Gwen Wynn Part 13

"Ha!" she exclaims, as if p.r.i.c.ked by a pin, "Mademoiselle to be married?"

The priest gives an a.s.senting nod.

"That's news to me," mutters Murdock, in a tone more like he was listening to the announcement of a death.

"_Moi aussi!_ Who, _Pere_? Not Monsieur Shenstone, after all?"

The question shows how well she is acquainted with Miss Wynn--if not personally, with her surroundings and predilections!

"No," answers the priest. "Not he."

"Who then?" asked the two simultaneously.

"A man likely to make many heirs to Llangorren--widen the breach between you and it--ah! to the impossibility of that ever being bridged."

"_Pere Rogier!_" appeals Murdock, "I pray you speak out! Who is to do this? His name?"

"_Le Capitaine Ryecroft._"

"Captain Ryecroft! Who--what is he?"

"An officer of Hussars--a fine-looking fellow--sort of combination of Mars and Apollo; strong as Hercules! As I've said, likely to be father to no end of sons and daughters, with Gwen Wynn for their mother.

_Helas!_ I can fancy seeing them now--at play over yonder, on the lawn!"

"Captain Ryecroft!" repeats Murdock musingly; "I never saw--never heard of the man!"

"You hear of him now, and possibly see him too. No doubt he's among those gay toxophilites--Ha! no, he's nearer! What a strange coincidence!

The old saw, 'speak of the fiend.' There's _your_ fiend, Monsieur Murdock!"

He points to a boat on the river with two men in it; one of them wearing a white cap. It is dropping down in the direction of Llangorren Court.

"Which?" asks Murdock mechanically.

"He with the _chapeau blanc_. That's whom you have to fear. The other's but the waterman Wingate--honest fellow enough, whom no one need fear--unless indeed our worthy friend Coracle d.i.c.k, his compet.i.tor for the smiles of the pretty Mary Morgan. Yes, _mes amis_! Under that conspicuous _kepi_ you behold the future lord of Llangorren."

"Never!" exclaims Murdock, angrily gritting his teeth. "Never!"

The French priest and ci-devant French courtezan exchange secret, but significant, glances; a pleased expression showing on the faces of both.

"You speak excitedly, M'sieu," says the priest, "emphatically, too. But how is it to be hindered?"

"I don't know," sourly rejoins Murdock; "I suppose it can't be," he adds, drawing back, as if conscious of having committed himself. "Never mind, now; let's drop the disagreeable subject. You'll stay to dinner with us, Father Rogier?"

"If not putting you to inconvenience."

"Nay; it's you who'll be inconvenienced--starved, I should rather say.

The butchers about here are not of the most amiable type; and, if I mistake not, our _menu_ for to-day is a very primitive one--bacon and potatoes, with some greens from the old garden."

"Monsieur Murdock! It's not the fare, but the fas.h.i.+on, which makes a meal enjoyable. A crust and welcome is to me better cheer than a banquet with a grudging host at the head of the table. Besides, your English bacon is a most estimable dish, and with your succulent cabbages delectable. With a bit of Wye salmon to precede, and a pheasant to follow, it were food to satisfy Lucullus himself."

"Ah! true," a.s.sents the broken-down gentleman, "with the salmon and pheasant. But where are they? My fishmonger, who is conjointly also a game-dealer, is at present as much out with me as is the butcher; I suppose, from my being too much in with them--in their books. Still, they have not ceased acquaintance, so far as calling is concerned. That they do with provoking frequency. Even this morning, before I was out of bed, I had the honour of a visit from both the gentlemen. Unfortunately, they brought neither fish nor meat; instead, two sheets of that detestable blue paper, with red lines and rows of figures--an arithmetic not nice to be bothered with at one's breakfast. So, _Pere_, I am sorry I can't offer you any salmon; and as for pheasant--you may not be aware, that it is out of season."

"It's never out of season, any more than barn-door fowl; especially if a young last year's _coq_, that hasn't been successful in finding a mate."

"But it's close time now," urges the Englishman, stirred by his old instincts of gentleman sportsman.

"Not to those who know how to open it," returns the Frenchman with a significant shrug. "And suppose we do that to-day?"

"I don't understand. Will your Reverence enlighten me?"

"Well, M'sieu; being Whit-Monday, and coming to pay you a visit, I thought you mightn't be offended by my bringing along with me a little present--for Madame here--that we're talking of--salmon and pheasant."

The husband, more than the wife, looks incredulous. Is the priest jesting? Beneath the _froc_, fitting tight his thin spare form, there is nothing to indicate the presence of either fish or bird.

"Where are they?" asks Murdock mechanically. "You say you've brought them along?"

"Ah! that was metaphorical. I meant to say I had sent them. And if I mistake not, they are near now. Yes; there's my messenger!"

He points to a man making up the glen, threading his way through the tangle of wild bushes that grow along the banks of the rivulet.

"Coracle d.i.c.k!" exclaims Murdock, recognising the poacher.

"The identical individual," answers the priest, adding, "who, though a poacher, and possibly has been something worse, is not such a bad fellow in his way--for certain purposes. True, he's neither the most devout nor best behaved of my flock; still a useful individual, especially on Fridays, when one has to confine himself to a fish diet. I find him convenient in other ways as well; as so might you, Monsieur Murdock--some day. Should you ever have need of a strong hard hand, with a heart in correspondence, Richard Dempsey possesses both, and would no doubt place them at your service--for a consideration."

While Murdock is cogitating on what the last words are meant to convey, the individual so recommended steps upon the ground. A stout thick-set fellow, with a shock of black curly hair coming low down, almost to his eyes, thus adding to their sinister and lowering look. For all a face not naturally uncomely, but one on which crime has set its stamp, deep and indelible.

His garb is such as gamekeepers usually wear, and poachers almost universally affect, a shooting coat of velveteen, corduroy smalls, and sheepskin gaiters b.u.t.toned over thick-soled shoes iron-tipped at the toes. In the ample skirt pockets of the coat--each big as a game-bag--appear two protuberances, that about balance one another--the present of which the priest has already delivered the invoice--in the one being a salmon "blotcher" weighing some three or four pounds, in the other a young c.o.c.k pheasant.

Having made obeisance to the trio in the grounds of Glyngog, he is about drawing them forth when the priest prevents him, exclaiming:--

"_Arretez!_ They're not commodities that keep well in the sun. Should a water-bailiff, or one of the Llangorren gamekeepers chance to set eyes on them, they'd spoil at once. Those lynx-eyed fellows can see a long way, especially on a day bright as this. So, worthy Coracle, before uncarting, you'd better take them back to the kitchen."

Thus instructed the poacher strides off round to the rear of the house; Mrs. Murdock entering by the front door to give directions about dressing the dinner. Not that she intends to take any hand in cooking it--not she. That would be _infra dig._ for the _ancien belle of Mabille_. Poor as is the establishment of Glyngog, it can boast of a plain cook, with a _slavey_ to a.s.sist.

The other two remain outside, the guest joining his host in a gla.s.s of brandy and water. More than one; for Father Rogier, though French, can drink like a born Hibernian. Nothing of the Good Templar in him.

After they have been for nigh an hour hobn.o.bbing, conversing, Murdock still fighting shy of the subject, which is nevertheless uppermost in the minds of both, the priest once more approaches it, saying:--

"_Parbleu!_ They appear to be enjoying themselves over yonder!" He is looking at the lawn where the bright forms are flitting to and fro. "And most of all, I should say, Monsieur White Cap--foretasting the sweets of which he'll ere long enter into full enjoyment; when he becomes master of Llangorren."

"That--never!" exclaims Murdock, this time adding an oath. "Never while I live. When I'm dead----"

"_Diner!_" interrupts a female voice from the house--that of its mistress seen standing on the doorstep.

"Madame summons us," says the priest, "we must in, M'sieu. While picking the bones of the pheasant, you can complete your unfinished speech.

_Allons!_"