Gwen Wynn Part 57

For himself? No; he has a bedroom besides. And this, by the style of the plenis.h.i.+ng, is evidently intended for one of the fair s.e.x. Indeed, one has already taken possession of it, as evinced by some female apparel suspended upon pegs against the wall; a pin-cus.h.i.+on, with a brooch in it, on the dressing table; bracelets and a necklace besides, with two or three scent bottles, and several other toilet trifles scattered about in front of the framed gla.s.s. They cannot be the belongings of "Old Joe's"

wife nor yet his daughter; for among the many parts he has played in life, that of Benedict has not been. A bachelor he is, and a bachelor he intends staying to the end of the chapter.

Who, then, is the owner of the brooch, bracelets, and other bijouterie?

In a word, his niece--a slip of a girl who was under-housemaid at Llangorren; like himself, set at large, and now transformed into a full-fledged housekeeper--his own. But before entering on parlour duties at the Court, she had seen service in the kitchen, under the cook; and some culinary skill, then and there acquired, now stands her old uncle in stead. By her deft manipulation, stewed rabbit becomes as jugged hare, so that it would be difficult to tell the difference; while she has at her fingers' ends many other feats of the _cuisine_ that give him gratification. The old servitor of Squire Wynn is in his way a _gourmet_, and has a tooth for toothsome things.

His accomplished niece, with somewhat of his own cleverness, bears the pretty name of Amy--Amy Preece, for she is his brother's child. And she is pretty as her name, a bright, blooming girl, rose-cheeked, with form well rounded, and flesh firm as a Ribston pippin. Her cheerful countenance lights up the kitchen late shadowed by the presence and dark, scowling features of Coracle d.i.c.k--brightens it even more than the brand-new tin-ware, or the whitewash upon its walls.

Old Joe rejoices; and if we have a regret, it is that he had not long ago taken up housekeeping for himself. But this thought suggests another contradicting it. How could he while his young mistress lived? She so much beloved by him, whose many beneficences have made him, as he is, independent for the rest of his days, never more to be hara.s.sed by care or distressed by toil, one of her latest largesses, the very last, being to bestow upon him the pretty pleasure craft bearing her own name. This she had actually done on the morning of that day, the twenty-first anniversary of her birth, as it was the last of her life; thus by an act of grand generosity commemorating two events so strangely, terribly in contrast! And as though some presentiment forewarned her of her own sad fate, so soon to follow, she had secured the gift by a sc.r.a.p of writing; thus at the change in the Llangorren household enabling its old boatman to claim the boat, and obtain it too. It is now lying just below, at the brook's mouth, by the withey bed, where Joe has made a mooring place for it. The handsome thing would fetch 50; and many a Wye waterman would give his year's earnings to possess it. Indeed, more than one has been after it, using arguments to induce its owner to dispose of it--pointing out how idle of him to keep a craft so little suited to his present calling!

All in vain. Old Joe would sooner sell his last s.h.i.+rt, or the newly-bought furniture of his house--sooner go begging--than part with that boat. It oft bore him beside his late mistress, so much lamented; it will still bear him lamenting her--ay, for the rest of his life. If he has lost the lady, he will cling to the souvenir which carries her honoured name!

But, however faithful the old family retainer, and affectionate in his memories, he does not let their sadness overpower him, nor always give way to the same. Only at times when something turns up more vividly than usual recalling Gwendoline Wynn to remembrance. On other and ordinary occasions he is cheerful enough, this being his natural habit. And never more than on a certain night shortly after that of his chance encounter with Jack Wingate, when both were a-shopping at Rugg's Ferry. For there and then, in addition to the multifarious news imparted to the young waterman, he gave the latter an invitation to visit him in his new home, which was gladly and off-hand accepted.

"A bit o' supper and a drop o' somethin' to send it down," were the old boatman's words specifying the entertainment.

The night has come round, and the "bit o' supper" is being prepared by Amy, who is acting as though she was never more called upon to practise the culinary art; and, according to her own way of thinking, she never has been. For, to let out a little secret, the French lady's-maid was not the only feminine at Llangorren Court who had cast admiring eyes on the handsome boatman who came there rowing Captain Ryecroft. Raising the curtain still higher, Amy Preece's position is exposed; she, too, having been caught in that same net, spread for neither.

Not strange then, but altogether natural. She is now exerting herself to cook a supper that will give gratification to the expected guest. She would work her fingers off for Jack Wingate.

Possibly the uncle may have some suspicion of why she is moving about so alertly, and besides looking so pleased like. If not a suspicion, he has a wish and a hope. Nothing in life, now, would be so much to his mind as to see his niece married to the man he has invited to visit him. For never in all his life has old Joe met one he so greatly cottons to. His intercourse with the young waterman, though scarce six months old, seems as if it had been of twice as many years; so friendly and pleasant, he not only wants it continued, but wishes it to become nearer and dearer.

If his niece be baiting a trap in the cooking of the supper, he has himself set that trap by the "invite" he gave to the expected guest.

A gentle tapping at the door tells him the triangle is touched; and, responding to the signal, he calls out,--

"That you, Jack Wingate? O' course it be. Come in!"

And in Jack Wingate comes.

CHAPTER LIX.

QUEER BRIC-A-BRAC.

Stepping over the threshold, the young waterman is warmly received by his older brother of the oar, and blus.h.i.+ngly by the girl, whose cheeks are already of a high colour, caught from the fire over which she has been stooping.

Old Joe, seated in the chimney corner, in a huge wicker chair of his own construction, motions Jack to another opposite, leaving the s.p.a.ce in front clear for Amy to carry on her culinary operations. There are still a few touches to be added--a sauce to be concocted--before the supper can be served; and she is concocting it.

Host and guest converse without heeding her, chiefly on topics relating to the bore of the river, about which old Joe is an oracle. As the other, too, has spent all his days on Vaga's banks; but there have been more of them, and he longer resident in that particular neighbourhood.

It is too early to enter upon subjects of a more serious nature, though a word now and then slips in about the late occurrence at Llangorren, still wrapped in mystery. If they bring shadows over the brow of the old boatman, these pa.s.s off, as he surveys the table which his niece has tastefully decorated with fruits and late autumn flowers. It reminds him of many a pleasant Christmas night in the grand servants' hall at the Court, under holly and mistletoe, besides bowls of steaming punch and dishes of blazing snapdragon.

His guest knows something of that same hall; but cares not to recall its memories. Better likes he the bright room he is now seated in. Within the radiant circle of its fire, and the other pleasant surroundings, he is for the time cheerful--almost himself again. His mother told him it was not good to be for ever grieving--not righteous, but sinful. And now, as he watches the graceful creature moving about, actively engaged--and all on his account--he begins to think there may be truth in what she said. At all events, his grief is more bearable than it has been for long days past. Not that he is untrue to the memory of Mary Morgan. Far from it. His feelings are but natural, inevitable. With that fair presence flitting before his eyes, he would not be man if it failed in some way to impress him.

But his feelings for Amy Preece do not go beyond the bounds of respectful admiration. Still is it an admiration that may become warmer, gathering strength as time goes on. It even does somewhat on this same night; for, in truth, the girl's beauty is a thing which cannot be glanced at without a wish to gaze upon it again. And she possesses something more than beauty--a gift not quite so rare, but perhaps as much prized by Jack Wingate--modesty. He has noted her shy, almost timid mien, ere now; for it is not the first time he has been in her company--contrasted it with the bold advances made to him by her former fellow-servant at the Court--Clarisse. And now, again, he observes the same bearing, as she moves about through that cheery place, in the light of glowing coals--best from the Forest of Dean.

And he thinks of it while seated at the supper table; she at its head, _vis-a-vis_ to her uncle, and distributing the viands. These are no damper to his admiration of her, since the dishes she has prepared are of the daintiest. He has not been accustomed to eat such a meal, for his mother could not cook it; while, as already said, Amy is something of an _artiste de cuisine_. An excellent wife she would make, all things considered; and possibly at a later period, Jack Wingate might catch himself so reflecting; but not now--not to-night. Such a thought is not in his mind; could not be, with that sadder thought still overshadowing.

The conversation at the table is mostly between the uncle and himself, the niece only now and then putting in a word; and the subjects are still of a general character, in the main relating to boats and their management.

It continues so till the supper things have been cleared off; and in their place appear a decanter of spirits, a basin of lump sugar, and a jug of hot water, with a couple of tumblers containing spoons. Amy knows her uncle's weakness--which is a whisky toddy before going to bed; for it is the "barley bree" that sparkles in the decanter; and also aware that to-night he will indulge in more than one, she sets the kettle on its trivet against the bars of the grate.

As the hour has now waxed late, and the host is evidently longing for a more confidential chat with his guest, she asks if there is anything more likely to be wanted.

Answered in the negative, she bids both "Good-night," withdraws to the little chamber so prettily decorated for her, and goes to her bed.

But not immediately to fall asleep. Instead, she lies awake thinking of Jack Wingate, whose voice, like a distant murmur, she can now and then hear. The _femme de chambre_ would have had her cheek at the keyhole, to catch what he might say. Not so the young English girl, brought up in a very different school; and if she lies awake, it is from no prying curiosity, but kept so by a n.o.bler sentiment.

On the instant of her withdrawal, old Joe, who has been some time showing in a fidget for it, hitches his chair closer to the table, desiring his guest to do the same; and the whisky punches having been already prepared, they also bring their gla.s.ses together.

"Yer good health, Jack."

"Same to yerself, Joe."

After this exchange, the ex-Charon, no longer constrained by the presence of a third party, launches out into a dialogue altogether different from that hitherto held between them--the subject being the late tenant of the house in which they are hobn.o.bbing.

"Queer sort o' chap, that Coracle d.i.c.k! an't he, Jack?"

"Course he be. But why do ye ask? You knowed him afore, well enough."

"Not so well's now. He never comed about the Court, 'ceptin' once when fetched there--afore the old Squire on a poachin' case. Lor! what a change! He now head-keeper o' the estate."

"Ye say ye know him better than ye did? Ha' ye larned anythin' 'bout him o' late?"

"That hae I, an' a goodish deal too. More'n one thing as seems kewrous."

"If ye don't object tellin' me, I'd like to hear what they be."

"Well, one are, that d.i.c.k Dempsey ha' been in the practice of somethin'

besides poachin'."

"That an't no news to me. I ha' long suspected him o' doin's worse than that."

"Amongst them did ye include forgin'?"

"No; because I never thought o' it. But I believe him to be capable o'

it, or anything else. What makes ye think he ha' been a forger?"

"Well, I won't say forger, for he mayn't ha' made the things. But for sure he ha' been engaged in pa.s.sin' them off."

"Pa.s.sin' what off!"

"Them!" rejoins Joe, drawing a little canvas bag out of his pocket, and spilling its contents upon the table--over a score of coins, to all appearance half-crown pieces.

"Counterfeits--every one o' 'em!" he adds, as the other sits staring at them in surprise.

"Where did you find them?" asks Jack.