Gwen Wynn Part 23

"Let's hear it, darling!"

She relates the catastrophe of the cupboard, at which he does laugh beyond measure, and with a sense of gratification. Six shillings thrown away--spilled upon the floor--and all for him! Where is the man who would not feel flattered, gratified, to be the shrine of such sacrifice, and from such a worshipper?

"You've been to the Ferry, then?"

"You see," she says, holding up the bottle.

"I weesh I'd known that. I could a met ye on the road, and we'd had more time to be thegither. It's too bad, you havin' to go straight back."

"It is. But there's no help for it. Father Rogier will be there before this, and mother mad impatient."

Were it light she would see his brow darken at mention of the priest's name. She does not, nor does he give expression to the thoughts it has called up. In his heart he curses the Jesuit--often has with his tongue, but not now. He is too delicate to outrage her religious susceptibilities. Still he cannot be altogether silent on a theme so much concerning both.

"Mary, dear!" he rejoins in grave, serious tone, "I don't want to say a word against Father Rogier, seein' how much he be your mother's friend; or, to speak more truthful, her favourite; for I don't believe he's the friend o' anybody. Sartinly, not mine, nor yours; and I've got it on my mind that man will some day make mischief between us."

"How can he, Jack?"

"Ah, how! A many ways. One, his sayin' ugly things about me to your mother--tellin' her tales that ain't true."

"Let him--as many as he likes; you don't suppose I'll believe them?"

"No, I don't, darling--'deed I don't."

A s.n.a.t.c.hed kiss affirms the sincerity of his words; hers as well, in her lips not being drawn back, but meeting him half-way.

For a short time there is silence. With that sweet exchange thrilling their hearts it is natural.

He is the first to resume speech; and from a thought the kiss has suggested:--

"I know there be a good many who'd give their lives to get the like o'

that from your lips, Mary. A soft word, or only a smile. I've heerd talk o' several. But one's spoke of, in particular, as bein' special favourite by your mother, and backed up by the French priest."

"Who?"

She has an idea who--indeed knows; and the question is only asked to give opportunity of denial.

"I dislike mentionin' his name. To me it seems like insultin' ye. The very idea o' d.i.c.k Dempsey----"

"You needn't say more," she exclaims, interrupting him. "I know what you mean. But you surely don't suppose I could think of him as a sweetheart?

That _would_ insult me."

"I hope it would; pleezed to hear you say't. For all, he thinks o' you, Mary; not only in the way o' sweetheart, but----" He hesitates.

"What?"

"I won't say the word. 'Tain't fit to be spoke--about him an' you."

"If you mean _wife_--as I suppose you do--listen! Rather than have Richard Dempsey for a husband, I'd die--go down to the river and drown myself! That horrid wretch! I hate him!"

"I'm glad to hear you talk that way--right glad."

"But why, Jack? You know it couldn't be otherwise! You should--after all that's pa.s.sed. Heaven be my witness! you I love, and you alone. You only shall ever call me wife. If not--then n.o.body!"

"G.o.d bless ye!" he exclaims in answer to her impa.s.sioned speech. "G.o.d bless you, darling!" in the fervour of his grat.i.tude flinging his arms around, drawing her to his bosom, and showering upon her lips an avalanche of kisses.

With thoughts absorbed in the delirium of love, their souls for a time surrendered to it, they hear not a rustling among the late fallen leaves; or, if hearing, supposed it to proceed from bird or beast--the flight of an owl, with wings touching the twigs; or a fox quartering the cover in search of prey. Still less do they see a form skulking among the hollies, black and boding as their shadows.

Yet such there is; the figure of a man, but with face more like that of demon--for it is he whose name has just been upon their lips. He has overheard all they have said; every word an added torture, every phrase sending h.e.l.l to his heart. And now, with jealousy in its last dire throe, every remnant of hope extinguished--cruelly crushed out--he stands, after all, unresolved how to act. Trembling, too; for he is at bottom a coward. He might rush at them and kill both--cut them to pieces with the knife he is holding in his hand. But if only one, and that her, what of himself? He had an instinctive fear of Jack Wingate, who has more than once taught him a subduing lesson.

That experience stands the young waterman in stead now, in all likelihood saving his life. For at this moment the moon, rising, flings a faint light through the branches of the trees; and like some ravenous nocturnal prowler that dreads the light of day, Richard Dempsey pushes his knife-blade back into its sheath, slips out from among the hollies, and altogether away from the spot.

But not to go back to Rugg's Ferry, nor to his own home. Well for Mary Morgan if he had.

By the same glimpse of silvery light warned as to the time, she knows she must needs hasten away; as her lover, that he can no longer detain her. The farewell kiss, so sweet yet painful, but makes their parting more difficult; and, not till after repeating it over and over, do they tear themselves asunder--he standing to look after, she moving off along the woodland path, as nymph or sylphide, with no suspicion that a satyr has preceded her, and is waiting not far off, with foul fell intent--no less than the taking of her life.

CHAPTER XXI.

A TARDY MESSENGER.

Father Rogier has arrived at Abergann; slipped off his goloshes, left them with his hat in the entrance pa.s.sage; and stepped inside the parlour.

There is a bright coal fire chirping in the grate; for, although not absolutely cold, the air is damp and raw from the rain which has fallen during the earlier hours of the day. He has not come direct from his house at the Ferry, but up the meadows from below, along paths that are muddy, with wet gra.s.s overhanging. Hence his having on india-rubber overshoes. Spare of flesh, and thin-blooded, he is sensitive to cold.

Feeling it now, he draws a chair to the fire, and sits down with his feet rested on the fender.

For a time he has it all to himself. The farmer is still outside, looking after his cattle, and setting things up for the night; while Mrs. Morgan, after receiving him, has made excuse to the kitchen--to set the frying-pan on the coals. Already the sausages can be heard frizzling, while their savoury odour is borne everywhere throughout the house.

Before sitting down the priest had helped himself to a gla.s.s of sherry; and, after taking a mouthful or two, set it on the mantel-shelf, within convenient reach. It would have been brandy were there any on the table; but, for the time satisfied with the wine, he sits sipping it, his eyes now and then directed towards the door. This is shut, Mrs. Morgan having closed it after her as she went out.

There is a certain restlessness in his glances, as though he were impatient for the door to be re-opened, and someone to enter.

And so is he, though Mrs. Morgan herself is not the someone--but her daughter. Gregorie Rogier has been a fast fellow in his youth--before a.s.suming the ca.s.sock a very _mauvais sujet_. Even now in the maturer age, and despite his vows of celibacy, he has a partiality for the s.e.x, and a keen eye to female beauty. The fresh, youthful charms of the farmer's daughter have many a time made it water, more than the now stale attractions of Olympe, _nee_ Renault. She is not the only disciple of his flock he delights in drawing to the confessional.

But there is a vast difference between the mistress of Glyngog and the maiden of Abergann. Unlike are they as Lucrezia Borgia to that other Lucretia--victim of Tarquin _fils_. And the priest knows he must deal with them in a very different manner. He cannot himself have Mary Morgan for a wife--he does not wish to--but it may serve his purpose equally well were she to become the wife of Richard Dempsey. Hence his giving support to the pretensions of the poacher--not all unselfish.

Eagerly watching the door, he at length sees it pushed open; and by a woman, but not the one he is wishing for. Only Mrs. Morgan re-entering to speak apologies for delay in serving supper. It will be on the table in a trice.

Without paying much attention to what she says, or giving thought to her excuses, he asks, in a drawl of a.s.sumed indifference,--

"Where is Ma'mselle Marie? Not on the sick list, I hope?"

"Oh no, your reverence. She was never in better health in her life, I'm happy to say."

"Attending to culinary matters, I presume? Bothering herself--on my account, too! Really, madame, I wish you wouldn't take so much trouble when I come to pay you these little visits--calls of duty. Above all, that ma'mselle should be scorching her fair cheeks before a kitchen fire."