Gwen Wynn Part 33

"It be a bird, Captain. I believe the gentry folks calls it a woodp.e.c.k.e.r, but 'bout here it be more generally known by the name _heequall_."

The orthography is according to Jack's orthoepy, for there are various spellings of the word.

"Anyhow," he proceeds, "it gies warnin' o' rain, same as a weather-gla.s.s. When it ha' been laughin' in the mad way it wor most part o' this day, you may look out for a downpour. Besides, the owls ha' been a-doin' their best, too. While I wor waiting for ye in that darksome hole, one went sailin' up an' down the backwash, every now an' then swis.h.i.+n' close to my ear and giein' a screech--as if I hadn't enough o'

the disagreeable to think o'. They allus come that way when one's feelin' out o' sorts--just as if they wanted to make things worse. Hark!

D'd ye hear that, Captain?"

"I did."

They speak of a sound that has reached their ears from below--down the river.

Both show agitation, but most the waterman; for it resembled a shriek, as of a woman in distress. Distant, just as one he heard across the wooded ridge, on that fatal night after parting with Mary Morgan. He knows now, that must have been her drowning cry, and has often thought since whether, if aware of it at the time, he could have done aught to rescue her. Not strange, that with such a recollection he is now greatly excited by a sound so similar!

"That waren't no heequall, nor screech-owl neyther," he says, speaking in a half whisper.

"What do you think it was?" asks the Captain, also _sotto voce_.

"The scream o' a female. I'm 'most sure 'twor that."

"It certainly did seem a woman's voice. In the direction of the Court, too!"

"Yes; it comed that way."

"I've half a mind to put back, and see if there be anything amiss. What say you, Wingate?"

"Gie the word, sir! I'm ready."

The boatman has his oars out of water, and holds them so, Ryecroft still undecided. Both listen with bated breath. But, whether woman's voice, or whatever the sound, they hear nothing more of it; only the monotonous ripple of the river, the wind mournfully sighing through the trees upon its banks, and a distant "brattle" of thunder, bearing out the portent of the bird.

"Like as not," says Jack, "'twor some o' them sarvint girls screechin'

in play, fra havin' had a drop too much to drink. There's a Frenchy thing among 'em as wor gone nigh three sheets i' the wind 'fores I left.

I think, Captain, we may as well keep on."

The waterman has an eye to the threatening rain, and dreads getting a wet jacket.

But his words are thrown away; for, meanwhile, the boat, left to itself, has drifted downward, nearly back to the entrance of the byway, and they are once more within sight of the kiosk on the cliff. There all is darkness--no figure distinguishable. The lamps have burnt out, or been removed by some of the servants.

"She has gone away from it," is Ryecroft's reflection to himself. "I wonder if the ring be still on the floor--or, has she taken it with her!

I'd give something to know that."

Beyond he sees a light in the upper window of the house--that of a bedroom, no doubt. She may be in it, unrobing herself, before retiring to rest. Perhaps standing in front of a mirror, which reflects that form of magnificent outline he was once permitted to hold in his arms, thrilled by the contact, and never to be thrilled so again! Her face in the gla.s.s--what the expression upon it? Sadness, or joy? If the former, she is thinking of him; if the latter, of George Shenstone.

As this reflection flits across his brain, the jealous rage returns, and he cries out to the waterman,--

"Row back, Wingate! Pull hard, and let us home!"

Once more the boat's head is turned upstream, and for a long spell no further conversation is exchanged--only now and then a word relating to the management of the craft, as between rower and steerer. Both have relapsed into abstraction--each dwelling on his own bereavement. Perhaps boat never carried two men with sadder hearts, or more bitter reflections. Nor is there so much difference in the degree of their bitterness. The sweetheart, almost bride, who has proved false, seems to her lover not less lost, than to hers, she who has been s.n.a.t.c.hed away by death!

As the _Mary_ runs into the slip of backwater--her accustomed mooring-place--and they step out of her, the dialogue is renewed by the owner asking,--

"Will ye want me the morrow, Captain?"

"No, Jack."

"How soon do you think? 'Scuse me for questionin'; but young Mr. Powell have been here the day, to know if I could take him an' a friend down the river, all the way to the Channel. It's for sea-fis.h.i.+n' or duck-shootin', or somethin' o' that sort; an' they want to engage the boat most part o' a week. But, if you say the word, they must look out for somebody else. That be the reason o' my askin' when's you'd need me again."

"Perhaps never."

"Oh! Captain; don't say that. 'Tan't as I care 'bout the boat's hire, or the big pay you've been givin' me. Believe me, it ain't. Ye can have me an' the _Mary_ 'ithout a sixpence o' expense--long's ye like. But to think I'm niver to row you again, that 'ud vex me dreadful--maybe more'n ye gi'e me credit for, Captain."

"More than I give you credit for! It couldn't, Jack. We've been too long together for me to suppose you actuated by mercenary motives. Though I may never need your boat again, or see yourself, don't have any fear of my forgetting you. And now, as a souvenir, and some slight recompense of your services, take this."

The waterman feels a piece of paper pressed into his hand, its crisp rustle proclaiming it a bank-note. It is a "tenner," but in the darkness he cannot tell, and believing it only a "fiver," still thinks it too much; for it is all extra of his fare.

With a show of returning it, and, indeed, the desire to do so, he says protestingly,--

"I can't take it, Captain. You ha' paid me too handsome arready."

"Nonsense, man! I haven't done anything of the kind. Besides, that isn't for boat-hire, nor yourself; only a little _douceur_, by way of present to the good dame inside the cottage--asleep, I take it."

"That case, I accept. But won't my mother be grieved to hear o' your goin' away--she thinks so much o' ye, Captain. Will ye let me wake her up? I'm sure she'd like to speak a partin' word, and thank you for this big gift."

"No, no! don't disturb the dear old lady. In the morning you can give her my kind regards and parting compliments. Say to her, when I return to Herefords.h.i.+re--if I ever do--she shall see me. For yourself, take my word, should I ever again go rowing on this river, it will be in a boat called the _Mary_, pulled by the best waterman on the Wye."

Modest though Jack Wingate be, he makes no pretence of misunderstanding the recondite compliment, but accepts it in its fullest sense, rejoining,--

"I'd call it flattery, Captain, if't had come from anybody but you. But I know ye never talk nonsense, an' that's just why I be so sad to hear ye say you're goin' off for good. I feeled so bad 'bout losin' poor Mary; it makes it worse now losin' you. Good-night!"

The Hussar officer has a horse, which has been standing in a little lean-to shed, under saddle. The lugubrious dialogue has been carried on simultaneously with the bridling, and the "Good-night" is said as Ryecroft springs up on his stirrup.

Then as he rides away into the darkness, and Jack Wingate stands listening to the departing hoof-stroke, at each repet.i.tion more indistinct, he feels indeed forsaken, forlorn; only one thing in the world now worth living for--but one to keep him anch.o.r.ed to life--his aged mother!

CHAPTER x.x.xII.

MAKING READY FOR THE ROAD.

Having reached his hotel, Captain Ryecroft seeks neither rest nor sleep, but stays awake for the remainder of the night.

The first portion of his time he spends in gathering up his _impedimenta_, and packing. Not a heavy task. His luggage is light, according to the simplicity of a soldier's wants; and as an old campaigner, he is not long in making ready for the _route_.

His fis.h.i.+ng tackle, guncase and portmanteau, with an odd bundle or two of miscellaneous effects, are soon strapped and corded--after which he takes a seat by a table to write out the labels.

But now a difficulty occurs to him--the address. His name, of course; but what the destination? Up to this moment he has not thought of where he is going; only that he must go somewhere--away from the Wye. There is no Lethe in that stream for memories like his.