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Gwen Wynn: A Romance of the Wye

Volume Two – Chapter Seven
A Mysterious Contract

“Only the priest!” muttered Coracle to himself, but little better satisfied than if it were the policeman.

Giving the lurcher a kick to quiet the animal, he pulls back the bolt, and draws open the door, as he does so asking, “That you, Father Rogier?”

“C’est moi!” answers the priest, stepping in without invitation. “Ah! mon bracconier! you’re having something nice for supper. Judging by the aroma ragout of hare. Hope I haven’t disturbed you. Is it hare?”

“It was, your Reverence, a bit of leveret.”

“Was! You’ve finished then. It is all gone?”

“It is. The dog had the remains of it, as ye see.”

He points to the dish on the floor.

“I’m sorry at that – having rather a relish for leveret. It can’t be helped, however.”

“I wish I’d known ye were comin’. Dang the dog!”

“No, no! Don’t blame the poor dumb brute. No doubt, it too has a taste for hare, seeing it’s half hound. I suppose leverets are plentiful just now, and easily caught, since they can no longer retreat to the standing corn?”

“Yes, your Reverence. There be a good wheen o’ them about.”

“In that case, if you should stumble upon one, and bring it to my house, I’ll have it jugged for myself. By the way, what have you got in that black jack?”

“It’s brandy.”

“Well, Monsieur Dick; I’ll thank you for a mouthful.”

“Will you take it neat, or mixed wi’ a drop o’ water?”

“Neat – raw. The night’s that, and the two raws will neutralise one another. I feel chilled to the bones, and a little fatigued, toiling against the storm.”

“It be a fearsome night. I wonder at your Reverence bein’ out – exposin’ yourself in such weather!”

“All weathers are alike to me – when duty calls. Just now I’m abroad on a little matter of business that won’t brook delay.”

“Business – wi’ me?”

“With you, mon bracconier!”

“What may it be, your Reverence?”

“Sit down, and I shall tell you. It’s too important to be discussed standing.”

The introductory dialogue does not tranquillise the poacher; instead, further intensifies his fears. Obedient, he takes his seat one side the table, the priest planting himself on the other, the glass of brandy within reach of his hand.

After a sip, he resumes speech with the remark:

“If I mistake not, you are a poor man, Monsieur Dempsey?”

“You ain’t no ways mistaken ’bout that, Father Rogier.”

“And you’d like to be a rich one?”

Thus encouraged, the poacher’s face lights up a little. Smilingly, he makes reply:

“I can’t say as I’d have any particular objection. ’Stead, I’d like it wonderful well.”

“You can be, if so inclined.”

“I’m ever so inclined, as I’ve sayed. But how, your Reverence? In this hard work-o’-day world ’tant so easy to get rich.”

“For you, easy enough. No labour and not much more difficulty than transporting your coracle five or six miles across the meadows.”

“Somethin’ to do wi’ the coracle, have it?”

“No; ’twill need a bigger boat – one that will carry three or four people. Do you know where you can borrow such, or hire it?”

“I think I do. I’ve a friend, the name o’ Rob Trotter, who’s got just sich a boat. He’d lend it me, sure.”

“Charter it, if he doesn’t. Never mind about the price. I’ll pay.”

“When might you want it, your Reverence?”

“On Thursday night, at ten, or a little later – say half-past.”

“And where am I to bring it?”

“To the Ferry; you’ll have it against the bank by the back of the Chapel burying-ground, and keep it there till I come to you. Don’t leave it to go up to the ‘Harp,’ or anywhere else; and don’t let any one see either the boat or yourself, if you can possibly avoid it. As the nights are now dark at that hour, there need be no difficulty in your rowing up the river without being observed. Above all, you’re to make no one the wiser of what you’re to do, or anything I’m now saying to you. The service I want you for is one of a secret kind, and not to be prattled about.”

“May I have a hint o’ what it is?”

“Not now; you shall know in good time – when you meet me with the boat. There will be another along with me – may be two – to assist in the affair. What will be required of you is a little dexterity, such as you displayed on Saturday night.”

No need the emphasis on the last words to impress their meaning upon the murderer. Too well he comprehends, starting in his chair as if a hornet had stung him.

“How – where?” he gasps out in the confusion of terror.

The double interrogatory is but mechanical, and of no consequence. Hopeless any attempt at concealment or subterfuge; as he is aware on receiving the answer, cool and provokingly deliberate.

“You have asked two questions, Monsieur Dick, that call for separate replies. To the first, ‘How?’ I leave you to grope out the answer for yourself, feeling pretty sure you’ll find it. With the second I’ll be more particular, if you wish me. Place – where a certain foot plank bridges a certain brook, close to the farmhouse of Abergann. It – the plank, I mean – last Saturday night, a little after nine, took a fancy to go drifting down the Wye. Need I tell you who sent it, Richard Dempsey?”

The man thus interrogated looks more than confused – horrified, well nigh crazed. Excitedly stretching out his hand, he clutches the bottle, half fills the tumbler with brandy, and drinks it down at a gulp. He almost wishes it were poison, and would instantly kill him!

Only after dashing the glass down does he make reply – sullenly, and in a hoarse, husky voice:

“I don’t want to know, one way or the other. Damn the plank! What do I care?”

“You shouldn’t blaspheme, Monsieur Dick. That’s not becoming – above all, in the presence of your spiritual adviser. However, you’re excited, as I see, which is in some sense an excuse.”

“I beg your Reverence’s pardon. I was a bit excited about something.”

He has calmed down a little, at thought that things may not be so bad for him after all. The priest’s last words, with his manner, seem to promise secrecy. Still further quieted as the latter continues:

“Never mind about what. We can talk of it afterwards. As I’ve made you aware – more than once, if I rightly remember – there’s no sin so great but that pardon may reach it – if repented and atoned for. On Thursday night you shall have an opportunity to make some atonement. So, be there with the boat!”

“I will, your Reverence; sure as my name’s Richard Dempsey.”

Idle of him to be thus earnest in promising. He can be trusted to come as if led in a string. For he knows there is a halter around his neck, with one end of it in the hand of Father Rogier.

“Enough!” returns the priest. “If there be anything else I think of communicating to you before Thursday I’ll come again – to-morrow night. So be at home. Meanwhile, see to securing the boat. Don’t let there be any failure about that, coûte que coûte. And let me again enjoin silence – not a word to any one, even your friend Rob. Verbum sapientibus! But as you’re not much of a scholar, Monsieur Coracle, I suppose my Latin’s lost on you. Putting it in your own vernacular, I mean: keep a close mouth, if you don’t wish to wear a necktie of material somewhat coarser than either silk or cotton. You comprehend?”

To the priest’s satanical humour the poacher answers, with a sickly smile, —

“I do, Father Rogier; perfectly.”

“That’s sufficient. And now, mon bracconier, I must be gone. Before starting out, however, I’ll trench a little further on your hospitality. Just another drop, to defend me from these chill equinoctials.”

Saying which he leans towards the table, pours out a stoop of the brandy – best Cognac from the “Harp” it is – then quaffing it off, bids “bon soir!” and takes departure.

Having accompanied him to the door, the poacher stands upon its threshold looking after, reflecting upon what has passed, anything but pleasantly. Never took he leave of a guest less agreeable. True, things are not quite so bad as he might have expected, and had reason to anticipate. And yet they are bad enough. He is in the toils – the tough, strong meshes of the criminal net, which at any moment may be drawn tight and fast around him; and between policeman and priest there is little to choose. For his own purposes the latter may allow him to live; but it will be as the life of one who has sold his soul to the devil!

While thus gloomily cogitating he hears a sound, which but makes still more sombre the hue of his thoughts. A voice comes pealing up the glen – a wild, wailing cry, as of some one in the extreme of distress. He can almost fancy it the shriek of a drowning woman. But his ears are too much accustomed to nocturnal sounds, and the voices of the woods, to be deceived. That heard was only a little unusual by reason of the rough night – its tone altered by the whistling of the wind.

“Bah!” he exclaims, recognising the call of the screech-owl, “it’s only one o’ them cursed brutes. What a fool fear makes a man!”

And with this hackneyed reflection he turns back into the house, rebolts the door, and goes to his bed; not to sleep, but lie long awake – kept so by that same fear.

Volume Two – Chapter Eight
The Game of Pique

The sun has gone down upon Gwen Wynn’s natal day – its twenty-first anniversary – and Llangorren Court is in a blaze of light. For a grand entertainment is there being given – a ball.

The night is a dark one; but its darkness does not interfere with the festivities; instead, heightens their splendour, by giving effect to the illuminations. For although autumn, the weather is still warm, and the grounds are illuminated. Parti-coloured lamps are placed at intervals along the walks, and suspended in festoonery from the trees, while the casement windows of the house stand open, people passing in and out of them as if they were doors. The drawing-room is this night devoted to dancing; its carpet taken up, the floor made as slippery as a skating rink with beeswax – abominable custom! Though a large apartment, it does not afford space for half the company to dance in; and to remedy this, supplementary quadrilles are arranged on the smooth turf outside – a string and wind band from the neighbouring town making music loud enough for all.

Besides, all do not care for the delightful exercise. A sumptuous spread in the dining-room, with wines at discretion, attracts a proportion of the guests; while there are others who have a fancy to go strolling about the lawn, even beyond the coruscation of the lamps; some who do not think it too dark anywhere, but the darker the better.

The élite of at least half the shire is present, and Miss Linton, who is still the hostess, reigns supreme in fine exuberance of spirits. Being the last entertainment at Llangorren over which she is officially to preside, one might imagine she would take things in a different way. But as she is to remain resident at the Court, with privileges but slightly, if at all, curtailed, she has no gloomy forecast of the future. Instead, on this night present she lives as in the past; almost fancies herself back at Cheltenham in its days of splendour, and dancing with the “first gentleman in Europe” redivivus. If her star be going down, it is going in glory, as the song of the swan is sweetest in its dying hour.

Strange, that on such a festive occasion, with its circumstances attendant, the old spinster, hitherto mistress of the mansion, should be happier than the younger one, hereafter to be! But in truth, so is it. Notwithstanding her great beauty and grand wealth – the latter no longer in prospective, but in actual possession – despite the gaiety and grandeur surrounding her, the friendly greetings and warm congratulations received on all sides – Gwen Wynn is herself anything but gay. Instead, sad, almost to wretchedness!

And from the most trifling of causes, though not as by her estimated; little suspecting she has but herself to blame. It has arisen out of an episode, in love’s history of common and very frequent occurrence – the game of piques. She and Captain Ryecroft are playing it, with all the power and skill they can command. Not much of the last, for jealousy is but a clumsy fencer. Though accounted keen, it is often blind as love itself; and were not both under its influence they would not fail to see through the flimsy deceptions they are mutually practising on one another. In love with each other almost to distraction, they are this night behaving as though they were the bitterest enemies, or at all events as friends sorely estranged.

She began it; blamelessly, even with praiseworthy motive; which, known to him, no trouble could have come up between them. But when, touched with compassion for George Shenstone, she consented to dance with him several times consecutively, and in the intervals remained conversing – too familiarly, as Captain Ryecroft imagined – all this with an “engagement ring” on her finger, by himself placed upon it – not strange in him, thus fiancé, feeling a little jealous; no more that he should endeavour to make her the same. Strategy, old as hills, or hearts themselves.

In his attempt he is, unfortunately, too successful; finding the means near by – an assistant willing and ready to his hand. This in the person of Miss Powell; she also went to church on the Sunday before in Jack Wingate’s boat – a young lady so attractive as to make it a nice point whether she or Gwen Wynn be the attraction of the evening.

Though only just introduced, the Hussar officer is not unknown to her by name, with some repute of his heroism besides. His appearance speaks for itself, making such impression upon the lady as to set her pencil at work inscribing his name on her card for several dances, round and square, in rapid succession.

And so between him and Gwen Wynn the jealous feeling, at first but slightly entertained, is nursed and fanned into a burning flame – the green-eyed monster growing bigger as the night gets later.

On both sides it reaches its maximum, when Miss Wynn, after a waltz, leaning on George Shenstone’s arm, walks out into the grounds, and stops to talk with him in a retired, shadowy spot.

Not far off is Captain Ryecroft observing them, but too far to hear the words passing between. Were he near enough for this, it would terminate the strife raging in his breast, as the sham flirtation he is carrying on with Miss Powell – put at end to her new sprung aspirations, if she has any.

It does as much for the hopes of George Shenstone – long in abeyance, but this night rekindled and revived. Beguiled, first by his partner’s amiability in so oft dancing with, then afterwards using him as a foil, he little dreams that he is but being made a catspaw. Instead, drawing courage from the deception, emboldened as never before, he does what he never dared before – make Gwen Wynn a proposal of marriage. He makes it without circumlocution, at a single bound, as he would take a hedge upon his hunter.

“Gwen! you know how I love you – would give my life for you! Will you be – ” Only now he hesitates, as if his horse baulked.

“Be what?” she asks, with no intention to help him over, but mechanically, her thoughts being elsewhere.

“My wife?”

She starts at the words, touched by his manly way, yet pained by their appealing earnestness, and the thought she must give denying response.

And how is she to give it, with least pain to him? Perhaps the bluntest way will be the best. So thinking, she says: —

“George, it can never be. Look at that!”

She holds out her left hand, sparkling with jewels.

“At what?” he asks, not comprehending.

“That ring.” She indicates a cluster of brilliants, on the fourth finger, by itself, adding the word “Engaged.”

“O God!” he exclaims, almost in a groan. “Is that so?”

“It is.”

For a time there is silence; her answer less maddening than making him sad.

With a desperate effort to resign himself, he at length replies: —

“Dear Gwen! for I must still call you – ever hold you so – my life hereafter will be as one who walks in darkness, waiting for death – ah, longing for it!”

Despair has its poetry, as love; oft exceeding the last in fervour of expression, and that of George Shenstone causes surprise to Gwen Wynn, while still further paining her. So much she knows not how to make rejoinder, and is glad when a fanfare of the band instruments gives note of another quadrille – the Lancers – about to begin.

Still engaged partners for the dance, but not to be for life, they return to the drawing-room, and join in it; he going through its figures with a sad heart and many a sigh.

Nor is she less sorrowful, only more excited; nigh unto madness, as she sees Captain Ryecroft vis-à-vis with Miss Powell; on his face an expression of content, calm, almost cynical; hers radiant as with triumph!

In this moment of Gwen Wynn’s supreme misery – acme of jealous spite – were George Shenstone to renew his proposal, she might pluck the betrothal ring from her finger, and give answer, “I will!”

It is not to be so, however weighty the consequence. In the horoscope of her life there is yet a heavier.

Volume Two – Chapter Nine
Jealous as a Tiger

It is a little after two a.m., and the ball is breaking up. Not a very late hour, as many of the people live at a distance, and have a long drive homeward, over hilly roads.

By the fashion prevailing a galop brings the dancing to a close. The musicians, slipping their instruments into cases and baize bags, retire from the room; soon after deserted by all, save a spare servant or two, who make the rounds to look to extinguishing the lamps, with a sharp eye for waifs in the shape of dropped ribbons or bijouterie.

Gentlemen guests stay longer in the dining-room over claret and champagne “cup,” or the more time-honoured B and S; while in the hallway there is a crush, and on the stairs a stream of ladies, descending cloaked and hooded.

Soon the crowd waxes thinner, relieved by carriages called up, quickly filling, and whirled off.

That of Squire Powell is among them; and Captain Ryecroft, not without comment from certain officious observers, accompanies the young lady, he has been so often dancing with, to the door.

Having seen her off with the usual ceremonies of leave-taking, he returns into the porch, and there for a while remains. It is a large portico, with Corinthian columns, by one of which he takes stand, in shadow. But there is a deeper shadow on his own brow, and a darkness in his heart, such as he has never in his life experienced. He feels how he has committed himself, but not with any remorse or repentance. Instead, the jealous anger is still within his breast, ripe and ruthless as ever. Nor is it so unnatural. Here is a woman – not Miss Powell, but Gwen Wynn – to whom he has given his heart – acknowledged the surrender, and in return had acknowledgment of hers – not only this, but offered his hand in marriage – placed the pledge upon her finger, she assenting and accepting – and now, in the face of all, openly, and before his face, engaged in flirtation!

It is not the first occasion for him to have observed familiarities between her and the son of Sir George Shenstone; trifling, it is true, but which gave him uneasiness. But to-night things have been more serious, and the pain caused him all-imbuing and bitter.

He does not reflect how he has been himself behaving. For to none more than the jealous lover is the big beam unobservable, while the little mote is sharply descried. He only thinks of her ill-behaviour, ignoring his own. If she has been but dissembling, coquetting with him, even that were reprehensible. Heartless, he deems it – sinister – something more, an indiscretion. Flirting while engaged – what might she do when married?

He does not wrong her by such direct self-interrogation. The suspicion were unworthy of himself, as of her; and as yet he has not given way to it. Still her conduct seems inexcusable, as inexplicable; and to get explanation of it he now tarries, while others are hastening away.

Not resolutely. Besides the half sad, half indignant expression upon his countenance, there is also one of indecision. He is debating within himself what course to pursue, and whether he will go off without bidding her good-bye. He is almost mad enough to be ill-mannered; and possibly, were it only a question of politeness, he would not stand upon, or be stayed by it. But there is more. The very same spiteful rage hinders him from going. He thinks himself aggrieved, and, therefore, justifiable in demanding to know the reason – to use a slang, but familiar phrase, “having it out.”

Just as has reached this determination, an opportunity is offered him. Having taken leave of Miss Linton, he has returned to the door, where he stands hat in hand, his overcoat already on. Miss Wynn is now also there, bidding good night to some guests – intimate friends – who have remained till the last. As they move off, he approaches her; she, as if unconsciously, and by the merest chance, lingering near the entrance. It is all pretence on her part, that she has not seen him dallying about; for she has several times, while giving congé to others of the company. Equally feigned her surprise, as she returns his salute, saying —

“Why, Captain Ryecroft! I supposed you were gone long ago!”

“I am sorry, Miss Wynn, you should think me capable of such rudeness.”

“Captain Ryecroft” and “Miss Wynn,” instead of “Vivian” and “Gwen!” It is a bad beginning, ominous of a worse ending.

The rejoinder, almost a rebuke, places her at a disadvantage, and she says rather confusedly —

“O! certainly not, sir. But where there are so many people, of course, one does not look for the formalities of leave-taking.”

“True; and, availing myself of that, I might have been gone long since, as you supposed, but for – ”

“For what?”

“A word I wish to speak with you – alone. Can I?”

“Oh, certainly.”

“Not here?” he asks suggestingly.

She glances around. There are servants hurrying about through the hall, crossing and recrossing, with the musicians coming forth from the dining-room, where they have been making a clearance of the cold fowl, ham, and heel-taps.

With quick intelligence comprehending, but without further speech she walks out into the portico, he preceding. Not to remain there, where eyes would still be on them, and ears within hearing. She has an Indian shawl upon her arm – throughout the night carried while promenading – and again throwing it over her shoulders, she steps down upon the gravelled sweep, and on into the grounds.

Side by side they proceed in the direction of the summer-house, as many times before, though never in the same mood as now. And never, as now, so constrained and silent; for not a word passes between them till they reach the pavilion.

There is light in it. But a few hundred yards from the house, it came in for part of the illumination, and its lamps are not yet extinguished – only burning feebly.

She is the first to enter – he to resume speech, saying —

“There was a day, Miss Wynn, when, standing on this spot, I thought myself the happiest man in Herefordshire. Now I know it was but a fancy – a sorry hallucination.”

“I do not understand you, Captain Ryecroft!”

“Oh yes, you do. Pardon my contradicting you; you’ve given me reason.”

“Indeed! In what way? I beg, nay, demand, explanation.”

“You shall have it; though superfluous, I should think, after what has been passing – this night especially.”

“Oh! this night especially! I supposed you so much engaged with Miss Powell as not to have noticed anything or anybody else. What was it, pray?”

“You understand, I take it, without need of my entering into particulars.”

“Indeed, I don’t; unless you refer to my dancing with George Shenstone.”

“More than dancing with him – keeping his company all through!”

“Not strange that; seeing I was left so free to keep it! Besides, as I suppose you know, his father was my father’s oldest and most intimate friend.”

She makes this avowal condescendingly, observing he is really vexed, and thinking the game of contraries has gone far enough. He has given her a sight of his cards, and with the quick subtle instinct of woman she sees that among them Miss Powell is no longer chief trump. Were his perception keen as hers, their jealous conflict would now come to a close, and between them confidence and friendship, stronger than ever, be restored.

Unfortunately it is not to be. Still miscomprehending, yet unyielding, he rejoins, sneeringly —

“And I suppose your father’s daughter is determined to continue that intimacy with his fathers son; which might not be so very pleasant to him who should be your husband! Had I thought of that when I placed a ring upon your finger – ”

Before he can finish she has plucked it off, and drawing herself up to full height, says in bitter retort —

“You insult me, sir! Take it back!” With the words, the gemmed circlet is flung upon the little rustic table, from which it rolls off.

He has not been prepared for such abrupt issue, though his rude speech tempted it. Somewhat sorry, but still too exasperated to confess or show it, he rejoins, defiantly: —

“If you wish it to end so, let it!”

“Yes; let it!”

They part without further speech. He, being nearest the door, goes out first, taking no heed of the diamond cluster which lies sparkling upon the floor.

Neither does she touch, or think of it. Were it the Koh-i-noor, she would not care for it now. A jewel more precious – the one love of her life is lost – cruelly crushed – and, with heart all but breaking, she sinks down upon the bench, draws the shawl over her face, and weeps till its rich silken tissue is saturated with her tears.

The wild spasm passed, she rises to her feet, and stands leaning upon the baluster rail, looking out and listening. Still dark, she sees nothing; but hears the stroke of a boat’s oars in measured and regular repetition – listens on till the sound becomes indistinct, blending with the sough of the river, the sighing of the breeze, and the natural voices of the night.

She may never hear his voice, never look on his face again!

At the thought she exclaims, in anguished accent, “This the ending! It is too – ”

What she designed saying is not said. Her interrupted words are continued into a shriek – one wild cry – then her lips are sealed, suddenly, as if stricken dumb, or dead!

Not by the visitation of God. Before losing consciousness, she felt the embrace of brawny arms – knew herself the victim of man’s violence.