The Guilty River | Page 4

Chapter
Chapter V
He Betrays Himself
Chapter VI

The Return of the Portfolio
Chapter VII
The Best Society
Chapter VIII
The Deaf Lodger
Chapter IX
Mrs. Roylake's Game: First Move
Chapter X
Warned!
Chapter XI
Warned Again!
Chapter XII
Warned for the Last Time!
Chapter XIII
The Claret Jug
Chapter XIV
Gloody Settles the Account
Chapter XV
The Miller's Hospitality

Chapter XVI
Bribery and Corruption
Chapter XVII
Utter Failure
Chapter XVIII
The Mistress of Trimley Deen
CHAPTER I
ON THE WAY TO THE RIVER
FOR reasons of my own, I excused myself from accompanying my
stepmother to a dinner-party given in our neighborhood. In my present
humor, I preferred being alone--and, as a means of getting through my
idle time, I was quite content to be occupied in catching insects.
Provided with a brush and a mixture of rum and treacle, I went into
Fordwitch Wood to set the snare, familiar to hunters of moths, which
we call sugaring the trees.
The summer evening was hot and still; the time was between dusk and
dark. After ten years of absence in foreign parts, I perceived changes in
the outskirts of the wood, which warned me not to enter it too
confidently when I might find a difficulty in seeing my way.
Remaining among the outermost trees, I painted the trunks with my
treacherous mixture--which allured the insects of the night, and
stupefied them when they settled on its rank surface. The snare being
set, I waited to see the intoxication of the moths.
A time passed, dull and dreary. The mysterious assemblage of trees was
blacker than the blackening sky. Of millions of leaves over my head,
none pleased my ear, in the airless calm, with their rustling summer

song.
The first flying creatures, dimly visible by moments under the gloomy
sky, were enemies whom I well knew by experience. Many a fine
insect specimen have I lost, when the bats were near me in search of
their evening meal.
What had happened before, in other woods, happened now. The first
moth that I had snared was a large one, and a specimen well worth
securing. As I stretched out my hand to take it, the apparition of a
flying shadow passed, swift and noiseless, between me and the tree. In
less than an instant the insect was snatched away, when my fingers
were within an inch of it. The bat had begun his supper, and the man
and the mixture had provided it for him.
Out of five moths caught, I became the victim of clever theft in the case
of three. The other two, of no great value as specimens, I was just quick
enough to secure. Under other circumstances, my patience as a
collector would still have been a match for the dexterity of the bats. But
on that evening--a memorable evening when I look back at it now--my
spirits were depressed, and I was easily discouraged. My favorite
studies of the insect-world seemed to have lost their value in my
estimation. In the silence and the darkness I lay down under a tree, and
let my mind dwell on myself and on my new life to come.

I am Gerard Roylake, son and only child of the late Gerard Roylake of
Trimley Deen.
At twenty-two years of age, my father's death had placed me in
possession of his large landed property. On my arrival from Germany,
only a few hours since, the servants innocently vexed me. When I
drove up to the door, I heard them say to each other: "Here is the young
Squire." My father used to be called "the old Squire." I shrank from
being reminded of him--not as other sons in my position might have
said, because it renewed my sorrow for his death. There was no sorrow
in me to be renewed. It is a shocking confession to make: my heart

remained unmoved when I thought of the father whom I had lost.
Our mothers have the most sacred of all claims on our gratitude and our
love. They have nourished us with their blood; they have risked their
lives in bringing us into the world; they have preserved and guided our
helpless infancy with divine patience and love. What claim equally
strong and equally tender does the other parent establish on his
offspring? What motive does the instinct of his young children find for
preferring their father before any other person who may be a familiar
object in their daily lives? They love him--naturally and rightly love
him--because he lives in their remembrance (if he is a good man) as the
first, the best, the dearest of their friends.
My father was a bad man. He was my mother's worst enemy; and he
was never my friend.
The little that I know of