Inside Glyngog House is Mrs Murdock, alone, or with only the two female
domestics. But these are back in the kitchen while the ex-cocotte is
moving about in front at intervals opening the door, and gazing out into
the night. A dark stormy one; for it is the same in which has occurred
the mysterious embarkation of Father Rogier, only an hour later.
To her no mystery; she knows whither the priest is bound, and on what
errand. It is not him therefore she is expecting, but her husband to
bring home word that her countryman has made a safe start. So anxiously
does she await this intelligence, that, after a time, she stays
altogether on the door-step, regardless of the raw night, and a fire in
the drawing-room which blazes brightly. There is another in the
dining-room, and a table profusely spread--set out for supper with
dishes of many kinds--cold ham and tongue, fowl and game, flanked by
decanters of different wines sparkling attractively.
Whence all this plenty, within walls where of late and for so long, has
been such scarcity?
As no one visits at Glyngog save Father Rogier, there is no one but he
to ask the question. And he would not, were he there; knowing the
answer, better than anyone else. He ought. The cheer upon Lewin
Murdock's table, with a cheerfulness observable on Mrs Murdock's face,
are due to the same cause, by himself brought about, or to which he has
largely contributed. As Moses lends money on _post obits_, at "shixty
per shent," with other expectations, a stream of that leaven has found
its way into the ancient manor-house of Glyngog, conducted thither by
Gregoire Rogier, who has drawn it from a source of supply provided for
such eventualities, and seemingly inexhaustible--the treasury of the
Vatican.
Yet only a tiny rivulet of silver, but soon, if all goes well, to become
a flood of gold grand and yellow as that in the Wye itself, having
something to do with the waters of this same stream.
No wonder there is now brightness upon the face of Olympe Renault, so
long shadowed. The sun of prosperity is again to shine upon the path of
her life. Splendour, gaiety, volupte, be hers once more, and more than
ever!
As she stands in the door of Glyngog, looking down the river, at
Llangorren, and through the darkness sees the Court with only one or two
windows alight--they but in dim glimmer--she reflects less on how they
blazed the night before, with lamps over the lawn like constellations of
stars, than how they will flame hereafter, and ere long--when she
herself be the ruling spirit and mistress of that mansion.
But as the time passes and no husband home, a cloud steals over her
features. From being only impatient, she becomes nervously anxious.
Still standing in the door she listens for footsteps she has oft heard
making approach unsteadily, little caring. Not so to-night. She dreads
to see him return intoxicated. Though not with any solicitude of the
ordinary woman's kind, but for reasons purely prudential. These are
manifested in her muttered soliloquy:--
"Gregoire must have got off long ere this--at least two hours ago. He
said they'd set out soon as it came night. Half an hour was enough for
my husband to return up the meadows home. If he has gone to the Ferry
first, and sets to drinking in the Harp? _Cette auberge maudit_.
There's no knowing what he may do, or say. Saying would be worse than
doing. A word in his cups--a hint of what has happened--might undo
everything: draw danger upon us all! And such danger--_l'prise de
corps, mon dieu_!"
Her cheek blanches at thought of the ugly spectres thus conjured up.
"Surely he will not be so stupid--so insane? Sober he can keep secrets
well enough--guard them closely, like most of his countrymen. But the
Cognac? Hark Footsteps! His I hope."
She listens without stirring from the spot. The tread is heavy, with
now and then a loud stroke against stones. Were her husband a Frenchman
it would be different. But Lewin Murdock, like all English country
gentlemen, affects substantial foot gear; and the step is undoubtedly
his. Not as usual however; to-night firm and regular, telling him to be
sober! "He isn't such a fool after all!" Her reflection followed by
the inquiry, called out--
"_C'est vous, mon mari_?"
"Of course it is. Who else could it be? You don't expect the Father,
our only visitor, to-night? You'll not see him for several days to
come."
"He's gone then?"
"Two hours ago. By this he should be miles away; unless he and Coracle
have had a capsize, and been spilled out of their boat. No unlikely
occurrence with the river running so madly."
She still shows unsatisfied, though not from any apprehension of the
boat's being upset. She is thinking of what may have happened at the
Welsh Harp; for the long interval, since the priest's departure, her
husband could only have been there. She is less anxious however, seeing
the state in which he presents himself; so unusual coming from the
"_auberge maudite_."
"Two hours ago they got off, you say?"
"About that; just as it was dark enough to set out with safety, and no
chance of being observed."
"They did so?"
"Oh, yes."
"_Le bagage bien arrange_?"
"_Parfaitment_; or as we say in English, neat as a trivet. If you
prefer another form; nice as ninepence."
She is pleased at his facetiousness, quite a new mode for Lewin Murdock.
Coupled with his sobriety, it gives her confidence that things have
gone on smoothly, and will to the end. Indeed, for some days Murdock
has been a new man--acting as one with some grave affair on his hands--
feat to accomplish, or negotiation to effect--resolved on carrying it to
completeness.
Now, less from anxiety as to what he has been saying at the Welsh Harp,
than to know what he has there heard said by others, she further
interrogates him:--"Where have you been meanwhile, monsieur?"
"Part of the time at the Ferry; the rest of it I've spent on paths and
roads coming and going. I went up to the Harp to hear what I could
hear."
"And what did you hear?"
"Nothing much to interest us. As you know, Rugg's is an out of the way
corner--none more so on the Wye--and the Llangorren news hasn't reached
it. The talk of the Ferry folk is all about the occurrence at Abergann,
which still continues to exercise them. The other don't appear to have
got much abroad, if at all, anywhere--for reasons told Father Rogier by
your countrywoman, Clarisse, with whom he held an interview sometime
during the afternoon."
"And has there been no search yet?"
"Search, yes; but nothing found, and not much noise made, for the
reasons I allude to."
"What are they? You haven't told me."
"Oh! various. Some of them laughable enough. Whimsies of that Quixotic
old lady who has been so long doing the honours at Llangorren."
"Ah! Madame Linton. How has she been taking it?"
"I'll tell you after I've had something to eat and drink. You forget,
Olympe, where I've been all the day long--under the roof of a poacher,
who, of late otherwise employed, hadn't so much as a head of game in his
house. True, I've since made call at an hotel, but you don't give me
credit for my abstemiousness! What have you got to reward me for it?"
"_Entrez_!" she exclaims, leading him into the dining-room, their
dialogue so far having been carried on in the porch. "_Voila_!"
He is gratified, though no ways surprised at the set out. He does not
need to inquire whence it comes. He, too, knows it is a sacrifice to
the rising sun. But he knows also what a sacrifice he will have to make
in return for it--one third the estate of Llangorren.
"Well, _ma cherie_," he says, as this reflection occurs to him, "we'll
have to pay pretty dear for all this. But I suppose there's no help for
it."
"None," she answers with a comprehension of the circumstances--clearer
and fuller than his. "We've made the contract, and must abide by it.
If broken by us, it wouldn't be a question of property, but life.
Neither yours nor mine would be safe for a single hour. Ah monsieur!
you little comprehend the power of those gentry, _les Jesuites_--how
sharp their claws, and far reaching!"
"Confound them!" he exclaims, angrily dropping down upon a chair by the
table's side.
He eats ravenously, and drinks like a fish. His day's work is over, and
he can afford the indulgence.
And while they are at supper, he imparts all details of what he has done
and heard; among them Miss Linton's reasons for having put restraint
upon the search.
"The old simpleton!" he says, concluding his narration, "she actually
believed my cousin to have run away with that captain of Hussars--if she
don't believe it still! Ha, ha, ha. She'll think differently when she
sees that body brought out of the water. _It_ will settle the
business!"
Olympe Renault, retiring to rest, is long kept awake by the pleasant
thought, not that for many more nights will she have to sleep in a mean
bed at Glyngog, but on a grand couch in Llangorren Court.
Volume Two, Chapter XVIII.