Gwen Wynn: A Romance of the Wye

Then the mourners scatter off for their homes, singly or in groups, leaving the remains of Mary Morgan in their last resting-place, only her near relatives with thought of ever again returning to stand over them.

There is one exception; this is a mail not related to her, but who would have been had she lived. Wingate goes away with the intention ere long to return. The chapel burying-ground brinks upon the river, and when the shades of night have descended over it, he brings his boat alongside. Then, fixing her to the bank, he steps out, and proceeds in the direction of the new made grave. All this cautiously, and with circumspection, as if fearing to be seen. The darkness favouring him, he is not.

Reaching the sacred spot he kneels down, and with a knife, taken from his pockets, scoops out a little cavity in the lately laid turf. Into this he inserts a plant, which he has brought along with him – one of a common kind, but emblematic of no ordinary feeling. It is that known to country people as “The Flower of Love-lies-bleeding” (Amaranthus caudatus).

Closing the earth around its roots, and restoring the sods, he bends lower, till his lips are in contact with the grass upon the grave. One near enough might hear convulsive sobbing, accompanied by the words: —

“Mary, darling! you’re wi’ the angels now; and I know you’ll forgie me, if I’ve done ought to bring about this dreadful thing. Oh, dear, dear Mary! I’d be only too glad to be lyin’ in the grave along wi’ ye. As God’s my witness I would.”

For a time he is silent, giving way to his grief – so wild as to seem unbearable. And just for an instant he himself thinks it so, as he kneels with the knife still open in his hand, his eyes fixed upon it. A plunge with that shining blade with point to his heart, and all his misery would be over! “My mother – my poor mother – no!” These few words, with the filial thought conveyed, save him from suicide. Soon as repeating them, he shuts to his knife, rises to his feet, and returning to the boat again rows himself home – but never with so heavy a heart.

Volume Two – Chapter Five

A French Femme de Chambre

Of all who assisted at the ceremony of Mary Morgan’s funeral, no one seemed so impatient for its termination as the priest. In his official capacity he did all he could to hasten it; soon as it was over hurrying away from the grave, out of the burying-ground, and into his own house, near by.

Such haste would have appeared strange – even indecent – but for the belief of his having some sacerdotal duty that called him elsewhere; a belief strengthened by their shortly after seeing him start off in the direction of the Ferry-boat.

Arriving there, the Charon attendant rows him across the river; and, soon as setting foot on the opposite side, he turns face down stream, taking a path that meanders through fields and meadows. Along this he goes rapidly as his legs can carry him – in a walk. Clerical dignity hinders him from proceeding at a run, though judging by the expression of his countenance he is inclined to it.

The route he is on would conduct to Llangorren Court – several miles distant – and thither is he bound; though the house itself is not his objective point. He does not visit, nor would it serve him to show his face there – least of all to Gwen Wynn. She might not be so rude as to use her riding whip on him, as she once felt inclined in the hunting-field; but she would certainly be surprised to see him at her home.

Yet it is one within her house he wishes to see, and is now on the way for it, pretty sure of being able to accomplish his object. True to her fashionable instincts and toilette necessities, Miss Linton keeps a French maid, and it is with this damsel Father Rogier designs having an interview. He is thoroughly en rapport with the femme de chambre and through her, aided by the Confession, kept advised of everything which transpires at the Court, or all he deems it worth while to be advised about.

His confidence that he will not have long his walk for nothing rests on certain matters of pre-arrangement. With the foreign domestic he has succeeded in establishing a code of signals, by which he can communicate – with almost a certainty of being able to see her. Not inside the house, but at a place near enough to be convenient. Rare the park in Herefordshire through which there is not a right-of-way path, and one runs across that of Llangorren. Not through the ornamental grounds, nor at all close to the mansion – as is frequently the case, to the great chagrin of the owner – but several hundred yards distant. It passes from the river’s bank to the county road, all the way through trees, that screen it from view of the house. There is a point, however, where it approaches the edge of the wood, and there one traversing it might be seen from the upper windows. But only for an instant, unless the party so passing should choose to make stop in the place exposed.

It is a thoroughfare not much frequented, though free to Father Rogier as any one else; and, now hastening along it, he arrives at that spot where the break in the timber brings the house in view. Here he makes a halt, still keeping under the trees; to a branch of one of them, on the side towards the Court attaching a piece of white paper, he has taken out of his pocket. This done with due caution, and care that he be not observed in the act, he draws back to the path, and sits down upon a stile close by – to await the upshot of his telegraphy.

His haste hitherto explained by the fact, only at certain times are his signals likely to be seen, or could they be attended to. One of the surest and safest is during the early afternoon hours, just after luncheon, when the ancient toast of Cheltenham takes her accustomed siesta– before dressing herself for the drive, or reception of callers. While the mistress sleeps the maid is free to dispose of herself, as she pleases.

It was to hit this interlude of leisure Father Rogier has been hurrying; and that he has succeeded is soon known to him, by his seeing a form with floating drapery, recognisable as that of the femme de chambre. Gliding through the shrubbery, and evidently with an eye to escape observation, she is only visible at intervals; at length lost to his sight altogether as she enters among the thick standing trees. But he knows she will turn up again.

And she does, after a short time; coming along the path towards the stile where here he is seated.

“Ah! ma bonne!” he exclaims, dropping on his feet, and moving forward to meet her. “You’ve been prompt! I didn’t expect you quite so soon. Madame la Chatelaine oblivious, I apprehend; in the midst of her afternoon nap?”

“Yes, Père; she was when I stole off. But she has given me directions about dressing her, to go out for a drive – earlier than usual. So I must get back immediately.”

“I’m not going to detain you very long. I chanced to be passing, and thought I might as well have a word with you – seeing it’s the hour when you’re off duty. By the way, I hear you’re about to have grand doings at the Court – a ball, and what not?”

“Oui, m’sieu; oui.”

“When is it to be?”

“On Thursday. Mademoiselle celebrates son jour de naissance– the twenty-first, making her of age. It is to be a grand fête as you say. They’ve been all last week preparing for it.”

“Among the invited Le Capitaine Ryecroft, I presume?”

“O yes. I saw madame write the note inviting him – indeed took it myself down to the hall table for the post-boy.”

“He visits often at the Court of late?”

“Very often – once a week, sometimes twice.”

“And comes down the river by boat; doesn’t he!”

“In a boat. Yes – comes and goes that way.”

Her statement is reliable, as Father Rogier has reason to believe – having an inkling of suspicion that the damsel has of late been casting sheep’s eyes, not at Captain Ryecroft, but his young boatman, and is as much interested in the movements of the Mary as either the boat’s owner or charterer.

“Always comes by water, and returns by it,” observes the priest, as if speaking to himself. “You’re quite sure of that, ma fille?”

“Oh, quite, Père!”

“Mademoiselle appears to be very partial to him. I think, you told me she often accompanies him down to the boat stair, at his departure?”

“Often! always.”

“Always?”

“Toujours! I never knew it otherwise. Either the boat stair, or the pavilion.”

“Ah! the summer-house! They hold their tête-à-tête there at times; do they?”

“Yes; they do.”

“But not when he leaves at a late hour – as, for instance, when he dines at the Court; which I know he has done several times?”

“Oh, yes; even then. Only last week he was there for dinner; and Ma’mselle Gwen went with him to his boat, or the pavilion – to bid adieus. No matter what the time to her. Ma foi! I’d risk my word she’ll do the same after this grand ball that’s to be. And why shouldn’t she, Père Rogier? Is there any harm in it?”

The question is put with a view of justifying her own conduct, that would be somewhat similar were Jack Wingate to encourage it, which, to say truth, he never has.

“Oh, no,” answers the priest, with an assumed indifference; “no harm, whatever, and no business of ours. Mademoiselle Wynn is mistress of her own actions, and will be more, after the coming birthday number vingt-un. But,” he adds, dropping the rôle of the interrogator, now that he has got all the information wanted, “I fear I’m keeping you too long. As I’ve said, chancing to come by I signalled – chiefly to tell you, that next Sunday we have High Mass in the chapel. With special prayers for a young girl, who was drowned last Saturday night, and whom we’ve just this day interred. I suppose you’ve heard?”

“No, I haven’t. Who Père?” Her question may appear strange, Rugg’s Ferry being so near to Llangorren Court and Abergann still nearer. But for reasons already stated, as others, the ignorance of the Frenchwoman as to what has occurred at the farmhouse, is not only intelligible, but natural enough.

Equally natural, though in a sense very different, is the look of satisfaction appearing in her eyes, as the priest in answer gives the name of the drowned girl. “Marie, la fille de fermier Morgan.”

The expression that comes over her face is, under the circumstances, terribly repulsive – being almost that of joy! For not only has she seen Mary Morgan at the chapel, but something besides – heard her name coupled with that of the waterman, Wingate.

In the midst of her strong, sinful emotions, of which the priest is fully cognisant, he finds it a good opportunity for taking leave. Going back to the tree where the bit of signal paper has been left, he plucks it off, and crumbles it into his pocket. Then, returning to the path, shakes hands with her, says “Bonjour!” and departs.

She is not a beauty, or he would have made his adieus in a very different way.

Volume Two – Chapter Six

The Poacher at Home