"Only the priest!" muttered Coracle to himself, but little better
satisfied than if it were the policeman.
Giving the lurcher a kick to quiet the animal, he pulls back the bolt,
and draws open the door, as he does so asking, "That you, Father
Rogier?"
"_C'est moi_!" answers the priest, stepping in without invitation. "Ah!
_mon bracconier_! you're having something nice for supper. Judging by
the aroma _ragout_ of hare. Hope I haven't disturbed you. Is it hare?"
"It was, your Reverence, a bit of leveret."
"Was! You've finished then. It is all gone?"
"It is. The dog had the remains of it, as ye see."
He points to the dish on the floor.
"I'm sorry at that--having rather a relish for leveret. It can't be
helped, however."
"I wish I'd known ye were comin'. Dang the dog!"
"No, no! Don't blame the poor dumb brute. No doubt, it too has a taste
for hare, seeing it's half hound. I suppose leverets are plentiful just
now, and easily caught, since they can no longer retreat to the standing
corn?"
"Yes, your Reverence. There be a good wheen o' them about."
"In that case, if you should stumble upon one, and bring it to my house,
I'll have it jugged for myself. By the way, what have you got in that
black jack?"
"It's brandy."
"Well, Monsieur Dick; I'll thank you for a mouthful."
"Will you take it neat, or mixed wi' a drop o' water?"
"Neat--raw. The night's that, and the two raws will neutralise one
another. I feel chilled to the bones, and a little fatigued, toiling
against the storm."
"It be a fearsome night. I wonder at your Reverence bein' out--exposin'
yourself in such weather!"
"All weathers are alike to me--when duty calls. Just now I'm abroad on
a little matter of business that won't brook delay."
"Business--wi' me?"
"With you, _mon bracconier_!"
"What may it be, your Reverence?"
"Sit down, and I shall tell you. It's too important to be discussed
standing."
The introductory dialogue does not tranquillise the poacher; instead,
further intensifies his fears. Obedient, he takes his seat one side the
table, the priest planting himself on the other, the glass of brandy
within reach of his hand.
After a sip, he resumes speech with the remark:
"If I mistake not, you are a poor man, Monsieur Dempsey?"
"You ain't no ways mistaken 'bout that, Father Rogier."
"And you'd like to be a rich one?"
Thus encouraged, the poacher's face lights up a little. Smilingly, he
makes reply:
"I can't say as I'd have any particular objection. 'Stead, I'd like it
wonderful well."
"You can be, if so inclined."
"I'm ever so inclined, as I've sayed. But how, your Reverence? In this
hard work-o'-day world 'tant so easy to get rich."
"For you, easy enough. No labour and not much more difficulty than
transporting your coracle five or six miles across the meadows."
"Somethin' to do wi' the coracle, have it?"
"No; 'twill need a bigger boat--one that will carry three or four
people. Do you know where you can borrow such, or hire it?"
"I think I do. I've a friend, the name o' Rob Trotter, who's got just
sich a boat. He'd lend it me, sure."
"Charter it, if he doesn't. Never mind about the price. I'll pay."
"When might you want it, your Reverence?"
"On Thursday night, at ten, or a little later--say half-past."
"And where am I to bring it?"
"To the Ferry; you'll have it against the bank by the back of the Chapel
burying-ground, and keep it there till I come to you. Don't leave it to
go up to the `Harp,' or anywhere else; and don't let any one see either
the boat or yourself, if you can possibly avoid it. As the nights are
now dark at that hour, there need be no difficulty in your rowing up the
river without being observed. Above all, you're to make no one the
wiser of what you're to do, or anything I'm now saying to you. The
service I want you for is one of a secret kind, and not to be prattled
about."
"May I have a hint o' what it is?"
"Not now; you shall know in good time--when you meet me with the boat.
There will be another along with me--may be two--to assist in the
affair. What will be required of you is a little dexterity, _such as
you displayed on Saturday night_."
No need the emphasis on the last words to impress their meaning upon the
murderer. Too well he comprehends, starting in his chair as if a hornet
had stung him.
"How--where?" he gasps out in the confusion of terror.
The double interrogatory is but mechanical, and of no consequence.
Hopeless any attempt at concealment or subterfuge; as he is aware on
receiving the answer, cool and provokingly deliberate.
"You have asked two questions, Monsieur Dick, that call for separate
replies. To the first, `How?' I leave you to grope out the answer for
yourself, feeling pretty sure you'll find it. With the second I'll be
more particular, if you wish me. Place--where a certain foot plank
bridges a certain brook, close to the farmhouse of Abergann. It--the
plank, I mean--last Saturday night, a little after nine, took a fancy to
go drifting down the Wye. Need I tell you who sent it, Richard
Dempsey?"
The man thus interrogated looks more than confused--horrified, well nigh
crazed. Excitedly stretching out his hand, he clutches the bottle, half
fills the tumbler with brandy, and drinks it down at a gulp. He almost
wishes it were poison, and would instantly kill him!
Only after dashing the glass down does he make reply--sullenly, and in a
hoarse, husky voice:
"I don't want to know, one way or the other. Damn the plank! What do I
care?"
"You shouldn't blaspheme, Monsieur Dick. That's not becoming--above
all, in the presence of your spiritual adviser. However, you're
excited, as I see, which is in some sense an excuse."
"I beg your Reverence's pardon. I was a bit excited about something."
He has calmed down a little, at thought that things may not be so bad
for him after all. The priest's last words, with his manner, seem to
promise secrecy. Still further quieted as the latter continues:
"Never mind about what. We can talk of it afterwards. As I've made you
aware--more than once, if I rightly remember--there's no sin so great
but that pardon may reach it--if repented and atoned for. On Thursday
night you shall have an opportunity to make some atonement. So, be
there with the boat!"
"I will, your Reverence; sure as my name's Richard Dempsey."
Idle of him to be thus earnest in promising. He can be trusted to come
as if led in a string. For he knows there is a halter around his neck,
with one end of it in the hand of Father Rogier.
"Enough!" returns the priest. "If there be anything else I think of
communicating to you before Thursday I'll come again--to-morrow night.
So be at home. Meanwhile, see to securing the boat. Don't let there be
any failure about that, _coute que coute_. And let me again enjoin
silence--not a word to any one, even your friend Rob. _Verbum
sapientibus_! But as you're not much of a scholar, Monsieur Coracle, I
suppose my Latin's lost on you. Putting it in your own vernacular, I
mean: keep a close mouth, if you don't wish to wear a necktie of
material somewhat coarser than either silk or cotton. You comprehend?"
To the priest's satanical humour the poacher answers, with a sickly
smile,--
"I do, Father Rogier; perfectly."
"That's sufficient. And now, _mon bracconier_, I must be gone. Before
starting out, however, I'll trench a little further on your hospitality.
Just another drop, to defend me from these chill equinoctials."
Saying which he leans towards the table, pours out a stoop of the
brandy--best Cognac from the "Harp" it is--then quaffing it off, bids
"bon soir!" and takes departure.
Having accompanied him to the door, the poacher stands upon its
threshold looking after, reflecting upon what has passed, anything but
pleasantly. Never took he leave of a guest less agreeable. True,
things are not quite so bad as he might have expected, and had reason to
anticipate. And yet they are bad enough. He is in the toils--the
tough, strong meshes of the criminal net, which at any moment may be
drawn tight and fast around him; and between policeman and priest there
is little to choose. For his own purposes the latter may allow him to
live; but it will be as the life of one who has sold his soul to the
devil!
While thus gloomily cogitating he hears a sound, which but makes still
more sombre the hue of his thoughts. A voice comes pealing up the
glen--a wild, wailing cry, as of some one in the extreme of distress.
He can almost fancy it the shriek of a drowning woman. But his ears are
too much accustomed to nocturnal sounds, and the voices of the woods, to
be deceived. That heard was only a little unusual by reason of the
rough night--its tone altered by the whistling of the wind.
"Bah!" he exclaims, recognising the call of the screech-owl, "it's only
one o' them cursed brutes. What a fool fear makes a man!"
And with this hackneyed reflection he turns back into the house, rebolts
the door, and goes to his bed; not to sleep, but lie long awake--kept so
by that same fear.
Volume Two, Chapter VIII.