In the shire of Hereford there is no such thing as a village--properly
so called. The tourist expecting to come upon one, by the black dot on
his guide-book map, will fail to find it. Indeed, he will see only a
church with a congregation, not the typical cluster of houses around.
But no street, nor rows of cottages, in their midst--the orthodox patch
of trodden turf--the "green." Nothing of all that.
Unsatisfied, and inquiring the whereabouts of the village itself, he
will get answers, only farther confusing him. One will say "here be
it," pointing to no place in particular; a second, "thear," with his eye
upon the church; a third, "over yonner," nodding to a shop of
miscellaneous wares, also intrusted with the receiving and distributing
of letters; while a fourth, whose ideas run on drink, looks to a house
larger than the rest, having a square pictorial signboard, with red lion
_rampant_, fox _passant_, horse's head, or such like symbol--proclaiming
it an inn, or public.
Not far from, or contiguous to, the church, will be a dwelling-house of
special pretension, having a carriage entrance, sweep, and shrubbery of
well-grown evergreens--the rectory, or vicarage; at greater distance,
two or three cottages of superior class, by their owners styled
"villas," in one of which dwells the doctor, a young Esculapius, just
beginning practice, or an old one who has never had much; in another,
the relict of a successful shopkeeper left with an "independence;" while
a third will be occupied by a retired military man--"captain," of
course, whatever may have been his rank--possibly a naval officer, or an
old salt of the merchant service. In their proper places stand the
carpenters shop and smithy, with their array of reapers, rollers,
ploughs, and harrows seeking repair; among them perhaps a huge
steam-threshing machine, that has burst its boiler, or received other
damage. Then there are the houses of the _hoi polloi_, mostly labouring
men--their little cottages wide apart, or in twos and threes together,
with no resemblance to the formality of town dwellings, but quaint in
structure, ivy-clad or honeysuckled, looking and smelling of the
country. Farther along the road is an ancient farmstead, its big barns,
and other outbuildings, abutting on the highway, which for some distance
is strewn with a litter of rotting straw; by its side a muddy pond with
ducks and a half-dozen geese, the gander giving tongue as the tourist
passes by; if a pedestrian with knapsack on his shoulders the dog
barking at him, in the belief he is a tramp or beggar. Such is the
Herefordshire village, of which many like may be met along Wyeside.
The collection of houses known as Rugg's Ferry is in some respects
different. It does not lie on any of the main county thoroughfares, but
a cross-country road connecting the two, that lead along the hounding
ridges of the river. That passing through it is but little frequented,
as the ferry itself is only for foot passengers, though there is a horse
boat which can be had when called for. But the place is in a deep
crater-like hollow, where the stream courses between cliffs of the old
red sandstone, and can only be approached by the steepest "pitches."
Nevertheless, Rugg's Ferry has its mark upon the Ordnance map, though
not with the little crosslet denoting a church. It could boast of no
place of worship whatever till Father Rogier laid the foundation of his
chapel.
For all, it has once been a brisk place in its days of glory; ere the
railroad destroyed the river traffic, and the bargees made it a stopping
port, as often the scene of rude, noisy revelry.
It is quieter now, and the tourist passing through might deem it almost
deserted. He will see houses of varied construction--thirty or forty of
them in all--clinging against the cliff in successive terraces, reached
by long rows of steps carved out of the rock; cottages picturesque as
Swiss _chalets_, with little gardens on ledges, here and there one
trellised with grape vines or other climbers, and a round cone-topped
cage of wicker holding captive a jackdaw, magpie, or it may be parrot or
starling taught to speak.
Viewing these symbols of innocence, the stranger will imagine himself to
have lighted upon a sort of English Arcadia--a fancy soon to be
dissipated perhaps by the parrot or starling saluting him with the
exclamatory phrases, `God-damn-ye! go to the devil!--go to the devil!'
And while he is pondering on what sort of personage could have
instructed the creature in such profanity, he will likely enough see the
instructor himself peering out through a partially opened door, his face
in startling correspondence with the blasphemous exclamations of the
bird. For there are other birds resident at Rugg's Ferry besides those
in the cages--several who have themselves been caged in the county gaol.
The slightly altered name bestowed upon the place by Jack Wingate, as
others, is not so inappropriate.
It may seem strange such characters congregating in a spot so primitive
and rural, so unlike their customary haunts; incongruous as the ex-belle
of Mabille in her high-heeled _bottines_ inhabiting the ancient
manor-house of Glyngog.
But more of an enigma--indeed, a moral, or psychological puzzle; since
one would suppose it the very last place to find them in. And yet the
explanation may partly lie in moral and psychological causes. Even the
most hardened rogue has his spells of sentiment, during which he takes
delight in rusticity; and as the "Ferry" has long enjoyed the reputation
of being a place of abode for him and his sort, he is there sure of
meeting company congenial. Or the scent after him may have become too
hot in the town, or city, where he has been displaying his dexterity;
while here the policeman is not a power. The one constable of the
district station dislikes taking, and rather steals through it on his
rounds.
Notwithstanding all this, there are some respectable people among its
denizens, and many visitors who are gentlemen. Its quaint
picturesqueness attracts the tourist; while a stretch of excellent
angling ground, above and below, makes it a favourite with amateur
fishermen.
Centrally on a platform of level ground, a little back from the river's
bank, stands a large three-storey house--the village inn--with a swing
sign in front, upon which is painted what resembles a triangular
gridiron, though designed to represent a harp. From this the hostelry
has its name--the "Welsh Harp!" But however rough the limning, and
weather-blanched the board--however ancient the building itself--in its
business there are no indications of decay, and it still does a thriving
trade. Guests of the excursionist kind occasionally dine there; while
in the angling season, _piscator_ stays at it all through spring and
summer; and if a keen disciple of Izaak, or an ardent admirer of the Wye
scenery, often prolonging his sojourn into late autumn. Besides, from
towns not too distant, the sporting tradesmen and fast clerks, after
early closing on Saturdays, come hither, and remain over till Monday,
for the first train catchable at a station some two miles off.
The "Welsh Harp" can provide beds for all, and sitting rooms besides.
For it is a roomy _caravanserai_, and if a little rough in its culinary
arrangements, has a cellar unexceptionable. Among those who taste its
tap are many who know good wine from bad, with others who only judge of
the quality by the price; and in accordance with this criterion the
Boniface of the "Harp" can give them the very best.
It is a Saturday night, and two of those last described connoisseurs,
lately arrived at the Wyeside hostelry, are standing before its bar
counter, drinking rhubarb sap, which they facetiously call "fizz," and
believe to be champagne. As it costs them ten shillings the bottle they
are justified in their belief; and quite as well will it serve their
purpose. They are young drapers' assistants from a large manufacturing
town, out for their hebdomadal holiday, which they have elected to spend
in an excursion to the Wye, and a frolic at Rugg's Ferry.
They have had an afternoon's boating on the river; and, now returned to
the "Harp"--their place of put-up--are flush of talk over their
adventures, quaffing the sham "shammy," and smoking "regalias," not
anything more genuine.
While thus indulging they are startled by the apparition of what seems
an angel, but what they know to be a thing of flesh and blood--something
that pleases them better--a beautiful woman. More correctly speaking a
girl; since it is Mary Morgan who has stepped inside the room set apart
for the distributing of drink.
Taking the cigars from between their teeth--and leaving the rhubarb
juice, just poured into their glasses, to discharge its pent-up gas--
they stand staring at the girl, with an impertinence rather due to the
drink than any innate rudeness. They are harmless fellows in their way;
would be quiet enough behind their own counters; though fast before that
of the "Welsh Harp," and foolish with such a face as that of Mary Morgan
beside them.
She gives them scant time to gaze on it. Her business is simple, and
speedily transacted.
"A bottle of your best brandy--the French cognac?" As she makes the
demand, placing ten shillings, the price understood, upon the
lead-covered counter.
The barmaid, a practised hand, quickly takes the article called for from
a shelf behind, and passes it across the counter, and with like
alertness counting the shillings laid upon it, and sweeping them into
the till.
It is all over in a few seconds' time; and with equal celerity Mary
Morgan, slipping the purchased commodity into her cloak, glides out of
the room--vision-like as she entered it.
"Who is that young lady?" asks one of the champagne drinkers,
interrogating the barmaid.
"Young lady!" tartly returns the latter, with a flourish of her heavily
chignoned head, "only a farmer's daughter."
"Aw!" exclaims the second tippler, in drawling imitation of Swelldom,
"only the offspring of a chaw-bacon! she's a monstrously crummy creetya,
anyhow."
"Devilish nice gal!" affirms the other, no longer addressing himself to
the barmaid, who has scornfully shown them the back of her head, with
its tower of twisted jute. "Devilish nice gal, indeed! Never saw
spicier stand before a counter. What a dainty little fish for a
farmer's daughter! Say, Charley! wouldn't you like to be sellin' her a
pair of kids--Jouvin's best--helpin' her draw them on, eh?"
"By Jove, yes! That would I."
"Perhaps you'd prefer it being boots? What a stepper she is, too!
S'pose we slide after, and see where she hangs out?"
"Capital idea! Suppose we do?"
"All right, old fellow! I'm ready with the yard stick--roll off!"
And without further exchange of their professional phraseology, they
rush out, leaving their glasses half full of the effervescing beverage--
rapidly on the spoil.
They have sallied forth to meet disappointment. The night is black as
Erebus, and the girl gone out of sight. Nor can they tell which way she
has taken; and to inquire might get them "guyed," if not worse.
Besides, they see no one of whom inquiry could be made. A dark shadow
passes them, apparently the figure of a man; but so dimly descried, and
going in such rapid gait, they refrain from hailing him.
Not likely they will see more of the "monstrously crummy creetya" that
night--they may on the morrow somewhere--perhaps at the little chapel
close by.
Registering a mental vow to do their devotions there, and recalling the
bottle of fizz left uncorked on the counter they return to finish it.
And they drain it dry, gulping down several goes of B-and-S, besides,
ere ceasing to think of the "devilish nice gal," on whose dainty little
fist they would so like fitting kid gloves.
Meanwhile, she, who has so much interested the dry goods gentlemen, is
making her way along the road which leads past the Widow Wingate's
cottage, going at a rapid pace, but not continuously. At intervals she
makes stops, and stands listening--her glances sent interrogatively to
the front. She acts as one expecting to hear footsteps, or a voice in
friendly salutation--and see him saluting, for it is a man.
Footsteps are there besides her own, but not heard by her, nor in the
direction she is hoping to hear them. Instead, they are behind, and
light, though made by a heavy man. For he is treading gingerly as if on
eggs--evidently desirous not to make known his proximity. Near he is,
and were the light only a little clearer she would surely see him.
Favoured by its darkness he can follow close, aided also by the
shadowing trees, and still further from her attention being all given to
the ground in advance, with thoughts preoccupied.
But closely he follows her, but never coming up. When she stops he does
the same, moving on again as she moves forward. And so for several
pauses, with spells of brisk walking between.
Opposite the Wingates' cottage she tarries longer than elsewhere. There
was a woman standing in the door, who, however, does not observe her--
cannot--a hedge of holly between. Cautiously parting its spinous leaves
and peering through, the young girl takes a survey, not of the woman,
whom she well knows, but of a window--the only one in which there is a
light. And less the window than the walls inside. On her way to the
Ferry she had stopped to do the same; then seeing shadows--two of them--
one a woman's, the other of a man. The woman is there in the door--Mrs
Wingate herself; the man, her son, must be elsewhere.
"Under the elm, by this," says Mary Morgan, in soliloquy. "I'll find
him there,"--she adds, silently gliding past the gate.
"Under the elm," mutters the man who follows, adding, "I'll kill her
there--ay, both!"
Two hundred yards further on, and she reaches the place where the
footpath debouches upon the road. There is a stile of the usual rough
crossbar pattern, proclaiming a right of way.
She stops only to see there is no one sitting upon it--for there might
have been--then leaping lightly over, she proceeds along the path.
The shadow behind does the same, as though it were a spectre pursuing.
And now, in the deeper darkness of the narrow way, arcaded over by a
thick canopy of leaves, he goes closer and closer, almost to touching.
Were a light at this moment let upon his face, it would reveal features
set in an expression worthy of hell itself; and cast farther down, would
show a hand closed upon the haft of a long-bladed knife--nervously
clutching--every now and then half drawing it from its sheath, as if to
plunge its blade into the back of her who is now scarce six steps ahead!
And with this dread danger threatening--so close--Mary Morgan proceeds
along the forest path, unsuspectingly: joyfully, as she thinks of who is
before, with no thought of that behind--no one to cry out, or even
whisper, the word: "Beware!"
Volume One, Chapter XX.