ONCE MORE UPON THE RIVER.
Nowhere in England--perhaps nowhere in Europe--is the autumnal foliage
more charmingly tinted than on the banks of the Wye, where it runs
through the shire of Hereford. There Vaga threads her way amid woods
that appear painted, and in colours almost as vivid as those of the
famed American forests. The beech, instead of, as elsewhere, dying off
dull bistre, takes a tint of bright amber; the chestnut turns
translucent lemon; the oak leaves show rose colours along their edges,
and the wych-hazel coral red by its umbels of thickly clustering fruit.
Here and there along the high-pitched hill-sides flecks of crimson
proclaim the wild cherry, spots of hoar white bespeak the climbing
clematis, scarlet the holly with its wax-like berries, and maroon red
the hawthorn; while interspersed and contrasting are dashes of green in
all its varied shades, where yews, junipers, gorse, ivy, and other
indigenous evergreens display their living verdure throughout all the
year, daring winter's frosts, and defying its snows.
It is autumn now, and the woods of the Wye have donned its dress; no
livery of faded green, nor sombre russet, but a robe of gaudiest sheen,
its hues scarlet, crimson, green, and golden. Brown October elsewhere,
is brilliant here; and though leaves have fallen, and are falling, the
sight suggests no thought of decay, nor brings sadness to the heart of
the beholder. Instead, the gaudy tapestry, hanging from the trees, and
the gay-coloured carpet spread underneath, but gladden it. Still further
is it rejoiced by sounds heard. For the woods of Wyeside are not
voiceless, even in winter. Within them the birds ever sing, and although
their autumn concert may not equal that of spring,--lacking its leading
tenor, the nightingale--still is it alike vociferous and alike
splendidly attuned. Bold as ever is the flageolet note of the blackbird;
not less loud and sweet the carol of his shier cousin the thrush; as
erst soft and tender the cooing of the cushat; and with mirth unabated
the cackle of the green woodpecker, as with long tongue, prehensile as
human hand, it penetrates the ant-hive in search of its insect prey.
* * * * *
October it is; and where the Wye's silver stream, like a grand
glistening snake, meanders amid these woods of golden hue and glorious
song, a small row-boat is seen dropping downward. There are two men in
it--one rowing, the other seated in the stern sheets, steering. The same
individuals have been observed before in like relative position and
similarly occupied. For he at the oars is Jack Wingate, the steerer
Captain Ryecroft.
Little thought the young waterman, when that "big gift"--the ten pound
bank-note--was thrust into his palm, he would so soon again have the
generous donor for a fare.
He has him now, without knowing why, or inquiring. Too glad once more to
sit on his boat's thwarts, _vis-a-vis_ with the Captain, it would ill
become him to be inquisitive. Besides, there is a feeling of solemnity
in their thus again being together, with sadness pervading the thoughts
of both, and holding speech in restraint. All he knows is that his old
fare has hired him for a row down the river, but bent on no fishing
business, for it is twilight. His excursion has a different object; but
what, the boatman cannot tell. No inference could be drawn from the
laconic order he received at embarking.
"Row me down the river, Jack!" distance and all else left undefined.
And down Jack is rowing him in regular measured stroke, no words passing
between them. Both are silent, as though listening to the plash of the
oar-blades, or the roundelay of late singing birds on the river's bank.
Yet neither of these sounds has place in their thoughts; instead, only
the memory of one different and less pleasant. For they are thinking of
cries--shrieks heard by them not so long ago, and still too fresh in
their memory.
Ryecroft is the first to break silence, saying,--
"This must be about the place where we heard it."
Although not a word has been said of what the "it" is, and the remark
seems made in soliloquy rather than as an interrogation, Wingate well
knows what is meant, as shown by his rejoinder:--
"It's the very spot, Captain."
"Ah! you know it?"
"I do--am sure. You see that big poplar standing on the bank there?"
"Yes; well?"
"We wor just abreast o' it when ye bid me hold way. In course we must a
heard the screech just then."
"Hold way now! Pull back a length or two. Steady her. Keep opposite the
tree!"
The boatman obeys, first pulling the back stroke, then staying his craft
against the current.
Once more relapsing into silence, Ryecroft sends his gaze down stream,
as though noting the distance to Llangorren Court, whose chimneys are
visible in the moonlight now on. Then, as if satisfied with some mental
observation, he directs the other to row off. But as the kiosk-like
structure comes within sight, he orders another pause, while making a
minute survey of the summer-house, and the stretch of water between.
Part of this is the main channel of the river, the other portion being
the narrow way behind the eyot; on approaching which the pavilion is
again lost to view, hidden by a tope of tall trees. But once within the
bye-way, it can be again sighted; and when near the entrance to this the
waterman gets the word to pull into it.
He is somewhat surprised at receiving this direction. It is the way to
Llangorren Court, by the boat-stair, and he knows the people now living
there are not friends of his fare--not even acquaintances, so far as he
has heard. Surely the Captain is not going to call on Mr. Lewin
Murdock--in amicable intercourse?
So queries Jack Wingate, but only of himself, and without receiving
answer. One way or other he will soon get it; and thus consoling
himself, he rows on into the narrower channel.
Not much farther before getting convinced that the Captain has no
intention of making a call at the Court, nor is the _Mary_ to enter that
little dock, where more than once she had lain moored beside the
_Gwendoline_. When opposite the summer-house, he is once more commanded
to bring to, with the intimation added,--
"I'm not going any farther, Jack."
Jack ceases stroke, and again holds the skiff so as to hinder it from
drifting.
Ryecroft sits with eyes turned towards the cliff, taking in its _facade_
from base to summit, as though engaged in a geological study, or
trigonometrical calculation.
The waterman, for a while wondering what it is all about, soon begins to
have a glimmer of comprehension. It is clearer when he is directed to
scull the boat up into the little cove where the body was found. Soon as
he has her steadied inside it, close up against the cliff's base,
Ryecroft draws out a small lamp, and lights it. He then rises to his
feet, and, leaning forward, lays hold of a projecting point of rock. On
that resting his hand, he continues for some time regarding the
scratches on its surface, supposed to have been made by the feet of the
drowned lady in her downward descent. Where he stands they are close to
his eyes, and he can trace them from commencement to termination. And so
doing, a shadow of doubt is seen to steal over his face, as though he
doubted the finding of the coroner's jury, and the belief of every one
that Gwendoline Wynn had there fallen over.
Bending lower, and examining the broken branches of the juniper, he
doubts no more, but is sure--convinced of the contrary!
Jack Wingate sees him start back with a strange surprised look, at the
same time exclaiming,--
"I thought as much! No accident!--no suicide--murdered!"
Still wondering, the waterman asks no questions. Whatever it may mean,
he expects to be told in time, and is therefore patient.
His patience is not tried by having to stay much longer there. Only a
few moments more, during which Ryecroft bends over the boat's side,
takes the juniper twigs in his hand, one after the other, raises them up
as they were before being broken, then lets them gently down again!
To his companion he says nothing to explain this apparently eccentric
manipulation, leaving Jack to guesses. Only when it is over, and he is
apparently satisfied, or with observation exhausted, giving the order,--
"Way, Wingate! Row back--up the river!"
With alacrity the waterman obeys, but too glad to get out of that
shadowy passage; for a weird feeling is upon him, as he remembers how
there the screech owls mournfully cried, as if to make him sadder when
thinking of his own lost love.
Moving out into the main channel and on up stream, Ryecroft is once more
silent and musing. But on reaching the place from which the pavilion can
be again sighted, he turns round on the thwart and looks back. It
startles him to see a form under the shadow of its roof--a woman!--how
different from that he last saw there! The ex-cocotte of Paris--faded
flower of the Jardin Mabille--has replaced the fresh beautiful blossom
of Wyeside--blighted in its bloom!