Gwen Wynn Part 63

"I thought so. An' if I an't astray, he be the one your Reverence thinks would not be any the worse o' a wettin'?"

"Instead, all the better for it. It may cure him of his evil courses--drinking, card-playing, and the like. If he's not cured of them by some means, and soon, there won't be an acre left him of the Llangorren lands, nor a shilling in his purse. He'll have to go back to beggary, as at Glyngog; while you, Monsieur Coracle, in place of being head-gamekeeper, with other handsome preferments in prospect, will be compelled to return to your shifty life of poaching, night netting, and all the etceteras. Would you desire that?"

"Daanged if I would! An' won't do it if I can help. Shan't, if your Reverence 'll only show me the way."

"There's but one I can think of."

"What may that be, Father Rogier?"

"Simply to set your foot on the side of this skiff, and tilt it bottom upwards."

"It shall be done. When, and where?"

"When you are coming back down. The where you may choose for yourself--such place as may appear safe and convenient. Only take care you don't drown yourself."

"No fear o' that. There an't water in the Wye as'll ever drown d.i.c.k Dempsey."

"No," jocularly returns the priest; "I don't suppose there is. If it be your fate to perish by asphyxia--as no doubt it is--strong tough hemp, and not weak water, will be the agent employed--that being more appropriate to the life you have led. Ha! ha! ha!"

Coracle laughs too, but with the grimace of wolf baying the moon. For the moonlight shining full in his face, shows him not over satisfied with the coa.r.s.e jest. But remembering how he shifted that treacherous plank bridging the brook at Abergann, he silently submits to it. He, too, is gradually getting his hand upon a lever, which will enable him to have a say in the affairs of Llangorren Court, that they dwelling therein will listen to him, or, like the Philistines of Gaza, have it dragged down about their ears.

But the ex-poacher is not yet prepared to enact the _role_ of Samson; and however galling the _jeu d'esprit_ of the priest, he swallows it without showing chagrin, far less speaking it.

In truth there is no time for further exchange of speech--at least, in the skiff. By this time they have arrived at the Rugg's Ferry landing-place, where Father Rogier, getting out, whispers a few words in Coracle's ear, and then goes off.

His words were--

"A hundred pounds, d.i.c.k, if you do it. Twice that for your doing it adroitly!"

CHAPTER LXV.

ALMOST A "VERT."

Major Mahon is standing at one of the front windows of his house, waiting for his dinner to be served, when he sees a _fiacre_ driven up to the door, and inside it the face of a friend.

He does not stay for the bell to be rung, but with genuine Irish impulsiveness rushes forth, himself opening the door.

"Captain Ryecroft!" he exclaims, grasping the new arrival by the hand, and hauling him out of the hackney. "Glad to see you back in Boulogne."

Then adding, as he observes a young man leap down from the box where he has had seat beside the driver, "Part of your belongings, isn't he?"

"Yes, Major; my old Wye waterman, Jack Wingate, of whom I spoke to you.

And if it be convenient to you to quarter both of us for a day or two----"

"Don't talk about convenience, and bar all mention of time. The longer you stay with me, you'll be conferring the greater favour. Your old room is gaping to receive you; and Murtagh will rig up a berth for your boatman. Murt!" to the ex-Royal Irish, who, hearing the _fracas_, has also come forth, "take charge of Captain Ryecroft's traps, along with Mr. Wingate here, and see all safely bestowed. Now, old fellow, step inside. They'll look after the things. You're just in time to do dinner with me. I was about sitting down to it _solus_, awfully lamenting my loneliness. Well, one never knows what luck's in the wind. Rather hard lines for you, however. If I mistake not, my pot's of the poorest this blessed day. But I know you're neither _gourmand_ nor _gourmet;_ and that's some consolation. In!"

In go they, leaving the old soldier to settle the _fiacre_ fare, look after the luggage, and extend the hospitalities of the kitchen to Jack Wingate.

Soon as Captain Ryecroft has performed some slight ablutions--necessary after a sea voyage however short--his host hurries him down to the dining-room.

When seated at the table, the Major asks,--

"What on earth has delayed you, Vivian? You promised to be back in a week at most. It's months now! Despairing of your return, I had some thought of advertising the luggage you left with me, 'if not claimed within a certain time, to be sold for the payment of expenses.' Ha! ha!"

Ryecroft echoes the laugh; but so faintly, his friend can see the cloud has not yet lifted; instead, lies heavy and dark as ever.

In hopes of doing something to dissipate it, the Major rolls on in his rich Hibernian brogue,--

"You've just come in time to save your chattels from the hammer. And now I have you here, I mean to keep you. So, old boy, make up your mind to an unlimited sojourn in Boulogne-sur-mer. You will, won't you?"

"It's very kind of you, Mahon; but that must depend on----"

"On what?"

"How I prosper in my errand."

"Oh! this time you _have_ an errand? Some business?"

"I have."

"Well, as you had none before, it gives reason to hope that other matters may be also reversed, and instead of shooting off like a comet, you'll play the part of a fixed star; neither to shoot nor be shot at, as looked likely on the last occasion. But speaking seriously, Ryecroft, as you say you're on business, may I know its nature?"

"Not only may, but it's meant you should. Nay, more, Mahon; I want your help in it."

"That you can count upon, whatever it be--from pitch-and-toss up to manslaughter. Only say how I can serve you."

"Well, Major, in the first place I would seek your a.s.sistance in some inquiries that I am about to make here."

"Inquiries! Have they regard to that young lady you said was lost--missing from her home! Surely she has been found?"

"She has--found drowned!"

"Found drowned! G.o.d bless me!"

"Yes, Mahon. The home from which she was missing knows her no more.

Gwendoline Wynn is now in her long home--in heaven!"

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--