"It be the best stuff I know of to put spirit into a man, an' makes him
feel cheery. I've heerd the Captain hisself say, it beats their
_Spanish Port_ all to pieces."
Though somewhat astray in his commercial geography, the young waterman,
as his patron, is right about the quality of the beverage; for
elderberry wine, made in the correct way, _is_ superior to that of
Oporto. Curious scientific fact, I believe not generally known, that
the soil where grows the _Sambucus_ is that most favourable to the
growth of the grape.
Without going thus deeply into the philosophy of the subject, or at all
troubling himself about it, the boatman soon gets to the bottom of his
glass, and bidding his mother good night, retires to his sleeping room.
Getting into bed, he lies for a while sweetly thinking of Mary Morgan,
and that satisfactory interview under the elm; then goes to sleep as
sweetly to dream of her.
There is just a streak of daylight stealing in through the window as he
awakes; enough to warn him that it is time to be up and stirring. Up he
instantly is and arrays himself, not in his everyday boating
habiliments, but a suit worn only on Sundays and holidays.
The mother, also astir betimes, has his breakfast on the table soon as
he is rigged; and just as he finishes eating it, the rattle of wheels on
the road in front, with voices, tells him his fare has arrived.
Hastening out, he sees a grand carriage drawn up at the gate, double
horsed, with coachman and footman on the box; inside young Mr Powell,
his pretty sister, and two others--a lady and gentleman, also young.
Soon they are all seated in the boat, the coachman having been ordered
to take the carriage home, and bring it back at a certain hour. The
footman goes with them--the _Mary_ having seats for six.
Rowed down stream, the young people converse among themselves; gaily,
now and then giving way to laughter, as though it were any other day
than Sunday. But their boatman is merry also, with memories of the
preceding night; and, though not called upon to take part in their
conversation, he likes listening to it. Above all he is pleased with
the appearance of Miss Powell, a very beautiful girl; and takes note of
the attention paid her by the gentleman who sits opposite. Jack is
rather interested in observing these, as they remind him of his own
first approaches to Mary Morgan.
His eyes, though, are for a time removed from them, while the boat is
passing Abergann. Out of the farmhouse chimneys just visible over the
tops of the trees, he sees smoke ascending. It is not yet seven
o'clock, but the Morgans are early risers, and by this mother and
daughter will be on their way to _Matins_, and possibly Confession at
the Rugg's Ferry Chapel. He dislikes to reflect on the last, and longs
for the day when he has hopes to cure his sweetheart of such a repulsive
devotional practice.
Pulling on down he ceases to think of it, and of her for the time, his
attention being engrossed by the management of the boat. For just below
Abergann the stream runs sharply, and is given to caprices. But further
on, it once more flows in gentle tide along the meadow lands of
Llangorren.
Before turning the bend, where Gwen Wynn and Eleanor Lees were caught in
the rapid current, at the estuary of a sluggish inflowing brook, whose
waters are now beaten back by the flooded river, he sees what causes him
to start, and hang on the stroke of his oar.
"What is it, Wingate?" asks young Powell, observing his strange
behaviour. "Oh! a waif--that plank floating yonder! I suppose you'd
like to pick it up! But remember! it's Sunday, and we must confine
ourselves to works of necessity and mercy."
Little think the four who smile at this remark--five with the footman--
what a weird, painful impression the sight of that drifting thing has
made on the sixth who is rowing them.
Nor does it leave him all that day; but clings to him in the church, to
which he goes; at the Rectory, where he is entertained; and while rowing
back up the river--hangs heavy on his heart as lead!
Returning, he looks out for the piece of timber; but cannot see it; for
it is now after night, the young people having stayed dinner with their
friend the clergyman.
Kept later than they intended, on arrival at the boat's dock they do not
remain there an instant; but, getting into the carriage, which has been
some time awaiting them, are whirled off to New Hall.
Impatient are they to be home. Far more--for a different reason--the
waterman; who but stays to tie the boat's painter; and, leaving the oars
in her thwarts, hastens into his house. The plank is still uppermost in
his thoughts, the presentiment heavy on his heart.
Not lighter, as on entering at the door he sees his mother seated with
her head bowed down to her knees.