Gwen Wynn: A Romance of the Wye

“About that; just as it was dark enough to set out with safety, and no chance of being observed.”

“They did so?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Le bagage bien arrangé?”

“Parfaitment; or as we say in English, neat as a trivet. If you prefer another form; nice as ninepence.”

She is pleased at his facetiousness, quite a new mode for Lewin Murdock. Coupled with his sobriety, it gives her confidence that things have gone on smoothly, and will to the end. Indeed, for some days Murdock has been a new man – acting as one with some grave affair on his hands – feat to accomplish, or negotiation to effect – resolved on carrying it to completeness.

Now, less from anxiety as to what he has been saying at the Welsh Harp, than to know what he has there heard said by others, she further interrogates him: – “Where have you been meanwhile, monsieur?”

“Part of the time at the Ferry; the rest of it I’ve spent on paths and roads coming and going. I went up to the Harp to hear what I could hear.”

“And what did you hear?”

“Nothing much to interest us. As you know, Rugg’s is an out of the way corner – none more so on the Wye – and the Llangorren news hasn’t reached it. The talk of the Ferry folk is all about the occurrence at Abergann, which still continues to exercise them. The other don’t appear to have got much abroad, if at all, anywhere – for reasons told Father Rogier by your countrywoman, Clarisse, with whom he held an interview sometime during the afternoon.”

“And has there been no search yet?”

“Search, yes; but nothing found, and not much noise made, for the reasons I allude to.”

“What are they? You haven’t told me.”

“Oh! various. Some of them laughable enough. Whimsies of that Quixotic old lady who has been so long doing the honours at Llangorren.”

“Ah! Madame Linton. How has she been taking it?”

“I’ll tell you after I’ve had something to eat and drink. You forget, Olympe, where I’ve been all the day long – under the roof of a poacher, who, of late otherwise employed, hadn’t so much as a head of game in his house. True, I’ve since made call at an hotel, but you don’t give me credit for my abstemiousness! What have you got to reward me for it?”

“Entrez!” she exclaims, leading him into the dining-room, their dialogue so far having been carried on in the porch. “Voilà!”

He is gratified, though no ways surprised at the set out. He does not need to inquire whence it comes. He, too, knows it is a sacrifice to the rising sun. But he knows also what a sacrifice he will have to make in return for it – one third the estate of Llangorren.

“Well, ma cherie,” he says, as this reflection occurs to him, “we’ll have to pay pretty dear for all this. But I suppose there’s no help for it.”

“None,” she answers with a comprehension of the circumstances – clearer and fuller than his. “We’ve made the contract, and must abide by it. If broken by us, it wouldn’t be a question of property, but life. Neither yours nor mine would be safe for a single hour. Ah monsieur! you little comprehend the power of those gentry, les Jesuites– how sharp their claws, and far reaching!”

“Confound them!” he exclaims, angrily dropping down upon a chair by the table’s side.

He eats ravenously, and drinks like a fish. His day’s work is over, and he can afford the indulgence.

And while they are at supper, he imparts all details of what he has done and heard; among them Miss Linton’s reasons for having put restraint upon the search.

“The old simpleton!” he says, concluding his narration, “she actually believed my cousin to have run away with that captain of Hussars – if she don’t believe it still! Ha, ha, ha. She’ll think differently when she sees that body brought out of the water. It will settle the business!”

Olympe Renault, retiring to rest, is long kept awake by the pleasant thought, not that for many more nights will she have to sleep in a mean bed at Glyngog, but on a grand couch in Llangorren Court.

Volume Two – Chapter Eighteen

Impatient for the Post

Never man looked with more impatience for a post, than Captain Ryecroft for the night mail from the West, its morning delivery in London. It may bring him a letter, on the contents of which will turn the hinges of his life’s fate, assuring his happiness or dooming him to misery. And if no letter come, its failure will make misery for him all the same.

It is scarce necessary to say, the epistle thus expected, and fraught with such grave consequence, is an answer to his own; that written in Herefordshire, and posted before leaving the Wyeside Hotel. Twenty-four hours have since elapsed; and now, on the morning after, he is at the Langham, London, where the response, if any, should reach him.

He has made himself acquainted with the statistics of postal time, telling him when the night mail is due, and when the first distribution of letters in the metropolitan district. At earliest in the Langham, which has post and telegraph office within its own walls, this palatial hostelry, unrivalled for convenience, being in direct communication with all parts of the world.

It is on the stroke of 8 a.m., and, the ex-Hussar-officer pacing the tesselated tiles, outside the deputy-manager’s moderately-sized room with its front glass-protected, watches for the incoming of the post-carrier.

It seems an inexorable certainty – though a very vexatious one – that person, or thing, awaited with unusual impatience, must needs be behind time – as if to punish the moral delinquency of the impatient one. Even postmen are not always punctual, as Vivian Ryecroft has reason to know. That amiable and active individual in coatee of coarse cloth, with red rag facings, flitting from door to door, brisk as a blue-bottle, on this particular morning does not step across the threshold of the Langham till nearly half-past eight. There is a thick fog, and the street flags are “greasy.” That would be the excuse for his tardy appearance, were he called upon to give one.

Dumping down his sack, and spilling its contents upon the lead-covered sill of the booking-office window, he is off again on a fresh and further flight.

With no abatement of impatience Captain Ryecroft stands looking at the letters being sorted – a miscellaneous lot, bearing the post marks of many towns and many countries, with the stamps of nearly every civilised nation on the globe; enough of them to make the eyes of an ardent stamp collector shed tears of concupiscence.

Scarcely allowing the sorter time to deposit them in their respective pigeon boles, Ryecroft approaches and asks if there be any for him – at the same time giving his name.

“No, not any,” answers the clerk, after drawing out all under letter R, and dealing them off as a pack of cards.

“Are you quite sure, sir? Pardon me. I intend starting off within the hour, and expecting a letter of some importance, may I ask you to glance over them again?”

In all the world there are no officials more affable than those of the Langham. They are in fact types of the highest hotel civilisation. Instead of showing nettled, he thus appealed to makes assenting rejoinder, accompanying his words with a re-examination of the letters under R; soon as completed saying, —

“No, sir; none for the name of Ryecroft.”

He bearing this name turns away, with an air of more than disappointment. The negative denoting that no letter had been written in reply, vexes – almost irritates him. It is like a blow repeated – a second slap in his face held up in humiliation – after having forgiven the first. He will not so humble himself – never forgive again. This his resolve as he ascends the great stairway to his room, once more to make ready for travel.

The steam-packet service between Folkestone and Boulogne is “tidal.” Consulting Bradshaw, he finds the boat on that day leaves the former place at 4 p.m.; the connecting train from the Charing Cross station, 1. Therefore have several hours to be put in meanwhile.

How are they to be occupied? He is not in the mood for amusement. Nothing in London could give him that now – neither afford him a moment’s gratification.

Perhaps in Paris? And he will try. There men have buried their griefs – women as well: too oft laying in the same grave their innocence, honour, and reputation. In the days of Napoleon the Little, a grand cemetery of such; hosts entering it pure and stainless, to become tainted as the Imperial régime itself.

And he, too, may succumb to its influence, sinister as hell itself. In his present frame of mind it is possible. Nor would his be the first noble spirit broken down, wrecked on the reef of a disappointed passion – love thwarted, the loved one never again to be spoken to, in all likelihood never more met!

While waiting for the Folkestone train, he is a prey to the most harrowing reflections, and in hope of escaping them, descends to the billiard-room – in the Langham a well-appointed affair, with tables the very best.

The marker accommodates him to a hundred up, which he loses. It is not for that he drops the cue disheartened, and retires. Had he won, with Cook, Bennett, or Roberts as his adversary, ’twould have been all the same.

Once more mounting to his room, he makes an appeal to the ever-friendly Nicotian. A cigar, backed by a glass of brandy, may do something to soothe his chafed spirit; and lighting the one, he rings for the other. This brought him, he takes seat by the window, throws up the sash, and looks down upon the street. There to see what gives him a fresh spasm of pain; though to two others, affording the highest happiness on earth. For it is a wedding ceremony being celebrated at “All Souls” opposite, a church before whose altar many fashionable couples join hands to be linked together for life. Such a couple is in the act of entering the sacred edifice; carriages drawing up and off in quick succession, coachmen with white rosettes and whips ribbon-bedecked, footmen wearing similar favours – an unusually stylish affair.

As in shining and with smiling faces, the bridal train ascends the steps two by two disappearing within the portals of the church, the spectators on the nave and around the enclosure rails also looking joyous, as though each – even the raggedest – had a personal interest in the event, from the window opposite, Captain Ryecroft observes it with very different feelings. For the thought is before his mind, how near he has been himself to making one in such a procession – at its head – followed by the bitter reflection, he now never shall.

A sigh, succeeded by a half angry ejaculation; then the bell rung with a violence which betrays how the sight has agitated him.

On the waiter entering, he cries out —