Kitabı oku: «Gwen Wynn: A Romance of the Wye», sayfa 22
CHAPTER LIII
A SACRILEGIOUS HAND
Between Wingate's cottage and Rugg's, Captain Ryecroft has but slight acquaintance with the river, knows it only by a glimpse had here and there from the road. Now, ascending by boat, he makes note of certain things appertaining to it – chiefly, the rate of its current, the windings of its channel, and the distance between the two places. He seems considering how long a boat might be in passing from one to the other. And just this is he thinking of, his thoughts on that boat he saw starting downward.
Whatever his object in all this, he does not reveal it to his companion. The time has not come for taking the waterman into full confidence. It will, but not to-night.
He has again relapsed into silence, which continues till he catches sight of an object on the left bank, conspicuous against the sky, beside the moon's disc, now low. It is a cross surmounting a structure of ecclesiastical character, which he knows to be the Roman Catholic chapel at Rugg's. Soon as abreast of it, he commands —
"Hold way, Jack! Keep her steady awhile!"
The waterman obeys without questioning why this new stoppage. He is himself interrogated the instant after, thus, —
"You see that shadowed spot under the bank – by the wall?"
"I do, Captain."
"Is there any landing-place there for a boat?"
"None, as I know of. Course a boat may put in anywhere, if the bank bean't eyther a cliff or a quagmire. The reg'lar landin'-place be above, where the ferry punt lays."
"But have you ever known of a boat being moored in there?"
The question has reference to the place first spoken of.
"I have, Captain; my own. That but once, an' the occasion not o' the pleasantest kind. 'Twar the night after my poor Mary wor buried, when I comed to say a prayer over her grave, an' plant a flower on it. I may say I stole there to do it, not wishin' to be obsarved by that sneak o' a priest, nor any o' their Romish lot. Exceptin' my own, I never knew or heard o' another boat bein' laid long there."
"All right! Now on!"
And on the skiff is sculled up stream for another mile, with little further speech passing between oarsman and steerer; it confined to subjects having no relation to what they have been all the evening occupied with.
For Ryecroft is once more in reverie, or rather silently thinking, his thoughts concentrated on the one theme – endeavouring to solve that problem, simple of itself, but with many complications and doubtful ambiguities – how Gwendoline Wynn came by her death.
He is still observed in a sea of conjectures, far as ever from its shore, when he feels the skiff at rest; as it ceases motion its oarsman asking —
"Do you weesh me to set you out here, Captain? There be the right-o'-way path through Powell's meadows. Or would ye rather be took on up to the town? Say which you'd like best, an' don't think o' any difference it makes to me."
"Thanks, Jack; it's very kind of you, but I prefer the walk up the meadows. There'll be moonlight enough yet. And as I shall want your boat to-morrow – it may be for the whole of the day – you'd better get home and well rested. Besides, you say you've an errand at Rugg's – to the shop there. You must make haste, or it will be closed."
"Ah! I didn't think o' that. Obleeged to ye much for remindin' me. I promised mother to get them grocery things the night, and wouldn't like to disappoint her – for a good deal."
"Pull in, then, quick, and tilt me out! And, Jack! not a word to any one about where I've been, or what doing. Keep that to yourself."
"I will, you may rely on me, Captain."
The boat is brought against the bank; Ryecroft leaps lightly to land, calls back, "Good-night," and strikes off along the footpath.
Not a moment delays the waterman; but, shoving off, and setting head down stream, pulls with all his strength, stimulated by the fear of finding the shop shut.
He is in good time, however, and reaches Rugg's to see a light in the shop window, with its door standing open.
Going in, he gets the groceries, and is on return to the landing-place, where he has left his skiff, when he meets with a man who has come to the ferry on an errand somewhat similar to his own. It is Joseph Preece, "Old Joe," erst boatman of Llangorren Court; but now, as all his former fellow-servants, at large.
Though the acquaintance between him and Wingate is comparatively of recent date, a strong friendship has sprung up between them – stronger as the days passed, and each saw more of the other. For of late, in the exercise of their respective metiers, professionally alike, they have had many opportunities of being together, and more than one lengthened "confab" in the Gwendoline's dock.
It is days since they have met, and there is much to talk about, Joe being chief spokesman. And now that he has done his shopping, Jack can spare the time to listen. It will throw him a little later in reaching home; but his mother won't mind that. She saw him go up, and knows he will remember his errand.
So the two stand conversing till the gossipy Joseph has discharged himself of a budget of intelligence, taking nigh half an hour in delivery.
Then they part, the ex-Charon going about his own business, the waterman returning to his skiff.
Stepping into it, and seating himself, he pulls out and down.
A few strokes bring him opposite the chapel burying-ground; when all at once, as if stricken by a palsy, his arms cease moving, and the oar-blades drag deep in the water. There is not much current, and the skiff floats slowly.
He in it sits with eyes turned towards the graveyard. Not that he can see anything there, for the moon has gone down, and all is darkness. But he is not gazing – only thinking.
A thought, followed by an impulse leading to instantaneous action. A back stroke or two of the starboard oar, then a strong tug, and the boat's bow is against the bank.
He steps ashore, ties the painter to a withy, and, climbing over the wall, proceeds to the spot so sacred to him.
Dark as is now the night, he has no difficulty in finding it. He has gone over that ground before, and remembers every inch of it. There are not many gravestones to guide him, for the little cemetery is of late consecration, and its humble monuments are few and far between. But he needs not their guidance. As a faithful dog by instinct finds the grave of his master, so he, with memories quickened by affection makes his way to the place where repose the remains of Mary Morgan.
Standing over her grave, he first gives himself up to an outpouring of grief, heartfelt as wild. Then, becoming calmer, he kneels down beside it, and says a prayer. It is the Lord's – he knows no other. Enough that it gives him relief; which it does, lightening his over-charged heart.
Feeling better, he is about to depart, and has again risen erect, when a thought stays him – a remembrance – "The flower of Love-lies-bleeding."
Is it growing? Not the flower, but the plant. He knows the former is faded, and must wait for the return of spring. But the latter – is it still alive and flourishing? In the darkness he cannot see, but will be able to tell by the touch.
Once more dropping upon his knees, and extending his hands over the grave, he gropes for it. He finds the spot, but not the plant. It is gone! Nothing left of it – not a remnant! A sacrilegious hand has been there, plucked it up, torn it out root and stalk, as the disturbed turf tells him!
In strange contrast with the prayerful words late upon his lips, are the angry exclamations to which he now gives utterance; some of them so profane as only under the circumstances to be excusable.
"It's that d – d rascal, Dick Dempsey, as ha' done it. Can't ha' been anybody else. An' if I can but get proof o't, I'll make him repent o' the despicable trick. I will, by the livin' G – !"
Thus angrily soliloquizing, he strides back to his skiff, and, getting in, rows off. But more than once, on the way homeward, he might be heard muttering words in the same wild strain – threats against Coracle Dick.
CHAPTER LIV
A LATE TEA
Mrs. Wingate is again growing impatient at her son's continued absence, now prolonged beyond all reasonable time. The Dutch dial on the kitchen wall shows it to be after ten; therefore two hours since the skiff passed upwards. Jack has often made the return trip to Rugg's in less than one, while the shopping should not occupy him more than ten minutes, or, making every allowance, not twenty. How is the odd time being spent by him?
Her impatience becomes uneasiness as she looks out of doors, and observes the hue of the sky. For the moon having gone down, it is now very dark, which always means danger on the river. The Wye is not a smooth swan-pond, and, flooded or not, annually claims its victims – strong men as women. And her son is upon it!
"Where?" she asks herself, becoming more and more anxious. He may have taken his fare on up to the town, in which case it will be still later before he can get back.
While thus conjecturing, a tinge of sadness steals over the widow's thoughts, with something of that weird feeling she experienced when once before waiting for him in the same way – on the occasion of his pretended errand after whipcord and pitch.
"Poor lad!" she says, recalling the little bit of deception she pardoned, and which now more than ever seems pardonable; "he hain't no need now deceivin' his old mother that way. I only wish he had."
"How black that sky do look!" she adds, rising from her seat, and going to the door; "an' threatenin' storm, if I bean't mistook. Lucky Jack ha' intimate acquaintance wi' the river 'tween here and Rugg's – if he hain't goed farther. What a blessin' the boy don't gi'e way to drink, an's otherways careful! Well, I s'pose there an't need for me feelin' uneasy. For all, I don't like his bein' so late. Mercy me! nigh on the stroke o' eleven? Ha! What's that? Him, I hope."
She steps hastily out, and behind the house, which, fronting the road, has its back towards the river. On turning the corner, she hears a dull thump, as of a boat brought up against the bank; then a sharper concussion of timber striking timber – the sound of oars being unshipped. It comes from the Mary, at her mooring-place; as, in a few seconds after, Mrs. Wingate is made aware, by seeing her son approach with his arms full – in one of them a large brown paper parcel, while under the other are his oars. She knows it is his custom to bring the latter up to the shed – a necessary precaution due to the road running so near, and the danger of larking fellows taking a fancy to carry off his skiff.
Met by his mother outside, he delivers the grocery goods, and together they go in, when he is questioned as to the cause of delay.
"Whatever ha' kep' ye, Jack? Ye've been a wonderful long time goin' up to the ferry an' back!"
"The ferry! I went far beyond, up to the footpath over Squire Powell's meadow. There I set Captain out."
"Oh! that be it."
His answer being satisfactory, he is not further interrogated, for she has become busied with an earthen-ware teapot, into which have been dropped three spoonfuls of "Horniman's" just brought home – one for her son, another for herself, and the odd one for the pot – the orthodox quantity. It is a late hour for tea; but their regular evening meal was postponed by the coming of the Captain, and Mrs. Wingate would not consider supper, as it should be, wanting the beverage which cheers without intoxicating.
The pot set upon the hearthstone over some red-hot cinders, its contents are soon "mashed"; and, as nearly everything else had been got ready against Jack's arrival, it but needs for him to take seat by the table, on which one of the new composite candles, just lighted, stands in its stick.
Occupied with pouring out the tea, and creaming it, the good dame does not notice anything odd in the expression of her son's countenance; for she has not yet looked at it, in a good light, nor till she is handing the cup across to him. Then, the fresh-lit candle gleaming full in his face, she sees what gives her a start. Not the sad, melancholy cast to which she has of late been accustomed. That has seemingly gone off, replaced by sullen anger, as though he were brooding over some wrong done, or insult recently received!
"Whatever be the matter wi' ye, Jack?" she asks, the teacup still held in trembling hand. "There ha' something happened?"
"Oh! nothin' much, mother."
"Nothin' much! Then why be ye looking so black?"
"What makes you think I'm lookin' that way?"
"How can I help thinkin' it? Why, lad, your brow be clouded, same's the sky outside. Come now, tell the truth! Bean't there somethin' amiss?"
"Well, mother, since you axe me that way, I will tell the truth. Somethin' be amiss; or I ought better say, missin'."
"Missin'! Be't anybody ha' stoled the things out o' the boat? The balin' pan, or that bit o' cushion in the stern?"
"No, it ain't; no trifle o' that kind, nor anythin' stealed eyther. 'Stead, a thing as ha' been destroyed."
"What thing?"
"The flower – the plant."
"Flower! plant!"
"Yes; the Love-lies-bleedin' I set on Mary's grave the night after she wor laid in it. Ye remember my tellin' you, mother?"
"Yes – yes; I do."
"Well, it ain't there now."
"Ye ha' been into the chapel buryin' groun', then?"
"I have."
"But what made ye go there, Jack?"
"Well, mother, passin' the place, I took a notion to go in – a sort o' sudden inclinashun I couldn't resist. I thought that kneelin' beside her grave, an' sayin' a prayer, might do somethin' to left the weight off o' my heart. It would ha' done that, no doubt, but for findin' the flower wan't there. Fact, it had a good deal relieved me, till I discovered it wor gone."
"But how gone? Ha' the thing been cut off, or pulled up?"
"Clear plucked out by the roots. Not a vestige o' it left!"
"Maybe 'twer the sheep or goats. They often get into a graveyard; and if I bean't mistook, I've seen some in that o' the ferry chapel. They may have ate it up!"
The idea is new to him, and being plausible, he reflects on it, for a time misled. Not long, however, only till remembering what tells him it is fallacious; this, his having set the plant so firmly that no animal could have uprooted it. A sheep or goat might have eaten off the top, but nothing more.
"No, mother!" he at length rejoins; "it han't been done by eyther; but by a human hand – I ought better to say the claw o' a human tiger. No, not tiger; more o' a stinkin' cat!"
"Ye suspect somebody, then?"
"Suspect! I'm sure, as one can be without seein', that bit o' desecrashun ha' been the work o' Dick Dempsey. But I mean plantin' another in its place, an' watchin' it too. If he pluck it up, an' I know it, they'll need dig another grave in the Rogue's Ferry buryin' groun' – that for receivin' as big a rogue as ever wor buried there, or anywhere else, the d – d scoundrel!"
"Dear Jack! don't let your passion get the better o' ye, to speak so sinfully. Richard Dempsey be a bad man, no doubt; but the Lord will deal wi' him in His own way, an' sure punish him. So leave him to the Lord. After all, what do it matter – only a bit o' weed?"
"Weed! Mother, you mistake. That weed, as ye call it, wor like a silken string, bindin' my heart to Mary's. Settin' it in the sod o' her grave gied me a comfort I can't describe to ye. An' now to find it tore up brings the bitter all back again. In the spring I hoped to see it in bloom, to remind me o' her love as ha' been blighted, an', like it, lies bleedin'. But – well, it seems as I can't do nothin' for her now she's dead, as I warn't able while she wor livin'."
He covers his face with his hands to hide the tears now coursing down his cheeks.
"Oh, my son! don't take on so. Think that she be happy now – in heaven. Sure she is, from all I ha' heerd o' her."
"Yes, mother," he earnestly affirms, "she is. If ever woman went to the good place, she ha' goed there."
"Well, that ought to comfort ye."
"It do some. But to think of havin' lost her for good – never again to look at her sweet face. Oh! that be dreadful!"
"Sure it be. But think also that ye an't the only one as ha' to suffer. Nobody escape affliction o' that sort, some time or the other. It's the lot o' all – rich folks as well as we poor ones. Look at the Captain there! He be sufferin' like yourself. Poor man! I pity him, too."
"So do I, mother. An' I ought, so well understandin' how he feel, though he be too proud to let people see it. I seed it the day – several times noticed tears in his eyes when we wor talkin' about things that reminded him o' Miss Wynn. When a soldier – a grand fightin' soldier as he ha' been – gies way to weepin', the sorrow must be strong an' deep. No doubt he be 'most heart-broke, same's myself."
"But that an't right, Jack. It isn't intended we should always gie way to grief, no matter how dear they may a' been as are lost to us. Besides, it be sinful."
"Well, mother, I'll try to think more cheerful, submittin' to the will o' Heaven."
"Ah! There's a good lad! That's the way; an' be assured Heaven won't forsake, but comfort ye yet. Now, let's not say any more about it. You an't eating your supper!"
"I han't no great appetite after all."
"Never mind; ye must eat, and the tea 'll cheer ye. Hand me your cup, an' let me fill it again."
He passes the empty cup across the table, mechanically.
"It be very good tea," she says, telling a little untruth for the sake of abstracting his thoughts. "But I've something else for you that's better, before you go to bed."
"Ye take too much care o' me, mother."
"Nonsense, Jack. Ye've had a hard day's work o't. But ye hain't told me what the Captain tooked ye out for, nor where he went down the river. How far?"
"Only as far as Llangorren Court."
"But there be new people there now, ye sayed?"
"Yes; the Murdocks. Bad lot, both man an' wife, though he wor the cousin o' the good young lady as be gone."
"Sure, then, the Captain han't been to visit them?"
"No, not likely. He an't the kind to consort wi' such as they, for all o' their bein' big folks now."
"But there were other ladies livin' at Llangorren. What ha' become o' they?"
"They ha' gone to another house somewhere down the river – a smaller one, it's sayed. The old lady as wor Miss Wynn's aunt ha' money o' her own, and the other be livin' 'long wi' her. For the rest there's been a clean out – all the sarvints sent about their business; the only one kep' bein' a French girl who wor lady's-maid to the old mistress – that's the aunt. She's now the same to the new one, who be French, like herself."
"Where ha' ye heerd all this, Jack?"
"From Joseph Preece. I met him up at the Ferry, as I wor comin' away from the shop."
"He's out too, then?" asks Mrs. Wingate, who has of late come to know him.
"Yes; same's the others."
"Where be the poor man abidin' now?"
"Well, that's odd too. Where do you suppose, mother?"
"How should I know, my son? Where?"
"In the old house where Coracle Dick used to live!"
"What be there so odd in that?"
"Why, because Dick's now in his house; ha' got his place at the Court, an's goin' to be somethin' far grander than ever he wor – head keeper."
"Ah! poacher turned gamekeeper! That be settin' thief to catch thief!"
"Somethin' besides thief, he! A deal worse than that!"
"But," pursues Mrs. Wingate, without reference to the reflection on Coracle's character, "ye han't yet tolt me what the Captain took down the river."
"I an't at liberty to tell any one. Ye understand me, mother?"
"Yes, yes; I do."
"The Captain ha' made me promise to say nothin' o' his doin's; an', to tell truth, I don't know much about them myself. But what I do know, I'm honour bound to keep dark consarnin' it – even wi' you, mother."
She appreciates his nice sense of honour; and, with her own of delicacy, does not urge him to any further explanation.
"In time," he adds, "I'm like enough to know all o' what he's after. Maybe, the morrow."
"Ye're to see him the morrow, then?"
"Yes; he wants the boat."
"What hour?"
"He didn't say when, only that he might be needin' me all the day. So I may look out for him early – first thing in the mornin'."
"That case ye must get to your bed at oncst, an' ha' a good sleep, so's to start out fresh. First take this. It be the somethin' I promised ye – better than tea."
The something is a mug of mulled elderberry wine, which, whether or not better than tea, is certainly superior to port prepared in the same way.
Quaffing it down, and betaking himself to bed, under its somniferous influence, the Wye waterman is soon in the land of dreams. Not happy ones, alas! but visions of a river flood-swollen, with a boat upon its seething, frothy surface, borne rapidly on towards a dangerous eddy – then into it – at length capsized to a sad symphony – the shrieks of a drowning woman!
