"The poor lad! His heart be sore sad; at times most nigh breakin'!
That's plain--spite o' all he try hide it."
It is the Widow Wingate, who thus compassionately reflects--the subject
her son.
She is alone within her cottage, the waterman being away with his boat.
Captain Ryecroft has taken him down the river. It is on this nocturnal
exploration, when the cliff at Llangorren is inspected by lamplight.
But she knows neither the purpose nor the place, any more than did Jack
himself at starting. A little before sunset, the Captain came to the
house, afoot and unexpectedly; called her son out, spoke a few words to
him, when they started away in the skiff. She saw they went down
stream--that is all.
She was some little surprised, though; not at the direction taken, but
the time of setting out. Had Llangorren been still in possession of the
young lady, of whom her son has often spoken to her, she would have
thought nothing strange of it. But in view of the late sad occurrence
at the Court, with the change of proprietorship consequent--about all of
which she has been made aware--she knows the Captain cannot be bound
thither, and therefore wonders whither. Surely, not a pleasure
excursion, at such an unreasonable hour--night just drawing down?
She would have asked, but had no opportunity. Her son, summoned out of
the house, did not re-enter; his oars were in the boat, having just come
off a job; and the Captain appeared to be in haste. Hence, Jack's going
off, without, as he usually does, telling his mother the why and the
where.
It is not this that is now fidgeting her. She is far from being of an
inquisitive turn--least of all with her son--and never seeks to pry into
his secrets. She knows his sterling integrity, and can trust him.
Besides, she is aware that he is of a nature somewhat uncommunicative,
especially upon matters that concern himself, and above all when he has
a trouble on his mind--in short, one who keeps his sorrows locked up in
his breast, as though preferring to suffer in silence.
And just this it is she is now bemoaning. She observes how he is
suffering, and has been, ever since that hour when a farm labourer from
Abergann brought him tidings of Mary Morgan's fatal mishap.
Of course she, his mother, expected him to grieve wildly and deeply, as
he did; but not deeply so long. Many days have passed since that dark
one; but since, she has not seen him smile--not once! She begins to
fear his sorrow may never know an end. She has heard of broken hearts--
his may be one. Not strange her solicitude.
"What make it worse," she says, continuing her soliloquy, "he keep
thinkin' that he hae been partways to blame for the poor girl's death,
by makin' her come out to meet him!"--Jack has told his mother of the
interview under the big elm, all about it from beginning to end.--"That
hadn't a thing to do wi' it. What happened wor ordained, long afore she
left the house. When I dreamed that dream 'bout the corpse candle, I
feeled most sure somethin' would come o't; but then seein' it go up the
meadows, I wor' althegither convinced. When _it_ burn no human creetur'
ha' lit it; an' none can put it out, till the doomed one be laid in the
grave. Who could 'a carried it across the river--that night especial,
wi' a flood lippin' full up to the banks? No mortal man, nor woman
neyther!"
As a native of Pembrokeshire, in whose treeless valleys the _ignis
fatuus_ is oft seen, and on its dangerous coast cliffs, in times past,
too oft the lanthorn of the smuggler, with the "stalking horse" of the
inhuman wrecker, Mrs Wingate's dream of the _canwyll corph_ was natural
enough--a legendary reflection from tales told her in childhood, and
wild songs chaunted over her cradle.
But her waking vision, of a light borne up the river bottom, was a
phenomenon yet more natural; since in truth was it a real light, that of
a lamp, carried in the hands of a man with a coracle on his back, which
accounts for its passing over the stream. And the man was Richard
Dempsey, who below had ferried Father Rogier across on his way to the
farm of Abergann, where the latter intended remaining all night. The
priest in his peregrinations, often nocturnal, accustomed to take a lamp
along, had it with him on that night, having lit it before entering the
coracle. But with the difficulty of balancing himself in the crank
little craft he had set it down under the thwart, and at landing
forgotten all about it. Thence the poacher, detained beyond time in
reference to an appointment he meant being present at, had taken the
shortest cut up the river bottom to Rugg's Ferry. This carried him
twice across the stream, where it bends by the waterman's cottage; his
coracle, easily launched and lifted out, enabling him to pass straight
over and on, in his haste not staying to extinguish the lamp, nor even
thinking of it.
Not so much wonder, then, in Mrs Wingate believing she saw the _canwyll
corph_. No more that she believes it still, but less, in view of what
has since come to pass; as she supposes, but the inexorable fiat of
fate.
"Yes!" she exclaims, proceeding with her soliloquy; "I knowed it would
come! Ah, me! it have come. Poor thing! I hadn't no great knowledge
of her myself; but sure she wor a good girl, or my son couldn't a been
so fond o' her. If she'd had badness in her, Jack wouldn't greet and
grieve as he be doin' now."
Though right in the premises--for Mary Morgan was a good girl--Mrs
Wingate is unfortunately wrong in her deductions. But, fortunately for
her peace of mind, she is so. It is some consolation to her to think
that she whom her son loved, and for whom he so sorrows, was worthy of
his love as his sorrow.
It is wearing late, the sun having long since set; and still wondering
why they went down the river, she steps outside to see if there he any
sign of them returning. From the cottage but little can be seen of the
stream, by reason of its tortuous course; only a short reach on either
side, above and below.
Placing herself to command a view of the latter, she stands gazing down
it. In addition to maternal solicitude, she feels anxiety of another
and less emotional nature. Her tea-caddy is empty, the sugar all
expended, and other household things deficient. Jack was just about
starting off for the Ferry to replace them when the Captain came. Now
it is a question whether he will be home in time to reach Rugg's before
the shop closes. If not, there will be a scant supper for him, and he
must grope his way lightless to bed; for among the spent commodities
were candles, the last one having been burnt out. In the widow
Wingate's life candles seem to play an important part!
However, from all anxieties on this score she is at length and ere long
relieved; her mind set at rest by a sound heard on the tranquil air of
the night, the dip of a boat's oars, distant but recognisable. Often
before listening for the same, she instinctively knows them to be in the
hands of her son. For Jack rows with a stroke no waterman on the Wye
has but he--none equalling it in _timbre_ and regularity. His mother
can tell it, as a hen the chirp of her own chick, or a ewe the bleat of
its lamb.
That it is his stroke she has soon other evidence than her ears. In a
few seconds after hearing the oars she sees them, their wet blades
glistening in the moonlight, the boat between.
And now she only waits for it to be pulled up and into the wash--its
docking place; when Jack will tell her where they have been, and what
for; perhaps, too, the Captain will come inside the cottage and speak a
friendly word with her, as he has frequently done.
While thus pleasantly anticipating, she has a disappointment. The skiff
is passing onward--proceeding up the river! But she is comforted by
seeing a hat held aloft--the salute telling her she is herself seen; and
that Jack has some good reason for the prolongation of the voyage. It
will no doubt terminate at the Ferry, where he will get the candles and
comestibles, saving him a second journey thither, and so killing two
birds with one stone.
Contenting herself with this construction of it, she returns inside the
house, touches up the faggots on the fire, and by their cheerful blaze
thinks no longer of candles, or any other light--forgetting even the
_canwyll corph_.
Volume Three, Chapter VI.