“Oh! A Roman Catholic chapel. But how does it corrupt them?”
“By makin’ ’em believe they can get cleared of their sins, hows’ever black they be. Men as think that way a’nt like to stick at any sort of crime – ’specialty if it brings ’em the money to buy what they calls absolution.”
“Well, Jack; it’s very evident you’re no friend, or follower, of the Pope.”
“Neyther o’ Pope nor priest. Ah! captain; if you seed him o’ the Rogue’s Ferry Chapel, you wouldn’t wonder at my havin’ a dislike for the whole kit o’ them.”
“What is there specially repulsive about him?”
“Don’t know as there be any thin’ very special, in partickler. Them priests all look bout the same – such o’ ’em as I’ve ever set eyes on. And that’s like stoats and weasels, shootin’ out o’ one hole into another. As for him we’re speakin’ about, he’s here, there, an’ everywhere; sneakin’ along the roads an’ paths, hidin’ behind bushes like a cat after birds, an’ poppin’ out where nobody expects him. If ever there war a spy meaner than another it’s the priest of Rogue’s Ferry.”
“No?” he adds, correcting himself. “There be one other in these parts worse than he – if that’s possible. A different sort o’ man, true; and yet they be a good deal thegither.”
“Who is this other?”
“Dick Dempsey – better known by the name of Coracle Dick.”
“Ah, Coracle Dick! He appears to occupy a conspicuous place in your thoughts, Jack; and rather a low one in your estimation. Why, may I ask? What sort of fellow is he?”
“The biggest blaggard as lives on the Wye, from where it springs out o’ Plinlimmon to its emptying into the Bristol Channel. Talk o’ poachers an’ night netters. He goes out by night to catch somethin’ beside salmon. ’Taint all fish as comes into his net, I know.”
The young waterman speaks in such hostile tone both about priest and poacher, that Ryecroft suspects a motive beyond the ordinary prejudice against men who wear the sacerdotal garb, or go trespassing after game. Not caring to inquire into it now, he returns to the original topic, saying: —
“We’ve strayed from our subject, Jack – which was the hard drinking owner of yonder house.”
“Not so far, captain; seein’ as he be the most intimate friend the priest have in these parts; though if what’s said be true, not nigh so much as his Missus.”
“Murdock is married, then?”
“I won’t say that – leastwise I shouldn’t like to swear it. All I know is, a woman lives wi’ him, s’posed to be his wife. Odd thing she.”
“Why odd?”
“’Cause she beant like any other o’ womankind ’bout here.”
“Explain yourself, Jack. In what does Mrs Murdock differ from the rest of your Herefordshire fair?”
“One way, captain, in her not bein’ fair at all. ’Stead, she be dark complected; most as much as one o’ them women I’ve seed ’bout Cheltenham, nursin’ the children o’ old officers as brought ’em from India —ayers they call ’em. She a’nt one o’ ’em, but French, I’ve heerd say; which in part, I suppose explains the thickness ’tween her an’ the priest – he bein’ the same.”
“Oh! His reverence is a Frenchman, is he?”
“All o’ that, captain. If he wor English, he wouldn’t – couldn’t – be the contemptible sneakin’ hound he is. As for Mrs Murdock, I can’t say I’ve seed her more’n twice in my life. She keeps close to the house; goes nowhere; an’ it’s said nobody visits her nor him – leastwise none o’ the old gentry. For all Mr Murdock belongs to the best of them.”
“He’s a gentleman, is he?”
“Ought to be – if he took after his father.”
“Why so?”
“Because he wor a squire – regular of the old sort. He’s not been so long dead. I can remember him myself, though I hadn’t been here such a many years – the old lady too – this Murdock’s mother. Ah! now I think on’t, she wor t’other squire’s sister – father to the tallest o’ them two young ladies – the one with the reddish hair.”
“What! Miss Wynn?”
“Yes, captain; her they calls Gwen.”
Ryecroft questions no farther. He has learnt enough to give him food for reflection – not only during the rest of that day, but for a week, a month – it may be throughout the remainder of his life.
Volume One – Chapter Ten
The Cuckoo’s Glen
About a mile above Llangorren Court, but on the opposite side of the Wye, stands the house which had attracted the attention of Captain Ryecroft; known to the neighbourhood as “Glyngog” – Cymric synonym for “Cuckoo’s Glen.” Not immediately on the water’s edge, but several hundred yards back, near the head of a lateral ravine which debouches on the valley of the river, to the latter contributing a rivulet.
Glyngog House is one of those habitations, common in the county of Hereford as other western shires – puzzling the stranger to tell whether they be gentleman’s residence, or but the dwelling of a farmer. This from an array of walls, enclosing yard, garden, even the orchard – a plenitude due to the red sandstone being near, and easily shaped for building purposes.
About Glyngog House, however, there is something besides the circumvallation to give it an air of grandeur beyond that of the ordinary farm homestead; certain touches of architectural style which speak of the Elizabethan period – in short that termed Tudor. For its own walls are not altogether stone; instead a framework of oaken uprights, struts, and braces, black with age, the panelled masonry between plastered and white-washed, giving to the structure a quaint, almost fantastic, appearance, heightened by an irregular roof of steep pitch, with projecting dormers, gables acute angled, overhanging windows, and carving at the coigns. Of such ancient domiciles there are yet many to be met with on the Wye – their antiquity vouched for by the materials used in their construction, when bricks were a costly commodity, and wood to be had almost for the asking.
About this one, the enclosing stone walls have been a later erection, as also the pillared gate entrance to its ornamental grounds, through which runs a carriage drive to the sweep in front. Many a glittering equipage may have gone round on that sweep; for Glyngog was once a Manor-house. Now it is but the remains of one, so much out of repair as to show smashed panes in several of its windows, while the enceinte walls are only upright where sustained by the upholding ivy; the shrubbery run wild; the walks and carriage drive weed-covered; on the latter neither recent track of wheel, nor hoof-mark of horse.
For all, the house is not uninhabited. Three or four of the windows appear sound, with blinds inside them; while at most hours smoke may be seen ascending from at least two of the chimneys.
Few approach near enough the place to note its peculiarities. The traveller gets but a distant glimpse of its chimney-pots; for the country road, avoiding the dip of the ravine, is carried round its head, and far from the house. It can only be approached by a long, narrow lane, leading nowhere else, so steep as to deter any explorer save a pedestrian; while he, too, would have to contend with an obstruction of overgrowing thorns and trailing brambles.
Notwithstanding these disadvantages, Glyngog has something to recommend it – a prospect not surpassed in the western shires of England. He who selected its site must have been a man of tastes rather aesthetic, than utilitarian. For the land attached and belonging – some fifty or sixty acres – is barely arable; lying against the abruptly sloping sides of the ravine. But the view is superb. Below, the Wye, winding through a partially wood-covered plain, like some grand constrictor snake; its sinuosities only here and there visible through the trees, resembling