JEALOUS ALREADY.
Captain Ryecroft has lost more than rod and line; his heart is as good
as gone too--given to Gwendoline Wynn. He now knows the name of the
yellow-haired Naiad--for this, with other particulars, she imparted to
him on return up stream.
Neither has her confidence thus extended, nor the conversation leading
to it, belied the favourable impression made upon him by her appearance.
Instead, so strengthened it, that for the first time in his life he
contemplates becoming a benedict. He feels that his fate is sealed--or
no longer in his hands, but hers.
As Wingate pulls him on homeward, he draws out his cigar case, sets fire
to a fresh weed, and, while the blue smoke wreaths up round the rim of
his topee, reflects on the incidents of the day,--reviewing them in the
order of their occurrence.
Circumstances apparently accidental have been strangely in his favour.
Helped as by Heaven's own hand, working with the rudest instruments.
Through the veriest scum of humanity he has made acquaintance with one
of its fairest forms. More than mere acquaintance, he hopes; for surely
those warm words, and glances far from cold, could not be the sole
offspring of gratitude! If so a little service on the Wye goes a long
way. Thus reflects he in modest appreciation of himself, deeming that he
has done but little. How different the value put upon it by Gwen Wynn!
Still he knows not this, or at least cannot be sure of it. If he were,
his thoughts would be all rose-coloured, which they are not. Some are
dark as the shadows of the April showers now and then drifting across
the sun's disc.
One that has just settled on his brow is no reflection from the
firmament above--no vague imagining--but a thing of shape and form--the
form of a man, seen at the top of the boat-stair, as the ladies were
ascending, and not so far off as to have hindered him from observing the
man's face, and noting that he was young and rather handsome. Already
the eyes of love have caught the keenness of jealousy. A gentleman
evidently on terms of intimacy with Miss Wynn. Strange, though, that the
look with which he regarded her on saluting seemed to speak of something
amiss! What could it mean? Captain Ryecroft has asked this question as
his boat was rounding the end of the eyot, with another in the self-same
formulary of interrogation, of which but the moment before he was
himself the subject:--
"Who the deuce can _he_ be?"
Out upon the river, and drawing hard at his Regalia, he goes on:--
"Wonderfully familiar the fellow seemed! Can't be a brother! I
understood her to say she had none. Does he live at Llangorren? No. She
said there was no one there in the shape of masculine relative--only an
old aunt, and that little dark damsel, who is cousin or something of the
kind. But who in the deuce is the gentleman? Might _he_ be a cousin?"
So propounding questions without being able to answer them, he at length
addresses himself to the waterman--saying:
"Jack, did you observe a gentleman at the head of the stair?"
"Only the head and shoulders o' one, captain."
"Head and shoulders? that's enough. Do you chance to know him?"
"I ain't thorough sure; but I think he be a Mr. Shenstone."
"Who is Mr. Shenstone?"
"The son o' Sir George."
"Sir George! What do you know of _him_?"
"Not much to speak of--only that he be a big gentleman, whose land lies
along the river, two or three miles below."
The information is but slight, and slighter the gratification it gives.
Captain Ryecroft has heard of the rich baronet whose estate adjoins that
of Llangorren, and whose title, with the property attached, will descend
to an only son. It is the _torso_ of this son he has seen above the red
sandstone rock. In truth, a formidable rival! So he reflects, smoking
away like mad.
After a time, he again observes,--
"You've said you don't know the ladies we've helped out of their little
trouble?"
"Parsonally, I don't, captain. But, now as I see where they live, I know
who they be. I've heerd talk 'bout the biggest o' them--a good deal."
The biggest of them! As if she were a salmon! In the boatman's eyes,
bulk is evidently her chief recommendation!
Ryecroft smiles, further interrogating:--
"What have you heard of her?"
"That she be a _tidy_ young lady. Wonderful fond o' field sport, such as
hunting and that like. Fr' all, I may say that up to this day, I never
set eyes on her afore."
The Hussar officer has been long enough in Herefordshire to have learnt
the local signification of "tidy"--synonymous with "well-behaved." That
Miss Wynn is fond of field sports--flood pastimes included--he has
gathered from herself while rowing her up the river.
One thing strikes him as strange--that the waterman should not be
acquainted with every one dwelling on the river's bank, at least for a
dozen miles up and down. He seeks an explanation.
"How is it, Jack, that you, living but a short league above, don't know
all about these people?"
He is unaware that Wingate though born on the Wye's banks, as he has
told him, is comparatively a stranger to its middle waters--his
birthplace being far up in the shire of Brecon. Still that is not the
solution of the enigma, which the young waterman gives in his own way,--
"Lord love ye, sir! That shows how little you understand this river.
Why, captain, it crooks an' crooks, and goes wobblin' about in such a
way, that folks as lives less'n a mile apart knows no more o' one the
other than if they wor ten. It comes o' the bridges bein' so few and far
between. There's the ferry boats, true; but people don't take to 'em
more'n they can help 'specially women--seein' there be some danger at
all times, and a good deal o't when the river's aflood. That's frequent,
summer well as winter."
The explanation is reasonable; and, satisfied with it, Ryecroft remains
for a time wrapt in a dreamy reverie, from which he is aroused as his
eyes rest upon a house--a quaint antiquated structure, half timber, half
stone, standing not on the river's edge, but at some distance from it up
a dingle. The sight is not new to him; he has before noticed the
house--struck with its appearance, so different from the ordinary
dwellings.
"Whose is it, Jack?" he asks.
"B'longs to a man, name o' Murdock."
"Odd looking domicile!"
"Ta'nt a bit more that way than he be--if half what they say 'bout him
be true."
"Ah! Mr. Murdock's a character, then?"
"Ay; an' a queery one."
"In what respect? what way?"
"More'n one--a goodish many."
"Specify, Jack."
"Well; for one thing, he a'nt sober to say half o' his time."
"Addicted to dipsomania."
"'Dicted to getting dead drunk. I've seen him so, scores o' 'casions."
"That's not wise of Mr. Murdock."
"No, captain; 'ta'nt neyther wise nor well. All the worse, considerin'
the place where mostly he go to do his drinkin'."
"Where may that be?"
"The Welsh Harp--up at Rogue's Ferry."
"Rogue's Ferry? Strange appellation! What sort of place is it? Not very
nice, I should say--if the name be at all appropriate."
"It's parfitly 'propriate, though I b'lieve it wa'nt that way bestowed.
It got so called after a man the name o' Rugg, who once keeped the Welsh
Harp and the ferry too. It's about two mile above, a little ways back.
Besides the tavern, there be a cluster o' houses, a bit scattered about,
wi' a chapel an' a grocery shop--one as deals truckways, an' a'nt
partickler as to what they take in change--stolen goods welcome as
any--ay, welcomer, if they be o' worth. They got plenty o' them, too.
The place be a regular nest o' poachers, an' worse than that--a good
many as have sarved their spell in the Penitentiary."
"Why, Wingate, you astonish me! I was under the impression your Wyeside
was a sort of Arcadia, where one only met with innocence and primitive
simplicity."
"You won't meet much o' either at Rogue's Ferry. If there be an
uninnocent set on earth it's they as live there. Them Forest chaps we
came 'cross a'nt no ways their match in wickedness. Just possible drink
made them behave as they did--some o' 'em. But drink or no drink it be
all the same wi' the Ferry people--maybe worse when they're sober. Any
ways they're a rough lot."
"With a place of worship in their midst! That ought to do something
towards refining them."
"Ought; and would, I daresay, if 'twar the right sort--which it a'nt.
Instead, o' a kind as only the more corrupts 'em--being Roman."
"Oh! A Roman Catholic chapel. But how does it corrupt them?"
"By makin' 'em believe they can get cleared of their sins, hows'ever
black they be. Men as think that way a'nt like to stick at any sort of
crime--'specially if it brings 'em the money to buy what they calls
absolution."
"Well, Jack, it's very evident you're no friend, or follower, of the
Pope."
"Neyther o' Pope nor priest. Ah! captain; if you seed him o' the Rogue's
Ferry Chapel, you wouldn't wonder at my havin' a dislike for the whole
kit o' them."
"What is there 'specially repulsive about him?"
"Don't know as there be anythin' very special, in partickler. Them
priests all look 'bout the same--such o' 'em as I've ever set eyes on.
And that's like stoats and weasels, shootin' out o' one hole into
another. As for him we're speakin' about, he's here, there, an'
everywhere; sneakin' along the roads an' paths, hidin' behind bushes
like a cat after birds, an' poppin' out where nobody expects him. If
ever there war a spy meaner than another it's the priest of Rogue's
Ferry."
"No," he adds, correcting himself. "There be one other in these parts
worse that he--if that's possible. A different sort o' man, true; and
yet they be a good deal thegither."
"Who is this other?"
"Dick Dempsey--better known by the name of Coracle Dick."
"Ah, Coracle Dick! He appears to occupy a conspicuous place in your
thoughts, Jack; and rather a low one in your estimation. Why, may I ask?
What sort of fellow is he?"
"The biggest blaggard as lives on the Wye, from where it springs out o'
Plinlimmon to its emptying into the Bristol Channel. Talk o' poachers
an' night netters. He goes out by night to catch somethin' beside
salmon. 'Taint all fish as comes into his net, I know."
The young waterman speaks in such hostile tone both about priest and
poacher, that Ryecroft suspects a motive beyond the ordinary prejudice
against men who wear the sacerdotal garb, or go trespassing after game.
Not caring to inquire into it now, he returns to the original topic,
saying,--
"We've strayed from our subject, Jack--which was the hard-drinking owner
of yonder house."
"Not so far, captain; seein' as he be the most intimate friend the
priest have in these parts; though if what's said be true, not nigh so
much as his Missus."
"Murdock is married, then?"
"I won't say that--leastwise I shouldn't like to swear it. All I know
is, a woman lives wi' him, s'posed to be his wife. Odd thing she."
"Why odd?"
"'Cause she beant like any other o' womankind 'bout here."
"Explain yourself, Jack. In what does Mrs. Murdock differ from the rest
of your Herefordshire fair?"
"One way, captain, in her not bein' fair at all. 'Stead, she be dark
complected; most as much as one o' them women I've seed 'bout
Cheltenham, nursin' the children o' old officers as brought 'em from
India--_ayers_ they call 'em. She a'nt one o' 'em, but French, I've
heerd say; which in part, I suppose explains the thickness 'tween her
an' the priest--he bein' the same."
"Oh! His reverence is a Frenchman, is he?"
"All o' that, captain. If he wor English, he woudn't--coudn't--be the
contemptible sneakin' hound he is. As for Mrs. Murdock, I can't say I've
seed her more'n twice in my life. She keeps close to the house; goes
nowhere! an' it's said nobody visits her nor him--leastwise none o' the
old gentry. For all Mr. Murdock belongs to the best of them."
"He's a gentleman, is he?"
"Ought to be--if he took after his father."
"Why so?"
"Because he wor a squire--regular of the old sort. He's not been so long
dead. I can remember him myself, though I hadn't been here such a many
years--the old lady too--this Murdock's mother. Ah! now I think on't,
she wor t'other squire's sister--father to the tallest o' them two young
ladies--the one with the reddish hair."
"What! Miss Wynn?"
"Yes, captain; her they calls Gwen."
Ryecroft questions no farther. He has learnt enough to give him food for
reflection--not only during the rest of that day, but for a week, a
month--it may be throughout the remainder of his life.