Gwen Wynn: A Romance of the Wye

"Yes; when the sky falls we may catch larks. You seem to forget that Mademoiselle Wynn is younger than either of us, and by the natural laws of life will outlive both. Must, unless she break her neck in the hunting-field, get drowned out of a boat, or meet some other mischance."

She pronounces the last three words slowly and with marked emphasis, pausing after she has spoken them, and looking fixedly in his face, as if to note their effect.

Taking the meerschaum from his mouth, he returns her look – almost shuddering as his eyes meet hers, and he reads in them a glance such as might have been given by Messalina, or the murderess of Duncan. Hardened as his conscience has become through a long career of sin, it is yet tender in comparison with hers. And he knows it, knowing her history, or enough of it – her nature as well – to make him think her capable of anything, even the crime her speech seems to point to – neither more nor less than —

He dares not think, let alone pronounce, the word. He is not yet up to that; though day by day, as his desperate fortunes press upon him, his thoughts are being familiarised with something akin to it – a dread, dark design, still vague, but needing not much to assume shape, and tempt to execution. And that the tempter is by his side he is more than half conscious. It is not the first time for him to listen to fell speech from those fair lips.

To-day he would rather shun allusion to a subject so grave, yet so delicate. He has spent part of the preceding night at the Welsh Harp – the tavern spoken of by Wingate – and his nerves are unstrung, yet not recovered from the revelry. Instead of asking her what she means by "some other mischance," he but remarks, with an air of careless indifference, —

"True, Olympe; unless something of that sort were to happen, there seems no help for us but to resign ourselves to patience, and live on expectations."

"Starve on them, you mean."

This in a tone, and with a shrug, which seem to convey reproach for its weakness.

"Well, chèrie," he rejoins, "we can at least feast our eyes on the source whence our fine fortunes are to come. And a pretty sight it is, isn't it? Un coup d'œil charmant!"

He again turns his eyes upon Llangorren, as also she, and for some time both are silent.

Attractive at any time, the Court is unusually so on this same summer's day. For the sun, lighting up the verdant lawn, also shines upon a large white tent there erected – a marquee – from whose ribbed roof projects a signal staff, with flag floating at its peak. They have had no direct information of what all this is for – since to Lewin Murdock and his wife the society of Herefordshire is tabooed. But they can guess from the symbols that it is to be a garden party, or something of the sort, there often given. While they are still gazing its special kind is declared, by figures appearing upon the lawn and taking stand in groups before the tent. There are ladies gaily attired – in the distance looking like bright butterflies – some dressed à la Diane, with bows in hand, and quivers slung by their sides, the feathered shafts showing over their shoulders; a proportionate number of gentlemen attendant; while liveried servants stride to and fro erecting the ringed targets.

Murdock himself cares little for such things. He has had his surfeit of fashionable life; not only sipped its sweets, but drank its dregs of bitterness. He regards Llangorren with something in his mind more substantial than its sports and pastimes.

With different thoughts looks the Parisian upon them – in her heart a chagrin only known to those whose zest for the world's pleasure is of keenest edge, yet checked and baffled from indulgence – ambitions uncontrollable, but never to be attained. As Satan gazed back when hurled out of the Garden of Eden, so she at that scene upon the lawn of Llangorren. No jardin of Paris – not the Bois itself – ever seemed to her so attractive as those grounds, with that aristocratic gathering – a heaven none of her kind can enter, and but few of her country.

After long regarding it with envy in her eyes, and spleen in her soul – tantalized, almost to torture – she faces towards her husband, saying —

"And you've told me, between all that and us, there's but one life – "

"Two!" interrupts a voice – not his.

Both turning, startled, behold —Father Rogier!

CHAPTER XII

A WOLF IN SHEEP'S CLOTHING

Father Rogier is a French priest of a type too well known over all the world – the Jesuitical. Spare of form, thin-lipped, nose with the cuticle drawn across it tight as drum parchment, skin dark and cadaverous, he looks Loyola from head to heel.

He himself looks no one straight in the face. Confronted, his eyes fall to his feet, or turn to either side, not in timid abashment, but as those of one who feels himself a felon. And but for his habiliments he might well pass for such; though even the sacerdotal garb, and assumed air of sanctity, do not hinder the suspicion of a wolf in sheep's clothing – rather suggesting it.

And in truth is he one; a very Pharisee – Inquisitor to boot, cruel and keen as ever sate in secret Council over an Auto da Fé.

What is such a man doing in Herefordshire? What, in Protestant England? Time was, and not so long ago, when these questions would have been asked with curiosity, and some degree of indignation. As for instance, when our popular Queen added to her popularity, by somewhat ostentatiously declaring, that "no foreign priest should take tithe or toll in her dominions," even forbidding them their distinctive dress. Then they stole timidly, and sneakingly, through the streets, usually seen hunting in couples, and looking as if conscious their pursuit was criminal, or, at the least, illegal.

All that is over now; the ban removed, the boast unkept – to all appearance forgotten! Now they stalk boldly abroad, or saunter in squads, exhibiting their shorn crowns and pallid faces, without fear or shame; instead, triumphantly flouting their vestments in public walks or parks, or loitering in the vestibules of convents and monasteries, which begin to show thick over the land – threatening us with a curse as that anterior to the time of bluff King Hal. No one now thinks it strange to see shovel-hatted priest, or sandalled monk – no matter in what part of England, nor would wonder at one of either being resident upon Wyeside. Father Rogier, one of the former, is there with similar motive, and for the same purpose, his sort are sent everywhere – to enslave the souls of men and get money out of their purses, in order that other men, princes, and priests like himself, may lead luxurious lives, without toil and by trickery. The same old story, since the beginning of the world, or man's presence upon it. The same craft as the rain-maker of South Africa, or the medicine man of the North American Indian; differing only in some points of practice; the religious juggler of a higher civilization, finding his readiest tools not in roots, snake-skins, and rattles, but the weakness of woman. Through this, as by sap and mine, many a strong citadel has been carried, after bidding defiance to the boldest and most determined assault.

Père Rogier well knows all this; and by experience, having played the propagandist game with some success since his settling in Herefordshire. He has not been quite three years resident on Wyeside, and yet has contrived to draw around him a considerable coterie of weak-minded Marthas and Marys, built him a little chapel, with a snug dwelling house, and is in a fair way of further feathering his nest. True, his neophytes are nearly all of the humbler class, and poor. But the Peter's pence count up in a remarkable manner, and are paid with a regularity which only blind devotion, or the zeal of religious partizanship, can exact. Fear of the Devil, and love of him, are like effective in drawing contributions to the box of the Rugg's Ferry chapel, and filling the pockets of its priest.

And if he have no grand people among his flock, and few disciples of the class called middle, he can boast of at least two claiming to be genteel – the Murdocks. With the man no false assumption either; neither does he assume, or value it. Different the woman. Born in the Faubourg Montmartre, her father a common ouvrier, her mother a blanchisseuse– herself a beautiful girl – Olympe Renault soon found her way into a more fashionable quarter. The same ambition made her Lewin Murdock's wife, and has brought her on to England. For she did not marry him without some knowledge of his reversionary interest in the land of which they have just been speaking, and at which they are still looking. That was part of the inducement held out for obtaining her hand; her heart he never had.

That the priest knows something of the same, indeed all, is evident from the word he has respondingly pronounced. With step, silent and cat-like – his usual mode of progression – he has come upon them unawares, neither having note of his approach till startled by his voice. On hearing it, and seeing who, Murdock rises to his feet, as he does so saluting. Notwithstanding long years of a depraved life, his early training has been that of a gentleman, and its instincts at times return to him. Besides, born and brought up Roman Catholic, he has that respect for his priest habitual to a proverb – would have, even if knowing the latter to be the veriest Pharisee that ever wore single-breasted black coat.

Salutations exchanged, and a chair brought out for the new comer to sit upon, Murdock demands explanation of the interrupting monosyllable, asking:

"What do you mean, Father Rogier, by 'two'?"

"What I've said, M'sieu; that there are two between you and that over yonder, or soon will be – in time perhaps ten. A fair paysage it is!" he continues, looking across the river; "a very vale of Tempé, or Garden of the Hesperides. Parbleu! I never believed your England so beautiful. Ah! what's going on at Llangorren?" This as his eyes rest upon the tent, the flags, and gaily-dressed figures. "A fête champêtre: Mademoiselle making merry! In honour of the anticipated change, no doubt."

"Still I don't comprehend," says Murdock, looking puzzled. "You speak in riddles, Father Rogier."

"Riddles easily read, M'sieu. Of this particular one you'll find the interpretation there."

This, pointing to a plain gold ring on the fourth finger of Mrs. Murdock's left hand, put upon it by Murdock himself on the day he became her husband.

He now comprehends – his quick-witted wife sooner.

"Ha!" she exclaims, as if pricked by a pin, "Mademoiselle to be married?"

The priest gives an assenting nod.

"That's news to me," mutters Murdock, in a tone more like he was listening to the announcement of a death.

"Moi aussi! Who, Père? Not Monsieur Shenstone, after all?"

The question shows how well she is acquainted with Miss Wynn – if not personally, with her surroundings and predilections!

"No," answers the priest. "Not he."

"Who then?" asked the two simultaneously.

"A man likely to make many heirs to Llangorren – widen the breach between you and it – ah! to the impossibility of that ever being bridged."

"Père Rogier!" appeals Murdock, "I pray you speak out! Who is to do this? His name?"

"Le Capitaine Ryecroft."

"Captain Ryecroft! Who – what is he?"

"An officer of Hussars – a fine-looking fellow – sort of combination of Mars and Apollo; strong as Hercules! As I've said, likely to be father to no end of sons and daughters, with Gwen Wynn for their mother. Helas! I can fancy seeing them now – at play over yonder, on the lawn!"

"Captain Ryecroft!" repeats Murdock musingly; "I never saw – never heard of the man!"

"You hear of him now, and possibly see him too. No doubt he's among those gay toxophilites – Ha! no, he's nearer! What a strange coincidence! The old saw, 'speak of the fiend.' There's your fiend, Monsieur Murdock!"

He points to a boat on the river with two men in it; one of them wearing a white cap. It is dropping down in the direction of Llangorren Court.

"Which?" asks Murdock mechanically.