Though speaking sotto voce, and not supposing himself overheard, he is, nevertheless – by a woman, who, coming forth from the house, has stepped silently behind him, there pausing.

Odd-looking apparition she, seen upon the Wyeside; altogether unlike a native of it, but altogether like one born upon the banks of the Seine, and brought up to tread the Boulevards of Paris – like the latter from the crown of her head to the soles of her high-heeled boots, on whose toes she stands poised and balancing. In front of that ancient English manor-house, she seems grotesquely out of place – as much as a costermonger driving his moke-drawn cart among the Pyramids, or smoking a “Pickwick” by the side of the Sphinx.

For all there is nothing mysterious, or even strange in her presence there. She is Lewin Murdoch’s wife. If he has left his fortune in foreign lands, with the better part of his life and health, he has thence brought her, his better-half.

Physically a fine-looking woman, despite some ravages due to time, and possibly more to crime. Tall and dark as the daughters of the Latinic race, with features beautiful in the past – even still attractive to those not repelled by the beguiling glances of sin.

Such were hers, first given to him in a café chantant of the Tuileries – oft afterwards repeated in jardin, bois, and bals of the demi-monde, till at length she gave him her hand in the Église La Madeleine.

Busied with his brandy, and again gazing at Llangorren, he has not yet seen her; nor is he aware of her proximity till hearing an exclamation: —

“Eh, bien?”

He starts at the interrogatory, turning round.

“You think too loud, Monsieur – that is if you wish to keep your thoughts to yourself. And you might – seeing that it’s a love secret! May I ask who is this she you’re soliloquising about? Some of your old English bonnes amies, I suppose?”

This, with an air of affected jealousy, she is far from feeling. In the heart of the ex-cocotte there is no place for such a sentiment.

“Got nothing to do with bonnes amies, young or old,” he gruffly replies. “Just now I’ve got something else to think of than sweethearts. Enough occupation for my thoughts in the how I’m to support a wife – yourself, madame.”

“It wasn’t me you meant. No, indeed. Some other, in whom you appear to feel a very profound interest.”

“There, you’re right, it was one other, in whom I feel all that.”

“Merci, Monsieur! Ma foi! your candour deserves all thanks. Perhaps you’ll extend it, and favour me with the lady’s name? A lady, I presume. The grand Seigneur Lewin Murdock would not be giving his thoughts to less.”

Ignorance pretended. She knows, or surmises, to whom he has been giving them. For she has been watching him from a window, and observed the direction of his glances. And she has more than a suspicion as to the nature of his reflections; since she is well aware as he of that something besides a river separating them from Llangorren.

“Her name?” she again asks, in tone of more demand, her eyes bent searchingly on his.

Avoiding her glance, he still pulls away at his pipe, without making answer.

“It is a love secret, then? I thought so. It’s cruel of you, Lewin! This is the return for giving you – all I had to give!”

She may well speak hesitatingly, and hint at a limited sacrifice. Only her hand; and it more than tenderly pressed by scores – ay hundreds – of others, before being bestowed upon him. No false pretence, however, on her part. He knew all that, or should have known it. How could he help? Olympe, the belle of the Jardin Mabille, was no obscurity in the demi-monde of Paris – even in its days of glory under Napoleon le Petite.

Her reproach is also a pretence, though possibly with some sting felt. She is drawing on to that term of life termed passé, and begins to feel conscious of it. He may be the same. Not that for his opinion she cares a straw – save in a certain sense, and for reasons altogether independent of slighted affection – the very purpose she is now working upon, and for which she needs to hold over him the power she has hitherto had. And well knows she how to retain it, rekindling love’s fire when it seems in danger of dying out, either through appeal to his pity, or exciting his jealousy, which she can adroitly do, by her artful French ways and dark flashing eyes.

As he looks in them now, the old flame flickers up, and he feels almost as much her slave as when he first became her husband.

For all he does not show it. This day he is out of sorts with himself, and her and all the world besides; so instead of reciprocating her sham tenderness – as if knowing it such – he takes another swallow of brandy, and smokes on in silence.

Now really incensed, or seeming so, she exclaims: —

“Perfide!” adding with a disdainful toss of the head, such as only the dames of the demi-monde know how to give, “Keep your secret! What care I?” Then changing tone, “Mon Dieu! France – dear France! Why did I ever leave you?”

“Because your dear France became too dear to live in.”

“Clever double entendre! No doubt you think it witty! Dear, or not, better a garret there – a room in its humblest entresol than this. I’d rather serve in a cigar shop – keep a gargot in the Faubourg Montmartre – than lead such a triste life as we’re now doing. Living in this wretched kennel of a house, that threatens to tumble on our heads!”

“How would you like to live in that over yonder?”

He nods towards Llangorren Court.

“You are merry, Monsieur. But your jests are out of place – in presence of the misery around us.”

“You may some day,” he goes on, without heeding her observation.

“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, chérie;” 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’oeil 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 – tantalised, 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!

Volume One – Chapter Twelve
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 civilisation, 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 partisanship, 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 many 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 Tempe, 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 champètre: 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.

“He with the chapeau blanc. That’s whom you have to fear. The other’s but the waterman Wingate – honest fellow enough, whom no one need fear – unless indeed our worthy friend Coracle Dick, his competitor for the smiles of the pretty Mary Morgan. Yes, mes amis! Under that conspicuous kepi you behold the future lord of Llangorren.”

“Never!” exclaims Murdock, angrily gritting his teeth. “Never!”

The French priest and ci-devant French courtesan exchange secret, but significant, glances; a pleased expression showing on the faces of both.

“You speak excitedly, M’sieu,” says the priest, “emphatically, too. But how is it to be hindered?”

“I don’t know,” sourly rejoins Murdock; “I suppose it can’t be,” he adds, drawing back, as if conscious of having committed himself. “Never mind, now; let’s drop the disagreeable subject. You’ll stay to dinner with us, Father Rogier?”

“If not putting you to inconvenience.”

“Nay; it’s you who’ll be inconvenienced – starved, I should rather say. The butchers about here are not of the most amiable type; and, if I mistake not, our menu for to-day is a very primitive one – bacon and potatoes, with some greens from the old garden.”

“Monsieur Murdock! It’s not the fare, but the fashion, which makes a meal enjoyable. A crust and welcome is to me better cheer than a banquet with a grudging host at the head of the table. Besides, your English bacon is a most estimable dish, and with your succulent cabbages delectable. With a bit of Wye salmon to precede, and a pheasant to follow, it were food to satisfy Lucullus himself.”

“Ah! true,” assents the broken-down gentleman, “with the salmon and pheasant. But where are they? My fishmonger, who is, conjointly also a game-dealer, is at present as much out with me as is the butcher; I suppose, from my being too much in with them – in their books. Still, they have not ceased acquaintance, so far as calling is concerned. That they do with provoking frequency. Even this morning, before I was out of bed, I had the honour of a visit from both the gentlemen. Unfortunately, they brought neither fish nor meat; instead, two sheets of that detestable blue paper, with red lines and rows of figures – an arithmetic not nice to be bothered with at one’s breakfast. So, Père; I am sorry I can’t offer you any salmon; and as for pheasant – you may not be aware, that it is out of season.”

“It’s never out of season, any more than barn-door fowl; especially if a young last year’s coq, that hasn’t been successful in finding a mate.”

“But it’s close time now,” urges the Englishman, stirred by his old instincts of gentleman sportsman.

“Not to those who know how to open it,” returns the Frenchman, with a significant shrug. “And suppose we do that to-day?”

“I don’t understand. Will your Reverence enlighten me?”

“Well, M’sieu; being Whit-Monday, and coming to pay you a visit, I thought you mightn’t be offended by my bringing along with me a little present – for Madame here – that we’re talking of – salmon and pheasant.”

The husband, more than the wife, looks incredulous. Is the priest jesting? Beneath the froc, fitting tight his thin spare form, there is nothing to indicate the presence of either fish or bird.

“Where are they?” asks Murdock mechanically. “You say you’ve brought them along?”

“Ah! that was metaphorical. I meant to say I had sent them. And if I mistake not, they are near now. Yes; there’s my messenger!”

He points to a man making up the glen, threading his way through the tangle of wild bushes that grow along the banks of the rivulet.

“Coracle Dick!” exclaims Murdock, recognising the poacher.

“The identical individual,” answers the priest, adding, “who, though a poacher, and possibly has been something worse, is not such a bad fellow in his way – for certain purposes. True, he’s neither the most devout nor best behaved of my flock; still a useful individual, especially on Fridays, when one has to confine himself to a fish diet. I find him convenient in other ways as well; as so might you, Monsieur Murdock – some day. Should you ever have need of a strong hard hand, with a heart in correspondence, Richard Dempsey possesses both, and would no doubt place them at your service – for a consideration.”

While Murdock is cogitating on what the last words are meant to convey, the individual so recommended steps upon the ground. A stout, thick-set fellow, with a shock of black curly hair coming low down, almost to his eyes, thus adding to their sinister and lowering look. For all a face not naturally uncomely, but one on which crime has set its stamp, deep and indelible.

His garb is such as gamekeepers usually wear, and poachers almost universally affect, a shooting coat of velveteen, corduroy smalls, and sheepskin gaiters buttoned over thick-soled shoes iron-tipped at the toes. In the ample skirt pockets of the coat – each big as a game-bag – appear two protuberances, that about balance one another – the present of which the priest has already delivered the invoice – in the one being a salmon “blotcher” weighing some three or four pounds, in the other a young cock pheasant.

Having made obeisance to the trio in the grounds of Glyngog, he is about drawing them forth when the priest prevents him, exclaiming: —

“Arretez! They’re not commodities that keep well in the sun. Should a water-bailiff, or one of the Llangorren gamekeepers chance to set eyes on them, they’d spoil at once. Those lynx-eyed fellows can see a long way, especially on a day bright as this. So, worthy Coracle, before uncarting, you’d better take them back to the kitchen.”

Thus instructed, the poacher strides off round to the rear of the house; Mrs Murdock entering by the front door to give directions about dressing the dinner. Not that she intends to take any hand in cooking it – not she. That would be infra dig for the ancien belle of Mabille. Poor as is the establishment of Glyngog, it can boast of a plain cook, with a slavey to assist.

The other two remain outside, the guest joining his host in a glass of brandy and water. More than one; for Father Rogier, though French, can drink like a born Hibernian. Nothing of the Good Templar in him.

After they have been for nigh an hour hobnobbing, conversing, Murdock still fighting shy of the subject, which is nevertheless uppermost in the minds of both, the priest once more approaches it, saying: —

“Parbleu! They appear to be enjoying themselves over yonder!” He is looking at the lawn where the bright forms are flitting to and fro. “And most of all, I should say, Monsieur White Cap – foretasting the sweets of which he’ll ere long enter into full enjoyment; when he becomes master of Llangorren.”

“That – never!” exclaims Murdock, this time adding an oath. “Never while I live. When I’m dead – ”

“Diner!” interrupts a female voice from the house, that of its mistress seen standing on the doorstep.

“Madame summons us,” says the priest, “we must in, M’sieu. While picking the bones of the pheasant, you can complete your unfinished speech. Allons!”