"I take it she be sure to come; but I'd gi'e something to know which o'
the two ways. Bein' so darkish, an' that plank a bit dangerous to
cross, I ha' heard--'tan't often I cross it--just possible she may
choose the roundabout o' the road. Still, she sayed the big elm, an' to
get there she'll have to take the path comin' or goin' back. If I
thought comin' I'd steer straight there an' meet her. But s'posin' she
prefers the road, that 'ud make it longer to wait. Wonder which it's to
be."
With hand rested on the top rail of the stile, he stands considering.
Since their stolen interchange of speech at the Harvest Home, Mary has
managed to send him word she will make an errand to Rugg's Ferry; hence
his uncertainty. Soon again he resumes his conjectured soliloquy:--
"'Tan't possible she ha' been to the Ferry, an' goed back again? God
help me, I hope not! An' yet there's just a chance. I weesh the
Captain hadn't kep' me so long down there. An' the fresh from the rain
that delayed us nigh half a hour, I oughtn't to a stayed a minute after
gettin' home. But mother cookin' that nice bit o' steak; if I hadn't
ate it she'd a been angry, and for certain suspected somethin'. Then
listenin' to all that dismal stuff 'bout the corpse-candle. An' they
believe it in the shire o' Pembroke! Rot the thing! Tho' I an't myself
noways superstishus, it gi'ed me the creeps. Queer, her dreamin' she
seed it go out o' Abergann! I do weesh she hadn't told me that; an' I
mustn't say word o't to Mary. Tho' she ain't o' the fearsome kind, a
thing like that's enough to frighten anyone. Well, what 'd I best do?
If she ha' been to the Ferry an's goed home again, then I've missed her,
and no mistake! Still, she said she'd be at the elim, an's never broke
her promise to me when she cud keep it. A man ought to take a woman at
her word--a true woman--an' not be too quick to anticipate. Besides,
the surer way's the safer. She appointed the old place, an' there I'll
abide her. But what am I thinkin' o'? She may be there now, a waitin'
for me!"
He doesn't stay by the stile one instant longer, but, vaulting over it,
strikes off along the path.
Despite the obscurity of the night, the narrowness of the track, and the
branches obstructing, he proceeds with celerity. With that part he is
familiar--knows every inch of it, well as the way from his door to the
place where he docks his boat--at least so far as the big elm, under
whose spreading branches he and she have oft clandestinely met. It is
an ancient patriarch of the forest; its timber is honeycombed with
decay, not having tempted the axe by whose stroke its fellows have long
ago fallen, and it now stands amid their progeny, towering over all. It
is a few paces distant from the footpath, screened from it by a thicket
of hollies interposed between, and extending around. From its huge
hollow trunk a buttress, horizontally projected, affords a convenient
seat for two, making it the very _beau ideal_ of a trysting-tree.
Having got up and under it, Jack Wingate is a little disappointed--
almost vexed--at not finding his sweetheart there. He calls her name--
in the hope she may be among the hollies--at first cautiously and in a
low voice, then louder. No reply; she has either not been, or has and
is gone.
As the latter appears probable enough, he once more blames Captain
Ryecroft, the rain, the river flood, the beefsteak--above all, that long
yarn about the _canwyll corph_, muttering anathemas against the ghostly
superstition.
Still she may come yet. It may be but the darkness that's delaying her.
Besides, she is not likely to have the fixing of her time. She said
she would "find a way;" and having the will--as he believes--he flatters
himself she will find it, despite all obstructions.
With confidence thus restored, he ceases to pace about impatiently, as
he has been doing ever since his arrival at the tree; and, taking a seat
on the buttress, sits listening with all ears. His eyes are of little
use in the Cimmerian gloom. He can barely make out the forms of the
holly bushes, though they are almost within reach of his hand.
But his ears are reliable, sharpened by love; and, ere long they convey
a sound, to him sweeter than any other ever heard in that wood--even the
songs of its birds. It is a swishing, as of leaves softly brushed by
the skirts of a woman's dress--which it is. He needs no telling who
comes. A subtle electricity, seeming to precede, warns him of Mary
Morgan's presence, as though she were already by his side.
All doubts and conjectures at an end, he starts to his feet, and steps
out to meet her. Soon as on the path he sees a cloaked figure, drawing
nigh with a grace of movement distinguishable even in the dim glimmering
light.
"That you, Mary?"
A question mechanical; no answer expected or waited for. Before any
could be given she is in his arms, her lips hindered from words by a
shower of kisses.
Thus having saluted, he takes her hand and leads her among the hollies.
Not from precaution, or fear of being intruded upon. Few besides the
farm people of Abergann use the right-of-way path, and unlikely any of
them being on it at that hour. It is only from habit they retire to the
more secluded spot under the elm, hallowed to them by many a sweet
remembrance.
They sit down side by side; and close, for his arm is around her waist.
How unlike the lovers in the painted pavilion at Llangorren! Here there
is neither concealment of thought nor restraint of speech--no time given
to circumlocution--none wasted in silence. There is none to spare, as
she has told him at the moment of meeting.
"It's kind o' you comin', Mary," he says, as soon as they are seated.
"I knew ye would."
"O Jack! What a work I had to get out--the trick I've played mother!
You'll laugh when you hear it."
"Let's hear it, darling!"
She relates the catastrophe of the cupboard, at which he does laugh
beyond measure, and with a sense of gratification. Six shillings thrown
away--spilled upon the floor--and all for him! Where is the man who
would not feel flattered, gratified, to be the shrine of such sacrifice,
and from such a worshipper?
"You've been to the Ferry, then?"
"You see," she says, holding up the bottle.
"I weesh I'd known that. I could a met ye on the road, and we'd had
more time to be thegither. It's too bad, you havin' to go straight
back."
"It is. But there's no help for it. Father Rogier will be there before
this, and mother mad impatient."
Were in light she would see his brow darken at mention of the priest's
name. She does not, nor does he give expression to the thoughts it has
called up. In his heart he curses the Jesuit--often has with his
tongue, but not now. He is too delicate to outrage her religious
susceptibilities. Still he cannot be altogether silent on a theme so
much concerning both.
"Mary dear!" he rejoins in grave, serious tone, "I don't want to say a
word against Father Rogier, seein' how much he be your mother's friend;
or, to speak more truthful, her favourite; for I don't believe he's the
friend o' anybody. Sartinly, not mine, nor yours; and I've got it on my
mind that man will some day make mischief between us."
"How can he, Jack?"
"Ah, how! A many ways. One, his sayin' ugly things about me to your
mother--tellin' her tales that ain't true."
"Let him--as many as he likes; you don't suppose I'll believe them?"
"No, I don't, darling--'deed I don't." A snatched kiss affirms the
sincerity of his words; hers as well, in her lips not being drawn back,
but meeting him halfway.
For a short time there is silence. With that sweet exchange thrilling
their hearts it is natural.
He is the first to resume speech; and from a thought the kiss has
suggested:--
"I know there be a good many who'd give their lives to get the like o'
that from your lips, Mary. A soft word, or only a smile. I've heerd
talk o' several. But one's spoke of, in particular, as bein' special
favourite by your mother, and backed up by the French priest."
"Who?"
She has an idea who--indeed knows; and the question is only asked to
give opportunity of denial.
"I dislike mentionin' his name. To me it seems like insultin' ye. The
very idea o' Dick Dempsey--"
"You needn't say more," she exclaims, interrupting him. "I know what
you mean. But you surely don't suppose I could think of him as a
sweetheart? That _would_ insult me."
"I hope it would; pleezed to hear you say't. For all, he thinks o' you,
Mary; not only in the way o' sweetheart, but--"
He hesitates.
"What?"
"I won't say the word. 'Tain't fit to be spoke--about him an' you."
"If you mean _wife_--as I suppose you do--listen! Rather than have
Richard Dempsey for a husband, I'd die--go down to the river and drown
myself! That horrid wretch! I hate him!"
"I'm glad to hear you talk that way--right glad."
"But why, Jack? You know it couldn't be otherwise! You should--after
all that's passed. Heaven be my witness! you I love, and you alone.
You only shall ever call me wife. If not--then nobody!"
"God bless ye!" he exclaims in answer to her impassioned speech. "God
bless you, darling!" in the fervour of his gratitude flinging his arms
around, drawing her to his bosom, and showering upon her lips an
avalanche of kisses.
With thoughts absorbed in the delirium of love, their souls for a time
surrendered to it, they hear not a rustling among the late fallen
leaves; or, if hearing, supposed it to proceed from bird or beast--the
flight of an owl, with wings touching the twigs; or a fox quartering the
cover in search of prey. Still less do they see a form skulking among
the hollies, black and boding as their shadows.
Yet such there is; the figure of a man, but with face more like that of
demon--for it is he whose name has just been upon their lips. He has
overheard all they have said; every word an added torture, every phrase
sending hell to his heart. And now, with jealousy in its last dire
throe, every remnant of hope extinguished--cruelly crushed out--he
stands, after all, unresolved how to act. Trembling, too; for he is at
bottom a coward. He might rush at them and kill both--cut them to
pieces with the knife he is holding in his hand. But if only one, and
that her, what of himself! He has an instinctive fear of Jack Wingate,
who has more than once taught him a subduing lesson.
That experience stands the young waterman in stead now, in all
likelihood saving his life. For at this moment the moon, rising, flings
a faint light through the branches of the trees; and like some ravenous
nocturnal prowler that dreads the light of day, Richard Dempsey pushes
his knife-blade back into its sheath, slips out from among the hollies,
and altogether away from the spot.
But not to go back to Rugg's Ferry, nor to his own home. Well for Mary
Morgan if he had.
By the same glimpse of silvery light warned as to the time, she knows
she must needs hasten away; as her lover, that he can no longer detain
her. The farewell kiss, so sweet yet painful, but makes their parting
more difficult; and, not till after repeating it over and over, do they
tear themselves asunder--he standing to look after, she moving off along
the woodland path, as nymph or sylphide, with no suspicion that a satyr
has preceded her and is waiting not far off, with foul fell intent--no
less than the taking of her life.