Father Rogier has arrived at Abergann; slipped off his goloshes, left
them with his hat in the entrance passage; and stepped inside the
parlour.
There is a bright coal fire chirping in the grate; for, although not
absolutely cold, the air is damp and raw from the rain which has fallen
during the earlier hours of the day. He has not come direct from his
house at the Ferry, but up the meadows from below, along paths that are
muddy, with wet grass overhanging. Hence his having on india-rubber
overshoes. Spare of flesh, and thin-blooded, he is sensitive to cold.
Feeling it now, he draws a chair to the fire, and sits down with his
feet rested on the fender.
For a time he has it all to himself. The farmer is still outside,
looking after his cattle, and setting things up for the night; while
Mrs Morgan, after receiving him, has made excuse to the kitchen--to set
the frying-pan on the coals. Already the sausages can be heard
frizzling, while their savoury odour is borne everywhere throughout the
house.
Before sitting down the priest had helped himself to a glass of sherry;
and, after taking a mouthful or two, set it on the mantelshelf, within
convenient reach. It would have been brandy were there any on the
table; but, for the time satisfied with the wine, he sits sipping it,
his eyes now and then directed towards the door. This is shut, Mrs
Morgan having closed it after her as she went out.
There is a certain restlessness in his glances, as though he were
impatient for the door to be reopened, and some one to enter.
And so is he, though Mrs Morgan herself is not the some one--but her
daughter. Gregoire Rogier has been a fast fellow in his youth--before
assuming the cassock a very _mauvais sujet_. Even now in the maturer
age, and despite his vows of celibacy, he has a partiality for the sex,
and a keen eye to female beauty. The fresh, youthful charms of the
farmer's daughter have many a time made it water, more than the now
stale attractions of Olympe, _nee_ Renault. She is not the only
disciple of his flock he delights in drawing to the confessional.
But there is a vast difference between the mistress of Glyngog and the
maiden of Abergann. Unlike are they as Lucrezia Borgia to that other
Lucretia--victim of Tarquin _fils_. And the priest knows he must deal
with them in a very different manner. He cannot himself have Mary
Morgan for a wife--he does not wish to--but it may serve his purpose
equally well were she to become the wife of Richard Dempsey. Hence his
giving support to the pretensions of the poacher--not all unselfish.
Eagerly watching the door, he at length sees it pushed open; and by a
woman, but not the one he is wishing for. Only Mrs Morgan re-entering
to speak apologies for delay in serving supper. It will be on the table
in a trice.
Without paying much attention to what she says, or giving thought to her
excuses, he asks in a drawl of assumed indifference,--
"Where is Ma'mselle Marie? Not on the sick list, I hope?"
"Oh no, your reverence. She was never in better health in her life, I'm
happy to say."
"Attending to culinary matters, I presume? Bothering herself--on my
account, too! Really, madame, I wish you wouldn't take so much trouble
when I come to pay you these little visits--calls of duty. Above all,
that ma'mselle should be scorching her fair cheeks before a kitchen
fire."
"She's not--nothing of the kind, Father Rogier."
"Dressing, may be? That isn't needed either--to receive poor me."
"No; she's not dressing."
"Ah! What then? Pardon me for appearing inquisitive. I merely wish to
have a word with her before monsieur, your husband, comes in--relating
to a matter of the Sunday school. She's at home, isn't she?"
"Not just this minute. She soon will be."
"What! Out at this hour?"
"Yes; she has gone up to the Ferry on an errand. I wonder you didn't
meet her! Which way did you come, Father Rogier--the path or the lane?"
"Neither--nor from the Ferry. I've been down the river on visitation
duty, and came up through the meadows. It's rather a dark night for
your daughter to have gone upon an errand! Not alone, I take it?"
"Yes; she went alone."
"But why, madame?"
Mrs Morgan had not intended to say anything about the nature of the
message, but it must come out now.
"Well, your reverence," she answers, laughing, "it's rather an amusing
matter--as you'll say yourself, when I tell it you."
"Tell it, pray!"
"It's all through a cat--our big Tom."
"Ah, Tom! What _jeu d'esprit_ has he been perpetrating?"
"Not much of a joke, after all; but more the other way. The mischievous
creature got into the pantry, and somehow upset a bottle--indeed, broke
it to pieces."
"_Chat maudit_! But what has that to do with your daughter's going to
the Ferry?"
"Everything. It was a bottle of best French brandy--unfortunately the
only one we had in the house. And as they say misfortunes never do come
single, it so happened our boy was away after the cows, and nobody else
I could spare. So I've sent Mary to the Welsh Harp for another. I know
your reverence prefers brandy to wine."
"Madame, your very kind thoughtfulness deserves my warmest thanks. But
I'm really sorry at your having taken all this trouble to entertain me.
Above all, I regret its having entailed such a disagreeable duty upon
your Mademoiselle Marie. Henceforth I shall feel reluctance in setting
foot over your threshold."
"Don't say that, Father Rogier. Please don't. Mary didn't think it
disagreeable. I should have been angry with her if she had. On the
contrary, it was herself proposed going; as the boy was out of the way,
and our girl in the kitchen, busy about supper. But poor it is--I'm
sorry to tell you--and will need the drop of Cognac to make it at all
palatable."
"You underrate your _menu_, madame; if it be anything like what I've
been accustomed to at your table. Still, I cannot help feeling regret
at ma'mselle's having been sent to the Ferry--the roads in such
condition. And so dark, too--she may have a difficulty in finding her
way. Which did she go by--the path or the lane? Your own interrogatory
to myself--almost verbatim--_c'est drole_!"
With but a vague comprehension of the interpolated French and Latin
phrases, the farmer's wife makes rejoinder:
"Indeed, I can't say which. I never thought of asking her. However,
Mary's a sensible lass, and surely wouldn't think of venturing over the
foot plank a night like this. She knows it's loose. Ah!" she
continues, stepping to the window, and looking out, "there be the moon
up! I'm glad of that; she'll see her way now, and get sooner home."
"How long is it since she went off?" Mrs Morgan glances at the clock
over the mantel; soon she sees where the hands are, exclaiming:
"Mercy me! It's half-past nine! She's been gone a good hour!"
Her surprise is natural. To Rugg's Ferry is but a mile, even by the
lane and road. Twenty minutes to go and twenty more to return were
enough. How are the other twenty being spent? Buying a bottle of
brandy across the counter, and paying for it, will not explain; that
should occupy scarce as many seconds. Besides, the last words of the
messenger, at starting off, were a promise of speedy return. She has
not kept it! And what can be keeping _her_?
Her mother asks this question, but without being able to answer it. She
can neither tell nor guess. But the priest, more suspicious, has his
conjectures; one giving him pain--greatly exciting him, though he does
not show it. Instead, with simulated calmness, he says:
"Suppose I step out and see whether she be near at hand?"
"If your reverence would. But please don't stay for her. Supper's
quite ready, and Evan will be in by the time I get it dished. I wonder
what's detaining Mary!"
If she only knew what, she would be less solicitous about the supper,
and more about the absent one.
"No matter," she continues, cheering up, "the girl will surely be back
before we sit down to the table. If not, she must go--"
The priest had not stayed to hear the clause threatening to disentitle
the tardy messenger. He is too anxious to learn the cause of delay;
and, in the hope of discovering it, with a view to something besides, he
hastily claps on his hat--without waiting to defend his feet with the
goloshes--then glides out and off across the garden.
Mrs Morgan remains in the doorway looking after him, with an expression
on her face not all contented. Perhaps she too, has a foreboding of
evil; or, it may be, she but thinks of her daughter's future, and that
she is herself doing wrong by endeavouring to influence it in favour of
a man about whom she has of late heard discreditable rumours. Or,
perchance, some suspicion of the priest himself may be stirring within
her: for there are scandals abroad concerning him, that have reached
even her ears. Whatever the cause, there is shadow on her brow, as she
watches him pass out through the gate; scarce dispelled by the bright
blazing fire in the kitchen, as she returns thither to direct the
serving of the supper.
If she but knew the tale he, Father Rogier, is so soon to bring back,
she might not have left the door so soon, or upon her own feet; more
likely have dropped down on its threshold, to be carried from it
fainting, if not dead!
Volume Two, Chapter II.