While the sports are in progress outside Llangorren Court, inside
Glyngog House is being eaten that dinner to commence with salmon in
season and end with pheasant out.
It is early; but the Murdocks, often glad to eat what Americans call a
"square meal," have no set hours for eating, while the priest is not
particular.
In the faces of the trio seated at the table, a physiognomist might find
interesting study, and note expressions that would puzzle Lavater
himself. Nor could they be interpreted by the conversation which, at
first, only refers to topics of a trivial nature. But now and then, a
_mot_ of double meaning let down by Rogier, and a glance surreptitiously
exchanged between him and his countryman, tell that the thoughts of
these two are running upon themes different from those about which are
their words.
Murdock, by no means of a trusting disposition, but ofttimes furiously
jealous--has nevertheless, in this respect, no suspicion of the priest,
less from confidence than a sort of contempt for the pallid puny
creature, whom he feels he could crush in a moment of mad anger. And
broken though he be, the stalwart, and once strong, Englishman could
still do that. To imagine such a man as Rogier a rival in the
affections of his own wife, would be to be little himself. Besides, he
holds fast to that proverbial faith in the spiritual adviser, not always
well founded--in his case certainly misplaced. Knowing nought of this,
however, their exchanged looks, however markedly significant, escape his
observation. Even if he did observe, he could not read in them aught
relating to love. For, this day there is not; the thoughts of both are
absorbed by a different passion--cupidity. They are bent upon a scheme
of no common magnitude, but grand and comprehensive--neither more nor
less than to get possession of an estate worth 10,000 pounds a year--
that Llangorren. They know its value as well as the steward who gives
receipts for its rents.
It is no new notion with them; but one for some time entertained, and
steps considered. Still nothing definite either conceived, or
determined on. A task, so herculean, as dangerous and difficult, will
need care in its conception, and time for its execution. True, it might
be accomplished, almost instantaneously with six inches of steel, or as
many drops of belladonna. Nor would two of the three seated at the
table stick at employing such means. Olympe Renault, and Gregoire
Rogier have entertained thoughts of them--if not more. In the third is
the obstructor. Lewin Murdock would cheat at dice and cards, do
moneylenders without remorse, and tradesmen without mercy, ay, steal, if
occasion offered; but murder--that is different--being a crime not only
unpleasant to contemplate, but perilous to commit. He would be willing
to rob Gwendoline Wynn of her property--glad to do it--if he only knew
how--but to take away her life, he is not yet up to that.
But he is drawing up to it, urged by desperate circumstances, and
spurred on by his wife, who loses no opportunity of bewailing their
broken fortunes, and reproaching him for them; at her back the Jesuit
secretly instructing, and dictating.
Not till this day have they found him in the mood for being made more
familiar with their design. Whatever his own disposition, his ear has
been hitherto deaf to their hints, timidly, and ambiguously given. But
to-day things appear more promising, as evinced by his angry exclamation
"Never!" Hence their delight at hearing it.
During the earlier stages of the dinner, as already said, they converse
about ordinary subjects, like the lovers in the pavilion, silent upon
that paramount in their minds. How different the themes--as love itself
from murder! And just as the first word was unspoken in the
summer-house at Llangorren, so is the last unheard in the dining-room of
Glyngog.
While the blotcher is being carved with a spoon--there is no fish slice
among the chattels of Mr Murdock--the priest in good appetite, and high
glee, pronounces it "crimp." He speaks English like a native, and is
even up in its provincialisms; few in Herefordshire whose dialect is of
the purest.
The phrase of the fishmonger received smilingly, the salmon is
distributed and handed across the table; the attendance of the slavey,
with claws not over clean, and ears that might be unpleasantly sharp,
having been dispensed with.
There is wine without stint; for although Murdoch's town tradesmen may
be hard of heart, in the Welsh Harp there is a tender string he can
still play upon; the Boniface of the Rugg's Ferry hostelry having a
belief in his _post obit_ expectations. Not such an indifferent wine
either, but some of the choicest vintage. The guests of the Harp,
however rough in external appearance and rude in behaviour--have
wonderfully refined ideas about drink, and may be often heard calling
for "fizz"--some of them as well acquainted with the qualities of Moet
and Cliquot, as a connoisseur of the most fashionable club.
Profiting by their aesthetic tastes, Lewin Murdock is enabled to set
wines upon his table of the choicest brands. Light Bordeaux first with
the fish, then sherry with the heavier greens and bacon, followed by
champagne as they get engaged upon the pheasant.
At this point the conversation approaches a topic, hitherto held in
reserve, Murdock himself starting it:--
"So, my cousin Gwen's going to get married, eh! are you sure of that,
Father Rogier?"
"I wish I were as sure of going to heaven."
"But what sort of man is he? you haven't told us."
"Yes, I have. You forget my description, Monsieur--cross between Mars
and Phoebus--strength herculean; sure to be father to a progeny numerous
as that which spring from the head of Medusa--enough of them to make
heirs for Llangorren to the end of time--keep you out of the property if
you lived to be the age of Methuselah. Ah! a fine-looking fellow, I can
assure you; against whom the baronet's son, with his rubicund cheeks and
hay-coloured hair, wouldn't stand the slightest chance--even were there
nothing: more to recommend the martial stranger. But there is."
"What more?"
"The mode of his introduction to the lady--that quite romantic."
"How was he introduced?"
"Well, he made her acquaintance on the water. It appears Mademoiselle
Wynn and her companion Lees, were out on the river for a row alone.
Unusual that! Thus out, some fellows--Forest of Dean dwellers--offered
them insult; from which a gentleman angler, who chanced to be whipping
the stream close by, saved them--he no other than _le Capitaine
Ryecroft_. With such commencement of acquaintance, a man couldn't be
much worth, who didn't know how to improve it--even to terminating in
marriage if he wished. And with such a rich heiress as Mademoiselle
Gwendoline Wynn--to say nought of her personal charms--there are few men
who wouldn't wish it so to end. That he, the Hussar officer, captain,
colonel, or whatever his rank, does, I've good reason to believe, as
also that he will succeed in accomplishing his desires; no more doubt of
it than of my being seated at this table. Yes; sure as I sit here that
man will be the master of Llangorren."
"I suppose he will;" "must," rejoins Murdock, drawing out the words as
though not greatly concerned, one way, or the other.
Olympe looks dissatisfied, but not Rogier nor she, after a glance from
the priest, which seems to say "Wait." He himself intends waiting till
the drink has done its work.
Taking the hint she remains silent, her countenance showing calm, as
with the content of innocence, while in her heart is the guilt of hell,
and the deceit of the devil.
She preserves her composure all through, and soon as the last course is
ended, with a show of dessert placed upon the table--poor and _pro
forma_--obedient to a look from Rogier, with a slight nod in the
direction of the door, she makes her _conge_, and retires.
Murdock lights his meerschaum, the priest one of his paper cigarettes--
of which he carries a case--and for some time they sit smoking and
drinking; talking, too, but upon matters with no relation to that
uppermost in their minds. They seem to fear touching it, as though it
were a thing to contaminate. It is only after repeatedly emptying their
glasses, their courage comes up to the standard required; that of the
Frenchman first; who, nevertheless, approaches the delicate subject with
cautious circumlocution.
"By the way, M'sieu," he says, "we've forgotten what we were conversing
about, when summoned to dinner--a meal I've greatly enjoyed--
notwithstanding your depreciation of the _menu_. Indeed, a very _bonne
bouche_ your English bacon, and the greens excellent, as also the
_pommes de terre_. You were speaking of some event, or circumstance, to
be conditional on your death. What is it? Not the deluge, I hope!
True, your Wye is subject to sudden floods; might it have ought to do
with them?"
"Why should it?" asks Murdock, not comprehending the drift.
"Because people sometimes get drowned in these inundations; indeed,
often. Scarce a week passes without some one falling into the river,
and there remaining, at least till life is extinct. What with its
whirls and rapids, it's a very dangerous stream. I wonder at
Mademoiselle Wynne venturing so courageously--so _carelessly_ upon it."
The peculiar intonation of the last speech, with emphasis on the word
carelessly, gives Murdock a glimpse of what it is intended to point to.
"She's got courage enough," he rejoins, without appearing to comprehend.
"About her carelessness, I don't know."
"But the young lady certainly is careless--recklessly so. That affair
of her going out alone is proof of it. What followed may make her more
cautious; still, boating is a perilous occupation, and boats, whether
for pleasure or otherwise, are awkward things to manage--fickle and
capricious as women themselves. Suppose hers should some day go to the
bottom she being in it?"
"That would be bad."
"Of course it would. Though, Monsieur Murdock, many men situated as
you, instead of grieving over such an accident, would but rejoice at
it."
"No doubt they would. But what's the use of talking of a thing not
likely to happen?"
"Oh, true! Still, boat accidents being of such common occurrence, one
is as likely to befall Mademoiselle Wynn as anybody else. A pity if it
should--a misfortune! But so is the other thing."
"What other thing?"
"That such a property as Llangorren should be in the hands of heretics,
having but a lame title too. If what I've heard be true, you yourself
have as much right to it as your cousin. It were better it belonged to
a true son of the Church, as I know you to be, M'sieu."
Murdock receives the compliment with a grimace. He is no hypocrite;
still with all his depravity he has a sort of respect for religion, or
rather its outward forms--regularly attends Rogier's chapel, and goes
through all the ceremonies and genuflexions, just as the Italian bandit
after cutting a throat will drop on his knees and repeat a _paternoster_
at hearing the distant bell of the Angelus.
"A very poor one," he replies, with a half smile, half grin.
"In a worldly sense, you mean? I'm aware, you're not very rich."
"In more senses than that. Your Reverence, I've been a great sinner, I
admit."
"Admission is a good sign--giving promise of repentance, which need
never come too late if a man be disposed to it. It is a deep sin the
Church cannot condone--a dark crime indeed."
"Oh, I haven't done anything deserving the name. Only such as a great
many others."
"But you might be tempted some day. Whether or not it's my duty, as
your spiritual adviser, to point out the true doctrine--how the Vatican
views such things. It's after all only a question of balance between
good and evil; that is, how much evil a man may have done, and the
amount of good he may do. This world is a ceaseless war between God and
the devil; and those who wage it in the cause of the former have often
to employ the weapons of the latter. In our service the end justifies
the means, even though these be what the world calls criminal--ay, even
to the taking of life, else why should the great and good Loyola have
counselled drawing the sword, himself using it?"
"True," grunts Murdock, smoking hard, "you're a great theologian, Father
Rogier. I confess ignorance in such matters; still, I see reason in
what you say."
"You may see it clearer if I set the application before you. As for
instance, if a man have the right to a certain property, or estate, and
is kept out of it by a quibble, any steps he might take to possess
himself would be justifiable providing he devote a portion of his gains
to the good cause--that is, upholding the true faith, and so benefiting
humanity at large. Such an act is held by the best of our Church
authorities to compensate for any sin committed--supposing the money
donation sufficient to make the amount of good it may do preponderate
over the evil. And such a man would not only merit absolution, but
freely receive it. Now, Monsieur, do you comprehend me?"
"Quite," says Murdock, taking the pipe from his mouth and gulping down a
half tumbler of brandy--for he has dropped the wine. Withal, he
trembles at the programme thus metaphorically put before him, and fears
admitting the application to himself.
Soon the more potent spirit takes away his last remnant of timidity,
which the tempter perceiving, says:--
"You say you have sinned, Monsieur. And if it were only for that you
ought to make amends."
"In what way could I?"
"The way I've been speaking of. Bestow upon the Church the means of
doing good, and so deserve indulgence."
"Ah! where am I to find this means?"
"On the other side of the river."
"You forget that there's more than the stream between."
"Not much to a man who would be true to himself."
"I'm that man all over." The brandy has made him bold, at length
untying his tongue, while unsteadying it. "Yes, Pere Rogier; I'm ready
for anything that will release me from this damnable fix--debt over the
ears--duns every day. Ha! I'd be true to myself, never fear!"
"It needs being true to the Church as well."
"I'm willing to be that when I have the chance, if ever I have it. And
to get it I'd risk life. Not much if I lose it. It's become a burden
to me, heavier than I can bear."
"You may make it as light as a feather, M'sieu; cheerful as that of any
of those gay gentry you saw disporting themselves on the lawn at
Llangorren--even that of its young mistress."
"How, _Pere_?"
"By yourself becoming its master."
"Ah! if I could."
"You can!"
"With safety?"
"Perfect safety."
"And without committing,"--he fears to speak the ugly English word, but
expresses the idea in French--"_cette dernier coup_?"
"Certainly! Who dreams of that? Not I, M'sieu."
"But how is it to be avoided?"
"Easily."
"Tell me, Father Rogier!"
"Not to-night, Murdock!"--he has dropped the distant M'sieu--"Not
to-night. It's a matter that calls for reflection--consideration, calm
and careful. Time, too. Ten thousand _livres esterlies_ per annum! We
must both ponder upon it--sleep nights, and think days, over it--
possibly have to draw Coracle Dick into our deliberations. But not
to-night--_Pardieu_! it's ten o'clock! And I have business to do before
going to bed. I must be off."
"No, your Reverence; not till you've had another glass of wine."
"One more then. But let me take it standing--the _tasse d'estrope_, as
you call it."
Murdock assents; and the two rise up to drink the stirrup cup. But only
the Frenchman keeps his feet till the glasses are emptied; the other,
now dead drunk, dropping back into his chair.
"_Bon soir, Monsieur_!" says the priest, slipping out of the room, his
host answering only by a snore.
For all, Father Rogier does not leave the house so unceremoniously. In
the porch outside he takes more formal leave of a woman he there finds
waiting for him. As he joins her going out, she asks, _sotto voce_:--
"_C'est arrange_?"
"Pas encore serait tout suite." This the sole speech that passes
between them; but something besides, which, if seen by her husband,
would cause him to start from his chair--perhaps some little sober him.
Volume One, Chapter XVI.