"Only she--but she!" he repeats, grasping the bottle by the neck, and
pouring more brandy into the tumbler.
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 _cafe 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 Eglise 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 _passe_, 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.