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Gwen Wynn: A Romance of the Wye

CHAPTER IX
JEALOUS ALREADY

Captain Ryecroft has lost more than rod and line; his heart is as good as gone too – given to Gwendoline Wynn. He now knows the name of the yellow-haired Naiad – for this, with other particulars, she imparted to him on return up stream.

Neither has her confidence thus extended, nor the conversation leading to it, belied the favourable impression made upon him by her appearance. Instead, so strengthened it, that for the first time in his life he contemplates becoming a benedict. He feels that his fate is sealed – or no longer in his hands, but hers.

As Wingate pulls him on homeward, he draws out his cigar case, sets fire to a fresh weed, and, while the blue smoke wreaths up round the rim of his topee, reflects on the incidents of the day, – reviewing them in the order of their occurrence.

Circumstances apparently accidental have been strangely in his favour. Helped as by Heaven's own hand, working with the rudest instruments. Through the veriest scum of humanity he has made acquaintance with one of its fairest forms. More than mere acquaintance, he hopes; for surely those warm words, and glances far from cold, could not be the sole offspring of gratitude! If so a little service on the Wye goes a long way. Thus reflects he in modest appreciation of himself, deeming that he has done but little. How different the value put upon it by Gwen Wynn!

Still he knows not this, or at least cannot be sure of it. If he were, his thoughts would be all rose-coloured, which they are not. Some are dark as the shadows of the April showers now and then drifting across the sun's disc.

One that has just settled on his brow is no reflection from the firmament above – no vague imagining – but a thing of shape and form – the form of a man, seen at the top of the boat-stair, as the ladies were ascending, and not so far off as to have hindered him from observing the man's face, and noting that he was young and rather handsome. Already the eyes of love have caught the keenness of jealousy. A gentleman evidently on terms of intimacy with Miss Wynn. Strange, though, that the look with which he regarded her on saluting seemed to speak of something amiss! What could it mean? Captain Ryecroft has asked this question as his boat was rounding the end of the eyot, with another in the self-same formulary of interrogation, of which but the moment before he was himself the subject: —

"Who the deuce can he be?"

Out upon the river, and drawing hard at his Regalia, he goes on: —

"Wonderfully familiar the fellow seemed! Can't be a brother! I understood her to say she had none. Does he live at Llangorren? No. She said there was no one there in the shape of masculine relative – only an old aunt, and that little dark damsel, who is cousin or something of the kind. But who in the deuce is the gentleman? Might he be a cousin?"

So propounding questions without being able to answer them, he at length addresses himself to the waterman – saying:

"Jack, did you observe a gentleman at the head of the stair?"

"Only the head and shoulders o' one, captain."

"Head and shoulders? that's enough. Do you chance to know him?"

"I ain't thorough sure; but I think he be a Mr. Shenstone."

"Who is Mr. Shenstone?"

"The son o' Sir George."

"Sir George! What do you know of him?"

"Not much to speak of – only that he be a big gentleman, whose land lies along the river, two or three miles below."

The information is but slight, and slighter the gratification it gives. Captain Ryecroft has heard of the rich baronet whose estate adjoins that of Llangorren, and whose title, with the property attached, will descend to an only son. It is the torso of this son he has seen above the red sandstone rock. In truth, a formidable rival! So he reflects, smoking away like mad.

After a time, he again observes, —

"You've said you don't know the ladies we've helped out of their little trouble?"

"Parsonally, I don't, captain. But, now as I see where they live, I know who they be. I've heerd talk 'bout the biggest o' them – a good deal."

The biggest of them! As if she were a salmon! In the boatman's eyes, bulk is evidently her chief recommendation!

Ryecroft smiles, further interrogating: —

"What have you heard of her?"

"That she be a tidy young lady. Wonderful fond o' field sport, such as hunting and that like. Fr' all, I may say that up to this day, I never set eyes on her afore."

The Hussar officer has been long enough in Herefordshire to have learnt the local signification of "tidy" – synonymous with "well-behaved." That Miss Wynn is fond of field sports – flood pastimes included – he has gathered from herself while rowing her up the river.

One thing strikes him as strange – that the waterman should not be acquainted with every one dwelling on the river's bank, at least for a dozen miles up and down. He seeks an explanation.

"How is it, Jack, that you, living but a short league above, don't know all about these people?"

He is unaware that Wingate though born on the Wye's banks, as he has told him, is comparatively a stranger to its middle waters – his birthplace being far up in the shire of Brecon. Still that is not the solution of the enigma, which the young waterman gives in his own way, —

"Lord love ye, sir! That shows how little you understand this river. Why, captain, it crooks an' crooks, and goes wobblin' about in such a way, that folks as lives less'n a mile apart knows no more o' one the other than if they wor ten. It comes o' the bridges bein' so few and far between. There's the ferry boats, true; but people don't take to 'em more'n they can help 'specially women – seein' there be some danger at all times, and a good deal o't when the river's aflood. That's frequent, summer well as winter."

The explanation is reasonable; and, satisfied with it, Ryecroft remains for a time wrapt in a dreamy reverie, from which he is aroused as his eyes rest upon a house – a quaint antiquated structure, half timber, half stone, standing not on the river's edge, but at some distance from it up a dingle. The sight is not new to him; he has before noticed the house – struck with its appearance, so different from the ordinary dwellings.

"Whose is it, Jack?" he asks.

"B'longs to a man, name o' Murdock."

"Odd looking domicile!"

"Ta'nt a bit more that way than he be – if half what they say 'bout him be true."

"Ah! Mr. Murdock's a character, then?"

"Ay; an' a queery one."

"In what respect? what way?"

"More'n one – a goodish many."

"Specify, Jack."

"Well; for one thing, he a'nt sober to say half o' his time."

"Addicted to dipsomania."

"'Dicted to getting dead drunk. I've seen him so, scores o' 'casions."

"That's not wise of Mr. Murdock."

"No, captain; 'ta'nt neyther wise nor well. All the worse, considerin' the place where mostly he go to do his drinkin'."

"Where may that be?"

"The Welsh Harp – up at Rogue's Ferry."

"Rogue's Ferry? Strange appellation! What sort of place is it? Not very nice, I should say – if the name be at all appropriate."

"It's parfitly 'propriate, though I b'lieve it wa'nt that way bestowed. It got so called after a man the name o' Rugg, who once keeped the Welsh Harp and the ferry too. It's about two mile above, a little ways back. Besides the tavern, there be a cluster o' houses, a bit scattered about, wi' a chapel an' a grocery shop – one as deals truckways, an' a'nt partickler as to what they take in change – stolen goods welcome as any – ay, welcomer, if they be o' worth. They got plenty o' them, too. The place be a regular nest o' poachers, an' worse than that – a good many as have sarved their spell in the Penitentiary."

"Why, Wingate, you astonish me! I was under the impression your Wyeside was a sort of Arcadia, where one only met with innocence and primitive simplicity."

"You won't meet much o' either at Rogue's Ferry. If there be an uninnocent set on earth it's they as live there. Them Forest chaps we came 'cross a'nt no ways their match in wickedness. Just possible drink made them behave as they did – some o' 'em. But drink or no drink it be all the same wi' the Ferry people – maybe worse when they're sober. Any ways they're a rough lot."

"With a place of worship in their midst! That ought to do something towards refining them."

"Ought; and would, I daresay, if 'twar the right sort – which it a'nt. Instead, o' a kind as only the more corrupts 'em – being Roman."

"Oh! A Roman Catholic chapel. But how does it corrupt them?"

"By makin' 'em believe they can get cleared of their sins, hows'ever black they be. Men as think that way a'nt like to stick at any sort of crime – 'specially if it brings 'em the money to buy what they calls absolution."

"Well, Jack, it's very evident you're no friend, or follower, of the Pope."

"Neyther o' Pope nor priest. Ah! captain; if you seed him o' the Rogue's Ferry Chapel, you wouldn't wonder at my havin' a dislike for the whole kit o' them."

"What is there 'specially repulsive about him?"

"Don't know as there be anythin' very special, in partickler. Them priests all look 'bout the same – such o' 'em as I've ever set eyes on. And that's like stoats and weasels, shootin' out o' one hole into another. As for him we're speakin' about, he's here, there, an' everywhere; sneakin' along the roads an' paths, hidin' behind bushes like a cat after birds, an' poppin' out where nobody expects him. If ever there war a spy meaner than another it's the priest of Rogue's Ferry."

"No," he adds, correcting himself. "There be one other in these parts worse that he – if that's possible. A different sort o' man, true; and yet they be a good deal thegither."

"Who is this other?"

"Dick Dempsey – better known by the name of Coracle Dick."

"Ah, Coracle Dick! He appears to occupy a conspicuous place in your thoughts, Jack; and rather a low one in your estimation. Why, may I ask? What sort of fellow is he?"

"The biggest blaggard as lives on the Wye, from where it springs out o' Plinlimmon to its emptying into the Bristol Channel. Talk o' poachers an' night netters. He goes out by night to catch somethin' beside salmon. 'Taint all fish as comes into his net, I know."

The young waterman speaks in such hostile tone both about priest and poacher, that Ryecroft suspects a motive beyond the ordinary prejudice against men who wear the sacerdotal garb, or go trespassing after game. Not caring to inquire into it now, he returns to the original topic, saying, —

"We've strayed from our subject, Jack – which was the hard-drinking owner of yonder house."

"Not so far, captain; seein' as he be the most intimate friend the priest have in these parts; though if what's said be true, not nigh so much as his Missus."

"Murdock is married, then?"

"I won't say that – leastwise I shouldn't like to swear it. All I know is, a woman lives wi' him, s'posed to be his wife. Odd thing she."

"Why odd?"

"'Cause she beant like any other o' womankind 'bout here."

"Explain yourself, Jack. In what does Mrs. Murdock differ from the rest of your Herefordshire fair?"

"One way, captain, in her not bein' fair at all. 'Stead, she be dark complected; most as much as one o' them women I've seed 'bout Cheltenham, nursin' the children o' old officers as brought 'em from India —ayers they call 'em. She a'nt one o' 'em, but French, I've heerd say; which in part, I suppose explains the thickness 'tween her an' the priest – he bein' the same."

"Oh! His reverence is a Frenchman, is he?"

"All o' that, captain. If he wor English, he woudn't – coudn't – be the contemptible sneakin' hound he is. As for Mrs. Murdock, I can't say I've seed her more'n twice in my life. She keeps close to the house; goes nowhere! an' it's said nobody visits her nor him – leastwise none o' the old gentry. For all Mr. Murdock belongs to the best of them."

"He's a gentleman, is he?"

"Ought to be – if he took after his father."

"Why so?"

"Because he wor a squire – regular of the old sort. He's not been so long dead. I can remember him myself, though I hadn't been here such a many years – the old lady too – this Murdock's mother. Ah! now I think on't, she wor t'other squire's sister – father to the tallest o' them two young ladies – the one with the reddish hair."

"What! Miss Wynn?"

"Yes, captain; her they calls Gwen."

Ryecroft questions no farther. He has learnt enough to give him food for reflection – not only during the rest of that day, but for a week, a month – it may be throughout the remainder of his life.

CHAPTER X
THE CUCKOO'S GLEN

About a mile above Llangorren Court, but on the opposite side of the Wye, stands the house which had attracted the attention of Captain Ryecroft; known to the neighbourhood as "Glyngog" – Cymric synonym for "Cuckoo's Glen." Not immediately on the water's edge, but several hundred yards back, near the head of a lateral ravine which debouches on the valley of the river, to the latter contributing a rivulet.

Glyngog House is one of those habitations, common in the county of Hereford as other western shires – puzzling the stranger to tell whether they be gentleman's residence, or but the dwelling of a farmer. This from an array of walls, enclosing yard, garden, even the orchard – a plenitude due to the red sandstone being near, and easily shaped for building purposes.

About Glyngog House, however, there is something besides the circumvallation to give it an air of grandeur beyond that of the ordinary farm homestead; certain touches of architectural style which speak of the Elizabethan period – in short that termed Tudor. For its own walls are not altogether stone; instead, a framework of oaken uprights, struts, and braces, black with age, the panelled masonry between plastered and white-washed, giving to the structure a quaint, almost fantastic, appearance, heightened by an irregular roof of steep pitch, with projecting dormers, gables acute angled, overhanging windows, and carving at the coigns. Of such ancient domiciles there are yet many to be met with on the Wye – their antiquity vouched for by the materials used in their construction, when bricks were a costly commodity, and wood to be had almost for the asking.

About this one, the enclosing stone walls have been a later erection, as also the pillared gate entrance to its ornamental grounds, through which runs a carriage drive to the sweep in front. Many a glittering equipage may have gone round on that sweep; for Glyngog was once a manor-house. Now it is but the remains of one, so much out of repair as to show smashed panes in several of its windows, while the enceinte walls are only upright where sustained by the upholding ivy; the shrubbery run wild; the walks and carriage drive weed-covered; on the latter neither recent track of wheel, nor hoof-mark of horse.

For all, the house is not uninhabited. Three or four of the windows appear sound, with blinds inside them; while at most hours smoke may be seen ascending from at least two of the chimneys.

Few approach near enough the place to note its peculiarities. The traveller gets but a distant glimpse of its chimney-pots; for the country road, avoiding the dip of the ravine, is carried round its head, and far from the house. It can only be approached by a long, narrow lane, leading nowhere else, so steep as to deter any explorer save a pedestrian; while he, too, would have to contend with an obstruction of over-growing thorns and trailing brambles.

Notwithstanding these disadvantages, Glyngog has something to recommend it – a prospect not surpassed in the western shires of England. He who selected its site must have been a man of tastes rather æsthetic than utilitarian. For the land attached and belonging – some fifty or sixty acres – is barely arable; lying against the abruptly sloping sides of the ravine. But the view is superb. Below, the Wye, winding through a partially wood-covered plain, like some grand constrictor snake; its sinuosities only here and there visible through the trees, resembling a chain of detached lakes – till sweeping past the Cuckoo's Glen, it runs on in straight reach towards Llangorren.

Eye of man never looked upon lovelier landscape; mind of man could not contemplate one more suggestive of all that is, or ought to be, interesting in life. Peaceful smokes ascending out of far-off chimneys; farm-houses, with their surrounding walls, standing amid the greenery of old homestead trees – now in full leaf, for it is the month of June – here and there the sharp spire of a church, or the showy façade of a gentleman's mansion – in the distant background, the dark blue mountains of Monmouthshire; among them conspicuous the Blorenge, Skerrid, and Sugar Loaf. The man who could look on such a picture, without drawing from it inspirations of pleasure, must be out of sorts with the world, if not weary of it.

And yet just such a man is now viewing it from Glyngog House, or rather the bit of shrubbery ground in front. He is seated on a rustic bench partly shattered, barely enough of it whole to give room beside him for a small japanned tray on which are tumbler, bottle and jug – the two last respectively containing brandy and water; while in the first is an admixture of both. He is smoking a meerschaum pipe, which at short intervals he removes from his mouth to give place to the drinking glass.

The personal appearance of this man is in curious correspondence with the bench on which he sits, the walls around, and the house behind. Like all these, he looks dilapidated. Not only is his apparel out of repair, but his constitution too, as shown by hollow cheeks and sunken eyes, with crows feet ramifying around them. This due not, as with the surrounding objects, to age; for he is still under forty. Nor yet any of the natural infirmities to which flesh is heir; but evidently to drink. Some reddish spots upon his nose and flecks on the forehead, with the glass held in shaking hand, proclaims this the cause. And it is.

Lewin Murdock – such is the man's name – has led a dissipated life. Not much of it in England; still less in Herefordshire; and only its earlier years in the house he now inhabits – his paternal home. Since boyhood he has been abroad, staying none can say where, and straying no one knows whither – often seen, however, at Baden, Homburg, and other "hells," punting high or low, as the luck has gone for or against him. At a later period in Paris, during the Imperial régime– worst hell of all. It has stripped him of everything; driven him out and home, to seek asylum at Glyngog, once a handsome property, now but a pied à terre, on which he may only set his foot with a mortgage around his neck. For even the little land left to it is let out to a farmer, and the rent goes not to him. He is, in fact, only a tenant on his patrimonial estate; holding but the house at that, with the ornamental grounds and an acre or two of orchard, of which he takes no care. The farmer's sheep may scale the crumbling walls, and browse the weedy enclosure at will: give Lewin Murdock his meerschaum pipe, with enough brandy and water, and he but laughs. Not that he is of a jovial disposition, not at all given to mirth; only that it takes something more than the pasturage of an old orchard to excite his thoughts, or turn them to cupidity.

For all, land does this – the very thing. No limited tract; but one of many acres in extent – even miles – the land of Llangorren.

It is now before his face, and under his eyes, as a map unfolded. On the opposite side of the river it forms the foreground of the landscape; in its midst the many-windowed mansion, backed by stately trees, with well-kept grounds, and green pastures; at a little distance the "Grange," or home-farm, and farther off others that look of the same belonging – as they are. A smiling picture it is; spread before the eyes of Lewin Murdock, whenever he sits in his front window, or steps outside the door. And the brighter the sun shines on it, the darker the shadow on his brow.

Not much of an enigma either. That land of Llangorren belonged to his grandfather, but now is, or soon will be, the property of his cousin – Gwendoline Wynn. Were she not, it would be his. Between him and it runs the Wye, a broad, deep river. But what its width or depth, compared with that other something between? A barrier stronger and more impassable than the stream, yet seeming slight as a thread. For it is but the thread of a life. Should it snap, or get accidentally severed, Lewin Murdock would only have to cross the river, proclaim himself master of Llangorren, and take possession.

He would scarce be human not to think of all this. And being human he does – has thought of it oft, and many a time. With feelings too, beyond the mere prompting of cupidity. These due to a legend handed down to him, telling of an unfair disposal of the Llangorren property; but a pittance given to his mother, who married Murdock of Glyngog; while the bulk went to her brother, the father of Gwen Wynn. All matters of testament, since the estate is unentailed; the only grace of the grandfather towards the Murdock branch being a clause entitling them to possession, in the event of the collateral heirs dying out. And of these but one is living – the heroine of our tale.

"Only she – but she!" mutters Lewin Murdock, in a tone of such bitterness, that, as if to drown it, he plucks the pipe out of his mouth, and gulps down the last drop in the glass.