Coracle Dick lives all alone. If he have relatives they are not near,
nor does any one in the neighbourhood know aught about them. Only some
vague report of a father away off in the colonies, where he went against
his will; while the mother--is believed dead.
Not less solitary is Coracle's place of abode. Situated in a dingle
with sides thickly wooded, it is not visible from anywhere. Nor is it
near any regular road; only approachable by a path, which there ends;
the dell itself being a _cul-de-sac_. Its open end is toward the river,
running in at a point where the bank is precipitous, so hindering
thoroughfare along the stream's edge, unless when its waters are at
their lowest.
Coracle's house is but a hovel, no better than the cabin of a backwoods
squatter. Timber structure, too, in part, with a filling up of rough
mason work. Its half-dozen perches of garden ground, once reclaimed
from the wood, have grown wild again, no spade having touched them for
years. The present occupant of the tenement has no taste for gardening,
nor agriculture of any kind; he is a poacher, _pur sang_--at least, so
far as is known. And it seems to pay him better than would the
cultivation of cabbages--with pheasants at nine shillings the brace, and
salmon three shillings the pound. He has the river, if not the mere,
for his net, and the land for his game; making as free with both as ever
did Alan-a-dale.
But, whatever the price of fish and game, be it high or low, Coracle is
never without good store of cash, spending it freely at the Welsh Harp,
as elsewhere; at times so lavishly, that people of suspicious nature
think it cannot all be the product of night netting and snaring. Some
of it, say scandalous tongues, is derived from other industries, also
practised by night, and less reputable than trespassing after game.
But, as already said, these are only rumours, and confined to the few.
Indeed, only a very few have intimate acquaintance with the man. He is
of a reserved, taciturn habit, somewhat surly: not talkative even in his
cups. And though ever ready to stand treat in the Harp tap-room he
rarely practises hospitality in his own house; only now and then, when
some acquaintance of like kidney and calling pays him a visit. Then the
solitary domicile has its silence disturbed by the talk of men, thick as
thieves--often speech which, if heard beyond its walls, 'twould not be
well for its owner.
More than half time however, the poacher's dwelling is deserted, and
oftener at night than by day. Its door shut, and padlocked, tells when
the tenant is abroad. Then only a rough lurcher dog--a dangerous
animal, too--is guardian of the place. Not that there are any chattels
to tempt the cupidity of the kleptomaniac. The most valuable moveable
inside were not worth carrying away; and outside is but the coracle
standing in a lean-to shed, propped up by its paddle. It is not always
there, and, when absent, it may be concluded that its owner is on some
expedition up, down, or across the river. Nor is the dog always at
home; his absence proclaiming the poacher engaged in the terrestrial
branch of his profession--running down hares or rabbits.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
It is the night of the same day that has seen the remains of Mary Morgan
consigned to their resting-place in the burying-ground of the Rugg's
Ferry chapel. A wild night it has turned out, dark and stormy. The
autumnal equinox is on, and its gales have commenced stripping the trees
of their foliage. Around the dwelling of Dick Dempsey the fallen leaves
lie thick, covering the ground as with cloth of gold; at intervals torn
to shreds, as the wind swirls them up and holds them suspended.
Every now and then they are driven against the door, which is shut, but
not locked. The hasp is hanging loose, the padlock with its bowed bolt
open. The coracle is seen standing upright in the shed; the lurcher not
anywhere outside--for the animal is within, lying upon the hearth in
front of a cheerful fire. And before the same sits its master,
regarding a pot which hangs over it on hooks; at intervals lifting off
the lid, and stirring the contents with a long-handled spoon of white
metal. What these are might be told by the aroma; a stew, smelling
strongly of onions with game savour conjoined. Ground game at that, for
Coracle is in the act of "jugging" a hare. Handier to no man than him
were the recipe of Mrs Glass, for he comes up to all its requirements--
even the primary and essential one--knows how to catch his hare as well
as cook it.
The stew is done, dished, and set steaming upon the table, where already
has been placed a plate--the time-honoured willow pattern--with a knife
and two-pronged fork. There is, besides, a jug of water, a bottle
containing brandy, and a tumbler.
Drawing his chair up, Coracle commences eating. The hare is a young
one--a leveret he has just taken from the stubble--tender and juicy--
delicious even without the red-currant jelly he has not got, and for
which he does not care. Withal, he appears but little to enjoy the
meal, and only eats as a man called upon to satisfy the cravings of
hunger. Every now and then, as the fork is being carried to his head,
he holds it suspended, with the morsel of flesh on its prongs, while
listening to sounds outside!
At such intervals the expression upon his countenance is that of the
keenest apprehension; and as a gust of wind, unusually violent, drives a
leafy branch in loud clout against the door, he starts in his chair,
fancying it the knock of a policeman with his muffled truncheon!
This night the poacher is suffering from no ordinary fear of being
summoned for game trespass. Were that all, he could eat his leveret as
composedly as if it had been regularly purchased and paid for. But
there is more upon his mind; the dread of a writ being presented to him,
with shackles at the same time--of being taken handcuffed to the county
jail--thence before a court of assize--and finally to the scaffold!
He has reason to apprehend all this. Notwithstanding his deep cunning,
and the dexterity with which he accomplished his great crime, a man must
have witnessed it. Above the roar of the torrent, mingling with the
cries of the drowning girl as she struggled against it, were shouts in a
man's voice, which he fancied to be that of Father Rogier. From what he
has since heard he is now certain of it. The coroner's inquest, at
which he was not present, but whose report has reached him, puts that
beyond doubt. His only uncertainty is, whether Rogier saw him by the
footbridge, and if so to recognise him. True, the priest has nothing
said of him at the 'quest; for all he, Coracle, has his suspicions; now
torturing him almost as much as if sure that he was detected tampering
with the plank. No wonder he eats his supper with little relish, or
that after every few mouthfuls he takes a swallow of the brandy, with a
view to keeping up his spirits.
Withal he has no remorse. When he recalls the hastily exchanged
speeches he overheard upon Garran-hill, with that more prolonged
dialogue under the trysting-tree, the expression upon his features is
not one of repentance, but devilish satisfaction at the fell deed he has
done. Not that his vengeance is yet satisfied. It will not be till he
have the other life--that of Jack Wingate. He has dealt the young
waterman a blow which at the same time afflicts himself; only by dealing
a deadlier one will his own sufferings be relieved. He has been long
plotting his rival's death, but without seeing a safe way to accomplish
it. And now the thing seems no nearer than ever--this night farther
off. In his present frame of mind--with the dread of the gallows upon
it--he would be too glad to cry quits, and let Wingate live!
Starting at every swish of the wind, he proceeds with his supper,
hastily devouring it, like a wild beast; and when at length finished, he
sets the dish upon the floor for the dog. Then lighting his pipe, and
drawing the bottle nearer to his hand, he sits for a while smoking.
Not long before being interrupted by a noise at the door; this time no
stroke of wind-tossed waif, but a touch of knuckles. Though slight and
barely audible, the dog knows it to be a knock, as shown by his
behaviour. Dropping the half-gnawed bone, and springing to its feet,
the animal gives out an angry growling.
Its master has himself started from his chair, and stands trembling.
There is a slit of a door at back convenient for escape; and for an
instant his eye is on it, as though he had half a mind to make exit that
way. He would blow out the light were it a candle; but cannot as it is
the fire, whose faggots are still brightly ablaze.
While thus undecided, he hears the knock repeated; this time louder, and
with the accompaniment of a voice, saying:
"Open your door, Monsieur Dick."
Not a policeman, then; only the priest!
Volume Two, Chapter VII.