"A Romance of the Wye" (continued 7)

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 meadows. 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 earthenware 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 lift the weight off o’ my heart. It would a done that, no doubt, but for findin’ the flower warn’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 beant 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, an’ 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 ye 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, an’ 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 certainty 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!

Volume Three—Chapter Eight.

The New Mistress of the Mansion.

At Llangorren Court all is changed, from owner down to the humblest domestic. Lewin Murdock has become its master, as the priest told him he some day might.

There was none to say nay. By the failure of Ambrose Wynn’s heirs—in the line through his son and bearing his name—the estate of which he was the original testator reverts to the children of his daughter, of whom Lewin Murdock, an only son, is the sole survivor. He of Glyngog is therefore indisputable heritor of Llangorren; and no one disputing it, he is now in possession, having entered upon it soon as the legal formularies could be gone through with. This they have been with a haste which causes invidious remark, if not actual scandal.

Lewin Murdock is not the man to care; and, in truth, he is now scarce ever sober enough to feel sensitive, could he have felt so at any time. But in his new and luxurious home, waited on by a staff of servants, with wine at will, so unlike the days of misery spent in the dilapidated manor house, he gives loose rein to his passion for drink; leaving the management of affairs to his dexterous better half.

She has not needed to take much trouble in the matter of furnishing. Her husband, as nearest of kin to the deceased, has also come in for the personal effects, furniture included; all but some belongings of Miss Linton, which had been speedily removed by her—transferred to a little house of her own, not far off. Fortunately, the old lady is not left impecunious; but has enough to keep her in comfort, with an economy, however, that precludes all idea of longer indulging in a lady’s-maid, more especially one so expensive as Clarisse; who, as Jack Wingate said, has been dismissed from Miss Linton’s establishment—at the same time discharging herself by notice formally given. That clever demoiselle was not meant for service in a ten-roomed cottage, even though a detached one; and through the intervention of her patron, the priest, she still remains at the Court, to dance attendance on the ancien belle of Mabille, as she did on the ancient toast of Cheltenham.

Pleasantly so far; her new mistress being in fine spirits, and herself delighted with everything. The French adventuress has attained the goal of an ambition long cherished, though not so patiently awaited. Oft gazed she across the Wye at those smiling grounds of Llangorren, as the Fallen Angel back over its walls into the Garden of Eden; oft saw she there assemblages of people to her seeming as angels, not fallen, but in highest favour—ah! in her estimation, more than angels—women of rank and wealth, who could command what she coveted beyond any far-off joys celestial—the nearer pleasures of earth and sense.

Those favoured fair ones are not there now, but she herself is; owner of the very Paradise in which they disported themselves! Nor does she despair of seeing them at Llangorren again, and having them around her in friendly intercourse, as had Gwendoline Wynn. Brought up under the régime of Louis and trained in the school of Eugenie, why need she fear either social slight or exclusion? True, she is in England, not France; but she thinks it is all the same. And not without some reason for so thinking. The ethics of the two countries, so different in days past, have of late become alarmingly assimilated—ever since that hand, red with blood spilled upon the boulevards of Paris, was affectionately elapsed by a Queen on the dock head of Cherbourg. The taint of that touch felt throughout all England, has spread over it like a plague; no local or temporary epidemic, but one which still abides, still emitting its noisome effluvia in a flood of prurient literature—novel writers who know neither decency nor shame—newspaper scribblers devoid of either truth or sincerity—theatres little better than licensed bagnios, and Stock Exchange scandals smouching names once honoured in English history, with other scandals of yet more lamentable kind—all the old landmarks of England’s morality being rapidly obliterated.

And all the better for Olympe, née Renault. Like her sort living by corruption, she instinctively rejoices at it, glories in the monde immonde of the Second Empire, and admires the abnormal monster who has done so much in sowing and cultivating the noxious crop. Seeing it flourish around her, and knowing it on the increase, the new mistress of Llangorren expects to profit by it. Nor has she the slightest fear of failure in any attempt she may make to enter Society. It will not much longer taboo her. She knows that, with very little adroitness, 10,000 pounds a-year will introduce her into a Royal drawing-room—aye, take her to the steps of a throne; and none is needed to pass through the gates of Hurlingham nor those of Chiswick’s Garden. In this last she would not be the only flower of poisonous properties and tainted perfume; instead, would brush skirts with scores of dames wonderfully like those of the Restoration and Regency, recalling the painted dolls of the Second Charles, and the Delilahs of the Fourth George; in bold effrontery and cosmetic brilliance equalling either.

The wife of Lewin Murdock hopes ere long to be among them—once more a célébrité, as she was in the Bois de Boulogne, and the bals of the demi-monde.

True, the county aristocracy have not yet called upon her. For by a singular perverseness—unlike Nature’s laws in the animal and vegetable world—the outer tentacles of this called “Society” are the last to take hold. But they will yet. Money is all powerful in this free and easy age. Having that in sufficiency, it makes little difference whether she once sat by a sewing machine, or turned a mangle, as she once has done in the Faubourg Montmartre for her mother, la blanchisseuse. She is confident the gentry of the shire will in due time surrender, send in their cards and come of themselves; as they surely will, soon as they see her name in the Court Journal or Morning Post in the list of Royal receptions:—“Mrs Lewin Murdock, presented by the Countess of Devilacare.”

And to a certainty they shall so read it, with much about her besides, if Jenkins be true to his instincts. She need not fear him—he will. She can trust his fidelity to the star scintillating in a field of plush, as to the Polar that of magnetic needle.

Her husband bears his new fortunes in a manner somewhat different; in one sense more soberly, as in another the reverse. If, during his adversity he indulged in drink, in prosperity he does not spare it. But there is another passion to which he now gives loose—his old, unconquerable vice—gaming. Little cares he for the cards of visitors, while those of the gambler delight him; and though his wife has yet received none of the former, he has his callers to take a hand with him at the latter—more than enough to make up a rubber of whist. Besides, some of his old cronies of the “Welsh Harp,” who have now entrée at Llangorren, several young swells of the neighbourhood—the black sheep of their respective flocks—are not above being of his company. Where the carrion is the eagles congregate, as the vultures; and already two or three of the “leg” fraternity—in farther flight from London—have found their way into Herefordshire, and hover around the precincts of the Court.

Night after night, tables are there set out for loo, écarté, rouge et noir, or whatever may be called for—in a small way resembling the hells of Homburg, Baden, and Monaco—wanting only the women.

Volume Three—Chapter Nine.

The Gamblers at Llangorren.

Among the faces now seen at Llangorren—most of them new to the place, and not a few of forbidding aspect—there is one familiar to us. Sinister as any; since it is that of Father Rogier. At no rare intervals may it be there observed; but almost continuously. Frequent as were his visits to Glyngog, they are still more so to Llangorren, where he now spends the greater part of his time; his own solitary, and somewhat humble, dwelling at Rugg’s Ferry seeing nothing of him for days together, while for nights its celibate bed is unslept in: the luxurious couch spread for him at the Court having greater attractions.

Whether made welcome to this unlimited hospitality, or not, he comports himself as though he were; seeming noways backward in the reception of it; instead as if demanding it. One ignorant of his relations with the master of the establishment might imagine him its master. Nor would the supposition be so far astray. As the King-mater controls the King, so can Gregoire Rogier the new Lord of Llangorren—influence him at his will.

And this does he; though not openly, or ostensibly. That would be contrary to the tactics taught him, and the practice to which he is accustomed. The sword of Loyola in the hands of his modern apostles has become a dagger—a weapon more suitable to Ultramontanism. Only in Protestant countries to be wielded with secrecy, though elsewhere little concealed.

But the priest of Rugg’s Ferry is not in France; and, under the roof of an English gentleman, though a Roman Catholic, bears himself with becoming modesty—before strangers and the eyes of the outside world. Even the domestics of the house see nothing amiss. They are new to their places, and as yet unacquainted with the relationships around them. Nor would they think it strange in a priest having control there or anywhere. They are all of his persuasion, else they would not be in service at Llangorren Court.

So proceed matters under its new administration.

On the same evening that Captain Ryecroft makes his quiet excursion down the river to inspect the traces on the cliff, there is a little dinner party at the Court; the diners taking seat by the table just about the time he was stepping into Wingate’s skiff.

The hour is early; but it is altogether a bachelor affair, and Lewin Murdock’s guests are men not much given to follow fashions. Besides, there is another reason; something to succeed the dinner, on which their thoughts are more bent than upon either eating or drinking. No spread of fruit, nor dessert of any kind, but a bout at card-playing, or dice for those who prefer it. On their way to the dining-room they have caught glimpse of another apartment where whist and loo tables are seen, with all the gambling paraphernalia upon them—packs of new cards still in their wrappers, ivory counters, dice boxes with their spotted cubes lying alongside.

Pretty sight to Mr Murdock’s lately picked up acquaintances; a heterogeneous circle, but all alike in one respect—each indulging in the pleasant anticipation that he will that night leave his host’s house with more or less of that host’s money in his pocket. Murdock has himself come easily by it, and why should he not be made as easily to part with it? If he has a plethora of cash, they have a determination to relieve him of at least a portion of it.

Hence dinner is eaten in haste, and with little appreciation of the dishes, however dainty; all so longing to be around those tables in another room, and get their fingers on the toys there displayed.

Their host, aware of the universal desire, does nought to frustrate it. Instead, he is as eager as any for the fray. As said, gambling is his passion—has been for most part of his life—and he could now no more live without it than go wanting drink. A hopeless victim to the last, he is equally a slave to the first. Soon, therefore, as dessert is brought in, and a glass of the heavier wines gone round, he looks significantly at his wife—the only lady at the table—who, taking the hint, retires.

The gentlemen, on their feet at her withdrawal, do not sit down again, but drink standing—only a petit verre of cognac by way of “corrector.” Then they hurry off in an unseemly ruck towards the room containing metal more attractive; from which soon after proceed the clinking of coin and the rattle of ebony counters; with words now and then spoken not over nice, but rough, even profane, as though the speakers were playing skittles in the backyard of a London beerhouse, instead of cards under the roof of a country gentleman’s mansion!

While the new master of Llangorren is thus entertaining his amiable company—as much as any of them engrossed in the game—its new mistress is also playing a part, which may be more reputable, but certainly is more mysterious. She is in the drawing-room, though not alone—Father Rogier alone with her. He, of course, has been one of the dining guests, and said an unctuous grace over the table. In his sacred sacerdotal character it could hardly be expected of him to keep along with the company; though he could take a hand at cards, and play them with as much skill as any gamester of that gathering. But just now he has other fish to fry, and wishes a word in private with the mistress of Llangorren, about the way things are going on. However much he may himself like a little game with its master, and win money from him, he does not relish seeing all the world do the same; no more she. Something must be done to put a stop to it; and it is to talk over this something the two have planned their present interview—some words about it having previously passed between them.

Seated side by side on a lounge, they enter upon the subject. But before a dozen words have been exchanged they are compelled to discontinue, and for the time forego it.

The interruption is caused by a third individual, who has taken a fancy to follow Mrs Murdock into the drawing-room; a young fellow of the squire class, but—as her husband late was—of somewhat damaged reputation and broken fortunes. For all having a whole eye to female beauty; which appears to him in great perfection in the face of the Frenchwoman—the rouge upon her cheeks looking the real rose-colour of that proverbial milk-maid nine times dipped in dew.

The wine he has been quaffing gives it this hue; for he enters half intoxicated, and with a slight stagger in his gait; to the great annoyance of the lady, and the positive chagrin of the priest, who regards him with scowling glances. But the intruder is too tipsy to notice them; and advancing invites himself to a seat in front of Mrs Murdock, at the same time commencing a conversation with her.

Rogier, rising, gives a significant side look, with a slight nod towards the window; then muttering a word of excuse saunters off out of the room.

She knows what it means, as where to follow and find him. Knows also how to disembarrass herself of such as he who remained behind. Were it upon a bench of the Bois, or an arbour in the Jardin, she would make short work of it. But the ex-cocotte is now at the head of an aristocratic establishment, and must act in accordance. Therefore she allows some time to elapse, listening to the speech of her latest admirer; some of it in compliments coarse enough to give offence to ears more sensitive than hers.

She at length gets rid of him, on the plea of having a headache, and going upstairs to get something for it. She will be down again by and by; and so bows herself out of the gentleman’s presence, leaving him in a state of fretful disappointment.

Once outside the room, instead of turning up the stair-way, she glides along the corridor; then on through the entrance-hall, and then out by the front door. Nor stays she an instant on the steps, or carriage sweep; but proceeds direct to the summer-house, where she expects to find the priest. For there have they more than once been together, conversing on matters of private and particular nature.

On reaching the place she is disappointed—some little surprised. Rogier is not there; nor can she see him anywhere around!

For all that, the gentleman is very near, without her knowing it—only a few paces off, lying flat upon his face among ferns, but so engrossed with thoughts, just then of an exciting nature, he neither hears her light footsteps, nor his own name pronounced. Not loudly though; since, while pronouncing it, she feared being heard by some other. Besides, she does not think it necessary; he will come yet, without calling.

She steps inside the pavilion, and there stands waiting. Still he does not come, nor sees she anything of him; only a boat on the river above, being rowed upwards. But without thought of its having anything to do with her or her affairs.

By this there is another boat in motion; for the priest has meanwhile forsaken his spying place upon the cliff, and proceeded down to the dock.

“Where can Gregoire have gone?” she asks herself, becoming more and more impatient.

Several times she puts the question without receiving answer; and is about starting on return to the house, when longer stayed by a rumbling noise which reaches her ears, coming up from the direction of the dock.

“Can it be he?”

Continuing to listen she hears the stroke of oars. It cannot be the boat she has seen rowing off above? That must now be far away, while this is near—in the bye-water just below her. But can it be the priest who is in it?

Yes, it is he; as she discovers, after stepping outside, to the place he so late occupied, and looking over the cliff’s edge. For then she had a view of his face, lit up by a lucifer match—itself looking like that of Lucifer!

What can he be doing down there? Why examining those things, he already knows all about, as she herself?

She would call down to him, and inquire. But possibly better not? He may be engaged upon some matter calling for secrecy, as he often is. Other eyes besides hers may be near, and her voice might draw them on him. She will wait for his coming up.

And wait she does, at the boat’s dock, on the top step of the stair; there receiving him as he returns from his short, but still unexplained, excursion.

“What is it?” she asks, soon as he has mounted up to her, “Quelque chose à tort?”

“More than that. A veritable danger!”

“Comment? Explain!”

“There’s a hound upon our track! One of sharpest scent.”

“Who?”

“Le Capitaine de hussards!”

The dialogue that succeeds, between Olympe Renault and Gregoire Rogier, has no reference to Lewin Murdock gambling away his money, but the fear of his losing it in quite another way. Which, for the rest of that night, gives them something else to think of, as also something to do.

Volume Three—Chapter Ten.

An Unwilling Novice.

“Am I myself? Dreaming? Or, is it insanity?”

It is a young girl who thus strangely interrogates. A beautiful girl, woman grown, of tall stature, with bright face and a wealth of hair, golden hued.

But what is beauty to her with all these adjuncts? As the flower born to blush unseen, eye of man may not look upon hers; though it is not wasting its sweetness on the desert air; but within the walls of a convent.

An English girl, though the convent is in France—in the city of Boulogne-sur-mer; the same in whose attached pensionnat the sister of Major Mahon is receiving education. She is not the girl, for Kate Mahon, though herself beautiful, is no blonde; instead, the very opposite. Besides, this creature of radiant complexion is not attending school—she is beyond the years for that. Neither is she allowed the freedom of the streets, but kept shut up within a cell in the innermost recesses of the establishment, where the pensionnaires are not permitted, save one or two who are favourites with the Lady Superior.

A small apartment the young girl occupies—bedchamber and sitting-room in one—in short, a nun’s cloister. Furnished, as such, are, in a style of austere simplicity; pallet bed along the one side, the other taken up by a plain deal dressing table, a washstand with jug and basin—these little bigger than tea-bowl and ewer—and a couple of common rush-bottom chairs—that is all.

The walls are lime-washed, but most of their surface is concealed by pictures of saints male and female; while the mother of all is honoured by an image, having a niche to itself, in a corner.

On the table are some four or five books, including a Testament and Missal; their bindings, with the orthodox cross stamped upon them, proclaiming the nature of the contents.

A literature that cannot be to the liking of the present occupant of the cloister; since she has been there several days without turning over a single leaf, or even taking up one of the volumes to look at it.

That she is not there with her own will but against it, can be told by her words, and as their tone, her manner while giving utterance to them. Seated upon the side of the bed, she has sprung to her feet, and with arms raised aloft and tossed about, strides distractedly over the floor. One seeing her thus might well imagine her to be, what she half fancies herself—insane! A supposition strengthened by an unnatural lustre in her eyes, and a hectic flush on her cheeks unlike the hue of health. Still, not as with one suffering bodily sickness, or any physical ailment, but more as from a mind diseased. Seen for only a moment—that particular moment—such would be the conclusion regarding her. But her speech coming after tells she is in full possession of her senses—only under terrible agitation—distraught with some great trouble.

“It must be a convent! But how have I come into it? Into France, too; for surely am I there? The woman who brings my meals is French. So the other—Sister of Mercy, as she calls herself, though she speaks my own tongue. The furniture—bed, table, chairs, washstand—everything of French manufacture. And in all England there is not such a jug and basin as those!”

Regarding the lavatory utensils—so diminutive as to recall “Gulliver’s Travels in Lilliput,” if ever read by her—she for a moment seems to forget her misery, as will in its very midst, and keenest, at sight of the ludicrous and grotesque.

It is quickly recalled, as her glance, wandering around the room, again rests on the little statue—not of marble, but a cheap plaster of Paris cast—and she reads the inscription underneath, “La Mère de Dieu.” The symbols tell her she is inside a nunnery, and upon the soil of France!

“Oh, yes!” she exclaims, “’tis certainly so! I am no more in my native land, but have been carried across the sea!”

The knowledge, or belief, does nought to tranquillise her feelings or explain the situation, to her all mysterious. Instead, it but adds to her bewilderment, and she once more exclaims, almost repeating herself:

“Am I myself? Is it a dream? Or have my senses indeed forsaken me?”

She clasps her hands across her forehead, the white fingers threading the thick folds of her hair which hangs dishevelled. She presses them against her temples, as if to make sure her brain is still untouched!

It is so, or she would not reason as she does.

“Everything around shows I am in France. But how came I to it? Who has brought me? What offence have I given God or man, to be dragged from home, from country—and confined—imprisoned! Convent, or whatever it be, imprisoned I am! The door constantly kept locked! That window, so high, I cannot see over its sill! The dim light it lets in telling it was not meant for enjoyment. Oh! Instead of cheering it tantalises—tortures me!”

Despairingly she reseats herself upon the side of the bed, and with head still buried in her hands, continues her soliloquy; no longer of things present, but reverting to the past.

“Let me think again! What can I remember? That night, so happy in its beginning, to end as it did! The end of my life, as I thought, if I had a thought at that time. It was not, though, or I shouldn’t be here, but in heaven I hope. Would I were in heaven now! When I recall his words—those last words and think—”

“Your thoughts are sinful, child!”

The remark, thus interrupting, is made by a woman, who appears on the threshold of the door, which she had just pushed open. A woman of mature age, dressed in a floating drapery of deep black—the orthodox garb of the Holy Sisterhood, with all its insignia, of girdle, bead-roll, and pendant crucifix. A tall thin personage, with skin like shrivelled parchment, and a countenance that would be repulsive but for the nun’s coif, which partly concealing, tones down its sinister expression. Withal, a face disagreeable to gaze upon; not the less so from its air of sanctity, evidently affected. The intruder is “Sister Ursule.”

She has opened the door noiselessly—as cloister doors are made to open—and stands between its jambs, like a shadowy silhouette in its frame, one hand still holding the knob, while in the other is a small volume, apparently well-thumbed. That she has had her ear to the keyhole before presenting herself is told by the rebuke having reference to the last words of the girl’s soliloquy, in her excitement uttered aloud.

“Yes?” she continues, “sinful—very sinful! You should be thinking of something else than the world and its wickedness. And of anything before that you have been thinking of—the wickedness of all.”

She thus spoken to had neither started at the intrusion, nor does she show surprise at what is said. It is not the first visit of Sister Ursule to her cell, made in like stealthy manner; nor the first austere speech she has heard from the same skinny lips. At the beginning she did not listen to it patiently; instead, with indignation; defiantly, almost fiercely, rejoining. But the proudest spirit can be humbled. Even the eagle, when its wings are beaten to exhaustion against the bars of its cage, will became subdued, if not tamed. Therefore the imprisoned English girl makes reply, meekly and appealingly—

“Sister of Mercy, as you are called; have mercy upon me! Tell me why I am here?”

“For the good of your soul and its salvation.”

“But how can that concern any one save myself?”

“Ah! there you mistake, child; which shows the sort of life you’ve been hitherto leading; and the sort of people surrounding you; who, in their sinfulness, imagine all as themselves. They cannot conceive that there are those who deem it a duty—nay, a direct command from God—to do all in their power for the redemption of lost sinners, and restoring them to his divine favour. He is all-merciful.”

“True: He is. I do not need to be told it. Only, who these redemptionists are that take such interest in my spiritual welfare, and how I have come to be here, surely I may know?”

“You shall in time, ma fille. Now you cannot—must not—for many reasons.”

“What reasons?”

“Well; for one, you have been very ill—nigh unto death, indeed.”

“I know that, without knowing how.”

“Of course. The accident which came so near depriving you of life was of that sudden nature; and your senses—but I mustn’t speak further about it. The doctor has given strict directions that you’re to be kept quiet, and it might excite you. Be satisfied with knowing, that they who have placed you here are the same who saved your life, and would now rescue your soul from perdition. I’ve brought you this little volume for perusal. It will help to enlighten you.”

She stretches out her long bony fingers, handing the book—one of those “Aids to Faith” relied upon by the apostles of the Propaganda.

The girl mechanically takes it, without looking at, or thinking of it; still pondering upon the unknown and mysterious benefactors, who, as she is told, have done so much for her.

“How good of them!” she rejoins, with an air of incredulity, and in tones that might be taken as derisive.

“How wicked of you!” retorts the other, taking it in this sense. “Positively ungrateful!” she adds, with the acerbity of a baffled proselytiser. “I am sorry, child, you still cling to your sinful thoughts, and keep up a rebellious spirit in face of all that is being done for your good. But I shall leave you now, and go and pray for you; hoping, on my next visit, to find you in a more proper frame of mind.”

So saying, Sister Ursule glides out of the cloister, drawing to the door, and silently turning the key in its lock.

“O God!” groans the young girl in despair, flinging herself along the pallet, and for the third time interrogating, “am I myself, and dreaming? Or am I mad? In mercy, Heaven, tell me what it means!”

Volume Three—Chapter Eleven.

A Cheerful Kitchen.

Of all the domestics turned adrift from Llangorren one alone interests us—Joseph Preece—“Old Joe,” as his young mistress used familiarly to call him.

As Jack Wingate has made his mother aware, Joe has moved into the house formerly inhabited by Coracle Dick; so far changing places with the poacher, who now occupies the lodge in which the old man ere while lived as one of the retainers of the Wynn family.

Beyond this the exchange has not extended. Richard Dempsey, under the new régime at Llangorren, has been promoted to higher office than was ever held by Joseph Preece; who, on the other hand, has neither turned poacher, nor intends doing so. Instead, the versatile Joseph, as if to keep up his character for versatility, has taken to a new calling altogether—that of basket-making, with the construction of bird-cages and other kinds of wicker-work. Rather is it the resumption of an old business to which he had been brought up, but abandoned long years agone on entering the service of Squire Wynn. Having considerable skill in this textile trade, he hopes in his old age to make it maintain him. Only in part; for, thanks to the generosity of his former master, and more still that of his late mistress, Joe has laid by a little pecunium, nearly enough for his needs; so that, in truth, he has taken to the wicker-working less from necessity than for the sake of having something to do. The old man of many métiers has never led an idle life, and dislikes leading it.

Is is not by any accident he has drifted into the domicile late in the occupation of Dick Dempsey, though Dick had nothing to do with it. The poacher himself was but a week-to-week tenant, and of course cleared out soon as obtaining his promotion. Then, the place being to let, at a low rent, the ex-Charon saw it would suit him; all the better because of a “withey bed” belonging to the same landlord, which was to let at the same time. This last being at the mouth of the dingle in which the solitary dwelling stands—and promising a convenient supply of the raw material for his projected manufacture—he has taken a lease of it along with the house.

Under his predecessor the premises having fallen into dilapidation—almost ruin—the old boatman had a bargain of them, on condition of his doing the repairs. He has done them; made the roof water-tight; given the walls a coat of plaster and whitewash; laid a new floor—in short, rendered the house habitable, and fairly comfortable.

Among other improvements he has partitioned off a second sleeping apartment, and not only plastered but papered it. More still, neatly and tastefully furnished it; the furniture consisting of an iron bedstead, painted emerald green, with brass knobs; a new washstand, and dressing table with mahogany framed glass on top, three cane chairs, a towel horse, and other etceteras.

For himself? No; he has a bedroom besides. And this, by the style of the plenishing, is evidently intended for one of the fair sex. Indeed, one has already taken possession of it, as evinced by some female apparel, suspended upon pegs against the wall; a pincushion, with a brooch in it, on the dressing table; bracelets and a necklace besides, with two or three scent bottles, and several other toilet trifles scattered about in front of the framed glass. They cannot be the belongings of “Old Joe’s” wife, nor yet his daughter; for among the many parts he has played in life, that of Benedict has not been. A bachelor he is, and a bachelor he intends staying to the end of the chapter.

Who, then, is the owner of the brooch, bracelets, and other bijouterie? In a word, his niece—a slip of a girl who was under-housemaid at Llangorren; like himself, set at large, and now transformed into a full-fledged housekeeper—his own. But before entering on parlour duties at the Court, she had seen service in the kitchen, under the cook; and some culinary skill, then and there acquired, now stands her old uncle in stead. By her deft manipulation, stewed rabbit becomes as jugged hare, so that it would be difficult to tell the difference; while she has at her fingers’ ends many other feats of the cuisine that give him gratification. The old servitor of Squire Wynn is in his way a gourmet, and has a tooth for toothsome things.

His accomplished niece, with somewhat of his own cleverness, bears the pretty name of Amy—Amy Preece, for she is his brother’s child. And she is pretty as her name, a bright blooming girl, rose-cheeked, with form well-rounded, and flesh firm as a Ribston pippin. Her cheerful countenance lights up the kitchen late shadowed by the presence and dark scowling features of Coracle Dick—brightens it even more than the brand-new tin-ware or the whitewash upon its walls.

Old Joe rejoices; and if he have a regret, it is that he had not long ago taken up housekeeping for himself. But this thought suggests another contradicting it. How could he while his young mistress lived? She so much beloved by him, whose many beneficences have made him, as he is, independent for the rest of his days, never more to be harassed by care or distressed by toil, one of her latest largesses, the very last, being to bestow upon him the pretty pleasure craft bearing her own name. This she had actually done on the morning of that day, the twenty-first anniversary of her birth, as it was the last of her life; thus by an act of grand generosity commemorating two events so strangely, terribly, in contrast! And as though some presentiment forewarned her of her own sad fate, so soon to follow, she had secured the gift by a scrap of writing; thus at the change in the Llangorren household enabling its old boatman to claim the boat, and obtain it too. It is now lying just below, at the brook’s mouth by the withey bed, where Joe has made a mooring-place for it. The handsome thing would fetch 50 pounds; and many a Wye waterman would give his year’s earnings to possess it. Indeed, more than one has been after it, using arguments to induce its owner to dispose of it—pointing out how idle of him to keep a craft so little suited to his present calling!

All in vain. Old Joe would sooner sell his last shirt, or the newly-bought furniture of his house—sooner go begging—than part with that boat. It oft bore him beside his late mistress, so much lamented; it will still bear him lamenting her—aye for the rest of his life. If he has lost the lady he will cling to the souvenir, which carries her honoured name!

But, however, faithful the old family retainer, and affectionate in his memories, he does not let their sadness overpower him, nor always give way to the same. Only at times when something turns up more vividly than usual recalling Gwendoline Wynn to remembrance. On other and ordinary occasions he is cheerful enough, this being his natural habit. And never more than on a certain night shortly after that of his chance encounter with Jack Wingate, when both were a shopping at Rugg’s Ferry. For there and then, in addition to the multifarious news imparted to the young waterman, he gave the latter an invitation to visit him in his new home; which was gladly and off-hand accepted.

“A bit o’ supper and a drop o’ somethin’ to send it down,” were the old boatman’s words specifying the entertainment.

The night has come round, and the “bit o’ supper” is being prepared by Amy, who is acting as though she was never more called upon to practise the culinary art; and, according to her own way of thinking, she never has been. For, to let out a little secret, the French lady’s-maid was not the only feminine at Llangorren Court who had cast admiring eyes on the handsome boatman who came there rowing Captain Ryecroft. Raising the curtain still higher, Amy Preece’s position is exposed; she, too, having been caught in that same net, spread for neither.

Not strange then, but altogether natural. She is now exerting herself to cook a supper that will give gratification to the expected guest. She would work her fingers off for Jack Wingate.

Possibly the uncle may have some suspicion of why she is moving about so alertly, and besides looking so pleased like. If not a suspicion, he has a wish and a hope. Nothing in life, now, would be so much to his mind as to see his niece married to the man he has invited to visit him. For never in all his life has old Joe met one he so greatly cottons to. His intercourse with the young waterman, though scarce six months old, seems as if it had been of twice as many years; so friendly and pleasant, he not only wants it continued, but wishes it to become nearer and dearer. If his niece be baiting a trap in the cooking of the supper, he has himself set that trap by the “invite” he gave to the expected guest.

A gentle tapping at the door tells him the trigger is touched; and, responding to the signal, he calls out—

“That you, Jack Wingate? O’ course it be. Come in!”

And in Jack Wingate comes.

Volume Three—Chapter Twelve.

Queer Bric-à-Brac.

Stepping over the threshold, the young waterman is warmly received by his older brother of the oar, and blushingly by the girl, whose cheeks are already of a high colour, caught from the fire over which she has been stooping.

Old Joe, seated in the chimney corner, in a huge wicker chair of his own construction, motions Jack to another opposite, leaving the space in front clear for Amy to carry on her culinary operations. There are still a few touches to be added—a sauce to be concocted—before the supper can be served; and she is concocting it.

Host and guest converse without heeding her, chiefly on topics relating to the bore of the river, about which old Joe is an oracle. As the other, too, has spent all his days on Vaga’s banks; but there have been more of them, and he longer resident in that particular neighbourhood. It is too early to enter upon subjects of a more serious nature, though a word now and then slips in about the late occurrence at Llangorren, still wrapped in mystery. If they bring shadows over the brow of the old boatman, these pass off, as he surveys the table which his niece has tastefully decorated with fruits and late autumn flowers. It reminds him of many a pleasant Christmas night in the grand servants’ hall at the Court, under holly and mistletoe, besides bowls of steaming punch and dishes of blazing snapdragon.

His guest knows something of that same hall; but cares not to recall its memories. Better likes he the bright room he is now seated in. Within the radiant circle of its fire, and the other pleasant surroundings, he is for the time cheerful—almost himself again. His mother told him it was not good to be for ever grieving—not righteous, but sinful. And now, as he watches the graceful creature moving about, actively engaged—and all on his account—he begins to think there may be truth in what she said. At all events his grief is more bearable than it has been for long days past. Not that he is untrue to the memory of Mary Morgan. Far from it. His feelings are but natural, inevitable. With that fair presence flitting before his eyes, he would not be man if it failed in some way to impress him.

But his feelings for Amy Preece do not go beyond the bounds of respectful admiration. Still is it an admiration that may become warmer, gathering strength as time goes on. It even does somewhat on this same night; for, in truth the girl’s beauty is a thing which cannot be glanced at without a wish to gaze upon it again. And she possesses something more than beauty—a gift not quite so rare, but perhaps as much prized by Jack Wingate—modesty. He has noted her shy, almost timid mien, ere now; for it is not the first time he has been in her company—contrasted it with the bold advances made to him by her former fellow-servant at the Court—Clarisse. And now, again, he observes the same bearing, as she moves about through that cheery place, in the light of glowing coals—best from the Forest of Dean.

And he thinks of it while seated at the supper table; she at its head, vis-à-vis to her uncle, and distributing the viands. These are no damper to his admiration of her, since the dishes she has prepared are of the daintiest. He has not been accustomed to eat such a meal, for his mother could not cook it; while, as already said, Amy is something of an artiste de cuisine. An excellent wife she would make, all things considered; and possibly at a later period, Jack Wingate might catch himself so reflecting. But not now; not to-night. Such a thought is not in his mind; could not be, with that sadder thought still overshadowing.

The conversation at the table is mostly between the uncle and himself, the niece only now and then putting in a word; and the subjects are still of a general character, in the main relating to boats and their management.

It continues so till the supper things have been cleared off; and in their place appear a decanter of spirits, a basin of lump sugar, and a jug of hot water, with a couple of tumblers containing spoons. Amy knows her uncle’s weakness—which is a whisky toddy before going to bed; for it is the “barley bree” that sparkles in the decanter; and also aware that to-night he will indulge in more than one, she sets the kettle on its trivet against the bars of the grate.

As the hour has now waxed late, and the host is evidently longing for a more confidential chat with his guest, she asks if there is anything more likely to be wanted.

Answered in the negative, she bids both “Good night,” withdraws to the little chamber so prettily decorated for her, and goes to her bed.

But not immediately to fall asleep. Instead she lies awake thinking of Jack Wingate, whose voice, like a distant murmur, she can now and then hear. The French femme de chambre would have had her cheek at the keyhole, to catch what he might say. Not so the young English girl, brought up in a very different school; and if she lies awake, it is from no prying curiosity, but kept so by a nobler sentiment.

On the instant of her withdrawal, old Joe, who has been some time showing in a fidget for it, hitches his chair closer to the table, desiring his guest to do the same; and the whisky punches having been already prepared, they also bring their glasses together.

“Yer good health, Jack.”

“Same to yerself, Joe.”

After this exchange the ex-Charon, no longer constrained by the presence of a third party, launches out into a dialogue altogether different from that hitherto held between them—the subject being the late tenant of the house in which they are hobnobbing.

“Queer sort o’ chap, that Coracle Dick! an’t he, Jack?”

“Course he be. But why do ye ask? You knowed him afore, well enough.”

“Not so well’s now. He never comed about the Court, ’ceptin’ once when fetched there—afore the old Squire on a poachin’ case. Lor! what a change! He now head keeper o’ the estate.”

“Ye say ye know him better than ye did? Ha’ ye larned anythin’ ’bout him o’ late?”

“That hae I; an’ a goodish deal too. More’n one thing as seems kewrous.”

“If ye don’t object tellin’ me, I’d like to hear what they be.”

“Well, one are, that Dick Dempsey ha’ been in the practice of somethin’ besides poachin’.”

“That an’t no news to me, I ha’ long suspected him o’ doin’s worse than that.”

“Amongst them did ye include forgin’?”

“No; because I never thought o’ it. But I believe him to be capable o’ it, or anything else. What makes ye think he a’ been a forger?”

“Well, I won’t say forger, for he mayn’t a made the things. But for sure he ha’ been engaged in passin’ them off.”

“Passin’ what off!”

“Them!” rejoins Joe, drawing a little canvas bag out of his pocket, and spilling its contents upon the table—over a score of coins to all appearance half-crown pieces.

“Counterfeits—every one o’ ’em!” he adds, as the other sits staring at them in surprise.

“Where did you find them?” asks Jack.

“In the corner o’ an old cubbord. Furbishin’ up the place, I comed across them—besides a goodish grist o’ other kewrosities. What would ye think o’ my predecessor here bein’ a burglar as well as smasher?”

“I wouldn’t think that noways strange neyther. As I’ve sayed already, I b’lieve Dick Dempsey to be a man who’d not mind takin’ a hand at any mortal thing, howsomever bad. Burglary, or even worse, if it wor made worth his while. But what led ye to think he ha’ been also in the housebreaking line?”

“These!” answers the old boatman, producing another and larger bag, the more ponderous contents of which he spills out on the floor, not the table; as he does so exclaiming, “Theere be a lot o’ oddities! A complete set o’ burglar’s tools—far as I can understand them.”

And so are they, jemmies, cold chisels, skeleton keys—in short, every implement of the cracksman’s calling.

“And ye found them in the cubbert too?”

“No, not there, nor yet inside; but on the premises. The big bag, wi’ its contents, wor crammed up into a hole in the rocks—the clift at the back o’ the house.”

“Odd, all o’ it! An’ the oddest his leavin’ such things behind—to tell the tale o’ his guilty doin’s; I suppose bein’ full o’ his new fortunes, he’s forgot all about them.”

“But ye han’t waited for me to gie the whole o’ the cat’logue. There be somethin’ more to come.”

“What more?” asks the young waterman, suprisedly, and with renewed interest.

“A thing as seems kewrouser than all the rest. I can draw conclusions from the counterfeet coins, an’ the house-breakin’ implements; but the other beats me dead down, an’ I don’t know what to make o’t. Maybe you can tell. I foun’ it stuck up the same hole in the rocks, wi’ a stone in front exact fittin’ to an’ fillin’ its mouth.”

While speaking, he draws open a chest, and takes from it a bundle of some white stuff—apparently linen—loosely rolled. Unfolding, and holding it up to the light, he adds:—

“Theer be the eydentical article!”

No wonder he thought the thing strange, found where he had found it. For it is a shroud! White, with a cross and two letters in red stitched upon that part which, were it upon a body, both cross and lettering would lie over the breast!

“O God!” cries Jack Wingate, as his eyes rest upon the symbol. “That’s the shroud Mary Morgan wor buried in! I can swear to ’t. I seed her mother stitch on that cross an’ them letters—the ineetials o’ her name. An’ I seed it on herself in the coffin ’fore’t wor closed. Heaven o’ mercy! what do it mean?”

Amy Preece, lying awake in her bed, hears Jack Wingate’s voice excitedly exclaiming, and wonders what that means. But she is not told; nor learns she aught of a conversation which succeeds in more subdued tone; prolonged to a much later hour—even into morning. For before the two men part they mature a plan for ascertaining why that ghostly thing is still above ground instead of in the grave, where the body it covered is coldly sleeping!

Volume Three—Chapter Thirteen.

A Brace of Body-Snatchers.

What with the high hills that shut in the valley of the Wye, and the hanging woods that clothe their steep slopes, the nights there are often so dark as to justify the familiar saying, “You couldn’t see your hand before you.” I have been out on some, when a white kerchief held within three feet of the eye was absolutely invisible; and it required a skilful Jehu, with best patent lamps, to keep carriage wheels upon the causeway of the road.

Such a night has drawn down over Rugg’s Ferry, shrouding the place in impenetrable gloom. Situated in a concavity—as it were, at the bottom of an extinct volcanic crater—the obscurity is deeper than elsewhere; to-night alike covering the Welsh Harp, detached dwelling houses, chapel, and burying-ground, as with a pall. Not a ray of light scintillates anywhere; for the hour is after midnight, and everybody has retired to rest; the weak glimmer of candles from cottage windows, as the stronger glare through those of the hotel-tavern, no longer to be seen. In the last every lamp is extinguished, its latest-sitting guest—if it have any guest—having gone to bed.

Some of the poachers and night-netters may be astir. If so they are abroad, and not about the place, since it is just at such hours they are away from it.

For all, two men are near by, seemingly moving with as much stealth as any trespassers after fish or game, and with even more mystery in their movements. The place occupied by them is the shadowed corner under the wall of the chapel cemetery, where Captain Ryecroft saw three men embarking on a boat. These are also in a boat; but not one in the act of rowing off from the river’s edge; instead, just being brought into it.

Soon as its cutwater strikes against the bank, one of the men, rising to his feet, leaps out upon the land, and attaches the painter to a sapling, by giving it two or three turns around the stem. Then facing back towards the boat, he says:—

“Hand me them things; an’ look out not to let ’em rattle!”

“Ye need ha’ no fear ’bout that,” rejoins the other, who has now unshipped the oars, and stowed them fore and aft along the thwarts, they not being the things asked for. Then, stooping down, he lifts something out of the boat’s bottom, and passes it over the side, repeating the movement three or four times. The things thus transferred from one to the other are handled by both as delicately, as though they were pheasant’s or plover’s eggs, instead of what they are—an ordinary set of grave-digger’s tools—spade, shovel, and mattock. There is, besides, a bundle of something soft, which, as there is no danger of its making noise, is tossed up to the top of the bank.

He who has flung follows it; and the two gathering up the hardware, after some words exchanged in muttered tone, mount over the cemetery wall. The younger first leaps it, stretching back, and giving a hand to the other—an old man, who finds some difficulty in the ascent.

Inside the sacred precincts they pause; partly to apportion the tools, but as much to make sure that they have not hitherto been heard. Seen, they could not be, before or now.

Becoming satisfied that the coast is clear, the younger man says in a whisper—

“It be all right, I think. Every livin’ sinner—an’ there be a good wheen o’ that stripe ’bout here—have gone to bed. As for him, blackest o’ the lot, who lives in the house adjoinin’, ain’t like he’s at home. Good as sure down at Llangorren Court, where just now he finds quarters more comfortable. We hain’t nothin’ to fear, I take it. Let’s on to the place. You lay hold o’ my skirt, and I’ll gie ye the lead. I know the way, every inch o’ it.”

Saying which he moves off, the other doing as directed, and following step for step.

A few paces further, and they arrive at a grave; beside which they again make stop. In daylight it would show recently made, though not altogether new. A month, or so, since the turf had been smoothed over it.

The men are now about to disturb it, as evinced by their movements and the implements brought along. But, before going further in their design—body-snatching, or whatever it be—both drop down upon their knees, and again listen intently, as though still in some fear of being interrupted.

Not a sound is heard save the wind, as it sweeps in mournful cadence through the trees along the hill slopes, and nearer below, the rippling of the river.

At length, convinced they have the cemetery to themselves, they proceed to their work, which begins by their spreading out a sheet on the grass close to and alongside the grave—a trick of body-stealers—so as to leave no traces of their theft. That done, they take up the sods with their hands, carefully, one after another; and, with like care, lay them down upon the sheet, the grass sides underneath. Then, seizing hold of the tools—spade and shovel—they proceed to scoop out the earth, placing it in a heap beside.

They have no need to make use of the mattock; the soil is loose, and lifts easily. Nor is their task as excavators of long continuance—even shorter than they anticipated. Within less than eighteen inches of the surface their tools come in contact with a harder substance, which they can tell to be timber—the lid of a coffin.

Soon as striking it, the younger faces round to his companion, saying—

“I tolt ye so—listen!”

With the spade’s point he again gives the coffin a tap. It returns a hollow sound—too hollow for aught to be inside it!

“No body in there!” he adds.

“Hadn’t we better keep on, an’ make sure?” suggests the other.

“Sartint we had—an’ will.”

Once more they commence shovelling out the earth, and continue till it is all cleared from the coffin. Then, inserting the blade of the mattock under the edge of the lid, they raise it up; for it is not screwed down, only laid on loosely—the screws all drawn and gone!

Flinging himself on his face, and reaching forward, the younger man gropes inside the coffin—not expecting to feel any body there, but mechanically, and to see if there be aught else.

There is nothing—only emptiness. The house of the dead is untenanted—its tenant has been taken away!

“I know’d it!” he exclaims, drawing back. “I know’d my poor Mary wor no longer here!”

It is no body-snatcher who speaks thus, but Jack Wingate, his companion being Joseph Preece.

After which, the young waterman says not another word in reference to the discovery they have both made. He is less sad than thoughtful now. But he keeps his thoughts to himself, an occasional whisper to his companion being merely by way of direction, as they replace the lid upon the coffin, cover all up as before, shake in the last fragments of loose earth from the sheet, and restore the grave turf—adjusting the sods with as much exactitude, as though they were laying tesselated tiles!

Then, taking up their tools, they glide back to the boat, step into it, and shove off.

On return down stream they reflect in different ways; the old boatman of Llangorren still thinking it but a case of body-snatching, done by Coracle Dick, for the doctors—with a view to earning a dishonest penny.

Far otherwise the thoughts of Jack Wingate. He thinks, nay hopes—almost happily believes—that the body exhumed was not dead—never has been—but that Mary Morgan still lives, breathes, and has being!

Volume Three—Chapter Fourteen.

In Want of Help.

“Drowned? No! Dead before she ever went under the water. Murdered, beyond the shadow of a doubt.”

It is Captain Ryecroft who thus emphatically affirms. And to himself, being alone, within his room in the Wyeside Hotel; for he is still in Herefordshire.

More in conjecture, he proceeds—“They first smothered, I suppose, or in some way rendered her insensible; then carried her to the place and dropped her in, leaving the water to complete their diabolical work? A double death as it were; though she may not have suffered its agonies twice. Poor girl! I hope not.”

In prosecuting the inquiry to which he has devoted himself, beyond certain unavoidable communications with Jack Wingate, he has not taken any one into his confidence. This partly from having no intimate acquaintances in the neighbourhood, but more because he fears the betrayal of his purpose. It is not ripe for public exposure, far less bringing before a court of justice. Indeed, he could not yet shape an accusation against any one, all that he has learnt new serving only to satisfy him that his original suspicions were correct; which it has done, as shown by his soliloquy.

He has since made a second boat excursion down the bye-channel—made it in the day time, to assure himself there was no mistake in his observations under the light of the lamp. It was for this he had bespoken Wingate’s skiff for the following day; for certain reasons reaching Llangorren at the earliest hour of dawn. There and then to see what surprised him quite as much as the unexpected discovery of the night before—a grand breakage from the brow of the cliff. But not any more misleading him. If the first “sign” observed there failed to blind him, so does that which has obliterated it. No natural rock-slide, was the conclusion he came to, soon as setting eyes upon it; but the work of human hands! And within the hour, as he could see by the clods of loosened earth still dropping down and making muddy the water underneath; while bubbles were ascending from the detached boulder lying invisible below!

Had he been there only a few minutes earlier, himself invisible, he would have seen a man upon the cliff’s crest, busy with a crowbar, levering the rock from its bed, and tilting it over—then carefully removing the marks of the iron implement, as also his own footprints!

That man saw him through the blue-grey dawn, in his skiff coming down the river; just as on the preceding night under the light of the moon. For he thus early astir and occupied in a task as that of Sysiphus, was no other than Father Rogier.

The priest had barely time to retreat and conceal himself, as the boat drew down to the eyot. Not this time crouching among the ferns; but behind some evergreens, at a farther and safer distance. Still near enough for him to observe the other’s look of blank astonishment on beholding the débacle, and note the expression change to one of significant intelligence as he continued gazing at it.

“Un limier veritable! A hound that has scented blood, and’s determined to follow it up, till he find the body whence it flowed. Aha! The game must be got out of his way. Llangorren will have to change owners once again, and the sooner the better.”

At the very moment these thoughts were passing through the mind of Gregoire Rogier, the “veritable bloodhound” was mentally repeating the same words he had used on the night before: “No accident—no suicide—murdered!” adding, as his eyes ranged over the surface of red sandstone, so altered in appearance, “This makes me all the more sure of it. Miserable trick! Not much Mr Lewin Murdock will gain by it.”

So thought he then. But now, days after, though still believing Murdock to be the murderer, he thinks differently about the “trick.” For the evidence afforded by the former traces, though slight, and pointing to no one in particular, was, nevertheless, a substantial indication of guilt against somebody; and these being blotted out, there is but his own testimony of their having ever existed. Though himself convinced that Gwendoline Wynn has been assassinated, he cannot see his way to convince others—much less a legal tribunal. He is still far from being in a position openly to accuse, or even name the criminals who ought to be arraigned.

He now knows there are more than one, or so supposes; still believing that Murdock has been the principal actor in the tragedy; though others besides have borne part in it.

“The man’s wife must know all about it?” he says, going on in conjectural chain; “and that French priest—he probably the instigator of it? Aye! possibly had a hand in the deed itself? There have been such cases recorded—many of them. Exercising great authority at Llangorren—as Jack has learned from his friend Joe—there commanding everybody and everything! And the fellow Dempsey—poacher, and what not—he, too, become an important personage about the place! Why all this? Only intelligible on the supposition that they have had to do with a death by which they have been all benefited. Yes; all four acting conjointly have brought it about!

“And how am I to bring it home to them? ’Twill be difficult, indeed, if at all possible. Even that slight sign destined has increased the difficulty.

“No use taking the ‘great unpaid’ into my confidence, nor yet the sharper stipendiaries. To submit my plans to either magistrate or policeman might be but to defeat them. ’Twould only raise a hue and cry, putting the guilty ones on their guard. That isn’t the way—will not do!

“And yet I must have some one to assist me. For there is truth in the old saw ‘Two heads better than one.’ Wingate is good enough in his way, and willing, but he can’t help me in mine. I want a man of my own class; one who—stay! George Shenstone? No! The young fellow is true as steel and brave as a lion, but—well, lacking brains. I could trust his heart, not his head. Where is he who has both to be relied upon? Ha! Mahon! The man—the very man! Experienced in the world’s wickedness, courageous, cool—except when he gets his Irish blood up against the Sassenachs—above all devoted to me, as I know; has never forgotten that little service I did him at Delhi. And he has nothing to do—plenty of time at his disposal. Yes; the Major’s my man!

“Shall I write and ask him to come over here. On second thoughts, No! Better for me to go thither; see him first, and explain all the circumstances. To Boulogne and back’s but a matter of forty-eight hours, and a day or two can’t make much difference in an affair like this. The scent’s cold as it can be, and may be taken up weeks hence as well as now. If we ever succeed in finding evidence of their guilt it will, no doubt, be mainly of the circumstantial sort; and much will depend on the character of the individuals accused. Now I think of it, something may be learnt about them in Boulogne itself; or at all events of the priest. Since I’ve had a good look at his forbidding face, I feel certain it’s the same I saw inside the doorway of that convent. If not, there are two of the sacerdotal tribe so like it would be a toss up which is one and which t’other.

“In any case there can be no harm in my making a scout across to Boulogne, and instituting inquiries about him. Mahon’s sister being at school in the establishment will enable us to ascertain whether a priest named Rogier holds relations with it, and we may learn something of the repute he bears. Perchance, also, a trifle concerning Mr and Mrs Lewin Murdock. It appears that both husband and wife are well known at Homburg, Baden, and other like resorts. Gaming, if not game, birds, in some of their migratory flights they have made short sojourn at the French seaport, to get their hands in for those grander Hells beyond. I’ll go over to Boulogne!”

A knock at the door. On the permission to enter, called out, a hotel porter presents himself. “Well?”

“Your waterman, sir, Wingate, says he’d like to see you, if convenient?”

“Tell him to step up!”

“What can Jack be coming after? Anyhow I’m glad he has come. ’Twill save me the trouble of sending for him; as I’d better settle his account before starting off.” (Jack has a new score against the Captain for boat hire, his services having been retained, exclusively, for some length of time past.) “Besides there’s something I wish to say—a long chapter of instructions to leave with him. Come in, Jack!”

This, as a shuffling in the corridor outside, tells that the waterman is wiping his feet on the door mat.

The door opening, displays him; but with an expression on his countenance very different from that of a man coming to dun for wages due. More like one entering to announce a death, or some event which greatly agitates him.

“What is it?” asks the Captain, observing his distraught manner.

“Somethin’ queer, sir; very queer indeed.”

“Ah! Let me hear it!” demands Ryecroft, with an air of eagerness, thinking it relates to himself and the matter engrossing his mind.

“I will, Captain. But it’ll take time in the tellin’.”

“Take as much as you like. I’m at your service. Be seated.”

Jack clutches hold of a chair, and draws it up close to where the Captain is sitting—by a table. Then glancing over his shoulder, and all round the room, to assure himself there is no one within earshot, he says, in grave, solemn voice:

“I do believe, Captain, she be still alive!”

Volume Three—Chapter Fifteen.

Still Alive.

Impossible to depict the expression on Vivian Ryecroft’s face, as the words of the waterman fall upon his ear. It is more than surprise—more than astonishment—intensely interrogative, as though some secret hope once entertained, but long gone out of his heart, had suddenly returned to it.

“Still alive!” he exclaims, springing to his feet, and almost upsetting the table. “Alive!” he mechanically repeats. “What do you mean, Wingate? And who?”

“My poor girl, Captain. You know.”

“His girl, not mine! Mary Morgan, not Gwendoline Wynn!” reflects Ryecroft within himself, dropping back upon his chair as one stunned by a blow.

“I’m almost sure she be still livin’,” continues the waterman, in wonder at the emotion his words have called up, though little suspecting why.

Controlling it, the other asks, with diminished interest, still earnestly:—

“What leads you to think that way, Wingate? Have you a reason?”

“Yes, have I; more’n one. It’s about that I ha’ come to consult ye.”

“You’ve come to astonish me! But proceed!”

“Well, sir, as I ha’ sayed, it’ll take a good bit o’ tellin’, and a lot o’ explanation beside. But since ye’ve signified I’m free to your time, I’ll try and make the story short’s I can.”

“Don’t curtail it in any way. I wish to hear all!”

The waterman thus allowed latitude, launches forth into a full account of his own life—those chapters of it relating to his courtship of, and betrothal to, Mary Morgan. He tells of the opposition made by her mother, the rivalry of Coracle Dick, and the sinister interference of Father Rogier. In addition, the details of that meeting of the lovers under the elm—their last—and the sad episode soon after succeeding.

Something of all this Ryecroft has heard before, and part of it suspected. What he now hears new to him is the account of a scene in the farm-house of Abergann, while Mary Morgan lay in the chamber of death, with a series of incidents that came under the observation of her sorrowing lover. The first, his seeing a shroud being made by the girl’s mother, white, with a red cross, and the initial letters of her name braided over the breast: the same soon afterwards appearing upon the corpse. Then the strange behaviour of Father Rogier on the day of the funeral; the look with which he stood regarding the girl’s face as she lay in her coffin; his abrupt exit out of the room; as afterwards his hurried departure from the side of the grave before it was finally closed up—a haste noticed by others as well as Jack Wingate.

“But what do you make of all that?” asks Ryecroft, the narrator having paused to gather himself for other, and still stranger revelations. “How can it give you a belief in the girl being still alive? Quite its contrary, I should say.”

“Stay, Captain! There be more to come.”

The Captain does stay, listening on. To hear the story of the planted and plucked up flower; of another and later visit made by Wingate to the cemetery in daylight, then seeing what led him to suspect, that not only had the plant been destroyed, but all the turf on the grave disturbed! He speaks of his astonishment at this, with his perplexity. Then goes on to give account of the evening spent with Joseph Preece in his new home; of the waifs and strays there shown him; the counterfeit coins, burglars’ tools, and finally the shroud—that grim remembrancer, which he recognised at sight!

His narrative concludes with his action taken after, assisted by the old boatman.

“Last night,” he says, proceeding with the relation, “or I ought to say this same mornin’—for ’twar after midnight hour—Joe an’ myself took the skiff, an’ stole up to the chapel graveyard; where we opened her grave, an’ foun’ the coffin empty! Now, Captain, what do ye think o’ the whole thing?”

“On my word, I hardly know what to think of it. Mystery seems the measure of the time! This you tell me of is strange—if not stranger than any! What are your own thoughts about it, Jack?”

“Well, as I’ve already sayed, my thoughts be, an’ my hopes, that Mary’s still in the land o’ the livin’.”

“I hope she is.”

The tone of Ryecroft’s rejoinder tells of his incredulity, further manifested by his questions following.

“But you saw her in her coffin? Waked for two days, as I understood you; then laid in her grave? How could she have lived throughout all that? Surely she was dead!”

“So I thought at the time, but don’t now.”

“My good fellow, I fear you are deceiving yourself. I’m sorry having to think so. Why the body has been taken up again is of itself a sufficient puzzle; but alive—that seems physically impossible!”

“Well, Captain, it’s just about the possibility of the thing I come to ask your opinion; thinkin’ ye’d be acquainted wi’ the article itself.”

“What article?”

“The new medicine; it as go by the name o’ chloryform.”

“Ha! you have a suspicion—”

“That she ha’ been chloryformed, an’ so kep’ asleep—to be waked up when they wanted her. I’ve heerd say, they can do such things.”

“But then she was drowned also? Fell from a foot plank, you told me? And was in the water some time?”

“I don’t believe it, a bit. It be true enough she got somehow into the water, an’ wor took out insensible, or rather drifted out o’ herself, on the bank just below, at the mouth o’ the brook. But that wor short after, an’ she might still a’ ben alive not with standin’. My notion be, that the priest had first put the chloryform into her, or did it then, an’ knew all along she warn’t dead, nohow.”

“My dear Jack, the thing cannot be possible. Even if it were, you seem to forget that her mother, father—all of them—must have been cognisant of these facts—if facts?”

“I don’t forget it, Captain. ’Stead I believe they all wor cognisant o’ them—leastways, the mother.”

“But why should she assist in such a dangerous deception—at risk of her daughter’s life?”

“That’s easy answered. She did it partly o’ herself; but more at the biddin’ o’ the priest, whom she daren’t disobey—the weak-minded creature most o’ her time given up to sayin’ prayers and paternosters. They all knowed the girl loved me, and wor sure to be my wife, whatever they might say or do against it. Wi’ her willing I could a’ defied the whole lot o’ them. Bein’ aware o’ that their only chance wor to get her out o’ my way by some trick—as they ha’ indeed got her. Ye may think it strange their takin’ all that trouble; but if ye’d seen her ye wouldn’t. There worn’t on all Wyeside so good lookin’ a girl!”

Ryecroft again looks incredulous; not smilingly, but with a sad cast of countenance.

Despite its improbability, however, he begins to think there may be some truth in what the waterman says—Jack’s earnest convictions sympathetically impressing him.

“And supposing her to be alive,” he asks, “where do you think she is now? Have you any idea?”

“I have—leastways a notion.”

“Where?”

“Over the water—in France—the town o’ Bolone.”

“Boulogne!” exclaims the Captain, with a start. “What makes you suppose she is there?”

“Something, sir, I han’t yet spoke to ye about. I’d a’most forgot the thing, an’ might never a thought o’t again, but for what ha’ happened since. Ye’ll remember the night we come up from the ball, my tellin’ ye I had an engagement the next day to take the young Powells down the river?”

“I remember it perfectly.”

“Well; I took them, as agreed; an’ that day we went down’s fur’s Chepstow. But they wor bound for the Severn side a duck shootin’; and next mornin’ we started early, afore daybreak. As we were passin’ the wharf below Chepstow Bridge, where there wor several craft lyin’ in, I noticed one sloop-rigged ridin’ at anchor a bit out from the rest, as if about clearin’ to put to sea. By the light o’ a lamp as hung over the taffrail, I read the name on her starn, showin’ she wor French, an’ belonged to Bolone. I shouldn’t ha’ thought that anythin’ odd, as there be many foreign craft o’ the smaller kind puts in at Chepstow. But what did appear odd, an’ gied me a start too, wor my seein’ a boat by the sloop’s side wi’ a man in it, who I could a’most sweared wor the Rogue’s Ferry priest. There wor others in the boat besides, an’ they appeared to be gettin’ some sort o’ bundle out o’ it, an’ takin’ it up the man-ropes, aboard o’ the sloop. But I didn’t see any more, as we soon passed out o’ sight, goin’ on down. Now, Captain, it’s my firm belief that man must ha’ been the priest, and that thing, I supposed to be a bundle o’ marchandise, neyther more nor less than the body o’ Mary Morgan—not dead, but livin’!”

“You astound me, Wingate! Certainly a most singular circumstance! Coincidence too! Boulogne—Boulogne!”

“Yes, Captain; by the letterin’ on her starn the sloop must ha’ belonged there; an’ I’m goin’ there myself.”

“I too, Jack! We shall go together!”

Volume Three—Chapter Sixteen.

A Strange Father Confessor.

“He’s gone away—given it up! Be glad, madame!”

Father Rogier so speaks on entering the drawing-room of Llangorren Court, where Mrs Murdock is seated.

“What, Gregoire?”—were her husband present it would be “Père;” but she is alone—“Who’s gone away? And why am I to rejoice?”

“Le Capitaine.”

“Ha!” she ejaculates, with a pleased look, showing that the two words have answered all her questions in one.

“Are you sure of it? The news seems too good for truth.”

“It’s true, nevertheless; so far as his having gone away. Whether to stay away is another matter. We must hope he will.”

“I hope it with all my heart.”

“And well you may, madame; as I myself. We had more to fear from that chien de chasse than all the rest of the pack—ay, have still, unless he’s found the scent too cold, and in despair abandoned the pursuit; which I fancy he has, thrown off by that little rock-slide. A lucky chance my having caught him at his reconnaissance; and rather a clever bit of strategy so to baffle him! Wasn’t it, chérie?”

“Superb! The whole thing from beginning to end! You’ve proved yourself a wonderful man, Gregoire Rogier.”

“And I hope worthy of Olympe Renault?”

“You have.”

“Merci! So far that’s satisfactory; and your slave feels he has not been toiling in vain. But there’s a good deal more to be done before we can take our ship safe into port. And it must be done quickly, too. I pine to cast off this priestly garb—in which I’ve been so long miserably masquerading—and enter into the real enjoyments of life. But there’s another, and more potent reason, for using despatch; breakers around us, on which we may be wrecked, ruined any day—any hour. Le Capitaine Ryecroft was not, or is not, the only one.”

“Richard—le braconnier—you’re thinking of?”

“No, no, no! Of him we needn’t have the slightest fear. I hold his lips sealed, by a rope around his neck; whose noose I can draw tight at the shortest notice. I am far more apprehensive of Monsieur, votre mari!”

“In what way?”

“More than one; but for one, his tongue. There’s no knowing what a drunken man may do or say in his cups; and Monsieur Murdock is hardly ever out of them. Suppose he gets to babbling, and lets drop something about—well, I needn’t say what. There’s still suspicion abroad—plenty of it,—and like a spark applied to tinder, a word would set it ablaze.”

“C’est vrai!”

“Fortunately, Mademoiselle had no very near relatives of the male sex, nor any one much interested in her fate, save the fiancé and the other lover—the rustic and rejected one—Shenstone fils. Of him we need take no account. Even if suspicious, he hasn’t the craft to unravel a clue so cunningly rolled as ours; and for the ancien hussard, let us hope he has yielded to despair, and gone back whence he came. Luck too, in his having no intimacies here, or I believe anywhere in the shire of Hereford. Had it been otherwise, we might not so easily have got disembarrassed of him.”

“And you do think he has gone for good?”

“I do; at least it would seem so. On his second return to the hotel—in haste as it was—he had little luggage; and that he has all taken away with him. So I learnt from one of the hotel people, who professes our faith. Further, at the railway station, that he took ticket for London. Of course that means nothing. He may be en route for anywhere beyond—round the globe, if he feel inclined to circumnavigation. And I shall be delighted if he do.”

He would not be much delighted had he heard at the railway station of what actually occurred—that in getting his ticket Captain Ryecroft had inquired whether he could not be booked through for Boulogne. Still less might Father Rogier have felt gratification to know, that there were two tickets taken for London; a first-class for the Captain himself, and a second for the waterman Wingate—travelling together, though in separate carriages, as befitted their different rank in life.

Having heard nothing of this, the sham priest—as he has now acknowledged himself—is jubilant at the thought that another hostile pawn in the game he has been so skilfully playing has disappeared from the chess-board. In short, all have been knocked over, queen, bishops, knights, and castles. Alone the king stands, he tottering; for Lewin Murdock is fast drinking himself to death. It is of him the priest speaks as king:—

“Has he signed the will?”

“Oui.”

“When?”

“This morning, before he went out. The lawyer who drew it up came, with his clerk to witness—”

“I know all that,” interrupts the priest, “as I should, having sent them. Let me have a look at the document. You have it in the house, I hope?”

“In my hand,” she answers, diving into a drawer of the table by which she sits, and drawing forth a folded sheet of parchment; “Le voilà!”

She spreads it out, not to read what is written upon it, only to look at the signatures, and see they are right. Well knows he every word of that will, he himself having dictated it. A testament made by Lewin Murdock, which, at his death, leaves the Llangorren estate—as sole owner and last in tail he having the right so to dispose of it—to his wife Olympe—née Renault—for her life; then to his children, should there be any surviving; failing such, to Gregoire Rogier, Priest of the Roman Catholic Church; and in the event of his demise preceding that of the other heirs hereinbefore mentioned, the estate, or what remains of it, to become the property of the Convent of —, Boulogne-sur-mer, France.

“For that last clause, which is yours, Gregoire, the nuns of Boulogne should be grateful to you, or at all events, the abbess, Lady Superior, or whatever she’s called.”

“So she will,” he rejoins with a dry laugh, “when she gets the property so conveyed. Unfortunately for her the reversion is rather distant, and having to pass through so many hands there may be no great deal left of it, on coming into hers. Nay!” he adds in exclamation, his jocular tone suddenly changing to the serious, “if some step be not taken to put a stop to what’s going on, there won’t be much of the Llangorren estate left for any one—not even for yourself, madame. Under the fingers of Monsieur, with the cards in them, it’s being melted down as snow on the sunny side of a hill. Even at this self-same moment it may be going off in large slices—avalanches!”

“Mon Dieu!” she exclaims, with an alarmed air, quite comprehending the danger thus figuratively portrayed.

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” he continues, “if to-day he were made a thousand pounds the poorer. When I left the Ferry he was in the Welsh Harp, as I was told, tossing sovereigns upon its bar counter, ‘Heads and tails, who wins?’ Not he, you may be sure. No doubt he’s now at a gaming-table inside, engaged with that gang of sharpers who have lately got around him, staking large sums on every turn of the cards—Jews’ eyes, ponies, and monkeys, as these chevaliers d’industrie facetiously term their money. If we don’t bring all this to a termination, that will you have in your hand won’t be worth the price of the parchment it’s written upon. Comprenez-vous, chérie?”