Gwen Wynn: A Romance of the Wye

And this does he; though not openly, or ostensibly. That would be contrary to the tactics taught him, and the practice to which he is accustomed. The sword of Loyola in the hands of his modern apostles has become a dagger – a weapon more suitable to Ultramontanism. Only in Protestant countries to be wielded with secrecy, though elsewhere little concealed.

But the priest of Rugg’s Ferry is not in France; and, under the roof of an English gentleman, though a Roman Catholic, bears himself with becoming modesty – before strangers and the eyes of the outside world. Even the domestics of the house see nothing amiss. They are new to their places, and as yet unacquainted with the relationships around them. Nor would they think it strange in a priest having control there or anywhere. They are all of his persuasion, else they would not be in service at Llangorren Court.

So proceed matters under its new administration.

On the same evening that Captain Ryecroft makes his quiet excursion down the river to inspect the traces on the cliff, there is a little dinner party at the Court; the diners taking seat by the table just about the time he was stepping into Wingate’s skiff.

The hour is early; but it is altogether a bachelor affair, and Lewin Murdock’s guests are men not much given to follow fashions. Besides, there is another reason; something to succeed the dinner, on which their thoughts are more bent than upon either eating or drinking. No spread of fruit, nor dessert of any kind, but a bout at card-playing, or dice for those who prefer it. On their way to the dining-room they have caught glimpse of another apartment where whist and loo tables are seen, with all the gambling paraphernalia upon them – packs of new cards still in their wrappers, ivory counters, dice boxes with their spotted cubes lying alongside.

Pretty sight to Mr Murdock’s lately picked up acquaintances; a heterogeneous circle, but all alike in one respect – each indulging in the pleasant anticipation that he will that night leave his host’s house with more or less of that host’s money in his pocket. Murdock has himself come easily by it, and why should he not be made as easily to part with it? If he has a plethora of cash, they have a determination to relieve him of at least a portion of it.

Hence dinner is eaten in haste, and with little appreciation of the dishes, however dainty; all so longing to be around those tables in another room, and get their fingers on the toys there displayed.

Their host, aware of the universal desire, does nought to frustrate it. Instead, he is as eager as any for the fray. As said, gambling is his passion – has been for most part of his life – and he could now no more live without it than go wanting drink. A hopeless victim to the last, he is equally a slave to the first. Soon, therefore, as dessert is brought in, and a glass of the heavier wines gone round, he looks significantly at his wife – the only lady at the table – who, taking the hint, retires.

The gentlemen, on their feet at her withdrawal, do not sit down again, but drink standing – only a petit verre of cognac by way of “corrector.” Then they hurry off in an unseemly ruck towards the room containing metal more attractive; from which soon after proceed the clinking of coin and the rattle of ebony counters; with words now and then spoken not over nice, but rough, even profane, as though the speakers were playing skittles in the backyard of a London beerhouse, instead of cards under the roof of a country gentleman’s mansion!

While the new master of Llangorren is thus entertaining his amiable company – as much as any of them engrossed in the game – its new mistress is also playing a part, which may be more reputable, but certainly is more mysterious. She is in the drawing-room, though not alone – Father Rogier alone with her. He, of course, has been one of the dining guests, and said an unctuous grace over the table. In his sacred sacerdotal character it could hardly be expected of him to keep along with the company; though he could take a hand at cards, and play them with as much skill as any gamester of that gathering. But just now he has other fish to fry, and wishes a word in private with the mistress of Llangorren, about the way things are going on. However much he may himself like a little game with its master, and win money from him, he does not relish seeing all the world do the same; no more she. Something must be done to put a stop to it; and it is to talk over this something the two have planned their present interview – some words about it having previously passed between them.

Seated side by side on a lounge, they enter upon the subject. But before a dozen words have been exchanged they are compelled to discontinue, and for the time forego it.

The interruption is caused by a third individual, who has taken a fancy to follow Mrs Murdock into the drawing-room; a young fellow of the squire class, but – as her husband late was – of somewhat damaged reputation and broken fortunes. For all having a whole eye to female beauty; which appears to him in great perfection in the face of the Frenchwoman – the rouge upon her cheeks looking the real rose-colour of that proverbial milk-maid nine times dipped in dew.

The wine he has been quaffing gives it this hue; for he enters half intoxicated, and with a slight stagger in his gait; to the great annoyance of the lady, and the positive chagrin of the priest, who regards him with scowling glances. But the intruder is too tipsy to notice them; and advancing invites himself to a seat in front of Mrs Murdock, at the same time commencing a conversation with her.

Rogier, rising, gives a significant side look, with a slight nod towards the window; then muttering a word of excuse saunters off out of the room.

She knows what it means, as where to follow and find him. Knows also how to disembarrass herself of such as he who remained behind. Were it upon a bench of the Bois, or an arbour in the Jardin, she would make short work of it. But the ex-cocotte is now at the head of an aristocratic establishment, and must act in accordance. Therefore she allows some time to elapse, listening to the speech of her latest admirer; some of it in compliments coarse enough to give offence to ears more sensitive than hers.

She at length gets rid of him, on the plea of having a headache, and going upstairs to get something for it. She will be down again by and by; and so bows herself out of the gentleman’s presence, leaving him in a state of fretful disappointment.

Once outside the room, instead of turning up the stair-way, she glides along the corridor; then on through the entrance-hall, and then out by the front door. Nor stays she an instant on the steps, or carriage sweep; but proceeds direct to the summer-house, where she expects to find the priest. For there have they more than once been together, conversing on matters of private and particular nature.

On reaching the place she is disappointed – some little surprised. Rogier is not there; nor can she see him anywhere around!

For all that, the gentleman is very near, without her knowing it – only a few paces off, lying flat upon his face among ferns, but so engrossed with thoughts, just then of an exciting nature, he neither hears her light footsteps, nor his own name pronounced. Not loudly though; since, while pronouncing it, she feared being heard by some other. Besides, she does not think it necessary; he will come yet, without calling.

She steps inside the pavilion, and there stands waiting. Still he does not come, nor sees she anything of him; only a boat on the river above, being rowed upwards. But without thought of its having anything to do with her or her affairs.

By this there is another boat in motion; for the priest has meanwhile forsaken his spying place upon the cliff, and proceeded down to the dock.

“Where can Gregoire have gone?” she asks herself, becoming more and more impatient.

Several times she puts the question without receiving answer; and is about starting on return to the house, when longer stayed by a rumbling noise which reaches her ears, coming up from the direction of the dock.

“Can it be he?”

Continuing to listen she hears the stroke of oars. It cannot be the boat she has seen rowing off above? That must now be far away, while this is near – in the bye-water just below her. But can it be the priest who is in it?

Yes, it is he; as she discovers, after stepping outside, to the place he so late occupied, and looking over the cliff’s edge. For then she had a view of his face, lit up by a lucifer match – itself looking like that of Lucifer!

What can he be doing down there? Why examining those things, he already knows all about, as she herself?

She would call down to him, and inquire. But possibly better not? He may be engaged upon some matter calling for secrecy, as he often is. Other eyes besides hers may be near, and her voice might draw them on him. She will wait for his coming up.

And wait she does, at the boat’s dock, on the top step of the stair; there receiving him as he returns from his short, but still unexplained, excursion.

“What is it?” she asks, soon as he has mounted up to her, “Quelque chose à tort?”

“More than that. A veritable danger!”

“Comment? Explain!”

“There’s a hound upon our track! One of sharpest scent.”

“Who?”

“Le Capitaine de hussards!”

The dialogue that succeeds, between Olympe Renault and Gregoire Rogier, has no reference to Lewin Murdock gambling away his money, but the fear of his losing it in quite another way. Which, for the rest of that night, gives them something else to think of, as also something to do.

Volume Three – Chapter Ten

An Unwilling Novice

“Am I myself? Dreaming? Or, is it insanity?”

It is a young girl who thus strangely interrogates. A beautiful girl, woman grown, of tall stature, with bright face and a wealth of hair, golden hued.

But what is beauty to her with all these adjuncts? As the flower born to blush unseen, eye of man may not look upon hers; though it is not wasting its sweetness on the desert air; but within the walls of a convent.

An English girl, though the convent is in France – in the city of Boulogne-sur-mer; the same in whose attached pensionnat the sister of Major Mahon is receiving education. She is not the girl, for Kate Mahon, though herself beautiful, is no blonde; instead, the very opposite. Besides, this creature of radiant complexion is not attending school – she is beyond the years for that. Neither is she allowed the freedom of the streets, but kept shut up within a cell in the innermost recesses of the establishment, where the pensionnaires are not permitted, save one or two who are favourites with the Lady Superior.

A small apartment the young girl occupies – bedchamber and sitting-room in one – in short, a nun’s cloister. Furnished, as such, are, in a style of austere simplicity; pallet bed along the one side, the other taken up by a plain deal dressing table, a washstand with jug and basin – these little bigger than tea-bowl and ewer – and a couple of common rush-bottom chairs – that is all.

The walls are lime-washed, but most of their surface is concealed by pictures of saints male and female; while the mother of all is honoured by an image, having a niche to itself, in a corner.

On the table are some four or five books, including a Testament and Missal; their bindings, with the orthodox cross stamped upon them, proclaiming the nature of the contents.

A literature that cannot be to the liking of the present occupant of the cloister; since she has been there several days without turning over a single leaf, or even taking up one of the volumes to look at it.

That she is not there with her own will but against it, can be told by her words, and as their tone, her manner while giving utterance to them. Seated upon the side of the bed, she has sprung to her feet, and with arms raised aloft and tossed about, strides distractedly over the floor. One seeing her thus might well imagine her to be, what she half fancies herself – insane! A supposition strengthened by an unnatural lustre in her eyes, and a hectic flush on her cheeks unlike the hue of health. Still, not as with one suffering bodily sickness, or any physical ailment, but more as from a mind diseased. Seen for only a moment – that particular moment – such would be the conclusion regarding her. But her speech coming after tells she is in full possession of her senses – only under terrible agitation – distraught with some great trouble.

“It must be a convent! But how have I come into it? Into France, too; for surely am I there? The woman who brings my meals is French. So the other – Sister of Mercy, as she calls herself, though she speaks my own tongue. The furniture – bed, table, chairs, washstand – everything of French manufacture. And in all England there is not such a jug and basin as those!”

Regarding the lavatory utensils – so diminutive as to recall “Gulliver’s Travels in Lilliput,” if ever read by her – she for a moment seems to forget her misery, as will in its very midst, and keenest, at sight of the ludicrous and grotesque.

It is quickly recalled, as her glance, wandering around the room, again rests on the little statue – not of marble, but a cheap plaster of Paris cast – and she reads the inscription underneath, “La Mère de Dieu.” The symbols tell her she is inside a nunnery, and upon the soil of France!