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Gwen Wynn: A Romance of the Wye

Volume One – Chapter Fifteen
A Spiritual Adviser

While the sports are in progress outside Llangorren Court, inside Glyngog House is being eaten that dinner to commence with salmon in season and end with pheasant out.

It is early; but the Murdocks, often glad to eat what Americans call a “square meal,” have no set hours for eating, while the priest is not particular.

In the faces of the trio seated at the table, a physiognomist might find interesting study, and note expressions that would puzzle Lavater himself. Nor could they be interpreted by the conversation which, at first, only refers to topics of a trivial nature. But now and then, a mot of double meaning let down by Rogier, and a glance surreptitiously exchanged between him and his countryman, tell that the thoughts of these two are running upon themes different from those about which are their words.

Murdock, by no means of a trusting disposition, but ofttimes furiously jealous – has nevertheless, in this respect, no suspicion of the priest, less from confidence than a sort of contempt for the pallid puny creature, whom he feels he could crush in a moment of mad anger. And broken though he be, the stalwart, and once strong, Englishman could still do that. To imagine such a man as Rogier a rival in the affections of his own wife, would be to be little himself. Besides, he holds fast to that proverbial faith in the spiritual adviser, not always well founded – in his case certainly misplaced. Knowing nought of this, however, their exchanged looks, however markedly significant, escape his observation. Even if he did observe, he could not read in them aught relating to love. For, this day there is not; the thoughts of both are absorbed by a different passion – cupidity. They are bent upon a scheme of no common magnitude, but grand and comprehensive – neither more nor less than to get possession of an estate worth 10,000 pounds a year – that Llangorren. They know its value as well as the steward who gives receipts for its rents.

It is no new notion with them; but one for some time entertained, and steps considered. Still nothing definite either conceived, or determined on. A task, so herculean, as dangerous and difficult, will need care in its conception, and time for its execution. True, it might be accomplished, almost instantaneously with six inches of steel, or as many drops of belladonna. Nor would two of the three seated at the table stick at employing such means. Olympe Renault, and Gregoire Rogier have entertained thoughts of them – if not more. In the third is the obstructor. Lewin Murdock would cheat at dice and cards, do moneylenders without remorse, and tradesmen without mercy, ay, steal, if occasion offered; but murder – that is different – being a crime not only unpleasant to contemplate, but perilous to commit. He would be willing to rob Gwendoline Wynn of her property – glad to do it – if he only knew how – but to take away her life, he is not yet up to that.

But he is drawing up to it, urged by desperate circumstances, and spurred on by his wife, who loses no opportunity of bewailing their broken fortunes, and reproaching him for them; at her back the Jesuit secretly instructing, and dictating.

Not till this day have they found him in the mood for being made more familiar with their design. Whatever his own disposition, his ear has been hitherto deaf to their hints, timidly, and ambiguously given. But to-day things appear more promising, as evinced by his angry exclamation “Never!” Hence their delight at hearing it.

During the earlier stages of the dinner, as already said, they converse about ordinary subjects, like the lovers in the pavilion, silent upon that paramount in their minds. How different the themes – as love itself from murder! And just as the first word was unspoken in the summer-house at Llangorren, so is the last unheard in the dining-room of Glyngog.

While the blotcher is being carved with a spoon – there is no fish slice among the chattels of Mr Murdock – the priest in good appetite, and high glee, pronounces it “crimp.” He speaks English like a native, and is even up in its provincialisms; few in Herefordshire whose dialect is of the purest.

The phrase of the fishmonger received smilingly, the salmon is distributed and handed across the table; the attendance of the slavey, with claws not over clean, and ears that might be unpleasantly sharp, having been dispensed with.

There is wine without stint; for although Murdoch’s town tradesmen may be hard of heart, in the Welsh Harp there is a tender string he can still play upon; the Boniface of the Rugg’s Ferry hostelry having a belief in his post obit expectations. Not such an indifferent wine either, but some of the choicest vintage. The guests of the Harp, however rough in external appearance and rude in behaviour – have wonderfully refined ideas about drink, and may be often heard calling for “fizz” – some of them as well acquainted with the qualities of Möet and Cliquot, as a connoisseur of the most fashionable club.

Profiting by their aesthetic tastes, Lewin Murdock is enabled to set wines upon his table of the choicest brands. Light Bordeaux first with the fish, then sherry with the heavier greens and bacon, followed by champagne as they get engaged upon the pheasant.

At this point the conversation approaches a topic, hitherto held in reserve, Murdock himself starting it: —

“So, my cousin Gwen’s going to get married, eh! are you sure of that, Father Rogier?”

“I wish I were as sure of going to heaven.”

“But what sort of man is he? you haven’t told us.”

“Yes, I have. You forget my description, Monsieur – cross between Mars and Phoebus – strength herculean; sure to be father to a progeny numerous as that which spring from the head of Medusa – enough of them to make heirs for Llangorren to the end of time – keep you out of the property if you lived to be the age of Methuselah. Ah! a fine-looking fellow, I can assure you; against whom the baronet’s son, with his rubicund cheeks and hay-coloured hair, wouldn’t stand the slightest chance – even were there nothing: more to recommend the martial stranger. But there is.”

“What more?”

“The mode of his introduction to the lady – that quite romantic.”

“How was he introduced?”

“Well, he made her acquaintance on the water. It appears Mademoiselle Wynn and her companion Lees, were out on the river for a row alone. Unusual that! Thus out, some fellows – Forest of Dean dwellers – offered them insult; from which a gentleman angler, who chanced to be whipping the stream close by, saved them – he no other than le Capitaine Ryecroft. With such commencement of acquaintance, a man couldn’t be much worth, who didn’t know how to improve it – even to terminating in marriage if he wished. And with such a rich heiress as Mademoiselle Gwendoline Wynn – to say nought of her personal charms – there are few men who wouldn’t wish it so to end. That he, the Hussar officer, captain, colonel, or whatever his rank, does, I’ve good reason to believe, as also that he will succeed in accomplishing his desires; no more doubt of it than of my being seated at this table. Yes; sure as I sit here that man will be the master of Llangorren.”

“I suppose he will;” “must,” rejoins Murdock, drawing out the words as though not greatly concerned, one way, or the other.

Olympe looks dissatisfied, but not Rogier nor she, after a glance from the priest, which seems to say “Wait.” He himself intends waiting till the drink has done its work.

Taking the hint she remains silent, her countenance showing calm, as with the content of innocence, while in her heart is the guilt of hell, and the deceit of the devil.

She preserves her composure all through, and soon as the last course is ended, with a show of dessert placed upon the table – poor and pro forma– obedient to a look from Rogier, with a slight nod in the direction of the door, she makes her congé, and retires.

Murdock lights his meerschaum, the priest one of his paper cigarettes – of which he carries a case – and for some time they sit smoking and drinking; talking, too, but upon matters with no relation to that uppermost in their minds. They seem to fear touching it, as though it were a thing to contaminate. It is only after repeatedly emptying their glasses, their courage comes up to the standard required; that of the Frenchman first; who, nevertheless, approaches the delicate subject with cautious circumlocution.

“By the way, M’sieu,” he says, “we’ve forgotten what we were conversing about, when summoned to dinner – a meal I’ve greatly enjoyed – notwithstanding your depreciation of the menu. Indeed, a very bonne bouche your English bacon, and the greens excellent, as also the pommes de terre. You were speaking of some event, or circumstance, to be conditional on your death. What is it? Not the deluge, I hope! True, your Wye is subject to sudden floods; might it have ought to do with them?”

“Why should it?” asks Murdock, not comprehending the drift.

“Because people sometimes get drowned in these inundations; indeed, often. Scarce a week passes without some one falling into the river, and there remaining, at least till life is extinct. What with its whirls and rapids, it’s a very dangerous stream. I wonder at Mademoiselle Wynne venturing so courageously – so carelessly upon it.”

The peculiar intonation of the last speech, with emphasis on the word carelessly, gives Murdock a glimpse of what it is intended to point to.

“She’s got courage enough,” he rejoins, without appearing to comprehend. “About her carelessness, I don’t know.”

“But the young lady certainly is careless – recklessly so. That affair of her going out alone is proof of it. What followed may make her more cautious; still, boating is a perilous occupation, and boats, whether for pleasure or otherwise, are awkward things to manage – fickle and capricious as women themselves. Suppose hers should some day go to the bottom she being in it?”

“That would be bad.”

“Of course it would. Though, Monsieur Murdock, many men situated as you, instead of grieving over such an accident, would but rejoice at it.”

“No doubt they would. But what’s the use of talking of a thing not likely to happen?”

“Oh, true! Still, boat accidents being of such common occurrence, one is as likely to befall Mademoiselle Wynn as anybody else. A pity if it should – a misfortune! But so is the other thing.”

“What other thing?”

“That such a property as Llangorren should be in the hands of heretics, having but a lame title too. If what I’ve heard be true, you yourself have as much right to it as your cousin. It were better it belonged to a true son of the Church, as I know you to be, M’sieu.”

Murdock receives the compliment with a grimace. He is no hypocrite; still with all his depravity he has a sort of respect for religion, or rather its outward forms – regularly attends Rogier’s chapel, and goes through all the ceremonies and genuflexions, just as the Italian bandit after cutting a throat will drop on his knees and repeat a paternoster at hearing the distant bell of the Angelus.

“A very poor one,” he replies, with a half smile, half grin.

“In a worldly sense, you mean? I’m aware, you’re not very rich.”

“In more senses than that. Your Reverence, I’ve been a great sinner, I admit.”

“Admission is a good sign – giving promise of repentance, which need never come too late if a man be disposed to it. It is a deep sin the Church cannot condone – a dark crime indeed.”

“Oh, I haven’t done anything deserving the name. Only such as a great many others.”

“But you might be tempted some day. Whether or not it’s my duty, as your spiritual adviser, to point out the true doctrine – how the Vatican views such things. It’s after all only a question of balance between good and evil; that is, how much evil a man may have done, and the amount of good he may do. This world is a ceaseless war between God and the devil; and those who wage it in the cause of the former have often to employ the weapons of the latter. In our service the end justifies the means, even though these be what the world calls criminal – ay, even to the taking of life, else why should the great and good Loyola have counselled drawing the sword, himself using it?”

“True,” grunts Murdock, smoking hard, “you’re a great theologian, Father Rogier. I confess ignorance in such matters; still, I see reason in what you say.”

“You may see it clearer if I set the application before you. As for instance, if a man have the right to a certain property, or estate, and is kept out of it by a quibble, any steps he might take to possess himself would be justifiable providing he devote a portion of his gains to the good cause – that is, upholding the true faith, and so benefiting humanity at large. Such an act is held by the best of our Church authorities to compensate for any sin committed – supposing the money donation sufficient to make the amount of good it may do preponderate over the evil. And such a man would not only merit absolution, but freely receive it. Now, Monsieur, do you comprehend me?”

“Quite,” says Murdock, taking the pipe from his mouth and gulping down a half tumbler of brandy – for he has dropped the wine. Withal, he trembles at the programme thus metaphorically put before him, and fears admitting the application to himself.

Soon the more potent spirit takes away his last remnant of timidity, which the tempter perceiving, says: —

“You say you have sinned, Monsieur. And if it were only for that you ought to make amends.”

“In what way could I?”

“The way I’ve been speaking of. Bestow upon the Church the means of doing good, and so deserve indulgence.”

“Ah! where am I to find this means?”

“On the other side of the river.”

“You forget that there’s more than the stream between.”

“Not much to a man who would be true to himself.”

“I’m that man all over.” The brandy has made him bold, at length untying his tongue, while unsteadying it. “Yes, Père Rogier; I’m ready for anything that will release me from this damnable fix – debt over the ears – duns every day. Ha! I’d be true to myself, never fear!”

“It needs being true to the Church as well.”

“I’m willing to be that when I have the chance, if ever I have it. And to get it I’d risk life. Not much if I lose it. It’s become a burden to me, heavier than I can bear.”

“You may make it as light as a feather, M’sieu; cheerful as that of any of those gay gentry you saw disporting themselves on the lawn at Llangorren – even that of its young mistress.”

“How, Père?”

“By yourself becoming its master.”

“Ah! if I could.”

“You can!”

“With safety?”

“Perfect safety.”

“And without committing,” – he fears to speak the ugly English word, but expresses the idea in French – “cette dernier coup?”

“Certainly! Who dreams of that? Not I, M’sieu.”

“But how is it to be avoided?”

“Easily.”

“Tell me, Father Rogier!”

“Not to-night, Murdock!” – he has dropped the distant M’sieu – “Not to-night. It’s a matter that calls for reflection – consideration, calm and careful. Time, too. Ten thousand livrés esterlies per annum! We must both ponder upon it – sleep nights, and think days, over it – possibly have to draw Coracle Dick into our deliberations. But not to-night —Pardieu! it’s ten o’clock! And I have business to do before going to bed. I must be off.”

“No, your Reverence; not till you’ve had another glass of wine.”

“One more then. But let me take it standing – the tasse d’estrope, as you call it.”

Murdock assents; and the two rise up to drink the stirrup cup. But only the Frenchman keeps his feet till the glasses are emptied; the other, now dead drunk, dropping back into his chair.

“Bon soir, Monsieur!” says the priest, slipping out of the room, his host answering only by a snore.

For all, Father Rogier does not leave the house so unceremoniously. In the porch outside he takes more formal leave of a woman he there finds waiting for him. As he joins her going out, she asks, sotto voce: —

“C’est arrangé?”

“Pas encore serait tout suite.” This the sole speech that passes between them; but something besides, which, if seen by her husband, would cause him to start from his chair – perhaps some little sober him.

Volume One – Chapter Sixteen
Coracle Dick

A traveller making the tour of the Wye will now and then see moving along its banks, or across the contiguous meadows, what he might take for a gigantic tortoise walking upon its tail! Mystified by a sight so abnormal, and drawing nigh to get an explanation of it, he will discover that the moving object is after all but a man, carrying a boat upon his back! Still the tourist will be astonished at a feat so herculean – rival to that of Atlas – and will only be altogether enlightened when the boat-bearer lays down his burden – which, if asked, he will obligingly do – and permits him, the stranger, to satisfy his curiosity by an inspection of it. Set square on the sward at his feet, he will look upon a craft quaint as was ever launched on lake, stream, or tidal wave. For he will be looking at a “coracle.”

Not only quaint in construction, but singularly ingenious in design, considering the ends to be accomplished. In addition, historically interesting; so much as to deserve more than passing notice, even in the pages of a novel. Nor will I dismiss it without a word, however it may seem out of place.

In shape the coracle bears resemblance to the half of a humming-top, or Swedish turnip cloven longitudinally, the cleft face scooped out leaving but the rind. The timbers consist of slender saplings – peeled and split to obtain lightness – disposed, some fore and aft, others athwart-ships, still others diagonally, as struts and ties, all having their ends in a band of wickerwork, which runs round the gunwale, holding them firmly in place, itself forming the rail. Over this framework is stretched a covering of tarred, and, of course, waterproof canvas, tight as a drum. In olden times it was the skin of ox or horse, but the modern material is better, because lighter, and less liable to decay, besides being cheaper. There is but one seat, or thwart, as the coracle is designed for only a single occupant, though in a pinch it can accommodate two. This is a thin board, placed nearly amidships, partly supported by the wicker rail, and in part by another piece of light scantling, set edgeways underneath.

In all things ponderosity is as much as possible avoided, since one of the essential purposes of the coracle is “portage;” and to facilitate this it is furnished with a leathern strap, the ends attached near each extremity of the thwart, to be passed across the breast when the boat is borne overland. The bearer then uses his oar – there is but one, a broad-bladed paddle – by way of walking-stick; and so proceeds, as already said, like a tortoise travelling on its tail!

In this convenience of carriage lies the ingenuity of the structure – unique and clever beyond anything in the way of water-craft I have observed elsewhere, either among savage or civilised nations. The only thing approaching it in this respect is the birch bark canoe of the Esquimaux and the Chippeway Indians. But, though more beautiful this, it is far behind our native craft in an economic sense – in cheapness and readiness. For while the Chippewayan would be stripping his bark from the tree, and re-arming it – to say nought of fitting to the frame timbers, stitching, and paying it – a subject of King Caradoc would have launched his coracle upon the Wye, and paddled it from Plinlimmon to Chepstow; as many a modern Welshman would the same.

Above all, is the coracle of rare historic interest – as the first venture upon water of a people – the ancestors of a nation that now rules the sea – their descendants proudly styling themselves its “Lords” – not without right and reason.

Why called “coracle” is a matter of doubt and dispute; by most admitted as a derivative from the Latin corum– a skin; this being its original covering. But certainly a misconception; since we have historic evidence of the basket and hide boat being in use around the shores of Albion hundreds of years before these ever saw Roman ship or standard. Besides, at the same early period, under the almost homonym of “corragh,” it floated – still floats – on the waters of the Lerne, far west of anywhere the Romans ever went. Among the common people on the Wye it bears a less ancient appellation – that of “truckle.”

From whatever source the craft derives its name, it has itself given a sobriquet to one of the characters of our tale – Richard Dempsey. Why the poacher is thus distinguished it is not easy to tell; possibly because he, more than any other in his neighbourhood, makes use of it, and is often seen trudging about the river bottoms with the huge carapace on his shoulders. It serves his purpose better than any other kind of boat, for Dick, though a snarer of hares and pheasants, is more of a salmon poacher, and for this – the water branch of his amphibious calling – the coracle has a special adaptation. It can be lifted out of the river, or launched upon it anywhere, without leaving trace; whereas with an ordinary skiff the moorings might be marked, the embarkation observed, and the night netter followed to his netting-place by the watchful water-bailiff.

Despite his cunning and the handiness of his craft, Dick has not always come off scot-free. His name has several times figured in the reports of Quarter Sessions, and himself in the cells of the county gaol. This only for poaching; but he has also served a spell in prison for crime of a less venal kind – burglary. As the “job” was done in a distant shire, there has been nothing heard of it in that where he now resides. The worst known of him in the neighbourhood is his game and fish trespassing, though there is worse suspected. He whose suspicions are strongest being the waterman, Wingate.

But Jack may be wronging him, for a certain reason – the most powerful that ever swayed the passion or warped the judgment of man – rivalry for the affections of a woman.

No heart, however hardened, is proof against the shafts of Cupid; and one has penetrated the heart of Coracle Dick, as deeply as has another that of Jack Wingate. And both from the same how and quiver – the eyes of Mary Morgan.

She is the daughter of a small farmer who lives by the Wyeside; and being a farmer’s daughter, above both in social rank, still not so high but that Love’s ladder may reach her, and each lives in hope he may some day scale it. For Evan Morgan holds as a tenant, and his land is of limited acreage. Dick Dempsey and Jack Wingate are not the only ones who wish to have him for a father-in-law, but the two most earnest, and whose chances seem best. Not that these are at all equal; on the contrary, greatly disproportionate, Dick having the advantage. In his favour is the fact that Farmer Morgan is a Roman Catholic – his wife fanatically so – he, Dempsey, professing the same faith; while Wingate is a Protestant of pronounced type.

Under these circumstances Coracle has a friend at head-quarters, in Mrs Morgan, and an advocate who visits there, in the person of Father Rogier.

With this united influence in his favour, the odds against the young waterman are great, and his chances might appear slight – indeed would he, were it not for an influence to counteract. He, too, has a partisan inside the citadel, and a powerful one; since it is the girl herself. He knows – is sure of it, as man may be of any truth, communicated to him by loving lips amidst showers of kisses. For all this has passed between Mary Morgan and himself.

And nothing of it between her and Richard Dempsey. Instead, on her part, coldness and distant reserve. It would be disdain – ay, scorn – if she dare show it; for she hates the very sight of the man. But, controlled and close watched, she has learnt to smile when she would frown.

The world – or that narrow circle of it immediately surrounding and acquainted with the Morgan family – wonders at the favourable reception it vouchsafes to Richard Dempsey – a known and noted poacher.

But in justice to Mrs Morgan it should be said, she has but slight acquaintance with the character of the man – only knows it as represented by Rogier. Absorbed in her paternosters, she gives little heed to ought else; her thoughts, as her actions, being all of the dictation, and under the direction, of the priest. In her eyes Coracle Dick is as the latter has painted him, thus —

“A worthy fellow – poor it is true, but honest withal; a little addicted to fish and game taking, as many another good man. Who wouldn’t with such laws – unrighteous – oppressive to the poor? Were they otherwise, the poacher would be a patriot. As for Dempsey, they who speak ill of him are only the envious – envying his good looks, and fine mental qualities. For he’s clever, and they can’t say nay – energetic, and likely to make his way in the world. Yet, one thing he would make – that’s a good husband to your daughter Mary – one who has the strength and courage to take care of her.”

So counsels the priest; and as he can make Mrs Morgan believe black white, she is ready to comply with his counsel. If the result rested on her, Coracle Dick would have nothing to fear.

But it does not – he knows it does not – and is troubled. With all the influence in his favour, he fears that other influence against him – if against him, far more than a counterpoise to Mrs Morgan’s religious predilections, or the partisanship of his priest. Still he is not sure; one day the slave of sweet confidence, the next a prey to black bitter jealousy. And thus he goes on doting and doubting, as if he were never to know the truth.

A day comes when he is made acquainted with it, or, rather, a night; for it is after sundown the revelation reaches him – indeed, nigh on to midnight. His favoured, yet defeated, aspirations, are more than twelve months old. They have been active all through the preceding winter, spring, and summer. It is now autumn; the leaves are beginning to turn sere, and the last sheaves have been gathered to the stack.

No shire than that of Hereford more addicted to the joys of the Harvest Home; this often celebrated in a public and general way, instead of at the private and particular farm-house. One such is given upon the summit of Garran Hill – a grand gathering, to which all go of the class who attend such assemblages – small farmers with their families, their servants too, male and female. There is a cromlech on the hill’s top, around which they annually congregate, and beside this ancient relic are set up the symbols of a more modern time – the Maypole – though it is Autumn – with its strings and garlands; the show booths and the refreshment tents, with their display of cakes, fruits, perry, and cider. And there are sports of various kinds, pitching the stone, climbing the greased pole – that of May now so slippery – jumping, racing in sacks, dancing – among other dances the Morris – with a grand finale of fireworks.

At this year’s fête Farmer Morgan is present, accompanied by his wife and daughter. It need not be said that Dick Dempsey and Jack Wingate are there too. They are, and have been all the afternoon – ever since the gathering began. But during the hours of daylight neither approaches the fair creature to which his thoughts tend, and on which his eyes are almost constantly turning. The poacher is restrained by a sense of his own unworthiness – a knowledge that there is not the place to make show of his aspirations to one all believe so much above him; while the waterman is kept back and aloof by the presence of the watchful mother.

With all her watchfulness he finds opportunity to exchange speech with the daughter – only a few words, but enough to make hell in the heart of Dick Dempsey, who overhears them.

It is at the closing scene of the spectacle, when the pyrotechnists are about to send up their final feu de joie, Mrs Morgan, treated by numerous acquaintances to aniseed and other toothsome drinks, has grown less thoughtful of her charge, which gives Jack Wingate the opportunity he has all along been looking for. Sidling up to the girl, he asks in a tone which tells of lovers en rapport, mutually, unmistakably —

“When, Mary?”

“Saturday night next. The priest’s coming to supper. I’ll make an errand to the shop, soon as it gets dark.”

“Where?”

“The old place under the big elm.”

“You’re sure you’ll be able?”

“Sure, never fear, I’ll find a way.”

“God bless you, dear girl. I’ll be there, if anywhere on earth.”

This is all that passes between them. But enough – more than enough – for Richard Dempsey. As a rocket, just then going up, throws its glare over his face, as also the others, no greater contrast could be seen or imagined. On the countenances of the lovers an expression of contentment, sweet and serene; on his a look such as Mephistopheles gave to Gretchen escaping from his toils.

The curse in Coracle’s heart is but hindered from rising to his lips by a fear of its foiling the vengeance he there and then determines on.