Produced by James Rusk. HTML version by Al Haines
THE GUILTY RIVER
by
Wilkie Collins
CONTENTS
Chapter I On the Way to the River
Chapter II The River Introduces Us
Chapter III He Shows Himself
Chapter IV He Explains Himself
Chapter V He Betrays Himself
Chapter VI The Return of the Portfolio
Chapter VII The Best Society
Chapter VIII The Deaf Lodger
Chapter IX Mrs. Roylake's Game: First Move
Chapter X Warned!
Chapter XI Warned Again!
Chapter XII Warned for the Last Time!
Chapter XIII The Claret Jug
Chapter XIV Gloody Settles the Account
Chapter XV The Miller's Hospitality
Chapter XVI Bribery and Corruption
Chapter XVII Utter Failure
Chapter XVIII The Mistress of Trimley Deen
CHAPTER I
ON THE WAY TO THE RIVER
FOR reasons of my own, I excused myself from accompanying my stepmother
to a dinner-party given in our neighborhood. In my present humor, I
preferred being alone--and, as a means of getting through my idle time, I
was quite content to be occupied in catching insects.
Provided with a brush and a mixture of rum and treacle, I went into
Fordwitch Wood to set the snare, familiar to hunters of moths, which we
call sugaring the trees.
The summer evening was hot and still; the time was between dusk and dark.
After ten years of absence in foreign parts, I perceived changes in the
outskirts of the wood, which warned me not to enter it too confidently
when I might find a difficulty in seeing my way. Remaining among the
outermost trees, I painted the trunks with my treacherous mixture--which
allured the insects of the night, and stupefied them when they settled on
its rank surface. The snare being set, I waited to see the intoxication
of the moths.
A time passed, dull and dreary. The mysterious assemblage of trees was
blacker than the blackening sky. Of millions of leaves over my head, none
pleased my ear, in the airless calm, with their rustling summer song.
The first flying creatures, dimly visible by moments under the gloomy
sky, were enemies whom I well knew by experience. Many a fine insect
specimen have I lost, when the bats were near me in search of their
evening meal.
What had happened before, in other woods, happened now. The first moth
that I had snared was a large one, and a specimen well worth securing. As
I stretched out my hand to take it, the apparition of a flying shadow
passed, swift and noiseless, between me and the tree. In less than an
instant the insect was snatched away, when my fingers were within an inch
of it. The bat had begun his supper, and the man and the mixture had
provided it for him.
Out of five moths caught, I became the victim of clever theft in the case
of three. The other two, of no great value as specimens, I was just quick
enough to secure. Under other circumstances, my patience as a collector
would still have been a match for the dexterity of the bats. But on that
evening--a memorable evening when I look back at it now--my spirits were
depressed, and I was easily discouraged. My favorite studies of the
insect-world seemed to have lost their value in my estimation. In the
silence and the darkness I lay down under a tree, and let my mind dwell
on myself and on my new life to come.
I am Gerard Roylake, son and only child of the late Gerard Roylake of
Trimley Deen.
At twenty-two years of age, my father's death had placed me in possession
of his large landed property. On my arrival from Germany, only a few
hours since, the servants innocently vexed me. When I drove up to the
door, I heard them say to each other: "Here is the young Squire." My
father used to be called "the old Squire." I shrank from being reminded
of him--not as other sons in my position might have said, because it
renewed my sorrow for his death. There was no sorrow in me to be renewed.
It is a shocking confession to make: my heart remained unmoved when I
thought of the father whom I had lost.
Our mothers have the most sacred of all claims on our gratitude and our
love. They have nourished us with their blood; they have risked their
lives in bringing us into the world; they have preserved and guided our
helpless infancy with divine patience and love. What claim equally strong
and equally tender does the other parent establish on his offspring? What
motive does the instinct of his young children find for preferring their
father before any other person who may be a familiar object in their
daily lives? They love him--naturally and rightly love him--because he
lives in their remembrance (if he is a good man) as the first, the best,
the dearest of their friends.
My father was a bad man. He was my mother's worst enemy; and he was never
my friend.
The little that I know of the world tells me that it is not the common
lot in life of women to marry the object of their first love. A sense of
duty had compelled my mother to part with the man who had won her heart,
in the first days of her maidenhood; and my father had discovered it,
after his marriage. His insane jealousy foully wronged the truest wife,
the most long-suffering woman that ever lived. I have no patience to
write of it. For ten miserable years she suffered her martyrdom; she
lived through it, dear angel, sweet suffering soul, for my sake. At her
death, my father was able to gratify his hatred of the son whom he had
never believed to be his own child. Under pretence of preferring the
foreign system of teaching, he sent me to a school in France. My
education having been so far completed, I was next transferred to a
German University. Never again did I see the place of my birth, never did
I get a letter from home, until the family lawyer wrote from Trimley
Deen, requesting me to assume possession of my house and lands, under the
entail.
I should not even have known that my father had taken a second wife but
for some friend (or enemy)--I never discovered the person--who sent me a
newspaper containing an announcement of the marriage.
When we saw each other for the first time, my stepmother and I met
necessarily as strangers. We were elaborately polite, and we each made a
meritorious effort to appear at our ease. On her side, she found herself
confronted by a young man, the new master of the house, who looked more
like a foreigner than an Englishman--who, when he was congratulated (in
view of the approaching season) on the admirable preservation of his
partridges and pheasants, betrayed an utter want of interest in the
subject; and who showed no sense of shame in acknowledging that his
principal amusements were derived from reading books, and collecting
insects. How I must have disappointed Mrs. Roylake! and how considerately
she hid from me the effect that I had produced!
Turning next to my own impressions, I discovered in my newly-found
relative, a little light-eyed, light-haired, elegant woman; trim, and
bright, and smiling; dressed to perfection, clever to her fingers' ends,
skilled in making herself agreeable--and yet, in spite of these
undeniable fascinations, perfectly incomprehensible to me. After my
experience of foreign society, I was incapable of understanding the
extraordinary importance which my stepmother seemed to attach to rank and
riches, entirely for their own sakes. When she described my unknown
neighbors, from one end of the county to the other, she took it for
granted that I must be interested in them on account of their titles and
their fortunes. She held me up to my own face, as a kind of idol to
myself, without producing any better reason than might be found in my
inheritance of an income of sixteen thousand pounds. And when I expressed
(in excusing myself for not accompanying her, uninvited, to the
dinner-party) a perfectly rational doubt whether I might prove to be a
welcome guest, Mrs. Roylake held up her delicate little hands in
unutterable astonishment. "My dear Gerard, in your position!" She
appeared to think that this settled the question. I submitted in silence;
the truth is, I was beginning already to despair of my prospects. Kind as
my stepmother was, and agreeable as she was, what chance could I see of
establishing any true sympathy between us? And, if my neighbors resembled
her in their ways of thinking, what hope could I feel of finding new
friends in England to replace the friends in Germany whom I had lost? A
stranger among my own country people, with the every-day habits and
every-day pleasures of my youthful life left behind me--without plans or
hopes to interest me in looking at the future--it is surely not wonderful
that my spirits had sunk to their lowest ebb, and that I even failed to
appreciate with sufficient gratitude the fortunate accident of my birth.
Perhaps the journey to England had fatigued me, or perhaps the
controlling influences of the dark and silent night proved irresistible.
This only is certain: my solitary meditations under the tree ended in
sleep.
I was awakened by a light falling on my face.
The moon had risen. In the outward part of the wood, beyond which I had
not advanced, the pure and welcome light penetrated easily through the
scattered trees. I got up and looked about me. A path into the wood now
showed itself, broader and better kept than any path that I could
remember in the days of my boyhood. The moon showed it to me plainly, and
my curiosity was aroused.
Following the new track, I found that it led to a little glade which I at
once recognized. The place was changed in one respect only. A neglected
water-spring had been cleared of brambles and stones, and had been
provided with a drinking cup, a rustic seat, and a Latin motto on a
marble slab. The spring at once reminded me of a greater body of water--a
river, at some little distance farther on, which ran between the trees on
one side, and the desolate open country on the other. Ascending from the
glade, I found myself in one of the narrow woodland paths, familiar to me
in the by-gone time.
Unless my memory was at fault, this was the way which led to an old
water-mill on the river-bank. The image of the great turning wheel, which
half-frightened half-fascinated me when I was a child, now presented
itself to my memory for the first time after an interval of many years.
In my present frame of mind, the old scene appealed to me with the
irresistible influence of an old friend. I said to myself: "Shall I walk
on, and try if I can find the river and the mill again?" This perfectly
trifling question to decide presented to me, nevertheless, fantastic
difficulties so absurd that they might have been difficulties encountered
in a dream. To my own astonishment, I hesitated--walked back again along
the path by which I had advanced--reconsidered my decision, without
knowing why--and turning in the opposite direction, set my face towards
the river once more. I wonder how my life would have ended, if I had gone
the other way?