Once more a boat upon the Wye, passing between Rugg's Ferry and
Llangorren Court, but this time descending. It is the same boat, and as
before with two men in it; though they are not both the same who went
up. One of them is--Coracle Dick, still at the oars; while Father
Rogier's place in the stern is now occupied by another; not sitting
upright as was the priest, but lying along the bottom timbers with head
coggled over, and somewhat uncomfortably supported by the thwart.
This man is Lewin Murdock, in a state of helpless inebriety--in common
parlance, drunk. He has been brought to the boat landing by the
landlord of the "Welsh Harp," where he has been all day carousing; and
delivered to Dempsey, who now at a late hour of the night is conveying
him homeward. His hat is down by his feet, instead of upon his head;
and the moonbeams, falling unobstructed on his face, show it of a sickly
whitish hue; while his eyes, sunk deep in their sockets, have each a
demi-lune of dark purplish colour underneath. But for an occasional
twitching of the facial muscles, with a spasmodic movement of the lips,
and at intervals, a raucous noise through his nostrils, he might pass
for dead, as readily as dead drunk.
Verily, is the priest's prognosis based upon reliable data; for by the
symptoms now displayed Lewin Murdock is doing his best to destroy
himself--drinking suicidally!
For all, he is not destined thus to die. His end will come even sooner,
and it may be easier.
It is not distant now, but ominously near, as may be told by looking
into the eyes of the man who sits opposite, and recalling the
conversation late exchanged between him and Father Rogier. For in those
dark orbs a fierce light scintillates, such as is seen in the eyes of
the assassin contemplating assassination, or the jungle tiger when
within springing distance of its prey.
Nothing of all this sees the sot, but lies unconscious, every now and
then giving out a snore, regardless of danger, as though everything
around were innocent as the pale moonbeams shimmering down upon his
cadaverous cheeks.
Possibly he is dreaming, and if so, in all likelihood it is of a grand
gas-lighted _salon_, with tables of _tapis vert_, carrying packs of
playing cards, dice cubes, and ivory counters. Or the _mise en scene_
of his visionary vagaries may be a drinking saloon, where he carouses
with boon companions, their gambling limited to a simple tossing of odd
and even, "heads or tails."
But if dreaming at all, it is not of what is near him. Else, far gone
as he is, he would be aroused--instinctively--to make a last struggle
for life. For the thing so near is death!
The fiend who sits regarding him in this helpless condition--as it were
holding Lewin Murdock's life, or the little left of it, in his hand--has
unquestionably determined upon taking it. Why he does not do so at once
is not because he is restrained by any motive of mercy, or reluctance to
the spilling of blood. The heart of the _ci-devant_ poacher,
counterfeiter, and cracksman, has been long ago steeled against such
silly and sensitive scruples. The postponement of his hellish purpose
is due to a mere question of convenience. He dislikes the idea of
having to trudge over miles of meadow in dripping garments!
True, he could drown the drunken man, and keep himself dry--every
stitch. But that would not do. For there will be another coroner's
inquest, at which he will have to be present. He has escaped the two
preceding; but at this he will be surely called upon, and as principal
witness. Therefore he must be able to say he was wet, and prove it as
well. Into the river, then, will he go, along with his victim; though
there is no need for his taking the plunge till he has got nearer to
Llangorren.
So ingeniously contriving, he sits with arms mechanically working the
oars; his eyes upon the doomed man, as those of a cat having a crippled
mouse within easy reach of her claws, at any moment to be drawn in and
destroyed!
Silently, but rapidly, he rows on, needing no steerer. Between Rugg's
Ferry and Llangorren Court he is as familiar with the river's channel as
a coachman with the carriage-drive to and from his master's mansion;
knows its every curve and crook, every purl and pool, having explored
them while paddling his little "truckle." And now, sculling the larger
craft, it is all the same. And he pulls on, without once looking over
his shoulder; his eyes alone given to what is directly in front of him;
Lewin Murdock lying motionless at his feet.
As if himself moved by a sudden impulse--impatience, or the thought it
might be as well to have the dangerous work over--he ceases pulling, and
acts as though he were about to unship the oars.
But again he seems suddenly to change his intention; on observing a
white fleck by the river's edge, which he knows to be the lime-washed
walls of the widow Wingate's cottage, at the same time remembering that
the main road passes by it.
What if there be some one on the road, or the river's bank, and be seen
in the act of capsizing his own boat? True, it is after midnight, and
not likely any one abroad--even the latest wayfarer. But there might
be; and in such clear moonlight his every movement could be made out.
That place will not do for the deed of darkness he is contemplating; and
he trembles to think how near he has been to committing himself!
Thus warned to the taking of precautions hitherto not thought of, he
proceeds onward; summoning up before his mind the different turns and
reaches of the river, all the while mentally anathematising the moon.
For, besides convenience of place, time begins to press, even trouble
him, as he recalls the proverb of the cup and the lip.
He is growing nervously impatient--almost apprehensive of failure,
through fear of being seen--when rounding a bend he has before him the
very thing he is in search of--the place itself. It is a short straight
reach, where the channel is narrow, with high banks on both sides, and
trees overhanging, whose shadows meeting across shut off the hated
light, shrouding the whole water surface in deep obscurity. It is but a
little way above the lone farm-house of Abergann, and the mouth of the
brook which there runs in. But Coracle Dick is not thinking of either;
only of the place being appropriate for his diabolical design.
And, becoming satisfied it is so, he delays no longer, but sets about
its execution--carrying it out with an adroitness which should fairly
entitle him to the double reward promised by the priest. Having
unshipped the oars, he starts to his feet; and mounting upon the thwart,
there for a second or two stands poised and balancing. Then, stepping
to the side, he sets foot on the gunwale rail with his whole body's
weight borne upon it.
In an instant over goes the boat, careening bottom upwards, and spilling
Lewin Murdock, as himself, into the mad surging river!
The drunken man goes down like a lump of lead; possibly without pain, or
the consciousness of being drowned; only supposing it the continuation
of his dream!
Satisfied he has gone down, the assassin cares not how. He has enough
to think of in saving himself, enough to do swimming in his clothes,
even to the boots.
He reaches the bank, nevertheless, and climbs up it, exhausted;
shivering like a water spaniel, for snow has fallen on Plinlimmon, and
its thaw has to do with the freshet in the stream.
But the chill of the Wye's water is nought compared with that sent
through his flesh, to the very marrow of his bones, on discovering he
has crawled out upon the spot--the self-same spot--where the waves gave
back another body he had consigned to them--that of Mary Morgan!
For a moment he stands horror-struck, with hair on end. The blood
curdling in his veins. Then, nerving himself to the effort, he hitches
up his dripping trousers, and hurries away from the accursed place--by
himself accursed--taking the direction of Llangorren, but giving a wide
berth to Abergann.
He has no fear of approaching the former in wet garments; instead knows
that in this guise he will be all the more warmly welcomed--as he is!
Mrs Murdock sits up late for Lewin--though with little expectation of
his coming home. Looking out of the window, in the moonlight she sees a
man, who comes striding across the carriage sweep, and up into the
portico.
Rushing to the door to receive him, she exclaims in counterfeit
surprise--
"You, Monsieur Richard! Not my husband!"
When Coracle Dick has told his sad tale, shaped to suit the
circumstances, her half-hysterical ejaculation might be supposed a cry
of distress. Instead, it is one of ecstatic delight, she is unable to
restrain, at knowing herself now sole owner of the house over her head,
and the land for miles around it!
Volume Three, Chapter XX.