Gwen Wynn: A Romance of the Wye

The solemn tone of voice, with the woe-begone expression on the speaker’s face, drives all thoughts of hilarity out of the listener’s mind. It is a moment too sacred for mirth; and between the two friends, old comrades in arms, for an interval even speech is suspended; only a word of courtesy as the host presses his guest to partake of the viands before them.

The Major does not question further, leaving the other to take up the broken thread of the conversation.

Which he at length does, holding it in hand, till he has told all that happened since they last sat at that table together.

He gives only the facts, reserving his own deductions from them. But Mahon, drawing them for himself, says searchingly —

“Then you have a suspicion there’s been what’s commonly called foul play?”

“More than a suspicion. I’m sure of it.”

“The devil! But who do you suspect?”

“Who should I, but he now in possession of the property – her cousin, Mr Lewin Murdock. Though I’ve reason to believe there are others mixed up in it; one of them a Frenchman. Indeed, it’s chiefly to make inquiry about him I’ve come over to Boulogne.”

“A Frenchman. You know his name?”

“I do; at least that he goes by on the other side of the Channel. You remember that night as we were passing the back entrance of the convent where your sister’s at school, our seeing a carriage there – a hackney, or whatever it was?”

“Certainly I do.”

“And my saying that the man who had just got out of it, and gone inside, resembled a priest I’d seen but a day or two before?”

“Of course I remember all that; and my joking you at the time as to the idleness of you fancying a likeness among sheep; where all are so nearly of the same hue – that black. Something of the sort I said. But what’s your argument?”

“No argument at all, but a conviction, that the man we saw that night was my Herefordshire priest. I’ve seen him several times since – had a good square look at him – and feel sure ’twas he.”

“You haven’t yet told me his name?”

“Rogier – Father Rogier. So he is called upon the Wye.”

“And, supposing him identified, what follows?”

“A great deal follows, or rather depends on his identification.”

“Explain, Ryecroft. I shall listen with patience.”

Ryecroft does explain, continuing his narrative into a second chapter, which includes the doings of the Jesuit on Wyeside, so far as known to him; the story of Jack Wingate’s love and loss – the last so strangely resembling his own – the steps afterwards taken by the waterman; in short, everything he can think of that will throw light upon the subject.

“A strange tale, truly!” observes the Major, after hearing it to the end. “But does your boatman really believe the priest has resuscitated his dead sweetheart and brought her over here with the intention of of shutting her up in a nunnery?”

“He does all that; and certainly not without show of reason. Dead or alive, the priest or some one else has taken the girl out of her coffin, and her grave.”

“’Twould be a wonderful story, if true – I mean the resuscitation, or resurrection; not the mere disinterment of a body. That’s possible, and probable where priests of the Jesuitical school are concerned. And so should the other be, when one considers that they can make statues wink, and pictures shed tears. Oh! yes; Ultramontane magicians can do anything!”

“But why,” asks Ryecroft, “should they have taken all this trouble about a poor girl – the daughter of a small Herefordshire farmer, – with possibly at the most a hundred pounds, or so, for her dowry? That’s what mystifies me!”

“It needn’t,” laconically observes the Major. “These Jesuit gentry have often other motives than money for caging such birds in their convents. Was the girl good looking?” he asks after musing a moment.

“Well, of myself I never saw her. By Jack’s description she must have been a superb creature – on a par with the angels. True, a lover’s judgment is not much to be relied on, but I’ve heard from others, that Miss Morgan was really a rustic belle – something beyond the common.”

“Faith! and that may account for the whole thing. I know they like their nuns to be nice looking; prefer that stripe; I suppose, for purposes of proselytising, if nothing more. They’d give a good deal to receive the services of my own sister in that way; have been already bidding for her. By Heavens! I’d rather see her laid in her grave!”

The Major’s strong declaration is followed by a spell of silence; after which, cooling down a little, he continues —

“You’ve come, then, to inquire into this convent matter, about – what’s the girl’s name? – ah! Morgan.”

“More than the convent matter; though it’s in the same connection. I’ve come to learn what can be learnt about this priest; get his character, with his antecedents. And, if possible, obtain some information respecting the past lives of Mr Lewin Murdock and his French wife; for which I may probably go on to Paris, if not further. To sum up everything, I’ve determined to sift this mystery to the bottom – unravel it to its last thread. I’ve already commenced unwinding the clue, and made some little progress. But I want one to assist me. Like a lone hunter on a lost trail, I need counsel from a companion – and help too. You’ll stand by me, Mahon?”

“To the death, my dear boy! I was going to say the last shilling in my purse. As you don’t need that, I say, instead, to the last breath in my body!”

“You shall be thanked with the last in mine.”

“I’m sure of that. And now for a drop of the ‘crayther,’ to warm us to our work. Ho! there, Murt! bring in the ‘matayreals.’”

Which Murtagh does, the dinner-dishes having been already removed.

Soon as punches have been mixed, the Major returns to the subject, saying —

“Now then; to enter upon particulars. What step do you wish me to take, first?”

“First, to find out who Father Rogier is, and what. That is, on this side; I know what he is on the other. If we can but learn his relations with the convent it might give us a key, capable of opening more than one lock.”

“There won’t be much difficulty in doing that, I take it. All the less, from my little sister Kate being a great pet of the Lady Superior, who has hopes of making a nun of her! Not if I know it! Soon as her schooling’s completed she walks out of that seminary, and goes to a place where the moral atmosphere is a trifle purer. You see, old fellow, I’m not very bigoted about our Holy Faith, and in some danger of becoming a ‘vert.’ As for my sister, were it not for a bit of a legacy left on condition of her being educated in a convent, she’d never have seen the inside of one, with my consent; and never will again when out of this one. But money’s money; and though the legacy isn’t a large one, for her sake I couldn’t afford to forfeit it. You comprehend?”

“Quite. And you think she will be able to obtain the information, without in any way compromising herself?”

“Pretty sure of it. Kate’s no simpleton, though she be but a child in years. She’ll manage it for me, with the instructions I mean giving her. After all, it may not be so much trouble. In these nunneries, things which are secrets to the world without, are known to every mother’s child of them – nuns and novices alike. Gossip’s the chief occupation of their lives. If there’s been an occurrence such as you speak of – a new bird caged there – above all an English one – it’s sure to have got wind – that is inside the walls. And I can trust Kate to catch the breath, and blow it outside. So, Vivian, old boy, drink your toddy, and take things coolly. I think I can promise you that, before many days, or it may be only hours, you shall know whether such a priest as you speak of, be in the habit of coming to that convent; and if so, what for, when he was there last, and everything about the reverend gentleman worth knowing.”

Kate Mahon proves equal to the occasion; showing herself quick witted, as her brother boasted her to be.

On the third day after, she is able to report to him; that some time previously, how long not exactly known, a young English girl came to the convent, brought thither by a priest named Rogier. The girl is a candidate for the Holy Sisterhood – voluntary of course – to take the veil, soon as her probation be completed. Miss Mahon has not seen the new novice; only heard of her as being a great beauty; for personal charms make noise even in a nunnery. Nor have any of the other pensionnaires been permitted to see or speak with her. All they as yet know is, that she is a blonde, with yellow hair – a grand wealth of it – and goes by the name of “Soeur Marie.”

“Sister Mary!” exclaims Jack Wingate, as Ryecroft at second-hand communicates the intelligence – at the same time translating the “Soeur Marie.”

“It’s Mary Morgan – my Mary! An’ by the Heavens of Mercy,” he adds, his arms angrily thrashing the air, “she shall come out o’ that convent, or I’ll lay my life down at its door.”

Volume Three – Chapter Nineteen

The Last of Lewin Murdock

Once more a boat upon the Wye, passing between Rugg’s Ferry and Llangorren Court, but this time descending. It is the same boat, and as before with two men in it; though they are not both the same who went up. One of them is – Coracle Dick, still at the oars; while Father Rogier’s place in the stern is now occupied by another; not sitting upright as was the priest, but lying along the bottom timbers with head coggled over, and somewhat uncomfortably supported by the thwart.

This man is Lewin Murdock, in a state of helpless inebriety – in common parlance, drunk. He has been brought to the boat landing by the landlord of the “Welsh Harp,” where he has been all day carousing; and delivered to Dempsey, who now at a late hour of the night is conveying him homeward. His hat is down by his feet, instead of upon his head; and the moonbeams, falling unobstructed on his face, show it of a sickly whitish hue; while his eyes, sunk deep in their sockets, have each a demi-lune of dark purplish colour underneath. But for an occasional twitching of the facial muscles, with a spasmodic movement of the lips, and at intervals, a raucous noise through his nostrils, he might pass for dead, as readily as dead drunk.

Verily, is the priest’s prognosis based upon reliable data; for by the symptoms now displayed Lewin Murdock is doing his best to destroy himself – drinking suicidally!

For all, he is not destined thus to die. His end will come even sooner, and it may be easier.