Gwen Wynn: A Romance of the Wye

Whatever his object in all this, he does not reveal it to his companion. The time has not come for taking the waterman into full confidence. It will, but not to-night.

He has again relapsed into silence, which continues till he catches sight of an object on the left bank, conspicuous against the sky, beside the moon’s disc, now low. It is a cross surmounting a structure of ecclesiastical character, which he knows to be the Roman Catholic chapel at Rugg’s. Soon as abreast of it he commands —

“Hold way, Jack! Keep her steady awhile!”

The waterman obeys without questioning why this new stoppage. He is himself interrogated the instant after – thus: —

“You see that shadowed spot under the bank – by the wall?”

“I do, Captain.”

“Is there any landing-place there for a boat?”

“None, as I know of. Course a boat may put in anywhere, if the bank beant eyther a cliff or a quagmire. The reg’lar landin’ place be above – where the ferry punt lays.”

“But have you ever known of a boat being moored in there?”

The question has reference to the place first spoken of.

“I have, Captain; my own. That but once, an’ the occasion not o’ the pleasantest kind. ’Twar the night after my poor Mary wor buried, when I comed to say a prayer over her grave, an’ plant a flower on it. I may say I stole there to do it; not wishin’ to be obsarved by that sneak o’ a priest, nor any o’ their Romish lot. Exceptin’ my own, I never knew or heard o’ another boat bein’ laid along there.”

“All right! Now on!”

And on the skiff is sculled up stream for another mile, with little further speech passing between oarsman and steerer; it confined to subjects having no relation to what they have been all the evening occupied with.

For Ryecroft is once more in reverie, or rather silently thinking; his thoughts concentrated on the one theme – endeavouring to solve that problem, simple of itself – but with many complications and doubtful ambiguities – how Gwendoline Wynn came by her death.

He is still absorbed in a sea of conjectures, far as ever from its shore, when he feels the skiff at rest; as it ceases motion its oarsman asking —

“Do you weesh me to set you out here, Captain? There be the right o’ way path through Powell’s meadows. Or would ye rather be took on up to the town? Say which you’d like best, an’ don’t think o’ any difference it makes to me.”

“Thanks, Jack; it’s very kind of you, but I prefer the walk up the meadows. There’ll be moonlight enough yet. And as I shall want your boat to-morrow – it may be for the whole of the day – you’d better get home and well rested. Besides, you say you’ve an errand at Rugg’s – to the shop there. You must make haste, or it will be closed.”

“Ah! I didn’t think o’ that. Obleeged to ye much for remindin’ me. I promised mother to get them grocery things the night, and wouldn’t like to disappoint her – for a good deal.”

“Pull in, then, quick, and tilt me out! And, Jack! not a word to any one about where I’ve been, or what doing. Keep that to yourself.”

“I will – you may rely on me, Captain.”

The boat is brought against the bank; Ryecroft leaps lightly to land, calls back “good night,” and strikes off along the footpath.

Not a moment delays the waterman; but shoving off, and setting head down stream, pulls with all his strength, stimulated by the fear of finding the shop shut.

He is in good time, however; and reaches Rugg’s to see a light in the shop window, with its door standing open.

Going in he gets the groceries, and is on return to the landing-place, where he has left his skiff, when he meets with a man, who has come to the Ferry on an errand somewhat similar to his own. It is Joseph Preece, “Old Joe,” erst boatman of Llangorren Court; but now, as all his former fellow-servants, at large.

Though the acquaintance between him and Wingate is comparatively of recent date, a strong friendship has sprung up between them – stronger as the days passed, and each saw more of the other. For of late, in the exercise of their respective métiers, professionally alike, they have had many opportunities of being together, and more than one lengthened “confab” in the Gwendoline’s dock.

It is days since they have met, and there is much to talk about, Joe being chief spokesman. And now that he has done his shopping, Jack can spare the time to listen. It will throw him a little later in reaching home; but his mother won’t mind that. She saw him go up, and knows he will remember his errand.

So the two stand conversing till the gossipy Joseph has discharged himself of a budget of intelligence, taking nigh half an hour in the delivery.

Then they part, the ex-Charon going about his own business, the waterman returning to his skiff.

Stepping into it, and seating himself, he pulls out and down.

A few strokes bring him opposite the chapel burying-ground; when all at once, as if stricken by a palsy, his arms cease moving, and the oar-blades drag deep in the water. There is not much current, and the skiff floats slowly.

He in it sits with eyes turned towards the graveyard. Not that he can see anything there, for the moon has gone down, and all is darkness. But he is not gazing, only thinking.

A thought, followed by an impulse leading to instantaneous action. A back stroke or two of the starboard oar, then a strong tug, and the boat’s bow is against the bank.

He steps ashore; ties the painter to a withy; and, climbing over the wall, proceeds to the spot so sacred to him.

Dark as is now the night he has no difficulty in finding it. He has gone over that ground before, and remembers every inch of it. There are not many gravestones to guide him, for the little cemetery is of late consecration, and its humble monuments are few and far between. But he needs not their guidance. As a faithful dog by instinct finds the grave of its master, so he, with memories quickened by affection, makes his way to the place where repose the remains of Mary Morgan.

Standing over her grave he first gives himself up to an outpouring of grief, heartfelt as wild. Then becoming calmer he kneels down beside it, and says a prayer. It is the Lord’s – he knows no other. Enough that it gives him relief; which it does, lightening his overcharged heart.

Feeling better he is about to depart, and has again risen erect, when a thought stays him – a remembrance – “The flower of love-lies-bleeding.”

Is it growing? Not the flower, but the plant. He knows the former is faded, and must wait for the return of spring. But the latter – is it still alive and flourishing? In the darkness he cannot see, but will be able to tell by the touch.

Once more dropping upon his knees, and extending his hands over the grave, he gropes for it. He finds the spot, but not the plant. It is gone! Nothing left of it – not a remnant! A sacrilegious hand has been there, plucked it up, torn it out root and stalk, as the disturbed turf tells him!

In strange contrast with the prayerful words late upon his lips, are the angry exclamations to which he now gives utterance; some of them so profane as only under the circumstances to be excusable.

“It’s that d – d rascal, Dick Dempsey, as ha’ done it. Can’t a been anybody else? An’ if I can but get proof o’t, I’ll make him repent o’ the despicable trick. I will, by the livin’ God!”

Thus angrily soliloquising, he strides back to his skiff, and getting in rows off. But more than once, on the way homeward, he might be heard muttering words in the same wild strain – threats against Coracle Dick.

Volume Three – Chapter Seven

A Late Tea

Mrs Wingate is again growing impatient at her son’s continued absence, now prolonged beyond all reasonable time. The Dutch dial on the kitchen wall shows it to be after ten; therefore two hours since the skiff passed upwards. Jack has often made the return trip to Rugg’s in less than one, while the shopping should not occupy him more than ten minutes, or, making every allowance, not twenty. How is the odd time being spent by him?

Her impatience becomes uneasiness as she looks out of doors, and observes the hue of the sky. For the moon having gone down it is now very dark, which always means danger on the river. The Wye is not a smooth swan pond, and, flooded or not, annually claims its victims – strong men as women. And her son is upon it!

“Where?” she asks herself, becoming more and more anxious. He may have taken his fare on up to the town, in which case it will be still later before he can get back.

While thus conjecturing a tinge of sadness steals over the widow’s thoughts, with something of that weird feeling she experienced when once before waiting for him in the same way – on the occasion of his pretended errand after whipcord and pitch.

“Poor lad!” she says, recalling the little bit of deception she pardoned, and which now more than ever seems pardonable; “he hain’t no need now deceivin’ his old mother that way. I only wish he had.”

“How black that sky do look,” she adds, rising from her seat, and going to the door; “An’ threatenin’ storm, if I bean’t mistook. Lucky, Jack ha’ intimate acquaintance wi’ the river ’tween here and Rugg’s – if he hain’t goed farther. What a blessin’ the boy don’t gie way to drink, an’s otherways careful! Well, I ’spose there an’t need for me feelin’ uneasy. For all, I don’t like his bein’ so late. Mercy me! Nigh on the stroke o’ eleven? Ha! What’s that? Him I hope.”

She steps hastily out, and behind the house, which fronting the road, has its back towards the river. On turning the corner she hears a dull thump, as of a boat brought up against the bank; then a sharper concussion of timber striking timber – the sound of oars being unshipped. It comes from the Mary, at her mooring-place; as, in a few seconds after, Mrs Wingate is made aware, by seeing her son approach with his arms full – in one of them a large brown paper parcel, while under the other are his oars. She knows it is his custom to bring the latter up to the shed – a necessary precaution due to the road running so near, and the danger of larking fellows taking a fancy to carry off his skiff.