Gwen Wynn Part 25

When she shines he can himself be seen. Standing in crouched att.i.tude with the ivy tendrils festooned over his pale, bloodless face, he looks like a gigantic spider behind its web, on the wait for prey--ready to spring forward and seize it.

For nigh ten minutes he thus remains watching, all the while impatiently chafing. He listens too; though with little hope of hearing aught to indicate the approach of her expected. After the pleasant _tete-a-tete_, he is now sure she must have held with the waterman, she will be coming along silently, her thoughts in sweet, placid contentment; or she may come on with timid, stealthy steps, dreading rebuke by her mother for having overstayed her time.

Just as the priest in bitterest chagrin is promising himself that rebuked she shall be, he sees what interrupts his resolves, suddenly and altogether withdrawing his thoughts from Mary Morgan. It is a form approaching the plank, on the opposite side of the stream; not hers, nor woman's; instead the figure of a man! Neither erect nor walking in the ordinary way, but with head held down and shoulders projected forward, as if he were seeking concealment under the bushes that beset the path, for all drawing nigh to the brook with the rapidity of one pursued, and who thinks there is safety only on its other side!

"_Sainte Vierge!_" exclaims the priest, _sotto voce_. "What can all that mean? And who----"

He stays his self-asked interrogatory, seeing that the skulker has paused too--at the farther end of the plank, which he has now reached.

Why? It may be from fear to set foot on it; for indeed is there danger to one not intimately acquainted with it. The man may be a stranger--some fellow on teamo who intends trying the hospitality of the farmhouse--more likely its henroosts, judging by his manner of approach.

While thus conjecturing, Rogier sees the skulker stoop down, immediately after hearing a sound, different from the sough of the stream; a harsh grating noise, as of a piece of heavy timber drawn over a rough surface of rock.

"Sharp fellow!" thinks the priest; "with all his haste, wonderfully cautious! He's fixing the thing steady before venturing to tread upon it! Ha! I'm wrong; he don't design crossing it after all!"

This as the crouching figure erects itself and, instead of pa.s.sing over the plank, turns abruptly away from it. Not to go back along the path, but up the stream on that same side! And with bent body as before, still seeming desirous to shun observation.

Now more than ever mystified, the priest watches him, with eyes keen as those of a cat set for nocturnal prowling. Not long till he learns who the man is. Just then the moon, escaping from a cloud, flashes her full light in his face, revealing features of diabolic expression--that of a murderer striding away from the spot where he has been spilling blood!

Rogier recognises Coracle d.i.c.k, though still without the slightest idea of what the poacher is doing there.

"_Que diantre!_" he exclaims, in surprise; "what can that devil be after! Coming up to the plank and not crossing! Ha! yonder's a very different sort of pedestrian approaching it? Ma'mselle Mary at last!"

This as by the same intermittent gleam of moonlight he descries a straw hat, with streaming ribbons, over the tops of the bushes beyond the brook.

The brighter image drives the darker one from his thoughts; and, forgetting all about the man, in his resolve to take the woman unawares, he steps out from under the ivy, and makes forward to meet her. He is a Frenchman, and to help her over the foot-plank will give him a fine opportunity for displaying his cheap gallantry.

As he hastens down to the stream, the moon remaining unclouded, he sees the young girl close to it on the opposite side. She approaches with proud carriage, and confident step, her cheeks even under the pale light showing red--flushed with the kisses so lately received, as it were still clinging to them. Her heart yet thrilling with love, strong under its excitement, little suspects she how soon it will cease to beat.

Boldly she plants her foot upon the plank, believing, late boasting, a knowledge of its tricks. Alas! there is one with which she is not acquainted--could not be--a new and treacherous one, taught it within the last two minutes. The daughter of Evan Morgan is doomed; one more step will be her last in life.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE DAUGHTER OF EVAN MORGAN IS DOOMED. ONE MORE STEP WILL BE HER LAST.]

She makes it, the priest alone being witness. He sees her arms flung aloft, simultaneously hearing a shriek; then arms, body, and bridge sink out of sight suddenly, as though the earth had swallowed them!

CHAPTER XXIII.

A SUSPICIOUS WAIF.

On returning homeward the young waterman bethinks him of a difficulty--a little matter to be settled with his mother. Not having gone to the shop, he has neither whipcord nor pitch to show. If questioned about these commodities, what answer is he to make? He dislikes telling her another lie. It came easy enough before the interview with his sweetheart, but now it is not so much worth while.

On reflection, he thinks it will be better to make a clean breast of it.

He has already half confessed, and may as well admit his mother to full confidence about the secret he has been trying to keep from her--unsuccessfully, as he now knows.

While still undetermined, a circ.u.mstance occurs to hinder him from longer withholding it, whether he would or not. In his abstraction he has forgotten all about the moon, now up, and at intervals shining brightly. During one of these he has arrived at his own gate, as he opens it seeing his mother on the doorstep. Her att.i.tude shows she has already seen him, and observed the direction whence he has come. Her words declare the same.

"Why, Jack!" she exclaims, in feigned astonishment, "ye bean't a comin'

from the Ferry that way?"

The interrogatory, or rather the tone in which it is put, tells him the cat is out of the bag. No use attempting to stuff the animal in again; and seeing it is not, he rejoins, laughingly,--

"Well, mother, to speak the truth, I ha'nt been to the Ferry at all. An'

I must ask you to forgie me for practisin' a trifle o' deception on ye--that 'bout the _Mary_ wantin' repairs."

"I suspected it, lad; an' that it wor the tother Mary as wanted something, or you wanted something wi' her. Since you've spoke repentful, an' confessed, I ain't agoin' to worrit ye about it. I'm glad the boat be all right, as I ha' got good news for you."

"What?" he asks, rejoiced at being so easily let off.

"Well; you spoke truth when ye sayed there was no knowin' but that somebody might be wantin' to hire ye any minnit. There's been one arready."

"Who? Not the Captain?"

"No, not him. But a grand livery chap; footman or coachman--I ain't sure which--only that he came frae a Squire Powell's, 'bout a mile back."

"Oh! I know Squire Powell--him o' New Hall, I suppose it be. What did the sarvint say?"

"That if you wasn't engaged, his young master wants ye to take hisself, and some friends that be staying wi' him, for a row down the river."

"How far did the man say? If they be bound to Chepstow, or even but Tintern, I don't think I could go--unless they start Monday mornin'. I'm 'gaged to the Captain for Thursday, ye know; an' if I went the long trip, there'd be all the bother o' gettin' the boat back--an' bare time."

"Monday! Why it's the morrow they want ye."

"Sunday! That's queerish, too. Squire Powell's family be a sort o'

strict religious, I've heerd."

"That's just it. The livery chap sayed it be a church they're goin' to; some curious kind o' old worshippin' place, that lie in a bend o' the river, where carriages ha' difficulty in gettin' to it."

"I think I know the one, an' can take them there well enough. What answer did you gie to the man?"

"That ye could take 'em, an' would. I know'd you hadn't any other bespeak; and since it wor to a church, wouldn't mind its bein' Sunday."

"Sartinly not. Why should I?" asks Jack, who is anything but a Sabbatarian. "Where do they weesh the boat to be took? Or am I to wait for 'em here?"

"Yes; the man spoke o' them comin' here, an' at a very early hour. Six o'clock. He sayed the clergyman be a friend o' the family, an' they're to ha' their breakfasts wi' him, afore goin' to church."

"All right! I'll be ready for 'em, come's as early as they may."

"In that case, my son, ye' better get to your bed at once. Ye've had a hard day o' it, and need rest. Should ye like take a drop o' somethin'

'fores you lie down?"

"Well, mother, I don't mind. Just a gla.s.s o' your elderberry."

She opens a cupboard, brings forth a black bottle, and fills him a tumbler of the dark red wine--home made, and by her own hands.

Quaffing it, he observes,--