Gwen Wynn: A Romance of the Wye

“Only as far as Llangorren Court.”

“But there be new people there now, ye sayed?”

“Yes; the Murdocks. Bad lot both man an’ wife, though he wor the cousin o’ the good young lady as be gone.”

“Sure, then, the Captain han’t been to visit them?”

“No, not likely. He an’t the kind to consort wi’ such as they, for all o’ their bein’ big folks now.”

“But there were other ladies livin’ at Llangorren. What ha’ become o’ they?”

“They ha’ gone to another house somewhere down the river – a smaller one it’s sayed. The old lady as wor Miss Wynn’s aunt ha’ money o’ her own, an’ the other be livin’ ’long wi’ her. For the rest there’s been a clean out – all the sarvints sent about their business; the only one kep’ bein’ a French girl who wor lady’s-maid to the old mistress – that’s the aunt. She’s now the same to the new one, who be French, like herself.”

“Where ha’ ye heerd all this, Jack?”

“From Joseph Preece. I met him up at the Ferry, as I wor comin’ away from the shop.”

“He’s out too, then?” asks Mrs Wingate, who has of late come to know him.

“Yes; same’s the others.”

“Where be the poor man abidin’ now?”

“Well; that’s odd, too. Where do you suppose, mother?”

“How should I know, my son? Where?”

“In the old house where Coracle Dick used to live!”

“What be there so odd in that?”

“Why, because Dick’s now in his house; ha’ got his place at the Court, an’s goin’ to be somethin’ far grander than ever he wor – head keeper.”

“Ah! poacher turned gamekeeper! That be settin’ thief to catch thief!”

“Somethin’ besides thief, he! A deal worse than that!”

“But,” pursues Mrs Wingate, without reference to the reflection on Coracle’s character, “ye han’t yet tolt me what the Captain took down the river.”

“I an’t at liberty to tell any one. Ye understand me, mother?”

“Yes, yes; I do.”

“The Captain ha’ made me promise to say nothin’ o’ his doin’s; an’, to tell truth, I don’t know much about them myself. But what I do know, I’m honour bound to keep dark consarnin’ it – even wi’ you, mother.”

She appreciates his nice sense of honour; and, with her own of delicacy, does not urge him to any further explanation.

“In time,” he adds, “I’m like enough to know all o’ what he’s after. Maybe, the morrow.”

“Ye’re to see him the morrow, then?”

“Yes; he wants the boat.”

“What hour?”

“He didn’t say when, only that he might be needin’ me all the day. So I may look out for him early – first thing in the mornin’.”

“That case ye must get to your bed at oncst, an’ ha’ a good sleep, so’s to start out fresh. First take this. It be the somethin’ I promised ye – better than tea.”

The something is a mug of mulled elderberry wine, which, whether or not better than tea, is certainty superior to port prepared in the same way.

Quaffing it down, and betaking himself to bed, under its somniferous influence, the Wye waterman is soon in the land of dreams. Not happy ones, alas! but visions of a river flood-swollen, with a boat upon its seething frothy surface, borne rapidly on towards a dangerous eddy – then into it – at length capsized to a sad symphony – the shrieks of a drowning woman!

Volume Three – Chapter Eight

The New Mistress of the Mansion

At Llangorren Court all is changed, from owner down to the humblest domestic. Lewin Murdock has become its master, as the priest told him he some day might.

There was none to say nay. By the failure of Ambrose Wynn’s heirs – in the line through his son and bearing his name – the estate of which he was the original testator reverts to the children of his daughter, of whom Lewin Murdock, an only son, is the sole survivor. He of Glyngog is therefore indisputable heritor of Llangorren; and no one disputing it, he is now in possession, having entered upon it soon as the legal formularies could be gone through with. This they have been with a haste which causes invidious remark, if not actual scandal.

Lewin Murdock is not the man to care; and, in truth, he is now scarce ever sober enough to feel sensitive, could he have felt so at any time. But in his new and luxurious home, waited on by a staff of servants, with wine at will, so unlike the days of misery spent in the dilapidated manor house, he gives loose rein to his passion for drink; leaving the management of affairs to his dexterous better half.

She has not needed to take much trouble in the matter of furnishing. Her husband, as nearest of kin to the deceased, has also come in for the personal effects, furniture included; all but some belongings of Miss Linton, which had been speedily removed by her – transferred to a little house of her own, not far off. Fortunately, the old lady is not left impecunious; but has enough to keep her in comfort, with an economy, however, that precludes all idea of longer indulging in a lady’s-maid, more especially one so expensive as Clarisse; who, as Jack Wingate said, has been dismissed from Miss Linton’s establishment – at the same time discharging herself by notice formally given. That clever demoiselle was not meant for service in a ten-roomed cottage, even though a detached one; and through the intervention of her patron, the priest, she still remains at the Court, to dance attendance on the ancien belle of Mabille, as she did on the ancient toast of Cheltenham.

Pleasantly so far; her new mistress being in fine spirits, and herself delighted with everything. The French adventuress has attained the goal of an ambition long cherished, though not so patiently awaited. Oft gazed she across the Wye at those smiling grounds of Llangorren, as the Fallen Angel back over its walls into the Garden of Eden; oft saw she there assemblages of people to her seeming as angels, not fallen, but in highest favour – ah! in her estimation, more than angels – women of rank and wealth, who could command what she coveted beyond any far-off joys celestial – the nearer pleasures of earth and sense.

Those favoured fair ones are not there now, but she herself is; owner of the very Paradise in which they disported themselves! Nor does she despair of seeing them at Llangorren again, and having them around her in friendly intercourse, as had Gwendoline Wynn. Brought up under the régime of Louis and trained in the school of Eugenie, why need she fear either social slight or exclusion? True, she is in England, not France; but she thinks it is all the same. And not without some reason for so thinking. The ethics of the two countries, so different in days past, have of late become alarmingly assimilated – ever since that hand, red with blood spilled upon the boulevards of Paris, was affectionately elapsed by a Queen on the dock head of Cherbourg. The taint of that touch felt throughout all England, has spread over it like a plague; no local or temporary epidemic, but one which still abides, still emitting its noisome effluvia in a flood of prurient literature – novel writers who know neither decency nor shame – newspaper scribblers devoid of either truth or sincerity – theatres little better than licensed bagnios, and Stock Exchange scandals smouching names once honoured in English history, with other scandals of yet more lamentable kind – all the old landmarks of England’s morality being rapidly obliterated.

And all the better for Olympe, née Renault. Like her sort living by corruption, she instinctively rejoices at it, glories in the monde immonde of the Second Empire, and admires the abnormal monster who has done so much in sowing and cultivating the noxious crop. Seeing it flourish around her, and knowing it on the increase, the new mistress of Llangorren expects to profit by it. Nor has she the slightest fear of failure in any attempt she may make to enter Society. It will not much longer taboo her. She knows that, with very little adroitness, 10,000 pounds a-year will introduce her into a Royal drawing-room – aye, take her to the steps of a throne; and none is needed to pass through the gates of Hurlingham nor those of Chiswick’s Garden. In this last she would not be the only flower of poisonous properties and tainted perfume; instead, would brush skirts with scores of dames wonderfully like those of the Restoration and Regency, recalling the painted dolls of the Second Charles, and the Delilahs of the Fourth George; in bold effrontery and cosmetic brilliance equalling either.

The wife of Lewin Murdock hopes ere long to be among them – once more a célébrité, as she was in the Bois de Boulogne, and the bals of the demi-monde.

True, the county aristocracy have not yet called upon her. For by a singular perverseness – unlike Nature’s laws in the animal and vegetable world – the outer tentacles of this called “Society” are the last to take hold. But they will yet. Money is all powerful in this free and easy age. Having that in sufficiency, it makes little difference whether she once sat by a sewing machine, or turned a mangle, as she once has done in the Faubourg Montmartre for her mother, la blanchisseuse. She is confident the gentry of the shire will in due time surrender, send in their cards and come of themselves; as they surely will, soon as they see her name in the Court Journal or Morning Post in the list of Royal receptions: – “Mrs Lewin Murdock, presented by the Countess of Devilacare.”

And to a certainty they shall so read it, with much about her besides, if Jenkins be true to his instincts. She need not fear him – he will. She can trust his fidelity to the star scintillating in a field of plush, as to the Polar that of magnetic needle.

Her husband bears his new fortunes in a manner somewhat different; in one sense more soberly, as in another the reverse. If, during his adversity he indulged in drink, in prosperity he does not spare it. But there is another passion to which he now gives loose – his old, unconquerable vice – gaming. Little cares he for the cards of visitors, while those of the gambler delight him; and though his wife has yet received none of the former, he has his callers to take a hand with him at the latter – more than enough to make up a rubber of whist. Besides, some of his old cronies of the “Welsh Harp,” who have now entrée at Llangorren, several young swells of the neighbourhood – the black sheep of their respective flocks – are not above being of his company. Where the carrion is the eagles congregate, as the vultures; and already two or three of the “leg” fraternity – in farther flight from London – have found their way into Herefordshire, and hover around the precincts of the Court.

Night after night, tables are there set out for loo, écarté, rouge et noir, or whatever may be called for – in a small way resembling the hells of Homburg, Baden, and Monaco – wanting only the women.

Volume Three – Chapter Nine

The Gamblers at Llangorren

Among the faces now seen at Llangorren – most of them new to the place, and not a few of forbidding aspect – there is one familiar to us. Sinister as any; since it is that of Father Rogier. At no rare intervals may it be there observed; but almost continuously. Frequent as were his visits to Glyngog, they are still more so to Llangorren, where he now spends the greater part of his time; his own solitary, and somewhat humble, dwelling at Rugg’s Ferry seeing nothing of him for days together, while for nights its celibate bed is unslept in: the luxurious couch spread for him at the Court having greater attractions.

Whether made welcome to this unlimited hospitality, or not, he comports himself as though he were; seeming noways backward in the reception of it; instead as if demanding it. One ignorant of his relations with the master of the establishment might imagine him its master. Nor would the supposition be so far astray. As the King-mater controls the King, so can Gregoire Rogier the new Lord of Llangorren – influence him at his will.