Kitabı oku: «Gwen Wynn: A Romance of the Wye», sayfa 21
CHAPTER L
REASONING BY ANALYSIS
Captain Ryecroft's start at seeing a woman within the pavilion was less from surprise than an emotion due to memory. When he last saw his betrothed alive, it was in that same place, and almost in a similar attitude – leaning over the baluster rail. Besides, many other souvenirs cling around the spot, which the sight vividly recalls; and so painfully, that he at once turns his eyes away from it, nor again looks back. He has an idea who the woman is, though personally knowing her not, nor ever having seen her.
The incident agitates him a little; but he is soon calm again, and for some time after sits silent – in no dreamy reverie, but actively cogitating, though not of it or her. His thoughts are occupied with a discovery he has made in his exploration just ended. An important one, bearing on the suspicion he had conceived almost proving it correct. Of all the facts that came before the coroner and his jury, none more impressed them, nor perhaps so much influenced their finding, as the tale-telling traces upon the face of the cliff. Nor did they arrive at their conclusion with any undue haste or light deliberation. Before deciding, they had taken boat, and from below more minutely inspected them. But with their first impression unaltered – or only strengthened – that the abrasions on the soft sandstone rock were made by a falling body, and the bush borne down by the same. And what but the body of Gwendoline Wynn? Living or dead, springing off, or pitched over, they could not determine. Hence the ambiguity of their verdict.
Very different the result reached by Captain Ryecroft after viewing the same. In his Indian campaigns, the ex-cavalry officer, belonging to the "Light," had his share of scouting experience. It enables him to read "sign" with the skill of trapper or prairie hunter; and on the moment his lamp threw its light against the cliff's face, he knew the scratches were not caused by anything that came down, since they had been made from below! And by some blunt instrument, as the blade of a boat oar. Then the branches of the juniper. Soon as getting his eyes close to them, he saw they had been broken inward, their drooping tops turned toward the cliff, not from it! A falling body would have bent them in an opposite direction, and the fracture been from the upper and inner side! Everything indicated their having been crushed from below – not by the same boat's oar, but likely enough by the hands that held it!
It was on reaching this conclusion that Captain Ryecroft gave involuntary utterance to the exclamatory words heard by him lying flat among the ferns above, the last one sending a thrill of fear through his heart.
And upon it the ex-officer of Hussars is still reflecting as he returns up stream.
Since the command given to Wingate to row him back, he has not spoken, not even to make remark about that suggestive thing seen in the summer-house above – though the other has observed it also. Facing that way, the waterman has his eyes on it for a longer time. But the bearing of the Captain admonishes him that he is not to speak till spoken to; and he silently tugs at his oars, leaving the other to his reflections.
These are, that Gwendoline Wynn has been surely assassinated, though not by being thrown over the cliff. Possibly not drowned at all, but her body dropped into the water where found – conveyed thither after life was extinct! The scoring of the rock and the snapping of the twigs, all that done to mislead, as it had misled everybody but himself. To him it has brought conviction that there has been a deed of blood – done by the hand of another. "No accident – no suicide – murdered!"
He is not questioning the fact, nor speculating upon the motive now. The last has been already revolved in his mind, and is clear as daylight. To such a man as he has heard Lewin Murdock to be, an estate worth £10,000 a year would tempt to crime, even the capital one, which certainly he has committed. Ryecroft only thinks of how he can prove its committal – bring the deed of guilt home to the guilty one. It may be difficult – impossible; but he will do his best.
Embarked in the enterprise, he is considering what will be the best course to pursue – pondering upon it. He is not the man to act rashly at any time, but in a matter of such moment caution is especially called for. He is already on the track of a criminal who has displayed no ordinary cunning, as proved by that misguiding sign. A false move made, or word spoken in careless confidence, by exposing his purpose, may defeat it. For this reason he has hitherto kept his intention to himself – not having given a hint of it to any one.
From Jack Wingate it cannot be longer withheld, nor does he wish to withhold it. Instead, he will take him into his confidence, knowing he can do so with safety. That the young waterman is no prating fellow he has already had proof, while of his loyalty he never doubted.
First, to find out what Jack's own thoughts are about the whole thing. For since their last being in a boat together, on that fatal night, little speech has passed between them. Only a few words on the day of the inquest, when Captain Ryecroft himself was too excited to converse calmly, and before the dark suspicion had taken substantial shape in his mind.
Once more opposite the poplar, he directs the skiff to be brought to. Which done, he sits just as when that sound startled him on return from the ball – apparently thinking of it, as in reality he is.
For a minute or so he is silent; and one might suppose he listened, expecting to hear it again. But no; he is only, as on the way down, making note of the distance to the Llangorren grounds. The summer-house he cannot now see, but judges the spot where it stands by some tall trees he knows to be beside it.
The waterman observing him, is not surprised when at length asked the question, —
"Don't you believe, Wingate, the cry came from above – I mean from the top of the cliff?"
"I'm a'most sure it did. I thought at the time it comed from higher ground still – the house itself. You remember my sayin' so, Captain; and that I took it to be some o' the sarvint girls shoutin' up there."
"I do remember – you did. It was not, alas! but their mistress."
"Yes; she for sartin, poor young lady! We now know that."
"Think back, Jack! Recall it to your mind; the tone, the length of time it lasted – everything. Can you?"
"I can, an' do. I could all but fancy I hear it now!"
"Well, did it strike you as a cry that would come from one falling over the cliff – by accident, or otherwise?"
"It didn't; an' I don't yet believe it wor – accydent or no accydent."
"No! What are your reasons for doubting it?"
"Why, if it had a been a woman eyther fallin' over or flung, she'd ha' gied tongue a second time – ay, a good many times – 'fore getting silenced. It must ha' been into the water, an' people don't drown at the first goin' down. She'd ha' riz to the surface once, if not twice; an' screeched sure. We couldn't ha' helped hearin' it. Ye remember, Captain, 'twor dead calm for a spell just precedin' the thunderstorm. When that cry come, ye might ha' heerd the leap o' a trout a quarter mile off. But it worn't repeated – not so much as a mutter."
"Quite true. But what do you conclude from its not having been?"
"That she who gied the shriek wor in the grasp o' somebody when she did it, an' wor silenced instant by bein' choked or smothered; same as they say's done by them scoundrels called garroters."
"You said nothing of this at the inquest?"
"No, I didn't, for several reasons. One, I wor so took by surprise, just home, an' hearin' what had happened. Besides, the crowner didn't question me on my feelin's – only about the facts o' the case. I answered all his questions, clear as I could remember, an' far's I then understood things; but not as I understand them now."
"Ah! you have learnt something since?"
"Not a thing, Captain – only what I've been thinkin' o', by rememberin' a circumstance I'd forgot."
"What?"
"Well, whiles I wor sittin' in the skiff that night, waitin' for you to come, I heerd a sound different from the hootin' o' them owls."
"Indeed! What sort of sound?"
"The plashing o' oars. There wor sartin another boat about there besides this one."
"In what direction did you hear them?"
"From above. It must ha' been that way. If't had been a boat gone up from below, I'd ha' noticed the stroke again across the strip o' island. But I didn't."
"The same if one had passed on down."
"Just so; an' for that reason I now believe it wor comin' down, an' stopped somewhere just outside the backwash."
An item of intelligence new to the Captain as it is significant. He recalls the hour – between two and three o'clock in the morning. What boat could have been there but his own? And if other, what its business?
"You're quite sure there was a boat, Wingate?" he asks, after a pause.
"The oars o' one – that I'm quite sure o'. An' where there's smoke, fire can't be far off. Yes, Captain, there wor a boat about there. I'm willin' to swear to it."
"Have you any idea whose?"
"Well, no; only some conjecter. First hearin' the oar, I wor under the idea it might be Dick Dempsey, out salmon-stealin'. But at the second plunge I could tell it wor no paddle, but a pair of regular oars. They gied but two or three strokes, an' then stopped suddintly; not as though the boat had been rowed back, but brought up against the bank, an' there layed."
"You don't think it was Dick and his coracle, then?"
"I'm sure it worn't the coracle, but ain't so sure about its not bein' him. 'Stead, from what happened that night, an's been a-happenin' ever since, I b'lieve he wor one o' the men in that boat."
"You think there were others?"
"I do – leastways, suspect it."
"And who do you suspect besides?"
"For one, him as used live up there, but's now livin' in Llangorren."
They have long since parted from the place where they made stop opposite the poplar, and are now abreast the Cuckoo's Glen, going on. It is to Glyngog House Wingate alludes, visible up the ravine, the moon gleaming upon its piebald walls and lightless windows – for it is untenanted.
"You mean Mr. Murdock?"
"The same, Captain. Though he worn't at the ball, as I've heerd say – and might ha' know'd without tellin' – I've got an idea he bean't far off when 'twor breakin' up. An' there wor another there, too, beside Dick Dempsey."
"A third! Who?"
"He as lives a bit further above."
"You mean – ?"
"The French priest. Them three ain't often far apart; an' if I bean't astray in my reck'nin', they were mighty close thegither that same night, an' nigh Llangorren Court. They're all in or about it now, the precious tribang, an' I'd bet big they've got footin' there by the foulest o' foul play. Yes, Captain, sure as we be sittin' in this boat, she as owned the place ha' been murdered, the men as done it bein' Lewin Murdock, Dick Dempsey, and the Roman priest o' Rogues!"
CHAPTER LI
A SUSPICIOUS CRAFT
To the waterman's unreserved statement of facts and suspicions, Captain Ryecroft makes no rejoinder. The last are in exact consonance with his own already conceived, the first alone new to him.
And on the first he now fixes his thoughts, directing them to that particular one of a boat being in the neighbourhood of the Llangorren grounds about the time he was leaving them. For it, too, has a certain correspondence with something on the same night observed by himself – a circumstance he had forgotten, or ceased to think of, but now recalled with vivid distinctness. All the more as he listens to the conjectures of Wingate, about three men having been in that boat, and whom he supposed them to be.
The number is significant as corresponding with what occurred to himself. The time as well, since, but a few hours before, he also had his attention drawn to a boat, under circumstances somewhat mysterious. The place was different; for all not to contradict the supposition of the waterman, rather confirming it.
On his way to the Court, his black dress kerseymere protected by india-rubber overalls, Ryecroft, as known, had ridden to Wingate's house, and was thence rowed to Llangorren. His going to a ball by boat, instead of carriage or hotel hackney, was not for the sake of convenience, nor yet due to eccentricity. The prospect of a private interview with his betrothed at parting, as on former occasions expected to be pleasant, was his ruling motive for this arrangement. Besides, his calls at the Court were usually made in the same way, his custom being to ride as far as the Wingate cottage, leave his roadster there, and thence take the skiff. Between his town and the waterman's house, there is a choice of routes, the main country road keeping well away from the river, and a narrower one, which follows the trend of the stream along its edge, where practicable, but also here and there thrown off by meadows subject to inundations, or steep spurs of the parallel ridges. This, an ancient trackway now little used, was the route Captain Ryecroft had been accustomed to take on his way to Wingate's cottage, not from its being shorter or better, but for the scenery, which, far excelling that of the other, equals any upon the Wyeside. In addition, the very loneliness of the road had its charm for him, since only at rare intervals is a house seen by its side, and rarer still living creature encountered upon it. Even where it passes Rugg's Ferry, there intersecting the ford road, the same solitude characterizes it. For this quaint conglomeration of dwellings is on the opposite side of the stream – all save the chapel and the priest's house, standing some distance back from the bank, and screened by a spinney of trees.
With the topography of this place he is quite familiar; and now to-night it is vividly recalled to his mind by what the waterman has told him. For on that other night, so sadly remembered, as he was riding past Rugg's, he saw the boat thus brought back to his recollection. He had got a little beyond the crossing of the Ford road, where it leads out from the river – himself on the other going downwards – when his attention was drawn to a dark object against the bank on the opposite side of the stream. The sky at the time moonless, he might not have noticed it, but for other dark objects seen in motion beside it, the thing itself being stationary. Despite the obscurity, he could make them out to be men busied around a boat. Something in their movements, which seemed made in a stealthy manner – too cautious for honesty – prompted him to pull up, and sit in his saddle observing them. He had himself no need to take precautions for concealment, the road at this point passing under old oaks, whose umbrageous branches, arcading over, shadowed the causeway, making it dark around as the interior of a cavern.
Nor was he called upon to stay long there – only a few seconds after drawing bridle – just time enough for him to count the men, and see there were three of them, when they stepped over the sides of the boat, pushed her out from the bank, and rowed off down the river.
Even then he fancied there was something surreptitious in their proceedings; for the oars, instead of rattling in their rowlocks, made scarce any noise, while their dip was barely audible, though so near.
Soon both boat and those on board were out of his sight, and the slight sound made by them beyond his hearing. Had the road kept along the river's bank, he would have followed, and further watched them; but just below Rugg's it is carried off across a ridge, with steep pitch, and while ascending this he ceased to think of them.
He might not have thought of them at all, had they made their embarkation at the ordinary landing-place, by the ford and ferry. There such a sight would have been nothing unusual, nor a circumstance to excite curiosity. But the boat, when he first observed it, was lying below, up against the bank by the chapel ground, across which the men must have come.
Recalling all this, with what Jack Wingate had just told him, connecting events together, and making comparison of time, place, and other circumstances, he thus interrogatively reflects:
"Might not that boat have been the same whose oars Jack heard down below? and the men in it those whose names he had mentioned? Three of them – that at least in curious correspondence? But the time? About nine, or a little after, as I passed Rugg's Ferry. That appears too early for the after event? No; they may have had other arrangements to make before proceeding to their murderous work. Odd, though, their knowing she would be out there. But they need not have known that – likely did not. More like they meant to enter the house after every one had gone away, and there do the deed. A night different from the common, everything in confusion; the servants sleeping sounder than usual, from having indulged in drink – some of them overcome by it, as I saw myself before leaving. Yes; it's quite probable the assassins took all that into consideration – surprised, no doubt, to find their victim so convenient – in fact, as if she had come forth to receive them. Poor girl!"
All this chapter of conjectures has been to himself, and in sombre silence, at length broken by the voice of his boatman, saying, —
"You've come afoot, Captain; an' it be a longish walk to the town, most o' the road muddy. Ye'll let me row you up the river – leastways, for a couple o' miles further; then ye can take the footpath through Powell's meadows."
Roused as from a reverie, the Captain, looking out, sees they are nearly up to the boatman's cottage, which accounts for the proposal thus made. After a little reflection, he says in reply, —
"Well, Jack, if it wasn't that I dislike overworking you – "
"Don't mention it!" interrupts Jack. "I'll be only too pleased to take you all the way to the town itself, if ye say the word. It a'nt so late yet, but to leave me plenty of time. Besides, I've got to go up to the ferry, anyhow, to get some grocery for mother. I may as well do it in the boat – 'deed better than dragglin' along them roughish roads."
"In that case I consent. But you must let me take the oars."
"No, Captain; I'd prefer workin' 'em myself, if it be all the same to you."
The Captain does not insist, for in truth he would rather remain at the tiller. Not because he is indisposed for a spell of pulling, nor is it from disinclination to walk, that he has so readily accepted the waterman's offer. After reflecting, he would have asked the favour so courteously extended. And for a reason having nothing to do with convenience, or the fear of fatigue; but a purpose which has just shaped itself in his thoughts, suggested by the mention of the ferry.
It is that he may consider this – be left free to follow the train of conjecture which the incident has interrupted – he yields to the boatman's wishes, and keeps his seat in the stern.
By a fresh spurt the Mary is carried beyond her mooring place – as she passes it her owner for an instant feathering his oars and holding up his hat. It is a signal to one he sees there, standing outside in the moonlight – his mother.
CHAPTER LII
MATERNAL SOLICITUDE
"The poor lad! His heart be sore sad; at times most nigh breakin'! That's plain – spite o' all he try hide it."
It is the Widow Wingate who thus compassionately reflects – the subject, her son.
She is alone within her cottage, the waterman being away with his boat. Captain Ryecroft has taken him down the river. It is on this nocturnal exploration, when the cliff at Llangorren is inspected by lamp-light.
But she knows neither the purpose nor the place, any more than did Jack himself at starting. A little before sunset, the Captain came to the house, afoot and unexpectedly; called her son out, spoke a few words to him, when they started away in the skiff. She saw they went down stream – that is all.
She was some little surprised, though – not at the direction taken, but the time of setting out. Had Llangorren been still in possession of the young lady, of whom her son has often spoken to her, she would have thought nothing strange of it. But in view of the late sad occurrence at the Court, with the change of proprietorship consequent – about all of which she has been made aware – she knows the Captain cannot be bound thither, and therefore wonders whither. Surely, not a pleasure excursion, at such an unreasonable hour – night just drawing down?
She would have asked, but had no opportunity. Her son, summoned out of the house, did not re-enter; his oars were in the boat, having just come off a job; and the Captain appeared to be in haste. Hence Jack's going off, without, as he usually does, telling his mother the why and the where.
It is not this that is now fidgeting her. She is far from being of an inquisitive turn – least of all with her son – and never seeks to pry into his secrets. She knows his sterling integrity, and can trust him. Besides, she is aware that he is of a nature somewhat uncommunicative, especially upon matters that concern himself, and above all when he has a trouble on his mind – in short, one who keeps his sorrows locked up in his breast, as though preferring to suffer in silence.
And just this it is she is now bemoaning. She observes how he is suffering, and has been, ever since that hour when a farm labourer from Abergann brought him tidings of Mary Morgan's fatal mishap.
Of course she, his mother, expected him to grieve wildly and deeply, as he did; but not deeply so long. Many days have passed since that dark one; but since, she has not seen him smile – not once! She begins to fear his sorrow may never know an end. She has heard of broken hearts – his may be one. Not strange her solicitude.
"What make it worse," she says, continuing her soliloquy, "he keep thinkin' that he hae been partways to blame for the poor girl's death, by makin' her come out to meet him!" – Jack has told his mother of the interview under the big elm, all about it, from beginning to end. – "That hadn't a thing to do wi' it. What happened wor ordained, long afore she left the house. When I dreamed that dream 'bout the corpse candle, I feeled most sure somethin' would come o't; but then seein' it go up the meadows, I wor' althegither convinced. When it burn, no human creetur' ha' lit it; an' none can put it out, till the doomed one be laid in the grave. Who could 'a carried it across the river – that night especial, wi' a flood lippin' full up to the banks? No mortal man, nor woman neyther!"
As a native of Pembrokeshire, in whose treeless valleys the ignis fatuus is oft seen, and on its dangerous coast cliffs, in times past, too oft the lanthorn of the smuggler, with the "stalking horse" of the inhuman wrecker, Mrs. Wingate's dream of the canwyll corph was natural enough – a legendary reflection from tales told her in childhood, and wild songs chanted over her cradle.
But her waking vision, of a light borne up the river bottom, was a phenomenon yet more natural; since in truth was it a real light, that of a lamp, carried in the hands of a man with a coracle on his back, which accounts for its passing over the stream. And the man was Richard Dempsey, who below had ferried Father Rogier across on his way to the farm of Abergann, where the latter intended remaining all night. The priest in his peregrinations, often nocturnal, accustomed to take a lamp along, had it with him on that night, having lit it before entering the coracle; but, with the difficulty of balancing himself in the crank little craft, he had set it down under the thwart, and at landing forgotten all about it. Thence the poacher, detained beyond time in reference to an appointment he meant being present at, had taken the shortest cut up the river bottom to Rugg's Ferry. This carried him twice across the stream, where it bends by the waterman's cottage; his coracle, easily launched and lifted out, enabling him to pass straight over and on, in his haste not staying to extinguish the lamp, nor even thinking of it.
Not so much wonder, then, in Mrs. Wingate believing she saw the canwyll corph. No more that she believes it still, but less, in view of what has since come to pass; as she supposes, but the inexorable fiat of fate.
"Yes!" she exclaims, proceeding with her soliloquy; "I knowed it would come. Poor thing! I hadn't no great knowledge of her myself; but sure she wor a good girl, or my son couldn't had been so fond o' her. If she'd had badness in her, Jack wouldn't greet and grieve as he be doin' now."
Though right in the premises – for Mary Morgan was a good girl – Mrs. Wingate is unfortunately wrong in her deductions. But, fortunately for her peace of mind, she is so. It is some consolation to her to think that she whom her son loved, and for whom he so sorrows, was worthy of his love as his sorrow.
It is wearing late, the sun having long since set; and still wondering why they went down the river, she steps outside to see if there be any sign of them returning. From the cottage but little can be seen of the stream, by reason of its tortuous course; only a short reach on either side, above and below.
Placing herself to command a view of the latter, she stands gazing down it. In addition to maternal solicitude, she feels anxiety of another and less emotional nature. Her tea-caddy is empty, the sugar all expended, and other household things deficient. Jack was just about starting off for the Ferry to replace them when the Captain came. Now it is a question whether he will be home in time to reach Rugg's before the shop closes. If not, there will be a scant supper for him, and he must grope his way lightless to bed; for among the spent commodities were candles, the last one having been burnt out. In the Widow Wingate's life candles seem to play an important part!
However, from all anxieties on this score she is at length and ere long relieved; her mind set at rest by a sound heard on the tranquil air of the night, the dip of a boat's oars, distant, but recognisable. Often before listening for the same, she instinctively knows them to be in the hands of her son; for Jack rows with a stroke no waterman on the Wye has but he – none equalling it in timbre and regularity. His mother can tell it as a hen the chirp of her own chick, or a ewe the bleat of its lamb.
That it is his stroke she has soon other evidence than her ears. In a few seconds after hearing the oars she sees them, their wet blades glistening in the moonlight, the boat between.
And now she only waits for it to be pulled up and into the wash – its docking place – when Jack will tell her where they have been, and what for; perhaps, too, the Captain will come inside the cottage and speak a friendly word with her, as he has frequently done.
While thus pleasantly anticipating, she has a disappointment. The skiff is passing onward – proceeding up the river! But she is comforted by seeing a hat held aloft – the salute telling her she is herself seen, and that Jack has some good reason for the prolongation of the voyage. It will no doubt terminate at the ferry, where he will get the candles and comestibles, saving him a second journey thither, and so killing two birds with one stone.
Contenting herself with this construction of it, she returns inside the house, touches up the faggots on the fire, and by their cheerful blaze thinks no longer of candles, or any other light – forgetting even the canwyll corph.
