the hands are, exclaiming:

“Mercy me! It’s half-past nine! She’s been gone a good hour!”

Her surprise is natural. To Rugg’s Ferry is but a mile, even by the lane and road. Twenty minutes to go and twenty more to return were enough. How are the other twenty being spent? Buying a bottle of brandy across the counter, and paying for it, will not explain; that should occupy scarce as many seconds. Besides, the last words of the messenger, at starting off, were a promise of speedy return. She has not kept it! And what can be keeping her?

Her mother asks this question, but without being able to answer it. She can neither tell nor guess. But the priest, more suspicious, has his conjectures; one giving him pain – greatly exciting him, though he does not show it. Instead, with simulated calmness, he says:

“Suppose I step out and see whether she be near at hand?”

“If your reverence would. But please don’t stay for her. Supper’s quite ready, and Evan will be in by the time I get it dished. I wonder what’s detaining Mary!”

If she only knew what, she would be less solicitous about the supper, and more about the absent one.

“No matter,” she continues, cheering up, “the girl will surely be back before we sit down to the table. If not, she must go – ”

The priest had not stayed to hear the clause threatening to disentitle the tardy messenger. He is too anxious to learn the cause of delay; and, in the hope of discovering it, with a view to something besides, he hastily claps on his hat – without waiting to defend his feet with the goloshes – then glides out and off across the garden.

Mrs Morgan remains in the doorway looking after him, with an expression on her face not all contented. Perhaps she too, has a foreboding of evil; or, it may be, she but thinks of her daughter’s future, and that she is herself doing wrong by endeavouring to influence it in favour of a man about whom she has of late heard discreditable rumours. Or, perchance, some suspicion of the priest himself may be stirring within her: for there are scandals abroad concerning him, that have reached even her ears. Whatever the cause, there is shadow on her brow, as she watches him pass out through the gate; scarce dispelled by the bright blazing fire in the kitchen, as she returns thither to direct the serving of the supper.

If she but knew the tale he, Father Rogier, is so soon to bring back, she might not have left the door so soon, or upon her own feet; more likely have dropped down on its threshold, to be carried from it fainting, if not dead!

Volume Two – Chapter Two
A Fatal Step

Having passed out through the gate, Rogier turns along the wall; and, proceeding at a brisk pace to where it ends in an angle, there comes to a halt.

On the same spot where about an hour before stopped Mary Morgan – for a different reason. She paused to consider which of the two ways she would take; he has no intention of taking either, or going a step farther. Whatever he wishes to say to her can be said where he now is, without danger of its being overheard at the house – unless spoken in a tone louder than that of ordinary conversation. But it is not on this account he has stopped; simply that he is not sure which of the two routes she will return by – and for him to proceed along either would be to risk the chance of not meeting her at all.

But that he has some idea of the way she will come, with suspicion of why and what is delaying her, his mutterings tell:

“Morbleu! over an hour since she set out! A tortoise could have crawled to the Ferry, and crept back within the time! For a demoiselle with limbs lithe and supple as hers – pah! It can’t be the brandy bottle that’s the obstruction. Nothing of the kind. Corked, capsuled, wrapped, ready for delivery – in all two minutes, or at most, three! She so ready to run for it, too – herself proposed going! Odd, that to say the least. Only understandable on the supposition of something prearranged. An assignation with the River Triton for sure! Yes; he’s the anchor that’s been holding her – holds her still. Likely, they’re somewhat under the shadow of that wood, now – standing – sitting – ach! I wish I but knew the spot; I’d bring their billing and cooing to an abrupt termination. It will not do for me to go on guesses; I might miss the straying damsel with whom this night I want a word in particular – must have it. Monsieur Coracle may need binding a little faster, before he consents to the service required of him. To ensure an interview with her it is necessary to stay on this spot, however trying to patience.”

For a second or two he stands motionless, though all the while active in thought, his eyes also restless. These, turning to the wall, show him that it is overgrown with ivy. A massive cluster on its crest projects out, with hanging tendrils, whose tops almost touch the ground. Behind them there is ample room for a man to stand upright, and so be concealed from the eyes of anyone passing, however near.

“Grace à Dieu!” he exclaims, observing this; “the very place. I must take her by surprise. That’s the best way when one wants to learn how the cat jumps. Ha! cette chat Tom; how very opportune his mischievous doings – for Mademoiselle! Well, I must give Madame la mère counsel better to guard against such accidents hereafter; and how to behave when they occur.”

He has by this ducked his head, and stepped under the arcading evergreen.

The position is all he could desire. It gives him a view of both ways by which on that side the farmhouse can be approached. The cart lane is directly before his face, as is also the footpath when he turns towards it. The latter leading, as already said, along a hedge to the orchard’s bottom, there crosses the brook by a plank – this being about fifty yards distant from where he has stationed himself. And as there is now moonlight he can distinctly see the frail footbridge, with a portion of the path beyond, where it runs through straggling trees, before entering the thicker wood. Only at intervals has he sight of it, as the sky is mottled with masses of cloud, that every now and then, drifting over the moon’s disc, shut off her light with the suddenness of a lamp extinguished.

When she shines he can himself be seen. Standing in crouched attitude with the ivy tendrils festooned over his pale, bloodless face, he looks like a gigantic spider behind its web, on the wait for prey – ready to spring forward and seize it.

For nigh ten minutes he thus remains watching, all the while impatiently chafing. He listens too; though with little hope of hearing aught to indicate the approach of her expected. After the pleasant tête-à-tête, he is now sure she must have held with the waterman, she will be coming along silently, her thoughts in sweet, placid contentment; or she may come on with timid, stealthy steps, dreading rebuke by her mother for having overstayed her time.

Just as the priest in bitterest chagrin is promising himself that rebuked she shall be he sees what interrupts his resolves, suddenly and altogether withdrawing his thoughts from Mary Morgan. It is a form approaching the plank, on the opposite side of the stream; not hers, nor woman’s; instead the figure of a man! Neither erect nor walking in the ordinary way, but with head held down and shoulders projected forward, as if he were seeking concealment under the bushes that beset the path, for all drawing nigh to the brook with the rapidity of one pursued, and who thinks there is safety only on its other side!

“Sainte Vierge!” exclaims the priest, sotto voce. “What can all that mean? And who – ”

He stays his self-asked interrogatory, seeing that the skulker has paused too – at the farther end of the plank, which he has now reached. Why? It may be from fear to set foot on it; for indeed is there danger to one not intimately acquainted with it. The man may be a stranger – some fellow on teams who intends trying the hospitality of the farmhouse – more likely its henroosts, judging by his manner of approach?

While thus conjecturing, Rogier sees the skulker stoop down, immediately after hearing a sound, different from the sough of the stream; a harsh grating noise, as of a piece of heavy timber drawn over a rough surface of rock.

“Sharp fellow?” thinks the priest; “with all his haste, wonderfully cautious! He’s fixing the thing steady before venturing to tread upon it! Ha! I’m wrong; he don’t design crossing it after all!”

This as the crouching figure erects itself and, instead of passing over the plank, turns abruptly away from it. Not to go back along the path, but up the stream on that same side! And with bent body as before, still seeming desirous to shun observation.

Now more than ever mystified, the priest watches him, with eyes keen as those of a cat set for nocturnal prowling. Not long till he learns who the man is. Just then the moon, escaping from a cloud, flashes her full light in his face, revealing features of diabolic expression – that of a murderer striding away from the spot where he has been spilling blood!

Rogier recognises Coracle Dick, though still without the slightest idea of what the poacher is doing there.

“Que diantre!” he exclaims, in surprise; “what can that devil be after! Coming up to the plank and not crossing – Ha! yonder’s a very different sort of pedestrian approaching it? Ma’mselle Mary at last!”

This as by the same intermittent gleam of moonlight he descries a straw hat, with streaming ribbons, over the tops of the bushes beyond the brook.

The brighter image drives the darker one from his thoughts; and, forgetting all about the man, in his resolve to take the woman unawares, he steps out from under the ivy, and makes forward to meet her. He is a Frenchman, and to help her over the footplank will give him a fine opportunity for displaying his cheap gallantry.

As he hastens down to the stream, the moon remaining unclouded, he sees the young girl close to it on the opposite side. She approaches with proud carriage, and confident step, her cheeks even under the pale light showing red – flushed with the kisses so lately received, as it were still clinging to them. Her heart yet thrilling with love, strong under its excitement, little suspects she how soon it will cease to beat.

Boldly she plants her foot upon the plank, believing, late boasting, a knowledge of its tricks. Alas! there is one with which she is not acquainted – could not be – a new and treacherous one, taught it within the last two minutes. The daughter of Evan Morgan is doomed; one more step will be her last in life!

She makes it, the priest alone being witness. He sees her arms flung aloft, simultaneously hearing a shriek; then arms, body, and bridge sink out of sight suddenly, as though the earth had swallowed them!

Volume Two – Chapter Three
A Suspicious Waif

On returning homeward the young waterman bethinks him of a difficulty – a little matter to be settled with his mother. Not having gone to the shop, he has neither whipcord nor pitch to show. If questioned about these commodities, what answer is he to make? He dislikes telling her another lie. It came easy enough before the interview with his sweetheart, but now it is not so much worth while.

On reflection he thinks it will be better to make a clean breast of it. He has already half confessed, and may as well admit his mother to full confidence about the secret he has been trying to keep from her – unsuccessfully, as he now knows.

While still undetermined, a circumstance occurs to hinder him from longer withholding it, whether he would or not. In his abstraction he has forgotten all about the moon, now up, and at intervals shining brightly. During one of these he has arrived at his own gate, as he opens it seeing his mother on the door-step. Her attitude shows she has already seen him, and observed the direction whence he has come. Her words declare the same.

“Why, Jack!” she exclaims, in feigned astonishment, “ye beant a comin’ from the Ferry that way?”

The interrogatory, or rather the tone in which it is put, tells him the cat is out of the bag. No use attempting to stuff the animal in again; and seeing it is not, he rejoins, laughingly —

“Well, mother, to speak the truth, I ha’nt been to the Ferry at all. An’ I must ask you to forgie me for practisin’ a trifle o’ deception on ye – that ’bout the Mary wantin’ repairs.”

“I suspected it, lad; an’ that it wor the tother Mary as wanted something, or you wanted something wi’ her. Since you’ve spoke repentful, an’ confessed, I ain’t a-goin’ to worrit ye about it. I’m glad the boat be all right, as I ha’ got good news for you.”

“What?” he asks, rejoiced at being so easily let off.

“Well; you spoke truth when ye sayed there was no knowin’ but that somebody might be wantin’ to hire ye any minnit. There’s been one arready.”

“Who? Not the Captain?”

“No, not him. But a grand livery chap; footman or coachman – I ain’t sure which – only that he came frae a Squire Powell’s, ’bout a mile back.”

“Oh! I know Squire Powell – him o’ New Hall, I suppose it be. What did the sarvint say?”

“That if you wasn’t engaged, his young master wants ye to take hisself, and some friends that be staying wi’ him, for a row down the river.”

“How far did the man say? If they be bound to Chepstow or even but Tintern, I don’t think I could go; unless they start Monday mornin’. I’m ’gaged to the Captain for Thursday, ye know; an if I went the long trip, there’d be all the bother o’ gettin’ the boat back – an’ bare time.”

“Monday! Why, it’s the morrow they want ye.”

“Sunday! That’s queerish, too. Squire Powell’s family be a sort o’ strict religious, I’ve heerd.”

“That’s just it. The livery chap sayed it be a church they’re goin’ to; some curious kind o’ old worshippin’ place, that lie in a bend o’ the river, where carriages ha’ difficulty in gettin’ to it.”

“I think I know the one, an’ can take them there well enough. What answer did you gie to the man?”

“That ye could take ’em, an’ would. I know’d you hadn’t any other bespeak; and since it wor to a church wouldn’t mind its bein’ Sunday.”

“Sartinly not. Why should I?” asks Jack, who is anything but a Sabbatarian. “Where do they weesh the boat to be took? Or am I to wait for ’em here?”

“Yes; the man spoke o’ them comin’ here, an’ at a very early hour. Six o’clock. He sayed the clergyman be a friend o’ the family, and they’re to ha’ their breakfasts wi’ him, afore goin’ to church.”

“All right! I’ll be ready for ’em, come’s as early as they may.”

“In that case, my son; ye better get to your bed at once. Ye’ve had a hard day o’ it, and need rest. Should ye like take a drop o’ somethin’ ’fores you lie down?”

“Well, mother; I don’t mind. Just a glass o’ your elderberry.”

She opens a cupboard, brings forth a black bottle, and fills him a tumbler of the dark red wine – home made, and by her own hands.

Quaffing it, he observes: —

“It be the best stuff I know of to put spirit into a man, an’ makes him feel cheery. I’ve heerd the Captain hisself say, it beats their Spanish Port all to pieces.”

Though somewhat astray in his commercial geography, the young waterman, as his patron, is right about the quality of the beverage; for elderberry wine, made in the correct way, is superior to that of Oporto. Curious scientific fact, I believe not generally known, that the soil where grows the Sambucus is that most favourable to the growth of the grape.

Without going thus deeply into the philosophy of the subject, or at all troubling himself about it, the boatman soon gets to the bottom of his glass, and bidding his mother good night, retires to his sleeping room.

Getting into bed, he lies for a while sweetly thinking of Mary Morgan, and that satisfactory interview under the elm; then goes to sleep as sweetly to dream of her.

There is just a streak of daylight stealing in through the window as he awakes; enough to warn him that it is time to be up and stirring. Up he instantly is and arrays himself, not in his everyday boating habiliments, but a suit worn only on Sundays and holidays.

The mother, also astir betimes, has his breakfast on the table soon as he is rigged; and just as he finishes eating it, the rattle of wheels on the road in front, with voices, tells him his fare has arrived.

Hastening out, he sees a grand carriage drawn up at the gate, double horsed, with coachman and footman on the box; inside young Mr Powell, his pretty sister, and two others – a lady and gentleman, also young.

Soon they are all seated in the boat, the coachman having been ordered to take the carriage home, and bring it back at a certain hour. The footman goes with them – the Mary having seats for six.

Rowed down stream, the young people converse among themselves; gaily, now and then giving way to laughter, as though it were any other day than Sunday. But their boatman is merry also, with memories of the preceding night; and, though not called upon to take part in their conversation, he likes listening to it. Above all he is pleased with the appearance of Miss Powell, a very beautiful girl; and takes note of the attention paid her by the gentleman who sits opposite. Jack is rather interested in observing these, as they remind him of his own first approaches to Mary Morgan.

His eyes, though, are for a time removed from them, while the boat is passing Abergann. Out of the farmhouse chimneys just visible over the tops of the trees, he sees smoke ascending. It is not yet seven o’clock, but the Morgans are early risers, and by this mother and daughter will be on their way to Matins, and possibly Confession at the Rugg’s Ferry Chapel. He dislikes to reflect on the last, and longs for the day when he has hopes to cure his sweetheart of such a repulsive devotional practice.

Pulling on down he ceases to think of it, and of her for the time, his attention being engrossed by the management of the boat. For just below Abergann the stream runs sharply, and is given to caprices. But further on, it once more flows in gentle tide along the meadow lands of Llangorren.

Before turning the bend, where Gwen Wynn and Eleanor Lees were caught in the rapid current, at the estuary of a sluggish inflowing brook, whose waters are now beaten back by the flooded river, he sees what causes him to start, and hang on the stroke of his oar.

“What is it, Wingate?” asks young Powell, observing his strange behaviour. “Oh! a waif – that plank floating yonder! I suppose you’d like to pick it up! But remember! it’s Sunday, and we must confine ourselves to works of necessity and mercy.”

Little think the four who smile at this remark – five with the footman – what a weird, painful impression the sight of that drifting thing has made on the sixth who is rowing them.

Nor does it leave him all that day; but clings to him in the church, to which he goes; at the Rectory, where he is entertained; and while rowing back up the river – hangs heavy on his heart as lead!

Returning, he looks out for the piece of timber; but cannot see it; for it is now after night, the young people having stayed dinner with their friend the clergyman.

Kept later than they intended, on arrival at the boat’s dock they do not remain there an instant; but, getting into the carriage, which has been some time awaiting them, are whirled off to New Hall.

Impatient are they to be home. Far more – for a different reason – the waterman; who but stays to tie the boat’s painter; and, leaving the oars in her thwarts, hastens into his house. The plank is still uppermost in his thoughts, the presentiment heavy on his heart.

Not lighter, as on entering at the door he sees his mother seated with her head bowed down to her knees.

He does not wait for her to speak, but asks excitedly: —

“What’s the matter, mother?”

The question is mechanical – he almost anticipates the answer, or its nature.

“Oh, my son, my son! As I told ye. It was the canwyll corph!”