Gwen Wynn: A Romance of the Wye. Reid Mayne

already said, they converse about ordinary subjects, like the lovers in the pavilion silent upon that paramount in their minds. How different the themes – as love itself from murder! And just as the first word was unspoken in the summer-house at Llangorren, so is the last unheard in the dining-room of Glyngog.

      While the blotcher is being carved with a spoon – there is no fish slice among the chattels of Mr. Murdock – the priest in good appetite, and high glee pronounces it "crimp." He speaks English like a native, and is even up in its provincialisms; few in Herefordshire whose dialect is of the purest.

      The phrase of the fishmonger received smilingly, the salmon is distributed and handed across the table; the attendance of the slavey, with claws not over clean, and ears that might be unpleasantly sharp, having been dispensed with.

      There is wine without stint; for although Murdock's town tradesmen may be hard of heart, in the Welsh Harp there is a tender string he can still play upon; the Boniface of the Rugg's Ferry hostelry having a belief in his post obit expectations. Not such an indifferent wine either, but some of the choicest vintage. The guests of the Harp, however rough in external appearance and rude in behaviour, have wonderfully refined ideas about drink, and may be often heard calling for "fizz" – some of them as well acquainted with the qualities of Möet and Cliquot, as a connoisseur of the most fashionable club.

      Profiting by their æsthetic tastes, Lewin Murdock is enabled to set wines upon his table of the choicest brands. Light Bordeaux first with the fish, then sherry with the heavier greens and bacon, followed by champagne as they get engaged upon the pheasant.

      At this point the conversation approaches a topic hitherto held in reserve, Murdock himself starting it: —

      "So my Cousin Gwen's going to get married, eh! Are you sure of that, Father Rogier?"

      "I wish I were as sure of going to heaven."

      "But what sort of man is he? you haven't told us."

      "Yes, I have. You forget my description, Monsieur – cross between Mars and Phœbus – strength herculean; sure to be father to a progeny numerous as that which spring from the head of Medusa – enough of them to make heirs for Llangorren to the end of time – keep you out of the property if you lived to be the age of Methuselah. Ah! a fine looking fellow, I can assure you; against whom the baronet's son, with his rubicund cheeks and hay-coloured hair, wouldn't stand the slightest chance – even were there nothing more to recommend the martial stranger. But there is."

      "What more?"

      "The mode of his introduction to the lady – that quite romantic."

      "How was he introduced?"

      "Well, he made her acquaintance on the water. It appears Mademoiselle Wynn and her companion Lees, were out on the river for a row alone. Unusual that! Thus out, some fellows – Forest of Dean dwellers – offered them insult; from which a gentleman angler, who chanced to be whipping the stream close by, saved them – he no other than le Capitaine Ryecroft. With such commencement of acquaintance, a man couldn't be much worth who didn't know how to improve it – even to terminating in marriage if he wished. And with such a rich heiress as Mademoiselle Gwendoline Wynn – to say nought of her personal charms – there are few men who wouldn't wish it so to end. That he, the Hussar officer – captain, colonel, or whatever his rank – does, I've good reason to believe, as also that he will succeed in accomplishing his desires; no more doubt of it than of my being seated at this table. Yes; sure as I sit here that man will be the master of Llangorren."

      "I suppose he will – must," rejoins Murdock, drawing out the words as though not greatly concerned, one way or the other.

      Olympe looks dissatisfied, but not Rogier, nor she after a glance from the priest, which seems to say "Wait." He himself intends waiting till the drink has done its work.

      Taking the hint, she remains silent, her countenance showing calm, as with the content of innocence, while in her heart is the guilt of hell, and the deceit of the devil.

      She preserves her composure all through, and soon as the last course is ended, with a show of dessert placed upon the table – poor and pro forma– obedient to a look from Rogier, with a slight nod in the direction of the door, she makes her congè, and retires.

      Murdock lights his meerschaum, the priest one of his paper cigarettes – of which he carries a case – and for some time they sit smoking and drinking; talking, too, but upon matters with no relation to that uppermost in their minds. They seem to fear touching it, as though it were a thing to contaminate. It is only after repeatedly emptying their glasses, their courage comes up to the standard required; that of the Frenchman first; who, nevertheless, approaches the delicate subject with cautious circumlocution.