Evan Morgan is a tenant-farmer, holding Abergann. By Herefordshire
custom, every farm or its stead, has a distinctive appellation. Like
the land belonging to Glyngog, that of Abergann lies against the sides
of a sloping glen--one of the hundreds or thousands of lateral ravines
that run into the valley of the Wye. But, unlike the old manor-house,
the domicile of the farmer is at the glen's bottom and near the river's
bank; nearer yet to a small influent stream, rapid and brawling, which
sweeps past the lower end of the orchard in a channel worn deep into the
soft sandstone.
Though with the usual imposing array of enclosure walls, the dwelling
itself is not large nor the outbuildings extensive; for the arable
acreage is limited. This because the ridges around are too high pitched
for ploughing, and if ploughed would be unproductive. They are not even
in pasture, but overgrown with woods; less for the sake of the timber,
which is only scrub, than as a covert for foxes. They are held in hand
by Evan Morgan's landlord--a noted Nimrod.
For the same reason the farm-house stands in a solitary spot, remote
from any other dwelling. The nearest is the cottage of the Wingates--
distant about half a mile, but neither visible from the other. Nor is
there any direct road between, only a footpath, which crosses the brook
at the bottom of the orchard, thence running over a wooded ridge to the
main highway. The last, after passing close to the cottage, as already
said, is deflected away from the river by this same ridge, so that when
Evan Morgan would drive anywhere beyond the boundaries of his farm, he
must pass out through a long lane, so narrow that were he to meet any
one driving in, there would be a deadlock. However, there is no danger;
as the only vehicles having occasion to use this thoroughfare are his
own farm waggon and a lighter `trap' in which he goes to market, and
occasionally with his wife and daughter to merry-makings.
When the three are in it there is none of his family at home. For he
has but one child--a daughter. Nor would he long have her were a
half-score of young fellows allowed their way. At least this number
would be willing to take her off his hands and give her a home
elsewhere. Remote as is the farm-house of Abergann, and narrow the lane
leading to it, there are many who would be glad to visit there, if
invited.
In truth a fine girl is Mary Morgan, tall, bright haired, and with
blooming cheeks, beside which red rose leaves would seem _fade_. Living
in a town she would be its talk; in a village its belle. Even from that
secluded glen has the fame of her beauty gone forth and afar. Of
husbands she could have her choice, and among men much richer than her
father.
In her heart she has chosen one, not only much poorer, but lower in
social rank--Jack Wingate. She loves the young waterman, and wants to
be his wife; but knows she cannot without the consent of her parents.
Not that either has signified opposition, since they have never been
asked. Her longings in that direction she has kept secret from them.
Nor does she so much dread refusal by the father. Evan Morgan had been
himself poor--began life as a farm labourer--and, though now an employer
of such, his pride had not kept pace with his prosperity. Instead, he
is, as ever, the same modest, unpresuming man, of which the lower middle
classes of the English people present many noble examples. From him
Jack Wingate would have little to fear on the score of poverty. He is
well acquainted with the young waterman's character, knows it to be
good, and has observed the efforts he is making to better his condition
in life; it may be with suspicion of the motive, at all events,
admiringly--remembering his own. And although a Roman Catholic, he is
anything but bigoted. Were he the only one to be consulted his daughter
might wed with the man upon whom she has fixed her affections, at any
time it pleases them--ay, at any place, too, even within the walls of a
Protestant Church! By him neither would Jack Wingate be rejected on the
score of religion.
Very different with his wife. Of all the worshippers who compose the
congregation at the Bugg's Ferry Chapel none bend the knee to Baal as
low as she; and over no one does Father Rogier exercise such influence.
Baneful it is like to be; since not only has he control of the mother's
conduct, but through that may also blight the happiness of the daughter.
Apart from religious fanaticism, Mrs Morgan is not a bad woman--only a
weak one. As her husband, she is of humble birth, and small beginnings;
like him, too, neither has prosperity affected her in the sense of
worldly ambition. Perhaps better if it had. Instead of spoiling, a
little social pride might have been a bar to the dangerous aspirations
of Richard Dempsey--even with the priest standing sponsor for him. But
she has none, her whole soul being absorbed by blind devotion to a faith
which scruples not at anything that may assist in its propagandism.
It is the Saturday succeeding the festival of the Harvest Home, a little
after sunset, and the priest is expected at Abergann. He is a frequent
visitor there; by Mrs Morgan ever made welcome, and treated to the best
cheer the farm-house can afford; plate, knife, and fork always placed
for him. And, to do him justice, he may be deemed in a way worthy of
such hospitality; for he is, in truth, a most entertaining personage;
can converse on any subject, and suit his conversation to the company,
whether high or low. As much at home with the wife of the Welsh farmer
as with the French _ex-cocotte_, and equally so in the companionship of
Dick Dempsey, the poacher. In his hours of _far niente_ all are alike
to him.
This night he is to take supper at Abergann, and Mrs Morgan, seated in
the farm house parlour, awaits his arrival. A snug little apartment,
tastefully furnished, but with a certain air of austerity, observable in
Roman Catholic houses: this by reason of some pictures of saints hanging
against the walls, an image of the Virgin and, standing niche-like in a
corner, one of the Crucifixion over the mantelshelf, with crosses upon
books, and other like symbols.
It is near nine o'clock, and the table is already set out. On grand
occasions, as this, the farm-house parlour is transformed into dining or
supper room, indifferently. The meal intended to be eaten now is more
of the former, differing in there being a tea-tray upon the table, with
a full service of cups and saucers, as also in the lateness of the hour.
But the odoriferous steam escaping from the kitchen, drifted into the
parlour when its door is opened, tells of something in preparation more
substantial than a cup of tea, with its usual accompaniment of bread and
butter. And there is a fat capon roasting upon the spit, with a
frying-pan full of sausages on the dresser, ready to be clapped upon the
fire at the proper moment--as soon as the expected guest makes his
appearance.
And in addition to the tea-things, there is a decanter of sherry on the
table, and will be another of brandy when brought on--Father Rogier's
favourite tipple, as Mrs Morgan has reason to know. There is a full
bottle of this--Cognac of best brand--in the larder cupboard, still
corked as it came from the "Welsh Harp," where it cost six shillings--
The Rugg's Ferry hostelry, as already intimated, dealing in drinks of a
rather costly kind. Mary has been directed to draw the cork, decant,
and bring the brandy in, and for this purpose has just gone off to the
larder. Thence instantly returning, but without either decanter or
Cognac! Instead with a tale which sends a thrill of consternation
through her mother's heart. The cat has been in the cupboard, and there
made havoc--upset the brandy bottle, and sent it rolling off the shelf
on the stone flags of the floor! Broken, of course, and the contents--
No need for further explanation, Mrs Morgan does not seek it. Nor does
she stay to reflect on the disaster, but how it may be remedied. It
will not mend matters to chastise the cat, nor cry over the spilt
brandy, any more than if it were milk.
On short reflection she sees but one way to restore the broken bottle--
by sending to the "Welsh Harp" for a whole one.
True, it will cost another six shillings, but she recks not of the
expense. She is more troubled about a messenger. Where, and how, is
one to be had? The farm labourers have long since left. They are all
Benedicts, on board wages, and have departed for their respective wives
and homes. There is a cow-boy, yet he is also absent; gone to fetch the
kine from a far-off pasturing place, and not be back in time; while the
one female domestic maid-of-all-work is busy in the kitchen, up to her
ears among pots and pans, her face at a red heat over the range. She
could not possibly be spared. "It's very vexatious!" exclaims Mrs
Morgan, in a state of lively perplexity.
"It is, indeed!" assents her daughter.
A truthful girl, Mary, in the main; but just now the opposite. For she
is not vexed by the occurrence, nor does she deem it a disaster, quite
the contrary. And she knows it was no accident, having herself brought
it about. It was her own soft fingers, not the cat's claws, that swept
that bottle from the shelf, sending it smash upon the stones! Tipped
over by no _maladroit_ handling of corkscrew, but downright deliberate
intention! A stratagem that may enable her to keep the appointment made
among the fireworks--that threat when she told Jack Wingate she would
"find away."
Thus is she finding it; and in furtherance she leaves her mother no time
to consider longer about a messenger.
"I'll go!" she says, offering herself as one.
The deceit unsuspected, and only the willingness appreciated, Mrs
Morgan rejoins:
"Do! that's a dear girl! It's very good of you, Mary. Here's the
money."
While the delighted mother is counting out the shillings, the dutiful
daughter whips on her cloak--the night is chilly--and adjusts her hat,
the best holiday one, on her head; all the time thinking to herself how
cleverly she has done the trick. And with a smile of pardonable
deception upon her face, she trips lightly across the threshold, and on
through the little flower garden in front.
Outside the gate, at an angle of the enclosure wall, she stops, and
stands considering. There are two ways to the Ferry, here forking--the
long lane and the shorter footpath. Which is she to take? The path
leads down along the side of the orchard; and across the brook by the
bridge--only a single plank. This spanning the stream, and originally
fixed to the rock at both ends, has of late come loose, and is not safe
to be traversed, even by day. At night it is dangerous--still more on
one dark as this. And danger of no common kind at any time. The
channel through which the streams runs is twenty feet deep, with rough
boulders in its bed. One falling from above would at least get broken
bones. No fear of that to-night, but something as bad, if not worse.
For it has been raining throughout the earlier hours of the day, and
there in the brook, now a raging torrent. One dropping into it would be
swept on to the river, and there surely drowned, if not before.
It is no dread of any of these dangers which causes Mary Morgan to stand
considering which route she will take. She has stepped that plank on
nights dark as this, even since it became detached from the fastenings,
and is well acquainted with its ways. Were there nought else, she would
go straight over it, and along the footpath, which passes the `big elm.'
But it is just because it passes the elm she has now paused and is
pondering. Her errand calls for haste, and there she would meet a man
sure to delay her. She intends meeting him for all that, and being
delayed; but not till on her way back. Considering the darkness and
obstructions on the footwalk she may go quicker by the road though
roundabout. Returning she can take the path.
This thought in her mind, with, perhaps, remembrance of the adage,
`business before pleasure,' decides her; and drawing closer her cloak,
she sets off along the lane.
Volume One, Chapter XIX.