Gwen Wynn: A Romance of the Wye

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” he continues, “if to-day he were made a thousand pounds the poorer. When I left the Ferry he was in the Welsh Harp, as I was told, tossing sovereigns upon its bar counter, ‘Heads and tails, who wins?’ Not he, you may be sure. No doubt he’s now at a gaming-table inside, engaged with that gang of sharpers who have lately got around him, staking large sums on every turn of the cards – Jews’ eyes, ponies, and monkeys, as these chevaliers d’industrie facetiously term their money. If we don’t bring all this to a termination, that will you have in your hand won’t be worth the price of the parchment it’s written upon. Comprenez-vous, chérie?”

“Parfaitement! But how is it to be brought to a termination. For myself I haven’t an idea. Has any occurred to you, Gregoire?”

As the ex-courtesan asks the question, she leans across the little table, and looks the false priest straight in the face. He knows the bent of her inquiry, told it by the tone and manner in which it has been put – both significant of something more than the words might otherwise convey. Still he does not answer it directly. Even between these two fiends in human form, despite their mutual understanding of each other’s wickedness, and the little reason either has for concealing it, there is a sort of intuitive reticence upon the matter which is in the minds of both. For it is murder – the murder of Lewin Murdock!

“Le pauvre homme!” ejaculates the man, with a pretence at compassionating, under the circumstances ludicrous. “The cognac is killin’ him, not by inches, but ells; and I don’t believe he can last much longer. It seems but a question of weeks; may be only days. Thanks to the school in which I was trained, I have sufficient medical knowledge to prognosticate that.”

A gleam as of delight passes over the face of the woman – an expression almost demoniacal; for it is a wife hearing this about her husband!

“You think only days?” she asks, with an eagerness as if apprehensive about that husband’s health. But the tone tells different, as the hungry look in her eye while awaiting the answer. Both proclaim she wishes it in the affirmative; as it is.

“Only days!” he says, as if his voice were an echo. “Still days count in a thing of this kind – aye, even hours. Who knows but that in a fit of drunken bravado he may stake the whole estate on a single turn of cards or cast of dice? Others have done the like before now – gentlemen grander than he, with titles to their names – rich in one hour, beggars in the next. I can remember more than one.”

“Ah! so can I.”

“Englishmen, too; who usually wind up such matters by putting a pistol to their heads, and blowing out their brains. True, Monsieur hasn’t any much to blow out; but that isn’t a question which affects us – myself as well as you. I’ve risked everything – reputation, which I care least about, if the affair can be brought to a proper conclusion; but should it fail, then – I need not tell you. What we’ve done, if known, would soon make us acquainted with the inside of an English gaol. Monsieur, throwing away his money in this reckless fashion must be restrained, or he’ll bring ruin to all of us. Therefore some steps must be taken to restrain him, and promptly.”

“Vraiment! I ask you again – have you thought of anything, Gregoire?”

He does not make immediate answer, but seems to ponder over, or hang back upon it. When at length given it is itself an interrogation, apparently unconnected with what they have been speaking about.

“Would it greatly surprise you, if to-night your husband didn’t come home to you?”

“Certainly not – in the least. Why should it? It wouldn’t be the first time by scores – hundreds – for him to stay all night away from me. Aye, and at that same Welsh Harp, too – many’s the night.”

“To your great annoyance, no doubt; if it did not make you dreadfully jealous?”

She breaks out into a laugh, hollow and heartless, as was ever heard in an allée of the Jardin Mabille. When it is ended she adds gravely: —

“The time was when he might have made me so; I may as well admit that. Not now, as you know, Gregoire. Now, instead of feeling annoyed by it, I’d only be too glad to think I should never see his face again. Le brute ivrogne!”

To this monstrous declaration Rogier laconically rejoins: —

“You may not.” Then placing his lips close to her ear, he adds in a whisper, “If all prosper, as planned, you will not!”

She neither starts, nor seeks to inquire further. She knows he has conceived some scheme to disembarrass her of a husband, she no longer care? for, to both become inconvenient. And from what has gone before, she can rely on Rogier with its execution.

Volume Three – Chapter Seventeen

A Queer Catechist

A boat upon the Wye, being polled upward, between Llangorren Court and Rugg’s Ferry. There are two men in it, not Vivian Ryecroft and Jack Wingate, but Gregoire Rogier and Richard Dempsey.

The ci-devant poacher is at the oars; for in addition to his new post as gamekeeper, he has occasional charge of a skiff, which has replaced the Gwendoline. This same morning he rowed his master up to Rugg’s, leaving him there; and now, at night, he is on return to fetch him home.

The two places being on opposite sides of the river, and the road round about, besides difficult for wheeled vehicles, Lewin Murdock moreover an indifferent horseman, he prefers the water route, and often takes it, as he has done to-day.

It is the same on which Father Rogier held that dialogue of sinister innuendo with Madame, and the priest, aware of the boat having to return to the Ferry, avails himself of a seat in it. Not that he dislikes walking, or is compelled to it. For he now keeps a cob, and does his rounds on horseback. But on this particular day he has left his roadster in its stable, and gone down to Llangorren afoot, knowing there would be the skiff to take him back.

No scheme of mere convenience dictated this arrangement to Gregoire Rogier. Instead, one of Satanic wickedness, preconceived, and all settled before holding that tête-à-tête with her he has called “chérie.”

Though requiring a boat for its execution and an oarsman of a peculiar kind – adroit at something besides the handling of oars – not a word of it has yet been imparted to the one who is rowing him. For all, the ex-poacher, accustomed to the priest’s moods, and familiar with his ways, can see there is something unusual in his mind, and that he himself is on the eve of being called upon for some new service or sacrifice. No supply of poached fish or game. Things have gone higher than that, and he anticipates some demand of a more serious nature. Still he has not the most distant idea of what it is to be; though certain interrogatories put to him are evidently leading up to it. The first is —

“You’re not afraid of water, are you, Dick?”

“Not partickler, your Reverence. Why should I?”

“Well, your being so little in the habit of washing your face – if I am right in my reckoning, only once a week – may plead my excuse for asking the question.”

“Oh, Father Rogier! That wor only in the time past, when I lived alone, and the thing worn’t worth while. Now, going more into respectable company, I do a little washin’ every day.”

“I’m glad to hear of your improved habits, and that they keep pace with the promotion you’ve had. But my inquiry had no reference to your ablutions; rather to your capabilities as a swimmer. If I mistake not, you can swim like a fish?”

“No, not equal to a fish. That ain’t possible.”

“An otter, then?”

“Somethin’ nearer he, if ye like,” answers Coracle, laughingly.

“I supposed as much. Never mind. About the degree of your natatory powers we needn’t dispute. I take it they’re sufficient for reaching either bank of this river, supposing the skiff to get capsized and you in it?”

“Lor, Father Rogier! That wouldn’t be nothin’! I could swim to eyther shore, if ’twor miles off.”

“But could you as you are now – with clothes on, boots, and everything?”

“Sartin could I, and carry weight beside.”

“That will do,” rejoins the questioner, apparently satisfied. Then lapsing into silence, and leaving Dick in a very desert of conjectures why he has been so interrogated.

The speechless interregnum is not for long. After a minute or two, Rogier, as if freshly awaking from a reverie, again asks —

“Would it upset this skiff if I were to step on the side of it – I mean bearing upon it with all the weight of my body?”

“That would it, your Reverence; though ye be but a light weight; tip it over like a tub.”

“Quite turn it upside down – as your old truckle, eh?”

“Well; not so ready as the truckle. Still ’twould go bottom upward. Though a biggish boat, it be one o’ the crankiest kind, and would sure capsize wi’ the lightiest o’ men standin’ on its gunn’l rail.”

“And surer with a heavier one, as yourself, for instance?”

“I shouldn’t like to try – your Reverence bein’ wi’ me in the boat.”

“How would you like, somebody else being with you in it —if made worth your while?”

Coracle starts at this question, asked in a tone that makes more intelligible the others preceding it, and which have been hitherto puzzling him. He begins to see the drift of the sub Jove confessional to which he is being submitted.

“How’d I like it, your Reverence? Well enough; if, as you say, made worth my while. I don’t mind a bit o’ a wettin’ when there’s anythin’ to be gained by it. Many’s the one I’ve had on a chilly winter’s night, as this same be, all for the sake o’ a salmon, I wor ’bleeged to sell at less’n half-price. If only showed the way to earn a honest penny by it, I wouldn’t wait for the upsettin’ o’ the boat, but jump overboard at oncst.”