His eyes, though, are for a time removed from them, while the boat is passing Abergann. Out of the farmhouse chimneys just visible over the tops of the trees, he sees smoke ascending. It is not yet seven o’clock, but the Morgans are early risers, and by this mother and daughter will be on their way to Matins, and possibly Confession at the Rugg’s Ferry Chapel. He dislikes to reflect on the last, and longs for the day when he has hopes to cure his sweetheart of such a repulsive devotional practice.
Pulling on down he ceases to think of it, and of her for the time, his attention being engrossed by the management of the boat. For just below Abergann the stream runs sharply, and is given to caprices. But further on, it once more flows in gentle tide along the meadow lands of Llangorren.
Before turning the bend, where Gwen Wynn and Eleanor Lees were caught in the rapid current, at the estuary of a sluggish inflowing brook, whose waters are now beaten back by the flooded river, he sees what causes him to start, and hang on the stroke of his oar.
“What is it, Wingate?” asks young Powell, observing his strange behaviour. “Oh! a waif—that plank floating yonder! I suppose you’d like to pick it up! But remember! it’s Sunday, and we must confine ourselves to works of necessity and mercy.”
Little think the four who smile at this remark—five with the footman—what a weird, painful impression the sight of that drifting thing has made on the sixth who is rowing them.
Nor does it leave him all that day; but clings to him in the church, to which he goes; at the Rectory, where he is entertained; and while rowing back up the river—hangs heavy on his heart as lead!
Returning, he looks out for the piece of timber; but cannot see it; for it is now after night, the young people having stayed dinner with their friend the clergyman.
Kept later than they intended, on arrival at the boat’s dock they do not remain there an instant; but, getting into the carriage, which has been some time awaiting them, are whirled off to New Hall.
Impatient are they to be home. Far more—for a different reason—the waterman; who but stays to tie the boat’s painter; and, leaving the oars in her thwarts, hastens into his house. The plank is still uppermost in his thoughts, the presentiment heavy on his heart.
Not lighter, as on entering at the door he sees his mother seated with her head bowed down to her knees.