Gwen Wynn: A Romance of the Wye

“You won’t meet much o’ either at Rogue’s Ferry. If there be an uninnocent set on earth it’s they as live there. Them Forest chaps we came ’cross a’nt no ways their match in wickedness. Just possible drink made them behave as they did – some o’ ’em. But drink or no drink it be all the same wi’ the Ferry people – maybe worse when they’re sober. Any ways they’re a rough lot.”

“With a place of worship in their midst! That ought to do something towards refining them.”

“Ought; and would, I dare say, if ’twar the right sort – which it a’nt. Instead, o’ a kind as only the more corrupts ’em – being Roman.”

“Oh! A Roman Catholic chapel. But how does it corrupt them?”

“By makin’ ’em believe they can get cleared of their sins, hows’ever black they be. Men as think that way a’nt like to stick at any sort of crime – ’specialty if it brings ’em the money to buy what they calls absolution.”

“Well, Jack; it’s very evident you’re no friend, or follower, of the Pope.”

“Neyther o’ Pope nor priest. Ah! captain; if you seed him o’ the Rogue’s Ferry Chapel, you wouldn’t wonder at my havin’ a dislike for the whole kit o’ them.”

“What is there specially repulsive about him?”

“Don’t know as there be any thin’ very special, in partickler. Them priests all look bout the same – such o’ ’em as I’ve ever set eyes on. And that’s like stoats and weasels, shootin’ out o’ one hole into another. As for him we’re speakin’ about, he’s here, there, an’ everywhere; sneakin’ along the roads an’ paths, hidin’ behind bushes like a cat after birds, an’ poppin’ out where nobody expects him. If ever there war a spy meaner than another it’s the priest of Rogue’s Ferry.”

“No?” he adds, correcting himself. “There be one other in these parts worse than he – if that’s possible. A different sort o’ man, true; and yet they be a good deal thegither.”

“Who is this other?”

“Dick Dempsey – better known by the name of Coracle Dick.”

“Ah, Coracle Dick! He appears to occupy a conspicuous place in your thoughts, Jack; and rather a low one in your estimation. Why, may I ask? What sort of fellow is he?”

“The biggest blaggard as lives on the Wye, from where it springs out o’ Plinlimmon to its emptying into the Bristol Channel. Talk o’ poachers an’ night netters. He goes out by night to catch somethin’ beside salmon. ’Taint all fish as comes into his net, I know.”

The young waterman speaks in such hostile tone both about priest and poacher, that Ryecroft suspects a motive beyond the ordinary prejudice against men who wear the sacerdotal garb, or go trespassing after game. Not caring to inquire into it now, he returns to the original topic, saying: —

“We’ve strayed from our subject, Jack – which was the hard drinking owner of yonder house.”

“Not so far, captain; seein’ as he be the most intimate friend the priest have in these parts; though if what’s said be true, not nigh so much as his Missus.”

“Murdock is married, then?”

“I won’t say that – leastwise I shouldn’t like to swear it. All I know is, a woman lives wi’ him, s’posed to be his wife. Odd thing she.”

“Why odd?”

“’Cause she beant like any other o’ womankind ’bout here.”

“Explain yourself, Jack. In what does Mrs Murdock differ from the rest of your Herefordshire fair?”

“One way, captain, in her not bein’ fair at all. ’Stead, she be dark complected; most as much as one o’ them women I’ve seed ’bout Cheltenham, nursin’ the children o’ old officers as brought ’em from India —ayers they call ’em. She a’nt one o’ ’em, but French, I’ve heerd say; which in part, I suppose explains the thickness ’tween her an’ the priest – he bein’ the same.”

“Oh! His reverence is a Frenchman, is he?”

“All o’ that, captain. If he wor English, he wouldn’t – couldn’t – be the contemptible sneakin’ hound he is. As for Mrs Murdock, I can’t say I’ve seed her more’n twice in my life. She keeps close to the house; goes nowhere; an’ it’s said nobody visits her nor him – leastwise none o’ the old gentry. For all Mr Murdock belongs to the best of them.”

“He’s a gentleman, is he?”

“Ought to be – if he took after his father.”

“Why so?”

“Because he wor a squire – regular of the old sort. He’s not been so long dead. I can remember him myself, though I hadn’t been here such a many years – the old lady too – this Murdock’s mother. Ah! now I think on’t, she wor t’other squire’s sister – father to the tallest o’ them two young ladies – the one with the reddish hair.”

“What! Miss Wynn?”

“Yes, captain; her they calls Gwen.”

Ryecroft questions no farther. He has learnt enough to give him food for reflection – not only during the rest of that day, but for a week, a month – it may be throughout the remainder of his life.

Volume One – Chapter Ten

The Cuckoo’s Glen

About a mile above Llangorren Court, but on the opposite side of the Wye, stands the house which had attracted the attention of Captain Ryecroft; known to the neighbourhood as “Glyngog” – Cymric synonym for “Cuckoo’s Glen.” Not immediately on the water’s edge, but several hundred yards back, near the head of a lateral ravine which debouches on the valley of the river, to the latter contributing a rivulet.

Glyngog House is one of those habitations, common in the county of Hereford as other western shires – puzzling the stranger to tell whether they be gentleman’s residence, or but the dwelling of a farmer. This from an array of walls, enclosing yard, garden, even the orchard – a plenitude due to the red sandstone being near, and easily shaped for building purposes.

About Glyngog House, however, there is something besides the circumvallation to give it an air of grandeur beyond that of the ordinary farm homestead; certain touches of architectural style which speak of the Elizabethan period – in short that termed Tudor. For its own walls are not altogether stone; instead a framework of oaken uprights, struts, and braces, black with age, the panelled masonry between plastered and white-washed, giving to the structure a quaint, almost fantastic, appearance, heightened by an irregular roof of steep pitch, with projecting dormers, gables acute angled, overhanging windows, and carving at the coigns. Of such ancient domiciles there are yet many to be met with on the Wye – their antiquity vouched for by the materials used in their construction, when bricks were a costly commodity, and wood to be had almost for the asking.

About this one, the enclosing stone walls have been a later erection, as also the pillared gate entrance to its ornamental grounds, through which runs a carriage drive to the sweep in front. Many a glittering equipage may have gone round on that sweep; for Glyngog was once a Manor-house. Now it is but the remains of one, so much out of repair as to show smashed panes in several of its windows, while the enceinte walls are only upright where sustained by the upholding ivy; the shrubbery run wild; the walks and carriage drive weed-covered; on the latter neither recent track of wheel, nor hoof-mark of horse.

For all, the house is not uninhabited. Three or four of the windows appear sound, with blinds inside them; while at most hours smoke may be seen ascending from at least two of the chimneys.

Few approach near enough the place to note its peculiarities. The traveller gets but a distant glimpse of its chimney-pots; for the country road, avoiding the dip of the ravine, is carried round its head, and far from the house. It can only be approached by a long, narrow lane, leading nowhere else, so steep as to deter any explorer save a pedestrian; while he, too, would have to contend with an obstruction of overgrowing thorns and trailing brambles.

Notwithstanding these disadvantages, Glyngog has something to recommend it – a prospect not surpassed in the western shires of England. He who selected its site must have been a man of tastes rather aesthetic, than utilitarian. For the land attached and belonging – some fifty or sixty acres – is barely arable; lying against the abruptly sloping sides of the ravine. But the view is superb. Below, the Wye, winding through a partially wood-covered plain, like some grand constrictor snake; its sinuosities only here and there visible through the trees, resembling a chain of detached lakes – till sweeping past the Cuckoo’s Glen, it runs on in straight reach towards Llangorren.

Eye of man never looked upon lovelier landscape; mind of man could not contemplate one more suggestive of all that is, or ought to be, interesting in life. Peaceful smokes ascending out of far-off chimneys; farm-houses, with their surrounding walls, standing amid the greenery of old homestead trees – now in full leaf, for it is the month of June – here and there the sharp spire of a church, or the showy façade of a gentleman’s mansion – in the distant background, the dark blue mountains of Monmouthshire; among them conspicuous the Blorenge, Skerrid, and Sugar Loaf. The man who could look on such a picture, without drawing from it inspirations of pleasure, must be out of sorts with the world, if not weary of it.

And yet just such a man is now viewing it from Glyngog House, or rather the bit of shrubbery ground in front. He is seated on a rustic bench partly shattered, barely enough of it whole to give room beside him for a small japanned tray, on which are tumbler, bottle and jug – the two last respectively containing brandy and water; while in the first is an admixture of both. He is smoking a meerschaum pipe, which at short intervals he removes from his mouth to give place to the drinking glass.

The personal appearance of this man is in curious correspondence with the bench on which he sits, the walls around, and the house behind. Like all these, he looks dilapidated. Not only is his apparel out of repair, but his constitution too, as shown by hollow cheeks and sunken eyes, with crows’ feet ramifying around them. This due not, as with the surrounding objects, to age; for he is still under forty. Nor yet any of the natural infirmities to which flesh is heir; but evidently to drink. Some reddish spots upon his nose and flecks on the forehead, with the glass held in shaking hand, proclaims this the cause. And it is.

Lewin Murdock – such is the man’s name – has led a dissipated life. Not much of it in England; still less in Herefordshire; and only its earlier years in the house he now inhabits – his paternal home. Since boyhood he has been abroad, staying none can say where, and straying no one knows whither – often seen, however, at Baden, Homburg, and other “hells,” punting high or low, as the luck has gone for or against him. At a later period in Paris, during the Imperial régime– worst hell of all. It has stripped him of everything; driven him out and home, to seek asylum at Glyngog, once a handsome property, now but a pied à terre, on which he may only set his foot, with a mortgage around his neck. For even the little land left to it is let out to a farmer, and the rent goes not to him. He is, in fact, only a tenant on his patrimonial estate; holding but the house at that, with the ornamental grounds and an acre or two of orchard, of which he takes no care. The farmer’s sheep may scale the crumbling walls, and browse the weedy enclosure at will; give Lewin Murdock his meerschaum pipe, with enough brandy and water, and he but laughs. Not that he is of a jovial disposition, not at all given to mirth; only that it takes something more than the pasturage of an old orchard to excite his thoughts, or turn them to cupidity.

For all, land does this – the very thing. No limited tract; but one of many acres in extent – even miles – the land of Llangorren.

It is now before his face, and under his eyes, as a map unfolded. On the opposite side of the river it forms the foreground of the landscape; in its midst the many-windowed mansion, backed by stately trees, with well-kept grounds, and green pastures; at a little distance the “Grange,” or home-farm, and farther off others that look of the same belonging – as they are. A smiling picture it is; spread before the eyes of Lewin Murdock, whenever he sits in his front window, or steps outside the door. And the brighter the sun shines on it, the darker the shadow on his brow!

Not much of an enigma either. That land of Llangorren belonged to his grandfather, but now is, or soon will be, the property of his cousin – Gwendoline Wynn. Were she not, it would be his. Between him and it runs the Wye, a broad deep river. But what its width or depth, compared with that other something between? A barrier stronger and more impassable than the stream, yet seeming slight as a thread. For it is but the thread of a life. Should it snap, or get accidentally severed, Lewin Murdock would only have to cross the river, proclaim himself master of Llangorren, and take possession.

He would scarce he human not to think of all this. And being human he does – has thought of it oft, and many a time. With feelings too, beyond the mere prompting of cupidity. These due to a legend handed down to him, telling of an unfair disposal of the Llangorren property; but a pittance given to his mother who married Murdock of Glyngog; while the bulk went to her brother, the father of Gwen Wynn. All matters of testament, since the estate is unentailed; the only grace of the grandfather towards the Murdock branch being a clause entitling them to possession, in the event of the collateral heirs dying out. And of these but one is living – the heroine of our tale.

“Only she – but she!” mutters Lewin Murdock, in a tone of such bitterness, that, as if to drown it, he plucks the pipe out of his mouth, and gulps down the last drop in the glass.