Notwithstanding all this, there are some respectable people among its denizens, and many visitors who are gentlemen. Its quaint picturesqueness attracts the tourist; while a stretch of excellent angling ground, above and below, makes it a favourite with amateur fishermen.
Centrally on a platform of level ground, a little back from the river’s bank, stands a large three-storey house—the village inn—with a swing sign in front, upon which is painted what resembles a triangular gridiron, though designed to represent a harp. From this the hostelry has its name—the “Welsh Harp!” But however rough the limning, and weather-blanched the board—however ancient the building itself—in its business there are no indications of decay, and it still does a thriving trade. Guests of the excursionist kind occasionally dine there; while in the angling season, piscator stays at it all through spring and summer; and if a keen disciple of Izaak, or an ardent admirer of the Wye scenery, often prolonging his sojourn into late autumn. Besides, from towns not too distant, the sporting tradesmen and fast clerks, after early closing on Saturdays, come hither, and remain over till Monday, for the first train catchable at a station some two miles off.
The “Welsh Harp” can provide beds for all, and sitting rooms besides. For it is a roomy caravanserai, and if a little rough in its culinary arrangements, has a cellar unexceptionable. Among those who taste its tap are many who know good wine from bad, with others who only judge of the quality by the price; and in accordance with this criterion the Boniface of the “Harp” can give them the very best.
It is a Saturday night, and two of those last described connoisseurs, lately arrived at the Wyeside hostelry, are standing before its bar counter, drinking rhubarb sap, which they facetiously call “fizz,” and believe to be champagne. As it costs them ten shillings the bottle they are justified in their belief; and quite as well will it serve their purpose. They are young drapers’ assistants from a large manufacturing town, out for their hebdomadal holiday, which they have elected to spend in an excursion to the Wye, and a frolic at Rugg’s Ferry.
They have had an afternoon’s boating on the river; and, now returned to the “Harp”—their place of put-up—are flush of talk over their adventures, quaffing the sham “shammy,” and smoking “regalias,” not anything more genuine.
While thus indulging they are startled by the apparition of what seems an angel, but what they know to be a thing of flesh and blood—something that pleases them better—a beautiful woman. More correctly speaking a girl; since it is Mary Morgan who has stepped inside the room set apart for the distributing of drink.
Taking the cigars from between their teeth—and leaving the rhubarb juice, just poured into their glasses, to discharge its pent-up gas—they stand staring at the girl, with an impertinence rather due to the drink than any innate rudeness. They are harmless fellows in their way; would be quiet enough behind their own counters; though fast before that of the “Welsh Harp,” and foolish with such a face as that of Mary Morgan beside them.
She gives them scant time to gaze on it. Her business is simple, and speedily transacted.
“A bottle of your best brandy—the French cognac?” As she makes the demand, placing ten shillings, the price understood, upon the lead-covered counter.
The barmaid, a practised hand, quickly takes the article called for from a shelf behind, and passes it across the counter, and with like alertness counting the shillings laid upon it, and sweeping them into the till.