Down in the boat-dock, upon the thwarts of his skiff, sits the young waterman awaiting his fare. He has been up to the house, and there hospitably entertained—feasted. But with the sorrow of his recent bereavement still fresh, the revelry of the servants' hall had no fascination for him—instead, only saddening him the more. Even the blandishments of the French femme de chambre could not detain him; and fleeing them, he has returned to his boat long before he expects being called upon to use the oars.

Seated, pipe in mouth—for Jack too indulges in tobacco—he is endeavouring to put in the time as well as he can; irksome at best with that bitter grief upon him. And it is present all the while, with scarce a moment of surcease, his thoughts ever dwelling on her who is sleeping her last sleep in the burying-ground at Rugg's Ferry.

While thus disconsolately reflecting, a sound falls upon his ears which claims his attention, and for an instant or two occupies it. If anything, it was the dip of an oar; but so light that only one with ears well trained to distinguish noises of the kind could tell it to be that. He, however, has no doubt of it, muttering to himself,—

"Wonder whose boat can be on the river this time o' night—mornin', I ought to say? Wouldn't be a tourist party—starting off so early. No; can't be that. Like enough Dick Dempsey out a-salmon stealin'! The night so dark—just the sort for the rascal to be about on his unlawful business."

While thus conjecturing, a scowl, dark as the night itself, flits over his own face.

"Yes; a coracle!" he continues; "must 'a been the plash o' a paddle. If't had been a regular boat's oar, I'd a heerd the thumpin' against the thole pins."

For once the waterman is in error. It is no paddle whose stroke he has heard, nor a coracle impelled by it; but a boat rowed by a pair of oars. And why there is no "thumpin' against the thole pins" is because the oars are muffled. Were he out in the main channel—two hundred yards above the byway—he would see the craft itself with three men in it. But only at that instant, as in the next it is headed into a bed of "witheys"—flooded by the freshet—and pushed on through them to the bank beyond.

Soon it touches terra firma, the men spring out; two of them going off towards the grounds of Llangorren Court. The third remains by the boat.

Meanwhile, Jack Wingate, in his skiff, continues listening; but hearing no repetition of the sound that had so slightly reached his ear, soon ceases to think of it, again giving way to his grief, as he returns to reflect on what lies in the chapel cemetery. If he but knew how near the two things were together—the burying-ground and the boat—he would not be long in his own.

Relieved he is when at length voices are heard up at the house—calls for carriages—proclaiming the ball about to break up. Still more gratified, as the banging of doors, and the continuous rumble of wheels, tell of the company fast clearing off.

For nigh half an hour the rattling is incessant; then there is a lull, and he listens for a sound of a different sort—a footfall on the stone stairs that lead down to the little dock—that of his fare, who may at any moment be expected.

Instead of footsteps, he hears voices on the cliff above, off in the direction of the summer-house. Nothing to surprise him that. It is not the first time he has listened to the same, and under very similar circumstances; for soon as hearing he recognises them. But it is the first time for him to note their tone as it is now—to his astonishment that of anger.

"They be quarrellin', I declare," he says to himself. "Wonder what for! Somethin' crooked's come between 'em at the ball—bit o' jealousy, maybe. I shudn't be surprised if it's about young Mr. Shenstone. Sure as eggs is eggs, the Captain have ugly ideas consarnin' him. He needn't though, an' wouldn't, if he seed through the eyes o' a sensible man. Course, bein' deep in love, he can't. I seed it long ago. She be mad about him as he o' her—if not madder. Well; I daresay it be only a lovers' quarrel, an'll soon blow over. Woe's me! I weesh——"

He would say, "I weesh 'twar only that 'twixt myself an' Mary," but the words break upon his lips, while a scalding tear trickles down his cheek.

Fortunately his anguished sorrow is not allowed further indulgence for the time. The footstep so long listened for is at length upon the boat stair; not firm, in its wonted way, but as though he making it were intoxicated!

But Wingate does not believe it is that. He knows the Captain to be abstemious, or, at all events, not greatly given to drink. He has never seen him overcome by it; and surely he would not be, on this night in particular. Unless, indeed, it may have to do with the angry speech overheard, or the something thought of preceding it!

The conjectures of the waterman are brought to an end by the arrival of his fare at the bottom of the boat stair, where he stops only to ask—

"Are you there, Jack?"

The pitchy darkness accounts for the question.

Receiving answer in the affirmative, he gropes his way along the ledge of rock, reeling like a drunken man. Not from drink, but the effects of that sharp, defiant rejoinder still ringing in his ears. He seems to hear, in every gust of the wind swirling down from the cliff above, the words, "Yes; let it!"

He knows where the skiff should be—where it was left—beyond the pleasure boat. The dock is not wide enough for both abreast, and to reach his own he must go across the other—make a gang-plank of the Gwendoline.

As he sets foot upon the thwarts of the pleasure craft, has he a thought of what were his feelings when he first planted it there, after ducking the Forest of Dean fellow? Or, stepping off, does he spurn the boat with angry heel, as in angry speech he has done her whose name it bears? Neither. He is too excited and confused to think of the past, or aught but the black, bitter present.

Still staggering, he drops down upon the stern sheets of the skiff, commanding the waterman to shove off. A command promptly obeyed, and in silence. Jack can see the Captain is out of sorts, and, suspecting the reason, naturally supposes that speech at such time might not be welcome. He says nothing, therefore; but, bending to his oars, pulls on up the byway.

Just outside its entrance a glimpse can be got of the little pavilion—by looking back. And Captain Ryecroft does this, over his shoulder; for, seated at the tiller, his face is from it. The light is still there, burning dimly as ever. For all, he is enabled to trace the outlines of a figure, in shadowy silhouette—a woman standing by the baluster rail, as if looking out over it.

He knows who it is: it can only be Gwen Wynn. Well were it for both could he but know what she is at that moment thinking. If he did, back would go his boat, and the two again be together—perhaps never more to part in spite.

Just then, as if ominous, and in spiteful protest against such consummation, the sombre sandstone cliff draws between, and Captain Ryecroft is carried onward, with heart dark and heavy as the rock.