At Llangorren Court all is changed, from owner down to the humblest
domestic. Lewin Murdock has become its master, as the priest told him
he some day might.
There was none to say nay. By the failure of Ambrose Wynn's heirs--in
the line through his son and bearing his name--the estate of which he
was the original testator reverts to the children of his daughter, of
whom Lewin Murdock, an only son, is the sole survivor. He of Glyngog is
therefore indisputable heritor of Llangorren; and no one disputing it,
he is now in possession, having entered upon it soon as the legal
formularies could be gone through with. This they have been with a
haste which causes invidious remark, if not actual scandal.
Lewin Murdock is not the man to care; and, in truth, he is now scarce
ever sober enough to feel sensitive, could he have felt so at any time.
But in his new and luxurious home, waited on by a staff of servants,
with wine at will, so unlike the days of misery spent in the dilapidated
manor house, he gives loose rein to his passion for drink; leaving the
management of affairs to his dexterous better half.
She has not needed to take much trouble in the matter of furnishing.
Her husband, as nearest of kin to the deceased, has also come in for the
personal effects, furniture included; all but some belongings of Miss
Linton, which had been speedily removed by her--transferred to a little
house of her own, not far off. Fortunately, the old lady is not left
impecunious; but has enough to keep her in comfort, with an economy,
however, that precludes all idea of longer indulging in a lady's-maid,
more especially one so expensive as Clarisse; who, as Jack Wingate said,
has been dismissed from Miss Linton's establishment--at the same time
discharging herself by notice formally given. That clever _demoiselle_
was not meant for service in a ten-roomed cottage, even though a
detached one; and through the intervention of her patron, the priest,
she still remains at the Court, to dance attendance on the _ancien
belle_ of Mabille, as she did on the ancient toast of Cheltenham.
Pleasantly so far; her new mistress being in fine spirits, and herself
delighted with everything. The French adventuress has attained the goal
of an ambition long cherished, though not so patiently awaited. Oft
gazed she across the Wye at those smiling grounds of Llangorren, as the
Fallen Angel back over its walls into the Garden of Eden; oft saw she
there assemblages of people to her seeming as angels, not fallen, but in
highest favour--ah! in her estimation, more than angels--women of rank
and wealth, who could command what she coveted beyond any far-off joys
celestial--the nearer pleasures of earth and sense.
Those favoured fair ones are not there now, but she herself is; owner of
the very Paradise in which they disported themselves! Nor does she
despair of seeing them at Llangorren again, and having them around her
in friendly intercourse, as had Gwendoline Wynn. Brought up under the
_regime_ of Louis and trained in the school of Eugenie, why need she
fear either social slight or exclusion? True, she is in England, not
France; but she thinks it is all the same. And not without some reason
for so thinking. The ethics of the two countries, so different in days
past, have of late become alarmingly assimilated--ever since that hand,
red with blood spilled upon the boulevards of Paris, was affectionately
elapsed by a Queen on the dock head of Cherbourg. The taint of that
touch felt throughout all England, has spread over it like a plague; no
local or temporary epidemic, but one which still abides, still emitting
its noisome effluvia in a flood of prurient literature--novel writers
who know neither decency nor shame--newspaper scribblers devoid of
either truth or sincerity--theatres little better than licensed
_bagnios_, and Stock Exchange scandals smouching names once honoured in
English history, with other scandals of yet more lamentable kind--all
the old landmarks of England's morality being rapidly obliterated.
And all the better for Olympe, _nee_ Renault. Like her sort living by
corruption, she instinctively rejoices at it, glories in the _monde
immonde_ of the Second Empire, and admires the abnormal monster who has
done so much in sowing and cultivating the noxious crop. Seeing it
flourish around her, and knowing it on the increase, the new mistress of
Llangorren expects to profit by it. Nor has she the slightest fear of
failure in any attempt she may make to enter Society. It will not much
longer taboo her. She knows that, with very little adroitness, 10,000
pounds a-year will introduce her into a Royal drawing-room--aye, take
her to the steps of a throne; and none is needed to pass through the
gates of Hurlingham nor those of Chiswick's Garden. In this last she
would not be the only flower of poisonous properties and tainted
perfume; instead, would brush skirts with scores of dames wonderfully
like those of the Restoration and Regency, recalling the painted dolls
of the Second Charles, and the Delilahs of the Fourth George; in bold
effrontery and cosmetic brilliance equalling either.
The wife of Lewin Murdock hopes ere long to be among them--once more a
_celebrite_, as she was in the Bois de Boulogne, and the _bals_ of the
demi-monde.
True, the county aristocracy have not yet called upon her. For by a
singular perverseness--unlike Nature's laws in the animal and vegetable
world--the outer tentacles of this called "Society" are the last to take
hold. But they will yet. Money is all powerful in this free and easy
age. Having that in sufficiency, it makes little difference whether she
once sat by a sewing machine, or turned a mangle, as she once has done
in the Faubourg Montmartre for her mother, _la blanchisseuse_. She is
confident the gentry of the shire will in due time surrender, send in
their cards and come of themselves; as they surely will, soon as they
see her name in the _Court Journal_ or _Morning Post_ in the list of
Royal receptions:--"_Mrs Lewin Murdock, presented by the Countess of
Devilacare_."
And to a certainty they shall so read it, with much about her besides,
if Jenkins be true to his instincts. She need not fear him--he will.
She can trust his fidelity to the star scintillating in a field of
plush, as to the Polar that of magnetic needle.
Her husband bears his new fortunes in a manner somewhat different; in
one sense more soberly, as in another the reverse. If, during his
adversity he indulged in drink, in prosperity he does not spare it. But
there is another passion to which he now gives loose--his old,
unconquerable vice--gaming. Little cares he for the cards of visitors,
while those of the gambler delight him; and though his wife has yet
received none of the former, he has his callers to take a hand with him
at the latter--more than enough to make up a rubber of whist. Besides,
some of his old cronies of the "Welsh Harp," who have now _entree_ at
Llangorren, several young swells of the neighbourhood--the black sheep
of their respective flocks--are not above being of his company. Where
the carrion is the eagles congregate, as the vultures; and already two
or three of the "leg" fraternity--in farther flight from London--have
found their way into Herefordshire, and hover around the precincts of
the Court.
Night after night, tables are there set out for loo, _ecarte_, _rouge et
noir_, or whatever may be called for--in a small way resembling the
hells of Homburg, Baden, and Monaco--wanting only the women.
Volume Three, Chapter IX.