Майн Рид
Gwen Wynn: A Romance of the Wye

CHAPTER XXIV
"THE FLOWER OF LOVE-LIES-BLEEDING."

There is a crowd collected round the farmhouse of Abergann. Not an excited, or noisy one; instead, the people composing it are of staid demeanour, with that formal solemnity observable on the faces of those at a funeral.

And a funeral it is, or soon to be. For, inside there is a chamber of death; a coffin with a corpse – that of her, who, had she lived, would have been Jack Wingate's wife.

Mary Morgan has indeed fallen victim to the mad spite of a monster. Down went she into that swollen stream, which, ruthless and cruel as he who committed her to it, carried her off on its engulfing tide – her form tossed to and fro, now sinking, now coming to the surface, and again going down. No one to save her – not an effort at rescue made by the cowardly Frenchman, who, rushing on to the chasm's edge, there stopped, only to gaze affrightedly at the flood surging below, foam crested – only to listen to her agonized cry, farther off and more freely put forth, as she was borne onward to her doom.

Once again he heard it, in that tone which tells of life's last struggle with death – proclaiming death the conqueror. Then all was over. As he stood horror-stricken, half-bewildered, a cloud suddenly curtained the moon, bringing black darkness upon the earth, as if a pall had been thrown over it. Even the white froth on the water was for the while invisible. He could see nothing – nothing hear, save the hoarse, harsh torrent rolling relentlessly on. Of no avail, then, his hurrying back to the house, and raising the alarm. Too late it was to save Mary Morgan from drowning; and, only by the accident of her body being thrown up against a bank was it that night recovered.

It is the third day after, and the funeral about to take place. Though remote the situation of the farmstead, and sparsely inhabited the district immediately around, the assemblage is a large one. This partly from the unusual circumstances of the girl's death, but as much from the respect in which Evan Morgan is held by his neighbours far and near. They are there in their best attire, men and women alike, Protestants as Catholics, to show a sympathy, which in truth many of them sincerely feel.

Nor is there among the people assembled any conjecturing about the cause of the fatal occurrence. No hint or suspicion that there has been foul play. How could there? So clearly an accident, as pronounced by the coroner at his inquiry held the day after the drowning – brief and purely pro forma.

Mrs. Morgan herself told of her daughter sent on that errand from which she never returned; while the priest, eye-witness, stated the reason why. Taken together, this was enough; though further confirmed by the absent plank, found and brought back on the following day. Even had Wingate rowed back up the river during daylight, he would not have seen it again. The farm labourers and others accustomed to cross by it gave testimony as to its having been loose.

But of all whose evidence was called for, one alone could have put a different construction on the tale. Father Rogier could have done this; but did not, having his reasons for withholding the truth. He is now in possession of a secret that will make Richard Dempsey his slave for life – his instrument, willing or unwilling, for such purpose as he may need him, no matter what its iniquity.

The hour of interment has been fixed for twelve o'clock. It is now a little after eleven, and everybody has arrived at the house. The men outside in groups, some in the little flower-garden in front, others straying into the farmyard to have a look at the fatting pigs, or about the pastures to view the white-faced Herefords and "Ryeland" sheep, of which last Evan Morgan is a noted breeder.

Inside the house are the women – some relatives of the deceased, with the farmer's friends and more familiar acquaintances. All admitted to the chamber of death to take a last look at the dead. The corpse is in the coffin, but with lid not yet screwed on. There lies the corpse in its white drapery, still untouched by "decay's effacing finger," beautiful as living bride, though now a bride for the altar of eternity.

The stream passes in and out; but besides those only curious coming and going, there are some who remain in the room. Mrs. Morgan herself sits beside the coffin, at intervals giving way to wildest grief, a cluster of women around vainly essaying to comfort her.

There is a young man seated in the corner, who seems to need consoling almost as much as she. Every now and then his breast heaves in audible sobbing, as though the heart within were about to break. None wonder at this; for it is Jack Wingate.

Still, there are those who think it strange his being there – above all, as if made welcome. They know not the remarkable change that has taken place in the feelings of Mrs. Morgan. Beside that bed of death, all who were dear to her daughter were dear to her now. And she is aware that the young waterman was so; for he has told her, with tearful eyes and sad, earnest words, whose truthfulness could not be doubted.

But where is the other, the false one? Not there – never has been since the fatal occurrence. Came not to the inquest, came not to inquire or condole; comes not now to show sympathy, or take part in the rites of sepulture.

There are some who make remark about his absence, though none lament it – not even Mrs. Morgan herself. The thought of the bereaved mother is that he would have ill-befitted being her son. Only a fleeting reflection, her whole soul being engrossed in grief for her lost daughter.

The hour for closing the coffin has come. They but await the priest to say some solemn words. He has not yet arrived, though every instant looked for. A personage so important has many duties to perform, and may be detained by them elsewhere.

For all, he does not fail. While inside the death chamber they are conjecturing the cause of his delay, a buzz outside, with a shuffling of feet in the passage, tells of way being made for him.

Presently he enters the room, and stepping up to the coffin, stands beside it, all eyes turned towards him. His are upon the face of the corpse – at first with the usual look of official gravity and feigned grief. But continuing to gaze upon it, a strange expression comes over his features, as though he saw something that surprised or unusually interested him. It affects him even to giving a start; so light, however, that no one seems to observe it. Whatever the emotion, he conceals it; and in calm voice pronounces the prayer, with all its formalities and gestures.

The lid is laid on, covering the form of Mary Morgan – for ever veiling her face from the world. Then the pall is thrown over, and all carried outside.

There is no hearse, no plumes, nor paid pall-bearers. Affection supplies the place of this heartless luxury of the tomb. On the shoulders of four men the coffin is borne away, the crowd forming into procession as it passes, and following.

On to the Rugg's Ferry chapel, – into its cemetery, late consecrated. There lowered into a grave already prepared to receive it; and, after the usual ceremonial of the Roman Catholic religion, covered up and turfed over.

Then the mourners scatter off for their homes, singly or in groups, leaving the remains of Mary Morgan in their last resting-place, only her near relatives with thought of ever again returning to stand over them.

There is one exception; this is a man not related to her, but who would have been had she lived. Wingate goes away with the intention ere long to return. The chapel burying ground brinks upon the river, and when the shades of night have descended over it, he brings his boat alongside. Then, fixing her to the bank, he steps out, and proceeds in the direction of the new-made grave. All this cautiously, and with circumspection, as if fearing to be seen. The darkness favouring him, he is not.

Reaching the sacred spot, he kneels down, and with a knife, taken from his pockets, scoops out a little cavity in the lately laid turf. Into this he inserts a plant, which he has brought along with him – one of a common kind, but emblematic of no ordinary feeling. It is that known to country people as "The Flower of Love-lies-bleeding" (Amaranthus caudatus).

Closing the earth around its roots, and restoring the sods, he bends lower, till his lips are in contact with the grass upon the grave. One near enough might hear convulsive sobbing, accompanied by the words: —

"Mary, darling! you're wi' the angels now; and I know you'll forgie me if I've done ought to bring about this dreadful thing. Oh, dear, dear Mary! I'd be only too glad to be lyin' in the grave along wi' ye. As God's my witness, I would."

For a time he is silent, giving way to his grief – so wild as to seem unbearable. And just for an instant he himself thinks it so, as he kneels with the knife still open in his hand, his eyes fixed upon it. A plunge with that shining blade with point to his heart, and all his misery would be over!

"My mother – my poor mother – no!"

These few words, with the filial thought conveyed, save him from suicide. Soon as repeating them, he shuts to his knife, rises to his feet, and, returning to the boat again, rows himself home; but never with so heavy a heart.

CHAPTER XXV
A FRENCH FEMME DE CHAMBRE

Of all who assisted at the ceremony of Mary Morgan's funeral, no one seemed so impatient for its termination as the priest. In his official capacity, he did all he could to hasten it – soon as it was over, hurrying away from the grave, out of the burying ground, and into his house near by.

Such haste would have appeared strange – even indecent – but for the belief of his having some sacerdotal duty that called him elsewhere; a belief strengthened by their shortly after seeing him start off in the direction of the ferry-boat.

Arriving there, the Charon attendant rows him across the river; and, soon as setting foot on the opposite side, he turns face down stream, taking a path that meanders through fields and meadows. Along this he goes rapidly as his legs can carry him – in a walk. Clerical dignity hinders him from proceeding at a run, though, judging by the expression of his countenance, he is inclined to it.

The route he is on would conduct to Llangorren Court – several miles distant – and thither is he bound; though the house itself is not his objective point. He does not visit, nor would it serve him to show his face there – least of all to Gwen Wynn. She might not be so rude as to use her riding whip on him, as she once felt inclined in the hunting-field; but she would certainly be surprised to see him at her home.

Yet it is one within her house he wishes to see, and is now on the way for it, pretty sure of being able to accomplish his object. True to her fashionable instincts and toilette necessities, Miss Linton keeps a French maid, and it is with this damsel Father Rogier designs having an interview. He is thoroughly en rapport with the femme de chambre, and through her, aided by the Confession, kept advised of everything which transpires at the Court, or all he deems it worth while to be advised about.

His confidence that he will not have his long walk for nothing rests on certain matters of pre-arrangement. With the foreign domestic he has succeeded in establishing a code of signals, by which he can communicate, with almost a certainty of being able to see her – not inside the house, but at a place near enough to be convenient. Rare the park in Herefordshire through which there is not a right-of-way path, and one runs across that of Llangorren. Not through the ornamental grounds, nor at all close to the mansion – as is frequently the case, to the great chagrin of the owner – but several hundred yards distant. It passes from the river's bank to the county road, all the way through trees, that screen it from view of the house. There is a point, however, where it approaches the edge of the wood, and there one traversing it might be seen from the upper windows. But only for an instant, unless the party so passing should choose to make stop in the place exposed.

It is a thoroughfare not much frequented, though free to Father Rogier as any one else; and, now hastening along it, he arrives at that spot where the break in the timber brings the house in view. Here he makes a halt, still keeping under the trees; to a branch of one of them, on the side towards the Court, attaching a piece of white paper he has taken out of his pocket. This done, with due caution and care, that he be not observed in the act, he draws back to the path, and sits down upon a stile close by, to await the upshot of his telegraphy.

His haste hitherto explained by the fact, only at certain times are his signals likely to be seen, or could they be attended to. One of the surest and safest is during the early afternoon hours, just after luncheon, when the ancient toast of Cheltenham takes her accustomed siesta, before dressing herself for the drive, or reception of callers. While the mistress sleeps, the maid is free to dispose of herself as she pleases.

It was to hit this interlude of leisure Father Rogier has been hurrying; and that he has succeeded is soon known to him, by his seeing a form with floating drapery, recognisable as that of the femme de chambre. Gliding through the shrubbery, and evidently with an eye to escape observation, she is only visible at intervals; at length lost to his sight altogether as she enters among the thick standing trees. But he knows she will turn up again.

And she does after a short time, coming along the path towards the stile where here he is seated.

"Ah! ma bonne!" he exclaims, dropping on his feet, and moving forward to meet her. "You've been prompt! I didn't expect you quite so soon. Madame la Chatelaine oblivious, I apprehend; in the midst of her afternoon nap?"

"Yes, Père; she was when I stole off. But she has given me directions about dressing her, to go out for a drive – earlier than usual. So I must get back immediately."

"I'm not going to detain you very long. I chanced to be passing, and thought I might as well have a word with you – seeing it's the hour when you're off duty. By the way, I hear you're about to have grand doings at the Court – a ball, and what not?"

"Oui, m'ssieu; oui."

"When is it to be?"

"On Thursday. Mademoiselle celebrates son jour de naissance– the twenty-first, making her of age. It is to be a grand fête as you say. They've been all last week preparing for it."

"Among the invited, Le Capitaine Ryecroft, I presume?"

"Oh, yes. I saw madame write the note inviting him – indeed, took it myself down to the hall table for the post-boy."

"He visits often at the Court of late?"

"Very often – once a week, sometimes twice."

"And comes down the river by boat, doesn't he?"

"In a boat. Yes – comes and goes that way."

Her statement is reliable, as Father Rogier has reason to believe – having an inkling of suspicion that the damsel has of late been casting sheep's eyes, not at Captain Ryecroft, but his young boatman, and is as much interested in the movements of the Mary as either the boat's owner or charterer.

"Always comes by water, and returns by it," observes the priest, as if speaking to himself. "You're quite sure of that, ma fille?"

"Oh, quite, Père!"

"Mademoiselle appears to be very partial to him. I think you told me she often accompanies him down to the boat stair at his departure?"

"Often! Always."

"Always?"

"Toujours! I never knew it otherwise. Either the boat stair or the pavilion."

"Ah! the summer-house! They hold their téte-à-téte there at times, do they?"

"Yes, they do."

"But not when he leaves at a late hour – as, for instance, when he dines at the Court; which I know he has done several times?"

"Oh, yes; even then. Only last week he was there for dinner, and Ma'mselle Gwen went with him to his boat, or the pavilion, to bid adieus. No matter what the time to her. Ma foi! I'd risk my word she'll do the same after this grand ball that's to be. And why shouldn't she, Père Rogier? Is there any harm in it?"

The question is put with a view of justifying her own conduct, that would be somewhat similar were Jack Wingate to encourage it, which, to say truth, he never has.

"Oh, no," answers the priest, with an assumed indifference; "no harm whatever, and no business of ours. Mademoiselle Wynn is mistress of her own actions, and will be more after the coming birthday, number vingt-un. But," he adds, dropping the rôle of the interrogator, now that he has got all the information wanted, "I fear I'm keeping you too long. As I've said, chancing to come by, I signalled – chiefly to tell you that next Sunday we have High Mass in the chapel, with special prayers for a young girl who was drowned last Saturday night, and whom we've just this day interred. I suppose you've heard?"

"No, I haven't. Who, Père?"

Her question may appear strange, Rugg's Ferry being so near to Llangorren Court, and Abergann still nearer. But for reasons already stated, as others, the ignorance of the Frenchwoman as to what has occurred at the farmhouse is not only intelligible, but natural enough.

Equally natural, though in a sense very different, is the look of satisfaction appearing in her eyes, as the priest in answer gives the name of the drowned girl.

"Marie, la fille de fermier Morgan."

The expression that comes over her face is, under the circumstances, terribly repulsive – being almost that of joy! For not only has she seen Mary Morgan at the chapel, but something besides – heard her name coupled with that of the waterman, Wingate.

In the midst of her strong, sinful emotions, of which the priest is fully cognizant, he finds it a good opportunity for taking leave. Going back to the tree where the bit of signal paper has been left, he plucks it off, and crumbles it into his pocket. Then, returning to the path, shakes hands with her, says "Bon jour!" and departs.

She is not a beauty, or he would have made his adieus in a very different way.

CHAPTER XXVI
THE POACHER AT HOME

Coracle Dick lives all alone. If he have relatives, they are not near, nor does any one in the neighbourhood know aught about them. Only some vague report of a father away off in the colonies, where he went against his will; while the mother – is believed dead.

Not less solitary is Coracle's place of abode. Situated in a dingle with sides thickly wooded, it is not visible from anywhere. Nor is it near any regular road; only approachable by a path, which there ends – the dell itself being a cul-de-sac. Its open end is toward the river, running in at a point where the bank is precipitous, so hindering thoroughfare along the stream's edge, unless when its waters are at their lowest.

Coracle's house is but a hovel, no better than the cabin of a backwoods squatter. Timber structure, too, in part, with a filling up of rough mason work. Its half-dozen perches of garden ground, once reclaimed from the wood, have grown wild again, no spade having touched them for years. The present occupant of the tenement has no taste for gardening, nor agriculture of any kind; he is a poacher, pur sang– at least, so far as is known. And it seems to pay him better than would the cultivation of cabbages – with pheasants at nine shillings the brace, and salmon three shillings the pound. He has the river, if not the mere, for his net, and the land for his game – making as free with both as ever did Alan-a-dale.

But, whatever the price of fish and game, be it high or low, Coracle is never without good store of cash, spending it freely at the Welsh Harp, as elsewhere; at times so lavishly, that people of suspicious nature think it cannot all be the product of night netting and snaring. Some of it, say scandalous tongues, is derived from other industries, also practised by night, and less reputable than trespassing after game. But, as already said, these are only rumours, and confined to the few. Indeed, only a very few have intimate acquaintance with the man. He is of a reserved, taciturn habit, somewhat surly: not talkative even in his cups. And though ever ready to stand treat in the Harp taproom, he rarely practises hospitality in his own house; only now and then, when some acquaintance of like kidney and calling pays him a visit. Then the solitary domicile has its silence disturbed by the talk of men, thick as thieves – often speech which, if heard beyond its walls, 'twould not be well for its owner.

More than half time, however, the poacher's dwelling is deserted, and oftener at night than by day. Its door, shut and padlocked, tells when the tenant is abroad. Then only a rough lurcher dog – a dangerous animal, too – is guardian of the place. Not that there are any chattels to tempt the cupidity of the kleptomaniac. The most valuable movable inside was not worth carrying away; and outside is but the coracle standing in a lean-to shed, propped up by its paddle. It is not always there, and, when absent, it may be concluded that its owner is on some expedition up, down, or across the river. Nor is the dog always at home; his absence proclaiming the poacher engaged in the terrestrial branch of his profession – running down hares or rabbits.

It is the night of the same day that has seen the remains of Mary Morgan consigned to their resting-place in the burying-ground of the Rugg's Ferry chapel. A wild night it has turned out, dark and stormy. The autumnal equinox is on, and its gales have commenced stripping the trees of their foliage. Around the dwelling of Dick Dempsey the fallen leaves lie thick, covering the ground as with cloth of gold; at intervals torn to shreds, as the wind swirls them up and holds them suspended.

Every now and then they are driven against the door, which is shut, but not locked. The hasp is hanging loose, the padlock with its bowed bolt open. The coracle is seen standing upright in the shed; the lurcher not anywhere outside – for the animal is within, lying upon the hearth in front of a cheerful fire. And before the same sits its master, regarding a pot which hangs over it on hooks; at intervals lifting off the lid, and stirring the contents with a long-handled spoon of white metal. What these are might be told by the aroma: a stew, smelling strongly of onions with game savour conjoined. Ground game at that, for Coracle is in the act of "jugging" a hare. Handier to no man than him were the recipe of Mrs. Glass, for he comes up to all its requirements – even the primary and essential one – knows how to catch his hare as well as cook it.

The stew is done, dished, and set steaming upon the table, where already has been placed a plate – the time-honoured willow pattern – with a knife and two-pronged fork. There is, besides, a jug of water, a bottle containing brandy, and a tumbler.

Drawing his chair up, Coracle commences eating. The hare is a young one – a leveret he has just taken from the stubble – tender and juicy – delicious even without the red-currant jelly he has not got, and for which he does not care. Withal, he appears but little to enjoy the meal, and only eats as a man called upon to satisfy the cravings of hunger. Every now and then, as the fork is being carried to his head, he holds it suspended, with the morsel of flesh on its prongs, while listening to sounds outside!

At such intervals the expression upon his countenance is that of the keenest apprehension; and as a gust of wind, unusually violent, drives a leafy branch in loud clout against the door, he starts in his chair, fancying it the knock of a policeman with his muffled truncheon!

This night the poacher is suffering from no ordinary fear of being summoned for game trespass. Were that all, he could eat his leveret as composedly as if it had been regularly purchased and paid for. But there is more upon his mind; the dread of a writ being presented to him, with shackles at the same time – of being taken handcuffed to the county jail – thence before a court of assize – and finally to the scaffold!

He has reason to apprehend all this. Notwithstanding his deep cunning, and the dexterity with which he accomplished his great crime, a man must have witnessed it. Above the roar of the torrent, mingling with the cries of the drowning girl as she struggled against it, were shouts in a man's voice, which he fancied to be that of Father Rogier. From what he has since heard, he is now certain of it. The coroner's inquest, at which he was not present, but whose report has reached him, puts that beyond doubt. His only uncertainty is, whether Rogier saw him by the footbridge, and if so to recognise him. True, the priest has nothing said of him at the 'quest; for all he, Coracle, has his suspicions; now torturing him almost as much as if sure that he was detected tampering with the plank. No wonder he eats his supper with little relish, or that after every few mouthfuls he takes a swallow of the brandy, with a view to keeping up his spirits.

Withal he has no remorse. When he recalls the hastily exchanged speeches he overheard upon Garranhill, with that more prolonged dialogue under the trysting-tree, the expression upon his features is not one of repentance, but devilish satisfaction at the fell deed he has done. Not that his vengeance is yet satisfied. It will not be till he have the other life – that of Jack Wingate. He has dealt the young waterman a blow which at the same time afflicts himself; only by dealing a deadlier one will his own sufferings be relieved. He has been long plotting his rival's death, but without seeing a safe way to accomplish it. And now the thing seems no nearer than ever – this night farther off. In his present frame of mind – with the dread of the gallows upon it – he would be too glad to cry quits, and let Wingate live!

Starting at every swish of the wind, he proceeds with his supper, hastily devouring it, like a wild beast; and when at length finished, he sets the dish upon the floor for the dog. Then lighting his pipe, and drawing the bottle nearer to his hand, he sits for a while smoking.

Not long before being interrupted by a noise at the door; this time no stroke of wind-tossed waif, but a touch of knuckles. Though slight and barely audible, the dog knows it to be a knock, as shown by his behaviour. Dropping the half-gnawed bone, and springing to its feet, the animal gives out an angry growling.

Its master has himself started from his chair, and stands trembling. There is a slit of a door at back convenient for escape; and for an instant his eye is on it, as though he had half a mind to make exit that way. He would blow out the light were it a candle; but cannot as it is the fire, whose faggots are still brightly ablaze.

While thus undecided, he hears the knock repeated – this time louder, and with the accompaniment of a voice, saying, —

"Open your door, Monsieur Dick."

Not a policeman, then; only the priest!