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 Fe_.
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.
_Pere_ 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 _fete champetre_:
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, _Pere_? 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."
"_Pere 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, _Pere_;
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_!"
Volume One, Chapter XIII.