"What's the matter, mother?"
The question is mechanical--he almost anticipates the answer, or its
nature.
"Oh, my son, my son! As I told ye. It _was the canwyll corph_!"
Volume Two, Chapter IV.
"THE FLOWER OF LOVE-LIES-BLEEDING."
There is a crowd collected round the farmhouse of Abergann. Not an
excited, or noisy one; instead, the people composing it are of staid
demeanour, with that formal solemnity observable on the faces of those
at a funeral.
And a funeral it is, or soon to be. For, inside there is a chamber of
death; a coffin with a corpse--that of her, who, had she lived, would
have been Jack Wingate's wife.
Mary Morgan has indeed fallen victim to the mad spite of a monster.
Down went she into that swollen stream, which, ruthless and cruel as he
who committed her to it, carried her off on its engulfing tide--her form
tossed to and fro, now sinking, now coming to the surface, and again
going down. No one to save her--not an effort at rescue made by the
cowardly Frenchman; who, rushing on to the chasm's edge, there
stopped,--only to gaze affrightedly at the flood surging below,
foam-crested; only to listen to her agonised cry, further off and more
freely put forth, as she was borne onward to her doom.
Once again he heard it, in that tone which tells of life's last struggle
with death--proclaiming death the conqueror. Then all was over. As he
stood horror-stricken, half-bewildered, a cloud suddenly curtained the
moon, bringing black darkness upon the earth, as if a pall had been
thrown over it. Even the white froth on the water was for the while
invisible. He could see nothing--nothing hear, save the hoarse, harsh
torrent rolling relentlessly on. Of no avail, then, his hurrying back
to the house, and raising the alarm. Too late it was to save Mary
Morgan from drowning; and, only by the accident of her body being thrown
up against a bank was it that night recovered.
It is the third day after, and the funeral about to take place. Though
remote the situation of the farm-stead, and sparsely inhabited the
district immediately around, the assemblage is a large one. This partly
from the unusual circumstances of the girl's death, but as much from the
respect in which Evan Morgan is held by his neighbours, far and near.
They are there in their best attire, men and women alike, Protestants as
Catholics, to show a sympathy, which in truth many of them sincerely
feel.
Nor is there among the people assembled any conjecturing about the cause
of the fatal occurrence. No hint, or suspicion, that there has been
foul play. How could there? So clearly an accident, as pronounced by
the coroner at his inquiry held the day after the drowning--brief and
purely _pro forma_.
Mrs Morgan herself told of her daughter sent on that errand from which
she never returned; while the priest, eye-witness, stated the reason
why. Taken together, this was enough; though further confirmed by the
absent plank, found and brought back on the following day. Even had
Wingate rowed back up the river during daylight, he would not have seen
it again. The farm labourers and others, accustomed to cross by it,
gave testimony as to its having been loose.
But of all whose evidence was called for, one alone could have put a
different construction on the tale. Father Rogier could have done this;
but did not, having his reasons for withholding the truth. He is now in
possession of a secret that will make Richard Dempsey his slave for
life--his instrument, willing or unwilling, for such purpose as he may
need him, no matter what its iniquity.
The hour of interment has been fixed for twelve o'clock. It is now a
little after eleven, and everybody has arrived at the house. The men
stand outside in groups, some in the little flower garden in front,
others straying into the farmyard to have a look at the fatting pigs, or
about the pastures to view the white-faced Herefords and "Bye-land"
sheep; of which last Evan Morgan is a noted breeder.
Inside the house are the women--some relatives of the deceased, with the
farmer's friends and more familiar acquaintances. All admitted to the
chamber of death to take a last look at the dead. The corpse is in the
coffin, but with lid not yet screwed on. There lies the corpse in its
white drapery, still untouched by "decay's effacing fingers," beautiful
as living bride, though now a bride for the altar of eternity.
The stream passes in and out; but besides those only curious coming and
going, there are some who remain in the room. Mrs Morgan herself sits
beside the coffin, at intervals giving way to wildest grief; a cluster
of women around vainly essaying to comfort her.
There is a young man seated in the corner, who seems to need consoling
almost as much as she. Every now and then his breast heaves in audible
sobbing as though the heart within were about to break. None wonder at
this; for it is Jack Wingate.
Still, there are those who think it strange his being there--above all,
as if made welcome. They know not the remarkable change that has taken
place in the feelings of Mrs Morgan. Beside that bed of death all who
were dear to her daughter, were dear to her now. And she is aware that
the young waterman was so. For he has told her, with tearful eyes and
sad, earnest words, whose truthfulness could not be doubted.
But where is the other, the false one? Not there--never has been since
the fatal occurrence. Came not to the inquest, came not to inquire or
condole; comes not now to show sympathy, or take part in the rites of
sepulture.
There are some who make remark about his absence, though none lament
it--not even Mrs Morgan herself. The thought of the bereaved mother is
that he would have ill-befitted being her son. Only a fleeting
reflection, her whole soul being engrossed in grief for her lost
daughter.
The hour for closing the coffin has come. They but await the priest to
say some solemn words. He has not yet arrived, though every instant
looked for. A personage so important has many duties to perform, and
may be detained by them elsewhere.
For all, he does not fail. While inside the death chamber they are
conjecturing the cause of his delay, a buzz outside, with a shuffling of
feet in the passage, tells of way being made for him.
Presently he enters the room, and stepping up to the coffin stands
beside it, all eyes turned towards him. His are upon the face of the
corpse--at first with the usual look of official gravity and feigned
grief. But continuing to gaze upon it, a strange expression comes over
his features, as though he saw something that surprised, or unusually
interested him. It affects him even to giving a start; so light,
however, that no one seems to observe it. Whatever the emotion, he
conceals it; and in calm voice pronounces the prayer, with all its
formalities and gestures.
The lid is laid on, covering the form of Mary Morgan--for ever veiling
her face from the world. Then the pall is thrown over, and all carried
outside.
There is no hearse, no plumes, nor paid pall-bearers. Affection
supplies the place of this heartless luxury of the tomb. On the
shoulders of four men the coffin is borne away, the crowd forming into
procession as it passes, and following.
On to the Rugg's Ferry chapel,--into its cemetery, late consecrated.
There lowered into a grave already prepared to receive it; and, after
the usual ceremonial of the Roman Catholic religion covered up, and
turfed over.
Then the mourners scatter off for their homes, singly or in groups,
leaving the remains of Mary Morgan in their last resting-place, only her
near relatives with thought of ever again returning to stand over them.
There is one exception; this is a mail not related to her, but who would
have been had she lived. Wingate goes away with the intention ere long
to return. The chapel burying-ground brinks upon the river, and when
the shades of night have descended over it, he brings his boat
alongside. Then, fixing her to the bank, he steps out, and proceeds in
the direction of the new made grave. All this cautiously, and with
circumspection, as if fearing to be seen. The darkness favouring him,
he is not.
Reaching the sacred spot he kneels down, and with a knife, taken from
his pockets, scoops out a little cavity in the lately laid turf. Into
this he inserts a plant, which he has brought along with him--one of a
common kind, but emblematic of no ordinary feeling. It is that known to
country people as "The Flower of Love-lies-bleeding" (_Amaranthus
caudatus_).
Closing the earth around its roots, and restoring the sods, he bends
lower, till his lips are in contact with the grass upon the grave. One
near enough might hear convulsive sobbing, accompanied by the words:--
"Mary, darling! you're wi' the angels now; and I know you'll forgie me,
if I've done ought to bring about this dreadful thing. Oh, dear, dear
Mary! I'd be only too glad to be lyin' in the grave along wi' ye. As
God's my witness I would."
For a time he is silent, giving way to his grief--so wild as to seem
unbearable. And just for an instant he himself thinks it so, as he
kneels with the knife still open in his hand, his eyes fixed upon it. A
plunge with that shining blade with point to his heart, and all his
misery would be over! "My mother--my poor mother--no!" These few
words, with the filial thought conveyed, save him from suicide. Soon as
repeating them, he shuts to his knife, rises to his feet, and returning
to the boat again rows himself home--but never with so heavy a heart.
Volume Two, Chapter V.