Of all who assisted at the ceremony of Mary Morgan's funeral, no one
seemed so impatient for its termination as the priest. In his official
capacity he did all he could to hasten it; soon as it was over hurrying
away from the grave, out of the burying-ground, and into his own house,
near by.
Such haste would have appeared strange--even indecent--but for the
belief of his having some sacerdotal duty that called him elsewhere; a
belief strengthened by their shortly after seeing him start off in the
direction of the Ferry-boat.
Arriving there, the Charon attendant rows him across the river; and,
soon as setting foot on the opposite side, he turns face down stream,
taking a path that meanders through fields and meadows. Along this he
goes rapidly as his legs can carry him--in a walk. Clerical dignity
hinders him from proceeding at a run, though judging by the expression
of his countenance he is inclined to it.
The route he is on would conduct to Llangorren Court--several miles
distant--and thither is he bound; though the house itself is not his
objective point. He does not visit, nor would it serve him to show his
face there--least of all to Gwen Wynn. She might not be so rude as to
use her riding whip on him, as she once felt inclined in the
hunting-field; but she would certainly be surprised to see him at her
home.
Yet it is one within her house he wishes to see, and is now on the way
for it, pretty sure of being able to accomplish his object. True to her
fashionable instincts and _toilette_ necessities, Miss Linton keeps a
French maid, and it is with this damsel Father Rogier designs having an
interview. He is thoroughly _en rapport_ with the _femme de chambre_
and through her, aided by the Confession, kept advised of everything
which transpires at the Court, or all he deems it worth while to be
advised about.
His confidence that he will not have long his walk for nothing rests on
certain matters of pre-arrangement. With the foreign domestic he has
succeeded in establishing a code of signals, by which he can
communicate--with almost a certainty of being able to see her. Not
inside the house, but at a place near enough to be convenient. Rare the
park in Herefordshire through which there is not a right-of-way path,
and one runs across that of Llangorren. Not through the ornamental
grounds, nor at all close to the mansion--as is frequently the case, to
the great chagrin of the owner--but several hundred yards distant. It
passes from the river's bank to the county road, all the way through
trees, that screen it from view of the house. There is a point,
however, where it approaches the edge of the wood, and there one
traversing it might be seen from the upper windows. But only for an
instant, unless the party so passing should choose to make stop in the
place exposed.
It is a thoroughfare not much frequented, though free to Father Rogier
as any one else; and, now hastening along it, he arrives at that spot
where the break in the timber brings the house in view. Here he makes a
halt, still keeping under the trees; to a branch of one of them, on the
side towards the Court attaching a piece of white paper, he has taken
out of his pocket. This done with due caution, and care that he be not
observed in the act, he draws back to the path, and sits down upon a
stile close by--to await the upshot of his telegraphy.
His haste hitherto explained by the fact, only at certain times are his
signals likely to be seen, or could they be attended to. One of the
surest and safest is during the early afternoon hours, just after
luncheon, when the ancient toast of Cheltenham takes her accustomed
_siesta_--before dressing herself for the drive, or reception of
callers. While the mistress sleeps the maid is free to dispose of
herself, as she pleases.
It was to hit this interlude of leisure Father Rogier has been hurrying;
and that he has succeeded is soon known to him, by his seeing a form
with floating drapery, recognisable as that of the _femme de chambre_.
Gliding through the shrubbery, and evidently with an eye to escape
observation, she is only visible at intervals; at length lost to his
sight altogether as she enters among the thick standing trees. But he
knows she will turn up again.
And she does, after a short time; coming along the path towards the
stile where here he is seated.
"Ah! _ma bonne_!" he exclaims, dropping on his feet, and moving forward
to meet her. "You've been prompt! I didn't expect you quite so soon.
Madame la Chatelaine oblivious, I apprehend; in the midst of her
afternoon nap?"
"Yes, Pere; she was when I stole off. But she has given me directions
about dressing her, to go out for a drive--earlier than usual. So I
must get back immediately."
"I'm not going to detain you very long. I chanced to be passing, and
thought I might as well have a word with you--seeing it's the hour when
you're off duty. By the way, I hear you're about to have grand doings
at the Court--a ball, and what not?"
"_Oui, m'sieu; oui_."
"When is it to be?"
"On Thursday. Mademoiselle celebrates _son jour de naissance_--the
twenty-first, making her of age. It is to be a grand fete as you say.
They've been all last week preparing for it."
"Among the invited Le Capitaine Ryecroft, I presume?"
"O yes. I saw madame write the note inviting him--indeed took it myself
down to the hall table for the post-boy."
"He visits often at the Court of late?"
"Very often--once a week, sometimes twice."
"And comes down the river by boat; doesn't he!"
"In a boat. Yes--comes and goes that way."
Her statement is reliable, as Father Rogier has reason to believe--
having an inkling of suspicion that the damsel has of late been casting
sheep's eyes, not at Captain Ryecroft, but his young boatman, and is as
much interested in the movements of the _Mary_ as either the boat's
owner or charterer.
"Always comes by water, and returns by it," observes the priest, as if
speaking to himself. "You're quite sure of that, _ma fille_?"
"Oh, quite, Pere!"
"Mademoiselle appears to be very partial to him. I think, you told me
she often accompanies him down to the boat stair, at his departure?"
"Often! always."
"Always?"
"_Toujours_! I never knew it otherwise. Either the boat stair, or the
pavilion."
"Ah! the summer-house! They hold their _tete-a-tete_ there at times; do
they?"
"Yes; they do."
"But not when he leaves at a late hour--as, for instance, when he dines
at the Court; which I know he has done several times?"
"Oh, yes; even then. Only last week he was there for dinner; and
Ma'mselle Gwen went with him to his boat, or the pavilion--to bid
adieus. No matter what the time to her. _Ma foi_! I'd risk my word
she'll do the same after this grand ball that's to be. And why
shouldn't she, Pere Rogier? Is there any harm in it?"
The question is put with a view of justifying her own conduct, that
would be somewhat similar were Jack Wingate to encourage it, which, to
say truth, he never has.
"Oh, no," answers the priest, with an assumed indifference; "no harm,
whatever, and no business of ours. Mademoiselle Wynn is mistress of her
own actions, and will be more, after the coming birthday number
_vingt-un_. But," he adds, dropping the role of the interrogator, now
that he has got all the information wanted, "I fear I'm keeping you too
long. As I've said, chancing to come by I signalled--chiefly to tell
you, that next Sunday we have High Mass in the chapel. With special
prayers for a young girl, who was drowned last Saturday night, and whom
we've just this day interred. I suppose you've heard?"
"No, I haven't. Who Pere?" Her question may appear strange, Rugg's
Ferry being so near to Llangorren Court and Abergann still nearer. But
for reasons already stated, as others, the ignorance of the Frenchwoman
as to what has occurred at the farmhouse, is not only intelligible, but
natural enough.
Equally natural, though in a sense very different, is the look of
satisfaction appearing in her eyes, as the priest in answer gives the
name of the drowned girl. "_Marie, la fille de fermier Morgan_."
The expression that comes over her face is, under the circumstances,
terribly repulsive--being almost that of joy! For not only has she seen
Mary Morgan at the chapel, but something besides--heard her name coupled
with that of the waterman, Wingate.
In the midst of her strong, sinful emotions, of which the priest is
fully cognisant, he finds it a good opportunity for taking leave. Going
back to the tree where the bit of signal paper has been left, he plucks
it off, and crumbles it into his pocket. Then, returning to the path,
shakes hands with her, says "_Bonjour_!" and departs.
She is not a beauty, or he would have made his adieus in a very
different way.
Volume Two, Chapter VI.