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CHAPTER LV
THE NEW MISTRESS OF THE MANSION
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 Wynne'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 regimé 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 France, was affectionately clasped by a Queen on the dock head of Cherbourg. The taint of that touch felt throughout 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, née 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 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 a year will introduce her into a Royal drawing-room – ay, 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 célebrité, 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 visitor, 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 entrée 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, écarté, 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.
CHAPTER LVI
THE GAMBLERS AT LLANGORREN
Among the faces now seen at Llangorren – most of them new to the place, and not a few of forbidding aspect – there is one familiar to us. Sinister as any, since it is that of Father Rogier. At no rare intervals may it be there observed; but almost continuously. Frequent as were his visits to Glyngog, they are still more so to Llangorren, where he now spends the greater part of his time; his own solitary and somewhat humble dwelling at Rugg's Ferry seeing nothing of him for days together, while for nights its celibate bed is unslept in, the luxurious couch spread for him at the Court having greater attractions.
Whether made welcome to this unlimited hospitality or not, he comports himself as though he were; seeming noways backward in the reception of it; instead, as if demanding it. One ignorant of his relations with the master of the establishment might imagine him its master. Nor would the supposition be so far astray. As the King-maker controls the King, so can Gregoire Rogier the new Lord of Llangorren – influence him at his will.
And this does he; though not openly, or ostensibly. That would be contrary to the tactics taught him, and the practice to which he is accustomed. The sword of Loyola in the hands of his modern apostles has become a dagger – a weapon more suitable to Ultramontanism. Only in Protestant countries to be wielded with secrecy, though elsewhere little concealed.
But the priest of Rugg's Ferry is not in France; and, under the roof of an English gentleman, though a Roman Catholic, bears himself with becoming modesty – before strangers and the eyes of the outside world. Even the domestics of the house see nothing amiss. They are new to their places, and as yet unacquainted with the relationships around them. Nor would they think it strange in a priest having control there or anywhere. They are all of his persuasion, else they would not be in service at Llangorren Court.
So proceed matters under its new administration.
On the same evening that Captain Ryecroft makes his quiet excursion down the river to inspect the traces on the cliff, there is a little dinner party at the Court, the diners taking seat by the table just about the time he was stepping into Wingate's skiff.
The hour is early; but it is altogether a bachelor affair, and Lewin Murdock's guests are men not much given to follow fashions. Besides, there is another reason; something to succeed the dinner, on which their thoughts are more bent than upon either eating or drinking. No spread of fruit, nor dessert of any kind, but a bout at card-playing, or dice for those who prefer it. On their way to the dining-room they have caught glimpse of another apartment where whist and loo tables are seen, with all the gambling paraphernalia upon them – packs of new cards still in their wrappers, ivory counters, dice boxes with their spotted cubes lying alongside.
Pretty sight to Mr. Murdock's lately picked up acquaintances; a heterogeneous circle, but all alike in one respect – each indulging in the pleasant anticipation that he will that night leave his host's house with more or less of that host's money in his pocket. Murdock has himself come easily by it, and why should he not be made as easily to part with it? If he has a plethora of cash, they have a determination to relieve him of at least a portion of it.
Hence dinner is eaten in haste, and with little appreciation of the dishes, however dainty; all so longing to be around those tables in another room, and get their fingers on the toys there displayed.
Their host, aware of the universal desire, does nought to frustrate it. Instead, he is as eager as any for the fray. As said, gambling is his passion, has been for most part of his life, and he could now no more live without it than go wanting drink. A hopeless victim to the last, he is equally a slave to the first. Soon, therefore, as dessert is brought in, and a glass of the heavier wines gone round, he looks significantly at his wife – the only lady at the table – who, taking the hint, retires.
The gentlemen, on their feet at her withdrawal, do not sit down again, but drink standing – only a petit verre of cognac by way of "corrector." Then they hurry off in an unseemly ruck towards the room containing metal more attractive, from which soon after proceed the clinking of coin and the rattle of ebony counters, with words now and then spoken not over nice, but rough, even profane, as though the speakers were playing skittles in the back yard of a London beerhouse, instead of cards under the roof of a country gentleman's mansion!
While the new master of Llangorren is thus entertaining his amiable company, as much as any of them engrossed in the game, its new mistress is also playing a part, which may be more reputable, but certainly is more mysterious. She is in the drawing-room, though not alone – Father Rogier alone with her. He, of course, has been one of the dining guests, and said an unctuous grace over the table. In his sacred sacerdotal character it could hardly be expected of him to keep along with the company, though he could take a hand at cards, and play them with as much skill as any gamester of that gathering. But just now he has other fish to fry, and wishes a word in private with the mistress of Llangorren, about the way things are going on. However much he may himself like a little game with its master, and win money from him, he does not relish seeing all the world do the same; no more she. Something must be done to put a stop to it; and it is to talk over this something the two have planned their present interview, some words about it having previously passed between them.
Seated side by side on a lounge, they enter upon the subject. But before a dozen words have been exchanged, they are compelled to discontinue, and for the time forego it.
The interruption is caused by a third individual, who has taken a fancy to follow Mrs. Murdock into the drawing-room; a young fellow of the squire class, but as her husband late was, of somewhat damaged reputation and broken fortunes. For all having a whole eye to female beauty, which appears to him in great perfection in the face of the Frenchwoman, the rouge upon her cheeks looking the real rose-colour of that proverbial milkmaid nine times dipped in dew.
The wine he has been quaffing gives it this hue, for he enters half intoxicated, and with a slight stagger in his gait – to the great annoyance of the lady, and the positive chagrin of the priest, who regards him with scowling glances. But the intruder is too tipsy to notice them, and advancing, invites himself to a seat in front of Mrs. Murdock, at the same time commencing a conversation with her.
Rogier, rising, gives a significant side look, with a slight nod towards the window; then, muttering a word of excuse, saunters off out of the room.
She knows what it means, as where to follow and find him. Knows also how to disembarrass herself of such as he who remained behind. Were it upon a bench of the Bois, or an arbour in the Jardin, she would make short work of it. But the ex-cocotte is now at the head of an aristocratic establishment, and must act in accordance. Therefore she allows some time to elapse, listening to the speech of her latest admirer – some of it in compliments coarse enough to give offence to ears more sensitive than hers.
She at length gets rid of him on the plea of having a headache, and going upstairs to get something for it. She will be down again by-and-by; and so bows herself out of the gentleman's presence, leaving him in a state of fretful disappointment.
Once outside the room, instead of turning up the stairway, she glides along the corridor, then on through the entrance hall, and then out by the front door. Nor stays she an instant on the steps or carriage-sweep, but proceeds direct to the summer-house, where she expects to find the priest. For there have they more than once been together, conversing on matters of private and particular nature.
On reaching the place, she is disappointed – some little surprised. Rogier is not there, nor can she see him anywhere around.
For all that, the gentleman is very near, without her knowing it – only a few paces off, lying flat upon his face among ferns, but so engrossed with thoughts – just then of an exciting nature – he neither hears her light footsteps, nor his own name pronounced. Not loudly, though, since, while pronouncing it, she feared being heard by some other. Besides, she does not think it necessary. He will come yet, without calling.
She steps inside the pavilion, and there stands waiting. Still he does not come, nor sees she anything of him – only a boat on the river above, being rowed upwards; but without thought of its having anything to do with her or her affairs.
By this there is another boat in motion, for the priest has meanwhile forsaken his spying place upon the cliff, and proceeded down to the dock.
"Where can Gregoire have gone?" she asks herself, becoming more and more impatient.
Several times she puts the question without receiving answer, and is about starting on return to the house, when longer stayed by a rumbling noise which reaches her ears, coming up from the direction of the dock.
"Can it be he?"
Continuing to listen, she hears the stroke of oars. It cannot be the boat she has seen rowing off above. That must now be far away, while this is near – in the bye-water just below her. But can it be the priest who is in it?
Yes, it is he, as she discovers, after stepping outside to the place he so late occupied, and looking over the cliff's edge; for then she had a view of his face, lit up by a lucifer match – itself looking like that of Lucifer.
What can he be doing down there? Why, examining those things he already knows all about, as she herself.
She would call down to him and inquire, but possibly better not. He may be engaged upon some matter calling for secrecy, as he often is. Other eyes besides hers may be near, and her voice might draw them on him. She will wait for his coming up.
And wait she does, at the boat's dock, on the top step of the stair, there receiving him, as he returns from his short, but still unexplained, excursion.
"What is it?" she asks, soon as he has mounted up to her. "Quelque chose à tort?"
"More than that. A veritable danger!"
"Comment? Explain!"
"There's a hound upon our track! One of sharpest scent."
"Who?"
"Le Capitaine de hussards!"
The dialogue that succeeds between Olympe Renault and Gregoire Rogier has no reference to Lewin Murdock gambling away his money, but the fear of his losing it in quite another way; which, for the rest of that night, gives them something else to think of, as also something to do.
CHAPTER LVII
AN UNWILLING NOVICE
"Am I myself? Dreaming? Or is it insanity?"
It is a young girl who thus strangely interrogates, a beautiful girl, woman grown, of tall stature, with bright face, and a wealth of hair, golden hued.
But what is beauty to her with all these adjuncts? As the flower born to blush unseen, eye of man may not look upon hers, though it is not wasting its sweetness on the desert air, but within the walls of a convent.
An English girl, though the convent is in France – in the city of Boulogne-sur-mer; the same in whose attached pensionnat the sister of Major Mahon is receiving education. She is not the girl, for Kate Mahon, though herself beautiful, is no blonde – instead, the very opposite. Besides, this creature of radiant complexion is not attending school: she is beyond the years for that. Neither is she allowed the freedom of the streets, but kept shut up within a cell in the innermost recesses of the establishment, where the pensionnaires are not permitted, save one or two who are favourites with the Lady Superior.
A small apartment the young girl occupies – bed-chamber and sitting-room in one; in short, a nun's cloister – furnished, as such are, in a style of austere simplicity: pallet bed along the one side, the other taken up by a plain deal dressing-table, a washstand with jug and basin – these little bigger than tea-bowl and ewer – and a couple of common rush-bottom chairs; that is all.
The walls are lime-washed, but most of their surface is concealed by pictures of saints, male and female; while the mother of all is honoured by an image, having a niche to itself, in a corner.
On the table are some four or five books, including a Testament and Missal; their bindings, with the orthodox cross stamped upon them, proclaiming the nature of the contents. A literature that cannot be to the liking of the present occupant of the cloister, since she has been there several days without turning over a single leaf, or even taking up one of the volumes to look at it.
That she is not there with her own will, but against it, can be told by her words, and as their tone, her manner while giving utterance to them. Seated upon the side of the bed, she has sprung to her feet, and with arms raised aloft and tossed about, strides distractedly over the floor. One seeing her thus might well imagine her to be, what she half fancies herself, insane! – a supposition strengthened by an unnatural lustre in her eyes, and a hectic flush on her cheeks, unlike the hue of health. Still, not as with one suffering bodily sickness, or any physical ailment, but more as from a mind diseased. Seen for only a moment – that particular moment – such would be the conclusion regarding her. But her speech coming after, tells she is in full possession of her senses, only under terrible agitation, distraught with some great trouble.
"It must be a convent! But how have I come into it? Into France, too; for surely am I there? The woman who brings my meals is French. So the other – Sister of Mercy, as she calls herself, though she speaks my own tongue. The furniture – bed, table, chairs, washstand – everything of French manufacture. And in all England there is not such a jug and basin as those!"
Regarding the lavatory utensils – so diminutive as to recall "Gulliver's travels in Lilliput," if ever read by her – she for a moment seems to forget her misery, even in its very midst, and keenest, at sight of the ludicrous and grotesque.
It is quickly recalled, as her glance, wandering around the room, again rests on the little statue – not of marble, but a cheap plaster of Paris cast – and she reads the inscription underneath, "La Mère de Dieu." The symbols tell her she is inside a nunnery, and upon the soil of France!
"Oh, yes!" she exclaims, "'tis certainly so! I am no more in my native land, but have been carried across the sea!"
The knowledge, or belief, does nought to tranquillize her feelings, or explain the situation, to her all mysterious. Instead, it but adds to her bewilderment, and she once more exclaims, almost repeating herself, —
"Am I myself? Is it a dream? Or have my senses indeed forsaken me?"
She clasps her hands across her forehead, the white fingers threading the thick folds of her hair, which hangs dishevelled. She presses them against her temples, as if to make sure her brain is still untouched!
It is so, or she would not reason as she does.
"Everything around shows I am in France. But how came I to it? Who has brought me? What offence have I given God or man, to be dragged from home, from country, and confined – imprisoned! Convent, or whatever it be, imprisoned I am! The door constantly kept locked! That window, so high, I cannot see over its sill! The dim light it lets in telling it was not meant for enjoyment. Oh! Instead of cheering, it tantalizes – tortures me!"
Despairingly she reseats herself upon the side of the bed, and with head still buried in her hands, continues her soliloquy – no longer of things present, but reverting to the past.
"Let me think again! What can I remember? That night, so happy in its beginning, to end as it did! The end of my life, as I thought, if I had a thought at that time. It was not, though, or I shouldn't be here, but in heaven, I hope. Would I were in heaven now! When I recall his words – those last words and think – "
"Your thoughts are sinful, child!"
The remark, thus interrupting, is made by a woman, who appears on the threshold of the door, which she had just pushed open. A woman of mature age, dressed in a floating drapery of deep black – the orthodox garb of the Holy Sisterhood, with all its insignia of girdle, bead-roll, and pendant crucifix. A tall, thin personage, with skin like shrivelled parchment, and a countenance that would be repulsive but for the nun's coif, which, partly concealing, tones down its sinister expression. Withal, a face disagreeable to gaze upon; not the less so from its air of sanctity, evidently affected. The intruder is Sister Ursule.
She has opened the door noiselessly – as cloister doors are made to open – and stands between its jambs, like a shadowy silhouette in its frame, one hand still holding the knob, while in the other is a small volume, apparently well thumbed. That she has had her ear to the keyhole before presenting herself is told by the rebuke having reference to the last words of the girl's soliloquy, in her excitement uttered aloud.
"Yes," she continues, "sinful – very sinful! You should be thinking of something else than the world and its wickedness, and of anything before that you have been thinking of – the wickedness of all."
She thus spoken to had neither started at the intrusion, nor does she show surprise at what is said. It is not the first visit of Sister Ursule to her cell, made in like stealthy manner; nor the first austere speech she has heard from the same skinny lips. At the beginning she did not listen to it patiently; instead, with indignation – defiantly, almost fiercely, rejoining. But the proudest spirit can be humbled. Even the eagle, when its wings are beaten to exhaustion against the bars of its cage, will become subdued, if not tamed. Therefore the imprisoned English girl makes reply meekly and appealingly, —
"Sister of Mercy, as you are called, have mercy upon me! Tell me why I am here?"
"For the good of your soul and its salvation."
"But how can that concern any one save myself?"
"Ah! there you mistake, child; which shows the sort of life you've been hitherto leading, and the sort of people surrounding you; who, in their sinfulness, imagine all as themselves. They cannot conceive that there are those who deem it a duty – nay, a direct command from God – to do all in their power for the redemption of lost sinners, and restoring them to his Divine favour. He is all-merciful."
"True – He is. I do not need to be told it. Only, who these redemptionists are that take such interest in my spiritual welfare, and how I have come to be here, surely I may know?"
"You shall in time, ma fille. Now you cannot – must not – for many reasons."
"What reasons?"
"Well, for one, you have been very ill – nigh unto death, indeed."
"I know that, without knowing how."
"Of course. The accident which came near depriving you of your life was of that sudden nature; and your senses – But I mustn't speak further about it. The doctor has given strict directions that you're to be kept quiet, and it might excite you. Be satisfied with knowing that they who placed you here are the same who saved your life, and would now rescue your soul from perdition. I've brought you this little volume for perusal. It will help to enlighten you."
She stretches out her long bony fingers, handing the book – one of those "Aids to Faith" relied upon by the apostles of the Propaganda.
The girl mechanically takes it, without looking at or thinking of it; still pondering upon the unknown benefactors, who, as she is told, have done so much for her.
"How good of them!" she rejoins, with an air of incredulity, and in tones that might be taken as derisive.
"How wicked of you!" retorts the other, taking it in this sense. "Positively ungrateful!" she adds, with the acerbity of a baffled proselytiser. "I am sorry, child, you still cling to your sinful thoughts, and keep up a rebellious spirit in face of all that is being done for your good. But I shall leave you now, and go and pray for you; hoping, on my next visit, to find you in a more proper frame of mind."
So saying, Sister Ursule glides out of the cloister, drawing to the door, and silently turning the key in its lock.
"O God!" groans the young girl in despair, flinging herself along the pallet, and for the third time interrogating, "Am I myself, and dreaming? Or am I mad? In mercy, Heaven, tell me what it means!"
